jollyhunter

[jollyhunter]

No fuckin way 😂😂😂

[jollyhunter]

Ahh thank you so much!!

♡ MILKSHAKE FOR TWO ♡

LOVERBOY ! SOLDIER BOY / BEN x fem!Reader [Happy Valentine’s Day!!] Main Masterlist ❀ Soldier Boy Masterlist

WARNING Fluff, Angst (bearable), Smut with plot - NSFW - MDNI!; fingering, a lil' spankin', biting, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v (wrap it before u tap it!), softdom!Ben (gasp!), faking orgasm, Ben reprimanding you, aftercare (Ben's way lol), strong language, basically just a general warning for Soldier Boy, no use of Y/N

⋆ ˚｡⋆ NOTE Okay sweethearts, this is my first time writing for Soldier Boy so please be lenient with me. 😭 Getting this man's colorful speech feel right as a non-native English is a real challenge lmao

After reading the Loverboy!Ben Headcanons by @lovedahlia I finally found the courage to pick this idea up again! And thanks @zepskies Coffee Shop Hadcanons for inspiring me with the sweet ending!! (and the pussy drink 💀)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY The lovey-dovey atmosphere around Valentine's Day did little to ease your ache. To put it blunt; Lately your love life's been... let's say dull. Since for whatever reason getting off was turning out to be frustratingly difficult. Or more like, impossible; You just outlast any man in bed.

Well, except maybe for the cocky bastard of a supe seated across of you… Who you’d just made a bet with.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~7.4k [my longest fic so far!? 😭]

♡ MILKSHAKE FOR TWO ♡

One, two, three, five - now another orgasm. You lost count. He keeps rocking his hips as you ride another one of your highs out, his cock throbbing inside you -

“Is it hot?” Ben’s gravely voice throws you right off your imaginary man, eyes snapping up at him with a look of panic and confusion.

The warm scent of weed wafts through the musky air and hits your nose, reminding you of your situation; Right. You’re here to ‘babysit’ Soldier Boy while he’s meticulously rolling joints and taking a swig of his beer every now and then.

“W-what?” Your thumb quickly swipes away the fanfic on your phone’s screen, feigning innocence.

“The picture of your boyfriend’s dick.” He replies. The motel’s dim light frames the intense gaze occasionally drifting toward you, a teasing smile tugging at his beard when he continues. “Can’t ignore the way you’ve been practically eye-fucking that thing for the past six joints.” He jerks his chin at the phone now tightly clasped under your hands likes it’s holding all your sins in one place.

“What- that’s not- no- what the hell.” You stutter, while you’re secretly relieved that his mind took a different direction.

“Hm,” he grunts, unconvinced, his eyes briefly closing. You tense up in the couch when his elbows slide off the table, now resting on his spread legs, his head tilting your way. “What’s it then, huh? Internet?”

Ah yes, you were looking at internet. Hughie had mentioned the word to him some days ago, but no one seems to have had the patience – or guts – to properly explain it to him. You smirk to yourself, but keep the mocking comment back. You didn’t want to risk him snatching your phone away again, as he had done many times before just to annoy you.

“Yeah, internet. It’s like a – a library, but digital, you know?” You try to explain. Your hands casually let the phone disappear in your jeans’ back pocket while you make sure to keep the discussion going. “How do you even know about dickpics? My gramps sure as hell wouldn’t know.”

“Oh fuck off.” He throws you a half-arsed scowl over the edge of his canted beer, “I basically invented it. The concept of showing off your dick to your girl ain’t that goddamn new-fangled.” He sneers the word ‘new-fangled’, his free hand waving dismissively in your direction.

The frown on his lips shifts into a crooked smile at what seems to be a particularly fond memory popping up in his mind. Cute, it suits him.

“I once had Warhol print my dick in the colors of the American flag. Surprised Countess with one on every fuckin’ wall.”

“Wow.” You can’t help but shake your head and crack a laughter at the mental image. “I bet she was ecstatic.”

“Oh you can bet my nutsack. That night we fucked like bunnies. Skeeted those paintings. Redecorated the whole damn thing.” He grins like a proud boy before his fond smile suddenly flips, “Now the bitch’s gargling dirt.”

The air thickened and your chest tightens. Only the sound of his fingers briefly strangling the neck of his beer bottle fills the tense silence in the room.

Your eyes drift to the ground, scrambling for something to say to steer the conversation away from his dead ex - but he beats you to it.

Ben has let out a heavy sigh after he took a swig, the beer bottle now tipped in your direction.

"So. No boyfriend then, huh?" He muses before he tilts his head, his lips curling into a smug smirk, “Gonna spend your national fuck day all alone with a pillow between your legs?”

“I- I’m not spending my - as you call it so colourfully - ‘national fuck day’ with a pillow between my legs. Thank you very much.”

“No? Not gonna rawdog it while you’re thinking of me?”

Your eyes widen at that wild accusation - not that he was wrong about the latter assumption. But you certainly wouldn’t let him know that.

Your cheeks flush slightly and you quickly force your parted lips into a firm, tight line. “For your information. I’ll not spend my day all sad and pathetic home alone but will be going out to Jerry’s Coffeehouse and treat myself with an extra large matcha milkshake with chocolate chips and loads of vanilla syrup. And it’ll be my best fucking Valentine’s day.”

His eyebrow pops up at that, his sharp eyes observing you for a moment as if he’s considering something, his expression a mixture between amusement and something else which you can’t quite read.

After a moment his lips quirk, voice confident, but there’s also a hint of curiosity hidden behind it, “Ah, that’s a code word for you rounding the bases, hm? Get yourself a sweet fuckin’ home run. All Turn-Down and the whole nine yards.”

“What? No – agh - Not everything’s about sex, Ben.” You groan and drag a hand down your face, trying your best to hide the tinge of bitterness in your voice. “Unlike me, I bet you wouldn’t survive a day without jerking off if I wasn’t cockblocking you with my mere presence.”

“And I bet I could ruin you real fast if you didn’t act like a little tight-folded nun around me all the time.”

Your breath catches in your throat for a moment. In all these weeks, Ben never made a move on you. Not even a single attempt at flirting with you. To the point that - even though you knew you shouldn’t - you started to wonder whether it was your looks or your personality you’d have to blame for.

So, yes, you have indeed acted rather, let’s say, ‘reserved’ around Ben.

But that wasn’t because you were appalled by the thought of what he could do to you with you sprawled out beneath him, all open and inviting. Quite the contrary. It was because you liked the thought, but also didn’t want to fall for yet another man who’d just use you for his pleasure.

So you made sure to keep him at an arms length.

“Jesus, you’re so damn vulgar.” You utter, your back slumped against the couch’s armrest while you try your best to act unaffected by his words, “ You kiss a lady with that dirty mouth of yours?”

“What’s the deal with you chicks? I ain’t friggin' Cary Grant, y’know?” He takes a messy swig of his beer and briefly wipes his beard with the back of his hand, “Y’all so damn sensitive.”

“Yeah, I wish.” You grumble, the words slipping your lips before you can give them a second thought.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“You don’t believe me, sweetheart?”

“You know what? Yeah.” You retort out of nowhere, purely driven by all the pent-up frustration of the past months. Straightening up, you proceed to make it worse in such a confident tone which even surprises yourself, “I bet my ass that I could outlast you in bed.”

It was frustrating. And felt embarrassing. Really. It didn’t help that you tried to sell it as if it was an achievement worth an oscar.

"Well, that just proofs it then."

"Proofs what?"

"That you're a wuss-fucker. Just some pathetic fucking dicks dippin' in there." Ben jerks his head towards the spot hidden between your tightly crossed legs and he snorts in amusement at your grimace. "What? ‘Tis a real shame’s all I’m sayin’. I mean, what real man doesn't make sure his girl gets off first.” He leans back and sneers against the mouth of his beer bottle, “'S pathetic, really."

"Yeah, right." you roll your eyes, your voice tighter, "'Cuz I bet you're such a gentleman in bed. But you can't proof shit."

“Oh you’re on.” He quickly sets down the bottle and flashes his cocky grin at you, his voice dropping an octave to hit that tingling spot inside you, “I’ll have you cum so damn hard, you’ll be screamin’ and kickin’ while I hold ya down. And guess what, sweetheart…”

He pushes off the chair, his large frame looming over you before he bends down to your eye-level, his voice dipping into a low, deep gravelly tone, “I ain’t gunna let ya move a single inch… and have you take it like a good fuckin’ girl.”

Silence. Only the soft gulp of your last sense of self-control getting forced down your throat cuts through the thick air between you.

He holds your gaze, a playful smile spread across his lips when he straightens up again, his voice nonchalant. “‘Course, only if you want.”

“I do.” The answer came faster than you could even process it.

He looks back down at you, a flash of genuine surprise crossing his eyes before he covers it up with a smug expression, “Oh yeah?”

His words were like the flick of a switch.

Next moment clothings were flying across the room, partially torn as neither of you had the patience to get them off properly. The heat between you skyrocketed, heavy breathing filling your ears in tandem with intense drumming of your heart. Soft golden rays peek through the shutters, their light bouncing off his darkened eyes and casting shadows of wild, fervent bodies moving through the room like a tempest.

God you felt so pent up - it was driving you mad. The desperate need for relief, for reaching that sweet peak of ecstasy. It clouds your mind, has your will to think straight completely subdued.

Ben doesn’t seem to be in much more control either, his hands flying across your body, like he doesn’t know what to explore first. He pushes you up against the wall, the force deliberately kept to a minimum. His nose draws a line across your shoulder, inhaling your scent like a drug, all the way up your neck until he exhales again, the hot breath pressed against your skin under your jaw.

“Fuck me – you’re intoxicatin’, woman.” He rasps out, his voice raw and full of barely contained need.

Your breath comes out shaky, head tilted to the side without a second thought. “Ben,” you say his name close to a whine, your mind handing over the reigns to him, “Please don’t stop.”

“Won’t-” he mutters against your skin, his voice muffled by the trail of kisses, “’M not gonna stop until you’ve cum.” His teeth skim along your pulse point and for a moment you feel like your legs give in. But he quickly steadies you, his large hands moving down your sides to hold onto your hips with a firm grip. “Promise.” He adds hoarsely, some of your skin now tugged between his teeth as he starts to leave love bites in his wake. “We got a bet goin’, after all.”

Your body’s now moving on instinct and for only one purpose. Your need, your heat, it’ll keep you going, you know it. No matter how long you’ll have to pant like a racing horse, no matter how much you’ll regret it the next day when you’ll feel stiff and aching at places you didn’t even know you had muscles.

It all doesn’t matter right now. It is all just you and him. The world reduced to his strong arms wrapped around your fragile frame, his muscles flexing as he lifts you up, and his world reduced to your legs wrapping around his hips, your aching core pressed up against his bulging boxers.

Your lips collide with his, their first meeting sending a bolt of pleasure through your body. Your mind goes hazy, your legs tighten around his hips and your hands hang onto his shoulder in an attempt to hold him close.

Your heads swivel, mouths working passionate. But to your surprise, Ben still keeps it slow, savouring every bit of your lips dancing around his. His tongue’s tasting the inside of your mouth as he swallows your moans and fills it with his own groans. Teeth gently pull at your lower lip before he finally breaks the kiss, to give you the chance to catch your breath.

You pant against him, your lips burning from the stubbles but still lingering there. You suddenly feel the rest of your body again, a shudder running down your spine, right to your aching core.

That’s when you notice how wet your inner thighs are, the slick coating your skin and folds. Ben licks his lips, the scent of your undeniable arousal filling his senses. He moves you on his hips, pinning you further against the wall to hold you in place with one hand while the other trails over the bump of your hipbones, dipping down between your legs.

“Christ on a Stake. You’re so fuckin’ pent up. What did those wusses do to let you leave like this?” He groans, fingers coating in your slick as he runs them down your inner thigh.

Your eyes briefly flutter closed, your hips bucking against him with the need for some friction already. “Please, I- Ah-fff- ” You mutter, your words cut short by a terribly needy whine when Bens fingertips brush across your clit.

“Yeah, yeah, calm the hell down” he chuckles, his lips back to suck a red mark at your neck, “’M gonna take care of that needy pussy of yours, dontcha worry.”

You nod, soft moans slipping your red puffy lips as he assaults every inch of skin he can reach. Your eyes widen with a yelp when you suddenly feel yourself getting heaved up high and your limbs flail uncontrollably in a panic.

“Hey- stop struggling darlin’, I don’t wanna hurt you.” He orders gruffly, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips to keep you safely in his grip. With one swift move he lifts you high enough for your legs to drape over his shoulders on each side, his palms now wrapping around the underside of your thighs to keep you pinned between the wall and his head. In moments like these you could feel a shiver run down your back, as you’d just been reminded again of the inhuman power imbalance between you two. Fuck - he could snap you in two if he’d want to.

“Now that’s a view I could get used to,” He growls, his lips curled into a hungry smile at the sight of your dripping hole, all open and inviting, and right on his eye-level. “So damn needy. ‘N so damn beautiful.” He muses, ignoring the increased panting of yours against the top of his head while you’re murmuring his name like a prayer.

His grip tightens as he pushes his head between your thighs, his hot breath against your clit sending sparks of fire through your body. He digs right in, eagerly swiping his tongue between your folds, swirling around your clit, teasing your entrance with slow deliberate slaps of his tongue. You start to squirm and moan in response, the friction like a pain-killer to your aching core.

“Hold still damn it,” he orders, the rumbling of his voice against your folds sending shivers up your spine. You whimper and his intensity increases in response. He groans when your fingers tangle up in his hair and your fingernails scrape at his scalp with frantic motions.

“Fffuck- please, please, please don’t stop, don’t stop-” You plead in weak whimpers as you can feel his beard burn your sensitive skin with every drag of his tongue up your folds, the prickling pain mixing with your pleasure. Meanwhile the muscles in his arms flex to hold you still, keep you pinned up high against the wall and to make sure you don’t accidentally tumble off his shoulders.

His lips close around your clit and he starts to suck terrible whines out of you, your legs fighting his hands under his onslaught. Your pleasure begins to coil tight, your body twitches and your fingers claw at his long hair for the following minutes - but it never snaps. How the fuck does it still not snap?

A whine of protest leaves your lips when he suddenly pulls his head back. You watch his glistening face from half lidded eyes, your chest heaving, some of your sweet juice caught in his beard.

“Damn, darlin’, you’re a tough case, huh?” He chuckles, the tongue swiping his lips to savour your taste again with a low praising groan, “Fuck- Marilyn Monroe’s a dumpster next to you. You taste like fuckin’ heaven.”

A gasp slips your lips when he decides to haul you over his shoulder and with three long strides crosses the room over to the bed when a SMACK has you yelp up. The skin of your asscheek reddens where his hand just swatted you and he chuckles. “You’ve got a long night ahead of you.”

You struggle and squirm in protest but it’s no use, his tight grip around your waist keeps you on his shoulder, facing the other way with your nice bum exposed to him. “You ain’t goin’ anywhere.” His hand swats your other asscheek this time and he laughs at your needy whine, his tone amused as you can practically hear the smirk playing on is lips, “I haven’t even started.”

His voice sounds raspy, but his tone tells you he’s thrilled, as if the fact that you didn’t shatter from his touch yet, has him enthralled. After all, Soldier Boy was used to things being easy for him, to succeed with half an effort, so real challenges were a rare case for him. And your stubbornly high resistance to falling over the edge seemed to be just that.

Next moment Ben bends down, dropping you gently onto the bed before the mattress dips down under his additional weight when he crawls on top of you. His hands roam your body, groping the soft flesh at your hips, your thighs, roughly massaging your breasts as he pinches your nipples between his fingers.

You start to squirm and tremble from need, your fingernails scraping at his taut muscles that box you in from all sides. “Just hold still for me, yeah? Just lemme do the work…” he husks out, voice low and dangerous with promise that sends a shiver down your spine.

He leans in and breaths hot and low against the shell of your ear while you feel his hand trail down between your shaking legs. “Will get this needy pussy wrecked and all mine…”

You hum into his shoulder when he pushes his index finger past your slick folds, and he takes that as a cue that you need more, so his middle finger quickly follows. This time he manages to draw a soft moan from your lips, your arms wrapping around his neck where you start to kiss and nibble his skin. “You greedy little thing…” he growls, his lips quirked into a smirk.

He starts to pump them, his fingers curling to hit your spongy spot that earns him at least a little louder moan. “Please,” you start to beg, “I need more, Ben… please-” He doesn’t wait and jams a third finger inside your tight cunt before he flicks his thumb over the hood of your swollen clit, the pace of his hand slapping loudly against your cunt increasing. The stretch of his fat fingers filling you up, rubbing your g-spot and scissoring, it all has your legs trembling, the coil in your stomach tightening again to the point where it just – flat lines.

Ben notices the frustration in your eyes and he leans in to press a sloppy kiss onto your damp forehead. His thumb rubs faster circles over your clit, his eyes locked onto your face when his impatience starts to mutter under his breath. "We got us a real stubborn pussy here, hm? You think everyone else is too much of a wuss to keep up with you, huh? Is that it? You need someone who can give as good as they get?"

“Fine” He grunts, pulling his fingers from your dripping hole, his voice gruff with irritated determination, “Looks like this’ a job for my dick. Gonna fuck you over that edge in no time.”

“Please.” You whine, your face buried in his broad shoulder. Your clit swollen, throbbing, tingling, every nerve of your body burning hot and leading down to that one single aching knot as your system was threatening to short-circuit your brain, just to get this damn bundle of nerves to finally erupt.

He quickly gets rid of his boxers, his thick cock free and fully erect. He grapples with your twitching legs, spreading them apart and pulling you back towards his hips where his pink tip pushes against your entrance. You stifle a mewl, your hips bucking instinctively as you need him. Need all of him.

Both of your groans collide between your lips when he snaps his hips and pushes his shaft all the way into your tight channel in one - unceremonious – go. He stills for a moment, his breath hot and heavy when it wafts against your face, “You good?”

His voice was low, a hoarse whisper between the two of you. You nod once again, a weak “yeah” tumbling off your lips. His hands move up to grip onto your hips like handles, his hips slowly starting to move.

You groan at the feeling of his thick pulsing length dragging down your soft walls before being jammed back in all the way up until he hits your cervix and he coaxes a whimper from you. His pace isn’t fast, but his thrusts are deep, each one well measured and deliberate.

“That’s it, you can take it… taking my cock so fuckin’ well...” He mutters against your skin, his tongue swiping across your salty skin.

When he starts to increase his force, your fingers dig into his skin and if it wasn’t for his indestructibleness, he was sure he’d have some nice and long claw marks of you down his back. He hooks your legs over his shoulders and cants your hips, getting an even deeper angle this way. Slouching noise fills the room, the sound of wet skin clashing together in time with your increasing moans and whines and his grunts and groans.

His hand suddenly reaches up to grab your chin, his eyes locking onto yours. "See, darlin'? I’ll have you fall apart beneath me soon enough… can't keep your pussy giving me that attitude, that's how you end up in a mess like this.” He mocks you with a teasing chuckle, “Getting the stuffing pounded out of you, all because you couldn't control that naughty mouth of yours and had to make a bet with me."

You just nod, the meaning of his words flying by your clouded mind. Your sole focus’ on your building pleasure, rapidly charging up your throbbing clit. Ben notices it too when your walls start to clamp down on his cock, every hard thrust forcing its way back in to keep the pleasure building.

“Fuck – you’re so tight – You gonna strangle my damn dick at this point.” He hisses, his fingers digging into your flesh again to pull your hips back and meet his thrusts.

“You close, darlin’?” Ben grunts above you.

There it is again. That embarrassing moment of silence. You would’ve sighed right now if it wasn’t for you being buried beneath Ben and his punctured thrusts knocking the air out of you.

Are you close? Your core’s on fire. Certainly. To the point where it hurts even. You feel your legs and feet tingling like white-noise is rushing through your blood, leaving every sensitive nerve in its wake going numb.

But still. You know you wouldn’t tip over. Stuck in that fucking uphill battle. It was just. Not. Enough. It never was nowadays.

The blatant lie sits on the tip of your tongue when Ben’s gruff voice suddenly cuts in.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare fake it.”

How - Your mind comes to a screeching halt.

You choke it back down. Cancel the act that was up next, your well-versed finale to the dull program you were used to.

Shit, he knows.

“N-no…” you confess under your breath. The sound of it weak and to your relief, lost between his heavy grunts.

Or so you think.

“What? You think I’m some spineless wuss who can’t get his girl off?” He punctures each word with a deep thrust as he keeps pounding you into the mattress, “Just tell me whatever the fuck you need me to do, I’m not gonna cry, Jesus Christ.” He continues to reprimand you in a firm tone, his voice holding a hint of disappointment.

You gasp, your breath gets stuck in your throat. No man has ever asked you this before. No one.

Ben suddenly stills, his green eyes locking with yours when his voice takes a serious tone, “You need me to be rougher, pretty girl? That it?”

Your breath hitches, your mind dizzy and clouded by his musky scent, the feeling of him inside you, above you, all around you - and the heat still burning between your legs, still not on that damn edge to your long chased relief.

He leans down next to your head to scrub his beard along your cheeks and up to your ear, “Just say the word,” he growls and you can practically see the smirk spread across his face by the way he sounds.

He knows. Fuck he knows you need more.

And yet he waits for your response, patiently, his body still hanging onto you with a tight grip while his hot breath wafts against the shell of your ear in short bursts like a countdown.

There’s a moment of tense silence, like the calm before a storm. A force that is waiting for you to invite it in, to let it wreck your temple.

“Y-yes, please,” Your voice’s trembling slightly from each puff of warm air that’s huffed from between his lips and smothered across your skin, sending a shiver down your back.

“Jackpot,” he hums, a satisfied expression on his face before his lips begin aimlessly placing kisses all over your face, as if trying to soothe your frustration. “Not gunna hold back anymore… gunna fuck you so long ‘n so hard you won’t be able to walk for the next days. You like that thought, hm?”

“Y—yeah- please – just don’t stop…” you admit with a needy whine, your legs twitching against his shoulders and your head tilted back while your hands start to fist the sheets in anticipation. You’d surely fall over the edge in the next minutes. You had to.

Little did you know, that you’d still be going for the next couple of hours.

You switched positions every time you felt how your clit was going numb from the overstimulation and the pent up energy. Ben’s bulky body kept working relentlessly, his power not faltering once, his pace never slowing down unless he noticed you needed a moment to catch your breath.

He’d be trapping you under him, ass high up in the air, back pressed down with one hand splayed across it, wrists somewhere buried in the pillows and pinned there roughly by his other hand as he slammed is cock against your cervix in a brutal pace.

“Tell me when you’re close,” he orders, his lips against the spot behind your ear and his long, stubby beard scraping your skin as his jaw moves, “I want to see your beautiful face when you rock that high the way you fuckin’ deserve.”

“Oh- Oh fuck- I- I’m close-“ you scream as you feel his hard tip punch your spongy walls like he’s trying to engrave himself into your every inch and his fingers meanwhile rubbing your clit sore. He roughly flips you over onto your back, his lips catching yours just in time when your walls flutter around him and finally, finally that sweet relief crashes down on you. Unexpected and intoxicating as your guttural moans get muffled by his mouth. “God- this- you, God-”

He pulls back, huffing a raspy laughter with a mock-offended tone, “God? I’m fuckin’ better.” He feels your cum coat his cock, your walls wrapping tightly around him. It takes all his will power to hold himself back, to not empty himself inside you. Not yet. Not when he’d promised you to keep going all night. “That’s it,” He plants a praising kiss onto your forehead, his gruff voice rumbling against your skin, “And now let’s hear it once more. Just for good measure.”

And he does. Fingers sink into your skin whenever he’d move you around, large hands holding you down, up, on top of him, against him, muscles working all around you while they would bend or push you into any position, effortlessly.

His superhuman strength overpowers you without even trying, but it feels like he’s only ever using as little as needed to get a reaction out of you. A good reaction. When he roughly flips you over again, pushes you into the mattress, pins your head to the sheets as you squirm and tremble under him, you notice his lips brush up against your ear more frequently, murmuring incoherent, soothing words. Like he’s following the urge to be closer to you. Making silent check-ins. Always making sure you’re not overwhelmed, making sure that those whines and yelps are the cause of pleasurable pain and nothing else. At last, you find yourself on top of him, straddling his hips, bouncing on his hard cock as you ride him like a bull. “What was that about you outlasting me, huh?” He taunts and mocks you in time with rough strokes along your exhausted gummiwalls, “‘bout taking whatever I can throw at you, hm?” He snaps his hips up to meet you halfway when you yelp a short admission, “O-okay, you win!”

His lips curl into a smug smile, “What was that? You gotta work that pretty mouth of yours. Gramps ears ain’t that good.” He pulls you down roughly, making you take him deeper with each thrust of his.

“Y-yar r-ah-iight!” You groan as you fall apart one more final time. Your walls flutter and this time he allows himself to let you pull him over the edge along you. His pulsing cock coating your insides with his warm cum. Your voice’s raspy from the harsh breaths you’ve sucked down your open mouth for the past hours.

You collapse to his chest, shaking from the waves of pleasure that rippled through your every fibre and the feeling of his warm seeds filling you up and dripping down his shaft and onto his skin. His arms wrap around your back to hold you close while he murmurs naughty words against the crown of your head.

While Ben had gotten himself a joint to smoke, you padded into the bathroom, getting yourself cleaned. “You doin’ good, darlin’?” He calls after you, loosley holding the joint between his lips as he props himself up against the bed’s headboard.

You return after a while, your body wrapped up in a towel as you make your way back to the bed and snuggle up to him. He drapes his arm lazily around your shoulder, pulling you closer so that your head rests on his firm chest.

“You really had to work for it… huh?” You break the silence with a low mutter, feeling some embarrassment creep up on you.

“You kiddin’?” His eyes snap down at you and he takes a drag of his joint before he continues, “Darlin’, you’ve got the drive of a bunny in heat. Taking my cock so fuckin’ well. Most tap out after the second round but you -“ he lets out a low whistle close to a hiss, “- you just keep goin’ all night – Fuckin’ unbelievable.”

“Oh shush…” You giggle sheepishly.

“Just speaking the damn truth. You be proud of that, ya hear me?” He says in a firm voice, while he reaches up to stroke a damp hair out of your face.

You smile, feeling your chest tingle and your cheek warm up, “This was… this was unbelievable. You were amazing.”

He laughs and flashes a cocky grin down at you, “Told ya my dick would beat your pussy over that edge.“

You cringe inwardly at his choice of words, “That’s not what I meant. I’m not talking about your… your dick or your stamina. I’m talking about you.” You pause, his eyebrows knot together and you quickly add, "Like, non-physically."

He stares at you, nonplussed - then irritated. “Fuck me. You - you snort some of my shit, prissy little thing?”

“No, Ben-,” a soft, frustrated chuckle escapes your lips that makes his eyebrows twitch together again, “You - you are amazing.”

You repeat but this time tilt your head back to hold his gaze, like you’re pointing at the soul hiding behind those green orbs that stare back at you, while your fingers draw invisible circles on his arms.

Silence.

Ben’s sharp eyes are searching your face for clues, like he’s mentally going through every drug that could have led you to say something as ridiculous as that.

You smile in return. A genuine, honest smile. Aimed at him. And his mind short circuits for a moment.

A faint flash of something like a blush crosses his cheeks, but it is covered up the same moment with his usual gruff expression and an irritated scoff. “‘Course I’m fuckin’ amazin’. Besides that, I just wanted to win the bet.” His teeth flash at you between a cocky smirk. “And I proofed you damn wrong.”

Ah, there it is again, good ol’ Soldier Boy.

Walls and barb wire and mine field; all up and ready to defend that one and only fragile part of his indestructible body. Keeping it strapped down by some rush of power trip and waterboarded in his twisted idea of love.

You chuckle, knowingly. That damn soft smile on your lips again.

He stares down at you with an unreadable expression, like he’s fighting the urge to slap some sense into you for throwing such an inappropriate gesture his way. To him, it was infuriating, really. But thanks to that stupid curve dancing across your face, he now feels himself caught up in a whole new range of emotions.

You could have gotten up now and left. Like you were sure he expected you to. Probably one of the reasons he kept silent, his brows pulled low like a defensive shield against your gaze, his arm draped around your shoulders so awkwardly… ‘cuz he knew he wasn’t good at this. Aftercare. He’s practically just waiting for you to snap at him, and pull away without another good word. His eyes narrow further, almost provoking it now as he felt himself slowly crumble under your warm presence.

But none of these thoughts crossed your mind. Instead your fingers gently trace the frame of his hardened face that could’ve fooled anyone but you.

That speck of a blush had been more than enough reason to settle down further into his chest with a soft hum, “Mhm, you did win... Win-win.”

Mindless chattering carries the cozy atmosphere of Jerry’s Coffehouse, each table occupied by couples sharing desserts and passionate kisses. All except the one set under your arms, your fingers loosely holding onto the card before you drop it to the table in resignation.

The sweet scent of sugary sins whirls around your nose, intrusive, mocking you. Now that you are here, sitting in the middle of a room full of unfiltered, tooth-aching love all around you, it seems like your appetite has been spoiled for good.

Truth be told, you can’t entirely blame the lovestruck couples boxing you in like in a bully circle. The problem is much worse. You feel lonely. Not the usual lonely, but terribly lonely because you had something for a moment, something real special, and now it was gone again.

It feels like so many unspoken feelings still hang in the air. At least for you there are. You are pretty sure that Ben was more than happy about Butcher’s interruption just when you thought you’d seen a glimpse of something more beneath this scraggy hard shell of “Soldier Boy”.

You exhale heavily. Your eyes glued down to your empty hands.

Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? Your job to watch Soldier Boy was done. He’d moved on. It was over. After all, last night was just for some fun, right? Something to finally get you off, to feel so much more than-

You mentally kick yourself. Get your shit together and get back to your old life.

You fish out your phone from your pocket and open the fanfic from yesterday. With a heavy sigh you scroll down the blurry words, memories of your past night flashing across your inner eye – when a sudden noise almost has you drop your phone.

The coffee table rattles under your elbows as the opposite chair clatters into it under the force of a kick and the following screeching sound has some heads whirl around to watch the scene with raised eyebrows.

Whipped cream sploshes for a second as the large glass CLANGS down in front of you and hits the wooden surface with the force of a drunken man handling a beer bottle. You instinctively dodge back in your seat. Your eyes watch the green contents of it sway under the thick layer of chocolate sprinkled cream topping before your befuddled look darts up to meet him.

Ben slumps down across of you. His casual clothes almost could’ve fooled one to believe he’s a regular guy, if it wasn’t for his bulky frame hanging off the seat in all directions.

He looks a tad annoyed, but that was something you’d long become accustomed to. There was always something that pissed Ben off when you were around. Or someone for that matter. But mostly, it was just his resting face and you knew better than to take it personally.

“Couples get one pussy milk for two.” He states gruffly, ignoring all the faces turned his way now.

“…Ben? What the hell are you doing here?” You sputter, thrown off by the sudden whiff of musky smoke mixed with an unusual, intense, fresh and masculine smell… was that perfume that just hit your nose?

His stern expression melts into a flirtatious smile. This is new. “Hey sweetheart. Miss me yet?”

“How did you know I was here? - Wait- did you just say, for couples?”

“That’s what the sailor-hat-cum-gobbler back there said.” He boots back the chair next to you to kick up his legs while he continues with an annoyed grunt, but lacked any bite, “This green spew better be worth my damn money.”

You blink at him rapidly, and quite frankly, dumbfounded. Is that emotionally constipated man even aware of what he just said or-

“That’s what we are, innit?” He cuts you short, his voice as gravelly and confident as always.

But the way his green pupils glance up at you from the corner of his eyes, a thick strand of hair falling into his face when his head tilted away slightly, like a puppy afraid to get kicked… His emotions were subtle, a rare and fleeting moment, and anybody else might have dismissed it. But it told you so much more than he was willing to admit.

When your eyes flicker down to his hand twitching from his death grip on the arm rest, your chest tightens.

Oh my God. Ben was dead fucking serious.

“Don’t people usually first date?” You chuckle nervously, trying to lighten the mood.

And to buy yourself some time as you try to grapple with a situation you had never expected to find yourself in.

In fact, you have pictured yourself in it ever since you stepped into that shabby damn motel room where he had locked eyes with you for the very first time.

His stern expression makes way for a raucous laughter, his voice booming across the small coffee in pride. “I think we’re past that point, love, after I’ve fucked you raw. For five fucking hours. That’s longer than any damn date I’ve ever had.”

“Jesus Christ - Ben - tune it down! Please.” You plead in a hushed voice, face flushed as you can sense all the curious eyes watching you both closely, like you’re part of a live performance. And a scandalous one on top.

“I don’t hear any complaints. Just stating the facts here, sweetheart.” He chuckles cockily and winks at you, clearly his full ego back in place again, “So it’s settled, then?”

“Uh- I - uh-,” you stumble over your words, your hands fidgeting and your head still reeling from the fact that he had just announced your new relationship status as if he’d made a decent marketing deal with Vought.

His eyebrows push together, that familiar look of impatience taking over his face as he tries to understand why you’re still hesitating. You swallow thickly, the lump in your throat blocking any chance to voice your inner struggles.

You visibly shrink under his intense gaze and your eyes sink to the table, unsure of what to do. You sense him move across of you and you half-expect him to either snark at you now or just simply get up and leave. Damnit, now you fucked up.

But instead he slides the XXL milkshake across the table until it bumps into your tightly clasped hands and your eyes dart up to meet his again. He searches your face, emerald eyes sharp, analysing, but motivated by genuine concern.

His calloused fingers slide off the glass to brush them against yours, gentle, almost hesitant. As if those very same fingers hadn’t groped and gripped your flesh all night like he wanted to leave his marks on every inch of your body.

His large hand moves to cover both of yours, muffling the fidgeting of your fingers with a calm and heavy presence, his actions a big contrast to his rumbling voice. “Hey, you still with me?” He husks out your name, his green eyes boring into yours, gauging your reaction.

Your breath hitches, he squeezes your hands, the tension eases. Ben’s grounding you.

“Yes.” You finally whisper with an affectionate smile, and the same moment his fingers twitch around your hands. “It’s settled.”

“Good.” He mutters to himself and his expression seems almost… relieved.

It’s this moment you realise something: Ben’s not been avoiding his usual flirty and cocky smiles because he didn’t like you or thought you weren’t worth a fling. But because you were more than a possible fling to him. Because this, this was dead serious to him. And he was probably terrified of screwing it up.

After all, people didn’t love Benjamin for showing emotions, for vulnerability, for weakness, for being human. They loved Soldier Boy for being a fucking hero. The strongest. Indestructible. And not caressing fragile hands like they were an extention of the most precious soul in the whole damn universe to him.

His hands squeeze yours once more, as if physically reassuring you, before he pulls away and leans back again, now a content smile embellishing his firm face.

A genuine smile. No show. No flirty Soldier Boy.

From one ear to the other, all Benjamin.

As if he’d seen himself in the mirror, he suddenly shifts in his seat, like he’s physically trying to shake off any remaining trace of that disgusting vulnerability. “Right, so…” He clears his throat, his eyes flickering around the packed coffee shop like he’s looking for some moron to latch onto.

You chuckle softly at the sight, knowing all too well that it’ll probably take a hell of a lot of time and love to get him to smile more like this without having him recoil from his own feelings every time.

Sure enough, Ben has found the perfect victim. “Think we gotta step up our couple-game. Popeye’s still ain’t buyin’ it.” He smirks, his eyes lazily rolling over to briefly shoot a death glare at the sailor-hat wearing employee who’s now cowering behind the counter.

He then reaches over the table again, his index finger flicking against one of the two red-white striped straws bobbing in the sweet drink, before he goes on to strangle his own between his calloused finger pads.

“The dick bender’s been watching you all this time.” He growls, and you can feel just a hint of protectiveness from the way his jaw muscle twitches beneath his beard and his nose wrinkles above the straw that’s now been jammed between his bared teeth.

“Everyone’s watching us, Ben.” You chuckle, before your eyes trail down to the free straw with an amused smile.

Ben nudges your inner thigh with his foot under the table to get your attention. “C’mon, you make me look like some cocksucker here.” He teases and jerks his chin at you and the untouched straw still dangling off your side of the milkshake, “You said you wanted a fucking great Valentine’s day, right? So do me a favour, sweetheart, and start sucking.”

You chuckle and bring the straw up to your mouth to wrap your lips around it. You take the first slurp and your cheeks melt into a wide, knowing smile.

Matcha milkshake with chocolate chips and extra vanilla syrup. That much for ‘a code word’.

-------------

A/N: I hope this turned out okay?? 😭

Also. Maybe I was breaking a taboo here or maybe it’s not as common as I thought, but I felt like it's a topic which I have rarely ever see in fanfics. And I know how some just don’t fall over the edge that easily? Like sometimes it genuinely feels frustrating to chase that relief to no end with no success? Yeah, this story is for you all. I hear you. 🧡

Starting a Soldier Boy tag list for anyone who’s interested! ♡ ❀ꗥ Let me know in the comments or fill out this form!

[jollyhunter]

Can I just? I know I've commented it before but Maddie, your ✨aesthetics✨ are so uffff !!! 😩

That morning scene with Dean's arm draped across her waist? Please let me wake up like that! 🤌 And then the breakfast scene?

She hummed, oblivious, setting down a plate of eggs and toast in front of you. “It’s always nice to see young love. So many men these days don’t treat their ladies right. But you—” She turned to Dean, shaking a finger at him. “—you look like the kind of man who takes care of what’s his.” Dean made a noise in the back of his throat. You weren’t sure if it was agreement or a please fucking kill me now sound.

LMAO - of course Dean takes care of what's his. Eventually 🤣

The air turned electric. Dean was on him in a flash, his voice dropping into something dangerous. “You wanna say that again?”

The way he jumped at that dick's throat ahhh - protective Dean always has me go

He shook his head, muttering, “You are such a pain in my ass.” But he didn’t pull away and neither did you.

mmmmmhm I can see where this is going...

『 chapter two 』

꧁ summary: with a cramped hotel room, the tension between dean and the reader is impossible to ignore. something in the air is shifting, drawing them closer, but will they let it?

꧁ warnings: jealous!dean, jealous!reader, protective!dean, men in the 1920s are dogs, but the women aren't any better, tension, one bed, flustered dean & reader.

꧁ word count: 5.6k

series masterlist previous chapter next chapter

The hotel room was small, the kind of place that had seen better days but still held onto a shred of dignity. The yellow glow from the bedside lamp flickered now and then, making the faded wallpaper look even older, its once-elegant pattern blurred by time. The air smelled faintly of dust and cheap cologne, the scent of the past pressing in from every corner.

Dean stood near the window, tie undone, the top buttons of his shirt left open like he couldn’t be bothered to fix them. His sleeves were rolled up, forearms tense, his stance wound tight. The vest hugged his frame, suspenders hanging loose at his sides, and damn it—he looked like he belonged here. Like he could walk into a crowd on the street outside and no one would second-guess him.

Except for the look on his face. That permanent, wary expression, the way his eyes flickered to every shadow like they were hiding something. Like the walls could close in at any second.

You sat on the edge of the bed, toying with the hem of your borrowed dress, the stiff fabric foreign against your skin. It felt too proper, too delicate—like wearing a costume that didn’t quite fit. The whole day had been surreal, like stepping into a dream that didn’t belong to you. Being flung into another time, pretending to blend in, navigating a world of sharp-dressed men with low, knowing voices and women who looked at you like they could sniff out an imposter. Through all of it, Dean had been there, solid, steady, a goddamn lifeline.

And now he was pacing.

“Somethin’ ain’t right,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

You let out a slow breath. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Dean shot you a look, sharp but laced with amusement, the ghost of a smirk threatening to break through his frustration. “I’m serious. That guy at the bar? He wasn’t just some nosy jackass. He knew somethin’.”

Your gaze flickered to the small card still sitting on the nightstand. Just an address, plain and simple, but it carried weight. “And you think he has answers?”

Dean exhaled sharply through his nose. “I think he’s got somethin’. Whether it’s answers or a damn setup, we won’t know ‘til we go.”

Silence stretched between you. The weight of the situation settled deep in your chest, making it harder to breathe. You were trapped in the past with no clear way home, no solid plan, just half-clues and a gnawing sense that you were being pulled into something bigger than either of you realized.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your dress. “Dean…”

He turned immediately, like he’d been waiting for you to say something.

You hesitated. Then, quietly, “What if we don’t find a way back?”

His expression shifted, something softening beneath the rough edges. He stepped closer, standing in front of you, blocking out everything else. His voice dropped, low and certain. “Hey. We’ll figure this out. I promise.”

You wanted to believe him. You did believe him but beneath the confidence in his voice, there was something unspoken, something uncertain.

Your eyes flickered down to the undone buttons at his collar, the curve of his throat, the way his suspenders rested against his sides like he’d just shrugged them off. It wasn’t fair, really. How good he looked in clothes that didn’t even belong to your time. How he wore them like they were made for him.

Dean cleared his throat, and your eyes snapped back up.

Shit. You’d been staring. Heat pooled in your face as you quickly looked away, trying to ignore the way your pulse stuttered in your throat. “Right. Okay. So, what’s the plan?”

Dean smirked, clearly amused by your flustered state. Asshole. “Get some rest. We’ll check out this address in the morning.”

You scoffed, folding your arms. “And here I thought you were about to come up with something groundbreaking.”

Dean let out a low chuckle, but his smirk faded when his gaze flicked to the bed. The one bed.

Your stomach dropped. Your own eyes followed his, settling on the old mattress with its stiff, creased sheets, and suddenly, the whole damn room felt suffocating.

“Well,” you said, forcing out a dry laugh, “this isn’t awkward at all.”

Dean shifted on his feet, rubbing the back of his neck, a telltale sign that he was just as thrown by this as you were. “I can take the floor.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. “Don’t be dumb. The bed’s big enough.”

He hesitated, his green eyes flickering to yours, searching. “You sure?”

No. “Yeah.”

Dean studied you for a second longer, like he was trying to gauge whether or not you were bullshitting, but finally, he gave a slow nod. “Alright.”

You turned away, fingers reaching for the back of your dress, trying to unfasten the buttons. The fabric was stiff, the clasps awkward and frustrating, and the more you fumbled, the more flustered you got.

Before you could even sigh in defeat and ask for help, Dean was suddenly there. His fingers brushed yours, warm and steady, and you froze.

Your breath hitched in your throat as he made quick work of the last few clasps, his touch light, careful, almost hesitant, like he knew just how fucking intimate this was and was trying not to make it worse.

Too late. Your skin burned where his fingers had been, and for a long moment, neither of you moved. The air between you shifted, thick and electric, the kind of tension that made your stomach clench. Then, as if forcing himself, Dean took a step back. His voice was quieter now, rough at the edges. “All set.”

You swallowed hard, willing your damn heartbeat to settle. “Thanks.”

Dean gave a tight nod, but his jaw was clenched, his hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

You cleared your throat and turned away, peeling yourself out of the dress as quickly as you could without making a complete mess of yourself. The cool air hit your bare skin, and you shivered, arms wrapping around yourself instinctively.

Dean, still standing there, watching with something unreadable in his expression, suddenly exhaled and ran a hand down his face. Then he moved, reaching for the pile of clothes he had been wearing when you first landed in this decade, the button-up shirt he had shrugged off earlier. He held it out to you. “Here. Wear this.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Dean shrugged, but there was something almost shy about it, like he didn’t want to make a big deal of it. “I mean… unless you wanna sleep in that getup.” He gestured to the corset-like undergarment still hugging your torso. “Figured this might be more comfortable.”

The heat that had barely begun to fade from your face came back full force. Your fingers hesitated before taking the shirt from his hands. The fabric was soft, worn, smelling faintly of soap, whiskey, and Dean. Your stomach twisted, something warm unfurling in your chest as you clutched it to you.

You turned away to slip it on, the oversized fabric engulfing you, the sleeves hanging long past your wrists. Paired with your jeans, it was the closest you’d felt to yourself since landing in this time.

Dean glanced over at you, his eyes dragging over the sight of you wearing his clothes. Something in his gaze darkened for a fraction of a second before he quickly looked away, running a hand through his hair. But as you climbed into bed, the mattress dipping slightly when Dean settled in beside you, you had the strangest feeling that neither of you were gonna get much sleep tonight.

You climbed into bed first, slipping beneath the old, scratchy blankets, the fabric rough against your skin. The mattress was firm, unfamiliar, and you forced yourself to get comfortable, shifting slightly as you tried to act normal. Like this wasn’t completely fucking with your head.

A few seconds later, the bed dipped as Dean settled in beside you. The warmth of him seeped through the sheets almost immediately, his body close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off of him. The space between you was barely there, a few inches at most, and yet it felt like too much and not enough all at once.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, filled with the unspoken weight of everything that had led you here.

Then, finally, Dean exhaled. “Night, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice lower, softer than usual, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of the moment.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly tight. “Goodnight, Dean.”

You closed your eyes, willing your body to relax, willing your mind to stop replaying every charged glance, every fleeting touch. But sleep didn’t come easy. Not when the air between you was thick with something unsaid. Not when every time either of you shifted, your legs almost brushed, your breathing fell into sync. And not when, in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, you could still feel him there, close, warm, solid—like some part of you knew that if you reached out, if you moved just an inch closer, everything might change.

It took a long time for either of you to finally drift off.

The morning light slipped through the thin, dusty curtains, casting warm golden streaks across the bed. It was soft, hazy, the kind of light that made everything feel too intimate, too real. You woke slowly, caught in that quiet space between dreaming and awareness, your body relaxed, warm, comfortable.

Until you realized why.

Dean's arm was draped across your waist, heavy and solid, keeping you against him. His chest was pressed to your back, every steady rise and fall of his breath ghosting against your skin. The scent of him, whiskey, leather, something unmistakably Dean, wrapped around you.

Your pulse slammed into overdrive. You didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Somewhere in your brain, a rational voice was telling you that this was fine. Normal, even. Just Dean. Just a warm, solid weight behind you, like it wasn’t unraveling you from the inside out.

But fuck.

He shifted slightly, the movement sending a slow drag of heat along your back, his arm flexing around your waist like he meant to hold you closer. A sleepy murmur left his lips, low and rough, before his grip slackened again.

Jesus Christ.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe. Carefully, very carefully, you started to move, trying to slip out from under his arm without waking him.

Big fucking mistake.

Dean stirred, his grip instinctively tightening. His body tensed for half a second before he made a low, sleepy noise of protest and buried his face somewhere near your shoulder. “Mm. Five more minutes,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep.

You almost choked. Was he serious?

“Dean,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath.

He inhaled deeply, shifting again, and then he stilled. For a long, heavy moment, neither of you moved. The air between you stretched tight, humming with something neither of you wanted to name. Then, like slow fucking torture, Dean pulled back. Just enough to put space between you, his arm retreating and his warmth slipping away.

“Uh,” he rasped, voice rough and still laced with sleep. “Mornin’.”

You forced yourself to roll onto your back, meeting his eyes. He looked like he was still catching up, still processing. His hair was a mess, his jaw rough with stubble, his lips slightly parted like he was about to say something else but thought better of it.

Your throat was dry. “Morning.” A long silence stretched between you, the weight of it pressing against your ribs.

Dean was the first to break, clearing his throat and raking a hand through his already-tousled hair. “So. Breakfast?”

You nodded way too quickly. “Yep. Great idea.”

Neither of you moved right away. Because the air still felt different and neither of you were ready to figure out why.

Neither of you moved. Dean exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath before throwing off the blankets and climbing out of bed. You followed, desperate for something, anything, to break the tension.

Breakfast. That was safe, right?

At least, that’s what you told yourself. A distraction, something normal in the middle of this absolute mindfuck of a situation. Just food. Coffee. Anything to focus on besides the way your skin still burned from Dean’s touch. But safe went right out the window the second you stepped downstairs.

The hotel’s dining room was small and dimly lit, with checkered floors and the lingering smell of fresh biscuits. You barely had time to settle into your seat before the old woman running the place came bustling over, her gaze flicking between you and Dean with a knowing smile.

“You two are just the cutest couple.”

Your brain short-circuited. Dean, who had just taken a sip of his coffee, choked. Actually choked. He coughed into his fist, shoulders tensing, eyes widening in silent panic.

Neither of you corrected her though.

She hummed, oblivious, setting down a plate of eggs and toast in front of you. “It’s always nice to see young love. So many men these days don’t treat their ladies right. But you—” She turned to Dean, shaking a finger at him. “—you look like the kind of man who takes care of what’s his.”

Dean made a noise in the back of his throat. You weren’t sure if it was agreement or a please fucking kill me now sound.

Your stomach twisted. You should’ve laughed it off. Made some joke. Oh, no, we’re just friends! But the words wouldn’t come. Because that was when it hit you. You and Dean, the way you stuck together, the way he touched you without even thinking, the way you relied on him like he was as much a part of you as your own damn heartbeat, you weren’t just best friends.

You hadn’t been just best friends for a long time. And judging by the way Dean was staring down at his plate, his jaw tight, his fingers gripping his coffee like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth, he knew it too.

The rest of breakfast passed in a blur. You went through the motions, eating, making small talk when necessary but your mind was spinning, your body hyper-aware of every single move Dean made. The way his fingers tapped restlessly against the table. The way his knee bumped against yours under the table and lingered before pulling away. The way he kept not looking at you, like he was afraid of what he’d see if he did.

When you finally stood to leave, Dean exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “So,” he said, his voice rough, “guess we better check out that address.”

You nodded, too quickly. “Yep. Great idea.”

Just like earlier. Just like before. Except nothing felt the same anymore.

The streets of Chicago pulsed with life, a relentless, restless energy that seeped into your bones. The air was thick with the scent of city smoke, whiskey, and the faint, cloying sweetness of expensive perfume. The clatter of heels on pavement, the murmur of voices, the occasional honk of a passing car, all of it blended together into a symphony of a world that didn’t belong to you.

Dean walked beside you, his shoulders squared, his jaw tight. You could see the sharp angles of his face, the muscle in his jaw ticking as he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his borrowed trousers. But it wasn’t just the whole being stuck in the 1920s thing that had him on edge. No, this was something else, and it didn’t take you long to figure out what.

The moment you stepped onto the busy street, you felt them--eyes. Lingering, dragging over you with a slow deliberation that made your stomach twist. Some men were bold about it, their gazes crawling up and down your frame like they had every right. Others were more subtle, offering small smirks, tipping their hats with the kind of easy arrogance that set your teeth on edge. You weren’t dressed provocatively. Your borrowed dress was modest, flowing past your knees, cinched at the waist. But none of that mattered.

You felt exposed.

And Dean? Dean fucking noticed.

The first time, his brow furrowed slightly, but he didn’t say anything. The second time, he exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers twitching, curling into fists at his sides. By the third time, when a group of men standing at the street corner muttered something low enough that you couldn’t hear, but Dean sure as hell could, he stopped cold.

His voice was low, dark. “You got a damn sign on your back I don’t know about?”

You blinked, startled. “What?”

Dean wasn’t looking at you. His stare was locked on the group of men, sharp as a blade, his whole body coiled like a predator about to pounce. One of the men had the audacity to nod in your direction.

“Evenin’, miss,” he said smoothly, his eyes dragging down to your lips like he was imagining something that made your skin crawl. “You look awful lonely.”

Dean moved so fast you barely had time to react. One second, he was beside you. The next, he was right in front of you, shoulders squared, his entire body blocking yours from view.

The guy didn’t even flinch. His smirk widened, amused. “Easy, pal. No need to get all riled up.”

Dean’s eyes darkened. “She’s not interested.”

The man chuckled, slow and smug. “Ain’t you I’m talkin’ to, is it?”

The air turned electric. Dean was on him in a flash, his voice dropping into something dangerous. “You wanna say that again?”

The man’s smirk faltered. His buddies exchanged wary glances, shifting where they stood. Dean’s fists clenched at his sides, his entire frame rigid, vibrating with barely restrained fury. You could feel the heat rolling off him, could see the way his chest rose and fell with slow, controlled breaths, like he was forcing himself not to put this asshole through the nearest brick wall.

Your pulse pounded. This was bad.

You reached for him without thinking, wrapping your fingers around his wrist, your touch firm but gentle. “Dean,” you murmured, just loud enough for him to hear.

That single word snapped him out of it. His jaw ticked and his muscles stayed tight, but he took a step back, just enough to create space.

The man exhaled a slow, cocky breath and held up his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, tough guy,” he muttered before backing off, disappearing into the crowd.

Dean didn’t move. He stood there, rigid, his eyes still burning holes into the spot where the guy had just been. You could hear his breathing, measured and deep, like he was still fighting the instinct to chase the bastard down and break something.

“Dean,” you tried again, softer this time.

His shoulders finally loosened, just barely. He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair before glancing at you. His gaze flickered over your face, searching, like he needed to make sure you were okay. And then he let out a low curse under his breath, shaking his head. “Fuckin’ pricks.”

You swallowed, trying to find something lighthearted to say, some way to cut through the weight hanging between you. “Well. Good to know chivalry’s still alive and thriving in the ‘20s.”

Dean didn’t laugh. He just huffed, running a hand down his face. Turning back to you, Dean's voice was rough, edged with something you couldn’t quite place. “You okay?”

You nodded automatically, even though your heart was still jackhammering against your ribs. You weren’t sure if it was the assholes from earlier, or the way Dean had looked at them like he was two seconds from rearranging their faces. Maybe both.

Dean ran a hand down his face, exhaling hard through his nose. “Jesus.”

You forced a small shrug, trying to shake it off, trying to pretend like the whole thing hadn’t rattled you. “Ignore them. They’re just—”

“They’re assholes,” Dean snapped, his voice gruff, razor-sharp. “That’s what they are.”

Something about the way he said it sent warmth curling low in your stomach. It shouldn’t have but it did and you had no idea what the hell to do with that. So you did nothing. You just kept walking, forcing your focus back to why you were out here in the first place, finding the man who had given you the card.

But apparently, the universe wasn’t fucking done screwing with you yet. Because not even five minutes later, you realized the attention had shifted.

Not on you, no, no.

On Dean. It started subtle, a few lingering looks, a couple of giggles, and then a woman in a sleek black dress, her lips painted blood-red, brushed her fingers along his arm as she passed.

Dean blinked, caught off guard and your jaw clenched. Then, another woman let her gaze drag over him, slow and shameless, actually biting her lip like he was a goddamn dessert she was about to sink her teeth into.

You were this close to rolling your eyes straight out of your fucking skull. And Dean, the bastard? He smirked.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” you muttered under your breath.

Dean turned, eyebrows lifting. “What?”

You huffed, gesturing vaguely toward the small crowd of women still sneaking glances at him. “That.”

Dean followed your gaze, just in time to catch another woman winking at him and his smirk widened. “Well, damn,” he drawled, tilting his head, clearly enjoying this way too much. “Guess I clean up pretty good.”

Your eye twitched. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” you shot back. “They’re just impressed you don’t reek of motor oil and gunpowder for once.”

Dean grinned, all cocky confidence. “So you’re impressed?”

You scowled. “That is not what I said.”

Dean chuckled, the sound low and warm in his chest. Which was so fucking unfair, because five minutes ago, he’d been ready to murder a guy for looking at you the wrong way, and now? Now he was thriving.

You weren’t sure what possessed you to do it. Maybe it was pettiness. Maybe it was something else, something you didn’t want to name but when another woman all but undressed him with her eyes, you leaned in and slid your hand through the crook of his arm.

Dean froze and you felt the way he tensed under your touch, the way his whole body went stiff like his brain short-circuited. Slowly, he turned his head toward you, something flickering in those green eyes, something unreadable, something that sent a shiver down your spine. “What are you doin’?”

You gave him your sweetest, most innocent smile. “Just making sure no one tries to steal you away.”

Dean’s breath hitched, barely, but you caught it. His smirk faltered and his throat bobbed. You held your breath, waiting for him to say something, to make a snarky comment, to pull away.

He shook his head, muttering, “You are such a pain in my ass.” But he didn’t pull away and neither did you.

The wind had teeth now, sharp and biting, clawing at the edges of your dress as you clutched Dean’s arm tighter, a lifeline in the ever-growing unease pressing down on you. You told yourself it was for show, that the men lingering on the street corners, their gazes following you like wolves tracking prey, needed to see that you weren’t alone.

Dean felt it too. His body was tense beneath your touch, muscles coiled like he was waiting for something to go wrong. His hand rested over yours, thumb tracing absent circles against your knuckles, a movement so small, so unintentional, that it sent a slow burn through your veins. But his eyes remained sharp, scanning every alleyway, every shadow, every face that flickered too close.

“We’re close,” you murmured, glancing around, searching the address.

Dean exhaled hard, dragging a hand down his face, tension strung tight through his shoulders. “Yeah, well, if this guy doesn’t show soon, we’re screwed. And I don’t know about you, sweetheart, but I’d rather not be stuck in the damn Roaring Twenties for the rest of my life.”

Your breath caught. The rest of my life. Funny how a simple phrase could knock the fucking wind out of you. Because if you didn’t find a way back… if you were really stuck here…It would be just you and Dean forever.

The thought sent a violent shiver up your spine, one you swallowed down fast before it could fester into something more dangerous, something you didn’t dare touch. You cleared your throat.

The first raindrop landed cold against your cheek. Then another, and then the sky split open. The storm that had been threatening all day finally crashed down, with sheets of rain hammering the city so fast you barely had time to react.

“Son of a—!” Dean grabbed your wrist, yanking you toward the nearest cover. You stumbled beneath the awning of a little shop just as the downpour turned relentless, rain pelting the streets in thick, silver sheets, soaking the pavement, the rooftops, you. Your breath came in sharp gasps, your pulse hammering as you pressed your back against the cool brick wall, trying to shake off the cold.

Beside you, Dean ran a hand through his wet hair, shaking out the water, droplets flying. His white shirt clung to him now, soaked through, molding to the shape of his chest and arms in a way that made your stomach flip violently. You swallowed hard. Don’t fucking look y/n...

“That came out of nowhere,” you muttered, desperate to focus on anything other than the way his soaked clothes outlined every damn muscle.

Dean let out a breath, rolling his shoulders like he could shake off the rain. “Yeah, no shit.”

Then he looked at you and everything else, the storm, the mission, the entire goddamn city, faded into nothing. It was the look. The one that made your skin prickle and your stomach twist, made your fingers twitch with the need to grab onto something, grab onto him.

His eyes dragged over you, slow and dark, taking in the damp strands of your hair sticking to your skin, the way your dress clung to you now, molded to every curve. Heat curled low in your stomach and your breath hitched.

Dean took half a step forward, barely anything, but enough. Enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, mixing with the cool bite of the rain-soaked air. His hand twitched at his side, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should.

Your pulse roared in your ears. Move. Say something. Do something. But you didn’t and neither did he.

Dean’s chest rose and fell, the muscle in his jaw ticking. His eyes flickered from your lips to your eyes, then back again, something unreadable churning beneath the surface. Your name was on his lips. You could see it, feel it. All you had to do was lean in, just a little.

“Dean…” The whisper barely left your lips before--

BANG

A loud bang from across the street shattered the moment. Both of you jumped, your heads snapping toward the sound.

A man staggered out of the shadowy doorway of the address you and Dean had been looking for. He fumbled with his coat, muttering to himself, his movements jerky and frantic as he rushed down the rain-slicked sidewalk.

Dean stiffened beside you. “That’s the guy that gave us the card.”

Your heart lurched. “Wait, what?” Your brain was still foggy, reeling from the almost kiss you’d just had with Dean, if you could even call it that. You weren’t sure what the hell it was. Just that it left you shaken, unsteady in a way you didn’t have the time to process.

Dean was already moving, his boots splashing through puddles as he started after the guy. “Let’s go.”

And just like that, the moment was gone. The heat, the tension, the way Dean’s eyes had lingered on your lips like he was about to do something reckless, wiped away like it had never fucking happened. You let out a shaky breath and forced yourself to move, to follow him into the storm, but your pulse still hammered.

Not from the chase. Not from the cold rain soaking through your clothes. But from him. Because for one terrifying second, you weren’t sure what you wanted more, to have Dean kiss you, or to be the one to close the space and kiss him first. And that scared the living hell out of you.

The rain lashed against your skin, a relentless downpour that turned the streets into rivers glistening. Dean was ahead of you, his broad frame cutting through the storm, moving with a determined, predatory focus. The guy must’ve known he was being tailed because the moment he reached the street corner, he broke into a full sprint.

Dean swore under his breath and took off after him.

“Hey!” Dean bellowed, his voice barely cutting through the storm. “Stop!”

The guy didn’t stop. If anything, he moved faster, bolting across the slick cobblestones, darting between pedestrians who barely had time to curse at him before he vanished into a narrow alleyway.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered, but he didn’t hesitate before following.

You were right behind him, your breath coming in sharp gasps as you turned the corner. The alley was dark, the brick walls looming on either side, creating a tight, shadowed corridor that stank of wet pavement and something stale. The rain barely reached this deep in, only a few trickles of water running down from the rooftops, collecting in shallow pools at your feet.

Dean had the guy pinned to the wall before you even fully caught up, his fist twisted in the man’s lapel, slamming him hard against the bricks. “Not so fast, pal,” Dean growled, his voice a dangerously low. “We need answers.”

The man sputtered, struggling against Dean’s grip, his soaked coat slipping beneath Dean’s fingers. His face was weathered, lined with years of rough living, but his eyes were sharp, almost too sharp for someone who was just an innocent bystander in all this. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he gasped.

Dean wasn’t having it. He yanked him forward before slamming him back again, harder this time. “Wrong answer.”

You stepped closer, instinctively reaching out to place a hand on Dean’s arm. Not to stop him, but just to steady him, to remind him that you were here. That you had his back. The man’s frantic gaze darted between you both, taking in the way you stood beside Dean, unwavering. He swallowed hard, realizing there was no way out of this. “Look, if this is about the card,” he rasped, “you’re already in deep shit.”

Dean let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, no kidding. Where do we find the person you were leading us to?”

The man hesitated, licking his lips, his eyes flicking toward the alley entrance like he expected someone to be watching.

“Listen,” he muttered. “If you’re looking for a way out of here… you don’t wanna be found asking these kinds of questions. People disappear for less.”

Dean’s grip tightened on his coat. “Cut the cryptic crap. We don’t have time for this.”

Your stomach twisted at his words. We don’t have time. It wasn’t just a figure of speech. If you didn’t find a way back soon… you would be stuck here.

The man let out a slow, resigned breath. “There’s a guy,” he admitted. “Calls himself Harrington. Runs the kind of business that deals in… unusual requests.”

Dean frowned. “Define ‘unusual.’”

The man shook his head. “You already know. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be asking.”

Your eyes met Dean’s. That was it. This Harrington guy had to be the key, the connection to whatever magic had dragged you both into this damn time period.

“Where do we find him?” you pressed.

The man shifted uncomfortably before finally muttering, “The Blue Orchid.”

Dean exhaled sharply. “Another speakeasy?”

The man nodded. “One of the biggest in the city. Harrington doesn’t just run it—he owns it. If you want answers, that’s where you start.”

Dean’s jaw ticked, his fingers flexing like he was barely holding himself back from shaking more information out of him.

The guy hesitated a second longer before muttering, “If you’re smart, you’ll walk away. Find some nice little life here. Because if you go looking for Harrington, you might not like what you find.”

Dean’s expression darkened, and he stepped closer, voice low and lethal. “Yeah, well, walking away isn’t an option.”

The man let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Didn’t think so.”

Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into the rain.

For a long moment, neither you nor Dean moved. The storm still raged outside the alley, water pooling at your feet, but the silence between you felt heavier than any thunder.

Dean finally exhaled, running a hand down his soaked face. “The Blue Orchid.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Looks like we’re going dancing.”

Dean let out a breath of laughter, but it was dry, lacking any real amusement. “Great. Because that’s exactly what this night was missing.”

Despite yourself, you smiled, your pulse still buzzing with adrenaline. You were exhausted, drenched, and running out of options. But at least now, you had a lead, right?

author’s note:

yeah, I felt like men and women around this time were feral for some reason, lmfao. I mean personally I don’t blame those women for hitting on dean 🤣 hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! get ready for dean and the reader basically running around in circles trying to find their way back home & the tension between them only growing by the minute! :) I have so many tropes in this series lined up >:)

want to request a oneshot? send one in! I’m taking requests as of right now! don’t be shy!

— requests are open.ᐟᅟ please read request rules.ᐟᅟ

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[jollyhunter]

Oh Abbie - you have no idea how much I love your kinky Dean series, and I've still got so much to catch up on!! HOT DAMN!

And your long descriptions of Bobby's place was so nostalgic for some reason... UGHHH I WANT TO BEAM MYSELF THERE RIGHT NOW. *remembers the last time we got to see it in the series.*

And the car wash scene?? I'm dying in this summer heat but damn I'd volunteer for that (only for a Chevy Impala 1967 though. And if their owner's called Dean Winchester.)

This was so hot and at the same time cute to see how Dean was dumbstruck at his fantasy turned real. Those two really are the perfect match!

Sexual Encounters with Dean Winchester - Fantasy

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Exploring kinks with Dean.

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings/tags: Smut! (18+), Car wash, Dean's baby cleaning his baby 😜, semi public sex, fluff, swearing, dirty talk, established relationship.

AN: Another one to add to this Kinky-ass series 😅, it was an idea that just came to me and was fun to explore! I hope you guys like this one 💕

Main Masterlist

SEDW Masterlist

The summer heat hung thick in the air at the Salvage Yard. The scent of oil, rust, and sunbaked metal mixing with the warm breeze. Rows of old, abandoned cars stretched across the yard, their hoods popped open like gaping mouths, skeletons of machines long past their prime. 

Bobby’s house stood sturdy and weathered in the centre of it all, with its wraparound porch that held so much history and too many late-night whiskey-fuelled conversations. The old barn loomed in the distance, its doors slightly ajar, housing Bobby’s collection of spare parts, weapons, and God knows what else.

It was quiet now—eerily so. Sam and Bobby had taken off for a supply run, leaving you and Dean alone. And while he was inside tinkering with something—probably cleaning one of his guns for the fifth time today—you were outside, preparing a little surprise.

Dean had let slip a couple of nights ago—after a few celebratory drinks of another case done and dealt with, at the local dive in town— that he had a fantasy. Not some ordinary, run-of-the-mill kink. No, something that was more personal to him. 

His girl, washing his Baby. 

He’d gone into great detail how nothing could be hotter—his two greatest loves, together, covered in soap and water.

And who were you to deny him this fantasy?

Smirking to yourself, you dragged an old radio from the garage, setting it down on the workbench. You placed the cassette tape, you’d dug out of Dean’s box of his beloved tapes, into the compartment and with a flick of the volume dial to the max, the opening chords of Pour Some Sugar on Me blasted through the humid afternoon, cutting through the quiet.

It wasn’t 30 seconds later, the screen door was creaking open.

“The hell?” Dean’s voice floated out, rough with confusion. You didn’t turn to look just yet. You knew exactly what was about to happen.

You dipped the oversized sponge into the bucket of warm, soapy water, wringing it out just enough before gliding it over the hood of the Impala. The sun gleamed off the wet metal, tiny rivulets of water dripping down the sleek black curves of Baby’s body. You bit your lip, pretending to be completely unaware of the way Dean had stopped dead in his tracks.

When you did glance up, you found him standing there, frozen on the back porch, his entire expression comically dumbstruck.

His jaw had quite literally dropped.

A slow, wicked smirk pulled at your lips. Oh, yeah. You had him.

You gave the hood another slow swipe then, for good measure, and bent just a little further than necessary, your tiny denim shorts riding even higher, clinging to the curve of your ass. The white tank top you wore clung to your skin like a second layer, teasing the lace of your bra underneath. 

You could feel his eyes roaming over you, hungry and dark, his entire body going still in that telltale way that meant his self-control was hanging by a damn thread.

Dean let out a strangled groan. “Son of a bitch.”

You kept up the show, swaying your hips in time with the music, letting the heat of the sun mix with the heat of his stare. Then, like you were in some sinful 2000s music video, you lifted the sponge, squeezing it over your chest. Cool, soapy water cascaded down your skin, soaking your tank top completely see-through.

Dean actually stumbled forward a step, like some invisible force was dragging him closer.

“Jesus, fuck.” His voice barely made it past his lips, breathless with something between awe and agony.

You dragged the sponge over your body, teasing, slow, torturous, wringing every ounce of restraint from him. Rolling your hips to the beat, you stretched across the Impala’s hood, putting on a show until the final strums of the song faded out.

Grinning, you turned fully to face him, leaning back against the slick metal, watching the way his chest rose and fell. The way his fists clenched at his sides, his body taut with restraint.

“So…” You tilted your head, your smirk coy. “Is this everything you imagined?”

Dean didn’t answer.

He moved.

In one swift motion, he closed the distance, gripping your waist and lifting you onto the hood with effortless strength. The cool metal met your bare thighs, shocking a gasp from your lips—one he swallowed as his mouth crashed onto yours.

The kiss was desperate, hungry. Claiming.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, arching into him, feeling just how much he’d enjoyed the show. His hands roamed your back, fingers digging into your hips as he dragged you closer, like he couldn’t get enough. The heat of his body, the rough denim of his jeans between your legs—it was intoxicating.

He kissed you like a man starved, all tongue and teeth, devouring you, owning you.

You whimpered when his lips trailed lower, his stubble scraping deliciously against your damp skin.

“You’re so fucking hot,” he growled, voice thick with want, hands gripping your ass as he rocked against you.

You moaned at the friction, rolling your hips into him, your fingers threading into his hair, tugging just to hear the sharp hiss that left his lips.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his head dropping to your shoulder.

Your breath hitched as he ground against you, slow and deliberate, teasing himself as much as you.

“As much as I’d love to take my time with you,” Dean panted, his voice ragged, “I’m afraid we don’t have a lotta time.”

Your lips curled into a wicked smirk as you dragged your nails down his chest, over the fabric of that grey tee of his, the one that clung to his biceps and broad shoulders. “Then we better make it quick.”

You husked against his lips and then caught his plush bottom lip between your teeth, tugging just enough to make him groan deep in his chest, and that was all it took. Dean all but growled before crashing his lips against yours once more, the kiss hot and filthy. 

His large hand framed your jaw, holding you in place as he deepened the kiss, his tongue thrusting past your lips, swallowing your breath like he couldn’t get enough of you.

His hands were everywhere—skimming down your sides, gripping your hips, squeezing your ass before finally cupping your breasts through the soaked fabric of your top. A sharp gasp left you when he pulled away, yanking the dampened fabric over your head and tossing it somewhere behind him. 

Without hesitation, he tugged the cups of your lace-bra down, freeing your breasts to the warm summer air before his mouth was on you, hot and hungry, sucking, nipping, lavishing you in wet, open-mouthed kisses.

“Fuck, baby,” you whimpered, arching into him, your fingers fisting into his hair as the ache between your legs turned unbearable.

Dean groaned against your skin before pulling back just enough to flick open the button of your shorts, yanking them and your panties down in one swift motion. You barely had time to shiver before his hands were between your thighs, his fingers trailing over your slick heat, teasing, pressing just enough to have you trembling.

“Shit, baby,” he rasped, dragging his fingers through your wetness, spreading it before pressing the pads of two fingers against your aching clit. “Already so fuckin’ soaked for me.”

Your head fell back, a breathy moan slipping past your lips as he started working you open, circling your bundle of nerves with slow, deliberate strokes. He knew exactly how to touch you—his practiced hand moving with confidence, like he was playing a damn fiddle, pulling every little sound from you with ease.

Your thighs twitched, hips rolling into his hand, but he wasn’t about to let you slip away from him. His free arm slid around your back, pulling you against him, keeping you close, keeping you steady. You weren’t going anywhere—not until he was done with you.

“Dean,” you gasped, clinging to his bicep, your other hand gripping his shirt as he slid one thick finger inside you, curling it just right. Your walls clenched around him, the stretch not nearly enough, but he took his time, teasing you, dragging his finger in and out before adding a second.

“There we go,” he murmured, voice low and sinful as he thrust his fingers deep, curling them against that spot that had you gasping. “Goddamn, sweetheart… you’re squeezing me so tight.”

His thumb found your clit again, circling, pressing, sending waves of pleasure through your body. His arm around your back tightened, anchoring you, his body pressed firm against yours as he worked you apart with ruthless precision.

The tension coiled in your stomach, tightening with every stroke, every flick, until you were right there, teetering on the edge.

Dean leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice rough and dripping with possession. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel it.”

A broken cry tore from your throat as your orgasm hit, your body arching into him, back bowing as pleasure wracked your frame. Your walls pulsed around his fingers, thighs trembling, hands fisting his shirt as he worked you through it. His deep groan vibrated against your skin, his grip on you firm, grounding you as you came undone beneath him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he praised, fingers slowing but never stopping, drawing out every last pulse. His free hand smoothed up your back, keeping you close, pressing you against his heat as you shuddered.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your throat before dragging his slick fingers to his lips, sucking them clean with a satisfied hum. “You taste so fuckin’ sweet.”

Still panting, you reached for his belt, fingers fumbling in your urgency, desperate to feel him inside you. Dean wasted no time helping, shoving the leather free and popping the button of his jeans, his cock already hard and aching as he shoved them down just enough to free himself.

Your breath hitched as you wrapped your fingers around him, the heat of him searing against your palm. He was thick, heavy, veins pulsing beneath your touch as you stroked him from base to tip. A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat, his hips jerking into your grip as his head tipped back, lips parted on a ragged breath.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” he rasped, his hands gripping your thighs, like he was grounding himself in you.

You let your thumb sweep over the weeping tip, smearing his precum, feeling the way he twitched under your touch. His jaw clenched, muscles tensing, and fuck, you swore you could watch him like this forever—his body taut with need, barely holding himself together.

But Dean had other plans.

With a rough growl, he pried your hand away and pressed you back onto the hood of the Impala, the metal warm against your spine, sending a shiver through you. His hands spread your thighs wide, his gaze roaming over your flushed, wrecked body like he was committing you to memory.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, palming himself as he stroked his cock, his eyes dark and hungry. “You look so goddamn good like this. My girl. My Baby.”

The possessiveness in his voice sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, your walls fluttering around nothing as you whined for him, arching, desperate. That was all it took.

Dean lined himself up and thrust in with one smooth, devastating stroke, burying himself to the hilt. The both of you moaned—loud, unrestrained—as he stretched you open, filling you completely. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he stilled, savouring the heat of you wrapped around him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, forehead dropping to yours, his breath hot, ragged. “So goddamn tight, baby.”

A whimper slipped from your lips, your hands clawing for grip on the slick metal as you tried to rock your hips, but his grip on your thighs kept you pinned beneath him. The stretch of him was almost too much, the delicious burn leaving you trembling, but it wasn’t enough—not yet.

“Dean, baby" you gasped, voice breathless, needy. "Please. Move. Fuck me."

Your plea shattered whatever restraint he had left.

Then he moved.

There was no holding back, no slow build—just pure, unrelenting need as he started fucking into you, hard and fast. The Impala rocked beneath you, the metal creaking under the force of his thrusts, and every time you jolted higher, he yanked you back down onto him, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

The sound of skin slapping, the wet, filthy noises of him pounding into you filled the air, mingling with your desperate cries and his gritted curses. Every thrust sent you spiralling higher, every drag of his cock against that perfect spot making your vision blur.

Dean was unraveling just as fast, his grip tightening, his groans turning into something deeper, almost desperate. His lips found yours in a searing, messy kiss, his teeth catching your bottom lip before he broke away, panting against your mouth.

“Gonna come for me again, sweetheart?” he growled, his hand slipping between you to rub tight circles over your clit, driving you closer to the edge. “C’mon, baby. Let me feel you.”

Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up, pleasure ripping through you, your walls clenching around him as you came with a cry. The way you squeezed him had him cursing, his rhythm faltering, his breath shuddering.

“Shit—fuck, baby—” His hips stuttered, and then he was right there with you, groaning deep as he buried himself to the hilt, his release spilling inside you, hot and thick.

He slumped against you, both of you breathless, shaking, bodies slick with sweat. His hand smoothed up your side, soothing, grounding, before he pressed a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your collarbone, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk.

“Damn,” he chuckled, voice wrecked. “Might be the best ride I’ve ever had in this car.”

You rolled your eyes, but the breathless laughter still bubbled out of you. "You’re such a dork." You smacked his shoulder lightly, a mix of jest and silent demand for him to help you up. He did, pulling you against his chest, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your lips.

When he pulled back, his green eyes were softer now, something unspoken lingering between you both. His fingers traced along your jaw, his thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lips.

"Thank you," he murmured, voice quieter now, more reverent. "For this… for everything."

Your heart squeezed at the sincerity in his gaze, and you cupped his cheek, stroking your thumb over the rough stubble. "Anything for you."

Dean exhaled, something almost like relief washing over his expression before he kissed you once more—slower this time, less desperate, more savouring. His hands lingered on your hips, his thumb brushing soft circles against your skin, grounding you in the moment.

But before you could get lost in him again, you reluctantly slipped away, heading inside to clean up and change. The last thing you needed was to look like you’d just been thoroughly fucked on the hood of Dean’s beloved car—especially with Bobby and Sam due back any minute.

By the time you descended the steps—now looking far more presentable—you caught sight of Dean through the hall window. A smirk tugged at your lips as you watched him, his focus entirely on the Impala, washing away lingering suds and ensuring not a single trace of your time together remained. Of course, he had to finish her off too. Pun intended.

You bit your lip, amused at the sight, but before you could enjoy it any longer, the familiar rumble of Bobby’s truck rolling up the dirt driveway snapped you from your thoughts.

Bobby stepped out first, casting a suspicious glance toward Dean, while Sam followed, his gaze narrowing as he watched his brother casually running a drying cloth over the hood.

“Didn’t you just clean her yesterday?” Sam asked, brows furrowing.

Dean hesitated for only a fraction of a second before smirking, his comeback effortless, at least so he thought. “Yeah, well… she got a little dirty.”

AN: This was a fun little one to write 😆. Ofc Dean's fantasy would be something like this, simple but effective. I hope you guys liked this one ❤️, feedback is always appreciated 😊

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

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[jollyhunter]

May I introduce you

Also, I'll take that as a huge compliment 😂 Thank you so much!! 🤭

Gunpoint

Main Masterlist ❀ Mark Meachum Masterlist

⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Mark Meachum x Detective!fReader

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY You hate each other. Therefore, naturally you’ll stick to the no-affections rule whenever you fuck, until you don’t.

WARNING / TAGS MDNI. 18+! Smut

GoldenRetriever Rottweiler!Mark x BlackCat!Reader energy | Enemies with Benefits | Enemies to Frenemies to true Lovers eventually? | Mark’s being a bit of a bully here (but reader’s no better) | power play | manhandling | arguing and cussing | protected p in v | hate sex | office sex | light choking | Reader is a detective too | Mark might be a bit OOC (consider this my personal take on him from what I’ve seen so far!) | No use of Y/N.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~2,6k (it was meant to be a drabble - sigh)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES I've got so many Angst-riddled Mark fics in my drafts and yet my first Meachum post is pure smut and also my first hate sex fic? I just couldn't help it, for some reason Mark gave me some Rottweiler energy and then @emeraldcrs and I talked about office smut and then I just ran with it? 🤷‍♀️

You are held at gunpoint by Mark Meachum.

It's just after 7pm, and the dim light dances off the empty desks around you. The office air is still thick from the summer heat and musky from the meeting with the task force that was cooped up until an hour ago.

Now that everyone's gone out for a drink, you can finally catch your breath.

Papers are stacked to the left and right of you as you're filing your report in the peace of solitude, sitting at your desk ten floors above the busy streets of Los Angeles.

Yet you felt him the moment he entered the room. Lazy steps pulling up to you. Boots echoing off the window walls next to you.

"There you are."

You sighed – he chuckled somewhere behind you. Low, mischievous. Edgy.

"Not in the mood, Meachum."

"You say that like it’s a good thing."

Moments later his hands come down onto the desk on each side of your forearms, boxing you in.

You feel him tower over you now. His mouth hovering right at the nape of your neck like the barrel of a gun. His hot, ragged breath a warning as it licks a stripe down your spine and leaves goosebumps in its wake. Just a little closer and his lips would deliver a kiss to the back of your neck and break your first and foremost rule.

That's right. Mark and you have a... let's say, loaded relationship. To put it in Finau's words, "You two fight like cat and dog."

You constantly get at each other's throats. Either because you can't stand his recklessness or he can't deal with your calm and challenging attitude. However, since you'd been teamed up for that undercover case in Montana 2 months ago, there was a new layer added to whatever the hell it was that the two of you had going;

Sex.

Along with that came an unwritten Green Book with its own set of rules: This is purely physical. A thing to occasionally get each other off without all the emotional crap that's always bound to end bad for both of you.

Therefore, no dating. No holding hands. Marking the other is also off turf. Praising and pet names, too. It goes without saying, that you don't do aftercare. And most importantly, you absolutely, under no circumstances, whatsoever, show affection - let alone kiss.

Playing by those rules is easy.

You hate Mark with a passion. And Mark hates you with even more passion. He doesn't miss a single chance to annoy you, seemingly making it his sole life purpose to rile you up or test your limits whenever he enters the same room.

Just like now.

"Want me to have a look at that?" he drawls the question as the smug smirk that’s spread across his face is poking at your back, "Make sure you stick to the truth and all."

"Back off, asshole," you snap without looking. Fingers tightened around your ball-pen.

Mark clicks his tongue.

His large hands slide across the wooden surface, thumbs drawing a line from your wrists, along your forearms up to your elbows in one swift motion. They dip down and grip your waist before hauling you off your seat as if you weigh nothing, spins you around and drops your ass back down onto the office desk in front of him.

You choke on a gasp, the length of your legs dangling off the table the only distance between you two as he backs you up. Piles of papers are sent flying in the process and pens clattering across the floor. Your almost-done report now crumpled beneath your bum.

The fucking nerve of his. God - how you love hate it.

Mark doesn't wait for you to give him some lip. He leans in, head angled to meet your eye level, his lips hovering only inches above yours. Your breath catches in your throat at the sudden proximity. The air shifting in an instant.

His expression's gone sour. A rogue brown strand of hair has fallen into his face, now clinging to his furrowed eyebrows while his stubbles twitch along the muscles of his clenched jaw.

"What was that?" he challenges you with a calm but sharp edge to his voice, "You fuckin' blew my cover and you're saying I'm the asshole?" His hazel eyes narrow. Dangerous. Daring. A dog about to bite. The weight of his hands on your thighs keeps you from slipping away.

After a beat, the corners of his lips betray him when they slowly widen into a lopsided smirk.

Mischievous and amused.

"Or's that what you want me to be?" His right hand trails to the inside of your thigh where his thumb casually brushes the spot where he knows your clit is. "Be a little meanie to the beanie?"

You shudder – fingers curled into tight fists at your sides in an attempt to fight the urge to jump him.

"Don't flatter yourself."

He chuckles.

"Ah. Jackpot," - his lips melt into a teasing smile and his voice comes out all velvety - "Always pissing me off first to get me to bend you over that desk of yours and fuck that attitude out of you. I gotta say, it is kinda flattering, you know."

"You wish," you chuckle and force the rush of excitement off your poker-face.

But Mark knows you inside out by now. And he doesn't buy your act for a second. His right hand suddenly moves up to grip your jaw. Not painful, just enough pressure to get your full attention.

"Come on, admit it –" -he coos your name and pushes your chin up, index and thumb locked tightly around your jaw -"And don't ya play coy with me, you little minx."

"You're talking too much, Meachum. 'Tis annoying as hell," you snark with a scoff. His eyebrows quirk in mock-surprise.

"Oh yeah?"

His free hand dives down into your pants to roughly brush two fingertips along your barely covered heat. He holds your gaze, lips pulled into a smug smile. You're dripping wet.

"You fucking love this."

Busted. Your upper lip twitches before it curls into a smile matching his.

"And what about you, huh?" Your hand darts down to his crotch where you find him rock hard and straining against his pants. "You love it when I push your buttons – you get off on it. You that desperate 'n needy?"

His eyes darken.

"Watch it – " he warns, and the sound of your first name rumbling in the back of his throat has you shudder and clench your thighs.

The air between you is static. Charged and crackling, moments before a storm's unleashed. It's goddamn exhilarating. Adrenaline is coursing through your system, the heat of his body mixed with the smell of his fragrance and the sweat from the mission still clinging to his skin – it's intoxicating - all the while you get to witness him fight his urges with twitching fingers and flexing arms.

It's like watching a lion try to resist devouring a lamb.

Except that you're no lamb, and you both know it. He knows you'll give him a fight. Hell - he wants you to. You'll bite and scratch while he fucks the most heavenly sounds out of you.

Naturally, you can't help but goad him more – this is part of your game after all. You poke and prod and rile each other up all day long until one of you snaps. And when you do, it always ends the same. Explosive. Nasty. In ways that you love and hate at the same time, because Mark never fails to deliver.

"Or what?" you taunt back. Mark's jaw muscle jumps under his beard.

He opens his mouth but you strangle his threats into a pathetic groan with a quick, sharp squeeze of his family jewels. He folds like an omelette. Forehead dropped to your shoulder with a small whimper. It's kinda adorable, really.

Mark doesn't know whether he wants to strangle you or push you down onto the desk. Both options seem very appealing right now.

"You're so goddamn infuriating," he growls into your neck, his hands now fumbling between your hips, frantic and desperate. The buckle of his belt clicks and the sound itself sends a shiver straight down to your core.

Here we go.

You feel giddy, ready for whatever he's got to offer tonight – and damn him for pavloving you.

He fishes a wrapper out of the back of his pants and brings it up to your lips while his free hand goes to pull his cock out of his boxers, giving it a few strokes.

"Bite," he orders.

You lick your lips. Take the corner of the foil between your teeth, tug it one way – he pulls it the other – tearing it open with practised ease. He takes out the condom – you spit the empty wrapper out and discard it somewhere on the office floor like you're owning the damn place. It'll make a nice surprise for the cleaning lady. (Except that she's already used to the wrappers showing up in the most unconventional spots by now.)

Once he rolled the condom down his shaft, you barely get to unbutton your pants when he goes to yank your jeans along your underwear down to your knees. Every movement precise. Like a man on a damn mission. Every action pure muscle memory. A daily sparring match. Like you've done it a million times before.

One hand locks your hips into place with his fingers dug into your ass while the other circles your chest to grip onto the back of your neck where he holds you in a chokehold. The pressure just enough to make sure you won't squirm away.

His chin hooks over your shoulder as he pulls your chest flush against his. Mark then pauses his movements – both of you going still for a moment with you completely at his mercy.

Your breath hitches, then turns ragged. His beard brushes along your neck when his teeth skim your pulse point with a barely restrained ravenous hunger that always has your mind go dizzy and legs tremble in anticipation as they fall open at his silent command.

Your head drops back, lips parted, fighting to keep your composure.

"God, I fucking hate you."

Mark's jaw ticks, then lifts his chin off your shoulder to speak right next your ear.

"And you make me want to strangle you one minute, and the next I've got the strongest urge to," – without a warning his hips push your thighs apart and slams into you in one swift, deep stroke – "do this," he growls, biting back a guttural moan from the way your tight heat always fits perfectly around him no matter how much you both deny it.

He begins to slap his hips against your thighs. There's no cautiousness to it, no build up or time for you to adjust. He knows you both don't want gentle nor slow. It's all pure pent-up anger being driven up your cunt and frustrated nails clawing at his skin or fingers tugging at his thick dark locks to make him hiss.

"You're a goddamn nightmare. Driving me up the wall all the fuckin' time."

He grunts, pulls back slowly before he slams into you again and knocks the air out of your lungs with a satisfied grin. It takes you a moment to catch your breath, then toss the ball back.

"And you're an annoying prick."

"Keep cussing me out and I'll make you regret it."

You chuckle in response.

"Oh please, don't pretend that it doesn't get you rock hard," you purr into his ear, "fuckstick."

The sweet mock earns you another punishing thrust – but this time he stills after he rammed his cock up into you, buried to the hilt.

He holds you there. Hips in a bruising grip. Eyes gone almost completely dark and locked onto yours. Intense, hungry and something between absolutely pissed and thrilled.

"You're asking for it."

Your tight walls burn around his thick, throbbing length. Involuntarily clench as you feel him twitch and force himself just a tad further up inside you, silently threatening to break you if you keep up the attitude.

The borderline painful stretch is enough to draw a strained whimper from you. "Mark-"

"Shut up," he cuts you short and your lamentations curl into more wanton noises as he shifts his weight and presses your back flat onto the table. Your fingers claw blindly at the edge of the wood when he begins to roll his hips again while he pulls you back across the shuddering desk to meet his pelvis. "Shut up – or so God help me I'll fucking make you."

The new angle has you whine. Eyes fluttering close and legs shaking around his waist. It's all too much and not enough at the same time even though he has set a brutal pace now. His punctured thrusts setting everything on fire, pleasure building quickly.

"Don't - don't you stop-" you mewl weakly - but the pleading 'please' is lost in a squeal when his thumb finds your swollen clit and he rubs it in tight circles.

"Like hell will I..."

His other hand moves from your hips, his long calloused fingers wrapping around your throat to hold you down – your chin raises automatically to hold his gaze with a challenging look that has his eyes darken in excitement. In the same moment your hands reach for his exposed forearm where his jeans jacket's sleeve is bunched up, nails biting into his skin.

Mark hisses – and he's sure he'll wear red marks that'll last for days at this point. There goes rule number three. Not that he'd care. He stopped caring the moment your lips had brushed his for the first time when you two went UC in Montana and his heart had almost jumped out of his chest and your breath had done a little hiccup.

"Stop fighting, you stubborn ass." He rolls his eyes, pretending to be bored of your futile attempts to break free while he adds just enough pressure to your sensitive clit to coax you into submission.

That rough motion's enough incentive to make you falter. The grip on his strong arm loosens, barely hanging onto him now while your back arches, thighs tremble and your knees fight his hips for mercy.

Mark grins at your reaction.

"That's it, pretty girl," he praises you with an unfamiliar pet name that has you shudder out a whimper - there's that fourth rule gone right out the window.

He then leans down until he's covering you entirely, pinning you down to the desk with his weight and his hand still wrapped around your throat, lips ghosting your ear shell.

"Just give in, damnit – just for once. Be mine just for a second."

And fuck whatever wry mix of hormones decide to make you bob your head frantically, without even giving it a second thought.

Mark hums approvingly. "That's my good girl."

His hips snap against the edge of the office desk, making it groan under the force of his thrusts as he pushes you closer to the edge with each hard stroke along that spot that has your vision blur and your body squirm between his arms.

Your orgasm crashes down on you in surprising intensity as you fall apart beneath him. Your walls shimmy around his pulsing cock, vision swimming and body convulsing as the last wave wracks through you. A guttural moan drops off your lips before you feel your body go limp. Eyes rolled back, catching your breath as you feel your thighs shaking around Mark's hips.

Mark chases his own relief now, sweat beading at his forehead while he continues to get the edge off with a couple more of his hard strokes along your tightening walls. He's grunting like an animal, breath ragged, muttering a string of curses under his breath when his rhythm begins to falter, hips stutter and he finally spills into the condom. He stills, then drops to his forearms.

"Fuck," he pants next to you, head tilted as he turns to lift some of his weight off your chest, facing you with heavy lidded eyes, "You're driving me crazy, you know that?"

You try to catch your breath, lips trembling as you pull them into a cheeky smile. "Yeah, I know. And you love it."

Mark laughs. A raucous one. His weight shifts on top of you while his chest rumbles against yours. A nice way of grounding you.

"You think?" he grins as his amusement turns into a low growl and he goes to nuzzle the spot below your ear with his nose with an unfamiliar hint of affection that has your heart skip a beat, "So do you."

Enemies make the best lovers, since there's no risk of getting attached …Right?

❀ꗥ Starting a Mark Meachum tag list for anyone who'd like to be added, just let me know 🤭 Or fill out this form!

Forever Tag List ♡ ( I'm sorry if I forgot you, I'm not sure anymore who's on this one, please just lmk! )

@ambiguous-avery @lamentationsofalonelypotato

[jollyhunter]

My competence kink 📈

(does this count, @ambiguous-avery ? 😂)

Bucky Barnes + Knives

[jollyhunter]

Ah, I'm happy I got to help you with that itch and provide you with some relieve (pun unintended) 😏

Thank you so much, Avery!! I was a bit unsure how this turned out to be honest... but at least it popped my hate sex cherry 😂

Your quick reactions always make my dopamine level spike 😘 🧡🧡🧡

Gunpoint

Main Masterlist ❀ Mark Meachum Masterlist

⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Mark Meachum x Detective!fReader

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY You hate each other. Therefore, naturally you’ll stick to the no-affections rule whenever you fuck, until you don’t.

WARNING / TAGS MDNI. 18+! Smut

GoldenRetriever Rottweiler!Mark x BlackCat!Reader energy | Enemies with Benefits | Enemies to Frenemies to true Lovers eventually? | Mark’s being a bit of a bully here (but reader’s no better) | power play | manhandling | arguing and cussing | protected p in v | hate sex | office sex | light choking | Reader is a detective too | Mark might be a bit OOC (consider this my personal take on him from what I’ve seen so far!) | No use of Y/N.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~2,6k (it was meant to be a drabble - sigh)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES I've got so many Angst-riddled Mark fics in my drafts and yet my first Meachum post is pure smut and also my first hate sex fic? I just couldn't help it, for some reason Mark gave me some Rottweiler energy and then @emeraldcrsI and I talked about office smut and then I just ran with it? 🤷‍♀️

You are held at gunpoint by Mark Meachum.

It's just after 7pm, and the dim light dances off the empty desks around you. The office air is still thick from the summer heat and musky from the meeting with the task force that was cooped up until an hour ago.

Now that everyone's gone out for a drink, you can finally catch your breath.

Papers are stacked to the left and right of you as you're filing your report in the peace of solitude, sitting at your desk ten floors above the busy streets of Los Angeles.

Yet you felt him the moment he entered the room. Lazy steps pulling up to you. Boots echoing off the window walls next to you.

"There you are."

You sighed – he chuckled somewhere behind you. Low, mischievous. Edgy.

"Not in the mood, Meachum."

"You say that like it’s a good thing."

Moments later his hands come down onto the desk on each side of your forearms, boxing you in.

You feel him tower over you now. His mouth hovering right at the nape of your neck like the barrel of a gun. His hot, ragged breath a warning as it licks a stripe down your spine and leaves goosebumps in its wake. Just a little closer and his lips would deliver a kiss to the back of your neck and break your first and foremost rule.

That's right. Mark and you have a... let's say, loaded relationship. To put it in Finau's words, "You two fight like cat and dog."

You constantly get at each other's throats. Either because you can't stand his recklessness or he can't deal with your calm and challenging attitude. However, since you'd been teamed up for that undercover case in Montana 2 months ago, there was a new layer added to whatever the hell it was that the two of you had going;

Sex.

Along with that came an unwritten Green Book with its own set of rules: This is purely physical. A thing to occasionally get each other off without all the emotional crap that's always bound to end bad for both of you.

Therefore, no dating. No holding hands. Marking the other is also off turf. Praising and pet names, too. It goes without saying, that you don't do aftercare. And most importantly, you absolutely, under no circumstances, whatsoever, show affection - let alone kiss.

Playing by those rules is easy.

You hate Mark with a passion. And Mark hates you with even more passion. He doesn't miss a single chance to annoy you, seemingly making it his sole life purpose to rile you up or test your limits whenever he enters the same room.

Just like now.

"Want me to have a look at that?" he drawls the question as the smug smirk that’s spread across his face is poking at your back, "Make sure you stick to the truth and all."

"Back off, asshole," you snap without looking. Fingers tightened around your ball-pen.

Mark clicks his tongue.

His large hands slide across the wooden surface, thumbs drawing a line from your wrists, along your forearms up to your elbows in one swift motion. They dip down and grip your waist before hauling you off your seat as if you weigh nothing, spins you around and drops your ass back down onto the office desk in front of him.

You choke on a gasp, the length of your legs dangling off the table the only distance between you two as he backs you up. Piles of papers are sent flying in the process and pens clattering across the floor. Your almost-done report now crumpled beneath your bum.

The fucking nerve of his. God - how you love hate it.

Mark doesn't wait for you to give him some lip. He leans in, head angled to meet your eye level, his lips hovering only inches above yours. Your breath catches in your throat at the sudden proximity. The air shifting in an instant.

His expression's gone sour. A rogue brown strand of hair has fallen into his face, now clinging to his furrowed eyebrows while his stubbles twitch along the muscles of his clenched jaw.

"What was that?" he challenges you with a calm but sharp edge to his voice, "You fuckin' blew my cover and you're saying I'm the asshole?" His hazel eyes narrow. Dangerous. Daring. A dog about to bite. The weight of his hands on your thighs keeps you from slipping away.

After a beat, the corners of his lips betray him when they slowly widen into a lopsided smirk.

Mischievous and amused.

"Or's that what you want me to be?" His right hand trails to the inside of your thigh where his thumb casually brushes the spot where he knows your clit is. "Be a little meanie to the beanie?"

You shudder – fingers curled into tight fists at your sides in an attempt to fight the urge to jump him.

"Don't flatter yourself."

He chuckles.

"Ah. Jackpot," - his lips melt into a teasing smile and his voice comes out all velvety - "Always pissing me off first to get me to bend you over that desk of yours and fuck that attitude out of you. I gotta say, it is kinda flattering, you know."

"You wish," you chuckle and force the rush of excitement off your poker-face.

But Mark knows you inside out by now. And he doesn't buy your act for a second. His right hand suddenly moves up to grip your jaw. Not painful, just enough pressure to get your full attention.

"Come on, admit it –" -he coos your name and pushes your chin up, index and thumb locked tightly around your jaw -"And don't ya play coy with me, you little minx."

"You're talking too much, Meachum. 'Tis annoying as hell," you snark with a scoff. His eyebrows quirk in mock-surprise.

"Oh yeah?"

His free hand dives down into your pants to roughly brush two fingertips along your barely covered heat. He holds your gaze, lips pulled into a smug smile. You're dripping wet.

"You fucking love this."

Busted. Your upper lip twitches before it curls into a smile matching his.

"And what about you, huh?" Your hand darts down to his crotch where you find him rock hard and straining against his pants. "You love it when I push your buttons – you get off on it. You that desperate 'n needy?"

His eyes darken.

"Watch it – " he warns, and the sound of your first name rumbling in the back of his throat has you shudder and clench your thighs.

The air between you is static. Charged and crackling, moments before a storm's unleashed. It's goddamn exhilarating. Adrenaline is coursing through your system, the heat of his body mixed with the smell of his fragrance and the sweat from the mission still clinging to his skin – it's intoxicating - all the while you get to witness him fight his urges with twitching fingers and flexing arms.

It's like watching a lion try to resist devouring a lamb.

Except that you're no lamb, and you both know it. He knows you'll give him a fight. Hell - he wants you to. You'll bite and scratch while he fucks the most heavenly sounds out of you.

Naturally, you can't help but goad him more – this is part of your game after all. You poke and prod and rile each other up all day long until one of you snaps. And when you do, it always ends the same. Explosive. Nasty. In ways that you love and hate at the same time, because Mark never fails to deliver.

"Or what?" you taunt back. Mark's jaw muscle jumps under his beard.

He opens his mouth but you strangle his threats into a pathetic groan with a quick, sharp squeeze of his family jewels. He folds like an omelette. Forehead dropped to your shoulder with a small whimper. It's kinda adorable, really.

Mark doesn't know whether he wants to strangle you or push you down onto the desk. Both options seem very appealing right now.

"You're so goddamn infuriating," he growls into your neck, his hands now fumbling between your hips, frantic and desperate. The buckle of his belt clicks and the sound itself sends a shiver straight down to your core.

Here we go.

You feel giddy, ready for whatever he's got to offer tonight – and damn him for pavloving you.

He fishes a wrapper out of the back of his pants and brings it up to your lips while his free hand goes to pull his cock out of his boxers, giving it a few strokes.

"Bite," he orders.

You lick your lips. Take the corner of the foil between your teeth, tug it one way – he pulls it the other – tearing it open with practised ease. He takes out the condom – you spit the empty wrapper out and discard it somewhere on the office floor like you're owning the damn place. It'll make a nice surprise for the cleaning lady. (Except that she's already used to the wrappers showing up in the most unconventional spots by now.)

Once he rolled the condom down his shaft, you barely get to unbutton your pants when he goes to yank your jeans along your underwear down to your knees. Every movement precise. Like a man on a damn mission. Every action pure muscle memory. A daily sparring match. Like you've done it a million times before.

One hand locks your hips into place with his fingers dug into your ass while the other circles your chest to grip onto the back of your neck where he holds you in a chokehold. The pressure just enough to make sure you won't squirm away.

His chin hooks over your shoulder as he pulls your chest flush against his. Mark then pauses his movements – both of you going still for a moment with you completely at his mercy.

Your breath hitches, then turns ragged. His beard brushes along your neck when his teeth skim your pulse point with a barely restrained ravenous hunger that always has your mind go dizzy and legs tremble in anticipation as they fall open at his silent command.

Your head drops back, lips parted, fighting to keep your composure.

"God, I fucking hate you."

Mark's jaw ticks, then lifts his chin off your shoulder to speak right next your ear.

"And you make me want to strangle you one minute, and the next I've got the strongest urge to," – without a warning his hips push your thighs apart and slams into you in one swift, deep stroke – "do this," he growls, biting back a guttural moan from the way your tight heat always fits perfectly around him no matter how much you both deny it.

He begins to slap his hips against your thighs. There's no cautiousness to it, no build up or time for you to adjust. He knows you both don't want gentle nor slow. It's all pure pent-up anger being driven up your cunt and frustrated nails clawing at his skin or fingers tugging at his thick dark locks to make him hiss.

"You're a goddamn nightmare. Driving me up the wall all the fuckin' time."

He grunts, pulls back slowly before he slams into you again and knocks the air out of your lungs with a satisfied grin. It takes you a moment to catch your breath, then toss the ball back.

"And you're an annoying prick."

"Keep cussing me out and I'll make you regret it."

You chuckle in response.

"Oh please, don't pretend that it doesn't get you rock hard," you purr into his ear, "fuckstick."

The sweet mock earns you another punishing thrust – but this time he stills after he rammed his cock up into you, buried to the hilt.

He holds you there. Hips in a bruising grip. Eyes gone almost completely dark and locked onto yours. Intense, hungry and something between absolutely pissed and thrilled.

"You're asking for it."

Your tight walls burn around his thick, throbbing length. Involuntarily clench as you feel him twitch and force himself just a tad further up inside you, silently threatening to break you if you keep up the attitude.

The borderline painful stretch is enough to draw a strained whimper from you. "Mark-"

"Shut up," he cuts you short and your lamentations curl into more wanton noises as he shifts his weight and presses your back flat onto the table. Your fingers claw blindly at the edge of the wood when he begins to roll his hips again while he pulls you back across the shuddering desk to meet his pelvis. "Shut up – or so God help me I'll fucking make you."

The new angle has you whine. Eyes fluttering close and legs shaking around his waist. It's all too much and not enough at the same time even though he has set a brutal pace now. His punctured thrusts setting everything on fire, pleasure building quickly.

"Don't - don't you stop-" you mewl weakly - but the pleading 'please' is lost in a squeal when his thumb finds your swollen clit and he rubs it in tight circles.

"Like hell will I..."

His other hand moves from your hips, his long calloused fingers wrapping around your throat to hold you down – your chin raises automatically to hold his gaze with a challenging look that has his eyes darken in excitement. In the same moment your hands reach for his exposed forearm where his jeans jacket's sleeve is bunched up, nails biting into his skin.

Mark hisses – and he's sure he'll wear red marks that'll last for days at this point. There goes rule number three. Not that he'd care. He stopped caring the moment your lips had brushed his for the first time when you two went UC in Montana and his heart had almost jumped out of his chest and your breath had done a little hiccup.

"Stop fighting, you stubborn ass." He rolls his eyes, pretending to be bored of your futile attempts to break free while he adds just enough pressure to your sensitive clit to coax you into submission.

That rough motion's enough incentive to make you falter. The grip on his strong arm loosens, barely hanging onto him now while your back arches, thighs tremble and your knees fight his hips for mercy.

Mark grins at your reaction.

"That's it, pretty girl," he praises you with an unfamiliar pet name that has you shudder out a whimper - there's that fourth rule gone right out the window.

He then leans down until he's covering you entirely, pinning you down to the desk with his weight and his hand still wrapped around your throat, lips ghosting your ear shell.

"Just give in, damnit – just for once. Be mine just for a second."

And fuck whatever wry mix of hormones decide to make you bob your head frantically, without even giving it a second thought.

Mark hums approvingly. "That's my good girl."

His hips snap against the edge of the office desk, making it groan under the force of his thrusts as he pushes you closer to the edge with each hard stroke along that spot that has your vision blur and your body squirm between his arms.

Your orgasm crashes down on you in surprising intensity as you fall apart beneath him. Your walls shimmy around his pulsing cock, vision swimming and body convulsing as the last wave wracks through you. A guttural moan drops off your lips before you feel your body go limp. Eyes rolled back, catching your breath as you feel your thighs shaking around Mark's hips.

Mark chases his own relief now, sweat beading at his forehead while he continues to get the edge off with a couple more of his hard strokes along your tightening walls. He's grunting like an animal, breath ragged, muttering a string of curses under his breath when his rhythm begins to falter, hips stutter and he finally spills into the condom. He stills, then drops to his forearms.

"Fuck," he pants next to you, head tilted as he turns to lift some of his weight off your chest, facing you with heavy lidded eyes, "You're driving me crazy, you know that?"

You try to catch your breath, lips trembling as you pull them into a cheeky smile. "Yeah, I know. And you love it."

Mark laughs. A raucous one. His weight shifts on top of you while his chest rumbles against yours. A nice way of grounding you.

"You think?" he grins as his amusement turns into a low growl and he goes to nuzzle the spot below your ear with his nose with an unfamiliar hint of affection that has your heart skip a beat, "So do you."

Enemies make the best lovers, since there's no risk of getting attached …Right?

❀ꗥ Starting a Mark Meachum tag list for anyone who'd like to be added, just let me know 🤭 Or fill out this form!

Forever Tag List ♡ ( I'm sorry if I forgot you, I'm not sure anymore who's on this one, please just lmk! )

@ambiguous-avery @lamentationsofalonelypotato

[jollyhunter]

Gunpoint

Main Masterlist ❀ Mark Meachum Masterlist

⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Mark Meachum x Detective!fReader

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY You hate each other. Therefore, naturally you’ll stick to the no-affections rule whenever you fuck, until you don’t.

WARNING / TAGS MDNI. 18+! Smut

GoldenRetriever Rottweiler!Mark x BlackCat!Reader energy | Enemies with Benefits | Enemies to Frenemies to true Lovers eventually? | Mark’s being a bit of a bully here (but reader’s no better) | power play | manhandling | arguing and cussing | protected p in v | hate sex | office sex | light choking | Reader is a detective too | Mark might be a bit OOC (consider this my personal take on him from what I’ve seen so far!) | No use of Y/N.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~2,6k (it was meant to be a drabble - sigh)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES I've got so many Angst-riddled Mark fics in my drafts and yet my first Meachum post is pure smut and also my first hate sex fic? I just couldn't help it, for some reason Mark gave me some Rottweiler energy and then @emeraldcrs and I talked about office smut and then I just ran with it? 🤷‍♀️

You are held at gunpoint by Mark Meachum.

It's just after 7pm, and the dim light dances off the empty desks around you. The office air is still thick from the summer heat and musky from the meeting with the task force that was cooped up until an hour ago.

Now that everyone's gone out for a drink, you can finally catch your breath.

Papers are stacked to the left and right of you as you're filing your report in the peace of solitude, sitting at your desk ten floors above the busy streets of Los Angeles.

Yet you felt him the moment he entered the room. Lazy steps pulling up to you. Boots echoing off the window walls next to you.

"There you are."

You sighed – he chuckled somewhere behind you. Low, mischievous. Edgy.

"Not in the mood, Meachum."

"You say that like it’s a good thing."

Moments later his hands come down onto the desk on each side of your forearms, boxing you in.

You feel him tower over you now. His mouth hovering right at the nape of your neck like the barrel of a gun. His hot, ragged breath a warning as it licks a stripe down your spine and leaves goosebumps in its wake. Just a little closer and his lips would deliver a kiss to the back of your neck and break your first and foremost rule.

That's right. Mark and you have a... let's say, loaded relationship. To put it in Finau's words, "You two fight like cat and dog."

You constantly get at each other's throats. Either because you can't stand his recklessness or he can't deal with your calm and challenging attitude. However, since you'd been teamed up for that undercover case in Montana 2 months ago, there was a new layer added to whatever the hell it was that the two of you had going;

Sex.

Along with that came an unwritten Green Book with its own set of rules: This is purely physical. A thing to occasionally get each other off without all the emotional crap that's always bound to end bad for both of you.

Therefore, no dating. No holding hands. Marking the other is also off turf. Praising and pet names, too. It goes without saying, that you don't do aftercare. And most importantly, you absolutely, under no circumstances, whatsoever, show affection - let alone kiss.

Playing by those rules is easy.

You hate Mark with a passion. And Mark hates you with even more passion. He doesn't miss a single chance to annoy you, seemingly making it his sole life purpose to rile you up or test your limits whenever he enters the same room.

Just like now.

"Want me to have a look at that?" he drawls the question as the smug smirk that’s spread across his face is poking at your back, "Make sure you stick to the truth and all."

"Back off, asshole," you snap without looking. Fingers tightened around your ball-pen.

Mark clicks his tongue.

His large hands slide across the wooden surface, thumbs drawing a line from your wrists, along your forearms up to your elbows in one swift motion. They dip down and grip your waist before hauling you off your seat as if you weigh nothing, spins you around and drops your ass back down onto the office desk in front of him.

You choke on a gasp, the length of your legs dangling off the table the only distance between you two as he backs you up. Piles of papers are sent flying in the process and pens clattering across the floor. Your almost-done report now crumpled beneath your bum.

The fucking nerve of his. God - how you love hate it.

Mark doesn't wait for you to give him some lip. He leans in, head angled to meet your eye level, his lips hovering only inches above yours. Your breath catches in your throat at the sudden proximity. The air shifting in an instant.

His expression's gone sour. A rogue brown strand of hair has fallen into his face, now clinging to his furrowed eyebrows while his stubbles twitch along the muscles of his clenched jaw.

"What was that?" he challenges you with a calm but sharp edge to his voice, "You fuckin' blew my cover and you're saying I'm the asshole?" His hazel eyes narrow. Dangerous. Daring. A dog about to bite. The weight of his hands on your thighs keeps you from slipping away.

After a beat, the corners of his lips betray him when they slowly widen into a lopsided smirk.

Mischievous and amused.

"Or's that what you want me to be?" His right hand trails to the inside of your thigh where his thumb casually brushes the spot where he knows your clit is. "Be a little meanie to the beanie?"

You shudder – fingers curled into tight fists at your sides in an attempt to fight the urge to jump him.

"Don't flatter yourself."

He chuckles.

"Ah. Jackpot," - his lips melt into a teasing smile and his voice comes out all velvety - "Always pissing me off first to get me to bend you over that desk of yours and fuck that attitude out of you. I gotta say, it is kinda flattering, you know."

"You wish," you chuckle and force the rush of excitement off your poker-face.

But Mark knows you inside out by now. And he doesn't buy your act for a second. His right hand suddenly moves up to grip your jaw. Not painful, just enough pressure to get your full attention.

"Come on, admit it –" -he coos your name and pushes your chin up, index and thumb locked tightly around your jaw -"And don't ya play coy with me, you little minx."

"You're talking too much, Meachum. 'Tis annoying as hell," you snark with a scoff. His eyebrows quirk in mock-surprise.

"Oh yeah?"

His free hand dives down into your pants to roughly brush two fingertips along your barely covered heat. He holds your gaze, lips pulled into a smug smile. You're dripping wet.

"You fucking love this."

Busted. Your upper lip twitches before it curls into a smile matching his.

"And what about you, huh?" Your hand darts down to his crotch where you find him rock hard and straining against his pants. "You love it when I push your buttons – you get off on it. You that desperate 'n needy?"

His eyes darken.

"Watch it – " he warns, and the sound of your first name rumbling in the back of his throat has you shudder and clench your thighs.

The air between you is static. Charged and crackling, moments before a storm's unleashed. It's goddamn exhilarating. Adrenaline is coursing through your system, the heat of his body mixed with the smell of his fragrance and the sweat from the mission still clinging to his skin – it's intoxicating - all the while you get to witness him fight his urges with twitching fingers and flexing arms.

It's like watching a lion try to resist devouring a lamb.

Except that you're no lamb, and you both know it. He knows you'll give him a fight. Hell - he wants you to. You'll bite and scratch while he fucks the most heavenly sounds out of you.

Naturally, you can't help but goad him more – this is part of your game after all. You poke and prod and rile each other up all day long until one of you snaps. And when you do, it always ends the same. Explosive. Nasty. In ways that you love and hate at the same time, because Mark never fails to deliver.

"Or what?" you taunt back. Mark's jaw muscle jumps under his beard.

He opens his mouth but you strangle his threats into a pathetic groan with a quick, sharp squeeze of his family jewels. He folds like an omelette. Forehead dropped to your shoulder with a small whimper. It's kinda adorable, really.

Mark doesn't know whether he wants to strangle you or push you down onto the desk. Both options seem very appealing right now.

"You're so goddamn infuriating," he growls into your neck, his hands now fumbling between your hips, frantic and desperate. The buckle of his belt clicks and the sound itself sends a shiver straight down to your core.

Here we go.

You feel giddy, ready for whatever he's got to offer tonight – and damn him for pavloving you.

He fishes a wrapper out of the back of his pants and brings it up to your lips while his free hand goes to pull his cock out of his boxers, giving it a few strokes.

"Bite," he orders.

You lick your lips. Take the corner of the foil between your teeth, tug it one way – he pulls it the other – tearing it open with practised ease. He takes out the condom – you spit the empty wrapper out and discard it somewhere on the office floor like you're owning the damn place. It'll make a nice surprise for the cleaning lady. (Except that she's already used to the wrappers showing up in the most unconventional spots by now.)

Once he rolled the condom down his shaft, you barely get to unbutton your pants when he goes to yank your jeans along your underwear down to your knees. Every movement precise. Like a man on a damn mission. Every action pure muscle memory. A daily sparring match. Like you've done it a million times before.

One hand locks your hips into place with his fingers dug into your ass while the other circles your chest to grip onto the back of your neck where he holds you in a chokehold. The pressure just enough to make sure you won't squirm away.

His chin hooks over your shoulder as he pulls your chest flush against his. Mark then pauses his movements – both of you going still for a moment with you completely at his mercy.

Your breath hitches, then turns ragged. His beard brushes along your neck when his teeth skim your pulse point with a barely restrained ravenous hunger that always has your mind go dizzy and legs tremble in anticipation as they fall open at his silent command.

Your head drops back, lips parted, fighting to keep your composure.

"God, I fucking hate you."

Mark's jaw ticks, then lifts his chin off your shoulder to speak right next your ear.

"And you make me want to strangle you one minute, and the next I've got the strongest urge to," – without a warning his hips push your thighs apart and slams into you in one swift, deep stroke – "do this," he growls, biting back a guttural moan from the way your tight heat always fits perfectly around him no matter how much you both deny it.

He begins to slap his hips against your thighs. There's no cautiousness to it, no build up or time for you to adjust. He knows you both don't want gentle nor slow. It's all pure pent-up anger being driven up your cunt and frustrated nails clawing at his skin or fingers tugging at his thick dark locks to make him hiss.

"You're a goddamn nightmare. Driving me up the wall all the fuckin' time."

He grunts, pulls back slowly before he slams into you again and knocks the air out of your lungs with a satisfied grin. It takes you a moment to catch your breath, then toss the ball back.

"And you're an annoying prick."

"Keep cussing me out and I'll make you regret it."

You chuckle in response.

"Oh please, don't pretend that it doesn't get you rock hard," you purr into his ear, "fuckstick."

The sweet mock earns you another punishing thrust – but this time he stills after he rammed his cock up into you, buried to the hilt.

He holds you there. Hips in a bruising grip. Eyes gone almost completely dark and locked onto yours. Intense, hungry and something between absolutely pissed and thrilled.

"You're asking for it."

Your tight walls burn around his thick, throbbing length. Involuntarily clench as you feel him twitch and force himself just a tad further up inside you, silently threatening to break you if you keep up the attitude.

The borderline painful stretch is enough to draw a strained whimper from you. "Mark-"

"Shut up," he cuts you short and your lamentations curl into more wanton noises as he shifts his weight and presses your back flat onto the table. Your fingers claw blindly at the edge of the wood when he begins to roll his hips again while he pulls you back across the shuddering desk to meet his pelvis. "Shut up – or so God help me I'll fucking make you."

The new angle has you whine. Eyes fluttering close and legs shaking around his waist. It's all too much and not enough at the same time even though he has set a brutal pace now. His punctured thrusts setting everything on fire, pleasure building quickly.

"Don't - don't you stop-" you mewl weakly - but the pleading 'please' is lost in a squeal when his thumb finds your swollen clit and he rubs it in tight circles.

"Like hell will I..."

His other hand moves from your hips, his long calloused fingers wrapping around your throat to hold you down – your chin raises automatically to hold his gaze with a challenging look that has his eyes darken in excitement. In the same moment your hands reach for his exposed forearm where his jeans jacket's sleeve is bunched up, nails biting into his skin.

Mark hisses – and he's sure he'll wear red marks that'll last for days at this point. There goes rule number three. Not that he'd care. He stopped caring the moment your lips had brushed his for the first time when you two went UC in Montana and his heart had almost jumped out of his chest and your breath had done a little hiccup.

"Stop fighting, you stubborn ass." He rolls his eyes, pretending to be bored of your futile attempts to break free while he adds just enough pressure to your sensitive clit to coax you into submission.

That rough motion's enough incentive to make you falter. The grip on his strong arm loosens, barely hanging onto him now while your back arches, thighs tremble and your knees fight his hips for mercy.

Mark grins at your reaction.

"That's it, pretty girl," he praises you with an unfamiliar pet name that has you shudder out a whimper - there's that fourth rule gone right out the window.

He then leans down until he's covering you entirely, pinning you down to the desk with his weight and his hand still wrapped around your throat, lips ghosting your ear shell.

"Just give in, damnit – just for once. Be mine just for a second."

And fuck whatever wry mix of hormones decide to make you bob your head frantically, without even giving it a second thought.

Mark hums approvingly. "That's my good girl."

His hips snap against the edge of the office desk, making it groan under the force of his thrusts as he pushes you closer to the edge with each hard stroke along that spot that has your vision blur and your body squirm between his arms.

Your orgasm crashes down on you in surprising intensity as you fall apart beneath him. Your walls shimmy around his pulsing cock, vision swimming and body convulsing as the last wave wracks through you. A guttural moan drops off your lips before you feel your body go limp. Eyes rolled back, catching your breath as you feel your thighs shaking around Mark's hips.

Mark chases his own relief now, sweat beading at his forehead while he continues to get the edge off with a couple more of his hard strokes along your tightening walls. He's grunting like an animal, breath ragged, muttering a string of curses under his breath when his rhythm begins to falter, hips stutter and he finally spills into the condom. He stills, then drops to his forearms.

"Fuck," he pants next to you, head tilted as he turns to lift some of his weight off your chest, facing you with heavy lidded eyes, "You're driving me crazy, you know that?"

You try to catch your breath, lips trembling as you pull them into a cheeky smile. "Yeah, I know. And you love it."

Mark laughs. A raucous one. His weight shifts on top of you while his chest rumbles against yours. A nice way of grounding you.

"You think?" he grins as his amusement turns into a low growl and he goes to nuzzle the spot below your ear with his nose with an unfamiliar hint of affection that has your heart skip a beat, "So do you."

Enemies make the best lovers, since there's no risk of getting attached …Right?

❀ꗥ Starting a Mark Meachum tag list for anyone who'd like to be added, just let me know 🤭 Or fill out this form!

Forever Tag List ♡ ( I'm sorry if I forgot you, I'm not sure anymore who's on this one, please just lmk! )

@ambiguous-avery @lamentationsofalonelypotato

[jollyhunter]

Oh fuck - I’m defeated. What is this glorious masterpiece!?

🤣🤣🤣

@ambiguous-avery this just came up for me when I was looking for a gif 😂 Perfect for the Summer Snapshot Challenge 😘

[jollyhunter]

Gunpoint

Main Masterlist ❀ Mark Meachum Masterlist

⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Mark Meachum x Detective!fReader

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY You hate each other. Therefore, naturally you’ll stick to the no-affections rule whenever you fuck, until you don’t.

WARNING / TAGS MDNI. 18+! Smut

GoldenRetriever Rottweiler!Mark x BlackCat!Reader energy | Enemies with Benefits | Enemies to Frenemies to true Lovers eventually? | Mark’s being a bit of a bully here (but reader’s no better) | power play | manhandling | arguing and cussing | protected p in v | hate sex | office sex | light choking | Reader is a detective too | Mark might be a bit OOC (consider this my personal take on him from what I’ve seen so far!) | No use of Y/N.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~2,6k (it was meant to be a drabble - sigh)

⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES I've got so many Angst-riddled Mark fics in my drafts and yet my first Meachum post is pure smut and also my first hate sex fic? I just couldn't help it, for some reason Mark gave me some Rottweiler energy and then @emeraldcrs and I talked about office smut and then I just ran with it? 🤷‍♀️

You are held at gunpoint by Mark Meachum.

It's just after 7pm, and the dim light dances off the empty desks around you. The office air is still thick from the summer heat and musky from the meeting with the task force that was cooped up until an hour ago.

Now that everyone's gone out for a drink, you can finally catch your breath.

Papers are stacked to the left and right of you as you're filing your report in the peace of solitude, sitting at your desk ten floors above the busy streets of Los Angeles.

Yet you felt him the moment he entered the room. Lazy steps pulling up to you. Boots echoing off the window walls next to you.

"There you are."

You sighed – he chuckled somewhere behind you. Low, mischievous. Edgy.

"Not in the mood, Meachum."

"You say that like it’s a good thing."

Moments later his hands come down onto the desk on each side of your forearms, boxing you in.

You feel him tower over you now. His mouth hovering right at the nape of your neck like the barrel of a gun. His hot, ragged breath a warning as it licks a stripe down your spine and leaves goosebumps in its wake. Just a little closer and his lips would deliver a kiss to the back of your neck and break your first and foremost rule.

That's right. Mark and you have a... let's say, loaded relationship. To put it in Finau's words, "You two fight like cat and dog."

You constantly get at each other's throats. Either because you can't stand his recklessness or he can't deal with your calm and challenging attitude. However, since you'd been teamed up for that undercover case in Montana 2 months ago, there was a new layer added to whatever the hell it was that the two of you had going;

Sex.

Along with that came an unwritten Green Book with its own set of rules: This is purely physical. A thing to occasionally get each other off without all the emotional crap that's always bound to end bad for both of you.

Therefore, no dating. No holding hands. Marking the other is also off turf. Praising and pet names, too. It goes without saying, that you don't do aftercare. And most importantly, you absolutely, under no circumstances, whatsoever, show affection - let alone kiss.

Playing by those rules is easy.

You hate Mark with a passion. And Mark hates you with even more passion. He doesn't miss a single chance to annoy you, seemingly making it his sole life purpose to rile you up or test your limits whenever he enters the same room.

Just like now.

"Want me to have a look at that?" he drawls the question as the smug smirk that’s spread across his face is poking at your back, "Make sure you stick to the truth and all."

"Back off, asshole," you snap without looking. Fingers tightened around your ball-pen.

Mark clicks his tongue.

His large hands slide across the wooden surface, thumbs drawing a line from your wrists, along your forearms up to your elbows in one swift motion. They dip down and grip your waist before hauling you off your seat as if you weigh nothing, spins you around and drops your ass back down onto the office desk in front of him.

You choke on a gasp, the length of your legs dangling off the table the only distance between you two as he backs you up. Piles of papers are sent flying in the process and pens clattering across the floor. Your almost-done report now crumpled beneath your bum.

The fucking nerve of his. God - how you love hate it.

Mark doesn't wait for you to give him some lip. He leans in, head angled to meet your eye level, his lips hovering only inches above yours. Your breath catches in your throat at the sudden proximity. The air shifting in an instant.

His expression's gone sour. A rogue brown strand of hair has fallen into his face, now clinging to his furrowed eyebrows while his stubbles twitch along the muscles of his clenched jaw.

"What was that?" he challenges you with a calm but sharp edge to his voice, "You fuckin' blew my cover and you're saying I'm the asshole?" His hazel eyes narrow. Dangerous. Daring. A dog about to bite. The weight of his hands on your thighs keeps you from slipping away.

After a beat, the corners of his lips betray him when they slowly widen into a lopsided smirk.

Mischievous and amused.

"Or's that what you want me to be?" His right hand trails to the inside of your thigh where his thumb casually brushes the spot where he knows your clit is. "Be a little meanie to the beanie?"

You shudder – fingers curled into tight fists at your sides in an attempt to fight the urge to jump him.

"Don't flatter yourself."

He chuckles.

"Ah. Jackpot," - his lips melt into a teasing smile and his voice comes out all velvety - "Always pissing me off first to get me to bend you over that desk of yours and fuck that attitude out of you. I gotta say, it is kinda flattering, you know."

"You wish," you chuckle and force the rush of excitement off your poker-face.

But Mark knows you inside out by now. And he doesn't buy your act for a second. His right hand suddenly moves up to grip your jaw. Not painful, just enough pressure to get your full attention.

"Come on, admit it –" -he coos your name and pushes your chin up, index and thumb locked tightly around your jaw -"And don't ya play coy with me, you little minx."

"You're talking too much, Meachum. 'Tis annoying as hell," you snark with a scoff. His eyebrows quirk in mock-surprise.

"Oh yeah?"

His free hand dives down into your pants to roughly brush two fingertips along your barely covered heat. He holds your gaze, lips pulled into a smug smile. You're dripping wet.

"You fucking love this."

Busted. Your upper lip twitches before it curls into a smile matching his.

"And what about you, huh?" Your hand darts down to his crotch where you find him rock hard and straining against his pants. "You love it when I push your buttons – you get off on it. You that desperate 'n needy?"

His eyes darken.

"Watch it – " he warns, and the sound of your first name rumbling in the back of his throat has you shudder and clench your thighs.

The air between you is static. Charged and crackling, moments before a storm's unleashed. It's goddamn exhilarating. Adrenaline is coursing through your system, the heat of his body mixed with the smell of his fragrance and the sweat from the mission still clinging to his skin – it's intoxicating - all the while you get to witness him fight his urges with twitching fingers and flexing arms.

It's like watching a lion try to resist devouring a lamb.

Except that you're no lamb, and you both know it. He knows you'll give him a fight. Hell - he wants you to. You'll bite and scratch while he fucks the most heavenly sounds out of you.

Naturally, you can't help but goad him more – this is part of your game after all. You poke and prod and rile each other up all day long until one of you snaps. And when you do, it always ends the same. Explosive. Nasty. In ways that you love and hate at the same time, because Mark never fails to deliver.

"Or what?" you taunt back. Mark's jaw muscle jumps under his beard.

He opens his mouth but you strangle his threats into a pathetic groan with a quick, sharp squeeze of his family jewels. He folds like an omelette. Forehead dropped to your shoulder with a small whimper. It's kinda adorable, really.

Mark doesn't know whether he wants to strangle you or push you down onto the desk. Both options seem very appealing right now.

"You're so goddamn infuriating," he growls into your neck, his hands now fumbling between your hips, frantic and desperate. The buckle of his belt clicks and the sound itself sends a shiver straight down to your core.

Here we go.

You feel giddy, ready for whatever he's got to offer tonight – and damn him for pavloving you.

He fishes a wrapper out of the back of his pants and brings it up to your lips while his free hand goes to pull his cock out of his boxers, giving it a few strokes.

"Bite," he orders.

You lick your lips. Take the corner of the foil between your teeth, tug it one way – he pulls it the other – tearing it open with practised ease. He takes out the condom – you spit the empty wrapper out and discard it somewhere on the office floor like you're owning the damn place. It'll make a nice surprise for the cleaning lady. (Except that she's already used to the wrappers showing up in the most unconventional spots by now.)

Once he rolled the condom down his shaft, you barely get to unbutton your pants when he goes to yank your jeans along your underwear down to your knees. Every movement precise. Like a man on a damn mission. Every action pure muscle memory. A daily sparring match. Like you've done it a million times before.

One hand locks your hips into place with his fingers dug into your ass while the other circles your chest to grip onto the back of your neck where he holds you in a chokehold. The pressure just enough to make sure you won't squirm away.

His chin hooks over your shoulder as he pulls your chest flush against his. Mark then pauses his movements – both of you going still for a moment with you completely at his mercy.

Your breath hitches, then turns ragged. His beard brushes along your neck when his teeth skim your pulse point with a barely restrained ravenous hunger that always has your mind go dizzy and legs tremble in anticipation as they fall open at his silent command.

Your head drops back, lips parted, fighting to keep your composure.

"God, I fucking hate you."

Mark's jaw ticks, then lifts his chin off your shoulder to speak right next your ear.

"And you make me want to strangle you one minute, and the next I've got the strongest urge to," – without a warning his hips push your thighs apart and slams into you in one swift, deep stroke – "do this," he growls, biting back a guttural moan from the way your tight heat always fits perfectly around him no matter how much you both deny it.

He begins to slap his hips against your thighs. There's no cautiousness to it, no build up or time for you to adjust. He knows you both don't want gentle nor slow. It's all pure pent-up anger being driven up your cunt and frustrated nails clawing at his skin or fingers tugging at his thick dark locks to make him hiss.

"You're a goddamn nightmare. Driving me up the wall all the fuckin' time."

He grunts, pulls back slowly before he slams into you again and knocks the air out of your lungs with a satisfied grin. It takes you a moment to catch your breath, then toss the ball back.

"And you're an annoying prick."

"Keep cussing me out and I'll make you regret it."

You chuckle in response.

"Oh please, don't pretend that it doesn't get you rock hard," you purr into his ear, "fuckstick."

The sweet mock earns you another punishing thrust – but this time he stills after he rammed his cock up into you, buried to the hilt.

He holds you there. Hips in a bruising grip. Eyes gone almost completely dark and locked onto yours. Intense, hungry and something between absolutely pissed and thrilled.

"You're asking for it."

Your tight walls burn around his thick, throbbing length. Involuntarily clench as you feel him twitch and force himself just a tad further up inside you, silently threatening to break you if you keep up the attitude.

The borderline painful stretch is enough to draw a strained whimper from you. "Mark-"

"Shut up," he cuts you short and your lamentations curl into more wanton noises as he shifts his weight and presses your back flat onto the table. Your fingers claw blindly at the edge of the wood when he begins to roll his hips again while he pulls you back across the shuddering desk to meet his pelvis. "Shut up – or so God help me I'll fucking make you."

The new angle has you whine. Eyes fluttering close and legs shaking around his waist. It's all too much and not enough at the same time even though he has set a brutal pace now. His punctured thrusts setting everything on fire, pleasure building quickly.

"Don't - don't you stop-" you mewl weakly - but the pleading 'please' is lost in a squeal when his thumb finds your swollen clit and he rubs it in tight circles.

"Like hell will I..."

His other hand moves from your hips, his long calloused fingers wrapping around your throat to hold you down – your chin raises automatically to hold his gaze with a challenging look that has his eyes darken in excitement. In the same moment your hands reach for his exposed forearm where his jeans jacket's sleeve is bunched up, nails biting into his skin.

Mark hisses – and he's sure he'll wear red marks that'll last for days at this point. There goes rule number three. Not that he'd care. He stopped caring the moment your lips had brushed his for the first time when you two went UC in Montana and his heart had almost jumped out of his chest and your breath had done a little hiccup.

"Stop fighting, you stubborn ass." He rolls his eyes, pretending to be bored of your futile attempts to break free while he adds just enough pressure to your sensitive clit to coax you into submission.

That rough motion's enough incentive to make you falter. The grip on his strong arm loosens, barely hanging onto him now while your back arches, thighs tremble and your knees fight his hips for mercy.

Mark grins at your reaction.

"That's it, pretty girl," he praises you with an unfamiliar pet name that has you shudder out a whimper - there's that fourth rule gone right out the window.

He then leans down until he's covering you entirely, pinning you down to the desk with his weight and his hand still wrapped around your throat, lips ghosting your ear shell.

"Just give in, damnit – just for once. Be mine just for a second."

And fuck whatever wry mix of hormones decide to make you bob your head frantically, without even giving it a second thought.

Mark hums approvingly. "That's my good girl."

His hips snap against the edge of the office desk, making it groan under the force of his thrusts as he pushes you closer to the edge with each hard stroke along that spot that has your vision blur and your body squirm between his arms.

Your orgasm crashes down on you in surprising intensity as you fall apart beneath him. Your walls shimmy around his pulsing cock, vision swimming and body convulsing as the last wave wracks through you. A guttural moan drops off your lips before you feel your body go limp. Eyes rolled back, catching your breath as you feel your thighs shaking around Mark's hips.

Mark chases his own relief now, sweat beading at his forehead while he continues to get the edge off with a couple more of his hard strokes along your tightening walls. He's grunting like an animal, breath ragged, muttering a string of curses under his breath when his rhythm begins to falter, hips stutter and he finally spills into the condom. He stills, then drops to his forearms.

"Fuck," he pants next to you, head tilted as he turns to lift some of his weight off your chest, facing you with heavy lidded eyes, "You're driving me crazy, you know that?"

You try to catch your breath, lips trembling as you pull them into a cheeky smile. "Yeah, I know. And you love it."

Mark laughs. A raucous one. His weight shifts on top of you while his chest rumbles against yours. A nice way of grounding you.

"You think?" he grins as his amusement turns into a low growl and he goes to nuzzle the spot below your ear with his nose with an unfamiliar hint of affection that has your heart skip a beat, "So do you."

Enemies make the best lovers, since there's no risk of getting attached …Right?

❀ꗥ Starting a Mark Meachum tag list for anyone who'd like to be added, just let me know 🤭 Or fill out this form!

Forever Tag List ♡ ( I'm sorry if I forgot you, I'm not sure anymore who's on this one, please just lmk! )

@ambiguous-avery @lamentationsofalonelypotato

[jollyhunter]

𓃢 TIDBITS ABOUT ME

⚝ Sometimes I write, sometimes I draw, mostly I stare out the window and daydream

⚝ My Jolly vixen core 🦊 ⚝ Still fresh to writing fanfiction!│English is not my native language, I'm trying my best │Love to yap about stories or fandoms like SPN or The Boys etc.

⚝ Likes: All animals (I'm the one who'll save every rainworm and snail lmao) │nature │foxes (my spirit animal ♡) │ rain │ oldtimers │ 70s/80s rock & country │ cozy lights (candles and fairy lights ufff) │ movies & series │ lore & monsters ⚝ Fav Themes: fluff │smut │funfiction │angst │action │ found family & comfort (is that a theme?)

⚝ Some Fandoms: Supernatural │ MCU │ The Boys │TLoU │The Mandalorian │ maybe a little Top Gun / Maverick and Bullet Train 'cause I won't ever let go of those movies & characters

⚝ Fav Movies / Series: Supernatural, MCU, The Boys, TLoU, Doctor Who, Good Omens, Umbrella Academy, Interstellar, Inception, Godzilla, Mononoke Hime, Top Gun / Maverick, Bullet Train, Gladiator (I+II) - and basically anything with Jensen Ackles and Pedro Pascal ♡

⚝ My No-Go's: wincest │proshipping │ rape / noncon or anything that's glorifying abuse etc.

[jollyhunter]

EZRA ❀ MASTERLIST

↬ Main Masterlist ❀ Add yourself to the Taglist WARNING TAGS SMUT 🌹 [18+] - FLUFF 🌷 - ANGST 🥀

❀ꗥ ONE-SHOTS

Nothing yet!

❀ꗥ SERIES / MINI-SERIES

Nothing yet!

❀ꗥ DRABBLES / IMAGINES

Nothing yet!

❀ꗥ HEADCANONS

Nothing yet!

❀ꗥ AU's

Nothing yet!

[jollyhunter]

JOEL MILLER ❀ MASTERLIST

↬ Main Masterlist ❀ Add yourself to the Taglist WARNING TAGS SMUT 🌹 [18+] - FLUFF 🌷 - ANGST 🥀

❀ꗥ ONE-SHOTS

Nothing yet!

❀ꗥ SERIES / MINI-SERIES

Nothing yet!

❀ꗥ DRABBLES / IMAGINES

Nothing yet!

❀ꗥ HEADCANONS

Nothing yet!

❀ꗥ AU's

Nothing yet!

[jollyhunter]

MARK MEACHUM ❀ MASTERLIST

↬ Main Masterlist ❀ Add yourself to the Taglist WARNING TAGS SMUT 🌹 [18+] - FLUFF 🌷 - ANGST 🥀

❀ꗥ ONE-SHOTS

↬ NEW! Gunpoint 🌹

❀ꗥ SERIES / MINI-SERIES

Nothing yet!

❀ꗥ DRABBLES / IMAGINES

Nothing yet!

❀ꗥ HEADCANONS

Nothing yet!

❀ꗥ AU's

Nothing yet!

[jollyhunter]

BEAU ARLEN ❀ MASTERLIST

↬ Main Masterlist ❀ Add yourself to the Taglist

WARNING TAGS SMUT 🌹 [18+] - FLUFF 🌷 - ANGST 🥀

❀ꗥ ONE-SHOTS

Nothing yet!

❀ꗥ SERIES / MINI-SERIES

Nothing yet!

❀ꗥ DRABBLES / IMAGINES

Nothing yet!

❀ꗥ HEADCANONS

↬ How would BEAU, BEN and DEAN show up at your door? (and react to you fainting) 🌷

❀ꗥ AU's

↬The Broken Circle [planned sequel] 🥀 [Beau!Dean x Hunter!Reader]

[jollyhunter]

SOLDIER BOY / BEN ❀ MASTERLIST

↬ Main Masterlist ❀ Add yourself to the Taglist WARNING TAGS SMUT 🌹 [18+] - FLUFF 🌷 - ANGST 🥀

❀ꗥ ONE-SHOTS

↬ Milkshake for Two 🌹🌷🥀

❀ꗥ SERIES / MINI-SERIES

↬ Project Ground Zero (INTRO) [planned] 🥀

❀ꗥ DRABBLES / IMAGINES

Nothing yet!

❀ꗥ HEADCANONS

↬ How would BEAU, BEN and DEAN show up at your door? (and react to you fainting) 🌷

❀ꗥ AU's

Nothing yet!

[jollyhunter]

DEAN WINCHESTER ❀ MASTERLIST

↬ Main Masterlist ❀ Add yourself to the Taglist WARNING TAGS SMUT 🌹 [18+] - FLUFF 🌷 - ANGST 🥀

❀ꗥ ONE-SHOTS

↬ NEW! Tap Once For . . . 🥀(🌷) ↬ Lucky Cat 🥀 ↬ Shower Reliever🌷🌹 ↬ The Potato Summoning *1 - *2 (coming) [ b-day special / crack] ↬ Writer’s Curse🌷 ↬ Morning Petting 🌹🌷

❀ꗥ SERIES / MINI-SERIES

↬ NEW! Summer Snapshot Challenge MASTERLIST Rocking Wet 🌹 Soul Gems 🌷 ↬ Daily Dean -> Kinky Advent Calendar MASTERLIST Dean and you are in a longterm relationship and try spicing up your sex life throughout December ( Series │ 16 / 24 parts done ) Sunshine 🌹 Spell Book Lights Out 🌹 Tickle 🌹 Dirty UNO 🌹 Candlelight 🌷 Hex Play 🌹 Whip Stroke 🌹 Barbie World Temptation 🌹🌷 My entire World 🌷 Freaky Friday 🌹 Shroom Cookies 🌷 Roll Over Rule 🌹 Yoga, Kama Sutra - potato, potahto 🌹🌷 Our Baby 🌷

❀ꗥ DRABBLES / IMAGINES

↬ Dean's Birthday Prompt-Game 🌷🥀 ↬ Thanksgiving Part 1 - Part 2 🌷

❀ꗥ HEADCANONS

↬ How would BEAU, BEN and DEAN show up at your door? (and react to you fainting) 🌷

❀ꗥ AU's

↬ The Bad Wolf & The Sweet Vixen -> Series MASTERLIST [Squad Leader Dean x fem!reader│Supernatural Special Forces AU] ↬ The Broken Circle [planned sequel] 🥀 [Beau!Dean x Hunter!Reader]