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insensiblelimerence · 6 days ago

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𓆩 a man with no soul 　────　 sam winchester. 𓆪 ⠀ navigation ⠀🫎 ⠀ pinned masterlist .ㅤ ওㅤ

sam sacrificed himself when he was lucifer’s vessel. when he came back he was off. you noticed his spark was missing, but — what’s matter? he acted pretty much the same, and a little spicer on the side ‘specially in bed.

ཊ soulless!sam, afab!reader, tiny bit of angst, fluff, smut — hurt/comfort, crying, kisses, imissedyou(s), teasing, oral, edging(?), unprotected sex (wrap for u tap u sillies), pinv, slight aftercare. ཉ no joke i’ve been working on this for six days trying to get the layout and the actual work down. wc. 2.6k

sam did the noble thing (he thought, without thinking about you), he accepted lucifer as a vessel, because the bound rule was that an angel needed consent to be allowed inside the body — to take full control of.

it had been three months since he jumped in the cage, you occasionally had a chat with bobby, although dean? he escaped the life of hunting, so even when you tried it would go to voicemail. and for awhile it was consistent never giving up, but he would never pick up. so you gave up, found a different man, who contradicted every thing that sam was typically repulsed by.

loud music, going to carnivals, no studying.

that only lasted so long, for you were still stuck on the loss of sam, whom you planned on marrying when the two of you got older. you should’ve known better than to let that foolish idea corrupt your mind, it was just the sweet talk of after sex that night. you missed his touch, and you missed touching him. your heart constantly ached at the thought of sam in hell, rotting in a cage, some nights you felt pathetic. like stupidly pathetic, everyone else had moved on, yet you were stuck. time flew past you, and you fell into a crevice of the same things every single day. research, breakfast, occasionally call bobby, lunch, research, dinner and research than bed. you’d been researching how to bring sam back from hell.

like that would be laying around anywhere one the web, occasionally, you tried to pray for castiel, for an answer. radio silence from all corners through and through, dean had simply given up (or from what you were given, you assumed he followed through with sam’s promise. and bobby? he was hurting, just wouldn’t stop him from hunting though). it was a quiet night, your finger’s skillfully moving across the keyboard, hitting dead ends inside of already dead ends, the doorbell rang. who in their right minds would be ringing the doorbell at four at night, no one.

cautiously you opened the door, after securing the chain. you blinked in shock, you had to be hallucinating, or dreaming. you rubbed the sleepiness out of your eyes, but low and behold, in all it’s beauty; sam. you let out a sharp gasp, staring. “what are you?” you spat harshly, you wanted to be eager about seeing your boyfriend after those three months of him being away from you, but he broke out of lucifer’s cage, he couldn’t do that. not even lucifer himself was about to be free from the cage without the seals being broken.

sam wouldn’t be the acceptance there. “it’s me, baby.” he muttered sweetly, the words were just a replication of what the old sammy would say. this couldn’t be sammy.

you’d died on that hill when he tried to step closer, even with the door chained to the wall, you still had your hand clenched around a knife, ready to stab if need, sam taught you that move. if you were alone, in a motel, chain up the door before opening it, and have a weapon behind the door, ready at the go, “and put the knife down, you know it’s me.” you were in a repusled-shock when he said that. but anything could know that trick. it was for safety, “how do i know your sammy? my sammy?” “well first; sammy is a chubby twelve year old boy. it’s sam. second, i’ll do all the things to prove it’s me, just open the damn door.” your eyes fell into microscopic slits of skepticism, before hesitantly closing the door, just to open it fully, searching sam up and down.

“can i come in?” he said, amused, but not amused at the same time. your stare was distance, mesmerized by him, his entire — everything.

it’d been three months of sam rotting in hell, and you rotting on earth. ‘nd now — now he’s back, absently you stepped the the side, a simple gesture that invited him inside the motel, the one you’d very obviously been holed up in too long, clothes scattered all over the place, on the messy bed, your cute li’l underwear tucked comfortably under the covers, just enough for someone to see it. not on purpose; but because you had became so emotionally devoid of anything, you refused to pick up your clothes, or anything, “sorry.” you murmured, looking at the room again, slightly embarrassed.

you were repulsed with yourself,

sam? pulling blanks, before patting you on your back. “‘it’s okay.” the touch sent a jolt down your, the familiar hand touching your back — it was shocking the gentle remind of he just got back from lucifer’s cage in hair, hung flimsily in the wind, tears built in your eyes, sam noticed, “hey, don’t cry.” he muttered, the words a facade be cause in reality? he didn’t feel a thing. like his emotions had been put on mute. it’s not like he could drop a bomb on you like that, so he flitted around the basis of the old sammy. the one who could feel, almost like a condom.

“i thought you were a goner.” you sobbed; and ugly cry, the one you had refused to let out when you lost him, “i watched you jump in the hole ‘nd there was nothing i could do—” sam’s large hand’s brought your head to his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapped around you.

“hey,” he whispered softly, “don’t get all emotional now. ‘m here.” you nodded into his chest, the tears soaking the front of his flannel. you lifted your head up, your eye glistening with the tears. “there’s my girl.” he murmured softly, his words only a seeming testimony to his love that seemed to stretch so wide for you. his thumb swiped away the falling tears, the action never failing to make you smile. he pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek, all the way up to your mouth, the hand that once cradled your head going to cup your cheek as the two of you indulged into a passionate, sloppy, kiss.

sam pulled away, the only thing connecting your mouths was the string of saliva on his tongue, you let out a soft gasp as the tension of his lips against yours broke apart. “missed you. ‘nd your lips, ‘nd the way you taste.” he muttered, low and sultry. his hand fell from your cheek, sliding down to your pants.

he looked at you with hardened eyes; a silent ask to continue, you sent him a curt nod, a smirk broke from his lips, “atta baby.” sam had a steady grip on your hip as he guided you backwards onto the bed, your bodies making a ‘plop’ as you fell onto the bed. he let out an empty chuckle as his eyes caught the cloth underwear peaking out mischievously from your bed covers, “ah,” he tsked lowly, “what happened to cleaning up after your self, baby?” it was a shame, he thought to himself.

but did he care? no. the sex for sam was meant to be a void that had once carried something within him, that was snatched. and he didn’t know what; besides the fact all he felt was cold, detached from every emotion, like the nerves had been severed from the bud. “i forgot too.” “i can tell.” he cocked back quickly, his head dipped low, shifting himself to kiss your soft lips, his teeth tugging gently at your bottom lip as he pulled away, pulling a gentle moan from your lips.

sam let out a groan of pleasure from the soft noise he managed to draw out from you, “ah, you’re always so easy.”

your bottom lip puckered out, “no ‘m not.” “yes you are.”

you rolled your eyes at him, keeping your lip puckered and parted, like you were out of breathing as you watched sam’s hands going to unbutton your jeans. he let out a breath of relief when he pulled them down to your ankles, letting you kick them off. “still looks good.” he nearly busted in his pants right there; but he wasn’t a stuck up-snobby teenage boy. he knew better. even if you looked oddly good, with your cunt contained by the flimsy cloth. which separated his hands from going in on your clit, so rather, he cupped the source of your heat, his thumb pads circling the clothes clit, taking in the dampness of your underwear. “oh, your needy, ain’tcha?” he hummed goadly.

you let out a pleasured gasp, “sam—” you hadn’t felt the way he touched you in three months. and now? he seemed more ready then ever to deliver what you craved the most to you on a golden platter. “it feels s’good.” another gasp as he massaged your clothed cunt, you licked your bottom lip, an instant moisturizer.

“i can make it feel better.” he whispered too you, each and every word was tantalizing, a fire set ablaze that had been unkempt for so long. sam slipped off the bed, the dip in the bed disappearing, “sam what’re you—” he grabbed ahold of your ankles, tugging you closer to the edge of the bed. you couldn’t help but let a soft giggle of amusement shake from your lips. even with his simple kneading of your clothed cunt, you were already boarding on edge.

those clumsy boys had desensitized his pretty li’l partner. it was a shame, they taught you how to finish to quickly. sam though? loved the chase. but now he couldn’t have that because of those cloddish not knowing how to function with a delicate body like yours. sam’s hand pulled your underwear off, pulling it roughly over the curve of your ass, his padded thumbs going to embrocate your pretty little ass, not so delicately.

sam gutturalized as he saw your bare cunt, he hadn’t seen his pretty baby in three months, in counting too! his hands spread across your knees, forcing them apart. “don’t be shy.” he muttered, dipping his head in between your thighs. his tongue stuck out, flattening against your cunt, you immediately laid back down, “oh fuck.” you let out a pathetic whine, squeezing your eyes shut.

he pompously grinned at you. “you like that?” sam licked a wide stripe against your clit, nudging his nose inbetween your slick folds, god — you could’ve exploded on site if they stuck any deeper, he let out a muffled tsk when he felt the breeze of your head going over his hair, to guide him.

he didn’t need guiding. not around your parts, he knew ‘em to well, “i got it.” he said, splaying his hands across your upper thighs as you trembled desperately for a release.

“needa cum,” you whined affectionately at sam’s skills, your hands itching to run your fingers through his hair, to guide him to the right places, but he had his own way of doing things, discovery channel style. your cunt throbbed violently against his tongue, as he slowly licked away at your sanity, letting his mouth flood with your salty-sweetness.

“hold it.” he muttered, his breath shuddered against you, causing you to let out another giggle. “sam!” you exclaimed, excitedly. it’d been ages since someone has made you feel so good with just their tongue. sam pulled away, wetting his lip; your taste corrupting his mouth. “i think your ready, are you?” he asked, rhetorical question of course. you were ready, you always were ready. sam had already dropped his pants after standing up straight, throwing them in a pile of your already dirty clothes. sam pressed his body closer to yours, his hand going to the back of your head, making you crane up at him. “y’so pretty.” he said with pleasure, before pushing you back onto your back. sam grinned with pleasure as he aligned himself along your slick folds, still having a twinge of your aftertaste surfing through his mouth, only firing him up even more.

“thank you.” “your welcome.” he grinned. his tip kissed your cervix with every thrust. your back arched as he repeatedly slammed against your throbbing walls, with a sickening squelchy, wet noise as your skin slapped against one another. sam was positioned ontop of you, his thumb pad running along your bottom lip as you mewled with every lewd thrust, “atta-fuckin’-baby.” he said raspily against your ear, the breath tickling you. sam sat up slightly, hand pressing down on your hip to keep you still, his length still swallowed by your cunt, and with every thrust, the closer you breached your release. but no, you couldn’t unwind that fast. no. you had to hold on, just for a bit longer.

no matter how monstrous is cock actually was, your mind growing hazy while you held his length in a tight death grip while he skillfully teased you. you could’ve sworn it was a dream, under all that haze. and you didn’t want it to be.

you needed for this, for sam to be real. or you were going to go clinically insane. “taking it so good.” he said, without a second thought, sam’s hand holding your wrists in a vice, something stable to hold onto while he brutally fucked any sense out of you. as the rough thrusts filled your thoughts with dirty ones, sam slowly worked his hand down to rub your bud as his length stretched you out.

“fuck, fuck, fuck,” you said, the relief coming to an end, as you came all around his cock, sam let out a groan of release as he felt your sticky remains wrap around his cock, acting as lube as he kept with the frantic movements, your hips rolling against yours, you were dazed out of it by the time sam had pulled out of you, only to finish on your stomach. he’d always found the pull out trick to be risky, but now? not a care in the world as his hand stroked his length, stringing his cock dry of it’s juices, all onto your stomach. you could’ve came again with sam’s promiscuous actions, if only you weren’t half drained of your energy.

sam wrenched his way out of you, leaving your folds with a squelching pop, he looked around for a cloth; settling on a ragged shirt old to wipe the cum from your stomach. the next thing you remember is being propped against sam’s shoulder, his arm circling ‘round your body, the cover molding around yours and sam’s hips, you were quiet, ready to sleep as sam stared off; you didn’t think much about it, sense you were ready for sleep anyways, your thoughts dying out a sleep called for your body.

your eyes slowly shut, succumbing to sleep, “night.” sam whispered, reaching over to turn off the light. you slept peacefully, while sam couldn’t sleep at all, an empty void. ever since he was raised from perdition, he didn’t feel the same. whoever ripped him from the fiery pits of hell didn’t do very well.

whatever they did? left a whole so big that he didn’t know how to feel. he wasn’t even supposed to come and visit, per his grandpa’s (samuel’s orders), and sam chose not to visit dean. sam didn’t want to stay way from you, but still. he did. until he didn’t, so he made up a fake case. fake excuses, just for you. old sam would tell himself, he did it because he loved you so dearly, newer sam? he didn’t know why he did. he just did. maybe it was a trauma response to cut off all emotions he ever had, but you. you he just had to be around. it was primal that he had to be beside you, his thumb mindlessly dragged across your back.

#Soulless!Sam coming back anyway out of primal urges always makes me go crazy #vee’s recs! •̩̩͙⁺゜

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insensiblelimerence · 6 days ago

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@amourcri3s requested : Sam x reader filming themselves during sex. That's the ask. a/n : I'm so sorry this took so long, baby. Hope you like it <3.

☆･ﾟLights, Camera, Fuck !

☆･ﾟPairing : Sam Winchester x Reader. ☆･ﾟWarnings : sexual content. sex tape, blowjob + handjob, slight dacryphilia, exhibitionism, humiliation kink, slight degradation kink, size kink, voyeurism, (f) masturbation, (m) masturbation, tummy bulge, orgasm control, p in v, unprotected sex, facial, allusions to established relationship. 18+ only !! ☆･ﾟWord Count : 1.989k.

The tripod sits in the corner, a beat-up old camera Sam fished out from some pawn shop balanced on it, its red recording light glowing with intent. You’re on your knees on the floor, your heart pounding so loud, you’re afraid the mic might pick it up, your cheeks flushed with a mix of nerves and excitement. The pretty pink lingerie Sam picked out just for you clings to your skin—all dainty and delicate, just the way he likes it—delicate lace panties, a sheer bra that compliments the rosy hue on your skin perfectly, and thigh-high stockings with little bows that make you feel like a little present wrapped for him.

Sam fiddles with the settings on the camcorder, a prominent bulge already straining against the jeans which are slung just a little too enticingly low on his hips, from the way you look— all sweet and submissive—waiting patiently for him to come and ruin you while capturing every filthy detail. “God, look at you,” he murmurs, walking over to you with the camera for a closer shot, his voice low and rough, like he’s already imagining the nights he’ll spend watching this when he’s away on hunts. “So pretty on your knees for me, baby. You nervous?” he teases, knowing damn well you are. The only reason you agreed to swallow down your shyness and do this was because of how he’d begged you, with his coercive puppy-dog eyes, for a little gift for when he was away— missing you, craving you— on hunts.

You bite your lip, glancing up at him through your lashes, feeling the heat of the camera’s gaze almost as intensely as his. “A-a little,” you admit, your voice soft, barely above a whisper. Sam chuckles, towering over you— shirtless and ridiculously handsome as always, wielding the kind of raw, masculine power that’s born in Gods, his lean-muscled physique glowing with strength under the motel’s shitty lighting. “That’s…cute. You should be. You’re gonna put on a hell of a show for me tonight, ain’t that right, sweetheart ?” You nod— eager and desperate to please him— and he smirks, holding up the recorder with one hand to free the other. His fingers thread through your hair as he pulls you closer, causing you to yelp in surprise when he presses the thick bulge in his jeans against your lips, making your cheeks burn hotter as he groans.

“Go on, sweetheart,” he says, his voice dripping with command. “Show the camera just how much you love sucking my cock.” You lean forward obediently, fumbling with his belt before unbuttoning his jeans and dragging the zipper down while looking up at him as you shove his jeans and boxer-briefs out of the way, freeing his length— thick, hard and gifted with the kind of intimidating girth and size that makes your mouth water with need. You wrap your hand around the base, feeling the heavy weight of him in your grip, your gaze now fixed— single-minded and slutty— on his cock as everything else around you, disappears from the sheer sight of him. You glance at the camera, its red light blinking, and your heart stutters. But Sam guides you, gentle but firm, and you part your lips, taking the leaking head into your mouth.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groans, his head tipping back for a moment before his eyes snap back to you. “Takin’ me so well. Such a good girl for me, baby.”

You start slow, swirling your tongue around the tip, whimpering softly at the taste of his precum. Your lips stretch wide to accommodate him, and you hollow your cheeks, sucking gently as you take him deeper. Sam’s hand tightens in your hair, not pushing but encouraging you to take more of him, until he hits the back of your throat and you moan— loud and shameless— the vibration making him grunt with pleasure as his hips thrust forward. He’s so big it’s almost overwhelming, but you love the stretch, the way he fills you up. You glance up, meeting his eyes, then flick your gaze to the camera, knowing it’s capturing every sloppy, eager movement when you start to suck him harder, your hand pumping most of what you can’t fit.

“Ahh, that’s a girl !” he praises through a barely stifled grunt, fucking into your eager mouth with gentle thrusts until there are tears streaming down your face as you struggle to keep pleasing him. You pull back, gasping for air, a string of spit connecting your lips to his cock and he groans at the sight, his thumb brushing over your swollen lips. “Nuh-uh, none of that, sweetie.” he murmurs, his lips quirking up with sadistic delight. “Show the camera how much you want it.”

You wrap your lips around him again, bobbing your head and sucking in time with your strokes. Sam’s hips start rocking, eagerly into your mouth again as you suck harder, changing your pace with renewed enthusiasm. “ Shi- oh yeah! Just like that, baby. Gonna make me come if you keep that up.”

When he finally pulls you off, your lips are slick, your breathing heavy. He sets the camera down, adjusting the tripod to a new angle, then pulls you to your feet and kisses you hard. His tongue laves against yours and you moan into his mouth, wrapping your arms around him.

“Time to show off that pretty little pussy for me, baby.” Sam rasps against your lips, his voice low and filthy with devilish excitement. He guides you to the bed, pushing you gently onto your back and spreads your legs wide open. The pink lace between your thighs is soaked and he smirks, running two fingers along the fabric. “Look at that. So fuckin’ wet, already. You like being watched, like a naughty little girl, don’t you?” he whispers, his words punctuated with deliberate circles drawn against your clit at a torturously slow pace.

You gasp, half-embarrassed, half-turned on beyond reason. “Sam…” you whimper, shyly and he shakes his head, pulling away and making you whine at the loss of contact.

“C’mon baby, touch yourself. Show me how you play, thinkin’ about my cock when I’m not here.” he commands and your fingers tremble as you push the panties aside, exposing your glistening folds to Sam and the cam’s unblinking eyes. You’re so wet it’s almost embarrassing, but the way his jaw drops at the sight as he fists his twitching length with a mumbled “Fuck.”, makes you slightly bolder. You rub your clit, slow and hesitant at first, then faster, moaning softly as the pleasure starts to build.

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Sam says, voice thick with lust. He’s stroking himself now, slow and deliberate, his hips eagerly starting to buck into his hand when you rub yourself faster, whining— high pitched and desperate. “So fuckin’ gorgeous, baby, playin' with that sweet little pussy. My pretty little pornstar, puttin’ on a dirty little show just for me. Gonna watch this later and stroke myself just like this, thinkin’ about you all night when I’m away, honey.”

The filthy praise spilling from his lips, rushes straight to your head, your moans getting louder and less restrained as your body teeters on the edge of your climax, your hips bucking greedily towards the friction of your fingers. “Oh, you like that, huh ? Filthy little slut in that pretty head, ain’t you, baby ?” he says, his voice almost mocking but so full of desire and undisguised want, it’s dizzying. You nod— a little stupid and drunk of the sight of him getting off of you— your orgasm drawing closer, making you writhe in pleasure. He stops jerking off when your breaths get shallower, your cries, sharp and needy. “Stop.” he commands, suddenly, and you do, your breath hitching at the authority in his voice even as your pussy clenches around nothing in desperation. “Greedy little girl, can’t even wait for my cock.”

He strips the rest of the way, climbing onto the bed and tugging your panties off, leaving you in just the bra and stockings, and lines himself up, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance as he swipes the tip through the slick pooled between your legs.

“Ready, baby?” he asks, but it’s not really a question and he pushes in, slow and relentless, making you cry out and claw deeply into his back, the stretch almost too much as it makes your vision go blank from pleasure. He’s so big, filling you completely, and when he bottoms out, you can see the faint bulge in your stomach where he’s buried so deep.

“Fuck. Y-you feelin’ me all the way there, baby ? Really stuffed full of me, ain’t you? ” he groans, his palm pressing down on the outline of him splitting you open on his cock. You moan from the added pressure, the camera perfectly capturing the way your back arches, your thighs trembling as he starts to fuck you open.

Sam is slow at first, letting you adjust, but you're already moaning like a mess, every thick slide of him pushing deeper into you, making you see stars when he hasn’t even started fucking into you yet. Then he picks up the pace, thrusting deep and hard, his cock driving into your sweet spot with a force that has the bed slamming against the wall and room filling up with the wet slap of his skin against yours. You’re practically screaming now, the pleasure overwhelming as your thighs clamp around his waist when he starts fucking you harder, deeper and rubbing your clit— sloppy, precise and perfect— in time with his punishing thrusts, putting on a show just for the camera.

“You love this, don’t you?” he grunts, his voice rough. “Love being my little slut on camera. So fuckin’ tight, baby, so perfect. Gonna make me come just watching you take it like a good girl.”

He leans down, kissing you, messy and possessive, then pulls back to look at you, pounding into you faster from the sight of the pretty, fucked-out expression adorning your flushed face. You’re so close, the pressure building in your core with each thrust until it’s unbearable as you whine “ Suh-Sam, I-I’m gonna cum!”

“ Fuck yeah, baby! Give it to me, c’mon sweetheart.” he moans, fucking you stupid like it’s his goddamn mission. Your orgasm hits hard and he maneuvers your face to the camera with a forceful tug on your hair, just in time for it to capture every filthy detail of your expression and your cry of pure ecstasy as you clench around him so hard, he swears he sees stars. “Th-that’s it, just like that, sweetie.” he stammers, voice thick with arrogance as his thrusts turn sloppy and erratic.

When you’re still trembling, he pulls out, pulling you to your knees on the floor. “Open up,” he grunts, and you do, eager and spent, taking him into your mouth again. He’s painfully close, his breaths ragged, and it doesn’t take long before he pulls back, stroking himself fast with one hand while the other fists your hair. “Look at the camera,” he orders, and you do, eyes wide and glassy, your mouth open as he comes, hot and thick across your face.

You moan, as it spills all over your lips, cheeks and tongue, some of it even dripping down to your tits. Sam groans deeply, milking every last drop onto your pretty face. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful like this.” he says, voice soft now, full of awe. “ My perfect, messy little star. ”

He grabs the camera, zooming in on your face, and you smile, shy but bold, blowing a sweet kiss to the lens, your pouty lips smeared with his cum as you giggle. Sam laughs, low and satisfied, pulling you into his arms after switching the recording off.

He kisses your forehead and murmurs, “Gonna watch that every night, baby.”

☆･ﾟAuthor's Message : if you'd like to be tagged, please don't hesitate to let me know !! comments and re-blogs are highly appreciated !! and I'd love to hear all your thoughts on the fic and my writing so please let me know down below. and of course, my inbox is totally open to any thoughts <3. ☆･ﾟTaglist : @mostlymarvelgirl, @jayhalsteadfan-2417, @zenoxl, @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing, @castielsonlyangel, @bea-tween-the-pages, @y0inked, @butterphiiss, @bowxs, @gvf23, @halsteadwichester. Divider by : @strangergraphics.

#vee’s recs! •̩̩͙⁺゜

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insensiblelimerence · 6 days ago

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OWNED

demon blood!sam x demon!reader x ruby

cw: 18+ MDNI; a lot of blood, oral (f. recieving), ruby and sam are a bisexual's dream n nightmare.

a/n: I COULDN'T FIND ANYTHING TO MAKE A HEADER/DIVIDER 💔💔💔

You were just some lowlife demon loyal to Lilith. You were really just minding your business, tormenting hunters who got too invasive. But you were also sloppy, which is probably why you're now being "interrogated" by Ruby, that traitorous bitch, and the younger Winchester brother.

“You wanted attention?” Ruby’s voice is syrupy, smug. Her knee presses into your back, keeping you bent against the mattress, spine bowed like she’s presenting you. “Sam, baby—look how desperate she is.”

You snarl at her, or try to — but her hand is already in your hair, yanking your head to the side to expose your throat.

"Such a little brat," she hums. "But she tastes so sweet."

And that’s when she does it. She bites. Not deep — just enough to pierce the skin. Just enough to let that demonic blood well up, slick and shining, and offer it to Sam.

You hear it — that stuttered inhale. That growl deep in his chest. His booted steps across the room, slow and heavy, and then—

"Ruby," he warns, but his voice is already thick. Strained. Starving.

“She can take it,” Ruby croons. “Can’t you, sweetheart? Don’t you want to feel him inside your head? Inside your body?” She licks the blood from her fingers like candy. “You wanted to play with fire. I’m just giving him the match.”

And then Sam’s hand is on your jaw — rough. Turning your head toward him. His pupils are blown wide. He looks wild.

"You think this is a fucking game?" he hisses, voice ragged. "You wanted me like this?"

Your breath hitches. "Yes," you whisper. "God, yes."

He doesn’t wait.

He sinks his teeth into the same spot Ruby opened — drinking deep, like it’ll fix something broken inside him. Like your blood is salvation and damnation all in one. You scream at the first pull, not from pain — from the connection. Your mind slams into his, raw and electric and hungry.

You feel everything.

His need. His fury. The way he wants to ruin you just to see if he can fix you after.

And then it starts.

Ruby releases you, grinning like the devil she is, as Sam throws you onto your back. You barely have time to gasp before he’s inside you — one hand choking, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, his movements vicious.

“You want to be used?” he snarls into your ear. “Then take it.”

Ruby’s behind you again, all warm lips and cruel laughter, whispering filth in your ear. Telling you what a pathetic little mess you’ve become. How Sam’s gonna fuck the fight right out of you.

And he does.

You forget your name. You forget how to speak. The only sound you can make is a high, broken whimper, caught between ecstasy and oblivion, while their voices crawl into your brain and eat you alive.

You come like your soul’s being dragged from hell again.

And they don’t stop.

You're already shaking — already soaked, wrecked, and dazed, pinned between Sam’s broad shoulders and the heat of Ruby’s body.

She’s behind you now, cradling your head in her lap like she’s your girlfriend — cooing sweet little things while Sam kisses his way down your stomach, pupils blown wide and dark with bloodlust.

You’re spread open like a feast, thighs trembling, breath caught—

And Ruby?

Ruby drags her nail — just lightly— down your pelvis.

Teasing. Circling. Watching you flinch and moan like a whore.

Then she says, soft and sweet,

“Hold still, baby. Gotta make him lose it somehow.”

And with one flick, her sharp nail slices just across the top of your clit.

Not deep.

But enough.

Blood wells instantly, a sharp sting blooming as the coppery scent fills the air — and Sam?

Sam stops breathing.

His hands tighten around your thighs, and his lips part in a stunned, starving gasp.

“Ruby,” he chokes. “What the fuck did you just do—”

“You want her, right?” she whispers, grinning like she’s won. “Then take her.”

And Sam snaps.

He dives down like a beast, tongue lapping at the blood like it’s nectar — desperate, messy, frenzied. He groans against you, loud and guttural, burying his face in your cunt like he’s trying to merge with it.

His nose bumps your clit — right over the cut — and it’s agony.

Pain and bliss get so tangled you can’t even breathe.

Your scream rips out of you raw.

Sam moans louder. He’s grinding into the bed now, getting off on just tasting you, fingers digging bruises into your hips, tongue sliding through blood and slick and everything you give him.

He’s not being gentle.

Not precise.

Just needy. Violent with hunger.

And Ruby’s behind you still — humming, stroking your face while you sob through pleasure so sharp it borders on torment.

“You like it,” she murmurs. “Filthy little thing. You like giving him your pain. You like how he devours it.”

You can’t even speak. You just nod, tears slipping down your cheeks, hips bucking helplessly as Sam wrecks you from below like an animal in heat.

“You gonna cum?” she purrs. “You gonna bleed for him again? That’s it, baby. Give it to him. Give it all to us.”

You break.

And Sam doesn’t stop.

He growls like a beast and licks every drop of blood and come you offer him — until your body gives out, until your soul shatters, until you’re left sobbing and twitching and so emptied you don’t even know your name anymore.

Just his.

Just hers.

Just theirs.

TAGLIST

@bowxs @sammyslittledoll @nicetomeachum @castielsonlyangel @butterphiiss

#felt like a horny dog reading this #I love Ruby sm I’m gonna explode #yes baby manipulate me #vee’s recs! •̩̩͙⁺゜

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insensiblelimerence · 14 days ago

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─── mlist ! ( DESECRATION.) ⛥ soulless SAM WINCHESTER. general warnings ── sacrilege, stalking, manipulation, church sex, power imbalance, manhandling, rough sex, restraints, marking, hair pulling, fingering, squirting, orgasm denial, spitting, choking (light), semi public sex, exhibitionism, mentions of blood and murder, canon divergence. word count: 3000 words.

PRIEST AND DEACONS FOUND DEAD ACROSS TOWN UNDER MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES.

POLICE FINDS NO SIGNS OF MURDER.

† † †

a man without a soul is a terrible creature. ever since sam winchester came back from hell, a part— the most important of him, was left to rot in hell, abandoned with lucifer and his brother inside a cage. but you’re not aware of it yet.

and sam devoid a soul is cold. cruel. not deliberately so. he’s an empty vessel, not contained by human emotion— he lacks remorse. there’s nothing standing in his way.

heavy footsteps echo against the creaking floor and sam approaches you with slow steps. he doesn’t look upset. not even angry. in fact, there’s no emotion betraying his empty eyes.

the more sam tries to close the distance between you, the more you seek haven against the marble altar, like some sort of protection, like god could ever intervene and protect you from whatever sam became.

the church rests old, a holy landmark of the quiet louisiana town, once a symbol of holiness and community, now drenches in the smell of sulfur.

it’s almost midnight and it’s storming, heavy raindrops hit the windows. this doesn’t feel real. the local police took over the case and after what happened, they made sure the perimeter was closed for good, including the inside of the church, which stirred conflict among the locals. despite the murders not occuring inside it, the police looks further for evidence regarding three deaths.

“you came here. without me.”

he’s right.

sam wasn’t supposed to know you came to investigate the church on your own. he couldn’t have known you’re here. you made sure of that. you left your cellphone inside the motel room, making it impossible to track you down. unless some demon magic was involved, but you doubt that. and you know castiel stopped showing up a long, long time ago.

but sam expected you to do it. as a matter of fact, he, planned this. he wanted it to happen— you leaving, despite promising him you’d stay inside the hotel room.

he wanted you to take his car while, presumably, he was gone interviewing the relatives of the dead clergy with samuel, his grandfather. all while you promised to stay inside the room and research the possible causes behind the three deaths.

for your own safety.

in whatever measure you thought you were doing behind his back, you did for him.

he lied to you.

your boyfriend has been observing you for some time now.

it all started when you suddenly began hiding things from him. acting peculiar and distant, adamant to run investigations by yourself, keeping locations and names a secret from him. undoubtedly, there’s been a seed of mistrust growing bigger and bigger inside you and, well, sam had to take it in his own hands.

he never intended to interview the poor, grieving relatives. it was just a stupid lie. he pretended to leave and meet samuel on his way to the houses of the victims. instead, he watched from a considerable distance, hiding inside a rented car, parked near the motel.

it would've been such a bad mistake from his side to leave you unsupervised.

he studied your every move like a predator studies its pray, measuring you before finally attacking. he stalked you. you're a experiment, his little lab rat.

he's been feeding you lies on a platter and planting ideas inside your mind, watching your reactions.

as if he’s attempting to find the best version a sam, a variant of your boyfriend you wouldn’t doubt. he takes notes on what to do and not do around you, based on how you react— how excited, how sad and how angry he makes you. it’s all an extremely calculated act.

the car keys? purposefully left on the dinner table to tempt you. he could never forget the car keys in a cheap motel room. he even left his laptop on the desk, a page implied something might’ve happened near the local church.

it did, in fact, have to do something with the local church.

three dead people. no signs of murder, not a scratch and not a single drop of blood spilled. you and sam investigated the houses of the victims with a day before— a possible demonic possession. cult-like behavior or some sort of ritual. you can’t exclude the possibility of a vengeful spirit having something to do with the clergy deaths either.

this isn’t the first time.

he watched you order dinner by yourself while he was gone. he’s seen you naked, moaning his name while stuffing your pussy with two fingers pretending it’s him. he kept wondering if there were other guys in your life. if so? he wanted them gone. he didn’t care. but he needed you and he couldn’t afford to have you distracted.

soon, he found out you’re madly in love him and him being locked in hell ruined you in ways words could never explain.

with you? he's been overly careful.

forehead kisses. one in the morning— one because you love that so much. and another one, because you can’t get enough of him. he showers you with kisses, but there’s no love. just a twisted, calculated need to know every inch of you. to know every crack you left unmended.

he’s been slowly getting to the point where he knows exactly how to keep you in your place.

not to mention the sex. it’s perfectly designed to keep you needy and desperate for his attention. to keep addicted enough to the way he fucks you pussy until you come all over his cock, clinging to the feeling of safety he gives you. then, he takes it away from you. based on his calculations, you’d end up needy and he’s learned to sense that quickly.

but why? you’re not just some useless lliability in his eyes. he needs you, in a immoral, inhumane way. you’re a resource he can use. a great hunter. an indispensable asset.

he’s not evil. in his mind, he sees a potential he can nurture. behind your back, of course. your weak soul wouldn’t be able to face his reality. he can’t make you heartless, but, with a some work, he can make you mindlessly follow his will.

that was until you stopped being a complacent hunter girlfriend who is head over heels in love with her hunter boyfriend who was stuck in hell.

who’d been desperately try to mend to wounds of a man who’s been inside a cage with lucifer and michael.

there are no wounds to be taken care of, he can assure.

he could no longer use the way he wanted you once you started to doubt his intentions.

the soul of sam winchester would never allow him to do such a thing.

it's been more than obvious that something inside of him changed. he's convinced it bettered him. it turned him into the ideal hunter. innocent deaths followed every case, but from whatever angle he would look at the situation, he was satisfied with the results. not a single unsolved case and he took pride in his methods.

but why, of all places, would he want you inside the church?

bait.

experimenting.

“don’t look at me like that.”

you wonder if he'd lay his hands on you — not because he seems angry with you, but to get rid of any impediments standing between him and this investigation.

you witnessed it before. hiding behind walls, watching his true nature unveil itself right in front of your very own eyes. you heard sam's grandfather talk about the innocent lives he took. so, what would another corpse mean to him?

with you, he’s so much different. sweet and gentle, the handsome old sammy who never went to hell. but none of it ever felt genuine. ever since he came back from hell, sam was different. cold. as if he was faking it all.

"sweetheart, i know what you're thinking," he cooes, "listen. there's no reason for me to hurt you.”

he catches your face with his hands, his thumb brushing against your flushed cheek, “you promised you’d stay inside. what happened?”

with his brows furrowed, sam gives you a pitiful smile — but no matter how genuine it seems, you soul knows something is off. his eyes are empty, devoid of any human emotion. there’s nothing, but emptiness filling the blues of his irises.

"what did samuel tell you? i’ve been worried he’s plotting something behind our backs. he told me you’re hiding this from me, is it… true?”

without a soul, he’s a different person. his affection is fake, his tenderness, a mere pretense.

sam’s kiss used to if not the softest beg, a gentle whisper of love— his lips pressed against yours, a sacred haven of peace and quiet. his kisses are rough and all consuming. he wants to control you. and you let it happen. you answer to his kiss, wrapping your arms around him tightly.

he has no interest for the way you feel. he can mimic it flawlessly, but deep down, he isn’t capable and of feeling any sort of concern over your emotions. he’s not a sadist. but this— the thought of you squirming under him, splayed open in a church of all places makes him hard.

he makes you lay flat on the cold, dusty, altar. sam’s hand curls in your hair into a fist, tugging your head back so you can meet his gaze. the same empty pair of eyes greet you.

"ever done this before?"

you don’t have to answer his question, he knows.

your hands seek the warmth of his skin under his shirt, it’s an instinct. you ache for a connection, a reminder he's the same man you used to know. hidden behind the four walls of a holy place, his touch is desecrating. it tries to turn you into something else— to test the limits and boundaries of your soul.

"you're so needy tonight." he says while he unbuckles his belt and loops it around your wrists, holding them tightly together over your head.

"you're safe with me. I'd never hurt you."

"promise?" his lips brush softly against yours and you moan in his mouth,

"i promise, sweetheart."

your heart pounds in your chest.

you must to stop this. you have to stop wanting him, relying on him — instinctively seeking for his touch as your only salvation. but you crave this, desperately so. no matter how unsure you are of his real intentions, it’s him. it has to be sam winchester. he’s your boyfriend, right?

he knows you like no other. you feel like a starved, deranged person when he stops touching you. when he leaves, he strips you off the only supply you have left.

him.

sam’s hands roam freely all over your body, warm against the cold rainy air.

he mixes suble pain with overwhelming pleasure, enough to keep you hooked on the ecstasy of it. he disects you and mends you back together— you’d hurt yourself endlessly just to have him mend your self inflicted wounds.

he’s not evil.

but for what he wants, he’d do anything. and you happen to be the only person he’s been obsessively wanting ever since he came back from hell. you might think he already has you, but that’s not the truth.

this should be the final step, the first and final act of your desecration.

sam bites. hard. he sucks on the nape of your neck and you dig your nails so deep into his shoulder you leave scratch marks and he doesn't even flinch.

he unbuckles your jeans and drags them down your hips, together with your soaked panties. he slides two fingers inside your mouth— enough for you to coat them with saliva, before stuffing your wet, needy cunt.

he pushes them deep inside your pussy and your walls clench against the rough movement of his fingers. you've been craving this so much. he hasn't touched you in weeks.

(it was a deliberate act, but you couldn't have expected that)

your back arches against the cold marble and then, he stops. he slides the same fingers inside your mouth and you obey, tasting yourself.

and then, he does it again, stretching you with three fingers, preparing you to take him. he'd fill you up, but this has a reason. he can't give it to you right away. you'll get it when he wants you to. when he’s had enough of exploring the ways he can make you beg.

your reactions entertain his curiosity and an emotionless, satisfied smirk forms in the corner of his mouth.

“you’re doing so good, taking three fingers. should i add another one?”

“sam… mmmm, please.”

he thrusts four of his fingers back and forth, faster and knuckle deep, coated in your sweet juices while you fill the empty church with your moans. it doesn’t take you long to squirt all over his fingers, dripping all over the edges of the holy table.

“sam. sam. please i’m going to-”

“come? no, you won’t. not yet, honey.”

it feels like a dream. you, spilling all over this altar, alone, inside a random church, in the middle of nowhere, offering yourself to sam on a platter. the church is beautiful, despite the recent deaths.

you’re surrounded by wooden crosses. a bouquet of white lilies lays on the altar right next to your body, young, pure and they’re just a few days old.

it seems like nobody bothered to take care of them, abandoned at the mercy of time. the moonlight shines bright on you through the stained windows and it seems like the storm has calmed down.

sam winchester devoid of a soul is addictive.

he toys with you. you want him to fuck you more than anything and he knows it. he’s been delaying the moment for what feels like half an hour, driving you close to the edge and taking it all away, just to do it all over again. you were almost there. so many time oh, so close to orgasming.

breathless, with your legs shaky, your voice cracks when you beg him to fuck you. again. and again. and again. you look at him with half-lidded eyes, all hazy and thoughtless.

your boyfriend pulls you closer to him, hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks, as he lifts your legs on his shoulders. he unzips his pants, letting his his hard, thick cock slip outside of his boxers, tip oozing with his precum. sam’s eyes greet you with the same empty look. this isn’t love.

he smiles, and spits on your pussy, using it as lube. you both gasp when he sinks his full length inside of you, thick and long. finally. you take him so well, your drenched cunt clenches so tight against him. you burn like a fire, your cheeks are flushed. you don’t care about anything anymore. you don’t feel like in you’re getting filled up inside a church.

you thank god for this ecstasy.

“is this what you wanted, sweetheart?”

you nod.

“man, are you sure you saw someone break in?”

sam stops.

“c’mon man, this shit is scary. i’m not going in”

“shhh, you don’t want them to hear you, right?” sam rips the panties off you and with one swift movement, he stuffs them inside your mouth. “be a good girl and keep them inside your pretty mouth, okay?”

“you actually believe all that paranormal bullcrap? they were definitely poisoned.” two officers argue in front of the church, hesitating to investigate further.

“by WHO? dude, admit you’re just as scared as i am.”

“imagine if they opened the door.” he leans down and whispers in your ear, “they’d see you getting pounded inside a church.”

“dude, you’re crazy. i’m leavin’. we’ll check it out ib the morning. come on, i’m fuckin’ cold.”

his hand finds your throat, fingers wrap tightly around the soft skin of your neck— he sank his teeth into your skin and you have red teeth marks plastered all over— it’s enough to make you grasp for air and your head spin it’s enough to make you dizzier than you already were. it feel insanely good. heavenly.

and it shouldn’t.

you’re so euphoric, drunk on his cock, begging him to mercy you. the only thought crossing you mind is him. sam, filling you up again and again all night, stretching your drenched cunt wide open in the most perverted ways, in every corner of this church.

with his cock pumping inside you, sam pushes a finger inside your pussy and then another one. he stops when the number reaches four. he throws the panties away somewhere on the wooden floor and a sultry moan escapes your mouth, filling every single corner of the church.

he kisses you. violently. he torments you with no remorse. spit dribbles down your tongue and you swallow it.

he doesn’t plan to stop here. sam never sleeps and you won’t either.

you’re weak, hazy on the feeling of him inside you. your pussy already feel empty when he carries you around the church and lays you down a pew, fucking you on the wooden seat.

he pushes you against the church wall, legs wrapped tightly around his waist and hands tangled in his soft hair while he spreads and stuffs you open. he forces you to take him under a cross and you reach for a kiss.

by the end of the night, sam must’ve made you come all over his cock and fingers dozen of times. in every single corner of the church. under every single cross. against the stained glass. in his car. the more he gave, the more you offered— you offered more of yourself. you offered him every inch of you, every part left untouched, every unmended crack.

sam winched got exactly what he wanted from you.

a man without a soul is terrifying.

NOTE: thank you for reading babes <3 reblogs are soooo appreciated !!! it’s been a while since i’ve written a long-ish fic. i wasn’t planning to make it this long, but i got carried away. hope you enjoyed this as much as i enjoyed exploring soulless sam! muahhh 💋

#oh my goddddd #he’s a crazy bitch but me too #vee’s recs! •̩̩͙⁺゜

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insensiblelimerence · 16 days ago

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cw: smut.ᐟ camgirl!reader x beau arlen part 2.ᐟ obsessive!beau.ᐟ possesive!beau.ᐟ sugardaddy!beau [a little].ᐟ sex toy use.ᐟ age gap [readers in college].ᐟ readers camgirl name is 'goodgirl.xx'.ᐟ 18+

#notes: if you haven’t read part one: its here and a part three coming soon !!

wc: 2580

it’s routine by now— the ache in your stomach when his username lights up your phone, the way you keep his requests pinned to the top of your messages.

you’ve lost track of how many times you’ve sent a soft, whispered “goodnight, cowboy” into the camera, how often you’ve moaned his name as if it’s a secret only the two of you share.

it started with twenty dollars, then fifty, then a hundred. and now a few hundred each time, and beau doesn’t even check the total anymore.

every time you post something new— a teasing preview, a wish-list update, the hint of a video going live again that night— beau's hand is already twitching toward his wallet.

he used to justify it, said it was just a harmless act. told himself he’s a grown man, a single grown man who doesn’t need to justify his spending habits.

but it burns him up inside now, the way other men watch your videos. reading the comments— fucking filth, men foaming at the mouth over your body, over the toy he bought you. it makes him sick, not because you don’t deserve the praise— god, you do— but because it shouldn’t come from them.

you shouldn’t have to show off for strangers anymore, when you’ve got someone like him— someone who knows exactly what you need, who’d treat you right, spoil you rotten, and fuck you sweet. he’s the one who sees you most for months now, who pays the most. and he wants to keep it that way.

beau wants you layered up when you're not on camera. wants that perfect saucy mouth reserved just for him. it’s fucked, really— how he thinks about locking it all down. making sure those sick bastards never see a goddamn inch of you again. because the more they want you, the more it eats away at him, to make you his.

the other accounts don’t matter. the other girls don’t look like you, don’t touch themselves the same way you do. and they sure as hell aren’t wearing the lingerie he fucking paid for.

he knows every set by heart— the blush pink one with lace trim, the black satin one with the matching thigh straps. all of them sent to a secret p.o. box, a few towns over.

you never questioned it. never asked who was behind the username cowboy_rangler85, never asked why he kept tipping the highest or left notes asking for more videos just for him.

“you spoil me too much,” you once giggled in a clip just for him. “but i’ll make it worth it, cowboy.” and christ, you always did.

especially when a molded dildo arrived in your mail.

beau sent it with a note:

got something a little more custom made, hope it feels good sweetheart.

your video opens on his laptop, you in the baby blue bra set he picked out, your voice soft as you run your fingers along the base of the toy.

the camera is angled with your face out of view, mouth glimpsed only for a moment as you let him watch you bite your lip in anticipation. you take your time, letting the delicate blue straps shift over your skin, letting your fingertips explore every ridge, every vein molded from his cock.

“this one’s special,” you whisper, thumb tracing the thick ridge near the head, glossy with lube. “and you already know why.”

and beau’s belt clinks open so fast— that old, worn leather strip with the scuffed brass buckle he’s yanked loose every damn night this week.

the camera picks up the slick sounds as you stroke it slowly— your fingers barely able to wrap around the girth. it’s got that slight curve that’ll hit deep. and a faint, raised vein along the side your fingers seem to linger on.

you bring the toy to your lips, kiss the flushed-looking head, leaving a smear of gloss when you pull away. “you wanted to see how i’d take it, take you, right?” voice trembling with that soft, teasing edge you know he craves.

“that’s it, sweetheart,” he mutters under his breath to his laptop screen, voice frayed. “c’mon, show me how bad you need it.”

and when you finally slide your panties off and sink down onto the toy, it’s with a gasp— one hand braced behind you, the other still holding the base. it stretches you wide, slow, so slow, and your breath hitches as you take more of it.

“fuck— you’re so big,” you breathe, the tip barely halfway in. “feels so good, cowboy.”

both your hands are behind you now, angling your hips just right as you fuck yourself down on the toy in steady, rocking motions. your body arches, the curve of your back a pretty silhouette under the soft lighting.

meanwhile what you didn’t know is that ‘cowboy_wrangler85’ was just across town. sweat beads along beau's temples, dripping down the curve of his neck. another dribbles along the line of his stomach, slipping into the soft trail of hair that leads right down to where his fist is working. he’s a fucking mess for the past month tanks to you.

“i’m gonna come,” you whimper on screen, your voice cracking. “gonna come on your cock— fuck.” on screen, your knees tremble, thighs starting to shake.

“that’s it,” beau breathes, head tipped back, but eyes locked on the screen. “come for me, baby, please. let me see it.” his throat exposed, adam’s apple bobbing with every breath.

but beau doesn’t care. he wouldn’t even notice if someone walked in right now. all he can see is you— shaking, soaked through, fucking yourself full on the molded shape of him. it’s the only cock that’s ever made you feel so full and so good.

and when you cum, clenching around the shape of him, the camera catches the twitch of your stomach, the slick mess between your thighs.

a groan breaks in his throat as he spills into his hand, cock pulsing hard as he comes with you— helpless, a little overwhelmed, already dragging in breath like it’s not enough. it’s never enough.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

beau wants a piece of you to stay with him, to belong to him. something quiet and small that he could get away with. something he can catch sight of and know you’re thinking of him, even if you don’t realize it’s him.

the package he sends next is smaller, delicate. no notes, no toys. a velvet box with a dainty chain inside, its pendant soft with a worn polish— a cowboy hat, miniaturized. weightless in your palm, understated, but still his.

beau didn't know if you’d wear it. hell, he didn't even know if you'd like it. but the idea of you slipping it on before a stream, or brushing your fingers over it while you’re out in public, totally clueless that it’s from the man you speak to at the bakery counter— it gets under his skin in the worst way.

he wonders if you’d look at him the same— if you’d still talk the way you do on camera, still say all those filthy, needy little things if you knew it was him behind the screen. with his scruffy beard and aging lines starting to show at the corners of his eyes.

would you feel the same way about an older man, the same one who calls you sweetheart when you hand him a fresh cup of coffee? who tips too much and tries not to stare at the slope of your breasts in the morning?

would it kill the fantasy— the idea of him. would it ruin it entirely?

he’s divorced, got a kid he barely sees. he’s got tattoos from before you were probably even born— some faded black ink stretching down his ribs from a night he hardly remembers. there’s a tiredness in him now that doesn’t ever fully leave. an ache in his bones that doesn't go away in the morning.

but still, none of that stops him.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

he doesn’t say anything when he sees you the next day, he takes it in.

the bakery’s warm that morning. smell of sweets and espresso already thick in the air. his boots hit the tile with an easy, familiar cadence. you don’t flinch when you look up— you’ve been seeing him here more often for weeks now, always in those layered-up cowboy getups. denim on denim, thick belt, hair still a little tousled.

he’s the kind of guy you'd expect to see often in a town this size, which makes it all the more disarming when he smiles like that. like he knows something you don’t.

but today’s different, because you’re wearing the necklace, his necklace.

you don’t even realize what it means. that it confirms everything he thought— the voice, the mannerisms, the way you hold the damn coffee cup with two hands like you do with a fake cock in your videos.

he clocks it the second you lift your hand to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, chain glinting under the collar of your soft-knit shirt.

beau doesn’t react right away. instead ordering like usual— tall black coffee, splash of cream, and a piece of lemon loaf, if there’s any.

you nod, slipping a gloved hand into the case. “just made a fresh batch,” you say. “must be your lucky day.”

he huffs a low sound under his breath. “guess so.” and for a second, he lets it hang— a quiet, almost shy tension between two people who didn't even realize what they've gotten into.

beau asks your name, leaning his elbows on the counter, and doesn’t look away. in return, he gives you his own name when you ask— beau— and you repeat it under your breath like you’re trying it on. he smiles at that, and god, it does something stupid to his chest. something even stupidier in his jeans, too.

the coffee finishes pouring. he watches you put the lid on with careful fingers. the same nude manicured nails you used just days ago to pump the shaft of the dildo that was molded of him— what a sick pervert.

you hand it to him with a small smile, and for a second, you think that’s it. just another morning, but then he nods at your collarbone.

“nice necklace y'got there.”

you look down instinctively, then glance back up at him, suddenly more aware of it than you were five seconds ago. “oh thank you. it was, um— my mom gave it to me.”

beau nods, unreadable. he lets you lie. but he knows, fuck, does he know.

he takes the cup and the pastry bag in one hand. and as he turns to leave, he lets his eyes slide back toward you, just once, before he tosses out casually “you ride or somethin'?”

your head tilts. “like— horses?”

his mouth ticks up into a crooked little grin. “yea, somethin' like that.”

you don’t really have an answer, and you don’t have to. he’s already pushing out through the door, coffee in hand, boots scuffing onto the curb.

you’re wearing the necklace, the one that was from him and you don't even know it. and he’s got you exactly where he wants you.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

beau kicks off his boots at the door and leaves his hat on the table like always, tossing his keys into the bowl by the entryway and making his way to the kitchen for a beer he doesn’t end up drinking. standing there with the fridge open too long, something simmering low in his stomach— has been all day, ever since he saw you in that necklace.

the same necklace you’re unknowingly wearing tonight when you message him.

his laptop screen glows against the dark of the living room, casting flickers of blue across the low angles of his face. he doesn’t have to wait long— your message lights up the top of the chat window, timestamped just a few minutes after your stream ends.

one unread message from you.

goodgirl.xx: hey cowboy. i’ve been thinking how you've been take such good care of me. i know you don’t ask for much, but i was wondering if there’s anything special i could do for you sometime. just something a little extra, for you.

beau stares at it too long. rereads each line it'll magically vanish away. and it hits harder than anything else today. because it doesn’t feel like you're teasing, it feels like an offering. a soft, open hand just for him. he shifts on the couch, everything feeling too warm. there’s already a slow ache pulsing behind his belt, and he hasn't even touched himself yet. bringing his hands to the keys, typing, deletes, then types again.

cowboy_rangler85: that’s real sweet of you, darlin. just watching you feels like a gift most nights. but i gotta admit, sometimes i wish i could give you more than a toy. i wanna let you feel what it’s like, for real.

he sends it and immediately regrets it. it’s raw, way too intimate, but he meant every word. there's only so many nights he can sit here watching you ride something plastic, knowing he paid for it, knowing you're moaning into the camera thinking of him.

goodgirl.xx: i’ve never done a collab with anyone before. i’m not against it, I just don’t know. i get kinda shy thinking about meeting up in person. but you always make me feel safe, you’re not like the others.

beau's head tips forward, jaw ticking. fuck. you don’t even know who he is— and still you said that. that you feel safe, with him. he swallows hard, forcing himself to slow down.

cowboy_rangler85: you don’t gotta decide now, just something to think about. and for what it’s worth, you’d be in real good hands. i’d make sure you were looked after proper.

his hands fall away from the keyboard, as if letting go of something delicate. he’s holding out hope for a truth neither of you know yet. he waits, eyes fixed on the screen. the room around him silent except for the low hum of the old fridge and the pulse beating in his neck.

goodgirl.xx: i don’t usually say yes to things like that, i'm still not sure. but, i trust you more than anyone else on here. i’ll think about it, okay?

he pushes back from the desk just slightly, like the heat coming off the laptop might scorch him. you're thinking about it, his mind replays over and over again.

both of his hands come up, palms dragging down the rough stubble on his cheeks. it’s not just arousal anymore— it’s an obsession. need, so fucking strong it makes him feel sick. not just to touch you, but to see your face when you realize it’s him.

the girl who’s been fucking herself on camera for him, whispering sweet things to the lens, wearing what he buys you. the girl who wears his necklace to work and doesn’t know it.

part of him wants to type something cocky in return— an 'i’ll make it worth your while, sweetheart', but he doesn’t. he stares at the screen, your name etched into memory.

you're his good girl. you just don't know it yet, but when you do, you'll understand exactly who’s been taking care of you all this time.

and he'll wait patiently to show you exactly who you belong to.

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

⟢ if you would like to be added to / removed from the taglist, check out this post ᥫ᭡.

⟢ view my masterlist for more of my work !!

#need him to take care of me #god I love pervert beau #he’s just a freak I know it #vee’s recs! •̩̩͙⁺゜

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insensiblelimerence · 18 days ago

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collection of sam hands

#need these hands up my #…#need his hands BADDDDD #ughhhhh

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insensiblelimerence · 23 days ago

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sam winchester smut headcanons?? <3

hi i hope you're still around go read these a year after you've requested them. i am unsure of the wc on this. but enjoy my incredibly nsfw smutty sam winchester head canons.

content warning: my work is all 18+, MDNI. if any taboo subjects may trigger you, please do not proceed. it's always nasty brain rot over here. remember that you are responsible for your media consumption. thank you for looking!

- sam winchester lovesssssss high sex i do not care what anyone says. i did those stoner hc and he's just a huge fuckin' pothead in my imagination now and that's what you guys have to read about now. he loves how every searing touch your fingertips leave on his soft olive skin intensifies while the smoke hanging in the air turns his brain to mush.

- yall think dean is touch starved? it runs in the fuckin' family. never had a hug from daddy and lost the only affirming touch he had when that drop of blood from jess' lifeless body dropped onto his cheek. so now? sam leaves bruises digging into your hips just trying to hold you close enough so he can convince himself he won't lose you too. the way the your skin gets that sickly purple-yellow color the same shape as his fingers, helps convince him that you're anchored down. it makes it real for him. makes you real.

- sam winchester is a fucking munch. wants your full weight down on his face, wants to feel you squirm to get away from him when it's too much. his arms locked around your thighs and hips, mumbling into your weeping cunt, "c'mon angel don't stop now.. you can gimme one more." riding your high out on his mouth, your arousal dripping down his throat as he tongues your clenching hole, clit brushing against his nose.

- sam winchester in fact does not cry his way through sex. (but i am a firm believer when it's soft and sensual that deanie does. no questions at this time.) he's very serious, it's such a close, intimate moment between the two of you. it's indescribable but there is just something about the way sam ruts into you as he fucks you senseless. its so messy..desperate—primal. stifling his croaked out moans into your collarbone as he fucks you through his own high.

- bdsm KING. sam winchester is a nerdy little freak. (endearing) size kink. degredation kink. breeding kink. obviously knife and blood play (hey at least its not demon blood he's guzzling now)

- and the dacryphilia with this one goes crazy sammy is fuckin brutal. he is just plain MEAN. coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you, teasing you, pining to get just a few more out of you. the tears and rolling and you can barely fucking handle it anymore, "no sammy, baby. s'too much." and the tears bubble over. his lips reaching your cheek where the salty streak is lining down towards the corner of your mouth. you feel his lips turn up into that cruel smirk. "but you're so pretty when you're crying, sweetheart." the words get whispered into your mouth as you let the sobs rack through your skeleton, followed by waves of pleasure rolling through you. "that's it, feels s'good doesn't it?" his mouth grazes your jawline, canines sinking into the flesh with a sharp nip.

- sam winchester is a hair puller.

- he's fucking loud when he's certain dean isn't home.

- he loves to chase you. and he doesn't run. he doesn't need to. it's a looming stalk behind you. much like michael myers. and the second his hands are on you it's over. you'll melt in his firm grip.

- i also want to give an honorable mention to ghostface!sam he's so intellectual, he would love to stalk and torment his pretty girl over the phone describing every detail of the layout of your home to you. "fuck you, asshole." "oh come on, everyone needs a little chase now and again."

#aaaanddd it’s everywhere #I agree yes #vee’s recs! •̩̩͙⁺゜

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insensiblelimerence · 23 days ago

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NSFW ALPHABET.

sam winchester x fem! reader

ꕤ summary: my take on the infamous NSFW alphabet where each letter represents a different aspect of sam's freaky, loving, and sometimes unexpected side in bed!!

♯ warnings: mdni!! extremely explicit content, mature themes, adult language, graphic sex details, explicit descriptions of intimacy, kinky stuff, too much masturbation going on, hair pulling, choking, body worship, switch! sam, light voyeurism, unhinged, highly detailed cock description.

♯ notes: thank you for the anon that brought you this post!!! this has been on my mind for way too long. if you missed it, here’s the dean version of this post. i’m officially registering as a whore.

A = AFTERCARE..

Sam is top-tier, elite, gold-star certified in aftercare. Like, let’s be real. Sam Winchester has a guilt complex the size of Kansas, deep emotional intelligence (even when he tries to bottle it), and a lover boy heart under all that trauma. So after sex? He’s gentle as hell.

It doesn’t matter if it was rough, slow, quick, emotional, or downright feral; he’s checking in. He’s the type to brush your hair out of your face while your chest is still heaving. He cups your jaw and whispers, “You okay, baby?” with that raspy, post-orgasm voice. He won’t stop touching you, but not in a sexy way. Like, soft touches. His palm on your thigh. His fingers lacing with yours. That kinda thing.

Sam’s also super intuitive. If you’re the talky type after sex? He’s gonna lie there and listen to you ramble and giggle with you like you’re both drunk off each other. If you go quiet? He’ll pull you to his chest and just breathe with you. Run his fingers down your spine. Let the silence feel safe.

Lowkey, he’s a clean-up king too. Grabs a towel, helps you wipe down, maybe even carries you to the bathroom if you’re too wobbly. You just know he’s the kind to whisper “I’ll be right back, don’t move” before slipping out of bed to get you water or a snack.

And let’s not forget: he’s always gonna be overthinking. Like even if everything went perfectly, Sam’s still gonna be laying there like, was I too rough? did I make them feel good? do they still like me? So if you curl into him, praise him a little, you can feel his body relax like you just unclenched every knot in his soul.

B = BODY PART..

Sam’s favorite part of himself? His hips.

This man is so unaware of how lethal he is until you’re under him, and suddenly that slow, deep roll of his hips becomes his favorite weapon. Sam doesn’t walk around thinking he’s sexy, but the second he sees the way you react to the way he fucks? The way you grab his waist, beg for more, whimper when he grinds deep and doesn’t let up?

That’s when it clicks.

And it turns into obsession. Not in a cocky way, but a hungry one. He’ll hold your legs open and grind slow, steady, deep— not just to get himself off, but to feel you fall apart. It makes him feel powerful. Grounded. Needed. Like you were made for him and he was made to fit into you just right.

However, when it comes to you… your stomach.

Soft or toned, flat or plush, he’s obsessed. The gentle curve of it. The way it twitches when he runs his fingers low. The way it stretches when you arch. He’ll pull your shirt up just to kiss it. Slide his palm over it slowly while you’re laying together, like he’s memorizing you. During sex, he’ll rest his hand there, right under your ribs like he’s holding all of you together while he fucks you open.

And if you’re insecure about it? Sam’s the guy who will not shut up about how beautiful you are. “Don’t hide from me, baby,” he’ll whisper, lips hot against your skin. “You know how crazy you make me?” And then he’ll show you. With his mouth, with his hands, with every inch of himself.

C = CUM..

Sam Winchester is not some careless, casual spur-of-the-moment guy when it comes to this, nah. When Sam finishes, it’s a whole experience. He’s in his feelings about it. His soul is involved.

Where he likes to finish? Sam’s a deep finish kinda man. He wants to come inside. Always. That doesn’t mean he does every time (he respects boundaries 1000%) but he’s obsessed with the idea of being inside you while he fills you up. Like it does something to his brain. You’d feel his hips shudder and he’d bury himself all the way in, holding you still, letting out this low, broken groan like he’s losing his entire mind.

And if you let him? That whole “dripping out of you” thing after? He stares at it. Literally lays there between your legs and just watches it slowly spill out while you whine and try to close your thighs. He’ll spread you open again and mutter something like, “God, look at that… made you take all of it.”

How he cums? LOUD. Like, Sam does not cum quietly. All that control, all that restraint— gone. He’s whimpering, panting, moaning into your neck or your shoulder or your fucking mouth if you’re kissing when it happens. It’s deep, it’s needy, and it’s so goddamn personal.

His hands will be locked on your body like he’s afraid you’ll float away if he lets go. Thumbs bruising into your hips. Forehead pressed to yours. All that tension? It explodes.

Kinks around it? Breeding kink. Sorry. Sorry but NOT sorry. That man does not casually cum in someone, he breeds. He fucks like he’s trying to own you. Doesn’t even mean he wants babies, necessarily (though that fantasy might linger in his brain on bad days when he wants a soft life he thinks he doesn’t deserve) but it’s the claiming. The act. The feeling of “I gave you everything I had.” That gets to him. Hard.

He also loves watching it drip down your thighs if he pulls out. He’ll tease you about it. Drag a finger through it. Maybe push it back in just to see you squirm. All slow and lazy and smug with that post-nut, hair-sticking-to-his-forehead kinda look.

D = DIRTY SECRET..

Sam Winchester’s dirty secret? He fantasizes about being corrupted.

Yeah, I said it. It’s not even about you being some evil little seductress or whatever, it’s about him not having to be good for once. He grew up being the “responsible one,” the “good son,” the guy who overthinks every moral choice. But in the dark, behind closed doors? He dreams of letting go. Of someone dragging the sin out of him, teasing it out, making him beg for things he’d never say out loud.

In his head? It’s always messy. Shameful. Hot.

He pictures you tugging his hair while he’s on his knees. Telling him he like being used. He does. He fucking does. He likes the idea of you riding him until he’s whimpering. Scratching your nails down his chest while he stutters apologies for how fast he came. Of you pulling him in by his dog tag or his belt loop and saying, “C’mon, Sammy. Be bad for me.”

He’ll never admit this to you. Ever. He plays it cool. Maybe a little dominant, a little protective. But behind his eyes? He’s imagining what it’d feel like to lose it. To fall apart under you. To be the one who’s teased, overstimmed, punished a little, not cruelly, but like he’s yours. Like he doesn’t have to hold it together anymore.

And the dirtiest part of all? He touches himself to the thought of you ruining him. Not hurting. Not degrading. Just… undoing. He’ll come fast. Embarrassingly fast. And then hate himself a little for how bad he wants it.

E = EXPERIENCE..

This is not a “yes or no” question with Sam.

Here’s the truth,

Sam hasn’t slept with as many people as Dean, not even close. His number isn’t low-low, but it’s definitely selective. He’s never been the one-night stand guy unless he’s in a full-on emotional spiral (see: post-Ruby, soulless Sam era, or when he’s trying to shut his feelings down). He doesn’t fuck just to fuck. That’s never been his vibe. But when he does fuck?

He means it.

Sam’s got emotional experience. He’s got intensity. He listens to your body. He feels everything, and that makes him dangerous in bed, not ‘cause he’s reckless, but because he’s so focused. He’s a fast learner, a people pleaser, and painfully observant. You gasp a little louder when he sucks there? That’s now in the rotation. Your legs twitch when he angles his hips just right? He will not stop until you’re begging.

So does he know what he’s doing? Too fucking well. And he doesn’t brag about it. Doesn’t have to. He’s got the kind of confidence that makes you nervous when he starts kissing your neck like he’s got all night.

He’s experimental, but only if you are too. He’s not scared to try new things. Wants to explore. Communicates really well. That whole Stanford brain? It’s in the bedroom too. He analyzes what makes you tick.

And don’t even get me started on his stamina. That man can go multiple rounds and still have the audacity to ask, “You okay to go again?” while your legs are shaking. Long fingers, long tongue, long everything. And he uses all of it.

But what makes it even hotter? That little rookie edge that never fully goes away. He’s not cocky like Dean. He gets flustered sometimes when you praise him. Looks down at you with those big brown eyes like he can’t believe you’re moaning his name like that. He blushes if you say something filthy. That mix of power and softness?? Deadly.

F = FAVORITE POSITION(S)..

1. MISSIONARY. BUT.. I’m talking feral missionary. Let’s get this straight: Sam loves eye contact. He wants to watch you fall apart. Wants to see every flutter of your lashes, every little twitch of your mouth when you moan his name. He’s a romantic. A bit of a control freak. So missionary? When he’s deep inside you, his hands pinning your wrists into the mattress, sweat dripping down his neck, his forehead against yours while pounding into you? Yeah. That’s peak Sam Winchester.

And if you wrap your legs around his waist? Or hook your ankles behind his back and pull him in deeper? He’ll literally lose his mind. That skin-on-skin closeness is everything to him. He loves the intimacy. Loves the grip he’s got on you. Loves that he can thrust slow or hard or hold you still and grind into you while you gasp like he’s in your lungs. He lives for your reactions.

2. YOU ON TOP, FACING HIM (COWGIRL). Not reverse. Face-to-face. Sam likes seeing your body, your expressions, your hands on his chest. But what kills him is the power. You’re in control. You set the pace. And he LOVES that. He’ll put his hands on your waist, let you ride him until he’s groaning through gritted teeth, whispering things like, “God, just like that… keep going, baby…”

But the moment he sees your thighs start shaking? He flips the script. Grabs your hips, starts thrusting up into you while you whimper, overwhelmed. He lives for that whiny, fucked-out look you give him when he takes control back just enough.

3. FROM BEHIND, BUT… Make it emotional. This is like, on the bed, both of you half-naked, bodies tangled. He’s kneeling behind you, one hand in your hair, the other gripping your waist or rubbing slow circles over your clit. Deep, controlled strokes while he leans in to kiss your shoulder, whisper in your ear, “You feel so fucking good… you take me so well, sweetheart.”

If he’s feeling unhinged? He’ll hold you by the throat and fuck into you like he needs it. But afterward? He’ll press kisses down your spine like he’s sorry for ever letting go like that. Because that’s Sam. Gentle and a freak.

G = GOOFY..

Sam is serious in the sheets… Most of the time.

He’s intense. Focused. Like he’s got a fucking mission; to worship you, ruin you, and make you feel so good you forget your own name. Especially if he’s in a soft or angsty headspace? He takes sex seriously. Like it matters. Every moan, every stroke, every look? Feels like a fucking prayer.

BUT…

He has a very chaotic goofy side that only comes out when he’s really comfortable with you. Like you’ve been fucking for a while, there’s trust, there’s closeness, there’s banter… THEN it starts.

To give out a few examples: He’ll chuckle when your stomach growls mid-foreplay and be like, “We should’ve eaten first…” while still pulling your panties down, Or he’ll groan dramatically when he realizes he forgot a condom again like, “Okay this is the fourth time this week, I swear I’m not doing it on purpose..” If you make a stupid joke while you’re on top of him? He’ll laugh, but then thrust up suddenly and say, “Still funny?” with that smug fucking face.

And if you’re shy or embarrassed about something mid-sex? He instantly makes you feel better. Might joke gently. Kiss your forehead. Murmur, “You’re perfect, baby. I promise.” He keeps things light without making it unserious. He’s the king of making you feel safe enough to laugh and moan in the same breath.

And oh the post-nut giggles? Oh he gets them. Not every time, but if it was extra messy or especially intense? He’ll bury his face in your neck and laugh like, “Jesus Christ, what the hell did we just do.” It’s soft. It’s sweet. It’s sexy as fuck.

H = HAIR..

Let’s start with the obvious: Yes, the carpet matches the damn drapes. Brown. Thick. Yeah. He’s not fully shaved, he’s neatly groomed down there. Enough that it’s never in the way, never too wild, but still super Sam. Like, you pull his pants down and you’re greeted with trimmed hair, a big cock, and the scent of his skin and it’s just so real. So raw. You’re instantly feral.

Chest hair? OH MY GOD. YES. It’s there. It’s fine but it’s still enough to feel when you’re laying on him after sex. A little patch between his pecs, trailing down his stomach in that V-line of sin. That happy trail™. It leads straight down and you follow it with your lips every time like it’s ritual.

Facial hair? Depends on the era. Sometimes he shaves. Sometimes he’s stubbly. But when he’s got that little beard scruff going on? Oh yeah. You feel it burn your thighs when he’s going down on you. You feel it drag along your neck when he kisses your collarbone. You tell him not to shave and he listens. Every time.

I = INTIMACY..

Like i already said, sex with Sam is emotionally based. And that’s what makes it so intense. Sam’s the kind of lover where even if it starts rough, needy, desperate, somewhere in the middle of it always turns into something deeper on a personal level.

He looks at you like you hung the fucking moon.

When he’s inside you, it’s like the whole world disappears. Like nothing else matters except the way you’re holding onto him, moaning into his mouth, whispering his name like it’s the only word you remember. He’s so focused. So connected. He makes you feel like you’re the only person who has ever touched him.

Kissing? Always. He has to kiss you during sex. Even if it’s messy, even if you’re turned away or on top, he’ll find your lips. He’ll guide your face to his with shaking fingers, panting against your mouth like he needs it more than air. That closeness? That skin-to-skin, soul-to-soul type of thing? That’s what he lives for.

He says the softest things, too. Especially when you’re not expecting it. It hits harder because he means every single fucking word.

And the thing is? Sex doesn’t always have to be soft to be intimate with Sam. He can rail you into the mattress and still make you feel like you’re the center of his universe. That’s the duality. That’s what fucks you up. He holds your heart while he ruins your body. Because for him? Intimacy is everything. Not a bonus. Not some accidental side effect. It’s the whole reason he’s there.

J = JACK OFF..

First of all, how often? Sam pretends he doesn’t do it much. Like he’ll act all focused, always reading lore, training, being the world’s biggest buzzkill, but behind closed doors? He’s so fucking down bad it’s unreal.

If he’s around you and can’t have you? It’s a problem. Like, he’ll lock himself in the bunker’s bathroom after seeing you walk around in one of his hoodies with no pants on, cheeks red, muttering to himself like, “Fucking hell, get it together, Sam.”

And then… yeah. The pants come off. Fast.

When? At night. In the shower. When he’s on a hunt and misses you so bad he can’t sleep. When you send him a voice message that wasn’t even hot or something, but your voice alone has him rock fucking hard. And sometimes? Middle of the day, unexpectedly. You laugh a certain way. Bite your lip. Call him “Sammy” with that soft little look in your eyes? Yeah. He’ll be hard for hours and finally give in when he’s alone.

How? He starts slow. He tries to keep it clean. Like, he’ll palm himself through his sweats and sigh like, “Just a quick one, get it out of your system” but that is never what ends up happening. Because the second he wraps that big hand around his cock and thinks about you moaning? Whining his name? Riding him? Begging him to come inside you? He’s done for.

Sometimes he leans back against the wall and imagines you straddling him, fingers digging into his shoulders while you whisper in his ear. Other times he gets on his knees in the shower and pictures you standing over him, telling him what to do. Either way? He finishes hard. With a groan he tries to muffle.

And afterward? He’s so ashamed. Like full hands-over-his-face, “God, what’s wrong with me” energy. But it never stops him from doing it again the next night.

What does he think about?

You. Always you. Not even just the sex. Sometimes it’s your laugh. The way you pout. The little sigh you make when he kisses your neck. He builds entire fantasies in his head, like you sneaking into his bed in the middle of the night and grinding on him under the sheets… or dropping to your knees while he’s trying to study lore and saying, “You’ve been so good, baby. Let me help.” It’s the emotional + the physical. He goes feral for both.

K = KINK(S)..

1. PRAISE KINK. Sam needs to hear how good he’s making you feel. Not in a cocky way, but like, he craves that validation.“You’re the only one who makes me feel like this.” He’ll literally start panting harder, fucking deeper, the second you whimper that shit. He never grew up being told he was good enough. So in bed? When you make him feel like a god with your voice? It wrecks him. He’ll mutter little broken replies too, all breathless, “Yeah? I got you, baby… s’only me, right?” (YES IT’S ONLY YOU SAMUEL.)

2. OVERSTIMULATION KINK. Sam is lowkey addicted to watching you come over and over again. The first orgasm isn’t even the goal; it’s just the beginning. He’ll use his fingers, his tongue, his cock… and he doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, pulling at him, whimpering that it’s “too much.” But he’s so sweet about it. He whispers, “You can do it, baby… gimme one more. Just one more.” And when you cry for him? That’s when he praises you even more, calls you his good girl, pretty thing, perfect angel while he works you through it with those perfect fucking fingers.

3. LIGHT DARCYPHILIA. Hear me out, if you ever cry during sex, (From the pleasure of it or from being so emotionally overwhelmed?) Sam loses it. He goes into full soft-mode. Whispers your name over and over. Kisses your tears. Tells you how beautiful you are, how you feel so good, how he has you. It’s never power thing with him. It’s connection. He’s never felt anything like that before, and it makes the orgasm hit harder. For both of you.

4. HAIR PULLING (ESPECIALLY HIS). If you tug his hair when you’re on top or while he’s between your legs? He literally moans. Like chokes on it. His hips will stutter. He’ll let out this rough, low, “fuck— do that again.” And he loves to gently pull your hair too. Mostly to make you look up at him while he fucks you. To get that eye contact he’s obsessed with. To see your face while he ruins you.

L = LOCATION..

1. HIS BED. This is his main HQ for sex. Why? Because it’s safe. Private. Cozy. He can take his time, strip you slowly, light a candle or two if he’s feeling soft. The sheets are always warm. His pillow smells like him. There’s usually a lore book or journal half-open on the nightstand that he shoves aside to pull you underneath him. He’ll fuck you into the mattress like it’s the last time every single time.

2. THE IMPALA. He tries to not do this often because Dean would literally murder him if he found out, but when you’re both desperate on a hunt, there’s only one room available at a shitty motel and you don’t wanna traumatize Dean? Yeah. That backseat becomes your whole universe. You straddle him, bouncing in his lap with your panties shoved to the side, and he’s gripping your hips like his life depends on it. One hand braced on the ceiling, the other shoved up your shirt, and he’s groaning your name like a prayer. Everything’s cramped and sweaty and messy and ughhh. Yeah.

3. MOTEL ROOMS. You step into a cheap, flickering-light motel room and the second the door locks? Sam turns into a different man. He doesn’t care about taking it slow, he wants you. Against the wall. On the desk. On that creaky-ass bed with the ugly blanket bunched up under your knees. He loves fucking you in front of the mirror there, too. One hand in your hair, the other on your waist while he watches you both move. And God forbid the shower’s working. That’s where he gets especially filthy, pressing you to the wall, sucking water off your skin, fucking you under the spray until it runs cold.

4. LIBRARY TABLES IN THE BUNKER. You’re sitting in his lap. Trying to “study.” His laptop’s open. His eyes are locked on your neck. And before you can even flip a page, his hand is sliding under your skirt. He eats you out on top of lore, bends you over old books, moans your name into the crook of your shoulder while he fills you from behind. You’re panting. He’s groaning. Pages are fluttering off the desk. And when it’s over? He marks the page and says, “We’ll come back to that later.”

M = MOTIVATION..

Sam is not the type to just randomly get horny and go jerk off like Dean does. Nah. He builds up. Here’s what gets him going:

1. YOUR VOICE. Soft. Whiny. Teasing. Anything. You could just be reading off a menu, and he’ll suddenly be thinking about your lips around his cock. You whimper his name when you’re sleepy? His brain short-circuits. You moan a little too loud during a stretch? “Goddamn it…” He’s hard. Fully. And now he has to figure out how to not fuck you into the kitchen counter.

2. YOUR BRATTY BEHAVIOR. Sam doesn’t know how to handle it when you talk back. You roll your eyes? Get a little snarky? Say ‘make me’? He gives you that look. That “Are you sure you wanna start this?” look. And the second you smirk or sass him again? You’re pinned to the mattress in 0.4 seconds with his hand on your throat and his voice in your ear, “You’ve got a mouth on you tonight, huh?”

3. NEEDING HIM. You curl into his lap and whimper “Sammy, please”? You grab at him mid-kiss like you’re gonna break without him inside you? He gets this overwhelmed, aching urgency to take care of you. To fuck you slow. To kiss every part of you like he’s trying to fix something inside you. Because what turns him on most isn’t just sex. It’s that you trust him. That you want him. That you’re so fucking soft with him and no one else gets that.

4. FEAR OF LOSING CONTROL. Oh yeah. Sam’s biggest turn-on? Is that moment where he realizes he can’t not have you. It’s psychological. A little dark. That feeling like, if he doesn’t touch you, fuck you, hear you fall apart for him, he might lose his mind. It’s what makes the sex rougher. It’s what makes him whisper “Mine.” It’s what makes him finish so deep and so desperate that he can’t even open his eyes for a second afterward.

N = NO..

Anything non-consensual, degrading, or humiliating. Even in roleplay, even in dirty talk, no means no. Period. Sam’s not into anything that makes you feel small. He’s obsessed with you, babe. He’d never be able to look you in the eye after calling you names or slapping you across the face. He doesn’t even like it when you say you’re not good enough.

Also, public sex where you could actually get caught. He’ll bend you over in a secluded spot, sure. He’ll pull you into the backseat on a lonely road. But the second there’s even a chance of someone seeing you? Absolutely not. Not even a little exhibitionism. Not his thing. It makes him tense. He’s so protective, and the thought of you being exposed, humiliated, or seen like that by some random asshole makes his stomach twist. He wants your body to be just for him. Not a show. Not a joke.

Pet play, daddy kink, or calling you baby girl is a big no for him, too. It’s just not his language. It makes him feel weird. He’s not into calling himself “Daddy.” Or calling you “Baby girl.” He’ll call you baby, sweetheart, angel, his girl, but nothing that gives off weird power dynamic vibes. Especially not the kind that messes with your innocence or infantilizes you. That shit makes him uncomfortable. And pet names like kitten, princess, puppy? No.

And Meaningless sex. Maybe he could’ve in his soulless era. Maybe during some fucked-up grief spiral post-Jess or post-Ruby. But normally? If he doesn’t care about you, he’s not hard. He’s not in it. He’s not mentally or emotionally there. He’s an intimacy guy. That’s his fuel. He needs that trust.

O = ORAL..

Let’s start with the only thing that matters, Sam loves going down on you more than he loves himself. No exaggeration. That man lives between your thighs. You sit on his face and it’s like home sweet home. He’ll literally moan into your pussy, his big hands gripping your thighs like they’re sacred.

He’s slow at first, torturously slow. Draws lazy circles with his tongue, looks up at you through those ridiculous lashes while you twitch. And the eye contact?? He’s obsessed. Keeps his mouth on you the whole time, staring up at you with that ruined, messy face like he wants to see your soul leave your body.

And oh my god, he talks. You grind on his tongue and he’s saying shit like, “That’s it… tastes so fucking good… look at you.”

He eats pussy like he’s starving. Like he has to. And when you cum? He doesn’t back off. He locks you down and rides it out, tongue still working you while your legs shake around his shoulders and you’re whining his name like a prayer. If you push at his head, he growls, “Uh-uh. One more. Gimme one more.”

And yes, he jerks off to the memory of it later. One hand wrapped around his cock while he thinks about the way you screamed when he sucked on your clit. Degenerate. Oh my god who said that??…

Now let’s talk receiving.

He loves it. He’s just not needy about it. He’ll never ask for it, but the second your hand brushes his thigh, he spreads his legs a little wider, eyes locked on you like; Are you sure? Are you really gonna do this right now? And when you drop to your knees his head tips back. He moans like you just saved his life.

But what kills him isn’t just the sensation; it’s the look on your face while you do it. The soft glances. The way you worship him. He gets overwhelmed fast. Starts gripping your hair. Moaning through his teeth. Begging you with breathy little, “F-fuck, baby, you don’t have to—oh my God…”

There’s definitely a few times he accidentally finished faster than he wanted to and blushed for the rest of the day. But he’ll make it up to you. Oh baby. He’ll drag you onto the bed and make you cum twice with his mouth before you can even breathe.

P = PACE..

His default pace? Slow. Deep. Sensual. He moves with full strokes, hips grinding slow, keeping his forehead against yours or his mouth on your neck. Every thrust has weight. Has meaning. He needs to feel all of you, how your body grips him, how your breath catches when he rolls his hips just right, how your thighs tremble when he doesn’t pull back all the way and instead just grinds into your spot again and again and again, “That feel good, baby? Yeah? That’s it. Let me take my time.” Sam wants to witness you falling apart. He wants to be right there, eye-to-eye, panting into your mouth while you gasp and squirm under him.

But oh, when he gets desperate…

Fast. Rough. Deep. Unhinged. It happens when he’s been holding back for too long— on a hunt, or when he’s been jealous, or if you tease him all day and act innocent. Suddenly you’re bent over the desk, hands braced, and Sam’s behind you pounding into you so hard the books fall off the shelf. He’s gripping your hips, his voice tight, low, groaning things like, “This what you wanted? Huh? Couldn’t wait five minutes?” He’s not always vocal, but when the pace picks up? He’s feral. He moans. He curses. He says your name like it’s the only word he knows. You’re not walking straight tomorrow if he’s in one of those moods.

Q = QUICKIE..

He’ll pretend he doesn’t like them. Sam will act all rational like, “I’d rather wait till we’re alone… I don’t want to rush anything… it’s better when we have time…” But deep down??

That man is a fucking liar.

Because when he’s hard, when he’s needy, when you press up against him in the hallway and whisper “Five minutes. Please, Sammy.” he’s already unzipping his jeans.

It doesn’t happen super often. Sam doesn’t crave them as much, but when they do happen? It’s because he’s so overwhelmed by you he can’t think straight. Like; when you wear something provocative, grind on him and stuff like that. Suddenly he’s grabbing your hand, dragging you into the nearest room, locking the door like, “Okay. Bend over. Now.”

How he feels after? Lowkey guilty. But not for long. He wipes you down with his shirt sleeve and kisses your forehead like it was a sacred act even though your legs are still shaking. He always promises to make it up to you that night.

R = RISK..

Public stuff / getting caught? Like i said. NOPE. IMMEDIATE SHUTDOWN. Sam is not into getting caught. He will risk your back being blown out in a gas station bathroom, sure, but he needs control.

But like… fucking you with the bunker door unlocked while Dean’s asleep down the hall? Yes. That kind of “you have to stay quiet” risk?? He lives for it. He gets off on the idea that he’s the only one who knows how ruined you look under him. It’s secret. Not public. That’s the difference.

HOWEVER, THERES A FEW RISQUÉ THINGS HE WOULD DO, LIKE..

⭑ Letting you tie him up. (Nervous at first, but goes feral once he trusts you. He begs so pretty.)

⭑ Phone sex in the middle of a hunt. (Voice all low and strained while he jerks off in a motel bathroom.)

⭑ Letting you suck him off while he’s on the phone with someone.

S = STAMINA..

First round energy?? Foreplay for a solid 20 minutes minimum. Fingering you slow, teasing kisses down your body, tongue between your thighs until you’re a sobbing mess and he’s still calm as hell, like, “One more before I even touch you, yeah?”

Then when he finally slides in? It’s slow. He doesn’t like to rush. He doesn’t even care if he finishes right away, his entire goal is to make you cum at least twice before he even thinks about pulling out.

But when he gets close? He lasts. Like… too long. You’re still on round one, shaking, nails clawed into his back, and he’s still going with sweat dripping off his jaw and his voice all raspy like, “Almost there, baby… just hold on for me a little longer.” Like no. Sir. I can’t. I physically cannot take any more. And yet you do, because he holds you through every stroke and tells you how good you are the entire time.

Multiple rounds?? YES. ABSOLUTELY. CONSISTENTLY. He’ll go two rounds minimum on a regular night. If you’re both worked up or he’s been gone for a while? Three. Four.

Recovery time? Quick. Man’s metabolism is on crack. Give him 10-15 minutes and a sip of water and he’s ready again, hard against your thigh while he kisses your shoulder and whispers “Can I?” He doesn’t even need sleep after, just a cuddle. A praise session. A little pillow talk about how fucking perfect you are. And he’s back in action.

T = TOYS..

First of all, YES. Sam owns toys. He just keeps them very private. Hidden in a locked drawer in his bunker room, tucked under layers of boring-ass lore books, so Dean never even thinks about touching it. He doesn’t have a million flashy things. No neon-colored silicone junk. His collection is intentional. A little sleek. A little intimidating. And all designed to make you scream.

On you? Oh babe. That’s his favorite. He uses toys like a study tool. Like he’s learning your body from scratch.

Vibrating bullet while he fucks you? He watches your face while he turns it higher. Moans softly when your back arches. He’ll hold it against your clit and stay buried inside you, whispering, “Come on, baby. Let it go. I’ve got you.” He does not move until you’ve cum twice. He lives for how soaked it makes you.

Wand vibrator?? That thing does not leave the nightstand. He’ll strap you down or hold your legs apart and just… watch. Tells you not to move. Keeps his hand firm on your stomach to feel you twitching. And when you beg to cum? He leans down and murmurs, “Then do it for me. Right now.” And when you do? He praises the hell out of you, while flipping it back on for another round.

On himself? He doesn’t usually need them… but for you?? He’ll do anything.

You ask him to try a cock ring? He nods, already flushed. You want to ride him while controlling the vibrator against his dick? He’s breathless, trying not to bust instantly just from how filthy it looks. And handcuffs?? Don’t even get him started. You cuff him up one time, sit on his face, and he’ll be ruined for the rest of his life.

U = UNFAIR..

First of all, He lives for it. He’ll spend hours making you squirm just because he loves seeing that pretty little tension in your jaw. You whimper? He smirks. You roll your hips toward him? He backs away. And when you pout and beg? “You’re so cute when you’re needy, baby.” AND THEN DOESN’T EVEN TOUCH YOU.

Physical teasing? He’s a literal terrorist. He’ll touch everywhere but where you need. Kiss your thighs. Suck your neck. Drag his fingers up your stomach and stop right before your clit, just to hear you whimper.

One of his favorite moves is holding the base of his cock, rubbing the tip through your folds for what feels like forever, grinning at how messy and needy you get. AUGHGGSGG.

V = VOLUME..

Sam is a moaner… Like, a real, honest-to-God moaner. The first time you go down on him? He gasps. Whimpers. Whines. His hand tangles in your hair and he’s trying so hard to hold it together, but that first swirl of your tongue? He chokes out a guttural “Fuck—baby…” and it just keeps going from there.

He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. He gets so wrapped up in the moment, so into you, that his brain just shuts off and all that’s left is raw sound.

OH AND When he goes down on you? He moans into your pussy like it’s his job. Low vibrations, messy tongue, and every single one of his desperate little grunts are just as much for your pleasure as his own. He gets off on your sounds. Groans louder the louder you get.

However, Sam is the loudest when he cums. All that control he usually has?? Gone. He’s cursing, moaning your name, whining, clutching at your hips like he might fall through the bed. If it’s intense, like one of those long, slow, emotional kind of finishes; he’ll whimper. Full-on, breathless, high-pitched whimpers. And he collapses on top of you, still murmuring, “So fucking good… Jesus… I love you so much…”

W = WILD CARD..

Sam has a very specific, deeply repressed kink for being caught jerking off. AND LISTEN. He doesn’t want to want it. It goes against everything he thinks he is. But somewhere in the deep dark crevices of that messed-up Stanford dropout brain of his?? There’s a wire that got twisted. A part of him that lives for the shame of it.

He has a whole-ass fantasy of you walking in on him. Not in a hot, “oops babe caught you” way. No. He wants it messy. He wants to be red-faced, panting, fist wrapped tight around his cock, back hunched, completely wrecked, sweaty hair sticking to his face and his mouth hanging open like a desperate animal.

And then the door creaks. And you’re standing there. Watching. “Oh my God— Sam?” He freezes. Eyes wide. Hands still. “Fuck—I thought you were asleep—shit—” He scrambles for a blanket but it’s too late. You’ve already seen everything. And instead of looking disgusted, you tilt your head and give him a look. And that’s it. That’s the fantasy. That look you give him. That sick little thrill that comes with being caught with his guard down, not in control. It makes him cum so hard he blacks out.

Realistically? He’d NEVER bring it up. Too mortified. Too wholesome on the surface. He WANTS to be humiliated, but only by you. Don’t be fooled though. He’s still your good boy. Even when he’s trembling with guilt and cum all over his hand.

X = X-RAY..

You better listen carefully because im about to get real fucking specific out here.

Let’s not even lie about it, this man is hung. Like not pornstar fake-looking veiny monster but in that “why is that shit still growing??” kind of way.

Soft? It’s still intimidating. Like you accidentally brush his thigh and think it’s a wallet or a knife but no, ma’am. It’s the holy weapon. Hard? You’re staring at it like, “Okay. That’s gonna hurt. And I want it to.”

We’re talking like 8.5 inches BUT HE FUCKS LIKE IT’S TWELVE. Because he knows how to use it. It’s not just big, it’s mean. It curves just slightly up and hits your g-spot like he’s got a goddamn degree in it. A little too wide to comfortably deepthroat without tears but you still do it like a patriot!!

When it comes to girth, this is where he’s unreasonable. Thick. Like genuinely. Your hand doesn’t close all the way around it and the first time he slides in.

⭑ Tip? Pink. A little swollen when he’s worked up.

⭑ Shaft? A couple veins, nothing too crazy, but one nasty one that runs up the underside and THROBS when he’s close.

⭑ Curve? Slight, upward, aka DESTROYER OF WORLDS.

⭑ Balls? Big. Warm. Hang low when he’s relaxed. He’ll literally grunt if you play with them too long like an old man getting up from a recliner.

Oh, and i imagine he’s got that silky skin but steel underneath kind of vibe. When you jerk him off, it’s smooth as hell but you can feel how rock hard he is. Sometimes when he’s super turned on, it jumps in your hand. Like it literally twitches just from the sight of you.

Overall vibe check? (…Yes im doing this.) That dick has the audacity to look polite and wholesome and then ruin your cervix like it’s personal. Like it didn’t ask for permission, it gave a gentle kiss and then wrecked your shit for hours. The kind of cock that ends friendships, starts wars, and has you sitting there the next morning with shaky legs and a religious awakening.

Y = YEARNING..

I feel like I may be repeating myself, (That’s what I get for caring way too much just to write one paragraph for each headcanon.) Sam’s sex drive is pretty high, but it’s rooted in emotion. When he loves you?? When he’s in it?? He wants you all. the. time. In ways that go way beyond just “I’m horny” and straight into “I need to be inside you to feel like a person again.”

It’s the longing that kills him. He could go days without touching you and still be craving you like he’s starving. Just seeing you laugh across the bunker? Feeling your hand brush his thigh under the table? He’s hard. He’s aching. He has to excuse himself to the hallway to take a few deep breaths.

He’s SO emotionally attached to sex. He jerks off just thinking about your moans. Not your tits. Not even the way you ride him. Just the sound you make when you whimper his name. I gotta drive that point home.

Z = ZZZ..

It depends on the type of sex.

If it’s a full-blown, body-shaking, filthy, 3-round, “I’m gonna wreck you” session? That man is out like a fucking light. He rolls over, panting like he just ran 15 miles, wraps one massive arm around your waist, and just… collapses.

If it’s slow and emotional? He stays awake a little longer. Just to soak it in. You’re all pressed against his chest, sticky and glowing, and he’s whispering shit like, “That was everything.” He strokes your hair while you fall asleep first. He tucks the blanket around your shoulders and passes out with his mouth slightly open against your hair. Probably drooling a little. Would lick it up ngl.

But if you’re not okay? If you seem shaky? Sensitive? Just need aftercare?? Sam will stay up all night. No matter what. He gets soft and focused, cleans you up real gentle, makes sure you’re warm, gets you water, and pulls you into his chest.

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#need that man so bad #yk what they say…#go big or go home #vee’s recs! •̩̩͙⁺゜

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insensiblelimerence · 26 days ago

Text

stockholm sanctum part iii: SANCTUM

content warning/s & word count: 18+!!!, i cannot stress this enough: NSFW!!!, foul language, dark!ben & dark!butcher, patronising and condescending behaviour, psychological breakdown, spanking, punishment, smut (kissing, fingering, manhandling, biting, groping, nipple torture), begging, denial, rejection, obvious hints to stockholm syndrome, bullying (the best kind), i'm sure i've missed some. 9.3k

You woke to the scent of cigarettes and sweat and old denim.

It was thick in the air, embedded in the fibres of the hoodie stuck to your skin, soaked through the mattress and the heat still lingering in your bones. It was inescapable. Familiar. The kind of scent that didn't just cling to you—it changed you. Your body ached in a way that felt stolen, heavy and swollen with exhaustion, with memory, with something far more intimate than pain. The world was too bright behind your eyelids, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. Even blinking felt like too much. Your lashes were sticky with sleep, or maybe with tears, dried into salt at the corners of your eyes. Everything was still, save for the throb between your legs and the slow return of your heartbeat—rising steady, then fast, then deafening.

You weren’t sure how long it had been. Minutes, hours, longer? Time had folded in on itself somewhere between his mouth and your breaking. The way you'd clutched at his hoodie, the way you'd soaked through your shame, the way you’d begged—God, had you begged? The memory came in flashes, disjointed and too loud. His fingers. Your moans. The way he’d laughed when you shattered. Like it had always been inevitable.

Their voices came first.

Low, male, distant—but not far. Muffled, but sharp enough to cut.

Butcher.

Dry and cruel and impossible to mistake. Like burnt paper and split wood.

"...don’t need the fuckin’ details, mate."

Ben answered too easily, like he’d been waiting for the prompt, like he wanted you to hear. His voice was slower, lazier, thick with the kind of grin that didn’t need to be seen to be known. There was pleasure there. Undeniable. Dark.

"Didn’t touch her without permission. Swear to God. She begged for it."

Your stomach dropped. Your lashes fluttered against your cheeks. You didn’t move.

Because it was true.

The shame curled low in your belly, hot and persistent, but there was something else beneath it. A deeper heat. One that hadn't dimmed. Your thighs were still sticky. Your pulse still fluttered. You didn’t even try to lie to yourself. Not anymore.

Butcher’s voice came again, blunt and bored. But not disinterested.

"You fuck her?"

The question hit like impact. A slap without sound. The air went still.

Ben didn’t hesitate.

"No," he said. Light. Simple. Final.

But then there was a pause. And in the silence, you could hear him smiling.

"Not yet."

Another pause. The click of a lighter. The scratch of flame against metal. The soft inhale of breath as something caught.

"She’ll ask next time."

Your breath snagged. You tasted cotton and smoke. The hoodie smelled like him. Your chest felt tight in the best and worst way, lungs drawing shallow air like you weren’t sure whether to scream or beg. You hated the way your body responded—how your legs shifted minutely, unconsciously, chasing friction. You hated the heat that flickered back to life beneath your skin.

You hated that he was right.

The smoke curled through the air, and you heard Butcher exhale, long and slow.

"Guess she’s finally settlin’ in."

And still, you didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because you weren’t sure what terrified you more—that they knew what you were becoming.

Or that you did.

Because it wasn’t fear anymore, not really. Not the kind that made you flinch or run. This was something else. Heavier. Holier. You could feel it forming behind your ribs like a second heart. It beat slow and deep and dark, and it sounded a hell of a lot like yes. Like please. Like more.

The days blurred—blurred like breath on a cracked mirror, like fog crawling across a broken windowpane, like the black behind your eyelids when the world vanished under too much touch, too much heat, too much of him. You weren’t sure where the dreams ended and the memories began anymore. Everything bled into everything else. Sometimes you woke with your cheek stuck to the mattress, throat dry and heart pounding like you’d been running in your sleep. Other times it was gentler—the faint drag of fingers ghosting the curve of your thigh, the kind of touch that felt less like a hand and more like a possession. Once, you woke to laughter. Another time, to nothing at all.

But now…

Now it was quiet.

A few days had passed. Maybe more. You only knew because they’d told you. They’d both dropped breadcrumbs of time in passing conversation—comments about meals you didn’t remember eating, showers you vaguely recalled stepping into. You’d been bathing, apparently. Dressing yourself. Moving through the space like something semi-autonomous. A wind-up girl with frayed strings. The rope was gone now, the cuffs undone. But the rules remained. Your body was no longer restrained, not visibly—but your steps were still counted. Your choices—all three of them—offered like treats to a dog that had learned how to sit. You were handed a cigarette once. Declined it. You weren’t even sure why. It just didn’t feel like something you wanted. And the idea of wanting anything that wasn’t them had started to rot in your mouth.

The hoodie still hung from your shoulders. It was soft now, worn thin, washed a few times to rid it of the worst of the sweat and sleep and slick—but it still carried a scent that haunted you. It had become your second skin. A cage sewn from cotton. Fraying at the sleeves where your fingers picked and worried and twisted.

You sat perched on the edge of a splintered chair, legs tucked beneath you, spine curled forward like something trying to take up less space. Your fingertips worried at a loose thread along the hem, pulling it, letting it fray further. Somewhere above you, Ben’s boots paced in steady rhythm across the floorboards—lazy, confident, full of swagger. The hum of an old radio drifted faintly through the walls, tinny and worn like a half-remembered lullaby. Whiskey and old dust clung to the air, sacred and stale, the scent of a chapel built not for prayer but for penance.

And then—Butcher.

His silhouette filled the doorway like a threat, broad and backlit by the sick gold of early evening. The last of the sun painted him in violence—his collar stained with amber like blood, his features shadowed into something unholy. He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you. That look he wore so effortlessly. The one that made your stomach knot and your throat tighten. That half-pity, half-predator expression that never gave anything away except the promise that he was always watching. Always assessing. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pat your head or choke you out.

“Evenin’, sunshine,” he said finally, voice rough, drawling.

You looked up, just barely. Your gaze brushed his face like a flinch you were trying to control. You didn’t answer.

He stepped inside without hurry, a takeout bag in one hand, a sweating glass bottle in the other. He placed them both on the table between you like offerings—measured and deliberate. His movements always were. He moved like a man who’d never once had to rush for anything. Like the world could wait.

“Thought I’d bring dinner. Figured you’d be sick of whatever Ben’s idea of food is. The cunt thinks protein powder’s a food group.”

Still, you said nothing. The burn on your wrist itched beneath the fabric of the hoodie, old now, but angry again in his presence. You wondered if he could smell the fear on your skin. Or worse, the anticipation. He took the seat opposite you, his thigh brushing yours beneath the table, firm and intentional. He cracked the bottle open with one hand, took a sip, and leaned back.

“Been a good girl while I was gone?”

You swallowed, throat tight. You didn’t mean to answer. But the words escaped, rough and hoarse.

“Tried to behave.”

His smile was thin. Knowing. Like he already had the whole story and was just humouring you.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Bet you did.”

Silence followed—thick, pressing. It crawled beneath your skin, into the hollow of your spine, the crooks of your elbows, the backs of your knees. It was humid, oppressive, a weight that made your bones feel like glass. And then his hand reached across the table.

Just two fingers. Calloused. Steady.

They hooked beneath your chin and tipped it upward with surgical care. Not rough. But firm. Demanding. You were forced to meet his eyes.

“But that’s not really your nature, is it?”

You didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. His gaze was relentless. Studying. Like he was cataloguing each microexpression. His thumb brushed across your lower lip, slow and soft, dragging over the raw place your teeth had chewed red. You didn’t flinch. Couldn’t. Your breath caught on nothing.

“See,” he murmured, leaning forward now, his voice just for you, breath warm against your cheek. “I think you’ve got a bit of fight still in you. Ben thinks you’re nearly broken in. But me…”

He paused. Let the words simmer.

“I think you need a proper little test.”

Your stomach twisted.

He nodded toward the takeout.

“Eat first.”

You hesitated. Just for a second. Enough to give him something. And when you did, he laughed—one low, dry breath through his nose.

“C’mon, love,” he said, tipping his bottle toward you. “You’re gonna need your strength.”

And you believed him. Because when Butcher said things like that, they were never metaphors.

You ate with slow, deliberate bites, the cheap plastic fork trembling faintly in your grip with each motion. Your gaze never left him—not out of challenge, but out of instinct. Watching Butcher felt like self-preservation. Like reading the weather in the crack of thunder before the lightning ever struck.

He didn’t rush you. He just sat there, drink in hand, elbow hooked over the back of his chair, eyes fixed on you like you were some pitiful little creature in a tank. Something he’d been observing for weeks. A rat trained to press buttons for crumbs. The way he watched didn’t feel predatory, exactly. It felt worse. It felt clinical. Like he already knew what you’d do. Like the maze had been built from your own bones, and he was waiting to see how long it took you to figure it out.

When the food was gone, he stood. Unhurried. A shift of weight, a scrape of wood on concrete, the gentle tug at his sleeves as he began to unbutton his cuffs. One. Two. Each motion slow, controlled, almost silent except for the fabric stretching and folding beneath his fingers. He rolled the sleeves back just past his forearms—ritualistic in its rhythm. There was something sacrificial about it. Something priestly.

“You’re gettin’ comfortable here,” he said then, voice flat, more observation than accusation. “Not sure that’s a good thing.”

Your throat went tight, as if you’d swallowed something sharp. You didn’t respond.

He picked up the bottle and tipped it to his lips, drinking like he hadn’t just laid something brutal into the space between you. Then he jerked his chin toward the mattress.

“Go sit.”

You didn’t hesitate. That was the part that scared you. Not the command, but the ease with which your body obeyed it. You stood without a word and padded across the room, muscles moving like they were someone else’s. That weightless, obedient fatigue had sunk deep into your limbs in the last few days—something that resembled exhaustion, but wasn’t. It came from deeper than tiredness. From somewhere just past survival. There was less fight in your bones now. More fog.

Butcher followed. He didn’t sit beside you. He stood over you, hands loose at his sides, watching from above like the judgment of God. The air shifted—denser now. He didn’t need to raise his voice. He never needed to raise his voice.

“You wanna stay?” He asked, tone low, gravelled. “Here. In one piece. Breathin’. Sane.”

You nodded. Just once. A small, pathetic motion that felt like it cracked something behind your ribs.

“Then you do what I say.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came. He didn’t expect an answer. He was giving you a rule, not a choice.

His hand moved then—slow, unhurried. It lifted, not like a threat, but like a test. His thumb brushed the old burn on your wrist beneath the sleeve of the hoodie. Just a touch. But it pulled a soundless flinch out of you, small and involuntary. He felt it. You knew he did. But he didn’t stop.

“You got any idea how easy it’d be to ruin you?” He murmured, more thoughtful than cruel. “I mean really ruin you. Break your mind in half. Grind it down to fuck all.”

Your breathing hitched. A tiny tremor ran through your chest. He didn’t press harder—he didn’t have to.

“And Ben?” Butcher tilted his head, a faint smirk ghosting across his mouth. “He’d love it. Wouldn’t even need a reason. Just the sound of it. That’s all it’d take.”

He lowered himself to the floor, slow and deliberate, until he was kneeling before you, eyes level with yours. The difference in height erased, but the power was still all his. You could feel it like heat against your skin.

“But me,” he said quietly, “I ain’t gonna hurt you. Not if you listen. Not if you learn.”

You didn’t realise you were crying until the warmth of a tear tracked down your cheek. Silent. Shaming. He caught it with his thumb, wiped it away like he’d expected it to fall exactly then. And when he spoke again, his voice dropped low—softer, but not kind.

“There’s a good girl.”

The words knocked something loose in your chest. Your eyes fluttered shut for half a second.

And then—

A rustle nearby. Leather shifting. A creak in the doorway.

Ben.

Leaning against the frame like he’d been there the whole time, like he’d known how this would play out before either of you had moved. His arms were folded across his chest, one boot crossed over the other. There was a smirk dragging slow and wicked across his mouth, eyes bright with something between pride and hunger.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” he muttered, voice a low, dirty drawl. “She’s ready for it now.”

Butcher didn’t even glance at him. His eyes stayed on you. “Say thank you,” he said.

Your mouth was dry. The words caught in your throat, brittle.

“…Thank you,” you whispered.

He didn’t blink.

“Louder.”

The flush that rose to your cheeks came from shame, but not just shame. Your voice trembled.

“Thank you.”

He smiled—barely.

“Attagirl.”

You thought maybe something would come next. Maybe he’d stand and test you. Maybe Ben would step forward and make good on that smirk. Maybe you’d be dragged deeper into whatever game they were playing. But instead, Butcher rose in one fluid movement, eyes already leaving you. He turned and walked to the door. No further instructions. No final words. He just nodded once to Ben as he passed, a silent signal exchanged like clockwork.

And Ben—still smiling, still watching you like you were both joke and delicacy—pushed off the frame and followed.

Their boots moved in tandem, fading down the hall, rhythm echoing in your ribs. Neither of them came back right away. They didn’t need to. You were already where they wanted you.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed. Morning. Evening. Hours. Days. It all bled into the same dull hum. The room they kept you in had no windows, only the slow crawl of shadows stretching across concrete, reshaping the corners into things that looked almost human when you were tired enough. There was a single yellow light overhead—dim, humming, sick with age—and sometimes it flickered, as if it, too, was growing weary of watching you. The air never changed. Still and stale and warm. Like breath caught in a coffin.

Butcher’s hoodie still hung from your frame, heavy with the weight of him. It smelled like smoke and cold wind, like something brutal and alive. You hadn’t taken it off. You weren’t sure why. It wasn’t comfort, not really. More like a warning. A reminder. A brand. The fabric clung to your skin like static, every thread soaked in the scent of his hands, his threats, his discipline. And maybe some part of you had kept it on because when he came back—because he always came back—you wanted him to know. That you hadn’t taken it off. That you hadn’t tried to forget.

So when the door opened, you were already halfway there—waiting, breath caught, body upright.

Ben was first to appear. Or at least, his presence hit first. That lazy swagger. That shit-eating grin. He leaned against the doorframe like he’d been there for hours, arms folded tight across his chest, a wad of gum snapping between his teeth. He looked you over the way a dog watches a bone it’s not allowed to chew yet. Pleased. Hungry. Waiting. The sleeves of his bomber jacket were pushed up to the elbows, revealing forearms scarred and freckled and tensed like he was itching for something to do with his hands.

Butcher followed a few paces behind. He didn’t speak at first. Just walked in slow, boots echoing with every step, hands deep in the pockets of his coat. His shoulders were relaxed. His head tilted slightly, like he was deciding whether to speak or strike. The kind of calm that came from control so total it no longer needed performance.

He looked at you. Really looked.

There was a long pause. Then—

“Y’know,” he said at last, voice conversational, like the two of you were sat at a fucking dinner table, “we been thinkin’. About you.”

The words sank like teeth. Your chest tightened. You didn’t answer.

Ben hummed something low, like a melody only he knew, dragging his molars over the gum like he was trying to tear through something.

Butcher crouched in front of you then, smooth and slow, elbows resting on his knees. He was close enough that the heat of him ghosted against your face. Smoke and iron clung to his breath, and underneath it—something darker. The kind of scent that didn’t belong to any one person. It smelled like violence. Like ruin.

“You keep starin’ at me like I’m the big bad wolf,” he murmured, one brow cocked, voice dipping into something rougher, older. “But the thing is… you walked right into the woods, didn’t ya?”

You flinched. Not much. Just enough for him to see it. He reached forward, hand steady, and brushed a piece of hair from your face. The back of his knuckles dragged over your cheek, slow and dry and deliberate. Calloused. Warm. He lingered. His touch didn’t soothe. It pinned.

“Could’ve kept quiet,” he said, thumb catching the curve of your jaw now, tilting your face just a little. “Let us handle the Vought mess. Could’ve minded your fuckin’ business. But no. You had to go pokin’ around. Makin’ deals. Meetin’ fuckin’ fishboys in piss-stained alleys.”

Your throat went tight. “I told you I was blackmailed—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he cut in, rolling his eyes. “Didn’t have a choice. That’s what they all fuckin’ say.”

Ben laughed then—sharp and low. “She’s got some fight, though,” he said, voice curling around the edges like smoke. “I like that in a girl.”

Butcher didn’t react. Didn’t even glance his way.

“Thing is,” he continued, voice back to a simmer, “you’re here now. And I reckon you’re smart enough to know this is it. This room. These walls. Us.”

Your eyes stung. You blinked fast, throat trembling with something you couldn’t name. Grief. Guilt. Hunger. You weren’t sure anymore. Maybe it didn’t matter.

He stood, the motion fluid, unfazed. His gaze never broke from yours.

“You know what I think?”

You looked up. Couldn’t help it.

“I think you like it. Bein’ owned. Bein’ told what to wear. What to eat. When to fuckin’ breathe.”

Your breath caught. Your ribs ached.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

You wanted to. God, you wanted to. But your lips stayed closed, trembling with silence. And silence, in a room like this, was an answer.

Butcher nodded slowly, like he’d known all along. “S’what I thought.”

Then he turned his head, eyes flicking over his shoulder.

“Ben.”

“Mm?”

“Shut the door.”

The click was soft. Almost delicate. But it echoed like a gunshot. The air changed. Thickened. Slowed.

Butcher rolled his shoulders and stepped further into the room, his voice low and even.

“I think our girl’s ready for a proper little chat.”

Ben didn’t move right away. He just leaned against the wall, arms crossed again, his smirk softening into something sharper. His eyes were locked on you, bright with intent, his weight shifting like a man ready to pounce—but only when told.

You sat there, hoodie clinging to your skin, heart crawling its way up your throat. The door was closed. The walls were bare. You were out of lies.

And they were just getting started.

Butcher moved toward you again, slower this time—each step deliberate, measured, the kind of pace a man used when he already knew he’d won. His hands were still in his pockets, but everything about the way he carried himself screamed control. Languid. Lethal. Like a predator who didn’t need to run. The tension in the room didn’t spike—it simmered, thick and low and crawling over your skin like heat from a flame you couldn’t see. You felt the air pull tighter, felt your own pulse shift rhythm, felt your knees press just a little closer together without thinking.

“You ever think about what it’d be like?” He asked, voice pitched lower now, almost conversational again, but there was an edge under it—dark and razor-sharp. “Havin’ both of us. Same time. One in your throat, the other between your legs.”

The breath caught in your chest like a bird slamming into glass. Your eyes went wide before you could stop them, panic and arousal spiking like twin threads winding around your ribs.

“Don’t lie,” he murmured, voice dipping deeper, almost tender in its cruelty. “You’ve thought about it. Probably touched yourself thinkin’ about it.”

You shook your head, small and trembling. The denial barely made it past your lips. It was a weak little motion, useless and pitiful, like a wounded animal still pretending it had claws.

He chuckled, low and fond. Not mocking—knowing.

“Oh, love. You don’t have to say yes. Not yet.”

He sank down to his knees again, the weight of him settling like a verdict. One hand came to rest on your thigh, warm and rough, and dragged slowly upward. His palm skimmed the mottled skin—where old bruises sang beneath the surface, where new heat still bloomed. His thumb caught the edge of the hoodie, grazing just beneath it, finding the soft hollow at the top of your thigh where your breath always stuttered.

“But you would beg for it,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “One day soon. You’d look me right in the fuckin’ eye and say please, and you’d mean it.”

Across the room, you heard the quiet shift of denim. Ben moved slightly, the scuff of his boot against the wall, the faint rustle of tension blooming under his skin. Your gaze flickered to him before you could stop it. A mistake. He caught it. He was already staring—his arms still crossed, jaw clenched, green eyes locked on your face like he was counting the beats of your hesitation. His tongue rolled the gum across his teeth once.

“Go on,” Butcher coaxed, still crouched between your legs, his voice soft now, coaxing. “Say it now. Just practice.”

Your lips parted. But nothing came. No sound. Not even breath. You tried again—tried to summon something, anything, but your throat clenched shut, too dry, too scared, too soaked in the shame of wanting to say it.

Butcher tilted his head. Studied you like a problem he already knew the answer to.

“No?” He said, not unkind. “Not ready?”

You didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“That’s alright. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

He leaned in close then, until his mouth was at your ear, his breath hot against your neck. He didn’t touch you further. He didn’t have to. His voice alone poured oil into your chest and lit a match.

“Can only ’andle one thing at a time, ain’t that right?”

Behind him, Ben’s smirk stretched wider. His arms dropped from his chest, his fingers flexing once at his sides. He looked at you like you were already on your knees.

And maybe you were. Just not visibly. Not yet.

But they knew.

The silence that followed should’ve felt like a mercy. Instead, it settled over you like a weighted shroud, too warm, too thick, like breathless summer air before the sky splits open. You sat there, still hunched in Butcher’s hoodie, your knees drawn in tight, your palms sweating against your thighs. The room didn’t feel like a room anymore. It felt like a mouth. A waiting thing. The door was closed, and neither of them had moved in several long seconds, but you could feel the shift—like the game had tilted on its axis. No more teasing. No more passive control. Something had changed in the way they watched you now, like you were a lesson about to be taught.

Butcher’s arms were crossed, his body still, but his jaw was tense. Eyes sharp. Measuring. He didn’t look angry, exactly—just certain. Like he already knew the answer to a question you hadn’t asked. Ben, on the other hand, had started to shift his weight. His smirk had faded into something gentler. Not soft. Just… quieter. He pushed off the wall slowly, the leather of his jacket creaking faintly, and began to move toward you with an almost uncharacteristic patience.

“You’re wound up,” he said, voice low, honey-thick with something too close to sympathy to be safe. “All those little muscles locked up, all that tension…” He stopped just in front of you, crouched low again, resting his forearms on his knees, head tilted. “C’mon, sweetheart. You’ll make yourself sick like that.”

You blinked at him, wide-eyed, confused by the gentleness. The softness was always worse. It made it harder to tell where the danger was. Ben reached out and brushed his fingers beneath your jaw—calloused pads smoothing over skin gone clammy with nerves. He made a sound low in his throat, something fond, something dark.

“You want to please us, don’tcha?”

Your lips parted. No sound.

Butcher didn’t move, but his voice cut through the air like a blade. “You do as you’re told,” he said, calm and dry. “Or you get corrected. That’s how this works. Remember?”

You nodded, a fractured little motion.

“Say it,” Ben coaxed. His hand was still on your face, thumb now stroking over your cheek, slow and rhythmic. “Tell him you understand.”

Your voice barely made it through your throat. “I… I understand.”

Butcher nodded once, sharp. “Good. Then let’s not drag it out.”

Ben rose fluidly, towering over you for a beat before bending at the waist and hooking his hands beneath your thighs. The motion was seamless—he didn’t grunt, didn’t strain, just lifted you like you were weightless, like you belonged in his hands. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders instinctively, breath catching as your legs dangled uselessly. The fabric of the hoodie rode up your thighs, exposing bare skin to the cool air as he carried you across the room.

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak. Just walked until he reached the worn wooden chair in the corner. It had clearly been moved here for a reason. Waiting. A prop in a scene neither of them needed a script for.

Ben sat. Wide-legged. Confident. Certain. He shifted you without effort, pulling you across his lap until your stomach was pressed to one of his thighs and your hips were angled high, exposed. His hand settled on your lower back—firm. Warm. Grounding. The other cupped your thigh, stroking once, almost absently.

Behind you, you heard Butcher step forward. Boots slow. Even. He crouched in front of you again, level with your face now where it hung low between Ben’s knees. You could see the floor, see his boots, see the way he rested his elbows on his thighs, fingers steepled. His eyes were unreadable.

“Tell me why this is happenin’,” he said.

You hesitated.

Ben’s hand tightened on your waist. Not a warning—just a reminder.

“I… I don’t know,” you whispered.

Butcher clicked his tongue. “Wrong answer.”

Another pause.

He leaned closer.

“You’re here because you keep needin’ us to remind you what you are,” he murmured. “You get too soft, too dreamy-eyed, start forgettin’. So we gotta show you.”

His fingers reached forward and tapped your chin, two sharp nudges that made your head lift enough to meet his gaze.

“Say what you are.”

Your breath stuttered. Shame crawled up your spine. But the words came.

“I’m yours.”

He raised a brow. “Both of us?”

You nodded. “Yours and Ben’s.”

Butcher looked up over your shoulder. “Think she believes it yet?”

Ben’s voice came warm above you, a low purr in your ear. “She’s starting to.”

“Mm.” Butcher tilted his head. “Reckon she needs help rememberin’.”

Ben’s hand slid up, under the hoodie now, fingers dragging slow over the bare curve of your ass. He gripped you—firm, possessive. Your breath caught.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured. “All you gotta do is be still. Let it happen. Let us take care of you.”

Butcher reached up, one hand closing around your hair, pulling your head up—not hard, not harsh, just enough to force your eyes to lock with his again.

“You’re lucky,” he said. “You get the both of us. That’s a privilege, not a fuckin’ right.”

You nodded, fast, frantic. “Yes—yes, I know.”

He studied you for a beat longer, then let go.

“Then prove it.”

Ben’s hand lifted.

The first smack wasn’t sharp. It was warm. Deliberate. A warning.

You gasped softly.

Butcher didn’t blink. “Count.”

You swallowed.

“One.”

Ben’s hand slid down again, fingers brushing your inner thigh this time, slow and easy, before lifting again.

Another smack. Louder. Sharper.

Your breath shook. “Two.”

The room was quiet but for the sound of it. Your voice. Their hands. The scent of sweat and control. Praise and punishment, twined like rope around your throat.

And they hadn’t even started yet.

Ben’s hand lingered after the second strike, warm and grounding, fingertips sweeping over the skin he’d just reddened. The touch wasn’t soothing—he wasn’t offering comfort. He was feeling. Measuring. Like a craftsman inspecting the dent in something he planned to carve deeper. You trembled against his thigh, body taut in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with exposure. Everything felt raw. Every nerve was awake now, every second between the strikes stretched long and tight, like time itself had gone cruel.

The silence grew thicker. Butcher hadn’t moved. He was still crouched in front of you, his face unreadable, elbows on his knees like this was just another conversation, like you weren’t shaking half-naked over another man’s lap. He didn’t blink.

Ben’s voice came low above you, close to your ear. “You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart. Just keep countin’.”

And then the third.

Sharper now. Louder. The sound echoed, made your teeth clench. The burn bloomed instantly across the backs of your thighs, white-hot. You gasped, your fingers curling into the fabric of Ben’s jeans.

“Three,” you whispered.

Butcher tilted his head slightly, studying your face like it was a map of your failure.

“Still think she’s bein’ honest?” He asked, voice flat.

Ben let out a slow breath through his nose. “Not yet,” he said, almost disappointed. “She’s still holdin’ it in.”

“Mm.” Butcher nodded. “Thought so.”

The air pressed closer around you. You could feel it like a second skin—thick with heat, with sweat, with the weight of what they wanted from you.

Ben’s hand slid lower again, fingers dragging over your inner thigh like he was trying to see how wet you were. You flinched, not from the contact, but from how much it made you ache. He shifted slightly beneath you, his thigh flexing, his chest rising. His palm lifted.

The fourth cracked across you like a warning shot.

It stung. The kind of pain that shocked a choked noise out of your mouth, unbidden. Tears rushed sudden to your eyes. You didn’t know why. Shame? Relief? You counted anyway.

“Four,” you whimpered.

Butcher’s hand came back to your chin again, thumb pressing hard enough to force your head back up.

“You know what this is for, don’t you?”

You nodded, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Y-yes.”

“Say it.”

You sniffled. “For forgetting. For needing to be reminded.”

He nodded once. “That’s right.”

Ben’s hand rested on the curve of your hip now. He didn’t move yet. He was waiting. Letting it hang. Letting your body brace for it.

And that was the worst part.

The waiting.

The fifth came down harder than the rest. A true punishment now. No rhythm, no kindness in the force. It knocked the breath from your lungs. The sound you made was not a number—it was a cry.

“Please!”

It tore out of you before you could stop it. Desperate. Raw. Your body jolted, your hands fisting the denim beneath you, your breath catching in your chest as tears spilled over, warm and silent.

Everything stopped. Ben’s hand froze mid-air. Butcher’s fingers stilled on your jaw. The silence hit like a blade.

Then Ben’s voice��soft, unsure. “She didn’t mean—”

But Butcher raised a hand. Just once. Didn’t look at him. Just held it there. Ben went quiet. Butcher’s eyes returned to yours, sharp and steady.

“Please what?”

You blinked hard, a few tears slipping free, sniffling as your throat tried to work around the knot lodged in it. You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

“I—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t know—”

He tutted softly. Shook his head. “No, no. S’not good enough.” Then, to Ben, without looking away from you—

“One more.”

Ben hesitated. Butcher’s gaze didn’t shift. Ben’s hand lifted.

The sixth landed hard—blunt, final. You yelped, the sound sharp and high, shame bursting in your chest like something torn loose. The tears came freely now, real and hot and quiet. You stayed where you were, hips trembling, thighs shaking, face turned down.

Butcher still watched. And he waited, because now, you would say it. Now, you had to.

The sixth had barely settled into your skin before your mouth opened again, unthinking, trembling on the edge of something you didn’t know how to say. The pain was still singing up your spine in waves—hot, sharp, echoing. But beneath it, deeper, filthier, was the ache. That desperate, sopping pulse that throbbed between your legs, louder than your thoughts, thicker than your shame. You tried to speak, to shape the words that had been rattling around in your skull since Butcher said them—one in your throat, the other between your legs—but your mouth failed you. Your tongue stuck. Your breath caught.

“I—” you rasped, blinking hard, voice shredded. “I want… I need—”

You didn’t even know what came next. The thought fractured every time you tried to hold it.

Ben shifted beneath you. His fingers slid from your waist—slow, exploring. They dipped down, warm and unhurried, until they found the heat soaked into your thighs. One fingertip brushed between them, featherlight.

And then he felt it.

The breath punched from both of your lungs at the same time. Yours was sharp. Gasping. His was low. Drawn.

“Jesus Christ,” Ben muttered.

His fingers stayed there, not moving, just resting against the soaked fabric of your underwear, letting the heat bleed into his skin.

Butcher’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t look away. “What?”

“She’s fuckin’ drenched,” Ben said, a soft, almost reverent kind of shock in his voice. He sounded smug, but not mocking—like he was discovering something holy in filth. His thumb shifted slightly, dragging up through your wetness, and you squirmed, a whimper catching in your throat.

“You feel that?” He asked you, before saying to Butcher: “She’s fuckin’ beggin’ for it. Doesn’t even know it.”

Butcher exhaled slowly. “Didn’t need your fingers to tell me that, mate. Look at her. Shakin’ like a fuckin’ leaf.”

Ben’s fingers slid down again, slower now, more deliberate. The pad of one traced the edge of your soaked seam through your underwear. He didn’t push, didn’t part—just circled. Playing. Testing. You twitched.

“I think she likes when we talk about her like this,” he said, his voice quieter now, thick with that syrupy satisfaction he got when something broke the way he wanted it to. “Look at her breathing. She's hangin’ on every fuckin’ word.”

Butcher stepped closer again, boots scuffing against concrete, arms still folded. He loomed above you like judgment incarnate.

“Of course she does. She wants to be used. To be owned.” His voice dropped, sharp as teeth. “Doesn’t wanna be treated sweet. She wants to be spoken over. Talked about like property.”

You whimpered—shame flushed red-hot up your chest, your face, but the slickness between your legs only grew worse, soaking straight through cotton. Ben’s fingers pressed in a little harder. You shivered.

“She’s startin’ to drip,” Ben murmured. “Swear to fuckin’ God, it’s like touching a wet dream.”

The words hit you like lightning.

And you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Both of you!” You cried, the words bursting out of you like blood from a split lip. “Please!”

Everything stopped. Ben froze. His fingers still resting against you, his body gone tense beneath yours. Butcher’s head turned slightly, just enough to meet your eyes again, and his expression shifted—just the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth, something cruel and fond.

“There she is,” he said softly.

He reached out and patted your cheek once—gentle, almost condescending, palm warm against your tear-damp skin.

“Good girl.”

Ben didn’t say a word. He just moved. Swift and sure. One arm looped around your waist, the other under your legs, lifting you again like nothing. You were dizzy with it, boneless in his arms. He carried you back across the room, and your heart kicked up, thrumming wild. It was happening. It was finally happening...

He laid you down. Back on the mattress. And then—

They turned.

Butcher walked first, without a word. Ben hesitated, just for a second. His eyes on you. Still wild, still hungry. But he followed.

Silence.

You blinked. The room still smelled like them. The ache between your legs hadn’t dulled. Your skin still throbbed with every mark. But you were alone. Shaking. Dripping. Eyes wide. Lips parted. You didn’t understand. Your body burned with the echo of their voices, your breath still ragged with need, and they had left you like that.

Used. Open. Desperate.

Your hands twitched. Your thighs pressed together, instinctive, searching. Nothing. Only the thick, endless silence of a room that had already made you theirs. And the echo of your own voice, hoarse and ruined, whispering into the dark.

“Please…”

The silence after they left felt like a scream sealed behind glass. You lay there, motionless, body humming with leftover ache, your thighs still sticky with your own arousal, your mind fogged and fraying at the edges. Your breath came in shallow pulses. The mattress had cooled beneath you, but your skin still burned—flushed from humiliation, from longing, from the sixth strike that had knocked the word please loose from your mouth like a confession.

But then… something shifted. The air. You felt it before you saw it. Cooler. Moving. Your gaze slid slowly toward the door.

It was open.

Just a sliver—wide enough to spill a knife of pale hallway light across the concrete floor. Wide enough to show you the truth. They hadn’t closed it.

They hadn’t locked it.

No sound came from the corridor. No voices. No returning boots. Just the long, low hum of an overhead bulb somewhere far away. But the opening was real. It waited. Patient. Like a hand outstretched.

Your body moved before your thoughts did.

You sat up slowly, knees wobbling, every muscle still sore from tension. The hoodie hung loose around you, too big, too warm, sleeves swallowing your hands. Your bare feet hit the floor with a soft slap. Cold concrete kissed your soles. And still—no sound. No interruption.

They’d left it open.

You could go.

The thought bloomed in your chest like a wound. You could leave. Right now. You could bolt down that hallway, find the exit, a window, a fire escape—anything. They wouldn’t catch you. Not right away. Not if you ran fast enough.

Your breath hitched.

You padded to the door—slow, careful. Heart pounding in your throat like a warning drum. The corridor stretched out in both directions. Long. Empty. Bleached in that sick yellow light that made everything look more haunted than it was. The walls were bare. No guards. No locks. No cage.

You stared left.

That way.

That was the way he’d dragged you, months ago—your arms pinned, your screams ignored, your body kicked and spit-soaked, hauled in like contraband. That was the direction of the world you used to know. Before this room. Before the cuffs. Before the hoodie that now clung to you like a second skin.

And for a second, just one sharp inhale, you thought you might take a step.

You didn’t.

Your head turned slowly. Right. The other direction. You’d seen them disappear that way more than once. Voices fading, boots echoing, doors closing. Sometimes you’d catch the distant hiss of a bottle uncapped. Low murmurs. Laughter.

That’s where they were now.

Your stomach twisted.

You didn’t even realise your feet had started moving until the light shifted across your ankles. Your toes curled slightly on the cold concrete, and you stepped forward. Quiet. Careful. No shoes. No sound. You followed the hum of silence, deeper into the belly of the place you were supposed to fear.

You weren’t thinking anymore. Not really. You were seeking.

You didn’t call their names. Didn’t cry or beg. You just moved. Hoodie dragging against your thighs, breath caught behind your teeth, heart thudding loud in your ears.

Because you could’ve run, but you didn’t. You walked toward the wolves instead.

The corridor narrowed the deeper you went, the walls growing darker, colder. You didn’t know how far you’d walked—only that your steps had slowed. Each one a breathless vow. Every inch of your skin prickled with anticipation, shame, hope. You didn’t know what you were hoping for. Only that it lived behind the next turn, in the thick scent curling beneath the edge of the door like smoke from a temple altar.

You paused in front of it.

This door.

You knew it.

It was heavier than the others. Painted darker. And from behind it came the unmistakable murmur of voices—low, intimate, unhurried. You could hear the soft clink of glass. The pop of a lighter. A muffled laugh—Ben’s, unmistakably.

He sounded so at ease. Like you weren’t still soaked and shaking from the punishment he’d helped deliver.

Your breath stuttered.

You leaned in slightly, pressing your fingers to the frame. Smoke slithered out from beneath the door in thin, lazy ribbons, warm and biting in your nose. Tobacco. Something stronger. Maybe something chemical. Something Ben. You imagined him slouched in a chair, lips wet from the bottle, eyes bright from whatever pill he’d tucked under his tongue.

You reached up.

Knuckles hovered above the wood.

Paused.

You hesitated—just long enough for the doubt to slip in, curl cold and cruel around your throat. What were you doing? You could still go back. Crawl into the mattress. Pretend you’d never left.

But your fingers moved before your thoughts did. Two soft knocks. Barely more than a whisper. The laughter died instantly.

You froze, breath locked behind your ribs. Then—without footsteps, without warning—the door creaked open, slow and deliberate, and there he was.

Ben.

Lit from behind by amber lamplight, his face flushed, shirt rumpled, lips pink and shiny like he’d just been biting them. His hair was tousled, and his pupils were huge. He looked at you like a man seeing a miracle—or a fucking prophecy fulfilled.

He looked you up and down—slow and filthy. Bare legs, hoodie hem grazing your thighs, collar tugged off one shoulder, eyes wide and lips parted.

And then he smirked.

“Would you fuckin’ look at that,” he drawled, stepping aside and tilting his head in toward the room. “Our little lamb came home.”

He gestured with a lazy sweep of his hand, like a doorman welcoming you into hell.

“C’mon in, sweetheart. Door’s open now.”

You moved without speaking. Slipped past him into the warm haze of the room. It smelled like sin—liquor, smoke, leather, musk. Butcher was seated at the far end, legs spread, a glass dangling from one hand. His expression unreadable. His eyes lit sharp when he saw you.

Ben shut the door behind you with a soft click.

“Didn’t even run,” he said, his voice thick with admiration, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “Not even a step. Just came lookin’ for us.”

“She’s a good girl,” Butcher said, lifting his glass. He didn’t smile, but something tugged at the corner of his mouth. He pointed at the floor between his boots with the hand still holding the drink.

“Stand there.”

You moved without question.

The floor was warm. Your toes curled instinctively against the wood. You stared down at your feet, then up at him. Butcher leaned forward slightly, watching you, assessing. You began to worry the sleeve of the hoodie between your fingers, chewing at the corner of your lip.

The silence held thick and reverent.

Then—Butcher’s voice, low and smooth:

“Didn’t run. Didn’t knock loud. Didn’t speak outta turn.”

You shivered.

“Think that deserves a reward, don’t you?”

Your breath caught. You nodded, barely.

“If you still want it.”

You turned, breathless, casting a glance over your shoulder—he was already moving. Ben had stepped forward, slow and smooth, his expression changed entirely. No longer smug.

Predatory.

He watched you with pupils blown wide and shoulders rolling loose, like a lion stretching before the kill. His hands hovered in the air for a moment, then found your sides—fingers sliding beneath the hem of the hoodie, dragging upward. His palms were warm against your ribs, thumbs brushing along the edge of your ribs, not groping. Claiming.

You leaned back into him, exhaling a quiet whimper. Your eyes fluttered shut as his chest met your back, his nose brushing lightly against your temple.

“Still want it, baby?” Ben rasped into your ear.

Butcher set his glass down and smiled.

Ben didn’t waste a second. His arms locked tighter around your waist, and he pulled you flush against him, palms hot beneath the hoodie, spanning your ribs like he wanted to count them. His chest pressed to your back, hips flush, breath thick against your ear. He shuffled the both of you forward—slow, casual—guiding you step by step until you stood directly between Butcher’s legs.

Trapped.

Held.

Offered.

Butcher hadn’t moved. He sat there with one elbow braced on the arm of the chair, a cigarette now pinched between his fingers, smoke curling up into the air like incense. He looked you over with the kind of cool detachment that made your blood run faster. His gaze was heavy. Calculating. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to fuck you or dissect you.

And then Ben moved.

His mouth found your neck—open and warm, sucking lightly beneath your ear. His hands slid higher, fingers grazing the underside of your breasts, and he groaned softly against your skin like just touching you knocked something loose inside him.

“Fucking knew it,” he rasped. “Knew you’d come lookin’. Knew you’d come beggin’.”

You whimpered, body arching instinctively as his hands roamed, pawing and greedy, tracing the curves he already knew, memorising them again. His fingertips teased the sides of your breasts, then dragged back down to your hips, gripping them with a bruising reverence.

“She’s fuckin’ burnin’ up,” he muttered. “You feel that heat comin’ off her?”

Butcher raised a brow, still not touching. Not yet.

“She’s drip dry, I reckon. Just waitin’ for someone to wring her out.”

Ben laughed against your neck, nipped at the skin there.

“You hear that, baby?” He murmured. “That sound like you?”

You could only nod—desperate and breathless, your head tipping back against his shoulder. You felt feral with need, eyes fluttering, legs trembling as his thumbs dragged slow circles along the bare skin beneath the hem of the hoodie. The cotton brushed your thighs, your cunt aching between them—so wet, you could feel the slick.

Then Butcher reached out.

No fanfare. No warning.

His fingers slid up your inner thigh—slow, dry, warm—and then pressed between your legs.

You gasped—sharp and bright.

His fingers stayed there for a moment, feeling. Testing. And then they moved—lazy, confident, right over the soaked seam of your underwear, pressing in slow, hard strokes that had your knees buckling.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. “Ben weren’t lyin’. You’re soaked through.”

Ben groaned behind you, grinding his hips into your ass. “Told you. Drippin’ for us. She loves it. Can’t stop leakin’.”

You whined—high and helpless, your hips rocking forward into Butcher’s hand, back into Ben’s. Caught between them, suspended on that terrible edge of too-much and not-enough. Butcher’s fingers rubbed slow, unforgiving circles, the pressure enough to make your eyes flutter shut and your lips part.

“Ohhh, listen to her,” Ben cooed, licking the shell of your ear. “You hear those little sounds? Fuckin’ melting. She’s gonna cry again.”

“Course she is,” Butcher said smoothly, fingers still working you over with clinical precision. “She’s overstimulated. Poor little thing doesn’t know whether to beg us to stop or beg us to fuck her.”

“I know which one I’d rather hear,” Ben laughed.

You whimpered, blinking back tears, panting now—your chest rising fast under the hoodie, your hands reaching for something, anything to anchor you. Ben caught one and brought it up to his mouth, kissing your fingers with mock-gentleness before dragging them down your own throat.

“You want it, sweetheart?” He asked. “You want us to ruin you?”

Butcher’s fingers slowed—taunting.

“You want your reward, yeah?” He murmured. “Wanna feel both of us? Wanna get split wide like the little whore you are?”

You nodded frantically, mouth open but no words forming. Just whimpers.

Ben’s hands slipped higher, under the hoodie now, running up your stomach to cup your breasts. He pinched one nipple between his fingers, and you gasped, body jolting.

“Ohh, there it is,” he whispered. “That’s the sound. That’s our girl.”

Butcher leaned back slightly, his fingers slipping down from your soaked cunt, dragging the wetness along your thigh as he looked up at you with sharp, amused eyes.

“Christ,” he said. “She’s trembling. You seein’ this, Ben?”

“I see it,” Ben growled. “She’s gonna fall apart on us. Think we should let her?”

Butcher’s eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Not yet,” he said. “Make her wait a little longer. Let her feel it.”

You whimpered, but didn’t argue.

Because this was the reward. Being touched. Being talked about like you weren’t even in the room.

Ben held you like he owned you.

Arms locked around your waist, chest to your back, the hoodie bunched at your ribs and your panties shoved halfway down your thighs. You were trembling so hard it was pathetic—knees buckling, breath coming in wet, ragged little sobs, your head lolled back onto his shoulder. He kept you upright like a puppeteer. One hand gripped under your ribs, the other cupped your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple with relentless pressure, pinching and tugging every time you whined. His mouth was at your throat—biting, sucking, bruising his name into the soft column like it belonged there.

“You hear that?” He rasped, teeth grazing the edge of your jaw. “That fuckin’ whimper?”

He ground his hips against your ass, breath shuddering.

“She’s gonna come just from gettin’ handled.”

Butcher didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. He was kneeling in front of you now, one hand gripping your thigh, holding it open, the other buried between your legs—three fingers deep, curled just right, stroking up and into you with brutal rhythm. He wasn’t watching your face. He was watching your pussy.

“So fuckin’ messy,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Can’t even see me fingers anymore.”

Your body jerked. Another moan cracked out of you, broken and high, and you would’ve collapsed if not for Ben’s grip.

“Keep her up,” Butcher snapped, eyes still locked between your thighs. “She’s gettin’ close.”

“Oh, I got her,” Ben laughed darkly. “Ain’t gonna let this little bitch slip before we wring her out properly.”

His mouth dropped to your neck again, tongue hot, teeth scraping over your pulse point. He bit—hard. You cried out. Your nipple was still caught between his fingers, twisted just enough to sting, and your cunt was pulsing around Butcher’s fingers like you were already there.

“You feel that?” Ben whispered, voice gone wrecked. “Bet she’s grippin’ you like she needs it.”

“She does need it,” Butcher said, tone low and cruel. “Look at her. She’s fuckin’ addicted.”

His fingers sped up—deeper, harsher, knuckles grinding against you as his palm rubbed your clit raw. You screamed. Not loud. Not sharp. But real. Raw and wet and wrecked. Ben moaned behind you.

“Jesus fuck—s’like she’s tryna milk your hand.”

Butcher’s voice was calm. Clinical. “That’s what she’s for.”

You couldn’t breathe. Your thighs were shaking so violently they knocked against Butcher’s shoulders. Your head rolled. Your mouth opened and closed.

“N-no— I—please—”

Ben’s hand clamped under your chin, forcing your head up. “No what, baby?” He whispered, his lips brushing yours, spit-slick and filthy. “No more? No stopping? No thinking?”

He bit your bottom lip hard, then kissed it. “You love it. You love getting bullied.”

Butcher’s fingers curled again—deep and fast.

“Poor little cunt don’t even know what to do with herself,” he muttered. “She’s tryin’ to run and come at the same fuckin’ time.”

Ben laughed into your ear. “You hear that? Huh, sweetheart? We’re gonna break your fuckin’ brain.”

You tried to cry out, but your voice cracked. All that came out was a sob and a stuttering, desperate noise that wasn’t even a word. Your hands were gripping Ben’s forearms now, nails digging in.

“You gonna come, baby?” Ben hissed, tongue licking a stripe up your throat. “You gonna soak his hand like a good little cumdump?”

Butcher’s fingers slammed into you, knuckles knocking against your cunt like punishment. You screamed, full-body, your vision going white around the edges. Your legs went out, but Ben held you.

You came.

Hard.

Your thighs clamped around Butcher’s wrist, your whole body shuddering like a live wire. Slick poured down his hand, soaking his palm, your underwear, the inside of your thighs. You sobbed—loud and breathless—choking on the intensity, tears spilling from your eyes as your body trembled violently in Ben’s arms.

“Jesus,” Ben breathed, tightening his hold around your waist as you spasmed. “She’s fuckin’ gushing.”

Butcher pulled his fingers out with a wet schlick, looking up at you with something close to satisfaction. His hand was drenched.

“She nearly passed out,” he muttered, rising to stand. “Could barely keep her up.”

Ben’s mouth pressed against your temple, lips still smiling.

“That’s our girl,” he murmured.

Your eyes were half-closed, fluttering, tears drying on your cheeks, lips parted and jaw slack. You weren’t standing. You were being held. Owned. And they both knew it.

You’d never leave now.

author note/s: i have not proofread this properly so i'm terrified i've made some mistakes but we'll see. if i have and you spot any, please let me know!!! i'm such a perfectionist with all my fics and i usually spend hours dissecting them and proofreading but i was too excited to get this one out, lmaoooo. and i did say yesterday that i didn't think this would be a three-parter anymore. it won't be. i actually have so much more i wanna put in this story before it's finished so... we'll see how long it takes me to get to where i'm wanting it to end. i am so in love with mean ben and mean butcher. take my life. anywayyyys, you know the drill. let me know what y'all's think, gimme your feedback, i love it. and until the next one? you're all fuckin' welcome. all the love.

ben/soldier boy taglist: @deansbeer @ambiguous-avery @angrydragon90 @losers-clvb @bejeweledinterludes @soldiersgirl @bruisedfig @tinas111 @angelicjackles @lunaleah. @mostlymarvelgirl @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @ohgodimgoungtodie @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @kaz-2y5-spn @agoodgirlsguidetomakingmencry @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @ladykitana90 @deangirlsstuff67 @adoredawn @sunnyfuffly @deansbbyx @kamisobsessed @artemys-ackles @prettywhenipanic @sunnyteume <3

butcher taglist: @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @losers-clvb @drakulana @bejeweledinterludes @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @love2liz @angelicjackles @tinas111 @lunaleah @mostlymarvelgirl @kaz-2y5-spn @bohoooitsme @n3lly-h3artz @deangirlsstuff67 @fratboychrisera <3

#this might cure me #vee’s recs! •̩̩͙⁺゜

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insensiblelimerence · 27 days ago

Text

sitting pretty

content warning/s & wordcount: 18+!!!, NSFW, subby!sammy, basically porn without plot, minor fluff at the end, smut (kissing, drooling, face sitting, masturbation, oral/cunnilingus, p in v, biting, manhandling, dirty talk, begging, whining, edging, coming inside), seriously there's so much. 3k

let's all thank @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth because i wouldn't have been able to do this with a certain ask being sent to me. i actually adore you, with a gross little cherry on the top. <3

Sam’s always been used to getting what he wants from you.

Big, beautiful thing like him—broad-shouldered, warm-eyed, polite to strangers and devastating in bed—he usually doesn’t even have to ask. Most nights, one look from under those long lashes is enough to get you on your knees. And you’re happy to do it. You love him. Love that mouth, that size, that sweetness. Love the way he always gets so soft and grateful when you touch him.

But tonight?

Tonight, you’ve decided he’s going to learn how it feels when you decide.

When you set the pace.

When he is the one left whining, begging, losing himself a little more each time your fingers ghost just shy of where he needs you most.

He doesn’t know that yet, of course.

Not when he walks through the motel room door, bloodied and scuffed and brimming with adrenaline, pupils blown wide. He’s already unbuckling his belt like it’s a given. Like it’s inevitable that he’ll press you up against the wall, mutter some slick little line about how much he needs to be inside you, and you’ll just melt for it.

And oh, you could. You could let him. It would be good. It always is.

But then where’s the fun in that?

“You look smug,” you say, slow and sweet, from your place on the edge of the bed. “Didn’t know killing a wendigo meant you got to act like a brat.”

That makes him pause, eyebrows flicking up.

“I’m not a brat,” he says, voice already shifting toward something lower, that slow velvet he uses when he wants to coax you under him. “I’ll do that thing with my tongue, remember?”

Oh.

You smile.

Poor, stupid Sammy. He thinks he’s in control.

He doesn’t catch on—not right away. Not when you part your thighs slow, deliberate, like a promise. Not even when you pat the floor in front of you with a lazy flick of your fingers and say, “On your knees, baby.”

He just tilts his head, eyes dragging up your bare legs like he’s trying to decide if he wants to play along. Like this is cute. Like you’re the one about to fall apart.

But he drops anyway. Of course he does. Six-four, two hundred pounds of muscle, kneeling obediently between your legs with his hands on your thighs like that’s where they belong.

Because it is.

“You gonna be good for me tonight?” You murmur, carding your fingers through his hair, nails grazing his scalp just hard enough to make him shiver.

He hums. Nods. Leans forward to kiss your inner thigh. “Always good. Just—” another kiss, higher now—“need you.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” you coo, dragging his hair back so he has to look up at you. His mouth falls open just slightly. His breath catches. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s already slipping. “You’ve been running around all night killing things. Did you think you’d come back and get whatever you wanted?”

“I thought I’d come back and fuck you until we both passed out,” he says, grinning.

You laugh. It’s almost cruel.

“You’re not fucking me tonight.”

That wipes the smirk clean off his face.

“What?”

You lean down, grip his jaw, and press your mouth to his in a kiss so slow it makes his thighs tense. You bite his bottom lip, pull back, and smile against his mouth.

“You’re gonna sit there like a good little thing,” you murmur, lips brushing his, “and wait for me to decide what I want to do with you.”

He makes a sound at that. Like he’s been struck. His hips twitch involuntarily—because yeah, he’s already hard in his jeans. Already leaking for it. You can smell it, see the way he’s trying to stay composed while every part of him is coiling tight with want.

You reach down. Undo his belt. Pull him out.

God, he’s fucking huge like this. Hard and flushed and pretty. The kind of cock that makes your mouth water, even when you’ve had it a hundred times before.

But tonight?

Tonight, your plan is to just stroke him. Gentle. Barely anything at all. Just enough to make him ache. Thumb brushing over the head, then down the shaft, then off again. Every time his hips buck, you’ll stop.

“Ah—fuck,” he hisses, eyes fluttering shut.

You slap his cheek—light, but firm. “Eyes on me.”

His eyes snap open.

“That’s better,” you purr, cupping his jaw. “So pretty when you listen.”

He whimpers. Actually whimpers.

And you smile like you’ve just been handed the fucking moon.

“Don’t you dare come,” you say. “Don’t even think about it.”

He’s trembling already. Chest rising quick. Jaw clenched so tight it looks like it hurts.

You drag your nails down his stomach, kiss his flushed cheek, and whisper, “Good boy. My good, sweet boy.”

And that’s it. That’s when you feel it break. That little snap in his brain. That moment when all that post-hunt bravado slips down his spine and turns to submission.

He pants, choked, “please—please, just—touch me—”

You tilt your head. Smile.

“Oh, Sammy,” you murmur, stroking his cock once and watching his whole body jolt. “You don’t even know what begging looks like yet.”

He’s squirming now. That smart, smug hunter who walked in the door twenty minutes ago? Gone. Left in a puddle somewhere between your thighs and his pride. He’s flushed from his chest to his ears, and his lips are pink and slick from where you made him sit still and watch you suck your own fingers. The taste of yourself dripping down your knuckles while he whimpered for a turn.

You’d kissed his temple, his cheek, his throat. You’d kissed all around his mouth—not on it—because that would’ve been too kind. And then you’d pulled your panties aside and sat in his lap like a fucking throne. Not to fuck him. No. Just to grind. Just enough to let him feel how wet you were. How hot and swollen your cunt was, dragging against his cock—but never letting him inside.

Now?

Now you’re on your knees between his, and he’s already shaking.

“Please,” he pants, staring down at you like he’s dying. “Please, I can’t—I need it—”

You give him a slow blink. Drag your tongue up his cock in one, lazy stroke that makes his whole body jolt.

Then you stop. Let him twitch against your cheek, throbbing and dripping and flushed dark red. Let his own desperation paint him.

“You’re not even trying,” you murmur, tongue peeking out to lap at the precome slicking his tip. “That’s not begging, baby. That’s just whining.”

“F-fuck, I—please, I’m—been good, been so good for you—”

You wrap your lips around the head of his cock—just the head—and suck.

Hard.

You hollow your cheeks and look up at him, and he cries out. Hands gripping the edge of the mattress. Eyes rolling back. Body spasming like he might actually come—

So you pull off.

“No, no—fuck—don’t stop—”

You laugh. Cruel and sweet and devastating.

“Don’t stop?” You echo, rising up onto your knees and straddling his lap again. You run your slick cunt along his length, coating him in the mess you made just from watching him fall apart. “Sam, sweetheart, you don’t get to tell me what to do. Not when you’re this hard. This red. This close.”

You drag your nails down his chest. Watch him twitch. Whimper.

“God,” you murmur, rocking your hips slowly, “you’re so big. Can’t believe I ever let you fuck me without making you earn it.”

He’s crying now. You feel it before you see it—his chest hitching, his hands flexing, like he wants to grab you and can’t. Tears streaking down his flushed cheeks as he moans, broken: “please—I’ll do anything—I just—I wanna come, wanna be inside, wanna—you, please, just let me—”

You reach down. Grip his cock in your fist. Stroke it once. Twice.

His whole body bows like a prayer.

Then you stop again.

He sobs.

You smile.

“My poor thing,” you whisper, leaning in close enough to bite at his jaw. “You don’t know how to think anymore, do you?”

He shakes his head. Fast. Pathetic.

You kiss him. Filthy and messy and wet. Tongues tangling, his breath shuddering in your mouth as you press him down and let your cunt glide against the length of him again, again, again.

“You’re gonna be good,” you whisper into his mouth, “and wait. You’re gonna sit here and take it. Every little tease. Every stroke. Every second of me ruining you. And you’re gonna thank me.”

He nods, desperate, lips trembling. “T-thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

You hum, grinding harder. “Good boy.”

He whines like you’ve said something holy.

Your thighs are soaked. Dripping slick down his cock, your skin, his lap, like you’ve already come—but you haven’t. Not yet.

You’ve just been grinding. Just sliding your pretty little cunt up and down the length of him, teasing both of you with every pass. Your arms looped around his neck. Your lips on his. Sloppy, wet, desperate kisses. Teeth and tongue and spit and neither of you caring where one of you ends and the other begins.

“Fuck,” he gasps, rutting up into you again, his thighs twitching like he’s trying not to flip you over and fuck you into the mattress. “Can’t—can’t take much more, I—”

“I know, baby,” you breathe into his mouth. “You’ve been so good for me.”

You kiss him again—wet and open and filthy—until he whines.

And then, still rocking against him, you murmur: “Wanna ride your pretty face, Sammy.”

He gasps. Chokes on it. Eyes flutter wide like he can’t believe what you just said.

“Yeah?” You coo, biting at his bottom lip. “Wanna feel me on your tongue? Want me to drip all over that dumb, gorgeous face while you beg for it?”

His hips buck so hard it almost knocks you off balance. He nods—fast, frantic. His voice is a wreck: “Please—please, want it, wanna taste you, wanna make you come, I’ll be so good, I swear—”

You grind down on him in response, dragging your soaked slit along his cock until he whimpers, and then you slow again. Deliberate. Tormenting.

“Such a good boy,” you whisper, letting your lips brush his. “So big, so smart, but look at you now. Just a needy little mess.”

He moans at that. Like you’ve fed him ambrosia.

“Want your tongue,” you whisper, licking into his mouth. “Want your whole face wet with it. Want you to make me come until I forget my name.”

He nods, practically vibrating. “Yes, yes, please, I—fuck, please, just let me, please—”

You kiss him. Soft this time. Gentle. Sweet.

Then you climb off his lap.

He whines in protest, cock bouncing against his stomach, twitching like he might come just from that. But you hush him.

“Lie down,” you murmur. “Arms at your sides. Don’t move.”

He obeys like a man possessed.

And you? You crawl up his body, slow as sin. Kiss your way up his ribs. His chest. His throat. And then you straddle his face like it’s your fucking throne.

His mouth opens before you even touch him.

His tongue is pressed flat against you, slow and deep and trembling. You’ve got your thighs clamped around his head and your hands in his hair, rocking gently against his mouth while the first orgasm rolls through you like a drug.

You cry out—soft, broken—hips twitching, cunt clenching around nothing as you ride the high. And Sam? Sam’s moaning into it. Like he’s grateful. Like this is all he’s ever wanted.

“Good boy,” you pant, breathless, still grinding against his mouth. “God, you’re so good for me, Sam—so good—don’t stop, don’t you dare stop—”

He doesn’t. He can’t. His tongue is soaked. His lips are swollen. His eyes are fluttering shut beneath you and he’s still licking like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

You’re already climbing again.

“Fuck—fuck—baby, gonna come again—”

That’s when you feel it. His mouth stutters. He moans—high, almost pained—and starts to mumble something against your cunt.

You blink, dazed, panting as you lift just enough to hear him speak.

He’s wrecked. Face red and soaked, pupils blown, lips glistening with spit and your slick. He looks like he’s been crying—has been crying—and when he speaks, his voice is shaking:

“I—fuck—you need to stop, or I’m gonna—I’m gonna come, I’m gonna waste it, I can’t—I’m gonna fucking blow just from tasting you—”

You gasp. Actually gasp. Eyes wide, spine arching, pussy clenching around nothing because fuck. That’s the hottest thing you’ve ever heard. You glance down your body—past your glistening thighs, past the wreck of Sam’s face, to where his cock is twitching against his stomach. Leaking, flushed, aching.

He’s barely been touched. You haven’t let him fuck anything—not your mouth, not your hand, not your cunt—and he’s so close he’s begging for mercy.

You shift your hips slowly, letting the slick from your pussy drip onto his chest.

“Oh, Sammy,” you purr, voice all syrup and sin. “You gonna come without being inside me?”

He whines. Tries to say something—fails.

“You poor thing. You’ve been so good.” You lean forward, kiss the tip of his nose, then whisper—wet and filthy—into his mouth:

“Wanna come in my mouth?” A pause. A tremble. “In my pussy?”

His chest heaves. He’s twitching now, hips jerking involuntarily.

“Wanna paint my face?”

That one makes him shiver—full body.

You smile. Cruel. Sweet. Devastating. “Or maybe…” you breathe, grinding your slick cunt against his chest while he groans, “you wanna come in my ass, pretty boy.”

He growls. Actually fucking growls.

Next thing you know?

You’re on your back. Spun like a ragdoll. Sam’s hands are under your thighs, pushing your legs up, spreading you open while he kneels between them and lines his cock up to your dripping cunt.

“I let you get away with too much,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You fucking torture me. You know that?”

You’re giggling. Breathless. Blissed out.

“And you love it,” you purr, just as he slides in. Slow. Thick. Stretching you open with every agonising inch.

You both moan. Loud. Broken. Your head falls back against the pillow, and Sam’s forehead drops to your shoulder as he sinks in all the way, shaking like a man on the edge of ruin.

“Fuck,” he pants. “Fuck, you feel so good—been dreaming about this, been going fucking insane—”

“You earned it,” you breathe, nails dragging down his back. “Such a good boy, Sammy. Such a sweet, patient, obedient thing—”

He thrusts.

Hard. Deep. You cry out, legs wrapping around him instinctively as he starts to fuck you like he’s trying to crawl inside your body and live there.

“You—ngh—you get away with fucking everything,” he grits, hips slamming into yours. “Say the filthiest shit—ride my face like it’s yours—edge me for hours—and I let you. I let you. I fucking let you—”

You’re laughing again. Wrecked and full and gasping.

“Because you love me,” you manage to whisper, mouth at his ear.

And he groans—deep and guttural—because you’re right. He does. And he’s going to prove it by fucking you until your legs shake and your cunt milks every drop from his cock.

He’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Like if he stops, the world might end.

You’re both slick with it—sweat and spit and everything he’s begged for tonight. His hands are under your thighs, keeping you open and tilted just right so he can slide in deep, grind against that spot that makes your breath hitch and your nails bite into his back.

He’s trying to talk. Trying to say something filthy. Something about how you drive him insane. About how you ruined him. But the words keep falling apart between clenched teeth and groans.

His rhythm is frenzied. The control he always fights so hard to keep? Gone. He slams into you again and again, chasing the aftershocks of your second orgasm while chasing his own. Your body’s limp beneath him, boneless with pleasure, and still—still—you want more.

He groans into your mouth, kissing you like he’s drowning.

And you?

You whisper it right into that open, panting mouth.

“You’re mine.” A breath. A grind of your hips. “You’re so sweet when you behave.”

That does it.

He grunts. Bites your shoulder. And spills into you with a broken, choked sound that barely qualifies as your name.

You feel every pulse of it—deep, hot, possessive.

His whole body trembles. Thighs shaking. Arms locked tight around you like you might slip away if he loosens his grip even a little.

You moan at the sensation—wet and full and spent—hips twitching in lazy, overstimulated waves beneath him.

Then, with a groan, he collapses onto his side—bringing you with him. One arm stays around your back. The other cradles your thigh. He keeps himself buried inside you as you both catch your breath, your leg slung over his hip.

The first thing you manage to say—between heavy exhales and laughter—is, “God, you’re so sweaty.”

He grumbles against your collarbone. “Yeah? Wonder who’s responsible for that.”

You grin, nuzzling into the heat of his chest, ready to answer—but he cuts you off with a kiss, slow and sticky and smug.

“Don’t say it,” he mutters. “You’ll only incriminate yourself.”

You hum. “You gonna punish me for it?”

“Not right now.” His voice is raspy and worn-out, and it makes your heart flutter. “Right now, you’re just gonna lie here and deal with it.”

You huff a breathy laugh. “Bossy.”

“Damn right.”

But his arms tighten. His lips brush your neck, then your shoulder, then your jaw. He’s not letting go. Not for a second.

“Shower in a minute,” he mumbles. “Just wanna stay like this for a bit.”

You’re about to tease him again when he leans in—presses his nose to your damp throat—and murmurs against your skin:

“You’re perfect.” A kiss. “You’re fucking perfect.”

You go quiet. Let him hold you. Let him stay inside you. Let him love you like this—sweaty and breathless and owned.

And you think, if this is how the world ends, you’ll die happy.

author note/s: mindless filth. that's all i have to say. i hope y'all liked it. i know i did. all the love.

sam taglist: @deansbeer @sacr1ficialang3l @angelicjackles @tinas111 @ccainesideboob @anxiety-prime-max @vmiina @deanspookiebear @bejeweledinterludes @love2liz @lunaleah @angelically-yours @kblognar @angrydragon90 @mj-102009 @ohangeleyes @sunnyfuffly @prettyboy56 @mostlymarvelgirl @n3lly-h3artz @deangirlsstuff67 @angellust333 @sunnyteume @fandomchik @0ccvltism @insensiblelimerence @podiumackles @acklesarchives @itshellfire @livya99 <3

#this. this is the fic #yall can stop making them now #imagining later seasons Sammy with this too #nghhhh #vee’s recs! •̩̩͙⁺゜

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insensiblelimerence · 1 month ago

Text

stockholm sanctum part ii: SEVERANCE

content warning/s & word count: 18+!!!, i cannot stress enough how dark this one is, NSFW!!!!!, restraints (hand cuffs), foul language, dark!ben & dark!butcher, burning, spanking, punishment, psychological breakdown, smut (fingering, overstim, clitoral stimulation), mild dubcon, condescending behaviour, mean ben, passing out, i may have missed some. 10.2k

Time passed.

Or maybe it rotted.

It didn’t flow like it used to—it sat, thick and curdled, clinging to the walls of the boiler room like mould. The clock above the radiator had stopped days ago—weeks maybe—and now it just hung there like a joke, hands frozen at a time that had nothing to do with you. There was no sun. No moon. No shifting shadow to mark the hours. Just the same sickly wash of yellow light bleeding in through the crack beneath the door. Dim. Unnatural. Always there.

You stopped counting somewhere after the third day. Or the fifth. Or the ninth? It didn’t matter.

The first couple weeks, they’d kept you cuffed. Steel around your ankle, the chain stretched from the radiator like a leash nailed to the wall. You slept on your side most nights, curled into the ache of your own limbs, the mattress damp beneath you, the shirt sticking to your skin with sweat that never dried. Your hair clumped at your temple. Your wrists bore the faint, fading kiss of plastic burns. But you didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. That part of you had been scraped out in the dark days, back when you still believed screaming might change something.

And then—things changed.

Not all at once. Not with ceremony. Just… gradually. Like the temperature rising in a pot of water you didn’t realise you were boiling in.

It started with a menu.

That morning, the door creaked open as it always did. No announcement. No warning. Butcher walked in, grim as usual, stubble sharpening the angles of his jaw, his coat streaked with something you didn’t want to identify. He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked past you—where you sat half-upright, blinking sleep from your lashes—and dropped something flat and folded onto the mattress.

A takeout menu. Glossy. Greasy fingerprints smudging the corner. You stared at it.

He lit a cigarette. Blew out smoke in a slow, purposeful line. Then nodded toward the crumpled sheet.

“Pick somethin’.”

Your eyes snapped up to his face. He wasn’t looking at you. He was digging through his coat pocket for a pen.

“I’m not feedin’ you soggy fuckin’ noodles again,” he said. “Neither is Ben.”

You blinked. Your voice came out hoarse.

“…What?”

He shot you a look, sharp and irritable, like you’d interrupted something sacred.

“You fuckin’ deaf?” He snapped. “Go on. Circle somethin’. Before I change my mind.”

He held the pen out to you, between two fingers. Not close enough to touch. Just enough for you to reach for it.

You did. And you didn’t question it.

You didn’t try to stab him with the pen. Didn’t try to slide it into your sleeve or hide it in the folds of your blanket. You didn’t even think about using it to unlock the ankle cuff—which, you now noticed, hadn’t been refastened the night before. The chain had been looped around the radiator and set beside you like a threat on standby, not a sentence.

You just… took the menu, pressed it against your knee, and circled the pad thai. Your hand trembled slightly as you wrote. You didn’t speak, but you were starving.

That night, they brought it.

Ben walked in with a plastic bag, swinging it by the handles like a gift. You were already sitting up, legs folded, hair pinned back with a twist of your own fingers. He dropped the bag beside you with a grin, then pulled up the nearest chair and sat backwards on it, arms slung over the back, eyes watching you like he was waiting for something funny to happen.

Butcher came in behind him, coat slung over one shoulder, file folder under one arm. He didn’t say a word. Just sat at the table and flipped it open, skimming through page after page like your hunger wasn’t the loudest thing in the room.

You peeled back the takeout lid and tried not to inhale the smell too fast. The peanut sauce was thick and sweet, the noodles clumped together. Spring rolls, slightly cold. A small plastic packet of chili oil folded neatly on the side.

Ben plucked it from the edge of your carton without asking and tore the corner open with his teeth. He poured half of it into your food, then wiped his thumb along the seam and sucked the oil from his skin.

“Better with heat,” he said, voice low and lazy, mouth shiny.

You stared at him. Said nothing. Took a bite. He didn’t stop watching.

Butcher flipped a page in his file. “She’s not screamin’. That’s somethin’.”

Ben hummed his agreement. “Think she’s enjoyin’ the food.”

“I’d fuckin’ hope so,” Butcher muttered. “Ain’t cheap feedin’ hostages.”

You didn’t correct them.

Didn’t remind them that this wasn’t kindness. That it didn’t matter how good the sauce was or whether they brought napkins this time. You didn’t ask why the cuff hadn’t been fixed properly.

You just kept eating. And when Ben reached out to wipe a smudge of sauce from your chin with the pad of his thumb, you didn’t bite him. You didn’t even flinch.

Another day bled through the boiler room walls, same as the last. You couldn’t tell if it was morning or midnight. The air sat the same—wet with steam and stillness, bloated with the scent of rust and old breath. You’d been drifting in and out of a shallow, uneasy sleep when the door opened with its familiar groan and boots scuffed across the concrete.

Ben walked in, lazily swinging a small duffel bag in one hand. He let it drop at your feet with a thud, standing over you with a half-smile tugging at his mouth.

“Bath stuff,” he said, like it was a gift. “You stink.”

You stared up at him, bleary-eyed, wrists limp in your lap. Slowly, you reached for the zipper. The bag uncoiled beneath your fingers—inside: a bottle of cheap shampoo, a bar of cracked soap, deodorant, a plastic hairbrush, and a disposable pink razor. Nothing fancy. Nothing delicate. The kind of care package they’d give a stray before throwing it in a cage again.

Behind him, Butcher leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight with something unreadable. “You can watch,” he muttered to Ben. “She runs, you know what to do.”

“Oh, I get to watch?” Ben’s grin widened, obscene and wolfish. “Fuckin’ score.”

That was all the warning you got before the chain slipped free from your ankle with a soft metallic clink. No grand show. No threatening speech. Just gone. The skin beneath it felt tender, raw with sudden air. But you didn’t have long to process it—because Ben’s hand was already on the back of your neck, big and warm and deceptively gentle, the pressure firm enough to steer but soft enough to mock. Like he could snap your spine or nuzzle you, and he hadn’t decided which.

You were marched—half-led, half-dragged—through the warehouse, barefoot on piss-damp concrete, your hair hanging limp over one shoulder. The building groaned around you like it resented being awake. Rusted pipes dripped somewhere in the distance. The lights flickered. And all the while, Ben’s hand never left your neck.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t joke. He didn’t whistle, though you knew him to be the type. The silence said more. It curled around your ribs and sat there like a second set of hands.

He brought you to a side room just off the main hall—no bigger than a janitor’s closet, with a chipped enamel tub squatting under a humming strip light and a bucket of warm water steaming on the floor. There was no curtain. No door. Just a threshold, and Ben standing in it like a guardian devil.

He didn’t follow you in. He didn’t need to. He just leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes raking slow down your spine as you knelt beside the bucket and began to peel off your clothes. Not because you wanted to. Not because it felt safe. But because being clean felt like a privilege you couldn’t refuse.

You washed in silence. Bucket by bucket. Pouring warm water over your shoulders, lathering your skin until it stopped smelling like filth and fear and days-old sweat. You scrubbed your arms until they were red, scraped your fingernails clean with the edge of the soap, rinsed your hair in the grimy basin. You didn’t look at him. But you felt him. Felt his stare tracking every motion, every shift of your hips, every time your shoulder blades flexed or your thighs shifted in the low light.

He said nothing for a long while.

Then—softly, almost like it was private—Ben murmured, “You look better clean.”

You paused, water sliding down the slope of your back.

“Shame, really,” he added. “I was startin’ to like the feral thing.”

You turned then, slow and steady, arm dripping as you reached behind you—then hurled the bar of soap toward him with every ounce of muscle you had. It cut through the air and he caught it mid-arc without flinching, his grin never faltering.

“Still got that fight,” he drawled, tossing the soap into the air and catching it again. “Knew you were my kinda girl.”

You said nothing. Just turned back to the bucket, shoulders bristling with heat, cheeks burning—not from shame, but from the knowledge that you’d let them take something from you. Even if it was small. Even if it was just a fucking bath.

He let you finish in silence, but the damage was already done. You felt it. The air was thinner now. Closer. And no matter how much you scrubbed, you couldn’t wash off the way his eyes had felt on your skin.

Eventually, the cuff stayed unlocked.

It was quiet, how it happened. Just one night, the cold bite of steel didn’t close around your ankle, and no one reached to fix it. The chain lay limp beside the mattress, curled like a discarded leash. You didn’t ask why. They didn’t explain. The freedom hovered there, fragile and unfinished, like a door cracked open in a dream.

You still slept on the mattress. Still folded yourself small beneath that same thin sheet, the scent of rust and mildew pressed into your skin like it belonged there. You still flinched when Butcher raised his voice from across the room, instincts hardwired into your spine. You still glared when Ben leaned in too close, especially when his smirk said he liked it. But your limbs were your own again. Your wrists bore no bindings. Your steps echoed freely when you paced the concrete floor. The air moved different in your lungs—sharper, almost sweet.

And you didn’t run.

Not because you couldn’t. But because… you didn’t want to. Not yet.

Sometimes they made you sit at the table with them while they talked shop. Tactical crap. Recon, Vought movements, Supe intel. They never stopped being soldiers, not even with you curled up across the room in someone else’s hoodie. But now and then, they slid a mug your way. A glass. Even a snack. Nothing elaborate, but it made something in your chest ache.

Sometimes you sassed back. Gave them hell in a voice hoarse from too many nights without use. Ben always took the bait. He'd lean in from across the table, cock his head with that lazy, lopsided grin and say things like, “Bratty little thing, huh? Christ, you got a mouth on you.” But his voice didn’t carry malice anymore. Just heat. Fondness that tasted dangerous.

Once—just once—Butcher looked over at you mid-conversation, eyes dragging up from your bare legs curled on the chair to the sleeves of the hoodie you hadn’t taken off in days.

“You’re startin’ to act like you live here,” he muttered, like it was a joke.

You didn’t answer.

Because maybe… you were.

It hit hardest at night. When the building went still and the cold wrapped around the bones of the warehouse, and the only warmth came from the fabric draped around your frame—their fabric. One night, Ben had walked in holding a folded sweatshirt in one hand, tossed it toward you like it meant nothing.

“You looked cold,” he said, already turning away.

You caught it midair. Unfolded it. Smoke, sandalwood, and something him rolled out of the cloth like a secret. You hesitated—just for a second—before pulling it over your head. It swallowed you. Hung heavy. Safe.

You slept in it that night. You didn’t say anything in the morning. Neither did he.

But when you caught him watching you later—elbow braced against the doorframe, one brow arched like he was undressing you with just his mind—your stomach flipped in a way it shouldn’t have. In a way you didn’t want to name.

He didn’t leer. Not exactly. But his gaze raked over you, slow and heavy, and when your eyes met his, he gave a half-smile. One that knew exactly what he was doing.

“You keep wearin’ that, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low, honey-thick with threat and something too tender to be clean. “And I’m gonna forget we’re supposed to be keepin’ you alive.”

The implication in his words was heavy, but you said nothing. Just pulled the sleeves over your hands and curled further into the seat.

You were becoming something else now. Something in-between. Not free. Not prisoner, not pet, not partner. Just… theirs.

And somewhere, in the back of your mind, you felt it settle. The sharp click of a trap closing. But not on your wrists. Not your ankles. This time, it locked its teeth around something softer. Something deeper.

You didn’t run. You weren’t even sure you wanted to.

A few more days passed before anything really noteworthy happened again.

The kind of days that bled together like watercolour left out in the rain—washed out, indistinct. It was late now. That kind of late. Where time had stopped pretending to be linear and everything felt like it was sliding sideways. The air had thickened. The walls were breathing too close. Your skin felt thin, translucent almost, like one touch would tear it open.

Butcher had gone hours ago. Said something about recon. Or maybe he just needed space. Needed to get away from the static that had started to buzz between you and Ben like a wire about to snap. You hadn’t asked where he was going. He hadn’t told you. Just tossed a coat over one shoulder and disappeared into the dark with a grunt and a half-lie.

Now, it was just you and Ben. And the spliff. Thick, skunky, rolled fat and indulgent between his fingers. The smoke spiralled upward in slow-motion ghosts, curling and writhing in the amber light like it knew something you didn’t. He sat beside you on the mattress, boots still on, legs spread wide in that way he always did when he wanted to take up space. Wanted you to see him.

His jacket had been shrugged off hours ago—discarded somewhere behind him in a pile of leather and sweat. Just the black undershirt now, clinging to his chest in places that made your stomach pull tight. The thin fabric framed his shoulders like parentheses, damp with heat where it stretched across the hard line of his torso.

The joint dangled from his lips, fire-end burnt out. He relit it with a flick of his lighter, that small, telltale clink in the silence. One drag—deep and deliberate. He held the smoke in his lungs until it looked like he might swallow it. Then he exhaled with a low, satisfied sound, like it had melted something in his ribs.

He turned his head toward you. His smirk was lazy. Heavy-lidded.

“Wanna hit?”

You stared at him a second too long. He was golden in the low light. All muscle and molten danger, stretched beside you like the devil come to make a deal.

You hesitated.

He grinned, teeth glinting through the smoke.

“C’mon. I don’t bite.” A pause. Then, softer. “Unless you ask real nice.”

You took it.

The paper was still warm from his fingers, from his mouth. It felt illicit, pressing it to your lips like that, but you didn’t flinch. You inhaled—and the burn hit first, raw and immediate, scraping its way down your throat like flame. But then came the warmth. A thick, slow-spreading buzz beneath your skin. Like syrup. Like velvet.

You took another drag. Then another.

Everything began to hum. The mattress. The air. Your fingertips. Your lungs were warm now. Your bones loose. You let your head tilt toward him, just slightly. Your thigh brushed his. He didn’t move.

“See?” He said, voice gone low and velvet-rough. “Told you you’d warm up to us.”

You exhaled. Lazy. Your eyes were half-lidded, lashes brushing your cheeks. You couldn’t quite find it in yourself to glare.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Not flattery, sweetheart.” His voice lilted, slow and teasing. “Just facts.”

He leaned back on one elbow, letting the joint hang between his fingers. Smoke drifted from it in slow curls, catching the light as it rose. His knee nudged against yours again—this time deliberate. You felt the heat of it through the fabric of his slacks. You weren’t sure when you’d started sitting so close.

“You remember that first night?” He asked, like it was casual. “When you told me you’d bite me?”

You rolled your eyes, but the heat beneath your skin betrayed you.

“Still would.”

Ben’s grin split wider. A flash of something darker lit his eyes.

“I fuckin’ hope so,” he murmured. “I like girls with teeth.”

The spliff crackled in his grip. He flicked ash off the end—onto the floor this time, just inches from your bare thigh. The ember landed warm. Too close. A tease.

His voice turned quiet. “You ever get off on it?” He asked. “Pain?”

You froze.

The question slid into the room like a blade. Smooth. Unassuming. But sharp.

Your gaze snapped to his, and he was watching you now—closely. No trace of a smile. Just that steady, invasive stare. Like he was mapping every twitch in your face. Every beat behind your ribs.

There was no malice in the question. That almost made it worse. It was clinical. Curious. Personal in a way that felt dangerous.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t let you. Just let the silence stretch between you, thick with smoke and something hotter than heat. Something older. Something wrong.

“What the fuck kind of question is that?”

You meant for it to sound biting. Sharp. But it came out a little thinner than you wanted. A little too breathless.

Ben just grinned. That slow, crooked thing that looked more like a weapon than a smile.

“An honest one,” he said, voice lazy, dragging syllables like a match along sandpaper. His eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t wander. “You’ve got that look. Like you’re still fightin’. Still barkin’. But deep down?” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “You like the leash.”

You laughed—but it was bitter. Scorn scraped raw.

“You’re sick.”

“Nah,” he said, almost sweet. “Just observant.”

He leaned forward. The joint was burning low now, ember curling dangerously close to the filter. He took another drag, eyes never leaving yours. Then he passed it back—just like before. You reached out. Fingers brushed. And maybe it was the heat from the spliff, or maybe it was just him, but your hand buzzed where his skin had touched yours.

He didn’t lean away this time. He stayed right there, elbow to knee, his shoulder brushing yours with every slow breath.

“Bet you’re one of those little pain-whores,” he murmured, and this time his voice dropped like a weight—gravel dragged through honey. Thick. Unapologetic. “All mouth, ’til someone grabs your throat and makes you say please.”

Your breath caught like a snare tightening.

"Fuck you."

The words came out thin. Defensive. But not convincing.

“Again with the fuckin’ threats,” he said, grinning wider. There was something dangerous behind his eyes now. Not rage. Not cruelty. Just a kind of smug, erotic certainty—like he already knew how this would play out, and he was only watching to see when you would figure it out.

“You ever think about how pretty you looked on your knees that first night?” He asked. “That look in your eyes? Like you wanted to tear me apart and beg at the same time.”

You shifted, instinctual—pulling away, or trying to. But he was faster. Always was.

His hand dropped to your thigh.

And you froze.

It wasn’t just the touch—it was the claim in it. Casual. Proprietary. The way his fingers spread just slightly, heat bleeding through your skin like it knew what was beneath. You didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. You felt the joint slip from between your fingers, trembling slightly as Ben took it from your grip.

Then—sizzle.

You didn’t even see him move. Just felt the burn bloom.

A white-hot kiss to your wrist as he pressed the cherry of the joint right to the thin skin there—just long enough. Just enough to make it count. You screamed—not loud, but sharp. Raw. A sound dragged up from somewhere deeper than you wanted to admit.

Pain bloomed, bright and immediate. Your body jerked, one hand flying out, striking his chest with enough force to knock the air from your own lungs.

He caught you. Of course he did. Big hand snatching your wrist mid-swing, holding it there, suspended in the space between you. He turned it toward the light—examining the burn like a prizefighter admiring a bruise.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, eyes locked on the blistering bloom. “Look at that. That’s gonna mark real nice.”

“You’re a psycho,” you hissed, but your voice trembled. Not from fear, from something far worse.

He didn’t flinch. Just looked at you—really looked. Then, slowly, he dragged his gaze down. Over the curve of your hip, the slack slide of your hoodie, the flash of bare thigh where the hem had ridden up. His smirk sharpened.

“And you’re fuckin’ soaked, ain’tcha?”

You shoved him.

Hard.

He let you. Didn’t even resist. He rocked back, laughing like it was the best goddamn joke he’d ever heard. Loud and open and genuine, the sound spilling across the room, bouncing off cement and metal and back into your ears like it belonged there.

You sat there—heart hammering, wrist throbbing, lungs tight. The fabric of his hoodie had slipped down your shoulder, exposing collarbone and heat-flushed skin. You didn’t fix it. Didn’t even flinch.

You just watched him. Watched him like you were still trying to hate him. And maybe—maybe—you still did, but something was shifting. Something was folding in on itself. You could feel it. In the heat between your legs. In the weight of his gaze. In the way your skin still burned—not just from the spliff, but from him.

You were still caged, but you weren’t snarling anymore. And he knew it.

That was when the door opened.

No warning. No sound of boots down the hall. Just the creak of old hinges and the sudden drop in temperature like the air itself was holding its breath. Butcher stepped inside. Dark coat still clinging to his shoulders, collar damp with city grime. His eyes swept the room once—landed on you, then flicked to Ben. The thick stink of weed and sweat still hung in smoke between the low ceiling beams.

Ben didn’t move much. Just stretched a little, lazy as ever, flicking the last curl of ash off the edge of the mattress. One knee bounced.

“She needed loosening up,” he said, voice low and amused.

Butcher stared for a beat longer. Like he was trying to piece it together—not surprised, just annoyed to be walking into it now instead of ten minutes earlier.

“She needed loosening up,” he repeated flatly. Then looked at you. “And what in the fuck’s that mean?”

You didn’t blink. Just held up your wrist like a symbol. The skin was red and raw, a small angry welt bubbling beneath the surface. It still stung. You didn’t show it.

“He burned me,” you said. Calm. Cold. “Right here.”

Butcher’s gaze dropped, clocked the mark. He didn’t flinch ,didn’t raise his voice. Just pulled out a cigarette from behind his ear, lit it slow—like he’d already known how this night was gonna end.

“And you let him?”

Your chin lifted. Slowly. That familiar smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth—barely there, but dangerous.

“Didn’t really give me a fucking choice.”

That was it. The click. The shift in air pressure before a storm. Butcher exhaled, smoke curling sharp and mean from his nose. His fingers brushed down the seam of his coat, like he was calming himself.

“Right,” he said. Voice dry. Sharp enough to cut glass. “Wall.”

You blinked.

“…What?”

His eyes snapped to yours.

“Wall. Now.”

Something inside you seized. A tension that coiled too tight, too fast. Your mouth opened, but nothing came. Beside you, Ben shifted—sat up straighter, like someone just rang the bell at the start of a title-fight. His grin was already tugging at the edges of his mouth, the amusement loud in his breath.

“She’s gonna cry,” he drawled. “Callin’ it now.” A low chuckle. “Fuck, this is better than pay-per-view.”

Your stomach twisted. Heat bloomed sharp and low—but your legs moved. You didn’t want them to, you didn’t mean for them to.

The wall was rough concrete, cold even through the thin fabric of the hoodie. You pressed your palms flat against it, fingers splayed. You could feel every pit and crack in the stone—every place it had crumbled over the years, every edge sharp enough to cut. You didn’t look back.

Butcher’s voice came behind you, lower now. Controlled. But there was steel coiled beneath it, the kind that only got worse the softer it got.

“Wanna act like a fuckin’ brat?” He asked. “Fine. We’ll treat you like one. That clear?”

You hesitated.

“…Yes.”

“Louder.”

“Yes.”

The silence afterward was sudden and sharp, like someone had sucked the air clean out of the room.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” he said, voice steady as stone. “You’re gonna repeat after me. You get it wrong, I’m gonna correct you. After every correction, you thank me. Understand?”

You stiffened.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding—”

CRACK.

His palm landed hot across the top of your thigh. A clean, blistering slap that echoed off the stone walls. Your body jolted, instinctively buckling toward the concrete. Your cheek brushed it, and you tasted dust.

“Try again.”

Your voice shook. But you made it come out.

“…Understood.”

“Good girl.”

Ben let out a low whistle. You couldn’t see him, but you felt him—his grin, his gaze, the way he was probably biting his fist to keep from laughing like it was the best show he’d seen in months.

“Right then,” Butcher said. “Let’s get started.”

Ben let out a long, low whistle behind you, the sound sharp and smug, like the flick of a match in the dark. “Look at her,” he drawled, voice thick with heat and something perilously close to admiration. “Fuckin’ star student.”

You didn’t speak. Not yet. The wall in front of you loomed grey and pocked, the concrete still cool against your cheek where you'd rested it for just a moment. It didn’t feel like surrender. Not exactly. But it wasn’t rebellion either.

“I belong to The Boys.” Butcher’s voice was low. Measured. “Say it.”

Your throat tightened. You blinked once. Then—

“I... belong to The Boys.�� It came out quieter than you'd meant it to. A confession. A sentence. A curse. You swallowed and said it again, louder. “I belong to The Boys.”

"Good." His boots shifted behind you, a subtle scrape against the floor. He didn't touch you, not yet. But the weight of his presence settled heavy behind your spine. “Now say why.”

Your tongue felt dry. “I was taken because I fucked up.”

“Louder.”

“I was taken because I fucked up.”

“Attagirl.” Ben chuckled behind you, something filthy in the sound. It curled along your spine like smoke.

Butcher’s tone didn’t waver. “Say the next part.”

You hesitated. Your hands twitched at your sides. “I… do what I’m told.”

The pause was your mistake.

CRACK.

His palm met your thigh, the sound ricocheting off the walls, white-hot pain searing your skin. You gasped, legs almost giving beneath you. Your hand slapped the wall to steady yourself, the sting echoing louder in your bones than it did in the room.

“Again.”

Your voice shook. “I do what I’m told.”

“Thank me.”

The silence that followed was pure rebellion. One second. Two. And then—

CRACK.

The other thigh this time. Higher. Meaner. Your whole body jolted. You hissed between your teeth, fists curling against the wall.

“…Thank you,” you rasped, shame blooming behind your ribs like something rotten.

“Again.”

You did. Because you didn’t want to feel that heat again. Because part of you did.

“I belong to The Boys. I was taken because I fucked up. I do what I’m told. Thank you.”

The words were syrupy now, dripping slow from your tongue. Butcher stood behind you, silent, arms crossed. Ben was still seated, but you could feel his gaze—could feel it—tracking every twitch in your calves, every shift of fabric over flushed skin.

Again. And again. And again. The repetition carved a rhythm into your chest, a drumbeat beneath your sternum. By the sixth time, you didn’t wait for the order. You just spoke—voice raw, breath shivering.

“I belong to The Boys. I was taken because I fucked up. I do what I’m told. Thank you.”

The words didn’t sound like yours anymore.

Butcher stepped in close, the heat of him wrapping around you like a collar. You felt his breath at your neck, a low ripple of approval.

“Knew we’d get there eventually.”

And from behind, breathless, wrecked: “Fuck me…” Ben exhaled like a man winded. “I’m gonna need a minute alone.”

You didn’t turn around. You didn’t move. The sting on your thighs pulsed in time with your heartbeat, throbbing beneath the hem of the hoodie you still hadn’t taken off. You stared at the wall. At nothing. At the space where your dignity had once stood.

Your lips moved before your mind could stop them. Whispering it again. The chant. The confession. The curse.

I belong to The Boys.

And you realised—you hadn’t wanted to stop.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Not tense. Not cruel. Just... cavernous. Like the moment after a snowfall when even the air forgets how to move. Butcher stepped back. Ben hadn’t moved from his spot, smoke still curling from the corner of his mouth like the devil himself had settled in to enjoy the show.

You stayed facing the wall. Hands at your sides. Voice gone. Legs trembling.

And then—

A sniffle.

Soft. Barely audible. But there. It snuck out like a secret. You stiffened, tried swallowing it back down, but it was too late.

Ben sat forward in his chair. You didn’t need to look to know the shape of his grin.

“There it is,” he said, voice bright with wicked delight. “Told you she’d cry. Knew it. Fuckin’ called it the second she opened that mouth of hers.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. The wall in front of you blurred. But you didn’t scream, or run. You stood there—marked, quiet, burning. And in the cold stillness of that moment, you felt it click.

The first break in your mind, hairline and hollow, whispering a new truth through the silence:

You didn’t want to leave.

You wiped your nose with the sleeve of the hoodie—soft at the cuffs where it had frayed with wear, the threads catching on your split knuckles. The breath you took in felt too loud. The one you let out barely made it past your lips. You were quiet. Small. Not because you were trying to be, but because something inside you had curled in on itself.

Your voice came out low. Ashamed.

“…Butcher?” Silence. It stretched thin and taut between the three of you, like a live wire humming. “Can I go to sleep?”

A beat passed. Then another. And Ben—Ben, who was always first to speak, first to poke, to prod, to press—let out a low whistle. Mocking. Sharp-edged and gleaming.

“Look at that,” he crooned. “‘Please, Daddy, I’ve learned my lesson.’” His voice lilted with something syrupy and mean. “You sound wrecked, sweetheart.”

You didn’t rise to it. Not tonight, not after everything. You kept your eyes on the floor.

Butcher took a long drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring orange in the gloom. The light cast cruel shadows across his face—carving his features into something harsh. Unforgiving. Like stone worn down by war and consequence.

“You earned it,” he said at last. No softness. Just certainty. “Go on.”

So you turned slowly. Quietly. Like a child afraid to wake something sleeping. Your gaze stayed low. You moved across the floor without speaking, without thinking, each step tugging sharp along the welts on your thighs. The ache flared bright under your skin, each movement a reminder. A tally.

The mattress greeted you like an old wound. Familiar. Stale. Still stinking of mildew and dried sweat, of long nights and low voices. You lowered yourself onto it and curled onto your side, tucking your knees up, hoodie bunched at your chin like armour. Your body was hot, pulsing in the places they’d touched. The backs of your thighs felt sunburnt, torn open and left to hum. Your wrist throbbed where Ben’s spliff had kissed it, the burn tight and swollen now.

Ben stayed where he was, boots still propped on the edge of the table. He hadn’t moved. Just watched. His gaze sat heavy on your skin, thick with amusement and something else—something darker. Butcher stood by the door, cigarette between two fingers, exhaling smoke like it could keep the silence company.

You pressed your face into the hoodie. It smelled like them.

Not just the smoke and sweat you’d grown used to. But cedar. Old leather. Something warm and lived-in. Something that belonged in the crook of a couch or the backseat of a ‘70s muscle car, something that shouldn’t feel comforting but did. Something that wrapped around your ribs like a memory.

You hated that you knew it now. Hated more that you’d stopped pulling away.

Their voices blurred into the walls at first—muffled, low, barely more than sound. But then they sharpened. Not meant for you, but close enough to find you all the same.

“—can’t fuckin’ do that,” Butcher muttered, clipped and cold. “He’s not ready.”

Ben made a noise—too casual. “You don’t give the kid enough credit. He’s got a set. Even if his balls ain’t dropped.”

You blinked. Slow. Your cheek pressed flat against the stained mattress. You could feel something hard beneath it—maybe a rock, maybe a bolt, maybe nothing at all—but you didn’t move. You just… listened.

“Ain’t the fuckin’ point, mate,” Butcher snapped, quieter this time. The tension thickened, like oil in the air. “If Hughie so much as suspects what’s goin’ on in ‘ere…”

A breath. Not a sigh—a surrender. That tiredness you could only carry if you’d worn war on your shoulders. The kind that dug into the chest and stayed there.

“This whole fuckin’ operation falls apart.”

You heard the scrape of boots against concrete. The jingle of keys on a worn loop. Then the low scratch of a lighter.

And then a buzz.

Short. Sharp. Electronic. A phone. You felt it before you heard it—like the air changed, all static and pressure. The kind of stillness that came before something happened. The kind that warned you to stay small. Stay quiet.

“What?” Butcher’s voice cracked the silence like a whip, sharp and full of venom. “No. No—Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Hughie—calm the fuck down, would ya?”

You didn’t turn. Just listened, breath shallow, lashes fluttering against the pillow.

A pause. Then the thud of pacing—his boots striking the floor in erratic rhythm, the kind of walk that always meant something had gone tits-up.

“I told you not to touch the case until I got back… yeah, well, maybe if you listened instead of pissin’ yourself every five minutes—”

You could hear it in his tone—that creeping frustration that built into something volatile if left unchecked. But it wasn’t aimed at you this time. That almost made it worse.

“No, I don’t give two fucks if Frenchie said it looked safe—tell that cunt he’s not a fuckin’ bomb tech.”

Another pause. A rustle of fabric. A sigh. A long one, deep enough to sound like it rattled the bones in his chest.

“I’m comin’ there now. Try not to blow your fuckin’ arms off in the next ten minutes.”

The call ended with the unmistakable clack of a phone hitting denim, and then his voice shifted—closer, heavier, directed at the other predator in the room.

“Keep her where she is,” Butcher snapped. “I’ll be back when I’m fuckin’ back.”

Ben’s reply came with that lazy, drawling cadence that always made your skin itch.

“Roger that. I’ll guard the princess.”

The door creaked open. Then shut again.

Silence.

You didn’t breathe for a second too long. You knew what this meant. Ben always stayed when something was about to go wrong. He was the one they left behind to smirk through the fallout, to twist the screws tighter while the dust settled.

And sure enough—

“So…” The word came soft, slinking. “You want me to come over there? Give you a fuckin’ cuddle?”

You didn’t need to look. You felt the grin in his voice as it slithered across the room. Smoke and teeth. You kept your cheek pressed into the hoodie, tried not to let your breath change, but the air had shifted.

Your wrist burned. The cuff of the hoodie felt too tight now, twisted around your palm like a noose. Your body was trying to warn you. The way prey animals know before the chase begins.

The mattress dipped.

Ben.

He sat first. The springs groaned under his weight. Then he slid down, casual as ever, taking up the space you’d made your own—the one place you could fold into and pretend you weren’t in hell. One arm slung behind his head. The other stretching toward you like it was some lazy afterthought.

“Y’know,” he said, voice low and thick, “you’re real fuckin’ cute when you’re docile.”

His fingers brushed your hip. Barely there. Just enough to make your skin twitch.

You didn’t pull away.

"And you know what happens when Daddy’s not home, don’t you, sweetheart?"

The word landed like a blow.

You closed your eyes and sucked in a breath that didn’t help. You smelled him—faint traces of smoke, sweat, the faded spice of his cologne caught in the hoodie you wore like a brand. His thigh was against yours now. Warm. Solid. Unmoving.

He wasn’t touching you. Not really, but his presence folded around you like rot in the walls—quiet, suffocating, inescapable.

You had stopped trying to run.

The mattress shifted again. Just slightly. The kind of movement your body registered before your brain did—his weight aligning with yours, the give of the springs beneath your bodies. He didn’t speak at first, just let the moment stretch out, a rope slowly tightening between you.

Then—

“C’mon, doll,” he murmured. “Don’t go all shy on me now.”

His hand trailed up your side, featherlight. Callused fingers brushing the edge of the hoodie, ghosting over the cotton clinging to your ribs. It wasn’t invasive. Wasn’t obscene. But it made your throat tighten.

“Lemme see you.”

You stayed still.

He huffed softly—more amused than frustrated—like a teacher waiting for a particularly bratty student to crack.

“You rolled over for him easy enough,” he muttered. “Least you can do is show me that pretty face.”

His palm found your hip again. This time, it stayed. Warm. Grounding. Possessive. Fingers spread wide, resting in the dip between your waist and the swell of your ass where the fabric had ridden up.

“I ain’t gonna bite,” he said, and you could hear the smirk. “Not unless you use your manners.”

Still, you didn’t move.

Your body didn’t lurch, didn’t recoil, didn’t tense. There was no flinch. No resistance. Nothing except the soft, involuntary tremble in your breath, the rise and fall of your chest a little too fast. Your face remained tucked into the curve of his hoodie, lashes casting trembling shadows onto your cheeks. And that was all he needed.

Because you hadn’t stopped him.

So he kept going.

Ben leaned in like it was muscle memory. Like your skin had always been meant for him. His nose brushed the top of your head, the coarse ridge of it ghosting through strands of tangled hair. And then—that breath. Deep. Intentional. A slow inhale that dragged through the crown of your skull, down into the furnace of his chest.

“Fuck…” he breathed, voice low and shivering with something almost reverent. “You’re startin’ to smell like us.”

The words slid down your spine like a matchstrike. You swallowed, but didn’t speak.

He shifted just enough for you to feel the heat of his body aligned behind yours, chest to your back, knees nudged behind the crook of yours. A second breath followed the first—slower this time. Measured. Luxurious.

“Like smoke. Sweat. Blood. My clothes.” His lips brushed your temple. “Butcher’s hands.”

His palm drifted lower. It didn’t snake between your thighs—that would’ve been too obvious, too simple. Instead, it carved a slow path down the dip of your waist, over the rise of your hip, before curling around the swell of your ass with just enough pressure to register as possession. Then lower. Fingers dragging along the backs of your thighs, pausing just above the welts.

The welts Butcher left.

He didn’t touch them. Not at first.

He hovered.

“You still feel those?” He murmured, his voice dipped in sin and silk and something older than either. “Bet they’ll sting when you lie on ‘em.”

The pads of his fingers brushed closer—closer—until one grazed the swollen ridge of a welt. Just barely. Just enough to make your breath catch.

“Fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispered. Like it pained him. Like it pleased him too much. “Like art. Like you were made for it.”

You turned your head a fraction—barely a twitch—but he saw it. Felt it. That little tremor of movement was all the permission he needed. His hand shifted. One arm slid beneath you, cradling your waist, coaxing you onto your back—not with force, but with heat, with suggestion. With gravity.

You rolled, breath quick, eyes wide.

Ben loomed above you, eyes blackened at the edges, shadowed with something dangerous and fond all at once. His mouth was curled. Smug. Hungry. But softened by something darker—something gentler. Like he was admiring a painting he didn’t dare smudge.

“Lemme see your wrist, baby,” he said, quieter now.

You didn’t lift it, but you didn’t stop him when he took it.

His hand found your forearm—rough fingers curling around your skin like he already owned it—and he raised your wrist into the space between you. His gaze fell, reverent. He held it like something fragile. Like something that mattered. The burn pulsed red and angry, and he ran his thumb along the edge of it—not pressing—just tracing it. Just memorising.

“Bet it hurts when you press it.” His eyes lifted to yours. “Go on. Try it.”

You didn’t. But your lips parted. Breath slipping through like a secret you hadn’t meant to give away.

He watched everything. The flutter of your lashes, the way your throat moved when you swallowed, the heat blooming down your neck. He leaned in slowly—like he knew you’d let him. Like he wanted to be sure.

And then his hand slipped beneath the hem of the hoodie—his hoodie—fingertips skating up the warm stretch of your stomach. You inhaled sharply. Not in protest, but surprise. Surrender.

He moved like he was unwrapping something delicate. Like each inch of skin was a revelation. His palm passed over your ribs, fingers spread wide, brushing against bone and blood and breath. His thumb grazed the dip beneath your breast, and when you didn’t tense, didn’t turn away—he kept going. The cotton rose with his hand, slow and patient, until it bunched just beneath your collarbones, baring you to the cold air and his starving gaze.

A breath caught in his throat. His eyes drank you in.

And then—he smiled. Slow. Satisfied. Not like he’d won. Like he’d always known this moment would come. Like he’d carved it out of time with his own two hands.

“Knew you’d be soft under all that bark,” he murmured. His knuckles grazed the underside of your breast, and he didn’t flinch when your nipple hardened beneath the cold. “All that noise, and you’re just silk underneath.”

You hated how still you were.

Hated the way your skin shivered under his touch, but not from fear.

His hand pressed low on your hip, anchoring you. And then, with excruciating patience, his thumb drifted back up—slowly—circling your nipple with a laziness that bordered on cruel. He didn’t grope. He didn’t paw. He watched as your body responded, as heat bloomed behind your bellybutton and your breath caught again.

You didn’t stop him. And God help you, he knew it.

His hand moved lower.

Down over the soft dip of your stomach, slow enough to make you ache. His fingers slid past the elastic of your underwear, but didn’t dip inside—just stayed. Resting. Teasing. A presence you felt more than you could bear. The weight of him—warm, assured, deliberate—settled just below your navel, where his thumb traced slow, lazy circles against the flesh there like it was a canvas.

He didn’t push.

He didn’t need to.

“Butcher gave you a lesson,” he said softly. His voice wasn’t smug or cruel, it was quiet. Conversational. Like this was just another step, another rite of passage. “You want one from me too? A special one. Just ours.”

Your stomach fluttered. Your thighs clenched, instinctively, but you didn’t move away. You couldn’t. Not with his hand there. Not with his body so close. You couldn’t tell if you wanted to pull away—or pull him in closer and drown in it.

He still didn’t move his hand.

Didn’t press. Just kept it there, fingers curled against your skin like a threat and a promise. His voice dropped lower, syrup-thick and dark and sweet as honey left to burn.

“Not pain. Not unless you beg for it.” His thumb stroked once, a little firmer. “Not unless you ask real pretty.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

He shifted against you, sliding closer. His shoulder brushed yours. His thigh pressed tight to your outer one. You could feel the heat of him now, not just his body but the weight of his attention—every inch of his awareness focused on you. Watching you. Learning you.

His eyes moved over your face. Watching the stutter of your breath, the twitch of your fingers, the way your lips parted like you didn’t mean to. His gaze didn’t leer… it studied. Slowly. Patiently. Like he wanted to know exactly where you’d break.

“Say yes,” he said. Low. Like a secret. “That’s all you’ve gotta do. Say yes, and I’ll take care’a you.”

His fingers drifted lower.

Not insistent. Not greedy. Just there, resting on the heat of you through the thin cotton of your underwear. Barely pressing. Just... waiting. Like he already knew you’d give him what he wanted—he was just letting you realise it for yourself.

But you didn’t speak. You stared at the ceiling—at the way the light cracked across the concrete. At the spiderweb fracture that looked like it might grow and splinter and swallow you whole. You wanted to hate it. Wanted to pull away. Wanted to tell him to go to hell. But your hips didn’t move. Your mouth didn’t open to say no. And what burned worst of all was that somewhere, deep and awful and good, you didn’t want to stop it.

You breathed in. Shaky.

And then, softly—barely more than a breath: “...Yes.”

The silence that followed was thunderous. And then he smiled. Not wide. Not cocky. Not like he’d won. It was something quieter, something worse—like a priest hearing a confession he’d been waiting for.

“Attagirl,” he whispered.

Then he leaned in—kissed your cheek, slow and warm—and slid his fingers inside you like he’d always known exactly how you’d feel. His touch was careful. Two fingers, thick and warm, pushed in slow—no fumbling, no hesitation. Just in. Deep enough to stretch you, fill you, but not enough to make you cry out. Not yet.

He paused once he was inside, palm pressing against your mound like he could feel your heartbeat from the inside out.

He exhaled softly, the breath fanning across your jaw. “There she is,” he murmured, reverent now. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

He didn’t move fast. He wasn’t trying to rush. Wasn’t chasing a finish. This wasn’t about needing it—it was about showing you. About you giving it.

And he was going to make sure you knew the difference.

His fingers stroked—slow, deliberate curls—dragging along the walls of your body in a steady, obscene rhythm. Your thighs twitched against the mattress, your back arched just a little, breath shaking loose from your lungs.

His other hand trailed back up your body—warm and calloused—fingertips dragging across your ribs before cupping your breast like it was something precious. His thumb swept across your nipple, round and round, in circling passes that made your breath stutter.

“You like that?” He asked. His voice teased, right on the edge of mockery. But it never quite landed cruel. “You like bein’ touched after everything we did to you? After all that barkin’ and biting?”

You bit your lip. Tried to hold it back.

He pressed his thumb down lower. Found your clit, rubbed once—just once—light, delicate, maddening, and your hips jerked. Not a lot, but enough.

“Thought you were tough,” he breathed. “Thought you had teeth.”

He curled his fingers inside you.

You gasped—sharp and desperate, voice catching like it couldn’t decide whether to fight or thank him. He grinned.

“Fuckin’ knew it.” His breath scraped along your cheek. “Knew the second I saw you. That mouth, that fire—just meant you’d fall harder when someone finally made you feel good.”

He pressed his nose into your hair, inhaled deep again. Again. Like he was trying to memorise it.

“You smell like submission now,” he muttered. “Like sweat and tears and my fuckin’ hoodie. I should fuckin’ bottle it.”

He kissed your temple, then your jaw, then just beneath your ear. Not rushed or greedy. Like this was his reward.

His thumb circled again, slower but heavier, grinding soft pressure against the bundle of nerves. His fingers never stopped moving inside you—those thick, coaxing strokes dragging along that tender wreck-you spot with an intimacy that bordered on worship. Deliberate. Patient. Like he had no intention of stopping until you gave him more.

“You know what this is, baby?” He murmured, his voice thick with smoke and satisfaction, lips brushing the shell of your ear like a confession. “This is a gift. You should be thanking me.”

He pressed down harder with his thumb, and your hips jerked—an involuntary gasp tumbling out of your mouth as your back arched again, the rough fabric of the hoodie sliding higher. Your thighs were parted, trembling, and you hated how eager your body felt—how exposed. How wrecked. How ready.

“Ben, please—” you managed, voice barely there, a breath on the edge of a sob or a moan.

But he cut you off with a kiss. Not to your mouth though. He pressed it to your temple, slow and hot, like the brand of something possessive. “Butcher punished you,” he whispered, a mock-pity in his tone as his fingers began to move faster now, deliberate and sure. “But I—” another kiss, this one lower, at your jaw, “—I make it feel good.”

You tried to turn your face, to hide whatever expression was breaking across it, but he caught your chin with his free hand. Firm. Inevitable. His grip wasn’t harsh—it didn’t need to be. He was always stronger. And right now? You were soft for him.

“Eyes on me,” he said, low and commanding.

And you obeyed.

Your gaze locked with his, and the moment stretched between you—hot and still and breathless. His pupils were blown wide, dark devouring green, his expression a marriage of smugness and reverence. Like he knew what he was doing to you. Like he loved it.

“That’ s it,” he said, tone dipping toward something gentler. Something worse. “That’s my girl.”

Your stomach twisted. Not from fear. From something deeper. Something worse than fear. Your thighs began to shake, the build returning like a tidal pull, low in your belly, tight in your core. Your breath came in ragged gasps now, mouth slack, fingers digging helplessly into the mattress beneath you. Every slow curl of his fingers, every flick of his thumb, pulled you closer to the edge again. Shame licked at your throat, but it couldn’t drown the need.

“Gonna come for me again, sweetheart?” He purred, voice honey-thick, cruel and cooing all at once. “Gonna soak my fuckin’ hand like a needy little whore?”

The noise you made wasn’t a yes, but it was enough. Your hips twitched, rising to meet the rhythm of his hand without thought, without pride, without any of that defiance you used to carry like armour.

Ben grinned. Low and filthy. “Go on then,” he rasped. “Come for me. Come on these fingers you didn’t even try to stop.”

And you did.

It hit you like thunder. Your whole body bowed off the mattress, heels digging into the sheets, muscles locking around his hand like your cunt didn’t want to let go. A moan ripped out of you—raw, high, helpless—your eyes screwing shut as the pressure broke open like a flood. You weren’t ready—that was the worst part. It still caught you off guard. Shame burst behind your eyes, tangled with the ache of want and the unbearable relief of being touched like this.

Ben didn’t stop. He slowed, sure—but his fingers stayed inside, soft now, curling lightly as if coaxing every last pulse from you. He leaned over, his chest brushing your side, his breath warm against your cheek as he laughed—quiet and wrecked and proud.

“Fuckin’ Christ on a cross,” he murmured again. “You are beautiful.”

And the worst part?

You wanted him to keep going.

You hadn’t even come down yet—your thighs still trembled, overstimulated and slick, twitching each time his fingers shifted inside you—but already, the heat was coming back. Your hips jerked once. Twice. You whimpered, barely a sound, barely a breath, but he heard it. Felt it. Then he smiled.

Not kindly.

His free hand slid back to your face, brushing hair off your cheek, smearing sweat and tears with casual affection. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth—not demanding. Just… his.

There was nothing kind about it anymore.

Whatever sweetness had once laced his voice, whatever tenderness had ghosted over his hands like a lie—it was gone now. Stripped back. Hollowed out. Left to rot.

He was grinning. Not soft, or smug. It was the kind of grin that stretched slow and wide like a crack in the pavement, all jagged edges and no light behind it. A wolf’s grin. A ruinous, proud grin. The kind men wore when they stood over the wreckage they’d made with their own hands—and decided they liked it better that way.

“You thought that was it, huh?” He murmured, voice low and dragging, soaked in a kind of rasp that made your stomach clench. “You thought I was gonna stop?”

The hand between your thighs shifted. Just enough. The heel of his palm pressed down, firm, cruel, right where your nerves still throbbed like open wounds. The pressure wasn’t sharp. It was mean. A slow grind that made your hips flinch, your breath break. You whimpered—small, high, unintentional—and it lit something behind his eyes.

He drank that sound like whisky.

One of his arms hooked under your leg, keeping it spread, keeping you open. The other—the one inside you—began to move again. Fingers dragging through oversensitive flesh with a deliberation that bordered on reverent. No mercy. Just slow, sure cruelty.

“No,” he breathed, brushing his nose along your temple as his fingers thrust in again, deeper this time. “No, baby. You said yes. You gave me this. And now I get all of it.”

The fingers curled, that perfect hook, and your body spasmed—thighs twitching, back arching, a cry half-broken in your throat. He held you there. Full. Trembling. Split open and ruined beneath him. Then he dragged them back out—slow. So slow it was obscene. Every nerve screamed. You twitched, jaw tight, hands fisting the sheets in a desperate, soundless plea.

“Sensitive already?” His voice was lilting, falsely sweet. Dipped in something like sympathy but made of mockery. “Poor thing. Bet your thighs are still burnin’ from what Butcher gave you.”

He fucked you with his hand. Thrust in deep—deeper than before—and you cried out, a sound raw enough to scrape the air. You twisted, body jolting, hips trying to flee. But he followed. Like a tide. Like gravity. Like death.

“Inevitable,” your body whispered with every inch of him. He never let you get away.

“Jesus,” he muttered, dragging his eyes down the length of you, gaze slow and hungry. “Look at you. Cryin’ on my goddamn fingers and I haven’t even fuckin’ started.”

Then his thumb found your clit again. Just a flick, barely a brush—just enough to jolt your whole body like you’d been shocked. The hoodie was choking you now. Your thighs slick and parted, twitching each time he touched you. He laughed under his breath.

It wasn’t mocking. It was worse. He sounded pleased.

“You’re gonna come again,” he said, calm and casual, like it was just a fact of the weather. “And I don’t care if it hurts.”

His fingers moved faster. Still not rough—but relentless. That same brutal control, that same rhythm that stripped you of pride. The pressure of his thumb increased. Circling, pressing, dragging tight and slow and awful.

“I want it to hurt,” he whispered, his mouth at your jaw. “I want your whole fuckin’ body to remember I did this. I want your thighs to tremble when someone mentions my name.”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t think.

Your head rolled weakly against the mattress, mouth open in useless, desperate gasps. Your hands clawed at the bunched hoodie tangled around your breasts like you might find salvation in the fabric. But there was nothing holy in this. Nothing clean. Only sin.

Only Ben.

He kissed your cheek. again. Hot and breathless.

“You look so fuckin’ wrecked,” he whispered, his grin pressed against your sweat-sticky skin. “Like a bitch in heat. Drippin’. Clenchin’ around me like you need this.”

You whimpered. You didn’t mean to. He laughed again—quiet, reverent.

“Come for me again,” he whispered. “I’ll make you.”

Your body was already gone. Detached. Rewired. Your hips rolled into his palm. Your cunt clenched around his fingers like they were the only thing tethering you to earth. You could feel it coming. Fast. Hard. Building like pressure in your lungs—tight, burning, painful. It was too much. Too soon. You weren’t ready.

But you couldn’t stop it.

“You know what happens if I make you?” He asked, voice a snarl and a promise, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’ll never fuckin’ stop. I’ll keep you right here all night. Cryin’ and leakin’ down your goddamn thighs. Soakin’ through my fuckin’ wrist.”

You moaned. Broke. Splintered around it. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t soft.

It was ugly.

And that’s when it hit. Not like the last one, not even close. This time, you collapsed. The orgasm hit you with the force of impact. No buildup. No warning. Just detonation. Your back arched off the bed, your legs kicked and trembled and flailed helplessly. You screamed—raspy, your voice cracking like bone under weight, your body convulsing around his hand.

Ben didn’t stop.

He pressed his palm hard against your mound, fingers still curling deep inside you, forcing you to ride it out. Forcing you to feel every spasm. Every quake. Every wet, humiliating throb. He watched the whole thing—his eyes locked on your face, his jaw tight with something worshipful.

He wanted it. He wanted you like this.

And you gave. You poured. You soaked his hand, your thighs, the sheets. Your breath hitched and snapped. Your lungs screamed for air. Your body shook until your muscles gave out.

Then—darkness. It came at the edges first. Vision blurring. Noise falling away like a tide. Your limbs went heavy. Your fingers slipped from the hoodie. And the world fell quiet.

You blacked out in his arms.

author note/s: so i have updated my taglist, but i'll start using the new one after i've finished this series. again, let's all thank @deanspookiebear for her amazing moodboard that's massively inspired me to write this piece. wow, this has taken me all day to edit because i really went balls-to-the-wall with this instalment. let me know what y'all think please!!! i love to hear your thoughts. my disgusting, vile little brain lives for people reviewing the utter depravity i come up with. until the next one (which is somehow worse than this one... oops) smin signing off. all the love!

#oh this is evil and so beautiful at the same time #vee’s recs! •̩̩͙⁺゜

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