#beau arlen x female!reader

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Second Chances: Forever - Part Nine of ?

Pairings: Beau Arlen x Y/N Female reader Series Summary: A chance meeting in the grocery store brought a whirlwind of change to Beau Arlen’s life—change he had no issues with whatsoever. A second chance at life, love, family—a second chance at forever. Word Count: 4,890 Tags/Warnings: Honestly, just expect tons of fluff at this point, haha A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

NOTE: It’s here! Welcome, welcome to Second Chances: Forever! I have no idea how long this story will go on, and that is okay with me! I’ve been loving and enjoying writing Beau and his little corner of life! So like I said, until I get burnt out (unlikely) or run out of ideas (also unlikely), it’s ongoing! Divider: credit to @sweetmelodygraphics

Chapter Nine: Being Sentimental

The hum of the tires against the highway filled the space between Y/N and Emily as they drove toward the airport, the Montana sky stretching wide and endless above them.

For a while, neither of them spoke. It was a comfortable silence, one that didn’t need to be filled.

Emily sat in the passenger seat, her fingers drumming against her knee as she stared out the window. Y/N could tell she was thinking—a lot.

Finally, Emily let out a slow breath. “I’m gonna miss you guys.”

Y/N smiled, glancing over at her. “You know you’re welcome anytime, right?”

Emily nodded, smirking. “Yeah. And at the rate Dad’s going, I should probably just move in before he keeps popping out siblings for me.”

Y/N snorted, shaking her head. “Listen, that was not exactly planned.”

Emily chuckled. “Yeah, well, you did marry a Texan. I hear they got notoriously determined sperm.”

Y/N wheezed. “Oh my God. I regret ever telling him that.”

Emily grinned. “Nope. Too late. It’s a legacy now.”

Y/N groaned dramatically. “Jesus Christ.”

Emily laughed but then sighed, leaning her head against the seat. “Seriously, though… I like being home. Feels… good.”

Y/N glanced at her again, noting the way her voice had softened. “Yeah?”

Emily hesitated, then shrugged. “Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I like school, but… sometimes I feel like I miss too much.”

Y/N reached over, squeezing her hand. “You always have a place here, sweetheart. No matter where life takes you.”

Emily exhaled, squeezing her back. “I know.”

The silence stretched again, this time a little heavier.

Emily bit her lip, her voice quieter when she spoke next. “Can I ask you something?”

Y/N nodded. “Of course.”

Emily hesitated, her fingers fidgeting in her lap. “Do you ever feel like… you don’t know what the hell you’re doing?”

Y/N snorted, but there was genuine amusement behind it. “Oh, all the time.”

Emily let out a small chuckle. “Really?”

Y/N smiled, keeping her eyes on the road. “Emily, I love my life. I love Beau, I love our kids… but some days? I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Emily blinked, tilting her head. “But you always seem like you do.”

Y/N sighed, shrugging. “That’s because I fake it really well.”

Emily smirked. “So parenting is just… faking confidence?”

“Pretty much,” Y/N admitted. “But it’s also about showing up. Even when you’re tired. Even when you don’t have all the answers.”

Emily exhaled, nodding slowly. “Guess that applies to a lot of things.”

Y/N gave her a knowing look. “Yeah, sweetheart. It does.”

Emily was quiet for a long moment, staring out the window. “Sometimes, I feel like I have to have everything figured out right now. Like, if I don’t know exactly where I’m going, I’ll get lost.”

Y/N smiled gently. “You will get lost sometimes.”

Emily looked at her, brow furrowed.

Y/N squeezed her hand again. “But that’s how you figure out where you really want to go.”

Emily let out a slow breath, staring at their hands. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Y/N smirked. “And worst case? You always have home to come back to.”

Emily smiled, something warm settling in her chest. “Yeah. I know.”

And for the first time in a long time, she felt okay not having all the answers.

Because maybe figuring it out along the way… was the whole point.

The airport buzzed with the usual blend of distant announcements, rolling suitcases, and quiet conversations as Y/N and Emily made their way toward security.

Emily had her bag slung over one shoulder, her boarding pass tucked into her jacket pocket. She looked relaxed, but Y/N knew better. She could see the way Emily’s fingers fidgeted at the strap of her bag, the way she kept glancing at the big departure board like she was stalling.

Y/N smirked. “You know, you could just miss your flight.”

Emily snorted, shaking her head. “Oh yeah, and explain to my professors that I couldn’t make it back because I got suckered into staying longer?”

Y/N raised a brow. “You weren’t suckered. You loved every chaotic second of it.”

Emily huffed, but the smirk tugging at her lips gave her away. “Maybe.”

They reached the security checkpoint, and Emily sighed, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder.

“Well,” she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. “Guess this is it.”

Y/N smiled, pulling her into a hug. “For now.”

Emily melted into it, squeezing tight before pulling back. “Tell Caleb to stop throwing his food at Dad. And tell Eliza that no, you can’t actually bring her back a cow.”

Y/N snickered. “Oh, I absolutely will.”

Emily exhaled, rocking back on her heels. “And tell Dad—” She hesitated, her voice softer now. “Tell him I love him.”

Y/N’s heart squeezed. “Why don’t you just call him and say that?”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Because he’ll get all emotional and gruff about it and then change the subject.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “Yeah, okay, fair point.”

Emily hesitated again, then sighed, pulling Y/N into one more hug. “Thanks. For everything.”

Y/N squeezed her tight. “Always, sweetheart.”

Emily stepped back, her eyes lingering for a moment before she cleared her throat. “Alright. Go before I actually miss my flight.”

Y/N smirked. “Call me when you land.”

Emily rolled her eyes but grinned. “Yes, Mom.”

Y/N watched as Emily turned toward security, offering one last wave before disappearing into the line.

As she walked back toward the exit, Y/N smiled, already looking forward to the next time Emily came home.

Because she would.

She always did.

And no matter how far she went, she would always have a place here.

With them.

With family.

By the time Y/N pulled into the driveway, the afternoon sun was stretching long shadows across the yard, the warmth of home settling around her like a familiar embrace.

As she stepped inside, the scent of coffee and something slightly burnt filled the air.

Beau was standing in the kitchen, stirring something in a pan with a very concentrated look on his face. Caleb was bouncing happily in his playpen, babbling to himself, while Eliza sat on the counter, swinging her legs as she supervised.

Y/N smirked. “Should I be worried?”

Beau looked up, offering her a slow grin. “Depends. How attached are you to the idea of edible food?”

Eliza giggled. “Daddy makin’ grilled cheese!”

Y/N raised a brow. “And… you burnt the grilled cheese?”

Beau sighed, turning back to the stove. “Listen, I got distracted.”

Eliza nodded very seriously. “I talked too much.”

Y/N laughed, setting her bag down as she walked over to Beau, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind, pressing a kiss to his back. “I love you, even if you can’t make grilled cheese.”

Beau smirked, reaching down to squeeze her hand. “Glad my culinary failures don’t diminish your affections, darlin’.”

Y/N glanced at the playpen, smiling as Caleb squealed when he saw her. “Hey, birthday boy.”

Caleb clapped his chubby hands, bouncing. “Mama!”

Y/N scooped him up, pressing a kiss to his soft curls. “Did Daddy and Sissy take care of you while I was gone?”

Caleb babbled something very serious, and Eliza huffed. “I tried, Mama. But Daddy made a mess.”

Y/N bit back a laugh. “I believe it.”

Beau turned, pointing his spatula at her. “Alright, that’s enough slander. This kitchen is under control.”

Y/N smirked, setting Caleb on her hip. “Uh-huh. Sure, Sheriff.”

Beau huffed but didn’t argue, instead pressing a quick kiss to her temple. “How was the airport?”

Y/N leaned against the counter, watching as he plated the slightly-overdone grilled cheese (which Eliza was still watching like it was a crime scene). “Good. Emily got through security fine. But…” She hesitated, running her fingers through Caleb’s hair. “I don’t know. She seemed… hesitant about leaving.”

Beau slowed, setting the pan down. “Yeah?”

Y/N nodded. “She loves school, but I think she’s starting to feel like she’s missing too much here.” She glanced at him, smirking slightly. “I may have joked about her just coming back for good, and she didn’t immediately shut it down.”

Beau rubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes thoughtful. “Huh.”

Y/N raised a brow. “Huh? That’s all you got?”

Beau leaned against the counter beside her, his green eyes drifting toward the living room where Eliza was now dramatically inspecting the grilled cheese. “It ain’t a bad thought.”

Y/N studied him. “You seriously thinking about it?”

Beau exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Well, hell, darlin’. We’re already talkin’ about how we’re gonna need a bigger house.” He gestured between them. “This family ain’t getting any smaller.”

Y/N smirked. “No, it is not.”

Beau chuckled, shaking his head. “And Emily? She’s got roots here now. A family that actually feels like home.” His voice softened. “Maybe she’d do better finishing school here.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You thinking about talking to her about it?”

Beau shrugged, but there was a thoughtfulness behind his eyes. “Maybe. Just to see where her head’s at.” He glanced at Y/N. “How would you feel about it?”

Y/N smiled, running a hand over Caleb’s back as he snuggled against her shoulder. “I’d love it. Emily belongs here, Beau. And if this is where she wants to be, I’d want to help her make it happen.”

Beau exhaled, nodding. “Yeah.” He smirked, nudging her. “But you know if she moves back, she’s gonna constantly remind me about how I lost to a one-year-old in a cake fight.”

Y/N laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Oh, without a doubt.”

Beau groaned. “Jesus Christ.”

Y/N grinned, resting her head against his shoulder. “You love it.”

Beau sighed, pulling her closer, his hand sliding protectively over her stomach, over the growing life they had created. “Yeah, darlin’. I really do.”

And as Caleb snuggled into her chest, as Eliza finally decided the grilled cheese was “good enough” and took a dramatic bite, as the hum of their home settled around them—

Beau knew one thing for sure.

Whatever the future held, whatever decisions were ahead—

They’d figure it out.

Together.

The warm glow of Eliza’s bedside lamp cast soft shadows across her room as she sat on her bed, still wiggling her toes in protest of bedtime. She was freshly bathed, her curls damp against her cheeks, her stuffed wolf tucked under one arm.

Beau sat on the edge of her bed, rolling up her blanket as if tucking her in properly would keep her from escaping. Y/N knelt beside them, smoothing down Eliza’s wild curls.

“Alright, wolf-child,” Beau murmured, raising a brow. “We had a long day, and it’s time to sleep.”

Eliza pouted dramatically. “But I’m not tired.”

Y/N smirked, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Oh, really? Because I remember a certain someone barely making it through movie night.”

Eliza huffed, crossing her arms. “It was too cozy!”

Beau chuckled, tucking the blanket around her like a burrito. “Uh-huh. Sure it was.”

Eliza wiggled her nose, squinting at them. “You doin’ grown-up talk?”

Y/N bit back a laugh. “Actually, baby, we do have something we want to tell you.”

Eliza’s eyes widened with intrigue. She sat up immediately, nearly knocking her stuffed wolf onto the floor. “What is it?!”

Beau glanced at Y/N, and she smiled, nodding for him to continue.

Beau exhaled, running a gentle hand over Eliza’s hair. “Well, sweetheart… you remember when Caleb was in Mama’s belly before he was born?”

Eliza nodded very seriously. “Uh-huh. I ‘member. He kicked you, Mama!”

Y/N laughed. “He did.”

Beau smirked, tapping her nose. “Well, guess what? There’s gonna be another baby in Mama’s belly.”

Eliza froze.

She blinked twice, her little mouth slightly open. “Wait… like another Caleb?”

Y/N chuckled. “Well, not exactly like Caleb, baby. But a new baby.”

Eliza’s face lit up, her entire body vibrating with excitement. “I’M GONNA BE A BIG SISTER AGAIN?!”

Beau laughed, catching her before she could fully launch herself out of the bed. “Whoa, whoa, sweetheart—indoor voice!”

Eliza giggled, grabbing Y/N’s hand. “Mama! There’s a baby in there?!”

Y/N nodded, guiding Eliza’s tiny hand to rest over her still-flat belly. “Yep, sweetheart. The baby is still really little, but it’s growing.”

Eliza stared at her hand on Y/N’s stomach, her eyes wide, filled with something pure and wonderstruck.

Then, suddenly—

Her entire expression changed into something very determined.

Her head snapped toward Beau. “We gotta get ‘em a stuffed animal!”

Beau choked on a laugh. “Uh—”

“A wolf one!” Eliza continued, eyes dead serious. “So they can have a pack like me and Cay-bub!”

Y/N pressed a hand to her heart, her chest aching from the sheer love bursting from their little girl.

Beau smirked, brushing a curl out of Eliza’s face. “That is a great idea, baby.”

Eliza beamed, bouncing slightly under her covers. “Can I talk to ‘em? Like I did with Cay-bub?”

Y/N smiled, placing her hand back on her stomach. “Of course, baby. They can’t hear you yet, but soon they will.”

Eliza scooted forward, leaning very close to Y/N’s belly, her tiny hands pressing against her.

Then, in the softest, most earnest whisper—

“Hi, baby. It’s me, ‘Liza. I love you already.”

Y/N’s throat tightened, her eyes burning as she blinked back tears.

Beau exhaled sharply, his own jaw clenching as he reached over and ran a hand through Eliza’s curls.

“Baby girl,” he murmured, his voice thick, “you are gonna be the best big sister again.”

Eliza beamed, looking between them. “Like the best best?”

Y/N cupped her cheek, smiling through her emotion. “The very best best, sweetheart.”

Eliza grinned so wide she nearly tipped over before snuggling under the blanket, suddenly very determined to get to sleep.

“Okay! I gotta rest so I can be ready for baby stuff!”

Beau laughed, tucking her in again. “You do that, sweetheart.”

Eliza let out a tiny yawn, her stuffed wolf pulled tight to her chest. “Love you, Mama. Love you, Daddy.”

Y/N kissed her forehead. “Love you too, baby girl.”

Beau brushed her curls one last time. “Sleep tight, wolf-child.”

As they stepped out of her room, shutting the door behind them, Beau exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face.

Y/N sighed, leaning against his side. “Well… that went better than expected.”

Beau chuckled, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Hell, darlin’. She’s already more prepared than we are.”

Y/N smirked. “Well, if she’s ready, then I guess we gotta get with the program.”

Beau pressed a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead. “Guess so.”

As they walked down the hall, the soft hum of their children’s breathing filling the quiet of their home, Beau knew—

Their family?

Their pack?

It was just getting bigger.

And he couldn’t wait.

The house had finally settled.

Eliza was out cold in her bed, no doubt dreaming about stuffed wolves and baby siblings. Caleb was tucked in tight, breathing deep and slow in his crib. And Emily, though she was miles away now, had sent a text confirming she’d landed safely.

It was quiet now.

The kind of quiet that only came at the very end of the day, when all the chaos had faded and it was just them.

Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, slowly running a hand over her belly, still processing how very real this all was.

Beau walked in, tugging his shirt off, leaving him in just his sweatpants as he ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a deep, contented sigh.

“Tired, Sheriff?” Y/N teased, smirking up at him.

Beau chuckled, climbing into bed beside her, immediately wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her against him. “Darlin’, I wrangled kids, cooked, and survived a life-altering conversation with a four-year-old today.”

Y/N giggled, curling into him. “You also lost a battle against oatmeal this morning.”

Beau groaned, tipping his head back against the pillows. “Jesus Christ, don’t remind me.”

Y/N laughed, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “You love it.”

Beau smirked, tightening his arms around her. “Yeah. I do.”

For a while, they just lay there, tangled in each other, their breaths slow and synchronized.

Beau’s fingers traced light, absentminded patterns over Y/N’s stomach, over the place where their baby was growing.

“Y’know,” he murmured after a moment, his voice low and thick with warmth, “it still don’t feel real.”

Y/N exhaled, running a hand over his chest. “I know what you mean.”

Beau let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “I mean, hell, we just wrapped our heads around two kids, and now we’re back at it again.”

Y/N smirked, tilting her chin up to kiss his cheek. “You say that like you don’t love making babies with me, Sheriff.”

Beau groaned, pressing his face into her neck. “Woman, you cannot say things like that when I’m tryin’ to have a sentimental moment.”

Y/N giggled, threading her fingers through his hair. “I can and I will.”

Beau sighed dramatically, rolling onto his back and pulling her with him, settling her against his chest. “Jesus Christ.”

Y/N smiled, pressing a kiss over his heart. “Okay, okay. Sentimental moment. Go.”

Beau chuckled, shaking his head before running his fingers up and down her spine. “I was just thinkin’… We started all this together, and now, here we are, about to add one more.”

Y/N smiled against his skin, tracing slow circles over his chest. “Crazy, huh?”

Beau exhaled, his fingers drifting back down to her stomach. “Not crazy, darlin’. Just… big. The kind of big that changes your whole damn world.”

Y/N lifted her head, searching his face. “Are you worried?”

Beau was quiet for a second, his green eyes soft, thoughtful.

Then, slowly, he shook his head. “No,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. “I ain’t worried. Because I got you.”

For a long moment, silence reigned between them, sweet and intimate.

Y/N smiled against his skin, her fingers tracing over his chest. “You’re quiet.”

Beau hummed low in his throat, his voice a lazy rumble against the quiet of the room. “Just thinkin’.”

Y/N smirked, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. “That’s dangerous.”

Beau chuckled, shaking his head. “Smartass.”

Y/N grinned, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “What are you thinking about?”

Beau exhaled, his fingers stilling on her stomach. “About how fast all this happened.”

Y/N tilted her head. “You mean us?”

Beau shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “No, darlin’. I mean, yeah, us, but more than that.” His voice softened, his green eyes dark with something deep. “One day, I was just me. Livin’ my life, doin’ my job. Then I met you, and suddenly, I had you and Eliza. Then Caleb. And now…” His palm flattened against her stomach, warm and solid. “Now, we’re doin’ it again.”

Y/N sighed, running her fingers through his short hair. “It’s a lot, huh?”

Beau chuckled, shaking his head. “Not a lot, darlin’. Just big. The kinda big that changes your whole damn world.”

Y/N swallowed, pressing her forehead to his. “Are you… worried?”

Beau was quiet for a moment. Not because he was worried, but because he wanted to get this right.

Then, slowly, he shook his head. “No,” he murmured, his voice steady. “Because I got you.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

Beau tilted her chin up, brushing his lips over hers, slow and sure. “And I love this family we built. Every bit of it.”

Y/N melted into him, her hands sliding over his bare shoulders. “I love you, too, Beau.”

Beau smiled against her lips, his fingers moving again, tracing slow circles over her stomach, over the tiny life growing inside her.

After a long, comfortable silence, he let out a small chuckle.

Y/N raised a brow. “What?”

Beau smirked, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Just thinkin’ about Eliza’s reaction earlier.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “Of course she immediately decided the baby needed a stuffed wolf.”

Beau grinned. “Damn right, she did.”

Y/N sighed contentedly, curling deeper into his warmth. “She’s gonna be such a good big sister again.”

Beau’s expression softened, his hand still resting protectively over her stomach. “Yeah. She really is.”

And as the night stretched around them, as love and forever settled deep in their bones, they both knew—

No matter what came next, no matter how big their world got—

They’d always have this.

Each other.

Their home.

Their family.

And that was all they’d ever need.

The first rays of the Montana sun had barely stretched across the sky when the chaos began.

Beau had exactly one goal: get dressed, drink one cup of coffee, and make it out the door on time for work.

The universe?

It had other plans.

The moment he stepped out of the shower, towel slung low around his hips, Eliza’s voice echoed through the house—

“MAMA! DADDY! CALEB IS THROWIN’ TOAST!”

Beau froze.

He closed his eyes for one long second, exhaled, then muttered under his breath, “Jesus Christ.”

Then came the second round of evidence—

THWAP.

A very distinct splat sounded from the kitchen.

Then, giggles.

And then—

“CALEB, NO!”

That was Y/N’s voice.

Beau groaned, grabbing his clothes and moving fast, because if there was one thing he knew about his son, it was that Caleb thrived in the two-second window it took to turn your back.

By the time Beau got to the kitchen, the crime scene was already in full display.

Caleb was covered in toast crumbs and sticky jam, his little hands clapping happily as he sat in his high chair, looking way too pleased with himself.

The floor?

Absolute devastation.

A single piece of toast lay face-down in a puddle of spilled juice.

Y/N stood near the counter, arms crossed, lips pressed tight, clearly trying to decide whether to scold Caleb or just accept defeat.

Eliza, however, had already made up her mind.

She was standing on the opposite side of the table, hands on her hips, staring at her little brother like a disapproving sheriff surveying a crime scene.

“CAY-BUB,” she declared dramatically. “YOU MAKIN’ A MESS.”

Caleb let out a delighted squeal, his chubby fingers immediately grabbing for another piece of toast.

Beau exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Son.”

Caleb froze, his little green eyes snapping to his father.

Then, grinning, he lifted the entire piece of toast over his head.

Y/N’s eyes widened.

“CALEB, DON’T YOU—”

SPLAT.

The toast hit the floor with a wet slap.

There was a full three seconds of absolute silence.

Then—

Beau exhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Y/N groaned.

Eliza gasped.

And Caleb?

Caleb clapped his sticky little hands together like he had just won a gold medal in Olympic toast-throwing.

Beau sighed, shaking his head. “Alright, son. Now you’re just doin’ it on purpose.”

Caleb squealed, smacking the high chair tray again, sending a few stray crumbs flying.

Eliza let out a dramatic sigh, arms still crossed. “Daddy, he naughty.”

Beau shot a look at Y/N. “This one takes after you.”

Y/N snorted, tossing a dish towel at him. “Oh, really?”

Beau smirked, bending down to start mopping up the disaster. “Hell yeah, darlin’. You’re the chaos in this relationship.”

Y/N chuckled, grabbing a damp cloth and wiping down Caleb’s face, who immediately tried to squirm away. “Well, Sheriff, looks like your son inherited your stubbornness.”

Beau huffed, tossing the now-ruined toast in the trash. “Great. Love that for us.”

With breakfast chaos officially handled (mostly), Beau was finally dressed and grabbing his badge, ready to head out the door.

Eliza ran up, arms wide, demanding, “HUG BEFORE YOU GO!”

Beau grinned, scooping her up and squeezing her tight. “Now that’s how I like to start my day.”

Eliza giggled, then pulled back, very serious all of a sudden. “Daddy?”

Beau raised a brow. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

Eliza tilted her head, big brown eyes full of curiosity. “When the baby gets big, can I show ‘em how to make a big mess like Cay-bub?”

Beau choked on a laugh. “Absolutely not.”

Eliza pouted. “But I gonna be a good big sister.”

Y/N chuckled from the kitchen. “You are, baby. But let’s not encourage food fights, okay?”

Eliza sighed dramatically. “Fine.”

Beau kissed the top of her head, setting her down. “Alright, darlin’, I gotta go before y’all rope me into more trouble.”

Y/N walked up to him, arms crossing playfully over her chest. “And yet, somehow, trouble always follows you.”

Beau smirked, tugging her close by the waist. “Maybe I just got a thing for beautiful women who bring a little chaos into my life.”

Y/N laughed, looping her arms around his neck. “You love it.”

Beau kissed her slow, soft, lingering—long enough for Eliza to let out a dramatic “Ewww!” in the background.

When he pulled away, he grinned, tapping Y/N’s chin. “Damn right, I do.”

With one last quick kiss to her forehead, he grabbed his hat and badge, tipping his hat at Eliza. “Alright, wolf-child. Keep your mama outta trouble.”

Eliza nodded seriously. “I will, Daddy.”

Beau shot Y/N a look as he opened the door. “Now that I gotta see.”

Y/N laughed, waving him off. “Go be a good Sheriff, honey.”

Beau grinned, stepping outside. “Always, darlin’.”

And with that, he was off—leaving Y/N in the doorway, smiling as she watched him go, the warmth of their morning lingering like a promise.

Their days were never quiet.

Never simple.

But God, did she love this life.

And she wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Beau stepped into the sheriff’s department, coffee in hand, exhaling slowly as he tried to shake off the whirlwind that had been his morning.

Between flying toast, Eliza’s interrogation about whether she could teach the new baby how to make messes, and Caleb’s ever-growing talent for chaos, it had been a feat just getting out the door.

And yet, as much as he grumbled about it, as much as he sighed and ran a hand down his face every morning—he wouldn’t change a damn thing.

Because that was his family. His beautiful, messy, chaotic world.

But right now? Right now, he needed to focus on being Sheriff.

Jenny barely looked up from her desk as he walked in, flipping through a report. “So, how was breakfast, Sheriff?”

Beau took a slow sip of coffee, watching her carefully. “Why do you sound like you already know the answer?”

Jenny smirked, finally looking up. “Because I do.”

Beau sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Let’s just say I’m rethinking letting Caleb have toast in the morning.”

Jenny snorted. “So, it’s official. Your one-year-old is winning the battle of wills.”

Beau huffed, dropping into his chair. “It ain’t a battle—”

Jenny raised a brow.

Beau sighed again. “Fine. It might be a battle.”

Jenny grinned. “Mm-hmm. And how’s Eliza handling the baby news?”

Beau leaned back, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “She demanded we get the baby a stuffed wolf so they could have a pack.”

Jenny laughed, shaking her head. “Jesus, she’s got personality.”

Beau smirked. “Gets that from her mama.”

Jenny leaned back in her chair, studying him for a moment. “Y’know, you seem… good today.”

Beau raised a brow. “I am good.”

Jenny tilted her head. “No, I mean—like really good. A couple of weeks ago, you were carrying so much on your shoulders. That case with the baby—” She hesitated, watching his reaction. “It got to you.”

Beau exhaled, rolling his shoulders before nodding. “Yeah. It did.”

Jenny studied him. “And now?”

Beau let out a slow breath. “Now… I got a family to go home to. I got a baby on the way. I got a wild-ass one-year-old and a too-smart-for-her-own-good four-year-old keepin’ me on my toes.” His lips twitched. “And I got a wife who somehow makes it all feel easy.”

Jenny smirked. “So, basically, you won the lottery.”

Beau chuckled, shaking his head. “Damn right, I did.”

Jenny leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “So, what’s next for the Arlen family?”

Beau exhaled, thinking. “Well, Y/N did casually drop the fact that we’re gonna need a bigger house.”

Jenny snorted. “Casually?”

Beau sighed. “Okay, less casually, more ‘Hey, we’re outgrowing this place, and you agreed last night, Sheriff.’��

Jenny grinned. “And she’s right.”

Beau huffed. “I know she is.”

Jenny tilted her head. “Y’know… If you’re already thinking about making big changes, maybe it’s time to have that talk with Emily.”

Beau was already shaking his head. “She’s got school—”

“She also has a family here,” Jenny interrupted, her voice softer. “And it sounds like she wants to be around more. Maybe finishing school here isn’t a bad idea.”

Beau sighed, running a hand down his face. “You sound just like Y/N.”

Jenny smirked. “That’s ‘cause Y/N is smarter than you.”

Beau groaned, standing. “Alright, I walked into that one.”

Jenny chuckled, going back to her reports. “You sure did, Sheriff.”

As Beau walked into his office, shaking his head but smiling, he knew one thing—

The life he had?

It was only getting better.

And damn if that didn’t make him the luckiest man alive.

Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2

@foxyjwls007, @katastrophicmind, @globetrotter28, @deansimpalababy, @daisychaingirl

@nancymcl, @deans-baby-momma, @kickingitwithkirk, @kmc1989, @ozwriterchick

Want to be a part of this tag list or others? Comment here and I'll add you! And check out my other stories that are currently being written!

[deansbite]

⠀ ℐ ⠀ beau ⠀arlen ⠀𓏲

⠀hey there !! this is a masterlist of a specific ⠀character, in this case, beau arlen. my fanfics ⠀will have authours notes & warnings as to what ⠀will be in the fics ! i am not responsible for what ⠀any of you decide to read. anywho, if you like my ⠀writing, i’d appreciate feedback or even a ⠀reblog. happiest of reading to you guys !!

🎸 „ fluff  📻 „ smut  🎙️ „ angst

stories are on their way . .

[bluemerakis]

────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ───

❝ memory foam ❞

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ soldier boy x fem .ᐟ reader

synopsis ─ soldier boy teaches you how to roll a blunt and then makes you hold it between your lips while he fucks you into insanity. just filth honestly bc this man is filthy and i love it

warnings .ᐟ cussing, light misogyny throughout (i mean,, come on), v light dirty talk, masturbation f receiving, hair-pulling, grinding, edging/overstimulation, spanking, fingering, unprotected sex p in v. i feel like these warnings have y’all opening this fic with a therapist on speed dial. if i forgot anything pls lmk!

word count ~ 7.3k (this was supposed to be a drabble 😀)

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Lithe trails of smoke crept over the horizon of your laptop screen, which called your attention toward Ben’s seated figure at the small, rounded table near the kitchen. You reached to lower your laptop screen an inch—just enough to properly reveal the schemes unravelling beneath your boyfriend’s hunched over frame. You didn’t doubt that he was currently unravelling some recent haul of self-indulgent narcotics because as much as you loved your severely traumatised, addict boyfriend, he didn’t have any other tasteful way to pass time. Well, when he wasn’t ploughing you into the mattress and pummelling your senses into an otherworldly abyss of pleasure, of course.

Ben had slipped into the apartment an hour ago with that dubious, white plastic bag in clutch—no print to identify any luxurious takeaway you’d have killed to plunge into your gurgling stomach. You’d been tempted to ask about it then, but he’d entered with such a thick swathe of broodiness cramping his brows that you’d laid off the interrogation entirely. Though, just by stealing a single glance of the bag in its own, unassuming simplicity, it could have branded itself as some sketchy stash of drugs he’d picked up from one of his regular dealers on the way home.

You honed in on the man of the hour, your unflattering nosiness taking the cake on the mental debate of whether or not you should interfere with Ben’s activities. It was a debate that had never happened to begin with because meddling in anything and everything that he did was practically your brand—no questions asked. You’d once called it a loving obsession, but Ben had called it a hounding cock block on his highs. You’d been quick to rebrand your pestering of him as your own guilty addiction, and he hadn’t had much to say in response to that. He had his addictions, and you had yours—him. Oh, he so must’ve regretted accommodating you into his life.

Your boyfriend’s sharp features were currently kneaded into a focused frown, his head tilted down to where he emptied out the plastic packet onto the table. Your chin perked with sly interest, no further surprise to be unwrapped when you glimpsed a sprawl of paper and herbs. Drugs, as expected, but nothing nearly as hard as his usual indulgences. Your attention flickered up to the blunt currently clutched between his lips—the bane of your existence—before you lowered your focus back down to the table, where his busy hands alternated between segregating the devious mess and popping out his smoking stick to dispel a pull.

You didn’t need to squint hard to confidently label said herbs as weed—once the distinct scent left his lips to shroud the modest apartment and assault your sensitive nose, it was a dead giveaway. You’d never been much of a fan of smoking to begin with, and weed might’ve been the rankest pick of it all, but it’s something you’d gradually grown tolerant of. It’s not like you had much of a say in the matter, anyway, given that your boyfriend had his lips wrapped around a cig almost as often as he had them wrapped around you. It was a relationship that had existed long before yours, so who were you to complain, really?

Besides, this was his apartment, which meant that his guilty pleasures were anything but your business. And you doubted that your complaint would manage a graze of his ears before his cock would plug your lips to shut you the hell up about it. He didn’t much like when you had an attitude about his aforementioned hobbies.

“Ah, shit!” Ben exclaimed angrily around the blunt’s body—a muffled sound that banished smoke from his pursed lips. You watched as he tossed aside the plastic packet, seizing his tempter by the throat as he thudded his palm against the table. “Fuckin’ dickless prick sold me short,” he grumbled to nobody in particular, releasing the blunt for a disgruntled exhale before his lips took to it once more like his next, dire breath.

You plugged your lips at his temper tantrum, throttling a chuckle you knew would be severely misplaced during this fit of his. You couldn’t help it, though. Ben loved to pretend that he was ‘man enough’ to be unbothered by trivial things, but it never took much to get under his skin. The irony was so palpable that you could’ve poked and prodded at it with ridicule. “What’re you doing?” You called to him with an accentuated chirp to your tone—you’re curious, oblivious, not probing.

Ben’s eyes lifted from the table for a second to glance in your direction, where you sat comfortably cushioned against the headboard of his bed. His glare hovered for a few measly seconds, holding no adoration at this particular time. It made you utter a mental damn. At most, he’d give you a wink or a scheming narrowing of his eyes that spoke all sorts of dirty he’d have loved to work you through. But he merely turned back to the task at hand, freeing the blunt from his tightly-wrung lips.

Yeah, women are the moody ones, you remarked mentally. What a chuckle-fest.

The supe gave a hefty exhale, smoke streaming out in a slow gust that told you a somber story of a shit-filled day. His whole demeanour was off-put. A good girlfriend would’ve asked him about it, but a smarter one—like yourself—knew err on the side of caution. You’d long since learned not to pester him about his emotions because, to quote Ben: ‘only pussies hold hands and waste daylight wailin’ about this ‘nd that. Me? I ain’t strokin’ anybody’s cock with some me too bullshit. You gotta act the man and suck it up.’

Yeah, you weren’t going to open that can of worms again.

Without sparing you another glance, Ben jerked his head in your direction. “Get over here,” he demanded distractedly. “It’s ‘bout time I teach ya the hustle o’ this shit.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll leave the lung cancer to you,” you poked light-heartedly, but you shifted your laptop aside to scamper across the mattress regardless. Unfortunately, you were the type to spend any given chance at your boyfriend’s side, and it didn’t matter how trivial the activity was—it was all about the quality time. Ben was overly tolerant of your clinginess, so much so that you almost thought he enjoyed the attention more than you did. But that wasn’t anything he’d ever admit to, were it true to begin with.

You ambled across the open-plan apartment towards his smoke-enveloped figure, and upon reaching the table, you pulled out the chair opposite him to take up his company. All the while, Ben’s attention remained fixed on his concoctions, never once straying from the table to acknowledge that you’d joined him.

“Why would I need to know how to do any of this, anyway? You know I don’t smoke,” you asked once you sat yourself down, hand swivelling through the air to disperse the suffocating haze of the weed, lingering under your nose like an intoxicating fart. You watched his free hand sort the dried and shredded weed into evenly-sized piles with one of your ancient loyalty cards—a card you’d lost a few weeks back. The bastard must’ve nicked it from your purse. And knowing him, he’d probably used it for plenty more than sorting weed.

“No,” he agreed, “but I do. Besides, it’s somethin’ every fine woman such as yourself oughta know. It’s not usually what women waste their time learnin’, but I’m sure I could have ya mastering this shit in no time. You’re a surprisingly quick learner,” he murmured busily, pausing only to secure the blunt between his lips once more.

You didn’t know whether to feel offended at that observation, or to accept it with the knowledge that Ben didn’t usually hand out compliments—even backhanded ones—outside of, well, being inside of you. You dismissed the thought with a flick of your eyes, but soon, you were drawn to his face once more. You could have grown jealous with the amount of time his lips spent wrapped around that paper-wrapped crap, but you’d long since laid off the visuals. He enjoyed your pouting way too much—always finding a way to ridicule you for it.

“Why the sudden insistence that I learn this crap?” You asked.

After a deep pull, Ben retrohaled the smoke off to the side, conscious not to direct it onto your intolerant senses. “Cause it sure hits the spot when your girl can slip you a win after the day’s been a fuckin’ ball-buster,” he mumbled.

“Or,” you countered, head tilting with a pretence of consideration as you watched him sort the piles of weed into small plastic bags. “Here’s a thought—and just humour me, would you? You could make yourself one,” you finished, hands coming forward to fold onto the table as your eyes flickered up to Ben expectantly.

He lifted his head to fix you with peeved eyes, the card’s rim stilling against the last herded pile of weed as his free hand plucked the stick from his lips. “The hell you think I been doin’ all this time?” He challenged pointedly. The blunt’s ignited end pulsed with heat—as if to emphasise his words. “Is it too much to ask that you fix me a goddamn escape after a long fuckin’ day?”

“It is in that tone, Mister,” you scoffed, leaning yourself across the table in an attempt to pluck the blunt from his fingers, but he was quick to catch you at the wrist. Your lip quirked at the force with which he restrained you, your eyes slurring up to his with a heavy, seductive whisk of your lashes.

Ben always caught the intention behind your every act of defiance. He enjoyed it, even, despite the permanent hint of dour in his expression. “Hands off my shit,” he warned, his pretty green eyes drilling into yours to emphasise his point. “Don’t make me fuck the nerve right outta you—you know better.”

You took your lower lip into an amused bite, enjoying the way you so easily seemed to rile him up. Yeah, your boyfriend was a Supe, but it was moments like this that made you feel like you held all the power—and you revelled in it. ‘Nobody controls me’, your ass. You had Ben wrapped around your finger. He knew it, too, he just wouldn’t admit it because what man wants to admit that he’s pussy-whipped? No, he’d rather bathe in denial by fucking you senseless each night, smothering your head into the sheets and coaxing his name from your foul lips so that he felt he had some semblance of control over the way you made him feel.

You succumbed to his possessive grasp, leaning your body further across the table as your head tilted in cheek. “Do I know better?” You absolutely did, and so did he. But part of the fun—part of what made this dynamic between the two of you so riveting, is that you pretended to act stupid, and Ben eagerly indulged it as an opportunity to condescend you and further inflate his toxic ego. And something more.

The supe’s lip quirked in amusement as he glared you down, but the sentiment didn’t reach high enough to mould his eyes into kindness. “Gonna play it like that, hm?” he murmured, bringing the blunt back to his lips before he leaned further into your proximity, his lips brushing against yours with the tease of a kiss. But he didn’t follow through with his unspoken promise. Instead, his lips parted only to huff the smoke directly into your face.

Your nose scrunched at the scent, your free hand lifting from the table to shoo away the smoke. “Ben!” You protested, but his grip on you didn’t budge until the intrusive fog thinned out into the rest of the room. You gave a light cough at being a forced second party to his smoking, and that’s when he finally released your wrist—more like discarded it in a careless toss. You retreated with a huff and sat yourself back down. “Dick!”

“Pussy,” he retorted through a shit-eating smirk, but he quickly came to realise that the amusement was wholly one-sided when he glimpsed your ruffled brows. There were very few times you could have convinced him that his actions weren’t funny. “Ah, come on,” he drawled, attention lowering back to the weed as he suckled on the smoking stick once more. “You know ya love it,” he mumbled.

“Oh, bite me,” you murmured lightly, crossing your arms as you watched him continue his work. You could have chosen to pout a little longer, but you’d have been naive to settle down with somebody like Ben and not expect him to pull a nasty stunt now and again. Besides, you did like him mean. The subtle glow that beamed briefly within the crook of your thighs was testament to that.

“You ever roll a blunt before?” Ben muttered, eyes downturned to where his hands began prepping an irregularly squared piece of paper. The question was sheer stupidity—so much so that you felt the the weight of the frown on your brows as you parted your lips to answer him with far too much eager spunk. But Ben pulled the cancer stick from his lips and interjected without missing a breath.

“Just pullin’ your leg—‘course ya haven’t. As far as I’m concerned, you’re the fuckin’ Mother Reverend of the Church of Holy Smokes.” At that jab, his eyes lifted to yours with a smugness that wound his lips thin.

You gave a dismissive roll of your eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” you hummed, your arms unfolding to rest your hands against the table. “You can keep shitting on me, Benjamin, but let’s not forget just how ancient you are. Once your light’s snuffed out, old man, maybe—just maybe, I’ll consider learning how to smoke, and it’ll be your ashes I probe in that damn ashtray.” Oh, how the roles would reverse.

Ben neglected the piece of paper he’d been gripping and straightened himself from the table. He leaned back into his chair with a gruff chuckle, his gaze raking you over with a light air of amusement. He plucked the blunt from his lips and hovered over the table as he gave a compliant cock of his head—a gesture that said, yeah, I could get behind that.

“Just make sure you put the tray somewhere I can get a good view of your ass,” he retorted with a brisk wink before he pressed the cigar’s inflamed nose into the ashtray loitering beside his hand. “And the tray better not be this ugly fuckin’ thing. Get me somethin’. . . quaint—none o’ this modern day lifeless shit and a half that’s got fuckin’ pussy power or some ball-less, feministic propo shit like that scribbled on the side.”

You narrowed your eyes mischievously. “Only you will demand everything your way even in death,” you chuckled, then you tilted your head inquisitively. “So you’re telling me that if I had to get my breasts casted with clay to make two matching bowls for your ashes, you’d have a problem with that? Is it too modern for you?”

Ben’s brows hoisted up a look of consideration, then his lips pursed with content acceptance. “Baby,” he drawled. “You do that and I’ll be back to fuck you in your dreams every. goddamn. night,” he promised.

“I guess that might help me not to forget you,” you retorted cheekily.

“Damn right,” he mumbled cockily. “Can’t forget a dick as givin’ as this one, anyway—and you’d be kiddin’ yourself otherwise. Little cock-slut like you? You were made to memorise every inch of my dick like a butt-print in a shitty velvet sofa.” He birthed a grin so condescending that it barely left room for you to breathe.

Smug, obscene asshole, you scoffed silently, but you couldn’t deny the truth behind his claim, and you had countless memories to serve as evidence. Ben knew that—it was the singular thing that warranted his sheer audacity to boast. For lack of better words, you flashed him the finger before bundling yourself back up, arms crossed against your chest as a ruffled gesture for him to continue his little project.

He made an amused noise halfway between a grunt and a chuckle before shifting in his seat and guiding his hands back to the concoction before him. “C‘mon, take a look,” he urged, plucking up some of the shredded weed between his fingers and gingerly placing it onto the squared paper. He took a moment to prod along the scattered herbs until a coherent line was formed atop the material. “This right here,” he said, prodding the paper, “s’called rollin’ paper. Gotta wrap it around the weed real nice and tight, like the foreskin of a sexually-abstained father of the church. Or some creakin’, ol’ geezer.”

“So like you, then?” You interjected, and you could’ve sworn you heard the snap of his neck as his eyes darted up to scorn you.

“Callin’ me old when you’re the one who can’t walk after one night in my bed is a li’l comical, don’tcha think?” He retorted, eyes lowering to where he rolled his thumb along the ball of his index finger to dislodge the clinging weed scraps. “Man,” he laughed in disbelief. “You got helluva mouth on ya.”

“Oh, so that’s what it’s called?” You chirped sarcastically, rubbing your lips together as though smearing some chapstick along the edges. You knew it was a stupid, bratty punch to throw, but you thought it worth it if it would coax any sort of reaction from Ben—and it did.

He glanced up at you from beneath hitched brows, pushing out a chuckle so forced, it could’ve starred the backtrack of some poorly made sitcom. But the faux amusement in his expression was dropped in an instant, his chin making an impatient jut in your direction—like the firm finger of a mother’s chide. “Shut the fuck up and pay attention.”

Your eyes widened in mock as you muttered a “yes, sir,” and turned your attention back to the table, your heading craning with far too much curiosity for your liking. Your eyes trailed every whisk and wander of his skilled fingers as he prepped another paper like the last. “Does it matter how much weed’s in a single blunt?”

Cautiously, Ben moved back to the first paper, his lips subconsciously jutting into a focused pout. It was something he did often without a notice, and you couldn’t help but savour the scene with a subtle grin. It was adorable, but for the sake of preserving the clueless tradition, you never said anything about it. You knew he’d find some way to get butt-hurt over you pointing it out, and then you’d be stuck with him forging some permanent, stoic expression to fend off the horrors of being called adorable.

He anchored the topmost corners of the rolling paper with his middle fingers before grabbing the bottom corners between his thumb and index finger, finally folding the square in half. “‘Bout a gram or two’ll do,” he finally replied. “But the paper’s already sized, so it’s just gotta be enough to fit in it. . .” he murmured busily, trailing off as he focused his attention onto carefully lifting the assembly from the table—determined not to spill any of the contents and further rob himself of the stock he’d been sold short on.

“Now,” Ben cleared his throat with utmost enthusiasm, his eyes momentarily lingering on the wrap before they flickered over to you with a scheme glinting in their green depths. Just what the hell was he up to now? “We gotta wet this baby real good, so why don’tcha stick out that tongue o’ yours for me, yeah? Lend an old man a helpin’ hand once in a while.”

He held the makeshift blunt tenderly between his thumbs and index fingers as he presented it in your direction with an annoyingly smug furnish to his handsome features.

Your eyes widened in surprise at his request. “You do it,” you told him through a chuckle, pressing your index finger against his nearest hand to gently nudge the dissembled blunt back in his direction. “You’re the pro of the fucking cancer sticks, so you show me how it’s done. Like you said.”

Ben cocked his head in slight disappointment, a smirk pitching up the corner of his lips as he withdrew the blunt with a light huff. “To think you’re usually all I can do it myself, Ben, I don’t need your help, Ben,” he mocked deeply, which caused your face to contort with a hint of offence.

“I don’t sound like th—“

“Yeah, you do,” he cut you short, the smirk on his lips playing into a full-blown grin as he drank in your affronted pout. “You and your fuckin’ feminist high,” he scoffed, bringing the paper up to his lips. “Now, stuff it and watch, ‘cause I’m only gonna show you once—and I expect ya to nail it off the fuckin’ bat.”

You hitched a brow at his subtle threat. “Or what?” You challenged.

He left that question unanswered—verbally, at least. But he fixed you with an intense glare as his tongue slipped past his lips to drag a slow, accentuated line along the edge of the paper, and you knew that to be answer enough. A promise—and hardly one of a good time when he was calling all the shots with the intent to punish you. Still, you felt your core jolt at that singular gesture, your thighs discreetly pressing together with the memory of that very movement that must’ve become etched into your folds by now. That teasing bastard, getting you all hot and bothered just for the sake of it.

When he reached the end of the jagged material, he drew the line back up one more time before his tongue retreated back to the concealment behind his lips. He lowered the concoction to the table, gaze still trained on you. Then, with a beckoning gesture of his chin, he said, “get over here.”

You obliged silently, quickly—guided by your arousal more than your own will, if you were being honest. Your chair screeched in protest as you pushed yourself up from your seat and slipped around the circumference of the table towards Ben’s seated frame. You’d barely reached his side when he freed a hand to eagerly outstretch and receive you, his large palm snaking along the small of your back to hook around your waist. He pulled you into his lap, legs spread in a wide v to comfortably accommodate your frame onto his.

As you settled yourself onto his lap, you made a point to dramatically shimmy your ass into the crook of his legs, causing him to grunt as you ground yourself against his prominent manhood. His free hand snaked over your thigh to settle at the tender, inner skin with a warning squeeze, his lips coming to press against your ear.

“Careful, baby,” he murmured lowly—a gruff sound that sent a jolt directly to your already-compromised core. And it was hard to ignore your arousal with the added stimulation of his stubbled jaw grating the sensitive skin of your cheek.

You turned your jaw partially, causing his soft lips to trace a seductive line along your cheekbone. “Always am,” you murmured in return, a cheeky grin beaming through as your gaze flickered down to his lips. Those darn lips. A taste you’d never get sick of, despite your tendency to grow bored of things rather quickly. Maybe you were no better than Ben—a shameless addict infatuated with the highs, only, your highs were being fondled by him.

For a moment, Ben entertained your play with a second of silence, and you were almost hopeful to feel his lips snag onto yours, but instead, they retreated from your jaw and left you in a state of hot disappointment.

“Pay attention,” he ordered, removing the hand he’d burrowed at your thigh to frame your jaw firmly. He turned your head forward and downwards, forcing your attention onto the makeshift blunt gripped in his other hand. His thumb trailed to your lips, kneading the tender skin aimlessly before slipping his hand from your jaw entirely. “Stick your tongue out.”

Obediently, you did as told, your tongue slipping through until you felt too ridiculous to go further.

“Atta girl,” he praised, your waist now straddled by both his arms as he held the corners of the makeshift blunt in his fingers and lifted it to your dangling tongue. “Now, I want you to lick it, just like I showed ya—and don’t crap out on showin’ it a good time, yeah?”

You gave a small nod and leaned your head down to meet the paper with your tongue, starting at the left corner. When the tip of your tongue made contact with the sheet, you could feel the cool, lingering trace of Ben’s saliva. It felt so primal, but you knew that he was enjoying every second of it—you lapping up his taste like an eager mutt, so you decided to give him one hell of a show.

You pressed your tongue against the paper more firmly now, and you began to drag a slow, sensual line toward the other corner, making sure to deliver a quick flick over Ben’s waiting thumbnail. He made a hald-amused, half-entertained noise, but waited patiently as you retraced the line back to the starting point.

Pulling back your tongue, you smacked your lips triumphantly. “All wet now,” you said.

“Bet you are,” he chuckled lazily, fingers moving to seal the paper and twist the ends into a reputable blunt. He brought the finished product up to your lips, urging the nozzle between them. “Be a good girl and hold onto that for me.”

You pulled your lips inward to deny the entrance of the blunt, turning your jaw to reject the offer. “No, thanks,” you said, but Ben wasn’t having it.

You felt his hand stroke up the curve of your thigh before forcing way beneath the hem of your shorts and underwear, where his fingers stroked a rough line through your folds. You gasped at the feel of his cool fingers playing at your hot core, and before you could process his foul play, his other hand was quick to push the fresh blunt between your parted lips.

“You talk too fuckin’ much,” he murmured against your ear, delivering a harsh squeeze to your clit. Your lips tightened around the blunt and you moaned into the smoking stick, eyes screwing shut as your head collapsed back into the crook of his neck. He pressed a hasty kiss to your temple, and you knew that it was more of a branding than a gesture of adoration. You were his to cherish, exploit and discard, all at once.

“What, you gonna tell me you didn’t see that comin’?” he chuckled lowly, the mocking sound vibrating against the crown of your head. “Been actin’ the brat this entire time, just hopin’ I’ll shut you the fuck up, huh? Yeah, I heard ya—loud and clear, baby.”

Your lips tightened around the blunt as Ben brutalised the pace of his fingers between your folds, vigorously toying with your clit like it were the worn strings of the guitar he couldn’t seem to master the tuning of. Your lips tightened around the blunt as his finger prodded at just the right spot, an explosion of pleasure slinging your thighs into a weakened and sprawled mess. All control over your body seemed to retreat as you slumped further into his strong frame, which cocooned you like it were your last hope at survival. Oh, you were done for, all right.

“You like that, huh?” Ben cooed into your ear, his free hand sliding beneath your tank to grab ahold of your breasts. He palmed both in a rough, careless motion, then settled on one with a teasing pinch to your nipple. The combined stimulation of his toying at both ends rendered you so speechless that you couldn’t even salvage a coherent moan, so you laid there in complete arrest, succumbing fully to your boyfriend’s mean ministrations. “What, nothin’ to say now? Not even a fuckin’ please or thank you? I know chivalry died when I was buried on ice, but I didn’t think the women had lost their manners, too.”

In all honesty, you could barely comprehend your boyfriend’s words through your numbed haze. Your vision slurred into darkness as your eyes fluttered closed, your saliva beginning to seep into the blunt’s contents as your lips clutched it like a lifeline. Ben released your breast, but the weaving of his fingers down below didn’t stutter. You felt his free fingers graze both your temples in sequence, where his knuckle pushed back the foremost strands of hair that had slipped the keep of your ears. Your heart fluttered an inch at what you thought to be an intimate gesture—which he gifted very few and far between. But knowing the type of man Ben was should have clipped your wings of hope and had you grounded from the get-go.

Suddenly, his hand trailed through your hair and fastened through as many strands as he could collect. Then, with a smooth roll of his wrist, he twined it into a harsh grip, your neck arching at an angle you couldn’t have achieved out of free-will. A weak protest slurred within your throat, which made Ben utter a sound half way between a low laugh and a scoff—the sound so demeaning it flushed your cheeks red. His exploitation hurt—but at the same time, it felt so good, so much so that your body did anything but pull away from his touch.

“Now this is a view I can get behind—you, all pretty and practically fallin’ apart on my fingers,” Ben murmured, his head lowering to your ear so that the sharp button of his nose nuzzled at your temple. “Fuck, I could take you right here, right now,” he continued sultrily. “You want that, sweetheart? Want me to give you exactly what you’ve been cravin’ all fuckin’ day? All you gotta do is ask. Nicely, you know, stroke my cock with your good-doer attitude. That achievable for a brat like you, hm?”

For all the questions asked, you couldn’t offer one damn answer—not with your lips plugged by Ben’s newest fix. You moved a hand to reach for the blunt, eager to pave way for the word that would lay your urges to rest for the night, but the hand he’d buried between your legs were quick to come up and seize your wrist in disapproval. A hot, disgruntled tut from Ben streamlined your ear, but all you could focus on was the sudden barrenness between your legs, a cold neglect left in the wake of his hand.

You weren’t afforded the opportunity to mourn that loss for long before he had both your palms pinned flat onto the table in front of you, the hand in your hair tugging further so that your upper body became suspended within a ruthless game of tug and war. Only, the two contestants—both his hands—were playing for the same team. Ben’s. The advantage was far from yours.

“Dirty stunt,” he hummed almost admirably, his nose tracing your jaw to place a single, devouring kiss over the arch of your neck. You felt the way his lips lapped at your skin in a large motion, like he craved to garner every inch of you in that single touch. He solidified that point with a harsh nibble, the sort that would pucker your skin for a good few minutes, before he brought himself back to your ear. “You don’t get to use your words for this, baby. Your right to an opinion has been worn out for the day, and quite frankly, I’ve had enough of all your fuckin’ chitchat. You wanna get fucked, you’re gonna show me just how much y’want it,” he husked with a dramatic pause, then added in a low murmur, “with your body. Got that?”

With your head practically immobilised by his grip, you echoed a muffled mhm. Your response seemed to be satisfactory enough because he relented his hold—just enough to relieve your pipes so that breathing came with a little more ease.

“Atta girl. It’s gets my dick salutin’ when you’re all obedient,” he praised. His claim was firmly backed by the bulge you felt growing beneath you. It pressed between your thighs like a brash beckoning, and it was enough to cause all the heat that had dissipated between your folds to re-emerge in full force. “Well? The hell you waitin’ for?” He asked in a tone a lot louder—and firmer—this time around.

You pushed out a clueless noise, which made Ben shift a thigh beneath you. Suddenly, the bulk of his leg was hoisted up between your own, the blunt force striking your core at just the right angle that sent a jolt up your body. You gasped a breathless sound into the blunt, your teeth burrowing into the softening paper, and your eyes screwed shut with the pleasure currently coursing your entire being.

“Get that body o’ yours movin’, or we can call it a disappointin’ night,” he instructed. God, you couldn’t come up short after all you’d endured thus far, so instinctually, your hips began to roll against his thigh at a jagged pace, seeking out the only stimulation you could manage in your stilted position. “Yeah, that’s it,” he cooed. “All yours for the takin’, if you’ll hold out long enough to see fuckin’ rainbows. A lot like bein’ on a high, ain’t it? Got my own li’l addict in the makin’.”

He was right. Actually, you thought this felt a whole lot greater than sniffing a line that would simultaneously have you losing your sanity for a few hours. Desperate whimpers began to stew in your chest, polished with so much passion that the sounds felt saturated, almost animated. And Ben, he was devouring every second of it. You couldn’t glimpse enough of his face to say that, but going off of everything you knew about him, and how mean he liked to get with you, you absolutely knew that you were something akin to his own personal heaven right about now. Oh, he’d forsake every personal belief to follow the religion that was you—your undoing.

Almost as though your body had grown frustrated with all the prolonged teasing, your high came on at a rapid pace that made you chest heave in desperation. You felt the arousal bundle into a tightly-knit ball, just yearning to be yanked at by the singular thread that would make it come undone. But the satisfaction was plucked out of reach within seconds when Ben released the grip on your hair to grab at your thigh, forcing your hips to still against his leg. And just like that, the fire within was snuffed out.

Your lips fell loose in exhaustion, the blunt you’d been so loyal to finally making an escape and toppling into your lap. “Ben,” you pushed out frailly, the disappointment heavy on your brows.

“The nerve o’ you,” Ben scoffed, utterly dismissive of your feeble protest. He released your thigh to dip into your lap, and shortly after, he pulled up with the blunt in clutch, wasting no time in pressing it back between your lips. You fumbled with the paper for a few seconds before you finally took it in, but you knew your boyfriend would have something to show for your disobedience. “Yeah, you are a brat,” he said, the hand pinning your wrists suddenly tightening as he pulled your arms to one side, his other hand hooking around your inner thigh.

In one large and effortless motion, he managed to sling you over his lap, releasing your wrists so that you were able to grasp the legs of his chair for support. You clutched the blunt between your lips a little tighter, fighting the villainous pull of gravity, and stifled a moan at the sudden spank that struck the curves of your ass. The aftermath of that contact had your body contracted with a mixture of shock and painful arousal, air blowing from your nostrils like harsh gusts.

“Fuckin’ quiverin’ already?” He chuckled, his large palm smoothing up the fabric of your shorts until you felt every inch of your ass dimple under the cool air of the room. You felt utterly exposed. “Baby, I’m just gettin’ started with you.”

Oh, you were so fucked.

His palm came down for another assault, this time louder than the last. The raw contact echoed through the apartment, narcissistically suffocating the whimper that rattled your chest. Tears began to hoard along the rims of your eyes, but you blinked enough to scatter the moisture. You didn’t need to give him another kick out of this—some lingering stubbornness wouldn’t allow it.

“Fuck, all that noise o’ yours is makin’ me lose count,” Ben scoffed. He rubbed soothing circles over your aching skin, which no doubt glowered an angry red that should have made your boyfriend feel some ounce of sympathy. But then the next words left his mouth, and you knew then that the Supe had no concept of remorse. “Guess I gotta start right at the beginning.”

You braved yourself against the rest of his spanks, your legs drawing together more and more with each touch—not from a place of pain, but from hot, embarrassing enjoyment. The slick within your folds was hard to ignore now, and it seemed to have snagged Ben’s attention because he let up on the harsh punishment, his fingers finding way beneath your shorts and drenched undies. You felt his fingers play at your slick, dragging a line all the way down to your yearning entrance.

“It’s a damn oil slick up in here,” he chuckled, his thumb teasing circles at your hypersensitive clit. “Whaddya say I give her some love, hm?” His finger dipped an inch into your entrance, as if offering a measly taste of his proposal. You rocked your hips back into him as a reply, urgently seeking out the length of his fingers. He gave a low chuckle, and to your shock, actually indulged your plea. Maybe it was your reward for finally playing by his rules.

You weren’t going to fucking question it.

Your back arched by instinct as you felt his fingers prowl into your entrance, your hands clutching the wooden legs of his chair as your eyes rolled into the back of your head. The full force of multiple of his fingers should have coaxed forward some fleeting sense of pain, but you’d been so incredibly aroused for so incredibly long that your entrance welcomed him in like an open-house party. He pumped into you as deep as he could, an appreciative grunt leaving his lips as he revelled in your velvety warmth. His other hand came to wrap around the front of your neck, offering some much needed support as your strength began to collapse with each pump of his fingers.

Your whimpers became more frequent and dishevelled as he picked up the pace, his fingers curling at just the right angle. Every. Fucking. Time. Ben knew how to do the job well—a tactic that had you coming back time and time again, begging for more.

“That’s it, baby, you’re doin’ so good f’me,” he husked out, his own voice slightly abraded by exertion. The subtle breathlessness woven through his words spurred you on even further, making you feel some type of special with the knowledge that he was giving you his all. Just to see you break. Just so that he could put you back together with cherishing kisses.

It only took a few more pumps of his fingers to have your eyes clenching in wait, your lips throttling the blunt as his fingers curled right into your blooming bundle of pleasure. And then he struck it head on, causing an explosion of colour to invade your vision. For a few seconds, you couldn’t comprehend anything beyond your own ragged breaths, your ears ringing with the overwhelming aftermath of your high. You felt your juices trickle from your entrance, and you heard the squelching as Ben slowly retreated from your entrance.

“Holy fuckin’ shit,” he chuckled with a minuscule, congratulatory pat to your ass. “That was one o’ your best runs yet. Think ya can handle one more round?” Ben murmured, releasing your neck to rub a soothing line down your back. You didn’t honestly think you could, and you felt the way every inch of your body ached in an answering protest, but something else tugged your chin into that subtle permission, and then the Supe had you hoisted up in his arms bridal style as he carried you to the bed.

He laid you onto the mattress rather gently, but the caution was instantly discarded as he flipped you over and tugged your hips sky-high. His fingers hooked under the hem of your shorts and undies, and he couldn’t have yanked them over the curves of your ass at a faster pace. Your garments were tossed to some other corner of the room, followed by the rustle of fabric as Ben freed his stoic erection. You heard him huff a breath of relief, and you glanced over your shoulder in time to see him whisk across his shaft with a hasty pump.

You met his eye patiently, making a point to pout around the blunt so that he couldn’t miss the visual image of your dedication to this wretched thing. It made him smirk with satisfaction, a hand coming forward to hook around your pelvis and tug you back an inch. You grunted at the rough yank, turning your head forward as you settled yourself into your folded arms. You felt his tip nestle between your ass before dipping down to glide with ease into your slicked entrance. Both his hands took up firm grip at your pelvis, his large palms fanning across your navel as he pummelled into you with a guttural noise.

“Fuck,” he spat, his length retreating only to return with a force more brutal than a last. His hands shifted across your ass, delivering a hard spank before they slunk up to the small of your back. There, he pushed your stomach into the mattress, and you burrowed further into the material with every possessive thrust of his hips. “You’re just the fuckin’ release I needed after this shitty day—and god, you never disappoint,” he breathed out.

You whimpered in response, pressing your forehead into the sheets as your fingers curled into the bedding. God, this man was overstimulating—he seemed to forget that your frail body was no match for his super-abled one. Or, he simply revelled in that fact. Either way, you were done for.

The blunt’s body quirked against your lips as you practically smothered it against the mattress, but you could hardly be arsed about that now. Ben’s figure came to hover over you, his clothed chest pressing into your back. His hands came up beside your head, frantically searching for yours, and once he found them, his fingers threaded between yours. He held you firmly as he spread your hands out in front of you, trapping you below him as he continued to drive you into the bed. The worn bed frame was creaking so loud that it was almost absurd, and you half expected one of the neighbours to blare a shut the hell up from the top of their lungs. But the only noises to be heard were the gruff moans spewing from Ben’s lips, and your own muffled whining.

The mattress wasn’t anything as fancy as memory foam, but you were sure that by now—with how brutalised Ben’s pace within you was—that the mattress would never forget. You supposed you both had that in common.

──────────────────────

a/n — i’m not gonna lie, i was starting to think this piece would NEVER see the light of day good gawd i think i have commitment issues. anyhoo, if you are a pro at making blunts, mind your business! 😭 i did a quick google search and rolled with it (pun unintended), so if something’s inaccurate you can blame google pls and ty LMAO. i’m just a non smoker girly trying to bring the drug-addled fantasies of loving soldier boy to life, as best as i possibly and very limitedly can. if this fic traumatised you im sorry (also you’re welcome). y’all know the drill, it’s 2 am—if there are typos; no there’s not.

this fic now has a complementary c.ai bot .ᐟ

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི

tags — @gibson-g1rl @fallbhind @bohemianblasphemy @figthoughts

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other works — the boys masterlist

© bluemerakis — do not plagiarise or steal any of my works.

[zepskies]

Headcanon: Wearing His Clothes

Pairings: Dean Winchester x F. Reader, Beau Arlen x F. Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x F. Reader

AN: I haven't done one of these in a while! This one was requested by the lovely @luci-in-trenchcoats. 💜

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff, spiciness/implied smut

Headcanon: How Dean, Beau, and Soldier Boy (Ben) would react to you (getting caught) wearing his clothes.

Dean Winchester

Ugh, what a cocky SOB. 😆 (And yet, not the cockiest of them all.)

You've been doing it for weeks now, without comment from him.

But every time he sees you in one of his undershirts, getting ready for bed, it's always accompanied by a little once-over. A curve of his lips. A smirk, if you will.

He likes the look of you.

He likes that you're his.

And he likes the fact that you feel comfortable enough to steal his clothes.

He also likes welcoming you into bed next to him, with a hand running up your back, or venturing under whatever undershirt you've decided to slip on to feel the warmth of your skin.

"'S this mine?" he asks. You give him a quirking smile.

"You know it is," you say, with playful challenge.

Dean accepts that with a hum and leans in for a kiss as payment.

Sometimes that one stolen kiss leads to another, simmering with heat. And he’ll take great pleasure in taking back his shirt, casting it to the floor and rolling you underneath him on the bed.

But it doesn't stop at his undershirts. You steal his plaid ones if you want something to comfortably drown in when you're doing research, or just lounging in the bunker. The material is soft from several hundred washes. (The red and black one is one of your favorites.)

Rare though it is for him to wear hoodies, it's rarer still, because Dean can never even find one in his side of the dresser.

That's because you're keeping it hostage on your side, buried under your lingerie. (Even if he tried to find the hoodie, odds are he’ll get distracted.)

It gets to the point where he can hardly find anything of his.

His brows furrow as he rucks through his drawers for something clean to wear, while clad in only his most threadbare sweatpants.

"Damn it, woman. Where are my shirts?" he grouses.

You bite your lip and pretend to keep reading your book. You're already safe in bed, covered up to your chest by the blankets.

"I don't know. Have you done your laundry?" you ask, smiling to yourself. Dean catches you, with a suspicious brow raise.

He climbs into bed and snatches the covers away from you. You yelp at the suddenness and try to grab at them, but it's too late.

He discovers that you're wearing one of his newer shirts, which he had to buy to replace the ones he just can't seem to find.

"Are you kidding me? This is Theft in the First goddamn Degree!" he exclaims, even though he's close to laughing at the way you're already giggling. He manages to pin you underneath him on the bed, and he has half a mind to take this shirt back as well, by whatever means necessary.

And yes, tickling is one of those means.

"Sweetheart, for the love of God. Why do you keep taking my shit?" he asks, in a way that's half-serious in his frustration, but also half-teasing.

You shrug shamelessly, still smiling. You run your hands up his bare arms and shoulders, and back down his chest.

"I don't know. It's comfortable," you say. But your eyes lower as your face begins to warm with a blush. "Makes me feel safe...like you're always with me."

At that, the tension in Dean's shoulders eases. His smile can't help but soften around the edges as he looks down on you, now with fondness. After a while, he lets out a deep sigh.

"All right," he says.

You grin, because you know he's given up. You lean up for a kiss that successfully distracts him.

Dean still gets annoyed sometimes when he can't find a specific item of clothing in his drawer, but now, all he has to do is go over to your side of the dresser.

There he knows he'll eventually find what he's looking for.

Beau Arlen

Heh, in this episode of “Whose Hat is it Anyway”...

Beau's wardrobe reminds you of a cowboy in modern times.

Lots of browns and beiges, lots of slacks and buttoned-down shirts tucked in with an army of belts to choose from (even though the man only owns a few pairs of boots). Not to mention a slew of jackets that often pull the look together.

But being that he's new to Montana (specifically, Montana winters), you like to buy him sweaters. Cable-knits and soft ones in earth tones that you think bring out his eyes.

Beau accepts whatever you get him and graciously wears them. He trusts your judgment on what looks good on him, and he appreciates the way you think of him.

It's just one of those ways, however small, that you show that you care and that you're looking out for him.

One night while he's working late, however, you find yourself trying to reorganize the closet. The man is "organized chaos" at best, and you find one of his sweaters on the floor. It's a nice burgundy one that you bought him recently.

Ooh, so soft, you think, while feeling the fabric between your fingers.

You don't know what possesses you, but you decide to slip out of your pajamas and try it on yourself.

SO damn soft, you realize, as you practically drown in the sweater. It hangs about to mid-thigh.

Then you see one of his beige Stetsons hanging on the wall. A sneaking smile curves your lips, before you slip on his hat.

To complete the ensemble, you dig into the recesses of your closet and find a pair of your old cowboy boots. You go out into the bedroom and check yourself out in the mirror with a growing smirk.

"Hey there, darlin'," you try to impersonate your boyfriend's subtle Texan twang, and even his mannerisms by winking at yourself, tipping the hat forward.

You giggle at your own silliness in this moment, but alone in your own house, who freakin' cares? You should feel free to dance naked through the whole damn place if you feel like it.

So you spin on your heel and do a little twirl in your boots.

"Who's the sheriff now, huh?" You mime a pair of guns with your hands and shoot at your reflection. "Psh, psh!"

But that's when you catch sight of one Beau Arlen, leaning against the bedroom doorway with his arms crossed. An amused grin is plastered to his face.

You freeze in shock, still with your "gun hands" held up.

"Oh, don't stop the show on my account," Beau says slyly. He gestures at you. "Please, continue."

Your hot blush spreads from your cheeks and quickly begins to travel down your neck. "Uh...I was just...you know, cleaning the closet. You're very messy, you know!"

Beau snorts and draws closer. Those green eyes of his take in the full sight of you, down your bare thighs and cowboy boots, and back up to your embarrassed face. You bite your bottom lip on reflex.

"You know, I like what you got goin' on here," he says, waving a hand down your form. "But it's just...it's missing something."

He takes his badge with the gold star off his belt and pins it to your sweater.

"There you go. Perfect fit," he says, even as his hand slides up the slope of your back. You find yourself pulled further into his orbit as you try (and fail) to stamp down a smile.

"You're late, you know," you remind him. Beau bows his head and presses a kiss into your neck. You feel his smirk there.

"I'm sorry, Sheriff. Gonna arrest me, or let me off with a warning?" he teases. His other hand comes up to adjust the hat on your head. You smirk and cling to his arms over his dark brown jacket. It's one of his nicer ones.

"I think I can let you off," you play along. You lean up to skim your lips across his cheek, and closer to his ear. "But only for good behavior."

He has to chuckle then. "I can accept those terms..."

Beau's hands slip under your stolen sweater and begin to slide it up your body, inch by inch.

"Though I'm gonna need you to keep the boots on," he says lowly, just before he claims you with a searing kiss.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Oh, here we go. 😅

As with most things, it's a point of pride for Ben.

He'd prefer you be too fucked out to move, let alone put on clothes after he's finished with you.

On the rare occasion that your body doesn't feel too much like warm molasses after a few hot rounds with your boyfriend, you like to at least grab one of his discarded shirts to cover yourself.

If he still has energy, he'll take that as a challenge. He'll try to slip his hands underneath whatever shirt you've found and divest you of it, so he can start devouring you again.

However. Ben does like seeing you in his clothes, in a possessive, claiming way.

There are days when you just want to be swallowed up in one of his large, comfortable shirts as you lounge about the house.

Ben sometimes watches you putter around, cleaning, working, cooking, reading, or watching TV in nothing but his clothes. He wonders if you're even wearing panties. You could be bare faced with a severe case of bed head, but his eyes will still occasionally follow you.

His expression doesn't reveal too much, but he likes it. (And because you know him, you know it too.)

Maybe he'll catch you as you pass by, hooking an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him. You startle with a yelp, but then you grab onto his arms and smile.

"Can I help you, sir?" you tease.

"Think you can just walk by me, looking sexy as fuck?" he remarks. He steals a slow, thorough kiss. You cup his face and bring him back in for more, tenderly stroking his cheek.

"You know why I like wearing your stuff?" you ask. Your smile hints at teasing.

Ben arches a brow. "Why?"

"Because it keeps you looking," you reply. And you reach a hand around to slap his ass, for good measure.

Then you saunter away from him to get back to what you were doing.

Or at least, you try to.

Ben grabs your hand and pulls you back towards him, back into the cage of his arms, where he falls back into the trap you've so often laid. And he finishes what you started.

AN: Well, then. 😂 I hope you guys enjoy this! Who had your favorite reaction: Dean, Beau, or Ben? 😘

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[jays-bonnie-on-the-side]

ARE YOU ASHAMED?

PAIRING : beau arlen x younger fem!reader

SUMMARY : beau had planned to spend the day with reader but when emily tells him she’s on her way to his trailer, he forces reader to leave before his daughter shows up.

WARNINGS : age gap. strong language. smut. unprotected p in v. creampie. morning sex. dom!beau. sub!reader. slight out-of-character beau. angst. kept secrets.

A/N : i’ve had this beau oneshot idea for forever and finally felt like releasing it cuz I miss him so much. might make a part 2, tell me what y’all think!

Beau stirs, waking you from your slumber. The sun seeps through the thin curtains and shines over your eyelids. He wraps his strong arms around your body, pulling you into his. A content smile graces your tired face, and you bask in his warmth. Oh, how you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

His lips brush against your skin, beginning from the back of your shoulder up the side of your neck. You squirm in his embrace, tickled by both his beard and kisses. Beau knew how sensitive you were, and he loved to see you giggle with glee. He moves, hovering over your body. His shadow stretches across your eyelids, shielding you from the indirect sun.

Finally, you open your eyes and couldn’t be happier for the gift of sight. Your handsome boyfriend stares down at you, lust in his hooded eyes. He moves between your legs, and you know what he wants. He leans down slowly and gently captures your lips between his. It was long and sweet, just like every kiss he gives you at the start and end of your day. He deepens it, and the more your lips move in sync, the hungrier you each become.

His excitement presses against your inner thigh, and you can’t help but point it out. So, with a smile, you murmur against his lips, “Well, someone’s having a good morning.”

Beau presses his confined member against your clothed clit, eliciting a whimper from your pretty mouth. Your underwear gets damper when his husky Texas draw replies, “Sweetheart, the mornin’s only begun.”

You weren’t a morning person, but you didn’t mind how and when he woke you. Even after a night of sex, you still looked forward to the morning. He kneels between your legs as his hands drag your panties off. He bites his lip when he sees your glistening pussy, staring as if it was the first time he’s seen you. You used to be shy, but after months of watching the same reaction, all you feel is confidence.

He pushes his boxers down, and your mouth waters as his cock springs free. With your undergarments aside, he leans over you again. Despite the warmth radiating from his body onto yours, he pulls up the covers to shield you from the cold. Beau presses his erection between your wet folds, coating his thick member in your juices. He doesn’t ask permission when he brings his leaking tip to your entrance or before he shoves his long shaft inside you. He didn’t need it. From the beginning, you made it clear he could handle you when and however he wanted, as long as he didn’t break your heart.

Instinctively, your body clings to his, holding on for dear life as he splits you in two. It didn’t matter if he went fast or slow, the size of his dick still stretched you the same, and you’d be feeling it for a long time after. The protruding veins in his cock rub against your walls, making your mouth fall open. His tip hits your G-spot effortlessly, forcing your eyes to roll back. Your nails dig into his back, leaving behind crescent-shaped marks.

His name falls from your lips like a prayer, and you swear you’re in Heaven. Your body arches into his chest, the pleasure becoming so much that you can’t lie still. He picks up the pace, grunting in your ear as your tight cunt clenches around him. Your hand finds its way to his hair, tugging hard enough to drive you both wild. His lips go right for your neck like the animal he was. His teeth brush against your sensitive skin as he sucks on your sweet spot. His large hand massages your breast, his thumb circling your hardened nipple while his other holds him steady. The pleasure was becoming too much, and he could tell by the way you squeezed him.

Suddenly, his phone rings, disrupting his vigorous rhythm. Your eyes open in startlement and dismay. God, please don’t answer it, not now! You internally beg. He groans and slows his movements.

“I should probably get that.”

“Fuck, I was so close,” You whine.

Unexpectedly, he slams his well-endowed manhood into you. His tip bruises your cervix, and your body jolts. Your eyes squeeze shut, hollering in pain, pleasure, and surprise. His mouth finds yours, and the kiss is hot and heavy. He reaches for the nightstand, his hips snapping into yours as he blindly silences the ringer. The vibration moves the phone, but it becomes tolerable.

Beau’s thrusts grow more urgent, harsher. He pounds you into the bed, and you’re shocked the trailer wasn’t moving with you. His pelvis grinds against your clit, and you feel your orgasm approaching. Your body begins to overheat; The combination of pleasure, blanket warmth, body warmth, and insanely hot sex made a thin layer of sweat coat your body. You both come up for air, and fresh tears sting your eyes.

Beau sees how close you are and encourages, “Go on, darlin’, cum on my cock like the good girl you are.”

And with his permission, you come undone. Your body trembles beneath him as your orgasm passes through your nervous system. ‘Times like these, you were grateful that Beau lived in the middle of the woods with no neighbors to hear you scream with ecstasy. His hips lock with yours, and with a guttural moan, he shoots his thick load inside your spent pussy. Your limps fall from his body, but he stays one with you.

Your breaths mingle as you each pant heavily. Neither one of you moves, reveling in your highs while they last. Once your breathing steadies, Beau slowly pulls himself out, and you whimper at the loss. He collapses next to you before wrapping his arm around your shoulder to pull you into his side. You blissfully cuddle up to him, enjoying his presence and basking in the post-sex euphoria.

“That was…Fuck, I can’t even think straight.”

You giggle, nuzzling your cheek into his chest while wrapping your arm around his torso. He holds you closer and kisses the top of your head. It was rare, but you each had the day off. His left hand strokes your right arm, soothing both your body and mind. What you wouldn’t give to stay like this.

His phone chimes with a text. You groan, knowing the serenity was ended by whoever sent the message. And to top it off, they now have your man’s undivided attention. He chuckles at your annoyance but understands it. Everyone knew it was his day off, but clearly, they didn’t care. All he wanted was to spend the day with his girl in peace. But being Sheriff has its downsides. He reaches over your body, grabbing his phone off the nightstand before lying back down. The screen lights up, and he reads the text, realizing it’s his role as a father who threatened his time with you.

Emily: Hey, dad. Mom’s dropping me off. She got called in for an emergency at work. See you in 10!

He springs up in bed, knocking you off in the process. Your heart leaps out of your chest, confusion and fear coursing through you.

“Damn it!” Beau exclaims before scooting off the mattress.

You hold the blanket to your body, asking, “What’s wrong?”

“Emily—she’s on her way,” he grabs your shirt and tosses it on your lap. “You gotta go.”

Shit! You scramble out of bed to put your clothes on. You and Beau have been together for over seven months, and not once have you met his daughter. Whenever the subject came up, he’d say he wasn’t ready. You didn’t rush him; You understood that it was a big step for him—for everyone involved, but you so desperately longed to be in that part of his life. Deep down, you couldn’t help but wonder if he was ashamed of you. After all, you were half his age.

In the beginning, you both kept your relationship a secret, afraid of the judgment you’d each receive. Beau even second-guessed his decision to go out with a younger girl. Hell, you were closer in age with his daughter than you were to him. But he couldn’t deny how well you both got on. He connected more with you than he ever did with his ex-wife. After a few months had passed, he allowed the knowledge of your relationship to spread to the people closest to him. Despite the success, the thought of you meeting his family terrified him, so he asked everyone to keep the news low-key.

What if we broke up? What if she realizes she no longer wants an older man? What if Emily doesn’t like her? The thoughts often clouded his mind, but he had to remind himself she wasn’t a little girl anymore. The relationship between you and him wouldn’t affect her much, but still, she was his life. His daughter’s opinion matters most, and he’s afraid she won’t get past the age gap.

“Sweetheart, you gotta go faster than that.” Beau’s anxiety causes his voice to rise. “She’ll be here in eight minutes. I can’t let her see you or your car.”

“Beau, I’m going as fast as I can. Please, don’t rush me.” You had pulled on your shirt and began to slide on your underwear as you balanced on wobbly legs. “Have you seen my bra?”

You get down on your hands and knees, searching underneath the bed for the garment, but you don’t see it. Before you can look under the nightstand, Beau grabs your arm and yanks you up from the floor.

“Forget your fucking bra!” He shouts before shoving your jeans into your unsupported chest. You barely catch it before it drops, but you’re too slow to stop the gasp from leaving your mouth at his sudden behavior. “Put those on and get out.”

Your shock turns to anger as you pull on your pants. Beau was already dressed and gathering your items. When you leave the bedroom and enter the other half of the trailer, he hands you your belongings and opens the door. He searches for his ex’s car and sighs in relief when he doesn’t see it. When he looks back at you, you’re sitting on the couch, putting on your shoes.

“Y/N, you gotta—“

“Go! I know. Can I put my damn shoes on first?”

“There’s no time. They’ll be here any minute.”

He strides toward you and tries to grab your arm again, but you snatch it away. “Don’t touch me!”

You get up from your seat and walk to the open door with your stuff in hand. Beau follows you outside, and before you walk down the patio stairs, you turn on your heel.

“Are you ashamed of me?”

His eyebrows furrow and his neck straightens, seemingly caught off guard. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me,” You ask again, terrified of the answer. “Are you ashamed of me?”

“I…” He appears defeated, but he quickly masks the emotion. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Answer the question.”

“Damn it, Y/N. We can talk about this later.”

“I don’t want to talk about it later. Just tell me—”

“Leave! Now!”

“Not until you give me an answer.”

“Please—They'll be here any second,”

“Yes or no: Are you ashamed of me? Of us?”

He glances toward the car trail, hoping they don’t show now and see you two. He runs his hand through his hair in frustration. He knew you wouldn’t give up without an answer. “Sweetheart, it’s not that simple.”

You nod, understanding what he refuses to say out loud. Your throat gets tight, and you know you have to leave before you cry but, more importantly, before they arrive. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they don’t see me. Neither will you.”

Without another word, you hurry to your parked car whilst ignoring his calls. Maybe it was best that he didn’t introduce you to his daughter. Perhaps it’ll hurt less. You toss your belongings into the passenger seat and start your vehicle. Without bothering to heat your car’s engine, you speed off. He wanted to run after you but instead, he watches you go with a heavy heart.

Surely, you had to understand why he didn’t want you to meet them right now. And you did. You understood why today wasn’t the best day to meet his family. Hell, you didn’t want your first interaction to be right after you had sex with Emily’s dad and Carla’s ex-husband. But it bothered you that this wasn’t the first time you had to leave because they were coming by.

Despite being distraught, Beau didn’t have time to digest what happened as Carla drove up less than 20 seconds after you left. Like you promised they didn’t see you and in a way, he was thankful but not when the cost was losing you. Emily steps out of the car and greets her father.

“Hey, Dad.”

He puts on a smile, trying not to let the prior events affect the time with his daughter. “Hey, Em.”

“Are you okay?”

It seemed as though she knew him better than he thought. But he decides to deflect. “What’re you talking about? ‘Course I’m okay. What’d you want to do today?”

She shrugs and goes into the trailer. Beau waves to Carla before following her inside. “I was thinking…”

Emily’s voice fades into the background as his eyes wander to his room.

His thoughts drift to every word, spoken or unspoken, every action in the little time you were given. How could he treat you like that? You had done nothing wrong. How could he have let you leave thinking the worst?

“Dad!”

His head snaps in Emily’s direction. “What?”

“So, can we? Go into town?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, sure. I’m gonna hop in the shower first, then we can head out.”

“Okay,” She stares warily. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Beau nods, “I’ll be—I’m fine. Don’t you worry.”

He walks toward the bathroom, and before he enters, out of the corner of his eye, he sees your bra underneath the nightstand. His heart tightens, but he doesn’t dare to deal with the sorrow in the presence of his daughter. He closes the curtain to the room, planning to deal with the evidence after his shower. He’s certain about one thing: He’d make it right.

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[figthoughts]

𖤓 — thinking about helping bf!beau relax after a stressful day at work .ᐟ

warnings: smut, oral (m. receiving), est. relationship. (bf!beau x gf!reader) 18+

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

imagine beau getting home to your apartment after a long day, a deep sigh rumbling from his chest as he sits down on the couch, almost defeatedly.

“what’s wrong, my love?” you ask, seeing the exhaustion etched on his face, taking a seat beside him.

“just a long day, darlin’. don’t worry about it,” he replies, pulling you into his arms, caging you against his chest.

“you say that, but i do worry. i care about you, beau,” you smile, searching his eyes as the soft-spoken words leave your lips. you plant a tender little kiss on his cheek.

he hums with a tired smile as you plant another kiss. and another. and another. you kiss your way along his bearded jaw, your lips eventually finding his.

beau kisses you back lazily, letting his eyes flutter shut as his body melts into the couch, but as you slip your leg over his thighs and settle in his lap, it’s like a flip switches. he kisses you back hard, with a desperate intensity to it.

“so tired,” he murmurs against your lips, pulling at your shirt, “just been wanting to come home and see you. more than anything, darlin’.”

you sense the emotion behind his words; you can tell he’s had a rough day. you know he needs a little lovin’ right now.

you let him slip off your shirt, his mouth attaching itself to your neck, sucking and biting at your skin gently. he pulls at your bra straps and you nod, giving him permission to continue undressing you.

he pulls the rest of your clothes off, along with his, with such reverence in his gaze as he looks at you. his eyes widen as you settle in front of him on the floor.

“oh, sweetheart. you don’t have to do that, you’ve worked all day too,” he breathes out, his fingers tenderly pushing back some hair from your face.

“don’t have to, want to,” you correct him, taking him in your hand, your eyes locked on his.

he gasps at your soft hand wrapping around his cock and the shivers that run down his spine as you begin to pump him. you watch his shoulders begin to relax and the tense expression on his face slowly disappear.

“mmm, are— are you sure?” he asks again, his tone lazy and tired, his southern drawl coming out a little.

“positive,” you reaffirm.

beau rocks his hips a little as you pump his hardening cock, quiet and needy moans falling from his lips.

“ahhh… sweetheart, that feels so good…” he coos lovingly, watching you from the couch in awe.

you smile up at him, watching him through your lashes, enjoying his gaze that’s so full of love and affection.

as you take his hardened cock into your mouth, a deep moan erupts from his chest. beau’s hand comes to rest on your head, not guiding your movements by any means, but just out of desperation to touch you, to have the comfort of your body against his, even in that small insignificant way.

you bob your head up and down his length, your tongue swirling over his sensitive tip, tasting his precum as he watches you in a mixture of adoration and fascination.

“fuck, darlin’. feels so good. you look so beautiful like this,” he mutters, his free hand gripping the couch.

you hum around his cock, enjoying how the vibrations make beau’s hips jerk up towards you.

deep and strangled groans fall out of beau’s mouth as he gets closer, twitching against your tongue. you grab the base of his cock, jerking off what you can’t fit in.

beau bites at his bottom lip, trying to stifle his moans as they get louder. his grip in your hair gets a little tighter, now guiding you along his member. you let him, seeing the neediness and exhaustion still haunting his features.

“ahhh… oh, god— mmm, feels so good. don’t stop, baby…. please…” he whines out, his eyes locked on you.

you bat your lashes up at him, moving up ‘n down his thick cock faster, your hand still wrapped around his base.

he whimpers as he fights off finishing right there in your mouth, “ahh ahh, darlin’…. w-where?”

you look into his desperate eyes as you pull him out of your mouth with a ‘pop’, your hand still jerking his sensitive pretty pink cock. you stick your tongue out and open your mouth, answering his question.

he nods in response and grabs ahold of his length, jerking himself off quickly, “fuck, darlin’… gonna cum in that pretty mouth of yours…” he grunts out, hisses and groans flying past his lips.

he lets out a deep pathetic moan as he finishes, his warm ropes of cum covering your lips and tongue as he milks his cock for every last drop.

your eyes stay locked on his as he shoots his load into your mouth. a small smile grows on your face as he slumps back into the couch, a tired but satisfied look on his face, “oh, jesus. baby, you’re so—” he shakes his head, unable to find the words to describe how strong his love for you is.

you obediently swallow, wiping the drops above and below your lips into your mouth, your tongue teasingly wrapping around the tip of your finger. beau groans again, watching you tease him as you swallow his cum.

“so damn beautiful,” he comments, “thank you, babygirl. i— i really needed that.”

you nod, shifting on your knees in front of him with a smile. you tilt your head and look at him as he smiles back at you, “i know. you looked like you needed it, baby.”

he hums again, watching you crawl back up onto his lap. his hands find their way to your waist, “is it my turn to make you feel good now, my darlin’? i’m dying to return the favour.”

you smile widely and shrug trying to play coy, but the excited squeal that escapes your lips as beau pins you down against the couch gives away just how eager you are.

A/N: first time writing for beau !!! the daddy issues in me are SCREAMING for a piece of him like actually it’s so bad.

requests and feedback are welcome!! reblogs are appreciated!! thank youuuu!!!

✩ taglist: @chevroletdean @fitxgrld @jasvtsc @bluestrd @1-imbroglio @titsout4nicholas @faithfulsofi @tortureddarkstar @abellmunsonmovie @atenea585 @theoneandonlystonedspiderman420 @manicjk @aileenunfiltered @minettacreekk @jackleslvr @winchester-whiskey @artyandink @emeraldcrs @freyabear @a1ecmcdowell @cosmopolitan-thedrink @jwritestuff @suhnisideup @spookyysinsanity

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[deansbeer]

★ soup, snuggles, and mr. wiggles // beau arlen.

synopsis. you're sick during a visit to montana, but your dad, comes to the rescue with chicken star soup, snacks, and your old childhood stuffed bear, reminding you that you're never too old to be cared for.

warning(s). fluffy fluff fluff | older daughter!reader | caregiving dad beau | mild illness (stomach bug) | nausea | fatigue | father-daughter bonding | nostalgia | childhood memories (beloved stuffed bear & favorite soup).

kari yaps. i love my pretty cowboy sheriff sososo much && literally don't have anything written for him + this idea was perfect for beau, because one im an older sister / daughter myself & two my brain was wired up @ 2am ???? n i took that opportunity to write. but i only got halfway & BARELY got to finishing it 2day.

you knew it was a bad idea the second you bit into the chicken sandwich. something about it tasted... off, but you hadn't eaten at all during your flight from houston to montana, and your stomach didn't give you much of a choice. by the time you arrived at the airbnb you rented, you were already feeling the first signs of regret—your stomach twisting uncomfortably, your body heavy with fatigue. you chalked it up to exhaustion from the drive, but when you woke up the next morning, nausea hit you like a freight train.

you'd planned today for weeks—just you and your dad, a father-daughter day he'd been talking about nonstop since you told him you were visiting. he'd even promised emily she'd get her turn after you left because, as he put it, "this one's special. just me and my girl." and now, lying on the couch of your airbnb, wrapped in a blanket, you felt guilt gnawing at you because there was no way you could keep those plans. your stomach rolled again, and you groaned, reaching for your phone to call him.

"hey, sweetheart," he answered on the first ring, his voice bright with excitement. "you ready for me to pick you up? i've got the whole day mapped out—breakfast, a little fishing, and maybe we can stop by that trail you liked last time."

you winced, both at the enthusiasm in his voice and the wave of nausea that hit you. "uh, about that…"

he instantly picked up on your tone. "what's wrong?"

"nothing," you said quickly, even though your voice was weak. "i just… i don't think i can make it today. i'm not feeling great."

"not feeling great how?" his voice lost its lightness, replaced by concern.

"it's nothing, dad. probably just something i ate. i just need to rest, that's all."

there was a pause, and you could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. "where are you staying again? that little airbnb by the creek?"

"dad, no, you don't have to—"

"i'll be there in twenty," he said firmly, already moving. "and don't even think about arguing with me."

you sighed, knowing there was no point in trying to stop him. "fine. okay, dad."

"what kind of dad would i be if i didn’t take care of my girl when she's sick?" he said, his voice softening. "sit tight, sweetheart. i'll be there soon."

true to his word, twenty minutes later, you heard the familiar rumble of his car pulling into the driveway. you managed to shuffle to the door, opening it just as he walked up, two large grocery bags in his hands and a determined look on his face.

"you look terrible," he said bluntly, though the warmth in his eyes softened the blow. "not that you're not still the prettiest thing i've ever seen."

"thanks, dad," you muttered, stepping aside to let him in. "just what every girl wants to hear."

he set the bags on the counter and turned to you, his hands on his hips. "all right, let's see what we've got here. crackers, ginger ale, that soup you used to love when you were little—chicken and stars, remember that?—and some popsicles, because you'd always ask for those when you were sick. oh, and a heating pad, in case you've got chills."

you felt a lump rise in your throat as you watched him unpack everything, his movements quick and efficient. he was always like this when you were a kid—hands-on, attentive, making sure you had everything you needed even when life got chaotic. and now, standing in your little airbnb kitchen, he looked just the same, though his beard was a little grayer and the lines around his eyes a little deeper.

"dad, you didn't have to do all this," you said, your voice thick with emotion.

he glanced at you, his expression softening. "yeah, i did. you're my kid, darlin'. it doesn't matter if you're five or twenty-five, i'm always gonna take care of you."

you blinked rapidly, willing the tears not to fall. "i suppose you're right."

he gave you a small smile before turning back to the bags. "and because i know you're gonna get crabby—don't deny it, you've always been a little bear when you're under the weather—I brought backup.” he pulled out a small stuffed bear, its brown fur worn and familiar. "found this guy in one of the storage boxes last week and figured you might need him."

you let out a surprised laugh, reaching for the bear. "oh my god, is this… is this mr. wiggles?"

"the one and only," he said, grinning. "thought he'd been retired, but desperate times call for desperate measures."

you hugged the bear to your chest, shaking your head. "you're ridiculous."

"and you love me for it," he said, nudging your shoulder gently. "now, go lie down. i'll heat up the soup and put on a movie."

you didn't argue, too tired and too grateful to protest. you curled up on the couch again, the blanket pulled snug around you and mr. wiggles tucked under your arm. a few minutes later, your dad appeared with a tray—soup, crackers, and a glass of ginger ale—and set it on the coffee table in front of you.

"all right, what's it gonna be?" he asked, grabbing the remote. "something funny? or one of those sappy movies you always make me watch?"

you smiled faintly. "sappy. but you're not allowed to complain."

"wouldn't dream of it," he said, settling into the recliner next to you. "though if i start crying, you're not allowed to tell anyone."

"deal," you said, your smile widening.

as the movie played, you found yourself relaxing for the first time all day. your dad stayed by your side, occasionally cracking jokes or making comments about the characters, his presence a constant comfort. and even though you felt awful, you couldn't help but feel a little better knowing he was there.

"thanks for coming, dad," you said softly as the credits rolled.

he reached over, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. "always, sweetheart. you're stuck with your old man, whether you like it or not."

and in that moment, with the warmth of the blanket, the faint taste of ginger ale on your tongue, and your dad sitting nearby, you realized there was no place you’d rather be.

SPECIAL TAGS. @floralscented @titsout4jackles @deansbite @deanswidow @jasvtsc @beausling @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @lacydollette @lustagel @ultravi0lence14 @beausling @ostaramoon @rubyvhs @aileenunfiltered @bluestrd @jackleslvr @fallbhind . . . ૮っ ̫ _ ྀིა

[rositaslabyrinth]

Miss possessive - Dean W

Dean x female!Reader

Seeing a girl flirt with Dean at a bar is insulting. You can only take enough of watching it before going over and dragging to the backseat of the impala.

Content warnings ; smut, sex in the impala, slight handjob, unprotected sex (don’t follow their example queens), eating out, lowkey sub!dean

Word count ; 1,901

Minors PLEASE do not interact!!

The bar is buzzing with low conversations, clinking glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter. You and Dean are tucked into a booth with Sam, unwinding after a long hunt. Everything is fine—until she shows up.

She’s pretty, you’ll give her that. Blonde hair, easy smile, and confidence radiating off of her as she leans against the bar right next to Dean. The first time she touches his arm, you tell yourself to let it go. The second time, when she giggles at something he says—something that wasn’t even that funny—your grip tightens around your glass.

Dean, oblivious as ever, just smirks, giving her that stupid, charming grin you know way too well.

You can’t hear everything over the music, but you don’t need to. You see the way she presses just a little too close, the way her hand lingers on his forearm, nails tracing the edge of his sleeve. She wants him, and what’s worse? She doesn’t even care that you’re sitting right there.

“Be right back,” you mutter to Sam, sliding out of the booth before he can stop you.

You don’t hesitate. You stride over, slipping right between Dean and the girl with a too-sweet smile. You place a firm hand on his chest, pushing him back slightly before wrapping your other arm around his waist.

“Hey, honey,” you purr, eyes locking onto his. “You were gone too long.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, but the second he registers the sharpness in your gaze, the tension in your grip, the way your body is pressed flush against his—oh, he gets it.

His lips twitch, amusement flickering in his expression. “Was I?”

You don’t give him a chance to say anything else before pulling him down into a kiss—one that isn’t just for show. It’s deep, possessive, a clear statement for everyone watching. Your fingers tangle in the fabric of his jacket, making damn sure he feels just how much he belongs to you.

When you finally pull away, Dean looks dazed for a second before a slow, lazy smirk spreads across his lips. “Damn,” he murmurs. “What was that for?”

You don’t answer him. Instead, you turn your gaze to the blonde, who’s now looking anywhere but at you. “Sorry,” you say with a saccharine smile. “Were you saying something?”

She stammers out an excuse before grabbing her drink and retreating fast. You watch her go, satisfaction thrumming in your chest.

Dean chuckles, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “Jealous, sweetheart?”

You huff, tugging him closer by the belt loops. “You’re mine, Winchester.”

Dean leans in, voice dropping to something rough and teasing. “Yeah? Maybe you should remind me.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

Dean barely has time to react before you’re gripping his jacket, pulling him toward the door. He doesn’t resist—not even a little. In fact, he chuckles under his breath, like he’s enjoying this way too much.

“Damn, sweetheart,” he murmurs as you push open the bar door and step into the cool night air. “Didn’t know you liked an audience.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. Instead, you march straight to the Impala, yanking the back door open before shoving him inside. Dean lands on the leather with a grunt, looking up at you with a mix of amusement and something darker, something needy.

You climb in after him, slamming the door shut. The second you’re alone, you straddle his lap, gripping his jaw and making him look at you. His hands settle on your waist, firm and warm, but you don’t give him the chance to take control.

“Mine,” you breathe, dragging your fingers through his hair. “Say it.”

Dean swallows, his smirk faltering for just a second before his voice drops, rough and sure. “Yours.”

That’s all you need. You crash your lips against his, pouring every bit of jealousy, every ounce of possession, into the kiss. It’s all-consuming, heat coiling between you as Dean groans into your mouth, hands sliding under your jacket, gripping tight like he never wants to let go.

“You get off on this, don’t you?” he murmurs between kisses, voice teasing but breathless.

“Shut up.” You tug at his collar, exposing the line of his throat, and nip at the skin there, hard enough to leave a mark.

Dean lets out a low, pleased growl, fingers digging into your hips. “That’s my girl.”

Damn right, you are.

And before the night is over, he won’t have any doubt about who he belongs to.

You grind down against him, a low, breathy gasp escaping your lips as you feel the pressure of him beneath you. The backseat of the Impala feels too small for the heat building between you, but you don’t care. You can’t—because all that matters right now is him, and the way you can’t stop wanting him.

Dean’s hands are everywhere, sliding under your shirt, pulling at your clothes as he pulls you even closer, his chest rising and falling beneath you with each breath. He groans at the friction, his grip tightening around your waist, fingers digging into the soft curve of your hips. The heat between you is suffocating, but it only makes you press closer, matching your movements with his.

“Damn, sweetheart,” he mutters, his voice ragged, a low growl beneath the words. “You want me this bad, huh?”

You smirk against his neck, dragging your lips along his jawline, sucking softly at the sensitive skin just beneath his ear. “I always want you, Dean,” you whisper, grinding down against him again, slow and deliberate this time, drawing out the sensation.

His breath hitches, and you feel the way his pulse quickens under your fingertips. But still, he doesn’t take control. Not yet. Not until you’ve had your fill of him. His hands slip under your shirt, skin on skin, sending shivers down your spine as he pulls you in deeper, closer.

“Say it,” you breathe, your hands trailing down his chest, fingers brushing against the waistband of his jeans before pulling them and his underwear down and off him. “Say you want me, Dean.”

For a second, he hesitates, but only for a second. Then, with a rough exhale, he grabs your face, pulling you close. “I want you,” he growls, eyes locked on yours with a fire you know all too well. “I fucking want you, I’m yours,

And that’s all it takes. You slide your hands up his chest, and you’re moving against him, slow at first. Teasing. The tension thickens, your pulse thrumming as you feel the heat between you rise, every inch of him pressing against you.

You can feel the way he’s holding back—holding onto whatever little self-control he has left. But you won’t let him. Not now. You’re the one in control, and you’re going to make sure he knows it. You push him back against the leather seat, leaning down to kiss him, all fire, all heat.

Dean’s hands slide to your hips, but this time, he’s not guiding you. He’s holding on, letting you set the pace, watching you with that look in his eyes—the same one he always gets when he’s completely lost in you. His thumb brushes against your skin, tracing patterns that make your heart race.

“You’re mine,” you breathe, your voice barely a whisper as you pull back to look at him. “And don’t you forget it.”

Dean’s chest heaves beneath you, his hands tightening on your hips, pulling you down closer. He’s losing it, but he’s still trying to hold on, still trying to give you what you want—but you won’t let him.

You press down, and he gasps, his hands gripping the seat beneath him as his eyes squeeze shut. “God,” he growls, his voice low, guttural. “You’re driving me fucking crazy.”

You lean down, your lips brushing against his ear. “You like it,” you murmur, fingers moving to his aching cock.

Dean’s breath catches. “Fuck, yeah,” he groans, his hands finally snapping to your back, pressing you even harder against him, thrusting up into your hands even more, the friction too much to ignore.

You kiss him harder, every movement slow and deliberate. You move against him, your body sinking down on him just a little bit more each time, every inch of him filling you, stretching you in the best way possible, while you continue ti lazily stroke his base.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Dean mutters, his voice shaking as you start to move faster, pulling him in, making him feel every inch of your need. His hands are now on your back, guiding you, but it’s not enough for you. You want to be closer, deeper.

“I want you so badly,” you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you press down against him again, feeling the way his grip tightens on you, pulling you down harder.

Dean’s hand grip your hips harder, hid other hand going to the one on his cock yo grab ahold of and hold down on his chest. His control snapping as he slams up into you, a sound between a growl and a moan escaping his lips. You match his rhythm, desperate, frantic, the heat of him almost overwhelming.

He’s possessing you now, every thrust bringing him deeper, harder, until the world falls away, and it’s just the two of you, tangled in a whirlwind of heat and desire. His name falls from your lips in a desperate whisper, and that’s when everything snaps—when the tension reaches its peak, and you both break together.

You collapse against him, breathless and shaking, but he doesn’t let you go. His hands are still on you, pulling you close, his lips brushing against your forehead as you both try to catch your breath.

He helps you off of him, the way both of your fluids spill out of you back into deans skin is like a watching a waterfall. He taps your back, signaling you to move up him, which you do after a few more seconds of catching your breath.

With you hovering over his face, he had the perfect view of you, your glistening cunt from both of your come. He waisted no time, pulling you down by your hips onto his mouth groaning into you.

“Of fuck Dean, just like that, yes!” You moan out dropping your head behind you squeezing your eyes shut as you can feel his tongue swiping up through your leaking folds.

He groans into you, the vibrations coursing through your body drawing you closer to your second orgasm. You move your hips against his mouth, the feeling too good not to.

All you could get out was broken moans mixed in with barely there yelps of his name.

Once you come again, Dean works your way through it continuing to drag his tongue through you until he made sure you were clean of come

Once getting off and falling back onto his chest once again Dean’s chest rose and fell beneath you as he holds you close, the scent of leather and sweat surrounding you both. “Fuck,” he breathes, his voice raw.

The moment is broken a few moments later though with a knock in the widow, jolting both of you up, dean making sure to cover you.

“Guys seriously? This is a shared car.” You hear sam scoff, before retreating back into the shared bar.

Liz talks : all I’ve been doing my entire spring break has been writing and working LMAO so two posts in two days, I hope yall like this fun little dean smut, inspired by miss possessive by Tate McRae. I also came to the conclusion that I CAN write smut I just can’t write smut dialogue so! Whatevs! I will not be looking at it after this out of sight out of mind! Let me know what yall think any kind of interaction is great <3

Tags : @deansbbyx , @deanswidow , @nymphet-quenn , @multiversefanfics , @star-maker-rain-dancer , @sunsbaby , @starzify , @bluemerakis , @aambearr , @blossomingorchids , @littlesoulshine , @daylighted , @wchswift , @emeraldcrs , @bossyblondie , @lunaleah , @pieandflannel

To be tagged in any future works of mine please check out this post !!

[sugardean]

⋆ playing with your pussy

Dean playing with your pussy, in his bedroom, hearing nothing but the sounds of your moans and feeling the wetness sloshing against his fingers, teasing you as he squeezes your tits whispering in your ear,

“yeah feel good pretty girl? bet it fucking does” as you moan close to his ear, mouth slightly open begging for more.

You can sense every intricate detail of him pressing against you—the warmth of his skin, the solid firmness of his body gently prodding your lower back, and the gentle prick of his stubble grazing your cheek.You’re completely overwhelmed by the intense sensations as his fingers glide in slow circles against your pussy, while the other pinches your nipples, igniting every sensation of pleasure all over your body. “let it all out baby, doing s’ good for me”.

[jollyhunter]

THE BROKEN CIRCLE

Beau!Dean x hunter!reader

Characters: (mostly) Beau Arlen / (flashbacks) Dean Winchester x hunter!reader, also Denise and Cassie AU: "Supernatural" x "Big Sky" crossover, set after S15 of SPN

One Shot (???) UPDATE: A SEQUEL IS PLANNED. THANKS SO MUCH FOR ALL THE POSITIVE FEEDBACK!! 🧡🧡🧡

Warnings: - Major MC death mentioned (end of SPN spoiler), implied panic attack, angst and just buckets of tears (I'm coping with a certain someone's death here) - No use of Y/N - English is not my native language

Words: ~4,050

Setup: "Winchester" - That's the name you applied with at the police department, when you started a new life in Big Sky, Montana, 4 years ago. It's your deceased husband's name. Or rather, meant-to-be husband, since Dean died 2 weeks before he got to propose to you. Today you return from your one month time-out. But a lot has changed since you went to visit Sam; You've got a new sheriff.

And he's the same man you thought you'd never see again.

The Broken Circle

Cold.

In one word, that's your last memory of when you gingerly cupped Dean’s face. How your tender fingers caressed his bruised cheeks and wiped away the dirt from his battered skin. Shakily combed out the rubble from his damp brown hair and scrubbed the dry blood off his fingers.

The last time you squeezed Dean's lifeless hand before it slipped from your trembling fingers. Cold and busted lips scraped against yours when you gently kissed him goodbye for the last time in this life.

...Or so you hoped. Who knew what heaven had in stock for you two.

You just wished you could have been there, in that damn barn. Been with him in his last minutes. Could have held his hand next to Sam. Could have told him how much you loved him. Reassure him that you'd give up the hunting life like you both had planned. That you'd try and live a good life for him... and that you were sure you'd see each other again.

But instead you had to take leave of Dean's lifeless body. Hollow. Drained of everything that made him the man you loved and had planned to spend the rest of your life with.

Dean gave his life for so many innocent people – hell, for the entire world. But he never got to have his own life. Never got to live it the way he wished to.

It just seemed so damn unfair. You had so much planned for your future. Have yourself some rug rats, a dog maybe, a house, a garden with those ridiculous white picket fences. You’d live a cherry pie life once you’d leave the hunting life behind you.

Or so you liked to picture it in your heads. On those rare, peaceful nights where you'd rest in each others arms like an old couple. His fingers combing your hair while your thumb carefully stroked his battered knuckles. Whispers of daring dreams filling the silence.

But reality was cold. Bloody. Like an animal put down. With a last effort, put to rest on his bed in the bunker by Sam and you.

This image will haunt you for the rest of your life, you know it. It already did for the past 5 years. If only you could have —

"Winchester?"

You blink rapidly, your mind thrown off for a moment when you snap out of your spiraling thoughts.

Denise waves with a paper in front of you to get your attention back. "She was mutilated. And it wasn't a bear. Her heart had been cut out."

"Jesus," Cassie breathes with a look of shock and disgust, shifting uncomfortably next to you.

"Yeah," Denise's face grimaces into a painful one. Her eyes are darting from Cassie, down to the report and back up to your still slightly absent gaze. "What do you make of it, Winchester?"

"Sounds like a werewolf." Damn it. The words slipped your lips before you could fully snap out of your memories. “I mean, sounds like a bit far-fetched but I’ll let Sheriff Tubbs know.” You force a wry smile when you grab the piece of paper from Denise’s hands, ready to head out of this messed up conversation.

“Sheriff Arlen,” Cassie calls after you and you stop in your tracks to look back at them with arched eyebrows.

“Sheriff who?” You inquire with a puzzled look. How the hell could you have missed this much in just one month off duty?

“Sheriff Beau Arlen,” Cassie repeats and Denise quickly adds with a teasing hum, “And his ass is just- mmmh-” she makes a chef’s kiss hand gesture while Cassie rolls her eyes with an amused chuckle.

You let out a huff in mock-annoyance but can’t help the faint grin on your face. Maybe, one day you’d dare to befriend them. Maybe, whenever you’d feel ready for letting people into your life again. But not today.

Ready to pick up your work at the police department, your eyes immediately land on the new name on what used to be Sheriff Tubbs office. ‘Sheriff Beau Arlen’ is written in an arched, golden text across the door’s glass.

You raise a sceptical eyebrow at the name. “Beau” you spit out the name under your breath, already feeling a distaste for this new sheriff.

In your defence, it wasn’t personal. It is just in your nature to feel sceptical towards anything new, especially people. Perhaps you gave up your hunting life. But any hunter will tell you between a swig of whiskey and a loaded shotgun that you’ll never lose your hunter instincts, no matter how hard you try. That’s not how it works. You don’t end this business by walking out the door.

It ends you.

In some way you were like trained bloodhounds. Always one chase away of your next kill. Unable to ignore the smell of blood. You were painfully aware of that fact. You could never live a fully normal life without the occasional hunch or a nervous look over your shoulder.

But you’d learned to accept it and make the best of it.

Here you can still help people. Save people. And once in a while nudge the sheriff into the right direction when you suspected something more than a suicide. Or you’d discreetly plant anti-possession charms on people when you had a hunch that demons were involved in a case.

Yet Sam believes you had retired fully from hunting like he did. And you liked to belief so, too. But on some days you weren’t so sure whether you even wanted to.

In some twisted way, hunting will always connect you with Dean. And at the same time it pains you, like a slow poison. Because you know it’s what he hated and never wanted for you.

And what took him from you.

It is a walk on a tight rope, really.

With a little huff of defiance you push the door to the sheriff’s office open. Your eyes dart around the empty room as you lean slightly forward, “Sheriff Arlen?”

Nothing. Oh well. With a quick glance over your shoulder you decide to take the chance and just drop off the report. You step inside, your fingers tracing the edge of the paper as your mind is instinctively drawn back to the case. I’ll have to look into this… bloody werewolf —

“Ah, Deputy Winchester, ain’t it?”

You freeze in mid motion.

And so does time. The paper slowly slides from between your trembling fingers and flutters to the floor. The unmistakable voice jolting through your mind and body like a lightning bolt. Your breath is caught in your throat, your mind and body paralysed.

The world holds its breath.

This is impossible.

“...Winchester, innit?” he repeats as he steps into the office and casually walks up to you, a wide smile spread across his face.

It can’t – NO.

You don’t dare to turn around.

Not that your body would be capable of any movement anyway. Every muscle is tense, your spine’s gone completely rigid. And your heart’s hammering against your ribs like it’ll crack your chest open from the inside.

You stand there like a deer caught in headlights. Headlights of a ‘67 Chevy Impala called Baby.

It has to be my imagination.

“Ya got somethin’ for me there? Oh-” You feel his elbow briefly brush your side as he bends down to pick up the paper next to your foot.

You don’t move an inch and stare ahead.

He straightens up again and steps around you to place it down on his desk. When he finally moves into your view and turns around to face you with his warm smile – your heart stops.

Emerald green eyes look back at you. Deep and sparkling green oceans. Alive.

Your brain freezes. Your mind scrambling for an explanation but failing to come up with anything.

This can’t be.

After a moment of tense silence, the tremors of your bottom lip make way for what your mind refuses to believe in.

“Dean?”

His name slips you in a mere breathless murmur. Afraid that whatever this is, will shatter the moment you dare to breath again.

Beau raises a brow. “Dean?”

He repeats the name with such nonchalance, such valuelessness, like it’s just some random clerk who he’s got no business with. As if that name didn’t mean the world to you once. Still would. Still does.

But the way his name dropped from his lips…

It clogs your airways. And the question mark at the end was him ramming a dagger into your heart and twisting it, without him even realising.

“Uh, no ain’t that.” He gently shakes his head and his lips melt into a cheeky smile as if that would make his next words any less painful.

“I’m Beau.”

Silence. Once again you feel like the air’s sucked out of your lungs. Like someone had pushed you off a cliff.

Someone who is an imposter of your deceased husband.

Beau. Your jaw clenches. And the name bounces off your mind. Your initial reaction being immediate rejection. No, you’re not... Beau.

Your eyes flicker across the man in front of you.

He might look quite… changed. He’s got a beard, neatly trimmed even. His hair is longer and… soft. Gone was the rugged and calloused man you loved. But it is still him. His eyes with their hidden secrets lingering behind those intense glinting, emerald green pools. His bow legs you’d recognize out of a hundred. His voice, his features, his – everything. Everything on him seems much softer but still… in your eyes, it’s Dean. No doubt.

“Why are ya lookin’ like you saw a ghost?” Beau questions with a tilt of his head, leaning back against the edge of his desk.

His voice snaps you out of your intense gaze. Your mouth opens, but no words make it past your quivering lips. All words drowned out in a flood of a million questions. Your focus drifts off, your eyes darting around the office like you’re expecting Gabriel to pop up any second and laugh at you.

But the room stays reduced to the two of you.

You feel like you’re on a tipping point.

Hands clenched, one subtly moves back to your hidden silver dagger – you do what you were trained to do in situations like these; Your mind grips for the lifeline and kicks into hunter mode. You rattle off the list of possible monsters; Shapeshifter? Ghoul? Am I dreaming? Is it some sick game of a trickster God? —

“Darlin’? You alright?” he asks, his voice now more concerned. You look terrified. As pale as a sheet, the blood drained from your face. Close to a panic attack, he guesses by your rapid breaths. Beau reaches out with his hand, gently patting your arm to get your attention. “Hey… Easy, just breathe.”

At his touch you jolt and finally snap out of your state of shock. The hand hovering over the concealed weapon falters. His worried eyes lock with yours.

The life-line snaps. Your mind tips over. Enough to make your stomach twist and turn, about to throw up. With only one shared look, everything’s back; The pain, the poignant grief, the cold skin under your fingertips, Dean’s lifeless expression, emerald eyes gone dull, the stench of decay, of old blood and dirt and his burning flesh and-- it all crashes down on you. All the emotions and memories you had buried in the depths of your mind, now laid open.

Fresh and hungry. Slowly swallowing you whole. Again.

“I- I don’t feel so… good – sorry,” you sputter, your hand clutching your chest in an effort to keep it together. The same second you spin around on your heels and storm out of the office without looking back once.

Beau. His mere presence was suffocating.

You remember the moment you and Sam cleaned up Dean’s lifeless body. How your fingers brushed against a folded paper, carefully tucked away in his jacket’s inside pocket.

Sam’s face had contorted the moment you pulled it out. Clearly, he had known what secret the paper held and before you got to question his knowing look, he suddenly got up. While walking out, he said he’d give you some time alone with his brother.

Once you unfolded the notepaper halfway, your breath stopped. Your eyes slowly shifted from one scribbled word to the next, each of them hitting harder than the next, each of them taking more of your breath. You swallowed past the lump in your throat when the realization of what you’d been holding in your hand slowly set in.

They were notes of Dean. Notes for your upcoming anniversary in two weeks.

You unfolded the rest of it and your eyes widened. The paper began to crumple in your shaking hands while wet stains swallowed some of his jotted down keywords. When your burning eyes reached the last four words, it had felt like whatever was left of your broken heart had just been ripped out entirely.

The raw emotions rolled down your cheeks, your tears mixing with his last unspoken words…

“Will you marry me?”

Beau was left back staring at the slammed door in bewilderment and a little stunned. After a moment, he sighs and pushes off the desk to follow after you.

“Winchester!” He calls down the corridor, watching you stumble out the front door into the outside. He jogs after you, slightly panting, while his eyes dart around the parking lot in search for you.

The rain crashes down on him the moment he steps outside. His head briefly tilts up to face the grey sky with an annoyed groan. The raindrops are pattering against his creased forehead, running down his cheeks to pool at the tip of his beard.

But then he hears a muffled sniffle next to him. Strands of his soaked hair fall into his face when he whirls his head around, spotting you leaned against the wall.

“No- no – it can’t be you – Damn it – it can’t…” you mutter under your rapid breaths, somehow trying to fight your scrunched up, stinging eyes with words of common sense. Your chest feels constricted. Your heart’s hammering in your ears and your breath’s clipped, feeling like you might faint any moment of lack of oxygen.

Leaning back against the wet wall for some support, your mind’s on the brink of a breakdown. There’s no explanation for this. This can’t be happening.

Beau suddenly appears in front of you and before you get to react, he places a hand on your shoulder. You flinch but don’t pull away. His hand feels heavy against your soaked jacket, grounding, gentle – but casual, like you would with a stranger. You are strangers.

“Hey, hey take it easy. You’re gonna give yourself a panic attack. You’ll be okay.” He says as he crouches down to your level. He glances over your trembling body and how your eyes try to avoid his, your expression like you’d just witnessed a murder in slow-motion.

“Look at me, deep breaths.” Beau speaks in a firmer, yet gentle tone, trying to break through your panicked state.

When you refuse to look up, he tilts his head down to meet your eyes behind some soaked stray hair that sticks to your skin. He pushes them out of your face, his intense gaze searching your contorted face for some form of hint for what’s got you so spooked.

He gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. While his soothing words just keep coming, his voice now a lower whisper as he’s desperately trying to understand what is going on in that head of yours, “Hey, c’mon… talk to me, Winchester…”

Your eyes are burning from the tears that have been building up until now. Eyelashes heavy and clumped together by the droplets of the rain. And his intense eyes staring into yours, the very same eyes you fell in love with over 10 years ago, do nothing to ease your pain.

You try to tear your gaze away from his, but find yourself caught in them. It’s like you’re staring into a beautiful forest after years of living in a desert. They pull you in, and you feel like you are right back where you’d always longed to be. Home.

But a home that isn’t yours any more. The soul behind those eyes looks familiar and yet unfamiliar at the same time. You thought you’d never see those eyes again – but those very same eyes hold no memory of you.

The same question keeps repeating in your head, ripping at your heart and soul like a Hellhound.

Dean… is this you?

His voice cuts through your thoughts like a soft knife. “Take deep breaths darlin’, it’s oka-”

“Please- just-” you cut him short, a painful, shaky breath rippling through your voice, “Just stop talking.” Beau’s voice is like a dagger to your heart, twisting it whenever he speaks up. Mocking your memories with that uncanny tone of his.

I’m just tired. You hear Dean’s voice in your head and just like him, you wished you didn’t feel a damn thing.

Beau raises a brow and tilts his head forward, studying your face. For a moment he opens his mouth about to speak again, but when he sees you flinch, he forces himself to shut it closed.

His jaw’s clenched from fighting the urge to talk and feeling a bit overwhelmed with the entire situation. Not knowing where to go with himself or what to do without making things worse. He isn’t sure what it is, but something about you tugs at his heart in a way he can’t quite understand. But he quickly dismisses it, for now.

His eyes snap up to the sky when the rain starts to increase. Heavy drops splatter off the both of you, coaxing a single tear to let go of the corner of your eye. It was like the sky cried for you. Eyes that parched exactly 5 years ago.

Without a word he moves closer, gently wrapping his free arm around your waist. But you stop him before his palm touches your side. Your hand's shaking as it clings to his wrist like a lifeline.

Beau’s eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t comment on it. His expression grows pensive and his eyebrows slightly furrow, watching your trembling form. Your chest's heaving heavily, like you’re struggling for air. And your eyes are out of focus, like they're reliving some nightmare.

He suddenly feels a strong protectiveness - decides to hold himself back, though, afraid he might make things worse. But it pains him terribly to see you this way, even if he might not know you, yet.

You don’t say anything. Unable to form the right words as nothing could express the storm of contradicting emotions you are trapped in. The wavering grip on his arm is clenching and unclenching subtly as if unsure whether you want to push him away or pull him in.

“Sorry,” you finally croak between shuddering breaths, unsure what you were even apologizing for, “I’m sorry…”

Why were you apologizing? A strange feeling settles in his guts, one of this being a lot bigger than he could comprehend.

Next moment you know, you’re pulled into a tight hug. Both his arms wrapping around you to pull you close and hold you together.

At first you stiffen. Standing there like a fragile, shaking tree. Your arms pressed against your sides, unable to comprehend any more what is happening.

But he keeps you in his embrace, murmuring soothing words, muffled by your hair and the heavy rain. You lift your head slightly, just enough for your wavering eyes to meet his again.

That’s when the realization hits you. He looks so whole. So unbroken. His skin and his hair was smooth and tender beneath that thin layer of rain. He lacks any form of scar, any edges or any memory of the horrors you and he had faced and committed. Your heart twists; This isn’t what a scarred hunter looks like. And at the same time you feel your heart sink at the next conclusion… Beau would have been Dean’s idea of a perfect life, without ever having been born into the hunting business.

And it makes you wonder whether he was granted that alternate life.

Beau feels your trembling body against him and how your gaze is searching his face for something he doesn't know. Why are you looking at him like that? A lump forms in his throat. His hand gently caresses your back in a circle motion, while his other keeps stroking your hair.

“It’s alright, s’okay. You’re okay.” Beau says in a soothing, comforting tone and he tugs you a little closer, allowing you to rest against him.

Your wet hair falls into your face once more when your head drops to his chest. You both stay still, the only sound being the pitter-patter from the raindrops against the hood of his truck and the puddles around you. Your ragged breath’s nearly drowned out by the rain. The world seems to have shrunk to the beat of his heart softly thudding against your ear.

And that breaks the dam. Tears it down as the floods of emotions search their way out. Your shoulders rise and buckle against his chest. The tears finally break free, streaming down your face, mixing with the rain soaking your clothings. Your body wracked with sobs – raw, desperate, painful. Liberating.

You begin to shake uncontrollably, the sobs growing more and more powerful. They start to rack through every fibre of your body. Your legs grow unsteady beneath you, daring to crumble from the weight of every emotion you had buried in the past 5 years released and unloading all at once.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll stay right here as long as ya need me to. C’mere…” He reassures you, and pulls you even closer. His chin comes to rest on top of your head, his facial hair brushing against your scalp and his warm breath wafting down at you. “Just let it out… you’re gonna be okay… you’re not alone, ‘kay?”

You clutch at his jacket tightly, holding onto him like you’re drowning. Like you’re afraid he might be a dream after all. Might disappear from your grasp at any moment. Everything spills out of you, incoherent words bubbling from your wet lips. “Y-y-you’re alive- you’re alive- a-alive- I missed you so much, Dean- so so much-”

Beau can’t exactly make out the words that are tumbling from your mouth, but he can feel you shaking against him terribly. He quickly takes his big jacket off to drape it over you, to try and keep the rain and cold off you.

His heart tightens at the sight of your curled-up body, clinging to him while shivering badly and breaking apart in his arms. He slowly begins to speak again, a hint of an encouraging smile on his face, “Hey, ‘m gonna pick ya up. Ya ain’t gonna stand that cold and rain. Ya’ll get sick.” He then places his arms on your back and under your thighs, before lifting you up off the ground in one smooth motion.

He holds you close against his chest, wrapping his jacket over you for extra warmth. The rain patters against the concrete floor while his boots splash through the puddles, carrying you over to his truck.

You don’t protest as your body was giving in at this point. Like a run down shed in a storm.

Your fingers slowly going numb from the death grip, the wet and cold. You choke on your sobs while the tears keep rolling down your reddened cheeks.

But from joy.

You don’t know whether he is Dean or not. Whether this is real or you finally lost it.

But in this very moment you didn’t care.

You let yourself drift back to the happiest place in your mind. One you hadn’t dared to visit for many years. Locked up and keys buried along your husband. Deep down in your broken heart.

When you close your eyes and press the side of your face against his chest, you can hear his heart pounding. When he speaks, you hear Dean’s voice above you, soft and peaceful.

And you feel his body through the drenched pieces of clothings between you.

He feels warm. Warm.

A/N: it was meant to be a drabble IT WAS MEANT TO BE A DRABBLE

I'M NOT CRYIN'- OKAY FINE I'm still coping with his death - I haven't even watched it since I'm still catching up with the seasons. GAWD I HTE THIS - I JUST NEEDED CLOSURE DAMN IT

Anyway, I just had to get this story off my chest before next year. I don’t know yet whether it deserves more parts but do let me know if you think so!

Tags:

@aylacavebear ❀ꗥ Want to join my TAG LIST? Fill out this form!

[lightdancingwords]

Second Chances - Part One of ?

Pairings: Beau Arlen x Y/N Female reader Series Summary: A chance meeting in a grocery store brings a second chance for you and for Beau. The only thing standing in your way are your respective pasts... and a tiny little roadblock.

Word Count: 2377

Tags/Warnings: None, unless toddlers/children and parenting bother you.

A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list! I couldn't resist--I gotta have me some Beau while writing Dean! This is a brand new story of Beau and female reader!

Divider: credit to @sweetmelodygraphics

Chapter One: Upon First Sight

All in all, it was a lousy day. Beau’s truck got a flat in the middle of nowhere and the tire proved impossible to take off. He had to pay a small fortune for a tow, additional labor for a replacement, and work was a headache and a half. He was ready for a cold beer, a nice nighttime fire, and the quiet.

But first, he had to get the beer. He’d run out the other day... which meant facing the sheer torture of the grocery store after hours. It was like all of Big Sky decided to go shopping during that time and the sheer crowd drove him insane.

Not to mention everyone and their parents suddenly had to talk to Beau, introduce him to a likely female prospect. It was as though he wore a sign over his head: ‘ATTENTION BIG SKY, SUITABLE SINGLE MALE’. Absolutely maddening. He hated it.

Ever since he and Carla split, he hadn’t been up to dating. Sure, Carla moved on, remarried—god, what a douchebag—and moved to Montana. Which meant he was coming too, because he'd be damned if he missed the last few years of Emily’s life as a teenager.

Somehow, that made him more appealing to the female population. Add to that the ‘exoticness’ of the Texan drawl, the allure of being a cop, and goddammit, he was pursued daily.

He wanted none of it.

“No, honey,” he hears some woman say, presumably to one of her offspring, judging from the harried, exhausted tones. “Now put that back.”

Yep, offspring. He heard the telltale signs of a young whine from the child and had to smile sympathetically. Then he heard something that caught his attention and raised his adrenaline: cans crashing.

He whipped around and narrowly dodged being smacked by a number of Chef Boyardee meals in a can. “Whoa!”

“Eliza!” The mother snatched up her child—maybe a little older than a year?—and popped her back into the shopping cart, buckled her up so swiftly he was impressed. “I am so sorry! You’re not hurt, are you?”

“Nope. I'm all right. The cans aren’t, though,” he said ruefully, observing the mess.

“Oh fu-fudge,” the mother said, catching herself before she could cuss in front of the kid.

“Here, I’ll help ya,” Beau offered, using his cart to detour traffic around the cans and began moving the cans away. “Wyatt,” he said, catching the eye of one of the employees. “Go get help.”

The mom raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You know everyone here?” she asked, doing her best to stack the cans against the shelf.

“Benefits of bein’ the sheriff,” he said with a smile. “Sooner or later, I meet them all.”

“You’re—“ she broke off in astonishment.

“Sheriff Beau Arlen,” he said by way of introduction. He shook her hand and was surprised by her firm grip. He hadn’t expected that from her. Maybe it was because she seemed so soft, motherly.

“I’m Y/N,” she said with a smile. It turned wry as she introduced her daughter. “That little hellion is Eliza.”

He chuckled. “Might need a little wranglin’, huh?”

“Either that or a wolf pack.”

Beau laughed. He couldn’t help it. Little Eliza actually grinned at hearing her mother say ‘or a wolf pack’, as if angling for that very purpose and existence. “You know, I know it don’t seem like that right now, but she'll get easier to manage.”

Y/N paused and lifted a brow. “You sound as if you speak from experience.”

“I guess I do,” he said, rising to his feet. He offered Y/N a hand to help her up as he said, “My Em wasn't really difficult, just stubborn. Had a mind of her own and goddamn she knew how to use it.”

He saw her eyes flicker for a moment, and wondered what it was that caused her react so. “Em--I'm guessing that's your daughter?”

He nodded with a fond smile. “She’s 18 now and in college.”

Y/N smiled, returning to her little hellion child. “Now you have new worries, whether she’s learning well, making the right friends, and handling peer pressure.”

“Well, thanks for the nightmares,” he said wryly.

Her smile turned amused, her eyes sparkling. “Just pointing out it never gets easier,” she said with a fond ruffle of her daughter’s hair. “Just changes in difficulties.”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “Ya ain’t wrong,” he said at last.

For a moment, they regarded each other in companionable silence. Beau was reluctant to let her go, enjoying this conversation. She seemed equally hesitant to let the moment end.

“I… I, um, thank you, for your help,” she said at last. “It would’ve been kinda hard to do all that while minding my little wolf-child.”

He grinned, appreciating her humor in handling an energetic toddler. “You’re welcome.”

Just as she turned to leave, Beau stepped forward, stammering. “Ah, wait. I hope this ain’t forward of me, but…” God her eyes killed him. “Ah… can I ask you out sometime?”

She looked so surprised he wondered what she was thinking. Y/N glanced at her daughter, and he got it. She wasn’t expecting anyone to want to date a single mom.

Luckily for her, Beau wasn’t just ‘anyone’.

“I’d like that,” she said with a slight smile. She took out a little memo pad—god, she was organized, he loved it—and scrawled a number on it. She handed it to Beau.

“You know, we could’ve traded cellphone numbers,” he said teasingly. “Didn’t need to kill a tree for it.”

“Are you saying you don’t think you’re worth a tree?” she retorted with a smile.

That caught him off-guard and he laughed. “Oh, you got a sense of humor there, darlin’.”

“I try. My wolf-child forces me to very creative,” she said with a trace of wry humor.

He chuckled and approached little Eliza in the shopping cart seat. “May I?”

A look of surprise followed by an expression of gratitude. How many would ask before approaching a child? “Yes,” she said simply.

“Heya darlin’,” Beau said to Eliza. He regarded her with the solemn mien he would give a senior citizen. He held out his hand to her and added, “I’m Beau Arlen. I’m a friend of your mom’s.”

Eliza stared at him with wide, wide eyes, taking him in. He had the sense she was seeing more of him than an adult would, weighing and measuring him. Damned if he didn’t feel shaken. “Bo-bo!”

Y/N let out a laugh, then clamped a hand over her mouth, muffling giggles. Beau grinned, his green eyes dancing. “As long as you ain’t adding something to that nickname, I’ll take it.”

Eliza giggled at her mother’s reaction. She peered at Beau’s hand, then wrapped her tiny fingers around his index and middle finger, her hand too small to take his whole hand. It was so damned adorable. “Bo-bo,” she said solemnly.

He cleared his throat to hold back the laugh and nodded. “That’s right, darlin’. And you’re Eliza.”

Eliza nodded, then dragged his hand over to her mother. “Mommy!”

Something shifted in Y/N’s expression, shuttered. Beau felt the warmth from her withdraw, and found himself confused. “Y/N?”

”We should go,” she said suddenly. “We’ve taken up enough of your time.”

Without giving him a chance, she gently freed her daughter’s grasp from his hand and pulled away with her shopping cart, leaving him staring after them in utter confusion.

As luck would have it, he chanced upon them in the parking lot. Little Eliza went into full-blown meltdown, wailing while her mother was desperately trying to get her to calm down enough to get buckled into the car seat.

“Eliza, please!” Yep. Sheer desperation, mother ready to hit tears.

Beau headed up to them, set his bags of groceries and pack of beer on the ground, and said, “Hey… why don’t I take her for a moment? Give you a breather?”

Y/N looked back at him, and yep, tears in her eyes, a look of overwhelming parenthood. Beau felt for her. She hesitated for a breath, then nodded, forcing herself to step back. “I just… can’t her to calm down,” she said, her voice quaking.

”Ah, it happens to the best of us,” he said gently, taking Eliza from the car seat. “First year we had Emily, I think between Carla and I we must’ve cried in the closet a dozen times.”

Y/N was startled. “The closet?”

“Yep.” He gently bounced Eliza in his arms, the little toddler still full on wailing. “We felt embarrassed, ya see. Didn’t want each other know we had no idea what the hell we were doin’. Or how hard it had been for us.”

“How did you two find out about the other?”

Eliza was beginning to sniffle and hiccup, which Beau took to mean she was starting to calm down. He kept bouncing her as he spoke to her mother. “Came upon her in the closet. Carla had been feelin’ sick, Emily was all over the place and nothin’ was workin’. I came home and found her there, tears everywhere.”

Beau shook his head. “We had a good long talk. We were lucky. We could lean on each other. Even then, it was damned hard.”

Eliza let out a big yawn and Beau smiled. He shifted her in his arms and she immediately slumped against him, evidently prepared to fall asleep then and there.

Y/N’s brows swooped up in astonishment. “I.. can’t decide if I should be offended or relieved you got her to calm down that fast.”

“Relieved, darlin’,” he said with a rumbly chuckle. “Go with relieved. Why don’t ya take her and I’ll get your groceries in the car?”

”Absolutely not. You hold her, I’ll do it. I don’t want to risk her waking up again,” she said with a chuckle. “I knew she was getting tired. I just had to finish shopping. Just my luck she got overtired and that was it, she didn’t want to cooperate anymore.”

Much to Beau’s amusement, Eliza let out a tiny snore. He patted the little toddler’s back soothingly, swayed in place. God, memories were coming back, of late nights trying to get Emily to go down so they could sleep, of trying to get her to hang on a bit longer so they could go home.

He’d do it again in a heartbeat. He loved his daughter so damned much.

”When they’re that age, all we can do is roll with it,” he said as she moved bags into her trunk. “We’re just lucky they’re cute enough to forget what it’s like as they get older.”

Y/N smiled a bit, but it faded quickly. “Beau… I owe you an apology.”

“What for?” he asked, his hand still patting Eliza’s back.

“For leaving as abruptly as I did earlier,” she said, her voice low and ashamed. “I… Eliza bringing you right over to me had me…” She hesitated, then finished with, “scared. It scared me.”

Beau paused in his swaying, caught off guard. Then he kept moving, considering that confession. “I imagine your daughter approving of a man you just met might be a bit difficult,” he said carefully. “Especially one who just asked you out.”

“Most men I meet… if they’re interested in me… tend to run when they hear ‘single mom’,” she said slowly. “No matter how well we got along.”

Ah. Beau nodded slowly. He couldn’t imagine how that felt, being constantly turned down because of certain circumstances. “Ain’t my place to judge,” he said at last. “You’re a package deal, far as I’m concerned. If I wanna see the momma, I gotta accept the kid, too.”

Y/N stared at him for a moment, astonished by his level of acceptance. “That’s… thank you.”

“No need,” he said with a smile. “It’s the way it is.” He glanced at Eliza and his smile widened, took on warmth. “‘Sides, she’s hell of a kid.”

Y/N chuckled, her expression softening. “She is. Thank you… for helping out.”

“More than happy to, darlin’,” he said, rubbing Eliza’s back. “I think she’s ready to go into the car seat though.”

“Do you mind?”

He shook his head and gently set Eliza into the car seat. He adjusted her comfortably and made sure to snap her in tightly. Then he grabbed a blanket in the backseat and tucked it around the little toddler. Damn, she’s adorable.

”There ya go,” he whispered to Eliza. “Sweet dreams, kiddo.”

He straightened and nodded to Y/N. “Precious cargo is all secured, ma’am.”

Amused, Y/N smiled. “Thank you, Beau.”

A part of him resisted the urge to kiss her, she looked so soft and warm. It was too soon, he knew. They haven’t even been on a date yet.

“You’re welcome.” He reassured himself the paper with her phone number was still in his pocket, then asked, “Would it be desperate or premature of me to ask you out now?”

Her smile widened, and she shook her head. “No. Go for it, Beauregard.”

He quirked a smile at hearing his full name. He hadn’t given it to her; she must’ve made some educated guesses. “All right then, darlin’. I’d like to take ya out to dinner tomorrow, if you’re willin’.”

“I’d love to,” she said with a smile.

“What time works for ya?”

She glanced at the little toddler in the car. “Is 6pm too early for you?”

”Not at all. I’ll reach out to you later, if that’s all right, arrange your address and all?”

She blinked, then smiled. “You’re picking me up?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said with a nod. “My mother would skin me alive if she knew I wasn’t being a gentleman.”

That clearly charmed Y/N. “Okay. Yes… text me later and… we’ll get that sorted.”

He tipped his head at her, scooped up his bags and beer. “Drive safe, Y/N.”

She glanced at him as she got into her car. God, he loved her smile, a touch crooked with a sweetness that was killing him.

He never imagined a trip to the grocery store would net him a date—let alone with a single mom. Yet, here he was, asking one out and utterly charmed by her kid.

What a life.

Tag List: @spxideyver, @deadlymistletoe, @bitchykittenconnoisseur, @aarpfashionvictim, @stoneyggirl2

@foxyjwls007, @katastrophicmind, @globetrotter28, @deansimpalababy, @daisychaingirl

[deansbite]

 ୨𓏲 𓈒  big sky  ꒱ ꞌꞋ

 𐔌 character masterlist „

𐄈 ⠀ ⠀ O1⠀ 𓈒

beau⠀⠀⠀ arlen ⠀⠀⠀ ;

[bluemerakis]

────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ────

❝ cream pie ❞

─ ۶ৎ ─

pairing ୨୧ munch .ᐟ dean winchester x fem .ᐟ reader

warnings .ᐟ cussing, reader somewhat oblivious to the obscene meaning of munch, tooth-rotting fluff, mentions of a sexual!cream pie, mild food play, finger-sucking, oral f receiving, pet names. pls lmk if i forgot any!

synopsis ─ dean’s always poked at you for being a slow-eater. likewise, you’ve always poked at him for being a fast-eater—going so far as to accuse him of an early death should he continue at that pace. so, on the night of his birthday, he decides to make a change to his eating habits, becoming deliberately slow in his meal’s devouring. only, that meal is you.

word count ~ 5.4k

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The doors to the diner announced the next newcomer with a shrill tinkle of bells, and by the nature of human curiosity—or a hunter’s paranoia—you found yourself glancing past Dean to witness a little girl ushered inside by an older woman.

You circulated a mouthful of fries as you watched the child bound over to the front counter, short, stubby finger outstretched to prod at a large print of the most obnoxiously decorated milkshake you’d ever seen—a mound of cream, candy and sprinkles that must’ve accounted for half the drink’s weight.

“Scoutin’ out for Sammy?” Dean asked suddenly—the words muffled by the burger he’d taken to devouring almost instantly after it’d arrived. Not even five minutes ago.

You forsook the view of the little girl to tune into the booth’s space, where the Winchester sat across from you with cheeks that had grown comically round. You couldn’t help but briefly stutter on your ground fries, perplexed by the plate that he’d wasted no time in clearing out. All that was left was the half-eaten burger currently clutched between his talons, where his lips closed in on to wrap around the bread-cocooned glory. The fries that had previously formed the burger’s first line of defence had not stood a damn chance.

With a thick swallow of your morsel, you cleared your throat to voice your concern—Dean’s question hurled out the current window of care. “Where the hell did all your food go, Dean? It literally just got here!” You reached across the table to take up your glass of water, downing a much needed sip that moistened the walls of your throat after the fries had brushed it dry on their downward journey.

Observing Dean, you almost felt like you were intruding on some intimate moment between himself and his burger, which he currently ogled from every angle in search of his next, perfect bite—yet to swallow down the last bite he’d taken. The appetite on this man was astounding. And so was the seemingly unlimited mouth space that he seemed to cram full squirrel-style, given any and every chance.

At your perplexed pry, the Winchester strayed from his guilty pleasure to grace you with a stupidly triumphant look, his vigorous chewing coming to a halt. “Just gave it a tour o’ my insides,” he mumbled grossly, eyes narrowing with smug amusement while he went out of his way to part his lips in a messy, food-kissed smile—just to get a rise out of you.

“Stop that!” You groaned, hand coming up in a defensive spread to shield yourself against the view of the chunky stew plastered along his teeth. “You’re disgusting,” you added with a meek giggle, chin perking slightly as you attempted to peer at him over the jagged horizon of your fingers.

You caught his Adam’s Apple bopping with a hefty swallow, the lump striding down the lean length of his neck, and it was a sight that made you feel safe enough to lower your hand once more. You watched him pass his tongue across both oil-kissed lips, savouring the essence with a pleasurable hum and smack of his mouth—like he’d never known the first thing about table manners. He passed the remainder of his burger to one hand, the other now freed to gesture in your direction.

“Hey!” he began—a clearer, more sophisticated sound. “I get my hands on somethin’ as delicious as this, I show her a good time,” he explained with a laughable seriousness. “You, of all people, should know this.”

You’d taken to plopping another fry into your mouth while he spoke, but at that last sentence, you dusted the lingering salt grains from your hands and made a hasty swallow before answering. “That you’re a munch?” You established innocently.

Dean perked at the observation you’d made many dinings prior—wore the title like a badge of honour. “Damn right I am, baby—and this was a damn preview,” he said with a charming wink, one that entertained his own, mental scheme.

“A preview of what?” You tested with a confused grin.

Dean’s glare turned the type of determined he usually reserved for an exhilarating hunt, his lips quirking with the utmost pleasure that you’d asked. “You, me, and your good friend down south—later tonight—” he began enlightening, but neglected to finish the sentence as he brought the last of his burger to his lips. Then, they crashed down onto the buns in an obnoxious motion—gluttonously garnering every inch into the compartment of his cheeks.

He began chewing with difficulty, at first, but no look of panic flashed across his features, despite your own worry that he might’ve started choking at any instant. Then, he rolled the empty burger wrapper between his palms, eyes droning into you with an unvoiced expectancy while his jaw circulated like a cow’s. You returned his stare with a cluelessness, taking a second to mull over his incomplete sentence—and it was then that his insinuation clicked into place.

Your cheeks flushed hot at that, the hands you’d nestled at either side of your plate drawing into fists. “I was talking about the food!” You said accusingly, his innuendo drawing a disbelieved laugh from your lips.

“Yeah, no, that ain’t what munch means, sweetheart,” Dean said smoothly, rocketing the crushed wrapper into the air before catching it and plopping it down onto his plate. His palms then came together in a scheming rub, eyes lowering to the menu beside his emptied plate. “Speakin’ of food,” he hummed thoughtfully, and you lifted your chin to get a better view of the options he was scanning through. Light meals.

You shook your head lightly, turning your attention back to your own plate. “You’re going to implode,” you remarked.

“Hey—drop the freakin’ fuss,” he grumbled indignantly. “‘Cause it just so happens that shit’s on the house for this birthday dude,” he added, hands coming up to gesture to himself almost proudly. “And I’ll be damed if I don’t do somethin’ ‘bout it.”

You flashed him a hopeless smile, but didn’t push him on his appetite any further. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen Dean so unbothered and chirpy. As of now, life had been good—great, even. Bobby had offered to take care of this week’s hunts in order to free up Dean’s schedule, giving him the time to celebrate an event he hadn’t deemed worthy of a celebration for a long, long time. And Sam—ever the content third-wheel to you both—had taken the afternoon to kill time in his own Sam ways.

The deal you’d struck with the younger Winchester was that he get the morning to entertain Dean’s birthday, and you get the afternoon. The brothers were up at the crack of dawn to motor it over to some shooting range, where they’d completely obliterated the targets—earning dubious glances from the other, inexperienced hobbyists. You’d thought about asking why they’d opted for picking up a gun on their off-days, but Dean had returned with such a beaming smile that you’d swallowed the question entirely.

The only thing that mattered was that he was happy. Enjoying himself.

Eventually, Dean let out a decided exclamation, index finger coming down on the table to single out an option amongst the menu.

Your head lifted curiously. “What you got there?” You asked, plopping a fry into your mouth.

“The best thing to exist after cars,” he answered vaguely and with a playful waggle of his brows, his head then averting to do a sweep of the diner.

“With how easily amused you are, that could be narrowed down to an endless amount of shit,” you scoffed lightly.

“T-t-t,” he silenced with a finger in your direction, eyes still doing an intent scan of the space. When he managed to spot a waitress, it almost looked like his eyes could’ve slipped the keep of his sockets. His lips pierced to execute a perfect whistle, hand waving through the air to beckon her over—which she made haste on.

You turned your attention to the waitress as she pranced on over, fluster heavy in her rosy cheeks and sheepish smile as she glanced between yourself and Dean. “What can I get for you both?”

“One o’ these bad babies, please,” Dean requested with a show to the menu, hands then coming up in a thankful clasp as the waitress nodded lightly in response. “Sweet,” he murmured contently, his attention turning back to you. “Anythin’ for you?” He asked politely, but the hitch of his singular brow as he glanced between you and your stacked plate told you that he knew the answer.

“I’m good, thanks,” you told the waitress, who gave a small nod before scampering off. You turned back to Dean with a light shake of your head. “Oh, I know your heart hates you. You’re going to die an early death at this pace,” you scoffed, glancing down to where you began picking through your cooled fries in search of the crispy pieces.

“Yeah, whatever, happy deaths,” he answered lightly. “You gonna eat any o’ that?”

You glanced up to Dean’s famished eyes hounding the pot of edible gold still crowning your plate. “Yes, I’m gonna eat it!” You answered almost instantly. “I’m starving!”

“Well, you don’t look it,” he scoffed with a dramatic widening of his eyes—like he couldn’t believe you’d fault him for asking when your plate currently housed twice the calories of his. “Man, if my heart hates me, then your stomach hates you—teasin’ it like this with the one bite an hour ritual you’ve got goin’. You’re playin’ hard to get with the damn thing,” he huffed amusedly.

“It’s called savouring it,” you retorted with a light shake of your head. “You should try it some time.”

“Hey—I savour plenty, alright?” His brows perked pointedly, eyes lowering down your figure and straying to some view below the tabletop, where they lingered with a mischievous tongue poking at the inside of his cheek.

You caught on immediately, apples of your cheeks rounding with a grin. “I can’t even with you,” you sighed dramatically; warmly.

Dean’s eyes lifted back to you, forming a wink that he’d come to reserve just for you. “And yet you do, anyways,” he chuckled, then straightened in his seat with some new resolve. “Alright, c’mon—start stuffin’ up on fries. For every bite you don’t finish, your ankle’s gettin’ ganked—” he paused to reinforce the threat by nudging the toe of his boot against yours, “—and then I’m eatin’ whatever’s left.”

“What are you—five?” You giggled, and then his boot came forward to deliver the first of its taps against your ankle. You let out a squeal despite its gentle nature, hand flying forward to scoop up a handful of fries with a grin heavy on your lips.

Dean’s arms crossed as he watched you with equal amusement. “It’s called buildin’ character,” he said. “Consider this your motivation to eat faster.”

“Maybe you should try eating slower!”

He tsked in response to that, then offered a tiny nod. “Yeah, alright, alright, I’ll try it sometime,” he entertained, jerking his chin at you. “C’mon, wrap it up and we’ll go half on that apple pie I ordered.”

⋆ .˚⋆ ≐ ⋆ ˚.⋆

On the drive back to the motel, Dean had rattled Baby’s entire infrastructure with some deafening rock, his jaws testing out new heights as he accentuated every tune with utmost enthusiasm. He’d glanced your way a couple of times to enlist you into his self-hosted concert, still blaring along to the music, but you’d only managed to pick up on a few phrases here and there through your time spent as an audience to his hunting playlists.

Whenever a song came on that you recognised, you’d chime in to harmonise with Dean in a word or two before dropping off and taking to watching him ensue into musical madness, a grin heavy on your lips. God, you loved him. You loved him so much. And you loved seeing him recognise how much of his free-will he could cash toward buying his own happiness, instead of worrying about everything and everybody else—especially on a day like today.

The drive back to the motel was a cheery one you’d mentally documented as a day to remember. When you’d eventually pulled up at the motel, Dean had laid the engine to rest with an intense glance in your direction—one that you’d come to recognise as something to question. Because if you didn’t, there was no telling what was on a mind as carefully guarded as his.

You met his gaze with light confusion, acknowledging the silence he’d coupled with his dramatic shift in demeanour. “Is everything okay?”

Much to your relief, Dean’s features grew soft, his lips spreading with a thankful smile. “Everythin’s perfect,” he soothed quickly, but no less gentle. “Just. . . thinkin’ ‘bout today—how you and Sammy went outta your way to make this day so freakin’ awesome. I appreciate it—I do,” he added with a light chuckle, his head tilting slightly as he drank you in with love-struck eyes.

You shifted across the seat until your leg was flush against Dean’s, your hand coming up to gently cradle his jaw. “First off,” you began, thumb stroking gentle lines over the apple of his cheek, and you felt the unbridled weight of him melting into your hold—because he’d always felt safe enough to entrust all of him to all of you. “When it comes to you, nothing will ever be out of the way. You’re worth the time—worth taking that moment to think about how we can celebrate the man who tries so hard to keep us all together. You’re always jumping at the opportunity to do things for everybody else, but tonight—on your night—I’m going to honour everything that you are. And reflect on how blessed the world is to have its very own Dean Winchester. How blessed I am.”

Dean’s eyes twinkled at that—like a starstruck fanboy—and you felt honoured to be the recipient of his admiration. His love.

“Secondly,” you continued. “This day is all about you—officially, and everything—there’s a birth certificate out there to prove it. But I want you to know that you’re the type of person worth celebrating every single day. And I do, quietly—with every glance I steal of you because I’m just so thankful that we exist at the same time. And even in a life that gets as shitty as ours, I’m glad that it’s you I get to share the small breaths of a break with—you that I’m laughing it up with over a burger and beer, you that I get to share a cuddle with each night that feels like it could fend off every worry, and you, in all that you are, reminding me every single day of what good looks like—and why this world is worth saving. You’re the face of all things precious and scare in this world, Dean.”

At those words, Dean cracked with a twitch of his lip, giving rise to a smile that was simultaneously hurt and healed. As he gazed into your eyes, you saw their beautiful, green depths begin to glimmer at the borders. At the first comprehension of his growing tears, he was quick to dip his head into concealment, jaw turning an inch to catch his lips onto the hand you’d cradled his cheek within.

There, in thick silence, he pressed a long and tender kiss to your palm—as though trying to brand himself with the taste, touch and scent of you. A gesture to remind you just how much of himself he’d devoted to loving you, living for you, and embracing everything that you meant to him in ways that didn’t always embody words.

You sat there for a few seconds, watching as he became one with you—choosing you as his safety confines while he worked to sort through the feelings he’d never been apt at acknowledging this gently; vulnerably. Eventually, he stirred from your hold, but not to forsake it entirely, his hands outstretching to frame you tenderly at the neck.

“God, I love you,” he whispered with a shuddered breath, the tears he’d tried to quell with a moment of silence proving to be stubborn. But they came as gentle streams, providing just enough moisture to cast a soft sheen amongst his cheeks. “I love you so damn much,” he reinforced—the sound gruff, raw and passionate—and then his lips were pressed against yours with a hunger that felt desperately pushy and shy all at once.

You reciprocated the kiss with equal devotion, hands coming up to wrap around his wrists as you steadied yourself within his passionate grip. His thumbs rubbed gentle lines down the ledge of your jaw as his kiss continued to deepen—not particularly lustful, but just a very physical, passionate vow of loyalty. A show that he was yours, and all yours.

For a while, your lips remained entangled in a fervent dance, the world all around you dissolving into nothingness. What was out there didn’t matter, anyway, not when your whole world was right here, right beside you.

⋆ .˚⋆ ≐ ⋆ ˚.⋆

Back in the motel, you and Dean had slunk inside with the intent to not wake up Sam—only to find that when you’d flicked on the lights, the younger brother was nowhere in sight. For a second, you both stood in dumbfounded silence, heads swinging to scan the modest space that he couldn’t have possibly been hidden away in—not with the height on him.

Then Dean let out a soft noise of realisation as he left your side to stroll into the kitchen, hand outstretched to pluck a note from the fridge’s barren door. He brought it toward him with a focused furrow of his brows, eyes scanning over the information before he let slip a smug chuckle.

You wandered over to Dean curiously, and just then, he turned to you with the note waving about. “Sammy’s slipped out for the night—called a cab and said us naughty teens could have the place to ourselves,” he explained with a heavy, cheeky undertone as he glanced you over.

You drew up beside him with a smile to entertain his implications, arms coming up in a cross. “Oh, yeah? Guess we better make the most of it, then,” you murmured, leaning yourself against the counter bordering the fridge.

Dean wandered close enough for the fabric of his jacket to graze your arms, head lowering to yours in a painfully slow manner. “Hm. . . what’d ya have in mind?” He asked before pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, then to the bridge of your nose.

Your nose scrunched playfully beneath his lips, eyes screwing shut at his very welcomed trespass. “I think—” you began, but were quickly silenced by the press of his lips against yours. After a few, greedy kisses with a point to prove, he pulled away to let you finish. “I think,” you repeated with a breathless laugh, eyes falling open once more. “You get the gist of it.”

“Think I damn well do,” he grinned, coming in for round two, but you stopped him with a finger to the lips.

“Not so fast, Casanova,” you steadied with a smile, making a point to tap his lips before pulling away. “I’ve got a little surprise for you, first.”

“What—it ain’t this?” Dean said ruefully, gesturing to all of you. “C’mon, man, quit teasin’ me.”

“I’m not teasing you,” you giggled before pushing yourself off the counter to round him in favour of the fridge. “I made you something.”

He hummed interestedly. “Well, colour me intrigued,” he drawled, turning to face you as he leaned himself against the counter to watch after your every move.

You opened the fridge and briefly ducked inside, rounding onto the point of your toes to grab the mystery meal off the top shelf. Beside you, Dean uttered a whistle of admiration, and you scoffed at his apparent leering. You lowered yourself with the prize in hand, shifting it to a one-sided grip as your free hand moved closed the door.

Dean studied the dish with interest as you strode over to him and placed it onto the counter. A part of you felt a sense of annoyance as you reflected back to the diner, where he’d gone and ordered himself two slices of pie despite your protest. You hadn’t wanted him to have his fill of it before tonight, where the dessert pie you’d baked him had been waiting for its time to shine.

Slowly, you pulled back the wrapping to reveal the dish—a dainty cream pie.

Dean took a moment to flutter his lashes, his lips forming a thoughtful pout—like he was trying to find the right words to decline your offer. You’d been afraid of this very reaction after he’d eaten enough pie for the next month. “More pie?” he remarked with an almost pained expression.

You let out a loose scoff, tossing the wrapping onto the counter. “I told you not to order another slice of pie at the diner!” You exclaimed, head shaking lightly.

“Yeah, but I just thought you were hasslin’ me over the eatin’ thing—not because you went and baked an entire one,” Dean laughed before moving to take a swipe at the topped cream. You watched as he crowned the pad of his index finger with a considerable cluster, then brought it up to his lips for a taste. After swallowing the smooth sweetness, he smacked his lips appreciatively. “But this tastes freakin’ amazing,” he praised with a warm grin. “Thanks, baby, I’ll savour it as much as the diner’s pie.”

“You’ll do that and more,” you shot back with a pretence of annoyance, but you couldn’t fend off the grin peaking through. “Cause it was hard work making this thing!”

He cocked a brow smugly. “Really? ‘Cause when last we hit the sheets, I seem to remember doin’ it in five minutes,” he said pointedly, teeth flashing a lewd grin as he gave an obnoxious wink.

Your jaw dangled at his shameless obscenity—alluding to a few nights ago where you’d begged him for a quickie, and had him finish inside of you. “Dean!” You exclaimed, hand coming forward to swat his arm lightly. “Think you’re a funny man, yeah?”

“I think I’m hilarious,” he replied charmingly, hand diving down to take another swipe at the cream. Just then, he brought it up to your face to slather the side of your cheek, which made your mouth curl around a gasp as you seized up on the spot.

“Asshole!” You sniped with no real anger, hand coming up to wipe some of the cream from your face, but Dean caught you at the wrist before you could eradicate the stickiness entirely.

“Fun-ass,” he corrected cheekily, gaze holding yours as he leaned himself down to wrap his lips around your index finger. You felt his tongue swirl around it to gather the cream, and even once he’d sucked it clean of all tangible sweetness, he kept up the wet whirlpool.

“Dean,” you laughed weakly. “Stop.”

Eventually, he freed your finger from his lips with a jarring pop, his chin wagging subtly with the pride of his action. “What?” He asked innocently, releasing your hand. “I’m just findin’ ways to make eatin’ this pie more excitin’.”

“Very innovative,” you giggled. “And messy.”

“Darlin’, don’t you worry—when I make a mess, I clean it up right after,” he remarked.

Suddenly, you became keenly aware of the cream still slathering your cheek. “Oh, is that so?” You retorted. “Because the records aren’t exactly reflecting right now.”

Dean’s hands came up in a gesture of his defence. “Hey, give me a chance,” he chuckled, then moved to wrap a hand around the nape of your neck. There, his fingers fanned the hair draping your neck, and he pulled you into his frame as his jaw made a dive toward your face.

You felt the warmth of his tongue drag a gentle trail up the curve of your cheek before drawing back to repeat the motion. You squirmed against the humid wetness, hands coming up to his chest as you let out a strained giggle. “That tickles, you weirdo!”

Eventually, he pulled back to face you, and the view of him was silly enough to send you into another giddy fit. The bridge of his nose was dotted with cream, and the trail dissipated along the curve of his glistening lips only to reappear within the divot of his chin.

“You look ridiculous!” You remarked with a warm laugh, finger lifting to wipe some of the cream off the button of his nose and present it to him.

“Yeah, well, you taste delicious,” he mocked childishly, linking his finger with yours to wipe the cream from the tip before plopping it into his mouth. He jerked his chin to the counter behind you, wiping his hands together. “Could ya pass me a paper towel, please? Behind you.”

Just then, an idea sparked to mind—shameless, and a little dirty, but fun. “Don’t bother,” you replied, and Dean’s brows shot up in surprise. Just then, you turned toward the pie, hand coming forward to scoop up an impressive amount of cream.

Behind you, Dean let out a soft huff, like he’d had an idea of what game you were about to play. Turning back to him, you hovered your cream-laden hand out in front of you, your other chaste one slipping beneath the hem of your tank to lift it up the expanse of your stomach. You terminated the stripping beneath the curve of your breasts, revealing enough of your abdomen to spur the Winchester on.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he breathed, his eyes unashamedly lowering down your exposed stomach before darting back to the cream cradled within your palm.

Without a word to spare, you began spreading a slow and messy trail across your stomach—starting at the divot between the curves of your breasts.

“Oh, I think I like where this is goin’,” Dean chuckled absentmindedly, lower lip drawn into a bite as he watched you paint the sticky trail down the length of your stomach—where you stopped just shy of your short’s hem.

Once you’d planted a generous path of cream, you brought your hand up to your lips to lick the last of it from existence, other hand still anchoring your shirt in its unobstructive place. “Rules of the game,” you began with a grin, Dean reciprocating one far more exhilarated. “Leave no mess behind—should be easy for you, he who always cleans up after himself,” you poked lightly.

“Easy?” He tutted cockily. “I’m gonna nail this out the freakin’ park. And then nail somethin’ else,” he added with a wink.

“Okay, mr. Big Talk, enough of the chitchat,” you laughed, free hand beckoning him forward.

Dean obliged with an eager, yes, ma’am, before inching his way toward you, leaning in to place a kiss on your forehead, then at the crook of your neck before he pulled back to gaze you in the eye.

“Happy birthday,” you murmured with an adoring smile.

“Happy freakin’ birthday to me, indeed,” Dean breathed in astonishment, taking a moment to lower his eyes along the candy trail that paved way to his personal jackpot down under before glancing back up at you. Then, with a determined smirk playing at his lips, he ducked from your view.

His hands took up firm grip at your waist, anchoring himself there as his lips took to your cream-kissed skin like the famished jaws of a zombie. Your head lolled back at the sensation of his tongue swirling along your skin, your free hand coming forward to plant itself within the jagged field of his hair. There, your fingers curled around unruly wisps—as if needing to ground yourself against the skilled tongue currently deconstructing your every sense—and your lips parted with a soft moan.

Dean, as if spurred on by that singular, sweet sound, added teeth into the mix, nipping lightly at the surfaces he’d licked clean before continuing to lower himself down your stomach. His grip at your waist became firmer—more desperate—and as if he couldn’t restrain himself any longer, his fingers grazed down your sides to slip beneath the waistband of your shorts and underwear. There, he tugged ruthlessly, successfully managing to pull the items down and over the curves of your hips and thighs.

You aided his efforts to strip you with a shimmy of your legs, allowing the clothing to plop to the ground. Shortly after, Dean’s fingers made a return to your waist, his tongue doing one, last greedy sweep of your navel to terminate the creamy line. He pulled back to gaze up at you—nose, mouth and chin slathered with the remnants of your game—but his pupils were blown wide with arousal, his teeth bared in a grin that told you he wanted to taste more of you.

“Jesus, baby, you’re gonna ruin me,” he uttered gruffly, breathlessly, and then without waiting for your input, he dipped into the yearning warmth nestled in the nook of your thighs, where his nose struck your clit with all the right force.

Like a starved and thirsty man deprived of everything essential to life, his tongue swept through your folds with the intent to garner every last inch of you. You let out a loud moan at that, hip collapsing slightly into the support of the counter, but Dean’s hands—anchored at your hips—tightened to remind you of his reliability, pulling you back onto the support of his mouth. There, his grip lowered to your thighs, squeezing lightly before they tightened mercilessly with the intent to grind himself deeper into your warmth.

Tears began to well at your eyes as the stimulation consumed you, head snapping back and eyes screwing shut to get lost in the abyss of Dean’s making. You felt, and heard, every flick and swirl of his tongue around your clit—the sound obscenely audible as wet fluttering—and it was enough to deduce you to a stew of mindless praises.

“Fuck, Dean, fuck,” you breathed—whimpered, tightening your hold within his hair until you were tugging meanly at his scalp. But he didn’t mind it—if anything, it elicited his own grunts of pleasure, which reverberated into your folds and added to the tension you felt building within your core.

He drew your swollen clit into a whirlpool, spinning it round and round his exploitative tongue with a moan of enjoyment. You could have listened to him utter that sound a hundred times over, and it jabbed at your core to know that Dean would never fail to find joy in pleasuring you.

“Fuck, baby, so wet, ‘nd so fuckin’ good,” he murmured against you, the words slurred by his discontent to disrupt the contact—and pace. He made a dive toward your dripping entrance, gathering the amalgamation of saliva and arousal attempting to slip away unnoticed, before he briefly slipped into your entrance.

You let out a broken gasp at that foul move, hips stuttering further into his jaw, but he steadied you upright with an accomplished chuckle to rattle you from within. His tongue retreated to drag back up your folds, re-establishing its rightful place running laps around your clit.

“S’alright, baby, I got you,” he murmured into you, adding fuel to the fire you felt about to erupt within you.

“I’m gonna come,” you muttered breathlessly, thighs clamping around his hold.

Dean gave a hum of approval at that, but kept up his slow and steady pace, only intensifying the stimulation with the pressure of his tongue.

The bundle within you began to grow and grow at your centre, tightening into an inexplicable mass that you craved to let go of. “Fuck,” you spat, eyes clamping shut as you chased your high. “Dean—don’t stop,” you breathed. “Don’t stop.”

“Ain’t ever stoppin’, baby,” he mumbled, hands squeezing your thigh pointedly.

“Can you. . . go faster,” you stuttered out, eyes faltering open and chin dipping to glance at him. “Please, I need it,” you whined softly.

Dean didn’t stray from his work to glance at you, and his pace didn’t budge, either. “Can’t,” he declined. “Gotta eat slower, remember?” There was a teasing flick across your clit, and you couldn’t help but let out a disbelieved laugh, eyes falling shut once more as you melted into his controlled pace.

“Asshole.”

“Fun-ass.”

──────────────────────

a/n ─ happy birthday to pookie!!! and this is a birthday gift bc dean’s a simple man—he’s a munch. fuck birthday presents & fuck birthday cake, this fucker just wants to devour you. best birthday song? the filth outta your mouth when his tongue’s surfing your clit. said who? me. dean told me. in my wet dreams last night. as a bonus for shits & giggles, yall get a pic of jensen and my doggo who turned 5 today bc her and dean share a bday 😞 they grow up so fast

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @fallbhind @titsout4jackles @ultravi0lence14 @angelicjackles @starzify @honeyryewhiskey @deansbeer @figthoughts @floralscented @walkslikesummeractslikerain @deansbbyx @whisperingdaze @maddie0101 @lieutenantchaos @spn-reader @bakugotypecrashout @jaydensluv @misatxox

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[zepskies]

Headcanon: When You're Having His Child...

Pairings: Dean Winchester x F. Reader, Beau Arlen x F. Reader, Soldier Boy/Ben x F. Reader

AN: This one is requested by @cevansbaby-dove, and is kind of a continuation of this imagine: When you have morning sickness.

Tags/Warnings: Potential fluff overload.

HC: How Dean, Beau, and Soldier Boy (Ben) would act while you're in labor.

Dean Winchester

Oh, sweet man...

Dean does the thing where he pretends he has his shit together.

He's really trying, for your sake, for his own, and to save face around Sam and Eileen and Jody and everyone else in the hospital waiting room.

They can see it, and he knows it: he's freaking the hell out.

When he's in the room with you, he's either helping you, holding your hand, waiting for you to be dilated enough to start the whole "having a baby" process, or pacing around on those bowlegs, occasionally dragging a hand over his mouth in that telltale nervous gesture.

"Babe, come 'ere," you say with strain. That last contraction really took it out of you. "You're making me even more nervous than I already am."

Dean goes to you and smooths a hand over your hair.

"Sorry, sweetheart. I'm sorry. How're you holding up?"

Tears well up in your eyes, but you try to breathe through it. You're overwhelmed, you're in pain, and you've been in labor for several hours already.

"We're ready for this, right?" you ask, squeezing his hand. He sits on the edge of your bed and makes sure you look him in the eyes.

"We're about to find out," he says, with a bit of teasing. But his gaze is steady when he brings your hand up to his lips. "You don't gotta worry about anything. I'm gonna be with you, come whatever, okay?"

You smile, because you don't just believe him. You know.

Because after years of fighting together, surviving together, living together, you know that this is just one more adventure you get to go on with him by your side.

Now, Dean would rather not see all the gritty details of the birth, but he stays in the delivery room, letting you squeeze the shit out of his hand. He's not going to leave your side. He's wiping sweat from your brow and encouraging you, being whatever kind of support you need.

After the baby's born and the nurses bring her back all cleaned up, Dean holds his daughter for the first time.

He has tears in his eyes. For a long moment, he doesn't even blink. He stares down at that small, perfect face. Already he sees some of your features in her.

He can't put into words how he feels. It's overwhelming in his chest. But one thing is certain...

Dean's never been more grateful to be alive than in this moment.

He blinks, and the first of his tears fall. He brings her to you, sitting down carefully on the edge of your bed again so you can hold her. You're beyond exhaustion, sweaty, and weeping, but one thing is certain...

You've never been more grateful for Dean than in this moment.

You turn to him, giving him a small smile. He returns it, and he leans in to give you a gentle kiss.

"Do you have a name picked out yet?" one of the nurses asks.

You and Dean share a look: his imploring, yours knowing.

"We're not naming her Baby," you warn him.

"Aw, come on."

Beau Arlen

Round 2! 🫡

Beau runs the gambit from excited, to anxious, to freaking the hell out, and back to excited.

This is "Round 2" for him. His second child. But he's had reservations about being an "older" father to a new baby. (He's pushing 50 at this point. No matter how much he keeps in shape, he still feels his age in his bowlegged knees.)

You've assured him that plenty of men have children at his age.

Regardless of his insecurities though, you know he's still over the moon. Beau has always wanted more kids, deep down, and now thanks to you, he's getting his wish.

He's the man who's "prepared for anything."

When your water broke, he already had your to-go bag ready with everything you might need.

But he continues to ask you questions from the moment he's got you out the door to the drive over to the hospital, and even in the lobby.

"You thirsty? You comfortable like that? How's the pain? Just breathe, baby. I gotcha. Watch your step now. You hungry? We've got protein bars in the bag, unless you're cravin' something else. First things first, let's check in. Oh, I hope we can getcha in a private room. Let's see--oh damn, they sure are packed today, huh? Okay, how're you holdin' up? How's the pain, level of 1 to 10? Yep, got it, hold my hand. Just breathe through it. I gotcha."

Bless him. The man means well, but he's driving you freakin' crazy.

"Beau, I know. If you don't take a breath, I'm gonna pop you in the damn nose."

He tries not to smile at your grumpiness. "...Okay, I hear ya. Let's just get you into your room."

He rarely leaves your side during the entire labor, just to get you anything you might actually need. The radio at his belt occasionally goes off for work, but he apologizes, having forgotten to turn it off. He put Jenny in charge while he's gone.

"Let's just hope the precinct's still standing when I get back," he jokes. He finally turns off the radio and takes it off his belt, to your relief. And he returns his undivided attention to you.

Beau witnessed the birth of his daughter Emily, so he's no stranger to being in the delivery room. He even ventures past the curtain when your son is born, breathing air into his little lungs and letting out a powerful cry.

Beau laughs with tears in his eyes. "That's my boy."

When the nurses place him into your arms first, Beau supports your hold and brushes your sweaty hair back from your face. "Good job, honey. Good job."

"I know," you tease weakly.

Beau chuckles. He presses a lingering kiss to your forehead and looks down at the small bundle in your arms and his.

"We have a son," Beau says. His eyes are red and shining. "I have a son."

"You have a son," you nod. You look over at him and lean in for a kiss. He obliges you, and rests his forehead against yours afterwards.

Life is meant for moments like this, he thinks.

He's damn grateful it's with you.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Readers of Strong as Blood in the BMD-verse will recognize some of this HC...

This day has been a long time coming, for both of you.

He smells like cigar smoke when he comes back into your recovery room. For which you have no doubt, Ben had been puffing away with Butcher and M.M. outside the hospital. 

Ben was with you for most of the lead up to the birth, but you actually agreed that having him in the delivery room wasn't a good idea. He never did well with you in pain, and with his temper, he might just scare the shit out of the doctor and nurses.

He strides toward you though, when he enters the room. He lays a hand on your head and another on the baby's tuft of brown, downy hair.

"We have a daughter," you tell him, with a watery smile.

Part of him still twinges with disappointment. He didn't react well when he found out you weren't carrying a boy, his future son.

(You'd given him enough hell that he never brought up the subject again.)

But that all fades away when he looks down at his daughter's face.

He carefully sits on the edge of your bed, but he's suspended in time. His chest tightens in a way he's never experienced before.

It's almost like pain, but not. Not at all.

He brushes a thumb along the baby's soft cheek. He's almost hesitant to touch her, knowing how fragile she is.

"Beautiful, like her mother," he says at last. And he means it.

He earns your smile.

"Flatterer," you accuse. You know you look as wrecked as you feel. Somehow, none of that matter's whenever you look at your child's face.

You look over at Ben with a shining smile. His lips twitch. He leans in and meets your lips with a kiss, slow and deep and intimate in this quiet little room.

“You okay?” he asks you, after he pulls away. “Got everything you need?”

He’s become even more protective, of course, but also more attentive to you. Especially in the last few months of your pregnancy, seeing how uncomfortable you've become.

It warms you every time, when you consider how rough, how stoic, and how damn-near emotionally repressed he can be.

It seems that fatherhood is beginning to soften him, even before he begins. You quirk a smile at the thought, and at his question.

“Imagine pushing a super melon out of your dick. That’s how I’m doing,” you say cheekily.

He snorts a bit loudly at that, and you shush him, as if it wasn’t your fault he was laughing. He expects nothing less from you.

“But I’m okay,” you answer his second question. “All I need right now is you.”

Ben considers you, a slightly gentler smile curving his lips, and he nods.

“All right,” he says. In this moment, he realizes that his entire world is in this room.

He’d never admit it, but it's a terrifying thought, for a man who once had everything and nothing.

You unknowingly stop the path of his thoughts when you ask him, "Want to hold her for a while?"

Ben perks up at attention. He's a bit uncertain on how exactly to hold the baby, but he can't lose face and tell you that. So he just accepts the bundle when you place her in his arms.

As he looks down at a small face that already has some of his features, he inhales a faltering breath.

It's the first time you ever see true tears in his eyes, despite how much he resists. One manages to draw a path down his cheek. 

“You know, you’re blessed to have my genes, sweetheart,” he says. It elicits a knowing scoff out of you. “But you’re also lucky as hell to have your mom.”

Ben looks up and finds the predictable well of tears forming in your eyes. His smirk softens around the edges.

“She’s the best damn woman you’re ever gonna meet,” he says.

AN: All right, I'll stop. 😭 I hope you enjoy this one, fluff overload and all! Who was your favorite this time: Dean, Beau, or Ben? 💜

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[jays-bonnie-on-the-side]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JAY

PAIRING : jensen ackles x fiancé!reader

SUMMARY : it’s jensen’s 47th birthday and reader surprises him at work

WARNINGS : fluff. love. surprises. established relationship. mentions of wedding. age gap if you squint. strong language. implied oral sex (male receiving). daddy!jensen. hints of jealous ex.

A/N : thought of this last night and wrote this morning. happy birthday jensen. i love you more than you know and i hope you get to see your kids today. —your bonnie on the side. 🫶🏽😘🎉🎂🥳🎈🎊🎁

March 1st: Jensen’s birthday. Today, he’s turning 47, a year closer to the number he dreads, yet his age had never bothered me. All I wanted was Jensen. And I’m fortunate enough to say I have him.

He’s been working so hard since September, juggling cons and shooting Countdown, and it doesn’t end there. Once he wraps up his current project, he’s heading straight to Toronto to film The Boys, followed by Vought Rising. I moved to L.A. to be with him, both of us refusing to be apart. Yet, he comes home so late and leaves so early that I hardly see him. But not today, not on his birthday.

With the filming running behind, he still had to go in on Saturdays, and unfortunately, that’s the day his birthday fell on this year. Unbeknownst to him, I had very special plans. The first one was waking him up with breakfast and head in bed.

“Fuck, sweetheart. I don’t know what’s better: the food you make or your pretty little mouth.” Jensen breathlessly chuckles as he swipes the dribble of cum from the corner of my lip.

That was this morning, and now I’m on the set of Countdown, talking with the PAs about his surprise. As he’s finishing his scene, the most important part of my plan shows up. Jensen knew I’d meet him for lunch but had no idea I was flying his kids out from Connecticut for his special day. The only downside to both him and I was his ex tagging along. Despite the years Jay and I have been together—and after Vought Rising wraps, I’ll become their stepmother—Danneel didn’t trust me alone with them. And no matter the animosity I have towards her, I needed his children to be here.

They rush toward me, tackling me with their embrace. It had been months since I last saw them. In between cons, tournaments, and public appearances, Jensen spent his free time visiting his kids across the country. Not that I minded, but I did miss him—and them—like crazy. I wrap my arms around them, laughing with glee as they cling to me.

“Hey! I’ve missed you guys so much.”

“We’ve missed you too!” says JJ.

They squeeze tighter, close to taking my breath away. I play into it and gasp dramatically, making them giggle. My gaze falls on an annoyed Danneel, and a smirk tugs at my lips. She’s always hated my relationship with the kids. ‘Could’ve been one of the reasons she gave Jensen such a hard time about bringing me around. It didn’t matter, though; They loved me anyway. Right from the very start.

They set me free, and Arrow asks loudly, “Is Daddy almost done?”

“Yes, but it’s a surprise, remember? We have to be quiet until we sing him ‘Happy Birthday,’ then you can be as louudd as you want. Okay?”

“Okay!” A PA calls me over, and I excuse myself, but she scampers beside me and takes my hand. “Can I come with you?”

“Sure, but you have to ask your mom first.”

Arrow spins on her heel, asking her mom, “Can I go with Y/N?”

“I wanna go too!” “Me three!” Both JJ and Zep chime in.

She shakes her head. “No, you can stay here.”

They begin to whine, but she doesn’t care. “C’mon, Danneel. It’s not like you won’t be able to see them. They can help me finish a few things.”

A few producers and PAs watch her closely, waiting for her response. With all eyes on her, she caves in, grumbling a “Fine,” under her breath.

The kids jump in joy and hurry after me. Backstage was lined with Jensen’s favorite foods and desserts. All that was left was to finish the decorations and bring out the cake. Without having to be directed much, they pick up streamers and run them along the tables. They even blow up balloons and hang them where they see fit. Once we finish, I tell them my plan.

“Okay, so. I’m thinking you guys hide when Daddy comes in, and when everyone starts singing, you roll the cake out, surprising him. What do you think?” They nod their heads in agreement. Jensen’s PA comes in, quietly shouting that he’s coming. “Okay, kids, it's showtime! Go tell your mom to stand in the back so he doesn’t see her, and you guys wait by the cake.”

They run off, and I direct everyone to stand in a half circle, facing the direction Jensen will be coming from. After giving the final instruction, I turn around and wait. My heart pounds, excited to see his reaction. Everyone’s quiet, and we hear the laughter between the cast members coming off stage. It gets closer, and the curtain pulls back, revealing my groom-to-be.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” The crowd shouts, making Jensen jump.

His green eyes widen, and a grin grows. He looks around the room, and his gorgeous orbs land on me. His face says it all: He knew I put this together. That’s not all, Ackles. Everyone begins to sing to him, and he stands in amazement. I walk to the edge of the crowd and wave the kids out.

JJ pushes the cart with her dad’s favorite cake, and the twins walk beside her. His demeanor changes in shock, not expecting to see his offspring. She wheels it in front of Jensen, and the moment it’s in place, he pulls them in for a hug. Everyone watches in awe as they continue to sing. He glances toward me, tears welling in his eyes, having not seen them since Christmas.

My heart soars at the sight. They look so happy. He’d been feeling down lately, not only having gone so long without their presence but knowing their absence was to be expected on his birthday. And when JJ told me her New Year’s resolution was to see her dad more, I knew I had to make this happen. Seeing their reunion was a gift of its own.

I walk toward Jensen, settling my hand over his neatly trimmed beard as he extends his neck to kiss me. It was long and sweet, enough to make Zep cringe. We chuckle and pull away, ceasing our PDA. The traditional birthday song ends, and he blows out his candles. With his face still close, I push his head down, and it smashes into the frosting. Everyone laughs, some hooting and hollering, as they clap. He stands up, shocked that he hadn’t seen it coming before a laugh of his own comes out.

Nearly everyone snaps a picture of his cake-kissed face before he uses his tongue to clean the area near his mouth. Someone hands me a napkin, and before I can wipe him off, he grabs and holds me still. I squeal, but he shuts me up with his mouth, smearing the frosting onto mine. The crowd cheers, and he deepens the sugary kiss. We separate and clean each other’s faces off, but not in the way we would in private.

“All right, kids,” Jensen claps and rubs his hands together as the kids circle the chocolate sheet cake. “Dessert first!” They cheer, and Danneel comes out of the shadows to protest. He mutters, “I knew it was too good to be true,” before arguing back. “Hey, it’s my birthday, and as their father, I say let them eat cake!”

I roll my eyes, knowing he won’t be the one dealing with their sugar rush. Then again, it’s not like she would let me have them anyway, so to hell with her! She doesn’t put up much of a fight with everyone so close. Instead, she stomps away. Once she’s out of sight, I talk some sense into the man.

“Dad, are you sure that’s a good idea? ‘Cause if I remember correctly, you once told me that cake tastes soooo much better after eating food first.”

Understanding my hint, he nods. “You’re right. I did say that.”

“Did you make the food, Y/N?” His younger daughter asks.

“No, babe. Not this time,” They ‘awe’ in disappointment, but I assure them I will tonight. “For now, why don’t we eat some food from Daddy’s favorite restaurant here in L.A.?”

Bouncing at any chance to be closer to their father, they nod excitedly. The kids then run toward the table with the disposable eatware and grab their plates. Before I follow after them, Jensen pulls me into his chest.

“I can’t believe you did this for me.”

I turn in his arms and pull him closer. “Of course, baby. Why wouldn’t I?”

He shrugs, looking in the direction his ex-wife disappeared off to. “I guess it’s not something I’m used to.”

“Well, get used to it, birthday boy.”

Jensen gently cradles my face, tilting it up so our eyes meet. “I love you. So fucking much.”

“I love you more.” His lips attach to mine, keeping the kiss PG with our audience present. “Happy birthday, Jay.”

“Thank you, sweetheart. For everything. ‘This has been one of the best days I’ve had in a while.”

“You’re so welcome,” I press a quick peck to his luscious lips before tugging his hand. “C’mon. Let’s go feed our kids.”

He drapes his arm over my shoulder, drawing me close and planting a kiss on the crown of my head as we stroll toward the impatient children.

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[lila-lou]

✨Family✨

Summary: This Christmas is your first with Emily, Beau’s teenage daughter. Between her shy smiles and sharp wit, she’s learning to trust you, and you’re creating a home together.

-Christmas Special-

Pairing: Beau x Reader

Warnings: Fluff

Word Count: 3377

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. ❤️

The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and roasted chestnuts, filling the air with a cozy warmth that made the chill of the Montana winter seem far away. Emily stood next to you, carefully arranging cookies on a tray. Her focus was intense, her tongue poking out slightly as she concentrated on making each cookie look just right. It was the kind of detail about her that always made you smile—a reminder that, even at sixteen, she still had that playful spark beneath her teenage independence.

“You think Dad’s gonna notice if I sneak one of these?”, she asked, glancing at you with a sly grin.

You laughed, rolling out another batch of dough. “Oh, he’ll notice. Beau’s got a sixth sense when it comes to cookies. Besides, don’t you want to save some for tonight?”.

Emily groaned dramatically, clearly unimpressed with your reasoning. “Fine. But the gingerbread man with the crooked smile is mine. Calling it now”.

Through the frosted kitchen window, you could see Beau and Cole outside in the snow. Your three-year-old son was bundled up so tightly in his navy-blue coat and matching hat that he looked like a tiny snowball himself. He was giggling uncontrollably as Beau helped him roll a massive snowball for the base of their snowman. Beau’s laughter was just as loud, echoing across the yard, a warm contrast to the cold landscape. You could see the way his breath fogged in the air as he crouched down, ruffling Cole’s hair every time he clapped his mittens together in excitement.

Emily noticed you watching them and sighed, setting the spatula down. “They’re having way more fun than we are. Why do we get kitchen duty?”.

You smirked and nudged her playfully with your elbow. “Because you agreed cookies were more important than frostbite”.

She rolled her eyes dramatically. “That was before I realized how boring baking is. I don’t know how you do this for fun”.

“It’s not boring if you put your heart into it”, you teased. “Besides, you can’t tell me those cookies don’t look amazing. You’re doing great”.

Emily looked at the tray, a hint of pride creeping into her expression. “Yeah, I guess they do. And I’ll admit… it’s kinda nice being here”. Her voice softened at the end, almost like she was testing the words out.

You paused, glancing at her carefully. It hadn’t been an easy adjustment for Emily. This was her first Christmas with you, Beau, and Cole—her first away from her mom. While she didn’t talk about it much, you could tell it weighed on her. The little things gave her away: the far-off look she got sometimes, the way she’d hesitate before fully relaxing around you.

“I’m glad you’re here”, you said softly, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I know it’s different, but it wouldn’t feel right without you”.

Emily shrugged, but you caught the flicker of a smile. “Thanks. I mean, it’s not bad or anything… I just—”. She stopped herself and focused back on the cookies. “It’s nice to feel like part of something, you know?”.

Your heart ached for her in that moment. She’d been through so much this past year, but she’d held it together with a strength that amazed you. “You are part of something”, you said gently. “And we wouldn’t trade you for the world”.

Emily didn’t respond, but her shoulders relaxed just a little, and that was enough.

Outside, Beau lifted Cole onto his shoulders, spinning him around as the little boy shouted with glee. The snowman project had apparently been abandoned in favor of an impromptu snowball fight, with Beau pretending to dodge the tiny handfuls of snow Cole tossed at him. The sight made you laugh, and Emily turned to the window, her expression softening as she watched her dad and Cole.

“They’re such dorks”, she said, but there was no malice in her voice—just affection.

“That they are”, you agreed, sliding the tray of cookies into the oven. “But they’re our dorks”.

Emily smiled, a small, genuine one that made you feel like maybe things were starting to fall into place. This Christmas might not be what any of you had imagined, but for the first time, it felt like the start of something real, something good.

Eventually, you set the rolling pin down, brushing flour off your hands as a mischievous grin spread across your face. Emily looked up, raising a curious brow.

“What?”, she asked, watching as you wiped your hands on a towel.

You nodded toward the door, your grin growing. “Come on”, you said, a playful spark in your voice. “Let’s show them what a real snowball fight looks like”.

Emily’s face lit up, and for the first time all day, she looked completely carefree. “Oh, you’re on”, she said, already tugging her sleeves down to head for her coat.

The two of you quickly bundled up, Emily grabbing a pair of mismatched gloves and tugging them on as you zipped up your jacket. The moment you stepped outside, the icy air nipped at your cheeks, but the laughter from Beau and Cole made it easy to forget the cold. They were crouched behind a pile of snow, clearly in the middle of their “battle”. Cole had a snowball in each hand, and Beau was dramatically shielding himself, shouting, “Mercy! Mercy!”, as Cole pelted him with what looked like more powder than ice.

“They’re not even going to see it coming”, you whispered to Emily, who crouched beside you, already scooping up a handful of snow.

“Divide and conquer?”, she suggested, her grin matching yours.

“Always”, you replied.

Together, you moved swiftly, using the yard’s uneven snow piles as cover. You watched as Emily targeted Beau first, her snowball hitting him square in the shoulder. He whipped around, stunned.

“What the—”, he started, before you launched your own snowball, catching him in the chest.

“Reinforcements?!”, Beau shouted, laughing as he scrambled to grab snow. “Oh, you two are in trouble now!”.

Cole, catching on to the new dynamic, screamed with delight. “Get ‘em, Daddy!”.

But Emily was fast. She ducked behind a snowbank, expertly avoiding Beau’s counterattack. Meanwhile, you were busy distracting him, tossing snowball after snowball, laughing so hard you could barely aim.

“You think you can take me down?”, Beau called, his Southern drawl coming out in full force as he lobbed a snowball in your direction. “I’m the king of snowball fights!”.

“King? You’ve already been dethroned!”, you shouted back, dodging his throw and quickly crafting another snowball.

Emily, ever the opportunist, took advantage of Beau’s focus on you. She came out of nowhere, launching a snowball right at the back of his head. The soft thud of snow hitting his hat was met with a stunned silence before he turned slowly, his mouth open in mock betrayal.

“Et tu, Emily?”, he said dramatically, clutching his chest like he’d been mortally wounded.

“Every man—or dad—for himself!”, Emily shouted, laughing so hard she could barely keep her balance.

Meanwhile, Cole was toddling over to you with his own version of a snowball, which was really just a clump of powdery fluff. He tossed it at your leg, giggling uncontrollably. “Gotcha, Mommy!”.

“Oh no, I’m hit!”, you cried, pretending to stumble backward into the snow. Cole squealed with joy, climbing onto your legs to “finish the job”.

Beau took the opportunity to scoop Emily into his arms, spinning her around as she shrieked, “No fair! No fair!”. The laughter echoed across the yard, a perfect mix of chaos and joy.

By the time you all called a truce, your cheeks were red, your gloves soaked, and your sides ached from laughing. Beau walked over, his arm slinging around your shoulders as Cole clung to his leg, still chattering about his “big win”. Emily joined you, shaking the snow out of her hair and grinning like she hadn’t a care in the world.

“Well”, Beau said, his voice warm and low, “I don’t know about you, but I think that might’ve been the best snowball fight this family’s ever seen”.

“It’s the only snowball fight this family’s ever seen”, Emily pointed out, but the teasing tone in her voice made it clear she’d loved every second.

You leaned into Beau, glancing at the three of them, your little makeshift family. “Well, I guess we’ve set the bar pretty high, haven’t we?”.

Beau smiled down at you, his eyes soft. “Good thing we’ve got plenty more years to top it”.

And as the four of you trudged back inside, shedding wet coats and boots, you couldn’t help but feel it: the warmth, the laughter, the love. This was Christmas. This was home.

Inside, the warmth of the house quickly thawed the chill from your cheeks. Snow clung stubbornly to Cole’s little hat and mittens, and his face was flushed bright red from the cold and laughter. Beau grinned as he scooped him up, effortlessly hoisting him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Cole squealed, kicking his legs playfully as Beau said, “Alright, buddy, time to get you warmed up and in some dry clothes before you turn into a popsicle”.

You followed them up the stairs with Emily trailing behind, her footsteps light and quiet as she watched the scene unfold. Beau pushed the bathroom door open with his elbow, still holding Cole, and plopped him down on the edge of the tub. The little boy wiggled as you knelt down next to him, gently brushing the snowflakes from his hair.

“Hold still, Cole”, you said, laughing as he squirmed. “We’re trying to help you, you know”.

“But I’m not cold!”, Cole protested, giggling as Beau wrestled with the tiny, wet socks that clung stubbornly to his feet.

“Not cold, huh?”, Beau teased, holding up one soggy sock like it was evidence in a trial. “Then what do you call this, Mr. Snowman? A fashion statement?”.

Cole’s laughter filled the small bathroom as he tried to kick his feet free, but Beau caught them easily, shaking his head with an exaggerated sigh. “You’ve been like this since you were born, you know. Always wiggling around, never staying still”.

“Cause I’m fast!”, Cole declared proudly, pumping his little fists in the air.

“You’re definitely something”, Beau muttered, a playful smile tugging at his lips as he finally got the last sock off. “Now, let’s get you into some dry clothes before you speed your way into a cold”.

Emily leaned casually against the doorway, her arms crossed as she watched the two of you fuss over Cole. There was something soft in her expression, though she tried to mask it with her usual teenage coolness.

“You two are such parents”, she said, her tone laced with mock judgment.

You glanced back at her with a smirk. “Is that a bad thing?”.

Emily shrugged, but there was no edge to it. “No. Just… funny, I guess. You’re both so good at it”.

Her words made you pause for a moment, your heart swelling. It wasn’t often that Emily said things like that—openly kind and vulnerable. You met her gaze and gave her a warm smile. “Well, we’ve had a lot of practice with this one”, you said, nodding toward Cole, who was now giggling uncontrollably as Beau tickled his belly while trying to pull his shirt over his head.

Beau looked up at Emily, his grin wide. “And for the record, I’d say we’re pretty good at being your parents too. Even if you don’t let us put your socks on”.

Emily rolled her eyes, but you caught the way her lips twitched like she was fighting back a smile. “I think I can manage my socks, thanks”.

“Good to know”, Beau replied, finally managing to get Cole into a clean, dry shirt. He scooped the little boy back into his arms and stood, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Cole’s head. “There. Warm and toasty, just like a marshmallow”.

“I’m a marshmallow!”, Cole shouted, making you and Beau laugh.

Emily chuckled too, though she tried to hide it behind a shake of her head. “You’re all ridiculous”, she said, turning toward the hallway.

You stood, brushing your hands on your jeans, and caught up with her as Beau carried Cole back down. “Ridiculous, maybe”, you said softly, nudging her shoulder with yours. “But happy. And that’s what matters, right?”.

Emily glanced at you, her expression softening again, though she quickly masked it with a smirk. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all sappy on me, okay?”.

“Too late”, you teased, following her down the hall. But deep down, you knew she felt it too—this warmth, this connection, this new sense of family.

As the evening settled in, the house glowed with the soft light of the Christmas tree, its twinkling bulbs casting warm colors across the room. The scent of cinnamon lingered from earlier in the day, mixing with the woodsy aroma of the tree. The four of you were sprawled on the couch, cozied under a thick, patchwork blanket.

Beau, of course, had taken up the role of ultimate family snuggler. He sat in the middle, his left arm wrapped firmly around Emily, who had only agreed to the arrangement after a dramatic eye-roll and a mumbled, “Fine, but just this once”. Despite her protests, she leaned into him, her head resting lightly against his shoulder.

You lay on his other side, his right arm draped around your shoulders as you nestled close, your legs tucked up under you. Cole, ever the little king of chaos, had stretched himself out across both your laps. His head rested on Emily’s knee, his little hands clutching his favorite stuffed dinosaur, while his feet occasionally kicked up as he babbled about the cookies he’d eaten and the snowman that “almost stayed up”.

“Almost doesn’t count, little man”, Beau teased, ruffling Cole’s messy hair. “Next time, we’re getting it to stand no matter what. That’s a promise”.

Cole giggled, his voice sleepy but full of excitement. “You’re gonna help me, Daddy?”.

“Always”, Beau said, his voice soft and steady. “Always, buddy”.

You smiled at the exchange, feeling the warmth of Beau’s hand rubbing small circles on your shoulder. This was it—the quiet, perfect moment you’d been hoping for all day. Emily glanced at you briefly, catching your expression, and she smirked in that way only a teenager could.

“What?”, she asked, her tone playful but curious.

“Nothing”, you said softly, though the smile on your face betrayed you. “Just… this”.

Beau’s hand stilled for a moment, and he looked down at you, his gaze filled with a tenderness that never failed to make your chest ache. “Yeah”, he said quietly, “this is pretty good, isn’t it?”.

Emily groaned in mock disgust. “Oh, come on. You two are so gross sometimes”.

“You love it”, Beau said, leaning down to plant a quick, noisy kiss on the top of her head. She wrinkled her nose but didn’t pull away, and you noticed the small smile tugging at her lips.

“Do not”, she muttered, clearly lying.

Cole let out a loud yawn, his little arms stretching wide as he snuggled deeper into the blanket. “I love it”, he announced proudly, his words slightly muffled by the stuffed dinosaur he was still clutching.

As the evening wore on, Cole’s babbling grew softer, his eyelids drooping as the warmth of the blanket and the steady rhythm of Beau’s voice lulled him closer to sleep. He shifted, nestling deeper into the crook of your lap, his stuffed dinosaur still clutched tightly to his chest. You brushed a hand gently over his hair, smoothing down the messy tufts that stuck up from his earlier adventures in the snow.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, Cole’s sleepy voice broke the quiet moment. “Emmy?”, he asked softly, his words slurring a little with tiredness.

Emily’s head popped up, her eyes widening slightly as she looked down at him. “Yeah, bud?”, she replied, her voice uncertain but kind.

“Will you read me a bedtime story tonight?”, Cole asked, his little voice so sweet and tentative it made your heart squeeze.

Emily blinked, caught off guard. “Me? Not Mommy or Daddy?”.

Cole shook his head against your knee, yawning widely. “I want you. Please, Emmy?”.

The room fell quiet for a moment, everyone waiting for Emily’s response. She glanced at you, then at Beau, like she wasn’t sure she was the right choice. Beau’s expression was warm and encouraging, and he gave her a little nudge with his elbow. “Looks like you’ve got a fan, kiddo”, he said softly, his tone teasing but gentle.

Emily hesitated for only a moment longer before giving a small shrug, though the faint blush on her cheeks betrayed her. “Yeah, okay. Sure, I’ll read to you”, she said, her voice carefully casual.

Cole’s sleepy face lit up in a soft smile. “Yay”, he murmured.

As Emily and Cole disappeared upstairs, their voices trailing off as Emily tried to convince Cole that she wasn’t going to do all the silly voices, you turned back toward Beau, who was already shifting under the blanket. Before you could say a word, he stood up, effortlessly scooping you into his arms with a mischievous grin on his face.

“Beau!”, you laughed, clutching at his shoulders. “What are you doing?”.

“Kid’s occupied, we’ve got at least twenty minutes”, he said, his voice low and teasing as he headed toward the basement stairs. “I’m taking advantage of a rare opportunity”.

“For what?!”, you giggled, your heart racing more from the way he was looking at you than the movement.

“To spend some uninterrupted time with my wife”, he replied, his drawl making the words feel softer and warmer than they already were. “That’s what Christmas miracles are all about, right?”.

You couldn’t help but laugh, resting your head against his shoulder as he descended the stairs. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”.

“Yeah”, he said, his grin widening. “But also horny".

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he nudged the guest room door open with his foot and stepped inside. The room was small but cozy, its faint glow coming from the single lamp on the nightstand. Beau set you down gently on the bed, his hands lingering on your waist as he leaned in, his face just inches from yours.

“Finally”, he murmured, his voice dropping even lower. “A little peace and quiet”.

You raised a brow, still smiling. “You think twenty minutes is enough for peace and quiet? With our kids upstairs?”.

Beau smirked, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “I’ll take what I can get. Besides, I don’t need long to remind you how much I love you”.

The warmth in his voice melted any teasing retort you might have had. Instead, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. “You’re pretty good at that, you know”.

“Good”, he whispered, his lips brushing against yours. “Because I plan on doing it for the rest of my life”.

And for a moment, the world upstairs faded away, leaving just the two of you wrapped in the quiet, perfect stillness of the moment. It wasn’t long, of course, before the faint sound of Cole’s giggles echoed down the stairs, followed by Emily’s exaggerated sigh as she tried to coax him to sleep. But for those few minutes, it was enough—just you and Beau, tucked away from the chaos, stealing a little piece of Christmas magic for yourselves.

———————————

A/N: Let´s welcome Beau to the family. Please let me know what you think.🥰

-

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