#mera’s drabbles ˚.⋆ 𖦹｡˚

[bluemerakis]

okay but imagine being stuck in a room with beau, dean and soldier boy and how the dynamics would fucking CLASH 😭😭

soldier boy’s gonna be all up in your ass with some shit he thinks is slick—barely giving you room to breathe while he tries to coax you into his bed. beau’s 100% horrified at the shit streaming from sb’s mouth and he’s getting all protective and steps in to make sure he’s backing the fuck off of you and sb’s either gonna give in with some disdainful sniff before continuing to smoke away his loss or he’s going to throw one on beau and the two start brawling to the death. and then dean, who was happily watching the drama unfold, is eventually gonna step in to break up the fight and shove the two apart to take a breather—and while they’re recollecting their dignity, he starts chatting it up with you like he’d been waiting all this time to let the other two guys eliminate themselves as worthy candidates.

and like,,, don’t get me started on the bedroom dynamic either. im gonna though sorry 🤷‍♀️

oh soldier boy is SO MEAN. SO primal. so. fucking. rough. like shoving your head into the sheet rough, vice grip on your neck rough, and spanking you until you’re as red as the fucking commie flag he despises. that man is ALL about establishing control and revelling in the way you fall apart under his touch. manhandling more like. it inflates his dick as much as his ego to hear you plead for things you shouldn’t want—everything that he can give you. and the mouth on him is FILTHY. he’s calling you that fuckin’ slut, that velvety soft cock-warmer, his little, dirty cum-guzzler with a palate refined just for him. oh, he wants to RUIN you. wants to leave you so internally branded with his touch that you’ll morph into a lock that can’t be accessed by any key other than his. and he’s so. fucking. possessive. not to mention he’s going to see you on top of fucking cloud nine as you’re riding him, and he’s DYING to further raise you to the skies of fucking heaven by making you snort a line from his stomach or some shit. corruption kink most definitely.

meanwhile, beau can barely fathom how you’re enjoying any of it. through the entirety of it all, he’s lowkey giving sb the stank eye for his lack of respect for women—and you, more importantly. And while he knows you’ve fully consented, it doesn’t stop him from checking in with you every now and again—

“still hangin’ in there, darlin’? you let me know if it becomes too much, yeah? i’ll tell this jackass to dial it down.”

and beau, oh my god, he’s the king of checking in. he’s all about making sure you’re constantly comfortable and enjoying yourself—to the point where soldier boy’s making some remark like,

“what’re you—some fuckin’ gimme a c for consent cheerleader? shut the fuck up, grown a damn pair, ‘nd give the woman what she wants.”

and beau’s lugging in the DEEPEST breath of composure with the most disconcerting glare he can muster before recollecting himself and focusing all his attention back to you. his thrusts are gentle, but not weak—he’s hitting all the right spots with each approach and withdrawal. he’s listening to your breathing, the sounds you spew, and constantly reaching to brush the hair from the grip of your sticky face. and he lowers himself to place a kiss to whichever inch of you is most accessible at the time—favouring the curve of your cheek, where it’s easy for him to dip down to your ear and murmur some words of admiration and encouragement. oh he’s such a fucking praiser and words of affirmation guy. and he’s making sure to soothe every bruised part of you that soldier boy leaves behind, almost always sparing the supe a pointed glare that utters some silent claim of and that’s how you treat a lady. he’s littering kisses along your bruises and easing the tender skin with soothing rubs—cradling you and cherishing you like an expensive, one-of-a-kind china.

and then there’s dear, dear dean. this man is WAITING for his time to shine. i can 100% see him not caring for either of the other two men in the room—his attention’s all on you. when sb’s taking you all the way to nasty town, he’s glancing off to some other corner of the room, but can’t help sneaking occasional glances at your visceral, very verbal reactions. and he lowkey digs it. when he’s got his turn to make you feel things, he’s taking it nice and slow—all at your pace. and you know those fucking love-sick eyes he loves casting? yeah, HE’S GIVING YOU THE FULL-PACKAGE SUBBY LOOK. his every grip on your body is intentional—constructed to make you feel like you’re something he absolutely adores and cannot let go of. like a sentimental keepsake he’ll hold close to him for all the years to come. he’s observing every look ghosting across your features, savouring the way you absentmindedly caress him in the midst of your euphoria—revelling in the spell you cast that makes him feel like he’s all yours for the taking. he wants to be. and he shows you it. he’s simultaneously got his hand down under, adding to your stimulation with a skillful dally. and he does it all just to hear the sounds you make—the way you beg for more of him. all of him. and he unequivocally wants to hand himself over to you. his high only comes on after he’s seen yours through. if anything, your undoing spurs him on. and he’s planting tender kisses along your collarbone and jaw and making sure you know just how well you did for him.

“that was. . . freakin’ somethin’, baby. you’re amazing—can’t get enough o’ you. don’t ever wanna, so help me god.”

and you KNOW he’s serious if he whips out the name of the big ol’ guy in the sky.

and then when it comes to aftercare, beau takes the fucking cake—i just know it. in an instant, he’s encouraging you to go and use the bathroom to relieve yourself, making sure you’re physically capable of pulling yourself into a semblance of a functioning human when they’re done with you. and he’s offering you any and all assistance you need before recollecting your clothes and fetching a fresh pair—if any are available. he’s getting you an ice cold glass of water, a little shnaky snack and is ready to give you the cuddle of your life.

dean’s pretty content to monitor you coming down from your high, dragging a gentle palm across your hair while his other hand settles in a gentle frame of your jaw, thumb striking gentle lines across the framework of your face. he’s pretty insistent on short cuddles following the aftermath of everything, going so far as to trap you in a spooning session for a good few minutes before he lets you slip away to the bathroom. and even as you stroll off into the distance, he’s trailing after your every move like a lost puppy that doesn’t know how to utilise his free time. he’s so utterly infatuated with you that he’s got to watch everything you’re doing, and it doesn’t matter what. he’s admittedly not the most forward-thinker when it comes to aftercare, but he’s happy to tend to whatever you need AFTER you bring it up. and he’ll learn it like a routine after a while.

soldier boy does not believe in aftercare. oh my god that man is going to cradle a cigarette with more care than he’s ever shown you once he’s delivered you your high. as soon as he’s blown his load, he’ll let you slump down to the bed if only to admire the absolute glistening puddle he’s reduced you to. and he’s going to wear that smug ass cocky grin—even go so far as to chuckle demeaningly as he drinks the view of you in. he could probably get drunk on that visual alone. and then he’s throwing himself down onto the bed beside you, immediately reaching for that bedside cig. he’ll light it, take a long pull, and offer you a taste. at most, he’ll drape a lazy arm around you, but outside of giving his dick a joyride, you essentially stop existing. he’s good at making you feel used, and he’ll watch you clean yourself up without a second thought of lending a helping hand. he might just say some shit about it that he knows will piss you off because he loves getting a rise out of you.

“what’s with all the pussy-pamperin’? thought you’d marvel at havin’ my baby pumped into you.”

oh he’s such an ass. we love him for it though.

OKAY IM DONE NOW. for now

cheers to @bohemianblasphemy for letting me yap about this dynamic AGESSS ago and now i think it’s time to share a taste of it with the world 😭 YOU’RE EITHER ALL FUCKING WELCOME OR IM SORRY!!! i am SO tempted to turn this into a proper fic SOMEWHERE DOWN THE LINE❗️❗️❗️

i sincerely apologise for the shitty mismatched icons that are lowkey pissing me off but i had zero energy to sift through my pics for ones i haven’t already used and somehow make them match so DEAL WITH IT PLS & THANKS 💪

[bluemerakis]

────── ❝ his for the taking ❞ ── ⋆˙ 𖦹 ˚.⋆

─────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ──

pairing ୨୧ soldier boy x anxious .ᐟ reader

warnings .ᐟ cussing, portrayals of anxiety, lip biting, consumption of blood (if u squint), finger sucking, masturbation f receiving, grinding, overstimulation, pet names, ben being a tentative cutie bf with his own idea of therapy lmfao

synopsis ─ it’s one of those devitalising days that’s got you biting your lip raw. soldier boy notices, and if there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s seeing his girl all worked up at the hands of something that isn’t his.

word count ~ 3.4k

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The apartment’s living room brims with the static of the television, the muffled voice of a man narrating a football game forming a pesky backdrop that’s otherwise repressed by your busy mind. You’re tucked into the end of the sofa, legs cluttered together in a tense cross while you cradle your forehead in the palm of your hand.

On the other end of the Sofa, Ben has settled himself into a shameless manspread—a thawed beer clutched in the hand propping the arm rest while the over fans his thigh. All his attention is trained onto the game blaring from the television’s beaming display, and occasionally, he lets slip some exasperated cuss, followed by a short-lived rant that falls entirely on your deaf ears.

Your head’s tilted down to the textbook splayed open in the crook of your lap, where your free hand’s armed with a rigid index finger that slowly cuts down the expanse of the page you’re reading. The words feel so inexplicably cluttered that you find your eyes flicking back and forth across the blocky text—resetting the sentence every so often. And just when the information seems to settle amongst your comprehension, your mind flashes with a mental list of everything you’ve yet to do. It fills your chest with an overwhelming dread that usurps your focus entirely, nipping your academic grind—or an attempt at one—at the fragile bud.

It frustrates you to the point of flipping the book closed in a hot flurry, the lower lip you’d been slowly tenderising between your teeth now captured in a harsh bite. Your head buckles into both palms as an audible groan echoes from within the suffocating grip, and in your lap, you feel the textbook’s back shift against your skin. You figure it’s about to fall, but you’re at your wits end with the unsuccessful study attempt, so you decide to let it—out of petty spite.

Just as the textbook tilts along your calf in fragile balance, the cushion beside you dips with the weight of Ben’s prying presence, and his hand must’ve come to the book’s rescue because when it finally slips the ledge of your lap, there’s no thump to solidify its downfall. And his heroic act is confirmed when you finally hear a dull thud of the book amongst the coffee table before you, followed by a brisk whistle that’s a telling remark in its own.

“Somethin’ on your mind?” He asks pointedly. When you don’t look at him, he pushes his advance further by settling his palm against your closest knee—which, unbeknownst to you, had been besieged by a compulsive series of bounces. It was an absentminded habit that tended to escalate on the nights seemingly determined to fracture your composure—nights like this one.

And Ben, he always notices.

You adore his attentiveness—you really do, but the irritation you’ve been hoarding throughout the study session compels you to fashion silence at his question. But your boyfriend’s not—and never has been—tolerant of being ignored, so the palm he’s cupped over your rattled knee applies just enough pressure to still your busy body, and once you finally comply with a lax leg, you feel his hand sag down and across the bare hump of your thigh. He settles at the inner for a firm squeeze, his fingers burrowing divots into the flesh.

“You gonna talk to me ‘bout it? Or you gonna keep up the ragin’ bounce house campin’ out on your knee, hm?” He probes again—and it’s underlined by a low, husky tone of impatience. He’s tolerant of your avoidance, until he’s not. He’d once claimed that it was his brand to don, not yours.

“Sorry,” you murmur into your palms, making the conscious effort to throttle any further urge to fidget. Behind the privacy of your hands, you snag your lip on another bite, and your tongue retreats with an acrid-tasking visitor—a trail of blood. The split flesh begins protesting its hostage situation, throbbing with a force that makes you want to recapture it in a numbing grip.

“Not what I wanna hear,” Ben responds disinterestedly, releasing the grip on your thigh to furl his fingers around your nearest wrist. There, he gives one, effortless tug that collapses your mask of self-pity and finally exposes some fraction of your thoughts to him. “Look at me,” he demands—but it’s soft, curious, and his grip on you doesn’t falter. Instead, his thumb starts stroking gentle lines across the pulse point of your wrist, as though he’s consulting your biology to gather the information you won’t tell him.

And your heart is racing—so much so that it thuds at the cavity of your chest like a caged bird trying to escape. But you don’t look at him. You torque your chin the other way, choosing to settle your eyes on a dark corner of the room that’s blind to the frustrated tears pricking at your rims. You’re so inexplicably overwhelmed that everything’s starting to weigh on you. Heavily. And you’re not sure he can help with something so abstract—so confined to the battlefields of your mind.

You love him, and he loves you—and while he is a soldier, he’s not the kind that can fight your internal wars for you.

“Hey,” he calls again. It’s firm, and decidedly his last warning before he finally releases your wrist to graze his fingers along the underside of your jaw. He manages to frame you in his hold, where he topples your stubborn resolve by tilting your face in his direction. “Enough o’ this silent treatment shit,” he scolds, but his tough display drops along with his gaze as he spots the blood welling on your bottom lip, the hand guarding his beer finally banishing the beverage to the armrest.

Immobilised by Ben’s grip—with nowhere to escape his prying gaze, you blink away the moisture lingering along the rims of your eyes, your hands fumbling together within your lap like it’ll throttle the nerves bristling at your fingertips.

“Well, shit,” Ben breathes somewhat amazedly, neglecting the sight of your bloody lip to catch your eye once more. “If you were into that sorta thing, you shoulda told me.” There’s a mischievous glint to the green depths of his glare, one that you could appreciate on any other night—but not this one.

At his poke, you suckle your lower lip self-consciously, faintly surprised at the impressive bead of blood that rolls onto your tongue. Ben’s throat rumbles with a disapproving noise, his grip on your jaw shifting to elevate his thumb to your lips. There, he drags the pad over the tender tissue before pushing it between the bloodied flesh, where he curls it downward to hook your lower lip free of your teeth.

You’re briefly surprised by the intrusion, but your jaw seems to slack with the motion, and you realise, then, just how much tension you’ve been hoarding in the form of a clench. You catch a hint of salt as his thumb presses into your tongue, but it’s not an unpleasant—or unfamiliar taste. And it doesn’t overstay its welcome as Ben retreats from your warmth, the separation formally announced by a characteristic pop that feels laughable.

“You’ve gotta stop doin’ that,” he says with a light squeeze of your face—like he’s solidifying his will.

You pass your tongue over your lips to collect the saliva trail his thumb has marked in its wake. “I can’t help it,” you say softly, feeling the way the cut bristles at the stinging caress of the room’s air. “I don’t know I’m doing it until it’s too late.”

Ben’s grip on your jaw finally relents, though not without a playful pinch to the divot of your chin. The corner of his lips quirk with a smirk that’s owed to an amusing thought he doesn’t care to share, his hand lowering back down to your thigh. He settles at the curve, delivering a squeeze that’s demanding of something more than a possessive place to rest.

“Get over here,” is all he says, his hold transforming into more of a pull. You’ve never been good at resisting him, so you surrender yourself over, jittery legs uncrossing to allow the shimmy of your knees along the sofa’s length. His hand withdraws from your thigh to allow you the ease of movement, and when you’re close enough, his large palms find you at either hip—like you were made for him to cradle.

“I need to continue studying,” you say tensely, but the words feel like more of an attempt to silence the guilt that lingers at the front of your mind, and you know that you have no intention of seeing it through as you reach Ben’s lap.

“The books can wait,” he decides, the hands clasping your hips helping to manoeuvre you across his lap, and his hold on you doesn’t shy—even once you’re completely straddling his thighs. “You’ve been at it for the whole fuckin’ evenin’. Give your pathetic body a break.”

“Pathetic?” You scoff, shifting within his lap as you try to position yourself amongst the wide, v-like formation of his legs. Ben picks up on this, and in no time he’s shifting his legs closer together, taking pity on the way your lower half spreads with difficulty to accommodate his slack pose.

“Yeah,” he affirms casually, as though blind to the offence that underlies your question. “Fragile thing like you? You’re bound to break under a shit load of pressure—so take it easy is all I’m sayin’.”

“And I’m fragile why?” You shoot back, but the truth has always lingered between you—as clear as the air connects your contrasting beings. Compared to his super-abled, indestructible—unmovable mountain of a body, you’re nothing but a brittle pebble. And he’s seen your body fracture under stress more times than you’d care to admit.

“Don’t go lookin’ for arguments—y’know exactly why,” Ben chuckles faintly, head tilting slightly as he drinks the view of you in—like he’s marvelling at your beauty all over again.

But you don’t allow yourself to get swept up in those cursed eyes of his—a soldier’s glare he’s managed to mould into something akin to a puppy-stare. It’s rougher, more refined, but still honest enough to admit that he wants you. “Maybe if you’d stop riling me up with thinly-veiled insults, I’d have less reason to run my mouth.”

“What I say doesn’t count for shit,” he retorts with a knowing and amused furrow of his brows, one of his hands neglecting your hip to drag teasing patterns along your thigh. “You’re always riled up, and you’re worse than those crappy, goddamn toy dogs with the built-in windup mechanism. Y’know the kind? The ones always runnin’ frantic lines all over ‘em kids’ stores.”

“Just shut it, actually,” you huff, and Ben—to your utmost surprise—listens with a surrendering smirk.

“Wanna talk it out or drink it down?” He averts, chin jutting past your shoulder to where his peeping tom of a beer defrosts amongst the armrest—beads of moisture pooling onto the worn leather.

“None of the above,” you murmur, and with a spent sigh, you shift in his lap one last time before melting entirely into the comfort of him. “Just hold me.”

“Yeah, I got you, baby girl,” he mumbles gruffly, hand rubbing a comforting circle across your lower back before he finds your hips in a steadying hold once more.

Your hands glide up his chest and along the broad contour of his shoulders before slipping past his neck, where they connect in a fumble that cages him in—but he doesn’t seem to mind. His own hands settle for a cupping of your waist, where his thumbs rub lines across the point of your hip. The sensation soothes you, like his very touch was made to melt away the chill of your anxiety—the kind overwhelming enough to tremble every inch of your body.

You find your head buckling into the crook of his neck, where you nestle your cheek like it's the welcoming comfort of your pillow. And for a while, neither of you speak, but the tv continues to ramble on in the background with enough chatter to compensate.

Ben’s hold on you is one that tethers you—a physical presence that reminds you of what’s real, and what isn’t. It coddles you enough to persuade your mind into pushing back the anxious thoughts that plague it, but the sentiment is so deep-rooted within your DNA that your body resorts to doing what it does best—all that it knows. Fidgeting.

Your knee starts bouncing into the sofa, your ankle flexing with every intent to help drive the movement. And as though it’s the first collapse that sets off a cascade of trouble, the familiar feeling of dread settles itself back into your bones. You try to fend off the unwelcome intrusion, but your body betrays every viscous attempt with the rapid beating of your heart, and the tension that returns to the muscles of your jaw.

“Jesus Christ—I can help, y’know?” Ben says suddenly, peeling back the cosy silence that has settled over you both like a comforter. His playful grip on you stills as his chest shifts against your own. “I can hear your heart beatin’ off like it’s employed by a fuckin’ marchin’ band.”

You hum in acknowledgement, your hands unclasping to rub your palms down the muscle of his back—like you’re seeking out the stimulation to numb your shaky hands. “Not with this, you can’t,” you say pessimistically, and the words are slightly slurred by the way your cheek melts against his shoulder.

“Oh, yeah?” He challenges in a murmur so unconvinced, it’s almost mocking. And as if to prove his point, one of his hands dip along the inside of your thigh, fingers roughhousing with the fabric of your pyjama shorts before he successfully slips into the flimsy keep. There, his hand fans over the sheer fabric of your underwear, his middle finger employing a rhythmic line between your folds while his thumb pinches at the waistband for grip. “Let me know when you’ve changed your mind.”

The line he traces along your slit causes your eyes to flutter closed in helpless surrender, and suddenly, you’re biting your lip for a whole different reason. Your hands drag up the length of his back to run along the nape of his neck, where occasionally, you tumble with the lengthy strands of his hair. His chest reverberates with a sonorous sound that acts as a seal of approval, so you don’t slack in your ministrations, and he doesn’t falter with his, either.

You let out a soft, muffled moan, and a second later, you feel the chafe of Ben’s beard against the shell of your ear as he nuzzles his jaw against you. “You like that, huh?” He coos softly—but the way he retains the gravelly edge to his voice shamefully strikes your core. As a feeble response, your hands tighten within his hair. You’re too far gone to equip your words.

Ben’s a welcome siege on your senses—to the point where anything and everything he does sets your frail nerves alight. It’s a type of plague that makes you restless in all the ways that your anxiety does. But with him, you welcome it. Embrace it. Crave it—and he knows it.

He loves it.

The hand nestled between your thighs begins to pick up its steady pace—but you’re greedy, so you add to the stimulation with a buck and sway of your hips. “Maybe this is helping,” you breathe out in scattered words, head pulling back from his shoulder to gaze at him through hazy eyes while a cheeky half-grin pokes through.

Ben drinks you in with sultry eyes that rival your own lust, a self-satisfied smirk settling onto his vain features. “Yeah, I’m employee o’ the fuckin’ year,” he huffs amusedly, the other hand he’s got gripping your hip softening an inch to aid the roll of your pelvis. His eyes drop to drink in—and almost admire—the rocking of your hips. “But I gotta say—you’re makin’ runner up with this eager participation o’ yours,” he adds with a low chuckle.

You hum in response, head tilting back with the overwhelming pleasure that trickles through your body. The air you take for granted thins in your chest as the stimulation pushes you to your breaking point, your hands taking root at either shoulder to steady yourself. Your underwear clings to your folds with every compressive movement—drenched by the pent up arousal that Ben’s fondling has managed to enlist thus far.

“I can’t hold on anymore, Ben,” you whimper softly, your hips staggering with your dwindling strength.

“But you’re gonna,” he responds unfeelingly, and the hand gripping your hip presses down into the flesh until you’re a quieted, miserable mess amongst his hand. You groan at the loss of stimulation, your high recoiling like a thief in the night.

“Ben,” you protest feebly, your grip on his shoulder softening with the disappointing fruits of your labour.

“Don’t Ben me,” he mocks, his chin perking with intent as he deals you a challenge within his glare. “You wanna move? Then move,” he instructs, his hand delivering a light squeeze to your sensitive clit before he withdraws it entirely and settles it beside his other at your hip. Beneath you, his legs shift until his thigh is wedged between your own. “If you’re gonna burn through every control you got, might as well put it to a damn good use—so go on, have your fun.”

You gaze at him for a few, clueless moments before understanding settles in, and you begin rocking your hips against the muscular bulge of his thigh. Ben’s eyes lower down your body in an agonisingly slow motion, where he settles on every drag of your mound against him.

“Atta girl,” he praises, the hands at your hips tightening in a resistance that rivals your efforts—because he absolutely loves seeing you go above and beyond to settle your urges. You know it spurs him on, so you don’t argue against it. It’s a favour you decide to reciprocate—ensuring he gets his own fill of entertainment while you get yours.

“Fuck,” you hiss as your swollen, sensitive mound regains its flutter with every drag against him—the fabric shrouding your heated core bundling with the movements and only adding to your heated stimulation.

“Yeah, you’re doin’ good, baby,” Ben hums encouragingly with a light squeeze of your hips. “Just like that—you got it.”

Your hips don’t stutter in their pace as you grind yourself against his thigh, and with each round, you’re pressing yourself further and further into the bulk of his muscle. The stimulation bruises and burns your clit raw, but you’re in the hot pursuit of a release, so you endure. And then your high arrives in a muffled, broken grasp—your lower lip instinctively drawn into a bite as you cope with the wave of pleasure that rises overhead and collapses back onto you. Your head lolls back in the midst of your blissful moment, and your chest heaves with the struggle for air.

Ben pats your thigh in a physical expression of bravo before his hand strays from its place to curl around the arch of your neck. There, he glides his way up to your jaw, forcibly tilting it down to where he has a full view of your exhausted face. Immediately, his glare snags onto the lip you’re throttling between your teeth, and his brows cock on a look of disapproval.

“Stop that,” he says, releasing your jaw to flick a finger across your lips. You wince softly at that, your lip plopping from your toothy grasp before you’re shooting him an indignant glare.

“I’m trying!” You say defensively.

“Not good enough.” His hand moves to curl around your nape, where he selfishly pulls you in for a kiss—but his lips hover just shy of you, his eyes seizing yours in a glare that borders on a silent warning. “You better try harder, ‘cause I’m the only one that’s allowed to roughen you up like this,” he murmurs, and before you have a chance to respond, he’s pressing his lips flush against yours.

There, he consumes you with a vicious kiss, his tongue finding yours in a tumble that feels frustrated. And somewhere in the mix, he sucks at the tender flesh of your lip. It’s an action that feels soothing—like he’s laying down a bandaid, until he seizes it between his teeth, and you realise that he’d always intended to rip the bandaid right off.

With your lower lip captured between his teeth, Ben sinks in a light nibble that delivers well on his claim—that you’re all his for the taking.

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a/n ─ first off, don’t talk to me about how this is too long for a drabble bc in my yapper mind anything less than 5k words is a drabble. secondly, this goes out to all my anxious girlies that stim with lip biting. just one of those days where the anxiety is kicking in full-fledged and i bit my lip raw 💪 need me a comforting sb fr. n e ways, i feel like sb, with all his past trauma and emotions he pretends not to notice, he’s developed all his own anxious body languages that he does absentmindedly—toe tapping, jaw-clenching, fidgety hands, tense shoulders. and so it’d be pretty easy for him to pick up on likewise behaviours radiating off of you, and he’s immediately addressing it. but at the same time if you had to bring it up with him and point out his own anxious behaviours, he’d deny every second of it bc bro doesn’t think he’s subconsciously troubled. he so is tho and reader tends to do something about it anyway with massages (drabble on this is coming), scalp massages, jaw mobilisations (i learnt this on animals and applied it to myself and it’s heaven actually). yeah that’s it for now. and thank you all from the bottom of my heart for 700+ followers, take this piece as my token of appreciation <3

thank you for reading! likes & comments are appreciated, but reblogs go a much longer way—so please support your writers with it! <3

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @fallbhind @angelicjackles @deansbbyx @titsout4jackles @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @honeyryewhiskey @daylighted @deansbeer @deansbbyx @figthoughts @dulcescorderitas @whisperingdaze @st4rmarley @bakugotypecrashout @jaydensluv @chi-raz @youdontknowe @misatxox @lixiesbrowniess @ilovedeanwinchester4 @beelzebzb @lunaleah @kr804573

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

[bluemerakis]

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𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚜 𝜗𝜚

𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚒 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 ─ billy butcher, soldier boy; open to others

𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 ─ open

◜ 𝙱I𝙻𝙻𝚈 𝙱𝚄𝚃𝙲𝙷𝙴𝚁 ◝

𝙵𝙸𝙲𝚂 :

⌖

𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝚂𝙷𝙾𝚃𝚂 :

⌖ scout’s honour

⌖ sittin’ pretty poolside ─ coming soon

𝙳𝚁𝙰𝙱𝙱𝙻𝙴𝚂 :

⌖ thigh-highs

⌖ soft!billy caring for sick reader

𝙸𝙼𝙰𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙴𝚂 :

⌖ carnival for kisses

⌖ lover boy butcher

𝚂𝙼𝙰𝚄𝚂 :

⌖ ranch getaway with bf!karlurban

⌖ bts with the boys cast

𝙴𝙳𝙸𝚃𝚂 :

⌖ 111

⌖ 222

⌖ 333

◜ 𝚂𝙾𝙻𝙳𝙸𝙴𝚁 𝙱𝙾𝚈 ◝

𝙵𝙸𝙲𝚂:

⌖ soldier boy x fem!supe!reader

o. skin covered in ego

i. feelin’ fuckin’ fantastic

ii. i’m not going anywhere

iii. ─

⌖ soldier boy x vought!exec!daughter ─ request

i. synergy

ii. ─

𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝚂𝙷𝙾𝚃𝚂:

⌖ memory foam

𝙳𝚁𝙰𝙱𝙱𝙻𝙴𝚂:

⌖ crossover core

⌖ his for the taking

𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙲𝙰𝙽𝙽𝙾𝙽𝚂:

⌖111

𝙴𝙳𝙸𝚃𝚂:

⌖ 111

⌖ 222

⤷ © headers & dividers @bluemerakis

「 BACK TO NAVIGATION 」

[beausling]

CLEAN UP ON AISLE MY PANTS !!!!!!

─────── ❝ sugar high ❞ ⋆˙ 𖦹 ˚.⋆

────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ────

pairing ୨୧ munch .ᐟ beau arlen x fem .ᐟ reader

warnings .ᐟ cussing, oral f receiving, fingering, overstimulation, pet names

synopsis ─ beau arlen is a take the scenic route munch. that’s all, folks. that’s plenty.

word count ~ 2k

based on this ask

──────────────────────

“You like that a lot, don’tcha?” Beau chuckles gently, and the sound drips from his glistening lips like a stray trail of honey—tantalisingly sweet and so, so sparse throughout his focused fondling of you. He surveys you over the arch of your stomach, your lower back long since lifted from the mattress in search of his wet warmth.

“Mhm,” you breathe out—both spent and disoriented by the haze of pleasure Beau’s tongue seems to effortlessly elicit. But you’re overcome with a sudden groan of protest, head lifting from your pillow’s support with utmost difficulty to peer at him accusingly. “Why’d you stop?” You ask indignantly, but the lack of energy behind those words makes it come off as more of a pathetic whine.

He’s been at it for at least half an hour, now, tongue entangling with your folds like a shameless exploration, stumbling upon your pot of fine gold time and time again—only to drop it into a scattered, disappointing mess of nothing. A relentless tease that has your every nerve ignited at the ends and hot with the plea to quell its prolonged misery.

The sheriff beams from his place between your thighs, the strong arms he’d exploited to trap your lower half against the bed shifting to pry your legs even further apart. His grip is a practiced type of firm—refined by all the years he’s spent immobilising fugitives—yet he’s always overly conscious of the way his fingers root themselves within your tender flesh.

“I ain’t stopped nothin’—been goin’ at it for quite some time, actually,” he pokes smugly, but he’s perfectly aware of his selfish mischief. “It’s called havin’ fun, darlin’. Y’know, savourin’ what’s good for the soul,” he adds with a glint to his eyes that’s so boyishly mischievous, you can’t help but flick your eyes in response.

“I don’t think I can do this much longer,” you complain, your lower half squirming with the urge to pinch your thighs together, but Beau’s got a passive, vice-like grip on them that doesn’t allow you to go anywhere without his leniency. And he’s not lenient—not now, at least.

“Naw, come on,” he drawls as his hands gently flatten your thighs back into a helpless sprawl, where he fortifies their position with an encouraging squeeze. “I think you’re pretty darn capable of pullin’ through this. It’s why you’re my best gal. My sweet gal,” he adds with a purposeful wink, tongue poking through to glide along his lips like he’s savouring the very taste of you that lingers.

Your head shakes lightly—you’re at your wits end with him. “You’re plain, old mean,” you huff out, but the pout instantly softens as you feel as Beau’s arm uncurl from your thigh to glide his fingers over the sensitive inner. The teasing contact jettisons your pique from the ledge of care down into the deep, deep depths of arousal, where your core is trapped in constant exploitation.

Beau’s got you right where he wants you—hot, bothered, numb. That is, numb until he makes you feel all sorts of things.

Shivers hare up your spine as you feel his fingers trail a path all the way down to your slicked entrance, where they curl inside with a driven destination. “Am I, now?” He tests softly—the words accentuated like he’s slipped them through the crack of a grin. “Mean, that is?” He clarifies with a sparse chuckle to further ruffle the edges of his nerve, and then he drives the point home with a gentle pump into the tunnel of your warmth.

A broken gasp purses your lips as the girth of his manhandling stretches out your walls—all worked up and tense with the empty promise of fulfilment. Your head burrows back into the pillow, where it practically swallows you whole in the midst of your fragile collapse.

“Fucking hell!” You gasp into the air, eyes screwing shut as you surf the sensation of your body letting loose—a desperate scramble to accommodate his intrusion. “Don’t stop, Beau—just like that,” you hiss thickly.

Beau’s throat echoes with a throaty hum, like he’s savouring the way you melt onto his hand—so betraying of the aggrieved words that’d jumped from the ledge of your lips only seconds ago. “Just like that?” He echoes sweetly, fingers curling in a motion similar to the last, but with a new desire to delve deeper.

“Just like that,” you reaffirm in a slight whimper, lip drawn into a passionate bite as the sheriff eagerly obeys your pleas. With every thrust, he plunges deeper than he’d been before, like he’s got some silent record to beat. “And don’t stop this time—please.”

“Nah, I won’t, darlin’,” Beau hums comfortingly, and the pace he maintains drives a hard bargain. “And to think you had half the nerve to call me mean,” he teases lightly, the singular hand he’d left behind to safeguard your thigh rubbing sensual circles along the sensitive skin. “Me? Mean? When I’m takin’ such good care of my sweet girl? If it were true—and it ain’t—I’d have me locked up on the account o’ neglect.”

Your eyes don’t crack open once as he rambles on, too afraid to snuff out the focus you’ve worked to nurture into something akin to your high. “Just stop talking,” you scoff with the little air you’ve still got loitering within your spent lungs, a weak smile beaming through.

“Why, yes, ma’am,” he chuckles lightly. There’s no offence lingering in his tone—and you know it’s because he’s well aware of his hand in tonight’s foul play. The overstimulation is far too profuse from time to time, but you tend to hang in there on the knowledge that he’s not doing it to be mean. He merely enjoys indulging in the prolonged haven of your scent, sounds and slick. Enjoys you.

He’s obsessed with you.

“Still feelin’ dandy as a lion?” He pipes up after a string of thrusts, the fingers burrowed into your entrance continuing to plunge deeper and deeper at a pace so steady that it tugs at the last string of your sanity. And the knot that’s been building in your core threatens to unravel when his thumb daringly reaches up to flick over your sensitive clit. “Talk to me, sweet girl,” he coos when you don’t offer him the sought out input.

“Beau,” you protest helplessly, eyes burning teary behind the shield of your lids. Your fingers curl into the sheets as you grapple with his ministrations, your clit still trilling with the unexpected caress. “I think I’m gonna come—I can’t hold it back anymore.”

“Sure ya can, sweetheart,” he argues softly, temporarily halting his thrusts within you to lower his head to your mound. Your core flutters with the hope to feel his lips envelop your core with a welcoming heat that makes you forget your own, but you’re only graced with the chafe of his beard against your inner thigh, where he places a chaste kiss that lingers for a long second that feels taunting.

“I can’t.”

“Just hold on a little longer for me, alright? I know ya can do it. Just wanna taste you one last time before you let it rain down on me,” he drawls against you, the sound husky and distracted, like he’s entirely beguiled by the glistening view of you. And then his bearded jaw juts into your folds, where his lips engulf your swollen clit. Then, his tongue does a sweep of the area to take the sensitive organ under a wave so brutal, it has you gasping for air.

“Oh, god—yes!” You answer hopelessly. Unsolicited. Your thighs draw rigid with the combined stimulation of him—the resumed pump of his fingers, the tango of his tongue against your spent clit, and the hot chafe of his beard that feels determined to rub you raw. It’s all incredibly overwhelming in all the right ways. “I’m gonna come,” you mewl helplessly.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he coos proudly—the words slurred by the way his lips meld with yours. “Doin’ so good f’me. You’re a damn trooper—and you’re showin’ me up, that’s for sure. A girl like you? She’s got all it takes to see shit through. All the way down to the end o’ the line, baby’.” The deep rumble of his voice is a weapon of its own, adding to the unrelenting seize on your senses.

His pumps within you grow more vigorous and greedy with each passing second, reaching depths you didn’t think was possible—but your body welcomes it. And simultaneously braces against it, like it dreads the overwhelming finale it’s bound to present.

“Beau, that feels so good. You feel so good,” you slur weakly, your thighs tensing with the growing approach of your high. And this time, Beau grants you the grace of letting them bracket his head—like he’s made himself a willing, appreciative prisoner within your personal keep.

The only occasion where the sheriff welcomes his own detainment.

The arm he’s wrapped around your thighs ease up an inch as he imbues all focus into nurturing your finish. “Hm—ain’t ya just the sweetest?” He murmurs absentmindedly—appreciatively, and the words sound as winded as you feel. “I ain’t gonna stop this time, darlin’, so go ahead ‘nd let go f’me. Let me taste you—all o’ you,” he urges before he’s burrowed himself back into you with a rhythm of his jaw that’s entirely unforgiving.

And he doesn’t stop until you’ve painted him with the sloppy medium he’s been seeking out all evening.

You let out a broken gasp as your lower half shudders with the built up release, and Beau only adds to the grand finale as his throat rumbles against you with a low noise of euphoria—which strikes the heart of your sensitive clit. He laps at your glistening folds one last time—like it’s the last, guilty lick of the plate after dessert, before the warmth of his tongue finally forsakes you.

“Atta girl,” Beau praises breathlessly, the hand buried within your fluttering walls slowly pulling free of its suction. His other hand finally releases your thigh, the fabric of his clothes rustling as he shifts from the position he’d become solidified within. His palms return to your body in a gentle cupping of your thighs before he trails them up the length of your stomach. “Now, I dunno ‘bout you, but I could do this every night,” he chuckles softly once he’s brought himself up to hover over you, elbows propping him up at either of your shoulders.

You lift your head from your pillow with a frailty that threatens to topple you back into the plumy comfort, but your eyes catch on Beau’s face, and the sight of him is enough to keep you tethered in the air. The entirety of his jaw is slathered with your arousal, the fine hairs of his beard glistening like a proud display—almost as bright as the toothy grin nestled between his parted lips. His hair has scattered across his forehead in unruly strands, giving him a rugged look that only adds to his Texan charm.

He stares back at you with a knowing look in his eyes, like he’s fully aware of the state of himself. And he’s proud of it.

Proud of you for deconstructing him this way.

After a gentle string of pants, you finally heave a breath that allows you to speak. “I couldn’t do this every night,” you laugh hoarsely, your thighs pressing together like the mere thought of it chides you. “I might just pass away.”

Beau’s lips press into a playful pout, his brows furrowing with a look of disagreement. “On the contrary,” he says matter-of-a-factly, one hand coming up to wipe the sweat from your forehead before he settles for a gentle hold on your jaw. “If anythin’, you’ll be the death of me. You’re my sweet girl. And I’ll be damned if I was a diabetic ‘cause I’d just ‘bout drop dead gettin’ all sugar-highed on the taste o’ you.”

You giggle at that, your head shaking in light appreciation of his absurdity. “You’re something else entirely, Beau Arlen,” you murmur through a loving grin.

“And don’t I know it,” he laughs, hand gently pinching your jaw before he lowers himself to your lips, where he hovers just shy of your touch. “Just wait ‘til ya get a taste o’ you—then you’ll understand where I’m comin’ from,” he husks with a lazy grin before finally pressing his lips to yours.

And he’s right—you do taste sweet.

──────────────────────

a/n ─ beau does not stfu during sex sorry 🤷‍♀️ bro is a yapper at heart but it’s ok bc he doesn’t slack ❗️❗️❗️initially this piece was gonna be a combination of drabbles with munch dean, beau & sb but bc dean & sb’s part isn’t done yet and i wanted to get something out, have this!! i told myself i was gonna finish the other two boys’ tonight and release them all together but… i’ve been working on something else instead 👀

thank you for reading! likes & comments are appreciated—but reblogs go a much longer way, so please support your writers with it! <3

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @dulcescorderitas @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @daylighted @figthoughts @deansbbyx @honeyryewhiskey @beausling @florchids @jasvtsc @rositaslabyrinth @nperoconelcositoarriba @angelicjackles @youdontknowe @misatxox @alidiggory92 @idk-123-0 @mahi-wayy @tuxedoe @cas-only-angel @cassiecourtemanche @abox-of-rocks @viluren @lanasgirlfr @idontwannabehere7 @lunaleah @beelzebzb @ilovedeanwinchester4

want to become part of the taglist for any future beau arlen works?

other works ─ masterlist

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

[bluemerakis]

. ݁ ⋆ ˚. MERA'S MASTERLIST ݁.˚ ⋆ ݁.

hello lovely people! welcome to my masterlist. my interests tend to fluctuate quite often, so i write for whoever i want, whenever i want—but typically when the obsession is the strongest lol. anyhoo, that being clarified, please enjoy whatever i’ve managed to spew out this far.

i. 𝚂𝚄𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙽𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙰𝙻 𖤐

ii. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙱𝙾𝚈𝚂 ⌖

iii. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙷𝚄𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁 𝙶𝙰𝙼𝙴𝚂 ོ

iv. 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚆𝙰𝙻k𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙳𝙴𝙰𝙳 ☠︎

v. 𝙼𝙸𝚂𝙲. 𝚆𝚁𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 & 𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚂 ˚. ݁ ~

⤷ © dividers @bluemerakis

[bluemerakis]

Drabble: Mean!Billy loves grinding fem!reader on his thigh

Word count: 0.8k

A/n: I get late night bitch-in-heat thoughts okay

[18+ ONLY]

Billy’s grip on your hips were relentless—thickset fingers contorting your tender skin until the flesh memorialised the shape of his hands with reddened blotches. The twinge of his nails set off some primal response within your body, a biological plea to flee the grasp of his talons, but the knot in your core kept you grounded against the bulk of his thigh.

Your clit rode repetitive rounds across the length of his jean-clad leg, the trail well marked with the juices he’d been coercing from your depths for the last hour, at least. He loved wearing you down this way—loved wringing the sense from your grasp as you came completely undone at his will, over and over and over again—a puppet stuffed with the mean movements of his thigh wedged between your yearning folds.

Each time you found yourself back in this position, you’d be nothing but a blabbering mess after the second or third induced high, the euphoria so entangled with the cognitive ability of your brain that you were left dumb and disposable at his exploiting fingertips—and a man like Billy Butcher had an unflattering tendency to help himself to more than his rightful fill.

“Fuuuckin’ hell,” he drawled gruffly, rough eyebrows knit together as he admired the fresh, slimy trail overlaying the countless pathways you’d ploughed into his jeans only minutes before. “Yer gonna sue me? Got tha’ cunt workin’ bloody hard and well into overtime. She achin’ yet—doin’ yer ear in ‘bout how unfair all o’ this shite is? Fuckin’ diabolical—this cunt o’ yers. I done milked ‘er dry for the last bloody ‘our, and still she keeps on deliverin’ me more,” he mumbled distractedly, all his efforts imbued into his steering of your hips.

Your head buckled with exhaustion, your tongue nothing more than an incompetent ornament each time Billy forcibly ground you against him in this brutal manner. It was a regular practice of his—a power trip of some sort that you knew he got off on because it was the only way he could have you gobsmacked enough to lay a couple on you.

Words had never been lost on a tongue as sharp as yours, and he always enjoyed the banter served up on a gold platter whenever you’d prowl around him during work hours within the compound—in the shared company of the rest of the Boys. But in here, in his apartment—completely and utterly isolated from their prying eyes, you could be considered Kimiko’s fellow mute for all he cared.

If it wasn’t his cock wedged half way into the warmth of your throat that throttled your wit, it was surely one or the other manipulations he’d perfected on your clit.

“Not such a prattler now, are we, eh?” He groused into your ear as you collapsed against his chest, exhaustion seizing all voluntary movement of your hips—but Billy would force the momentum, anyways, pawing at the skin and pressing you harder against him until your core imploded for the thousandth time.

Your hands furled around the fabric of his shirt, where they squeezed tightly as some pitiful act of defiance to antagonise his degradation—but only breathless gasps fled your lips, and your eyes could barely manage to comprehend the patterns of his shirt that you’d come to memorise within such short time of knowing him.

“Atta girl, doin’ so good,” he murmured into the crown of your head, chin resting onto the support of your collapsed frame. “I’ll let yer off after this last one—promise—just make it a good last one f’me, yeah? Can yer do that for me, Love?”

You stilled against his chest, some petty part within you not so willing to submit to him completely, but the way his hand slid across the curve of your ass to deliver a squeeze and then a harsh clap was enough to coax a whimper of surrender from your stubborn depths.

“You forget, Love, I’ve made me a mental manual on yer body by now—I know just which buttons to press to get ya all muddled up on me lap,” Billy husked against your ear, then stole a gentle nibble of your ear lobe. “Now, brave that poncy l’il clit o’ yers—this finish’ll be a bloody hurrah to behold.”

The friction against your clit built up to an unbearable burn as Billy raked you across his thigh, the pace so brutal that your sensitive extremities felt as though they were being skimmed across hot tarmac. The stimulation was so painfully—yet pleasurably overwhelming that you couldn’t help the pathetic moans spewing from your parted lips, fingers curling deeper into the hold on his shirt.

“Tha’s it,” he husked into your hair, his lips then trailing down your forehead to place an encouraging kiss on the sweat-covered skin. “Tha’s it,” he repeated more steadily—proudly, chin tilting down to where you released the last of your pleasure onto his jean. “Helluva finish, Love,” he remarked with a chuckle, that trademark grin settling onto his lips as he lifted his attention back to you. “Cunt’s nearly as expressive as you—and I do love me a feminist tag-team.”

I just wanted to flex my fingers with something dirty hehehe enjoy it my butcher sluts. The getaway house oneshot is coming soon I promise!!

Masterlist

Tags: @violent-darkness @bohemianblasphemy @babyfri3dric3 @internetitgirl17 @dwinchesterspie1967 @gibson-g1rl

[bluemerakis]

Drabble: Butcher takes care of sick reader

Warnings: cussing, fluff

Word count: 1.2k

A/n: I’ve been under the weather lately, and I want a soft, cutesie Butcher to take care of me. That’s all :p

The apartment door creaked open, causing your eyes to flutter open as your consciousness tethered to the waking world. You blinked a few times to dislodge the disorientation of your nap, a hefty yawn splitting your lips. The door clicked closed soon after, and the sound of heavy boots thudding across the room told you all you needed to know about the identity of your visitor—not that it was a difficult guessing game; nobody other than your boyfriend ever came around to see you.

Riddled with lethargy, you couldn’t bring yourself to face Billy, a migraine weighing so heavily on your senses that you felt you’d throw up with the slightest of movements.

“‘ello, Love,” Billy chirped, the rustle of a plastic bag following shortly after. “Got yer some o’ tha’ shite chinese nosh y’love so much. Now, I know what yer thinkin’—eat first, then give good ol’ Billy one hell o’ a thank ya fuck later. Offer graciously accepted. Yer a lovely, charitable dame, Love—yer just keep on givin’.”

You smiled weakly at the sound of his voice. You’d seen him last two days ago, but within that short time, you’d already come to miss him dearly. Sickness tended to come on strong with you, always rendering you vulnerable and bedridden for the first few days, and it was sure hell to endure. This sickness in particular had come on a day ago with a bang, and honestly, you’d been struggling to cope with it. You hadn’t told Billy about it, though, knowing that he likely had bigger things to tend to with The Boys. However, you couldn’t say that you weren’t thankful for his visit.

There was something about his presence alone that boosted your body’s morale and seemed to help you bounce back quicker—it had to be some sort of mental placebo effect. No matter the reason, you were thankful to have him here with you now.

“Sadly, your English breadstick is going to have to take a rain check on that,” you told him feebly. Your stomach seized up with a series of cramps, causing you to curl into yourself with a groan as you rode out the duration of the pain.

“All right there, Love?” Billy asked as he approached you, large hand outstretched to caress along the expanse of your back. The contact sent shivers up your hot spine. “Feelin’ a tad bit under the weather, are we?” He remarked, alluding to the dampened material of the shirt that clung messily to your underlying skin.

You hummed in confirmation, brows creased and eyes falling closed as you braved the nausea that seemed to arise in conjunction with your stomach cramps. “Not a tad bit—I’m in full-fledged suffering,” you grunted.

“Have yer eaten at all today?” He asked, the hand on your back snaking up to the nape of your neck. His palm hovered over the area, his thumb rubbing comforting circles along the feverish goosebumps of your skin.

“Haven’t had an appetite,” you pushed out. The warmth of his hand against your neck was a relaxation your body subconsciously craved, and it seemed to make the cramps let up an inch.

“Have yer a sip o’ water, at least,” Billy suggested. “Just a second, and I’ll fetch yer some.”

“Thank you, Billy,” you said softly, turning your head with caution to offer him an appreciative smile. You seized the opportunity to drink in his beautiful face, staring as if to burn his image into the memory of your retinas.

“Yeah, I gotcha,” he said with wink, hand neglecting your neck as he turned toward the kitchen. You turned and allowed your head to collapse against your pillow once more, eyes closing to bask in the peace of darkness. “Yer got any ginger?” He called back to you.

“Check the fridge,” you said, then added, “why?”

“I got a killer recipe tha’ll hand nausea’s arse back to ‘er,” he said. The fridge door clanked open, followed by a satisfied grunt from Billy. “There we are,” he said.

“Just don’t poison me,” you said. “I’m suffering enough.”

“Oi, have yer some faith in me,” Billy scolded gently. “S’me mum’s recipe. Woman ne’er once went wrong with ‘er whimsy kitchen faffing. I’ll make yer tha’ shite-tasting cup o’ ginger char, and soon after, you’ll be stuffin’ yer gob with all tha’ bloody chinese.”

The atmosphere simmered into comfortable silence as Billy tended to your mystery tea, the occasional clatter of utensils keeping you from drifting into another sleep. It wasn’t long before he was back at your aid, a gentle thud occurring atop the bedside table beyond your back, followed by the more shrill clink of a glass. You glanced over your shoulder and glimpsed the mug of ginger tea, as well as a cold, sweaty glass of water beside it.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

Billy cocked his chin at you. “Shimmy up,” he ordered.

“I could do that, but if you get whatever nasty thing I’ve got, I don’t wanna hear a single world about it,” you said.

“Don’t yer worry, Love, I’ll have me a good weepin’ of the eyes, then a good wank or two, and I’ll be right as rain after.” He leaned onto the bed, prompting you to shift yourself forward to make space for his broad frame. He manoeuvred about the mattress a few times as he moulded his body to the contours of yours, forming the large, comforting spoon you’d been craving in his absence. “Blimey, have yer got all o’ bleedin’ hell shoved up yer ass? Yer burnin’ up,” he remarked.

“Tell me about it,” you scoffed weakly.

Billy’s one arm slipped between the mattress and the nook of your neck, while the other curled around your waist to hold you against him. His lips pressed against your hair, hovering there for a few seconds before he withdrew to place his chin atop your head. You melted into his hold and his scent, a content breath easing from your nostrils.

“I’ve missed you,” you told him.

“Afraid I know the feelin’ all too well, Love,” he murmured against you, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated against the crown of your head. “Shoulda called to check in with yer sooner.”

You gave a disapproving noise. “You don’t have to worry about me every second of the day. I love you, but I’ll survive a day or two without you from time to time.” You probably wouldn’t, if you were honest with yourself. You’d barely been hanging on as of recently.

“Bloody liar, y’are,” he poked, his hand on your waist shifting to stroke along the sensitive skin of your stomach. “I know you’ve been craving me touch these last two days. Yer absolutely can’t live without it—and don’t yer get the ‘alf the mind to deny it, else I’ll give yer a punctual reminder.” His hand trailed down your stomach and toward your panties, where his fingers teased at the rim suggestively.

You sucked air at his motions, lower lip taken into a playful bite. “You sure as hell do make it tempting to play stupid,” you said, turning to glance at him through a grin.

Billy’s lips spread in a smirk before he leaned forward to impose a rough kiss on your lips. You savoured the taste of his lips, and the ever present underlying trace of cigar smoke, which you’d come to tolerate only because of the constant exposure via his frequent company. Once he pulled away, he moved to hover over your ear.

“Tell yer what—you get better f’me, Love, and I promise I’ll give tha’ stomach o’ yers a real rearrangement to fuss ‘bout, yeah? Sound like a solid plan?”

“Deal.”

Thank you for reading! All likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated. ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀི

Tags: @babyfri3dric3 @scrmqwn

Comment/message me to be added to/removed from the tag list for any future Billy Butcher works!

Other works: The Boys Masterlist

[bluemerakis]

──────────────────────

𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚜 𝜗𝜚

𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚒 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 ─ dean & sam winchester

𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 ─ open

◜ 𝙳𝙴𝙰𝙽 𝚆𝙸𝙽𝙲𝙷𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁 ◝

𝙵𝙸𝙲𝚂:

𖤐

𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝚂𝙷𝙾𝚃𝚂:

𖤐 this one’s on me

𖤐 sunshine ─ request

𖤐 cream pie

𝙳𝚁𝙰𝙱𝙱𝙻𝙴𝚂:

𖤐 crossover core

𖤐 drowning

◜ 𝚂𝙰𝙼 𝚆𝙸𝙽𝙲𝙷𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙴𝚁 ◝

𝙵𝙸𝙲𝚂:

𖤐

𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝚂𝙷𝙾𝚃𝚂:

𖤐 fmffihs ─ coming soon

𝙳𝚁𝙰𝙱𝙱𝙻𝙴𝚂:

𖤐

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────── ⌇ welcome .ᐟ ⋆ ˚ ࿔ °･ stay for a cuppa & have a look around—not you, minors. and on that note: please show yourself the fuck out if you are a racist, homophobe, bigot, wincest shipper .ᐟ

❝ mera 𐚁. 20. woc ❞

about me ‧ ˚. 𐚁 ⋆ ˚ ࿔ * . busy vet student. queer. leisurely writer. bot maker. equestrian. certified animal lvr. j2 & karl urban’s princess. dalgona coffee freak. em dash enthusiast. silver rings. sneakerhead. dystopian era. r&b soul. sza’s top 0.001.

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© bluemerakis est. 2024 ── do not plagiarise, translate or steal any of my work .ᐟ

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𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚜 𝜗𝜚

who i write for ─ currently, I have been writing for young!coriolanus snow, but I can expand into other characters

requests ─ open

◜ 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙶!𝙲𝙾𝚁𝙸𝙾𝙻𝙰𝙽𝚄𝚂 𝚂𝙽𝙾𝚆 ◝

𝙵𝙸𝙲𝚂

ོ young!coriolanus snow x district!reader

i. paper trails

ii. ─

𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝚂𝙷𝙾𝚃𝚂

ོ i’m the guy mothers warn you about

𝙳𝚁𝙰𝙱𝙱𝙻𝙴𝚂

ོ

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𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚜 𝜗𝜚

𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚒 𝚠r𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚘r ─ rick grimes, negan smith, daryl dixon

𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 ─ open

◜ 𝚁𝙸𝙲𝙺 𝙶𝚁𝙸𝙼𝙴𝚂 ◝

𝙵𝙸𝙲𝚂

𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝚂𝙷𝙾𝚃𝚂

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◜ 𝙽𝙴𝙶𝙰𝙽 𝚂𝙼𝙸𝚃𝙷 ◝

𝙵𝙸𝙲𝚂

𝙾𝙽𝙴 S𝙷𝙾𝚃𝚂

☠︎ nothing left to lose

𝙳𝚁𝙰𝙱𝙱𝙻𝙴𝚂

𝙴𝙳𝙸𝚃𝚂

☠︎ 111

◜ 𝙳𝙰𝚁𝚈𝙻 𝙳𝙸𝚇𝙾𝙽 ◝

𝙵𝙸𝙲𝚂

𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝚂𝙷𝙾𝚃S

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─────── ❝ drowning ❞ ⋆ 𖦹 ˚.⋆

─────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ──

pairing ୨୧ munch .ᐟ dean winchester x fem .ᐟ reader

warnings .ᐟ cussing, oral f receiving, face-riding, switch!dean kinda, pet names. lmk if i forgot any :))

synopsis ─ riding dean’s face and pointy lil nose bc i’m just a girl 🤷‍♀️

word count ~ 1.1k

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“Jesus!” You gasp into the air—all thick and slick with the sounds of reciprocated pleasure.

Dean’s nose rams straight into the heat of your core, calloused palms roughhousing the meat of your thighs as his fingers flex into the tender flesh—kneading, grasping, pulling you further into the ravenous fondling of his tongue.

“Hey—don’t go bringin’ the big, ol’ man in the sky into this,” he rasps against you—the breath hot and needy as it sprawls over your exploited sex. “S’all me, baby—every damn minute o’ it. And I’ll be damned if I let that cloud-wearing jackass take the credit for the way you sound—Jesus,” he husks curtly—impatiently—and then he’s buried himself back into everything that you are.

Like you’re everything he needs.

Every jut of his stubbled jaw against you feels like a helpless skim along thawed ice—unforgiving and wet with the history of the countless orgasms that have already rattled your body. Theatrical finishes he seems hell-bent on eliciting—like you’re the lines he can’t help but obsessively recite.

To what end? Yours. All yours.

You’re spread over his face in a helpless straddle, back arched in a tangent of desperation as your hands fly back to cup and paw at the support of his abdomen. Your head buckles back with a shattered moan as the brawny pad of his tongue flattens against your sensitive mound, and for the hundredth time this evening, he sows a long and firm line through the slicked folds.

He terminates the plough at the swell of your clit, but his nose doesn’t stop shy of a harsh prod against the sensitive anatomy. Your hips stutter at the assault, eager to flee the overwhelming pleasure that wreaks havoc on your body—but Dean’s keen on the idea of overstaying your welcome, so the arms curled around your thighs yank you back down. And you’re spent—weak—so you have no choice but to melt back into him.

“And where d’ya think you’re goin’?” He drawls, tossing out a lazy chuckle of triumph as his arms flex to trap your thighs against him.

And then he welcomes you back like an old friend—with open lips that wrap around your core in a fervid slurp. His jaw kneads into you with utmost appreciation as he scrambles to lap up the mingle of arousal and saliva, his throat rumbling with a groan of satisfaction. Fulfilment.

“Fuck, Dean!” Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt that—much to your frustration—shield his skin from the revenge of your pawing nails. But you try, anyway—fingers flexing against his flesh like talons that seem driven to latch onto him and never let go. Your jaw slacks with a huff, and then a confession. “Enough teasing. . . I want to—need to come!”

As if Dean suddenly remembers that air is just as vital to his existence as the taste of you is, his lips free you with a harsh inhale before the deep rumble of his voice rifts the hot air. “Then come f’me, baby,” he pants against you, gently palming your thighs as an act of encouragement. “Hell, y’know I’ll be waitin’.”

Your hot frustration allows you to abide—but on your own terms.

With a final squeeze of his shirt-clad abdomen, you push yourself up from your wilted position of support, and Dean’s grip on your thighs tighten to aid your ascent.

“What’re you up to, now?” He chuckles lowly, green eyes glistening cartoonishly as he gazes up at you in curious awe, his thumbs tracing circles of adoration along your adrenaline-puckered skin.

You hover yourself over him, hands coming forward to bracket his jaw in a gentle cradle. He instantly leans into the touch, eyes briefly fluttering closed as he bathes in the sensation of you, and then he’s back to memorising your every feature with a stare that isolates you from the rest of the world.

Like you’re his world.

“Just go with it,” you murmur through a toothy grin packed with schemes.

Dean’s eyes narrow in consideration as he hums a soft, “Mhm.” And then his throat bops thickly, like he’s a tad bit unsure. But he trusts you, so he listens, anyways.

Your grin broadens at his compliance, one hand falling away from his jaw while the other glides over his cheek, temple, and finally into the field of his unruly hair. There, your fingers tangle with as many strands you can gather—and Dean’s gaze remains steadfast on you through it all.

“You want another taste?” You tease softly, hips lifting from the support of his chest in a purposeful display.

Deans eyes stagger down to the pot of gold looming over him, lip falling loose under the addictive pull of you. His chest heaves a helpless huff. “Screw a freakin’ taste—I want it all,” he confesses in a solemn murmur, eyes flickering back up to you with the ghost of a plea, while his hands tighten around your thighs in want. Need.

And you obey.

Your hand in his hair tightens, and Dean lets slip a strained grunt—a noise you bottle and treasure as the memoir of his undoing. Your eyes bore into his—eager and hungry—as you slowly sink yourself down onto him, and the contact is only broken when your head falters back at the feeling of his mouth enveloping you.

“Shit,” you breathe, eyes screwing shut as your hips begin to sway back and forth along the expanse of his face. And below you, Dean stills into an object of use, the grip on your thighs lax enough to accommodate every driven sweep and pull of your mound against him.

But his mouth—it doesn’t yield any control. His jaw nuzzles into your swaying form, tongue flicking along your drenched anatomy in a flurry that has no purpose other than to ruin you. And then he grows decidedly meaner by firming up his grip on you once more, crushing you against him until he’s swallowing groans and stuttering for air.

Like he’s drowning.

You lift your hips in an attempt to give him some air, but Dean’s grip on you only tightens to the point of no return—forbids. He pulls you back against him, jaw hungrily swivelling into your folds as his grip on your thighs will you to continue riding him in waves.

So you do.

Your hips sway and drag along his face, catching the hump of his nose in a vicious collision that tugs a moan from your lips. Every. single. time. And you don’t stop—neither does he. Even when his lungs beg it of him. Even as you hear him gasp for air below you. And you realise, then—

That Dean is drowning. But he doesn’t want—or need any rescuing.

He’s right where he wants to be.

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a/n ─ pls i missed my dean bby <3 if this is bad then don’t tell me bc i wrote this quick stix on and off between study breaks🤞special shoutout to my bby @deansbeer, this one goes out to u and i 😭. and what if this page becomes a munch hub? can you tell i have an M.O???? word. also this is not the munch drabble part i have been talking about for dean—this is just something born entirely from a moment of hormones LMAO.

thank you for reading! all likes & comments are deeply appreciated, but reblogs go a much longer way—so please support your writers with it! <3

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @fallbhind @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @figthoughts @ultravi0lence14 @angelicjackles @starzify @rositaslabyrinth @walkslikesummeractslikerain @daylighted @honeyryewhiskey @deansbbyx @jasvtsc @maddie0101 @lieutenantchaos @spn-reader @bakugotypecrashout @jaydensluv @youdontknowe @misatxox @lixiesbrowniess @ilovedeanwinchester4 @spoontriestowriteandfails @beelzebzb @piptoost @lunaleah @kr804573 @idontwannabehere7 @lanasgirlfr @cas-only-angel @nperoconelcositoarriba @alidiggory92 @idk-123-0 @mahi-wayy @tuxedoe @cassiecourtemanche @rositaslabyrinth @abox-of-rocks @viluren @soldiersgirl @h8aaz @cowboysandcigarettes @bejeweledinterludes

want to become part of the taglist for any future dean winchester works?

other works ─ supernatural masterlist

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─────── ❝ sugar high ❞ ⋆˙ 𖦹 ˚.⋆

────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ────

pairing ୨୧ munch .ᐟ beau arlen x fem .ᐟ reader

warnings .ᐟ cussing, oral f receiving, fingering, overstimulation, pet names

synopsis ─ beau arlen is a take the scenic route munch. that’s all, folks. that’s plenty.

word count ~ 2k

based on this ask

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“You like that a lot, don’tcha?” Beau chuckles gently, and the sound drips from his glistening lips like a stray trail of honey—tantalisingly sweet and so, so sparse throughout his focused fondling of you. He surveys you over the arch of your stomach, your lower back long since lifted from the mattress in search of his wet warmth.

“Mhm,” you breathe out—both spent and disoriented by the haze of pleasure Beau’s tongue seems to effortlessly elicit. But you’re overcome with a sudden groan of protest, head lifting from your pillow’s support with utmost difficulty to peer at him accusingly. “Why’d you stop?” You ask indignantly, but the lack of energy behind those words makes it come off as more of a pathetic whine.

He’s been at it for at least half an hour, now, tongue entangling with your folds like a shameless exploration, stumbling upon your pot of fine gold time and time again—only to drop it into a scattered, disappointing mess of nothing. A relentless tease that has your every nerve ignited at the ends and hot with the plea to quell its prolonged misery.

The sheriff beams from his place between your thighs, the strong arms he’d exploited to trap your lower half against the bed shifting to pry your legs even further apart. His grip is a practiced type of firm—refined by all the years he’s spent immobilising fugitives—yet he’s always overly conscious of the way his fingers root themselves within your tender flesh.

“I ain’t stopped nothin’—been goin’ at it for quite some time, actually,” he pokes smugly, but he’s perfectly aware of his selfish mischief. “It’s called havin’ fun, darlin’. Y’know, savourin’ what’s good for the soul,” he adds with a glint to his eyes that’s so boyishly mischievous, you can’t help but flick your eyes in response.

“I don’t think I can do this much longer,” you complain, your lower half squirming with the urge to pinch your thighs together, but Beau’s got a passive, vice-like grip on them that doesn’t allow you to go anywhere without his leniency. And he’s not lenient—not now, at least.

“Naw, come on,” he drawls as his hands gently flatten your thighs back into a helpless sprawl, where he fortifies their position with an encouraging squeeze. “I think you’re pretty darn capable of pullin’ through this. It’s why you’re my best gal. My sweet gal,” he adds with a purposeful wink, tongue poking through to glide along his lips like he’s savouring the very taste of you that lingers.

Your head shakes lightly—you’re at your wits end with him. “You’re plain, old mean,” you huff out, but the pout instantly softens as you feel as Beau’s arm uncurl from your thigh to glide his fingers over the sensitive inner. The teasing contact jettisons your pique from the ledge of care down into the deep, deep depths of arousal, where your core is trapped in constant exploitation.

Beau’s got you right where he wants you—hot, bothered, numb. That is, numb until he makes you feel all sorts of things.

Shivers hare up your spine as you feel his fingers trail a path all the way down to your slicked entrance, where they curl inside with a driven destination. “Am I, now?” He tests softly—the words accentuated like he’s slipped them through the crack of a grin. “Mean, that is?” He clarifies with a sparse chuckle to further ruffle the edges of his nerve, and then he drives the point home with a gentle pump into the tunnel of your warmth.

A broken gasp purses your lips as the girth of his manhandling stretches out your walls—all worked up and tense with the empty promise of fulfilment. Your head burrows back into the pillow, where it practically swallows you whole in the midst of your fragile collapse.

“Fucking hell!” You gasp into the air, eyes screwing shut as you surf the sensation of your body letting loose—a desperate scramble to accommodate his intrusion. “Don’t stop, Beau—just like that,” you hiss thickly.

Beau’s throat echoes with a throaty hum, like he’s savouring the way you melt onto his hand—so betraying of the aggrieved words that’d jumped from the ledge of your lips only seconds ago. “Just like that?” He echoes sweetly, fingers curling in a motion similar to the last, but with a new desire to delve deeper.

“Just like that,” you reaffirm in a slight whimper, lip drawn into a passionate bite as the sheriff eagerly obeys your pleas. With every thrust, he plunges deeper than he’d been before, like he’s got some silent record to beat. “And don’t stop this time—please.”

“Nah, I won’t, darlin’,” Beau hums comfortingly, and the pace he maintains drives a hard bargain. “And to think you had half the nerve to call me mean,” he teases lightly, the singular hand he’d left behind to safeguard your thigh rubbing sensual circles along the sensitive skin. “Me? Mean? When I’m takin’ such good care of my sweet girl? If it were true—and it ain’t—I’d have me locked up on the account o’ neglect.”

Your eyes don’t crack open once as he rambles on, too afraid to snuff out the focus you’ve worked to nurture into something akin to your high. “Just stop talking,” you scoff with the little air you’ve still got loitering within your spent lungs, a weak smile beaming through.

“Why, yes, ma’am,” he chuckles lightly. There’s no offence lingering in his tone—and you know it’s because he’s well aware of his hand in tonight’s foul play. The overstimulation is far too profuse from time to time, but you tend to hang in there on the knowledge that he’s not doing it to be mean. He merely enjoys indulging in the prolonged haven of your scent, sounds and slick. Enjoys you.

He’s obsessed with you.

“Still feelin’ dandy as a lion?” He pipes up after a string of thrusts, the fingers burrowed into your entrance continuing to plunge deeper and deeper at a pace so steady that it tugs at the last string of your sanity. And the knot that’s been building in your core threatens to unravel when his thumb daringly reaches up to flick over your sensitive clit. “Talk to me, sweet girl,” he coos when you don’t offer him the sought out input.

“Beau,” you protest helplessly, eyes burning teary behind the shield of your lids. Your fingers curl into the sheets as you grapple with his ministrations, your clit still trilling with the unexpected caress. “I think I’m gonna come—I can’t hold it back anymore.”

“Sure ya can, sweetheart,” he argues softly, temporarily halting his thrusts within you to lower his head to your mound. Your core flutters with the hope to feel his lips envelop your core with a welcoming heat that makes you forget your own, but you’re only graced with the chafe of his beard against your inner thigh, where he places a chaste kiss that lingers for a long second that feels taunting.

“I can’t.”

“Just hold on a little longer for me, alright? I know ya can do it. Just wanna taste you one last time before you let it rain down on me,” he drawls against you, the sound husky and distracted, like he’s entirely beguiled by the glistening view of you. And then his bearded jaw juts into your folds, where his lips engulf your swollen clit. Then, his tongue does a sweep of the area to take the sensitive organ under a wave so brutal, it has you gasping for air.

“Oh, god—yes!” You answer hopelessly. Unsolicited. Your thighs draw rigid with the combined stimulation of him—the resumed pump of his fingers, the tango of his tongue against your spent clit, and the hot chafe of his beard that feels determined to rub you raw. It’s all incredibly overwhelming in all the right ways. “I’m gonna come,” you mewl helplessly.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he coos proudly—the words slurred by the way his lips meld with yours. “Doin’ so good f’me. You’re a damn trooper—and you’re showin’ me up, that’s for sure. A girl like you? She’s got all it takes to see shit through. All the way down to the end o’ the line, baby’.” The deep rumble of his voice is a weapon of its own, adding to the unrelenting seize on your senses.

His pumps within you grow more vigorous and greedy with each passing second, reaching depths you didn’t think was possible—but your body welcomes it. And simultaneously braces against it, like it dreads the overwhelming finale it’s bound to present.

“Beau, that feels so good. You feel so good,” you slur weakly, your thighs tensing with the growing approach of your high. And this time, Beau grants you the grace of letting them bracket his head—like he’s made himself a willing, appreciative prisoner within your personal keep.

The only occasion where the sheriff welcomes his own detainment.

The arm he’s wrapped around your thighs ease up an inch as he imbues all focus into nurturing your finish. “Hm—ain’t ya just the sweetest?” He murmurs absentmindedly—appreciatively, and the words sound as winded as you feel. “I ain’t gonna stop this time, darlin’, so go ahead ‘nd let go f’me. Let me taste you—all o’ you,” he urges before he’s burrowed himself back into you with a rhythm of his jaw that’s entirely unforgiving.

And he doesn’t stop until you’ve painted him with the sloppy medium he’s been seeking out all evening.

You let out a broken gasp as your lower half shudders with the built up release, and Beau only adds to the grand finale as his throat rumbles against you with a low noise of euphoria—which strikes the heart of your sensitive clit. He laps at your glistening folds one last time—like it’s the last, guilty lick of the plate after dessert, before the warmth of his tongue finally forsakes you.

“Atta girl,” Beau praises breathlessly, the hand buried within your fluttering walls slowly pulling free of its suction. His other hand finally releases your thigh, the fabric of his clothes rustling as he shifts from the position he’d become solidified within. His palms return to your body in a gentle cupping of your thighs before he trails them up the length of your stomach. “Now, I dunno ‘bout you, but I could do this every night,” he chuckles softly once he’s brought himself up to hover over you, elbows propping him up at either of your shoulders.

You lift your head from your pillow with a frailty that threatens to topple you back into the plumy comfort, but your eyes catch on Beau’s face, and the sight of him is enough to keep you tethered in the air. The entirety of his jaw is slathered with your arousal, the fine hairs of his beard glistening like a proud display—almost as bright as the toothy grin nestled between his parted lips. His hair has scattered across his forehead in unruly strands, giving him a rugged look that only adds to his Texan charm.

He stares back at you with a knowing look in his eyes, like he’s fully aware of the state of himself. And he’s proud of it.

Proud of you for deconstructing him this way.

After a gentle string of pants, you finally heave a breath that allows you to speak. “I couldn’t do this every night,” you laugh hoarsely, your thighs pressing together like the mere thought of it chides you. “I might just pass away.”

Beau’s lips press into a playful pout, his brows furrowing with a look of disagreement. “On the contrary,” he says matter-of-a-factly, one hand coming up to wipe the sweat from your forehead before he settles for a gentle hold on your jaw. “If anythin’, you’ll be the death of me. You’re my sweet girl. And I’ll be damned if I was a diabetic ‘cause I’d just ‘bout drop dead gettin’ all sugar-highed on the taste o’ you.”

You giggle at that, your head shaking in light appreciation of his absurdity. “You’re something else entirely, Beau Arlen,” you murmur through a loving grin.

“And don’t I know it,” he laughs, hand gently pinching your jaw before he lowers himself to your lips, where he hovers just shy of your touch. “Just wait ‘til ya get a taste o’ you—then you’ll understand where I’m comin’ from,” he husks with a lazy grin before finally pressing his lips to yours.

And he’s right—you do taste sweet.

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a/n ─ beau does not stfu during sex sorry 🤷‍♀️ bro is a yapper at heart but it’s ok bc he doesn’t slack ❗️❗️❗️initially this piece was gonna be a combination of drabbles with munch dean, beau & sb but bc dean & sb’s part isn’t done yet and i wanted to get something out, have this!! i told myself i was gonna finish the other two boys’ tonight and release them all together but… i’ve been working on something else instead 👀

thank you for reading! likes & comments are appreciated—but reblogs go a much longer way, so please support your writers with it! <3

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @bohemianblasphemy @dulcescorderitas @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @daylighted @figthoughts @deansbbyx @honeyryewhiskey @beausling @florchids @jasvtsc @rositaslabyrinth @nperoconelcositoarriba @angelicjackles @youdontknowe @misatxox @alidiggory92 @idk-123-0 @mahi-wayy @tuxedoe @cas-only-angel @cassiecourtemanche @abox-of-rocks @viluren @lanasgirlfr @idontwannabehere7 @lunaleah @beelzebzb @ilovedeanwinchester4

want to become part of the taglist for any future beau arlen works?

other works ─ masterlist

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

[ultraviolet-rayblogz]

YOUR CHARACTERISATION IS SO ACCURATE MERA I AM DECEASEDDDD

like, the way you so perfectly captured every one of them has me looking over my shoulder BECAUSE WHAT DO YOU MEAN THESE THREE AREN'T IN THE ROOM RN??!!

okay but imagine being stuck in a room with beau, dean and soldier boy and how the dynamics would fucking CLASH 😭😭

soldier boy’s gonna be all up in your ass with some shit he thinks is slick—barely giving you room to breathe while he tries to coax you into his bed. beau’s 100% horrified at the shit streaming from sb’s mouth and he’s getting all protective and steps in to make sure he’s backing the fuck off of you and sb’s either gonna give in with some disdainful sniff before continuing to smoke away his loss or he’s going to throw one on beau and the two start brawling to the death. and then dean, who was happily watching the drama unfold, is eventually gonna step in to break up the fight and shove the two apart to take a breather—and while they’re recollecting their dignity, he starts chatting it up with you like he’d been waiting all this time to let the other two guys eliminate themselves as worthy candidates.

and like,,, don’t get me started on the bedroom dynamic either. im gonna though sorry 🤷‍♀️

oh soldier boy is SO MEAN. SO primal. so. fucking. rough. like shoving your head into the sheet rough, vice grip on your neck rough, and spanking you until you’re as red as the fucking commie flag he despises. that man is ALL about establishing control and revelling in the way you fall apart under his touch. manhandling more like. it inflates his dick as much as his ego to hear you plead for things you shouldn’t want—everything that he can give you. and the mouth on him is FILTHY. he’s calling you that fuckin’ slut, that velvety soft cock-warmer, his little, dirty cum-guzzler with a palate refined just for him. oh, he wants to RUIN you. wants to leave you so internally branded with his touch that you’ll morph into a lock that can’t be accessed by any key other than his. and he’s so. fucking. possessive. not to mention he’s going to see you on top of fucking cloud nine as you’re riding him, and he’s DYING to further raise you to the skies of fucking heaven by making you snort a line from his stomach or some shit. corruption kink most definitely.

meanwhile, beau can barely fathom how you’re enjoying any of it. through the entirety of it all, he’s lowkey giving sb the stank eye for his lack of respect for women—and you, more importantly. And while he knows you’ve fully consented, it doesn’t stop him from checking in with you every now and again—

“still hangin’ in there, darlin’? you let me know if it becomes too much, yeah? i’ll tell this jackass to dial it down.”

and beau, oh my god, he’s the king of checking in. he’s all about making sure you’re constantly comfortable and enjoying yourself—to the point where soldier boy’s making some remark like,

“what’re you—some fuckin’ gimme a c for consent cheerleader? shut the fuck up, grown a damn pair, ‘nd give the woman what she wants.”

and beau’s lugging in the DEEPEST breath of composure with the most disconcerting glare he can muster before recollecting himself and focusing all his attention back to you. his thrusts are gentle, but not weak—he’s hitting all the right spots with each approach and withdrawal. he’s listening to your breathing, the sounds you spew, and constantly reaching to brush the hair from the grip of your sticky face. and he lowers himself to place a kiss to whichever inch of you is most accessible at the time—favouring the curve of your cheek, where it’s easy for him to dip down to your ear and murmur some words of admiration and encouragement. oh he’s such a fucking praiser and words of affirmation guy. and he’s making sure to soothe every bruised part of you that soldier boy leaves behind, almost always sparing the supe a pointed glare that utters some silent claim of and that’s how you treat a lady. he’s littering kisses along your bruises and easing the tender skin with soothing rubs—cradling you and cherishing you like an expensive, one-of-a-kind china.

and then there’s dear, dear dean. this man is WAITING for his time to shine. i can 100% see him not caring for either of the other two men in the room—his attention’s all on you. when sb’s taking you all the way to nasty town, he’s glancing off to some other corner of the room, but can’t help sneaking occasional glances at your visceral, very verbal reactions. and he lowkey digs it. when he’s got his turn to make you feel things, he’s taking it nice and slow—all at your pace. and you know those fucking love-sick eyes he loves casting? yeah, HE’S GIVING YOU THE FULL-PACKAGE SUBBY LOOK. his every grip on your body is intentional—constructed to make you feel like you’re something he absolutely adores and cannot let go of. like a sentimental keepsake he’ll hold close to him for all the years to come. he’s observing every look ghosting across your features, savouring the way you absentmindedly caress him in the midst of your euphoria—revelling in the spell you cast that makes him feel like he’s all yours for the taking. he wants to be. and he shows you it. he’s simultaneously got his hand down under, adding to your stimulation with a skillful dally. and he does it all just to hear the sounds you make—the way you beg for more of him. all of him. and he unequivocally wants to hand himself over to you. his high only comes on after he’s seen yours through. if anything, your undoing spurs him on. and he’s planting tender kisses along your collarbone and jaw and making sure you know just how well you did for him.

“that was. . . freakin’ somethin’, baby. you’re amazing—can’t get enough o’ you. don’t ever wanna, so help me god.”

and you KNOW he’s serious if he whips out the name of the big ol’ guy in the sky.

and then when it comes to aftercare, beau takes the fucking cake—i just know it. in an instant, he’s encouraging you to go and use the bathroom to relieve yourself, making sure you’re physically capable of pulling yourself into a semblance of a functioning human when they’re done with you. and he’s offering you any and all assistance you need before recollecting your clothes and fetching a fresh pair—if any are available. he’s getting you an ice cold glass of water, a little shnaky snack and is ready to give you the cuddle of your life.

dean’s pretty content to monitor you coming down from your high, dragging a gentle palm across your hair while his other hand settles in a gentle frame of your jaw, thumb striking gentle lines across the framework of your face. he’s pretty insistent on short cuddles following the aftermath of everything, going so far as to trap you in a spooning session for a good few minutes before he lets you slip away to the bathroom. and even as you stroll off into the distance, he’s trailing after your every move like a lost puppy that doesn’t know how to utilise his free time. he’s so utterly infatuated with you that he’s got to watch everything you’re doing, and it doesn’t matter what. he’s admittedly not the most forward-thinker when it comes to aftercare, but he’s happy to tend to whatever you need AFTER you bring it up. and he’ll learn it like a routine after a while.

soldier boy does not believe in aftercare. oh my god that man is going to cradle a cigarette with more care than he’s ever shown you once he’s delivered you your high. as soon as he’s blown his load, he’ll let you slump down to the bed if only to admire the absolute glistening puddle he’s reduced you to. and he’s going to wear that smug ass cocky grin—even go so far as to chuckle demeaningly as he drinks the view of you in. he could probably get drunk on that visual alone. and then he’s throwing himself down onto the bed beside you, immediately reaching for that bedside cig. he’ll light it, take a long pull, and offer you a taste. at most, he’ll drape a lazy arm around you, but outside of giving his dick a joyride, you essentially stop existing. he’s good at making you feel used, and he’ll watch you clean yourself up without a second thought of lending a helping hand. he might just say some shit about it that he knows will piss you off because he loves getting a rise out of you.

“what’s with all the pussy-pamperin’? thought you’d marvel at havin’ my baby pumped into you.”

oh he’s such an ass. we love him for it though.

OKAY IM DONE NOW. for now

cheers to @bohemianblasphemy for letting me yap about this dynamic AGESSS ago and now i think it’s time to share a taste of it with the world 😭 YOU’RE EITHER ALL FUCKING WELCOME OR IM SORRY!!! i am SO tempted to turn this into a proper fic SOMEWHERE DOWN THE LINE❗️❗️❗️

i sincerely apologise for the shitty mismatched icons that are lowkey pissing me off but i had zero energy to sift through my pics for ones i haven’t already used and somehow make them match so DEAL WITH IT PLS & THANKS 💪