Little Glimpses (2)

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. on the run,

summary. you're being chased by a werewolf and holy hell! werewolves are real!

pairing. dean winchester x civilian!reader genre. fluffy

wordcount. 529

The thing chasing you is not human.

You don’t know what it is, but people don’t run on all fours like that. People don’t snarl like that—low and guttural, vibrating in your bones. And people sure as hell don’t have glowing yellow eyes that catch the light like a predator.

Your lungs burn as you sprint through the woods, dodging trees, stumbling over roots. Your pulse is a wild thing, hammering in your throat, your ears. The town bar had been warm, safe, normal. A couple of drinks. A walk home. You didn’t expect—this.

Branches snap behind you. It’s gaining.

You risk a glance over your shoulder and instantly regret it.

Too close. Too fast.

You’re not gonna make it.

A flash of silver—gunfire.

You duck on instinct as something whistles through the air, followed by a sickening thunk.

A man steps out of the darkness. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, all leather and rough edges, a gun still raised in his hands. The werewolf—because, holy shit, that’s a werewolf—lets out a strangled howl before dropping like a sack of bricks, the silver bullet lodged deep in its skull.

Silence. Your breath heaves in the aftermath, your legs wobbling like a newborn deer.

The man exhales, rolling his shoulders like this is just another Tuesday. He spins the gun, tucks it into the back of his jeans, then turns to you with the kind of slow, assessing look that makes your stomach flip.

"You okay?" he asks. His voice is low, rough—gravel wrapped in honey.

You blink at him. Open your mouth. Close it. Then gesture wildly to the very dead monster a few feet away.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?"

He winces. "Okay. So. Bad news? That was a werewolf. Good news? It’s dead."

"Werewolves aren’t real," you say automatically, brain still playing catch-up.

He snorts. "Try telling that to him."

You stare at him, then back at the corpse. The fur is already receding, limbs twisting back into something almost human. Your stomach turns.

"What—what the hell is going on?"

Leather Jacket Guy tilts his head, eyes sharp, unreadable. Then, like a switch, his face softens—just a little. "You from around here?"

You nod, still catching your breath.

"You alone?"

"Uh. Not anymore?"

That gets a grin out of him, small but cocky as hell. He extends a hand. "Dean Winchester."

You take it, hesitantly. His grip is warm, solid. "…Y/N."

"Y/N," he repeats, like he’s testing the sound of it. "Alright, Y/N. Hate to break it to you, but the world’s a little weirder than you thought."

"No shit," you deadpan, which makes him chuckle.

The sound does something weird to your stomach.

Dean glances back at the body, then back at you. His expression shifts, that easy grin dimming just a little. "You should come with me. Just for tonight. Lay low, let me explain some things."

You should say no. You should scream, run, pretend none of this happened. But you just watched a man turn into a monster, and this guy—this Dean—saved your life like it was nothing.

You swallow hard, meeting his gaze.

"…You got whiskey?"

Dean grins. "Sweetheart, I got the whole bottle."

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The bunker was quieter now.

Not the eerie, lonely kind of quiet Dean had known for most of his life. No—this was a different kind. A good kind.

The kind filled with soft baby coos, sleepy little sighs, and the rustling of tiny hands against warm blankets.

Dean Winchester—the man who had spent his entire life running, fighting, surviving—was now lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with his newborn son asleep on his chest.

His boy.

His freakin’ kid.

Dean still wasn’t over it. The weight of something so small, so fragile, just curled up on him like he belonged there.

Which, hell—he did.

The kid was his. Theirs.

A soft chuckle pulled Dean from his thoughts, and he turned his head to see you watching him, a sleepy smile on your face.

“You’re supposed to put him in the bassinet, y’know,” you teased, voice thick with exhaustion and affection.

Dean smirked, shifting slightly but careful not to disturb the tiny human sprawled over his chest. “Yeah, and you’re supposed to be resting.”

you rolled your eyes, but your smile never faded. “I can’t sleep when you’re over there looking all—” you gestured vaguely at him, eyes shining. “Like that.”

Dean raised a brow. “Like what?”

“Like you’re completely in love.”

Dean huffed, running a hand over his son’s impossibly soft back. “Well… yeah. ‘Cause I am.”

your expression softened, and for a second, you just looked at him—really looked at him. Like you were memorizing this moment, the way he was.

Then you shifted closer, resting your head against his shoulder, your fingers gently brushing over your son’s tiny hand.

“He’s got your freckles,” you murmured.

Dean chuckled, tilting his head to press a kiss to your hair. “Yeah, but he’s got your nose.”

“And your lips.”

“And your eyes.”

you hummed, smiling against his skin. “I think he’s just the perfect mix of both of us.”

Dean swallowed hard, throat tightening with something thick and warm. “Yeah. He is.”

Their baby stirred slightly, making a tiny noise before settling back down, his little hand curling into Dean’s shirt.

And just like that, Dean Winchester was done for.

All the hunts, the losses, the near-death experiences—none of it had ever prepared him for this. For fatherhood.

For love like this.

Dean exhaled slowly, tightening his hold on you as he looked down at your guys son. “This is real, right?” he asked quietly.

you lifted your head, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “It’s real, Dean.”

He nodded, still in awe, still not sure how the hell he got this lucky. Then, with one last glance at the tiny, perfect boy sleeping on his chest, he smirked.

“You know,” he said, voice low and teasing, “if he’s anything like me, we’re in trouble.”

you laughed, warm and sweet. “Oh, I know we’re in trouble.”

Dean grinned, closing his eyes as sleep finally started to pull him under, his wife in his arms and his son safe against his chest.

The apple pie life.

His life.

And for the first time ever Dean Winchester wasn’t afraid of the future.

the girl behind the wheel . . . dean winchester & reader !

summary. the last thing dean expected was for his car to disappear & in its place, you to be left. he also never expected to have to worry, still, about you getting stolen. warnings. men r pigs!! sequel to this ask !

it's not like you asked to be made into a human or anything. dean seemed to operate on that idea, though, that this was all your choice. he looked at you with pure grief in his eyes, and something that seemed much more akin to exasperation than the unwilling reluctance you thought he was beginning to fall into.

"i have to get a new car." he's openly, dramatically, pouting.

you shrug. his jacket has now become your jacket, because shoplifting clothes for you meant snatching the cheap shit in the back of the store that people wouldn't realize were missing until it was too late, which left you in summery clothes in the dead of winter.

"that's all you have to say for yourself?"

dean is looking at you with that quizzical stare he gets, like he expects you to have some sort of answer for why you were like this. you didn't know. you just got here.

"steal one." you look around the parking lot of the little strip mall he'd taxi'ed you both to, and nod toward a big black truck towering above the other cars. "that one."

dean follows the direction of your finger and snorts. "no way in hell. that guy's gonna notice immediately that that thing is missing."

just like how dean noticed that you were missing, when the tides shifted or the moon phased at a certain time, and suddenly you were a girl by a light pole and not a car parked under the streetlight. that was understandable.

dean runs a hand over his face, turning his back to you again in that way that didn't fully seem to indict you, but it didn't really make you feel like an innocent party in this.

you could help. of course you could help. dean wanted a car, that car was the scariest in the area, he couldn't take that one with force, so...

the front windshield has "DEER HUNTIN" sprawled into the glass in an ugly, abrasive font. dean was a hunter. he wore lots of layers, even when he'd be driving in the dead of summer. you just needed to find a guy in lots of layers.

so you disappear, ducking into one of the little businesses in the mall with hunting & fishing goods on the big sign out front. everyone in there sort of looks the same, the whole place smells a little like oil and a lot like dirt and hay, and you think that you've made a poor judgement call until you find him.

big guy, as big as the truck in the parking lot. camouflage hat and jacket. dirt all over his jeans. a t-shirt beneath the jacket that says i like my girls like i like my bucks: big and horny. he's your guy. he's so your guy.

"hi, sir," you say, trying to puff out your chest in that way that dean hates but makes you feel a little bit taller and on his level. the guy looks over at you in a way that dean also does, sometimes, but he's much more obvious about it than dean is. "is that yours?"

you point to the truck in the parking lot.

the guy puffs his chest up, too, and now you really don't know why dean hates it, when it just seems to be a dude thing. "it sure is, pretty thing," he drawls, putting the box of ammo back on the shelf, "you want a ride in it?"

"no thank you." you hold out your hand instead. "can i have the keys?"

he laughs. your face visibly falls, and he laughs a little harder. "won't go for a ride with me but expects me to fork over my keys. i'll be damned. what's your name?"

"baby."

"baby," he doesn't say it like dean does, with awe and reverence and sentiment. he says it like it tastes filthy in his mouth. "tell you what. go on a little ride with me, and i'll let you take it for a spin."

"no thank you." how many times did a girl have to tell a man no? seriously. "i just want the keys."

the door to the shop dings, the echo of the bell ricocheting around the spacious area. "baby?" dean's voice. you are so helpless to the way that you light up at the sound of it. "baby, you better—"

he cuts himself off, his eyes landing directly on you. you can always tell when dean's looking at you. there's something physical and innate in the way his gaze rests like its own sort of blanket over your skin.

the guy behind you nods toward dean. "that your boyfriend?"

"no. that's my driver."

you could not possibly be more clear, but the guy's face twists up. "so why the hell do you need my keys?"

dean is at your side now, a hand on your hip and a grimace on his face. he tends to wear that look a lot around you, now, even though you still catch glimpses of the fondness when he thinks you're not looking.

"she doesn't." dean pulls you a little more into his side, and you grin. he's always so warm. "sorry 'bout that."

"keep your girl leashed, alright?" the guy scoffs, turning back to the shelves full of ammo boxes. "she's tryin' to get into trouble she can't handle."

you could handle a lot of things. you'd been crashed a few times. you'd been long overdue of an oil change. you were pretty sure that dean was conceived in you, which was an entirely other sort of thing you didn't even want to think about. were doing pretty well without thinking on it, thank you. you could handle things, and it wasn't fair that this stranger thought he knew you based on one interaction that you were certain was going just fine.

dean seems to sense that you're about to dig a deeper hole for yourself, and so he starts to tug you away. "yeah, yeah, she's leashed," dean grumbles, his teeth gritted together. he doesn't like the guy either, it seems.

you barely take a step away before dean's turning to you again with that look of unadulterated exasperation. again. "what the hell was all that?"

"you said we couldn't steal it because he'd know." like, did dean just... forget that conversation in a two minute span, or what? "so i went to ask him for the keys."

dean's lips flatten. he's really, seriously trying to keep the blank expression but the twitch of his dimples gives away his amusement. "no."

"yes." you reach into dean's jacket pocket over your shoulders and hold out the keys. "got them, too."

"he gave them over?"

you smile. and that's how you know that dean was yours and you were his, and that even if he was getting premature gray hairs from you, he still adored you. "no. i was just letting him know i was taking it. i wasn't really asking."

dean laughs this time. well and truly laughs, holding the shop's door open for you. "you are somethin' else."

"i'm helping," you correct, looking down at the key fob in your fingers. you press the unlock button, but the truck's headlights don't light up. it sits as idle as ever.

the car next to it, a model close to yours but not quite as well taken care of, beeps in acknowledgement.

you pass the keys over to dean, practically skipping toward the impala in utter glee. the cards always worked in your favor, didn't they? you'd been with the winchesters for three generations, passed down like an heirloom, but this was the one that loved you the most, and now you could finally show it.

"scratch that, baby," dean says as he catches up to you, catching you around the waist to drag you in for a kiss on the temple, "you're a goddamn godsent."

yes. you definitely were.

notes. forgot i wrote the first part to this, and then this came into my head, and it made me giggle so i had to write it. pls enjoy

tags. @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @honeyryewhiskey @ultravi0lence14 @figthoughts @theosaurous @stereotypicalbarbie @whyyouegg @eepwtf @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @aileenunfiltered @abox-of-rocks @sunsbaby @bluemerakis @jollyhunter @misatxox @sunsettsam @angelblqde @bombarda-babe @unfortunate-brat @funkycoloured @chevroletdean @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @voidsuites @bitchykittenconnoisseur @beausling @soldiersgirl @dulcescorderitas @hyacinnths @couturewinx @blushpinkdoll @mccartneyqp @svbnra

Hello!!! Can I request Lee Byung-Hun x reader low-key announcing a pregnancy? Please 🙏 but their marriage is not public yet. Like the fans knew they're married but don't know who. Pretty please🙏🙏 thank youuuu

announcing your pregnancy with lee byung-hun

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yourusername

liked by yourfriendsuser and others

yourusername one year already ❤️

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user76 it still shocks me to this day that shes married

ynfanpage @/user76 it shocks me that we still dont know who he is

user09 you’re so pretty !!!

user78 my dream wedding dress

ynfan as long as he treats u well im happy…☹️

user45 @/ynfan very happy…🥲

user09 I hope i look as pretty as u when I get married

yourusername

liked by yourbestfriendsuser and others

yourusername surprise surprise

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user76 u keep surprising me everytime u make a post

ynfan rue when was this!?

ynfan98 WHAT

yourfriendsuser congratulations love you 🫶

yourbestfriendsuser excited to be an auntie😉

liked by author

randomuser SINCE WHEN

ynspookie are u cheating on me?

yourusername 10m

byunghun0712

liked by yourfriendsuser and others

byunghun0712 on the way 🍼

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user12 why is everyone having a kid

byunghunswifey guys that’s me in picture sorry u had to find out this way

user34 first @/yourusername and now him!?!

user10 did anyone else spot @/yourfriendsuser in the likes

leebyunghunswife NO STOP

user87 ur breaking my heart

byunghunfan brb gonna go jump off a cliff

user27 @/byunghunfan that reminds me of something 🌝

yourusername

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yourusername europe

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user43 i love the aesthetic

ynfanaccount she's so active nowadays

user54 she's got everything i want

yourfriendsuser face card never declines

ynfan pregnancy suits u

byunhun0712

liked by yourusername and others

byunhun0712 my beautiful wife

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user87 haha good joke.

user58 i wish i could call u my husband

laylaaa.07 life is so unfair

kelly.yxx if only I was 20 years older. our age gap wouldn't be that bad

o70.lana im not jealous :) and my eye is def not twitching rn

user44 IS THAT @/yourusername !?

user76 love a man who isn’t afraid to post his wife

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a/n: another request done !!

‘TILL THE END

hwang in-ho x wife!reader

you played the games before your husband played in 2015. the money you won was enough to convince your husband to play and stay as the frontman. but not without you by his side.

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faking your death isn’t as hard as it seems to be. is just as easy as a disappearance

you had been missing for a while. everyone had been worried. your parents,your siblings, and especially your husband. the moment he saw you, he felt like a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

then the questions started, "where have you been? do you even know how worried I was? ". which you could only answer by showing him the fruit of your success. the 45.6 billion won in your bank account made him go completely silent from his long rant.

although he didn’t seem to believe the place you were describing, which was quite understandable, you knew exactly what would.

"join the games", you had whispered to him in between kisses. "I’ll help you find the salesman. but please. just join the games." and so he did exactly what his wife told him to do.

that is when the opportunity of becoming the frontman was offered to him.

leaving your old life behind was part of the contract. his old life, meaning you and everyone he’s ever loved, they had told him. he had immediately refused. if you weren’t allowed to join him, he would never step foot on that island again.

to you, this had been the best decision you had ever made as a couple. you were ready to spend the rest of your life beside him. helping him control the games, the players,but especially having your own little family grow up on that island

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a/n: its almost midnight and i cant go to sleep . so this is what i do instead. btw this is not proof read so if there’s any mistakes let me know!!

Rafe x Baker!Reader

-> headcanons + blurbs

ꕥ Rafe knew he was done for the moment he tasted Baker!Reader's desserts because if something this sweet could come from her hands, he could only imagine how life-changing it would be to have her heart.

You shouldn’t be here. The thought ran circles in your head as you adjusted the lace on your apron for the tenth time. The waiters sweeping past with trays of champagne looked polished and effortless. Meanwhile, you were you: a Pogue in a borrowed dress under a flour-dusted apron, standing behind a dessert table that probably cost more than your entire bakery. Meanwhile, Rafe noticed you the moment he walked in, your brows knit together in concentration as you adjusted a plate by a fraction of an inch. He lingered, watching as you smoothed your apron, took a deep breath, and finally looked up, only to find him staring. Your eyes widened slightly, and Rafe fought back a small smile. “Hi,” he said, stepping forward before he could think better of it. “Hi,” you echoed, hesitating. You glanced at the empty flute in his hand. “Oh—um, the bar is over there.” Rafe smirked. “Yeah, I know. But I think I’d rather be over here.” Your lips parted slightly, and he felt something warm spread through him at your flustered expression. “I—I’m just the baker,” you said softly, as if that explained why someone like him shouldn’t be talking to someone like you. Rafe tilted his head, intrigued. “So you made all this?” He gestured to the perfectly arranged pastries, the mini cakes adorned with edible gold leaf. You nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “First big event I’ve catered,” you admitted shyly. “I have a little bakery in The Cut, but—” “The Cut?” he repeated, brows lifting slightly. A Pogue. You braced yourself for whatever comment might come next, but Rafe only hummed, reaching past you to pluck a macaron from the tray. You opened your mouth to protest, those were supposed to be served later, but Rafe had already taken a bite. His eyes fluttered shut for half a second, and when they reopened, there was something almost boyish in his expression. “Holy shit,” he muttered, looking down at the macaron like it held the secrets of the universe. A startled laugh escaped your lips. “Good?” Rafe looked at you, serious. “I’d actually fight someone for another one of these.” You shook your head, amused. “Well, you don’t have to. You can just… take one.” Rafe smirked. “Nah, I like the idea of fighting for you.” Your breath hitched slightly, and he didn’t miss the way you quickly looked away, as if you could hide the sudden warmth in your cheeks. Rafe just grabbed another macaron, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’m definitely coming to your bakery tomorrow.”

ꕥ Rafe Becomes Baker!Reader's #1 Customer (and Admirer)

The next morning, he actually showed up at your bakery. You were still wiping down the counters, your apron tied neatly over your dress, when the bell above the door chimed. “You’re here early," you blinked in surprise, fingers tightening around your rag. Rafe Cameron, in all his Kook glory, stood in your little bakery like he belonged there. His hair was still damp from a shower, pushed back like he hadn’t quite cared enough to style it, and his shirt was only half-buttoned over his undershirt, like he’d thrown it on in a rush. He looked out of place. And yet, somehow, he also looked… comfortable. “Yeah, I—uh—just need a coffee,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, after a beat, he added, “And like, one of everything.” You stared at him. “One of everything?” Rafe nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. Just, y’know… for variety.” Variety. You pressed your lips together, fighting the urge to smile. “Alright, well, it’s gonna take a minute.” “That’s fine.” He rocked back on his heels. “I got time.” And he did have time, apparently. Because after that morning, Rafe Cameron started showing up at your bakery every day. At first, it was just for coffee and a pastry. Then it turned into two pastries. Then three. Then “I’ll just take a whole box.” And then, one morning, you caught him watching as you kneaded dough behind the counter. He was leaning on the display case, elbow propped up, watching you with the kind of lazy, amused smirk that made your stomach do something ridiculous. “What?” you asked, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face. Rafe tilted his head. “Nothing.” You narrowed your eyes. “You’re staring.” He grinned. “Yeah, well. It’s interesting.” “Me baking is interesting?” “Kinda,” he said, like it was obvious. “I mean, you get all serious. It’s cute.” You fumbled the dough.

ꕥ Baker!Reader Was a Pogue. Rafe Was a Kook. It Was Complicated.

Rafe leaned against the bakery counter, watching you roll out dough with the kind of focus that made his chest feel tight. Your apron was dusted with flour, a smudge of it on your cheek, and your hands moved with effortless precision. He hated it. Not you... never you. But the fact that you worked so damn hard for so little. That no matter how many hours you poured into this place, it was barely enough to keep the lights on. That your oven broke last week and you had to shut down for two days because you couldn’t afford a repairman right away. He hated that. “You know you’re too good for this side of the island, right?” You glanced up, breath hitching slightly, before rolling your eyes. “I like this side of the island, Rafe.” He drummed his fingers against the counter. “I could buy you a place in Figure Eight.” “No.” “Okay.” He shrugged. “But if you ever change your mind…” You shot him a look, exasperated but amused. “I won’t.” Rafe didn’t push. He never did... not about this, at least. But he’d be lying if he said it didn’t bother him. Because every morning, he saw how early you got up. He saw the way you rubbed your sore wrists after hours of kneading dough, the way your eyes dimmed a little when you counted the register and barely made enough to cover next week’s supply order. You were so good at what you did. And yet, the world still made you struggle for it. It pissed him off. And Rafe Cameron hated feeling powerless. So, he did what he could. He came in every day. Bought more than he could eat. Slipped a few extra bills under the register when you weren’t looking. Sent other Kooks your way, dropping your bakery’s name at country club brunches like it was the hottest new trend. And when you got suspicious, when you narrowed your eyes at him after his third suspiciously large order in a week, he just smirked and said, “What? I like good food.” And that you believed. Because he did. But more than that, he liked you.

ꕥ Rafe Started Helping Baker!Reader Out… In His Own Rafe Way.

You sighed as you stared at the absurd stack of cash in the tip jar. Again. “Rafe.” Rafe, who was currently leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just dropped an entire hundred-dollar bill for a pastry that cost three bucks, looked up innocently. “What?” You crossed your arms. “This is ridiculous.” “It’s my money,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “I do what I want with it.” You narrowed your eyes. “And what you want to do is leave a hundred-dollar tip for a muffin?” “Damn good muffin,” he replied, taking another bite. “Honestly, you should be charging more.” You huffed, shoving the money toward him. “I can’t take this.” Rafe just smirked, tilting his coffee cup toward you in a mock toast. “Good thing I already walked away.” He strolls off smugly, towering over the other customers. You wanted to be mad, but how could you be when you knew exactly what he was doing? And that wasn’t even the worst of it. Because then, suddenly, Kooks started coming in. Rich girls in designer dresses asking about your custom cakes, trust fund guys showing up with their dads’ AmEx cards to place catering orders. At first, you thought maybe people had just noticed your bakery. But then... “Yeah, I don’t care if you don't want cupcakes at your yacht party, you’re ordering from her.” You whipped your head around to see Rafe standing outside the bakery, phone to his ear, already negotiating your next big order. “Rafe,” you hissed, striding up and yanking the phone out of his hand. “I won't charge Kook prices—” “Then I’ll pay the difference,” he said easily. You stared at him, mouth opening and closing. “That’s not how business works.” Rafe shrugged. “It is now.” And what were you supposed to say to that? Because somehow, this was just so him. Helping in the only way he knew how. With money. With influence. With that damn smirk that made you want to yell at him and kiss him at the same time. You shook your head, shoving his phone back at him. “You’re impossible.” He grinned. “Yeah, but I’m your favorite customer.”

ꕥ Rafe Bragged About Baker!Reader to Everyone. Constantly.

“She’s the best baker on the island. No—actually? Best in the whole damn country,” Rafe declared, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. Topper rolled his eyes. “Bro, it’s a bakery, not a Michelin-star restaurant.” Rafe scoffed. “Shut up, you wouldn’t know good food if it smacked you in the face. Her croissants? Life-changing. Her cakes? Masterpieces. Like, people should be paying thousands for them.” Kelce raised a brow. “You mean, you pay thousands for them.” Rafe shrugged, unbothered. “Worth every penny.” His friends had never seen him like this: practically glowing whenever he talked about you. It was kind of ridiculous. And it only got worse when you started dating. “Yo, you gotta try this,” Rafe would say, shoving a pastry into someone’s hands before they could protest. “My girl made it. From scratch.” At parties, he’d corner people and pull up pictures on his phone, of cakes, cookies, pastries, like a proud dad showing off his kid’s school projects. One time, you even caught him filming an Instagram story of your bakery’s display case, narrating like a food critic. “Look at that. Perfection. That’s my girl.” And the way he beamed when he called you that? His girl? It made your stomach flip every time. One night, you were curled up on his couch, your head resting on his chest as he scrolled through his phone. “You know,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “one day, you’re gonna have your own fancy bakery in Figure Eight. And I’ll be the first one in line every morning.” You snorted. “I like my little bakery in The Cut, Rafe.” He smirked, tightening his arm around you. “Yeah, yeah. But when you expand, just remember who believed in you first.” You rolled your eyes but smiled. Because as much as Rafe loved to brag about you, the truth was, he just really loved you.

A/N: i love them.

Her soldier - part 1/2

Ben (Soldier boy) x Y/N F/Reader

Summary: 1940s setting, Teenage Ben is head over heels with the 5 year older Y/N. His dad didn't like women like Y/N hard working without a ring on her finger and a free spirit. In his free time he starts helping her out, but will she keep seeing him as a cute kid or will time bring other feelings in the mix?

Warnings: 18+ MDNI!, Slowburn, Implied Spice, talk of virginity, Losing virginity, age gab, Violence, Smoking, ...

Sorry wanted to cover as much backstory as possible in one part.

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**Philadelphia**

It was always busiest near the Navy Yard.

Men came and went in uniforms—sailors on leave, officers grabbing drinks before catching trains south. Most of the bars on Broad Street didn’t ask questions, especially about age. That made The Red Lily a popular stop.

Low lights, too much smoke, the bitter tang of whiskey in the air. And behind the bar: Y/N.

Women didn’t work in joints like this. Not unless they had no choice. Or no shame. Or both.

That’s what people whispered anyway. Ben had heard it all, usually from his father’s friends. "That woman’s no better than a streetwalker," they said. "Tight clothes and cheap smiles. She’s not the kind of woman a good man settles down with."

But all men where drawn to the place of secret pleasure.

Ben didn’t see what they saw. To him, she was electric. She was the light that shine bright in the darkness.

She had a mouth like a sailor, arms stronger than half the men she served, and eyes that saw right through your soul. And when she laughed—really laughed—it sounded like she hadn’t in a long time.

He was sixteen when he first met her.

She’d been dragging two crates of beer from the alley behind the bar, cursing under her breath. The sleeves of her blouse were rolled up, hair pinned back messily, a streak of something dark across her cheek.

Ben was walking by, books under his arm, headed nowhere in particular. Specially not after he was kicked out of school... again.

“You need a hand?” he asked, already stepping forward.

She looked him over—tall for sixteen, a little too lean, sunburn on his neck. Too young to be of any real use. But there was something in his face. Eager. Kind.

“You any good at lifting?”

“I’m not bad,” he said, grinning.

That was how it started.

A Week Later

She handed him a few dollars. He blinked at it, confused. “What’s this for?”

“For helping me this week.” she said. “You’re here every day now, might as well make it official.”

“I—I didn’t do it for money,” Ben said, flustered, holding the bill like it might bite. Y/N shrugged, lighting a cigarette. “Doesn’t matter. You earned it. Get yourself somethin’ that ain’t war rations.”

He started taking the money. Slowly. Learned what a dollar could do. How to fold it right. How to save it. He swept floors, stacked crates, and kept his eyes on her even when he tried not to.

She called him “kid” until one late night, the bar nearly empty, just the sound of a jazz record crackling softly. “You ever think about leaving Philly?” she asked, elbow on the bar, a glass of something brown in her hand.

Ben swallowed, nodding. “I wanna join the Army.” Her brows lifted. “You?”

He straightened. “Yeah. But my dad won’t sign off. Says it’s for ‘real men,’ not dreamers. But I’ll be seventeen soon. And once I’m eighteen…”

He drifted off, unsure if he’d said too much. Y/N watched him for a long beat. Her lips twitched. “Well,” she said, lifting her glass toward him, “cheers to that, Soldier.”

He felt his face go hot. He grinned.

**Philadelphia, Winter, one year later.**

Ben would be eighteen in a few days.

Y/N didn’t forget—she never forgot. For months, she kept teasing him with smirks. "So, when you gonna trade the mop for a rifle, Soldier?" He’d always grin, scratch the back of his neck, and say, "Soon." But “soon” kept stretching further.

The truth was: he hadn’t signed up, not yet.

Not because he was scared. Not of boot camp, not of war, not even of his father’s scorn. He was scared of leaving her.

Y/N wasn’t some helpless damsel—God no. She’d survived more than most men ever would. But that didn’t mean she should have to fight alone.

Not after what that bastard did.

Tommy

Her last boyfriend—a mechanic with calloused hands and a temper that smelled like bourbon—hadn’t taken the breakup well. Ben was glad she dumped him after he had hit her one to many times.

After that he showed up more than once, shouting from the sidewalk, calling her names loud enough the whole damn block could hear. She never flinched, never let her hands shake.

But Ben saw the way she kept looking over her shoulder.

And that was enough to stay.

---

The bar was almost empty. Wind howled outside like a living thing, rattling the glass, echoing in the alleyways. Ben was mopping the back of the floor while Y/N cleaned behind the bar, both of them moving in comfortable silence.

She looked up suddenly. “So,” she said, casual, like it didn’t matter, “what are you planning to do with all that cash you’ve been hoarding? If you don't mind asking.”

Ben paused, wringing the mop. “Dunno,” he muttered. “Maybe something special.” She tilted her head, lips quirking. “Special, huh? That a code word for whiskey or a visit to the women a few blocks away?”

His ears turned red. “No,” he said quickly. “Not like that. I'd rather find myself a nice lady and wait for to settle than pay for it. ”

She chuckled, didn’t press. She knew when to pull and when to leave the line slack.

Ben went back to mopping, heartbeat still loud in his ears. He wasn’t gonna say it. Not yet. Not that every dollar he’d stashed away was meant for a future where she might see him as something more than the boy who swept her floors.

Then the crash came—shattering, violent.

The front window exploded inwards in a hail of glass and brick. Y/N flinched, dropping a bottle that shattered beside her feet.

Ben didn’t hesitate. He was out the door like a shot, glass crunching under his boots. He caught a glimpse of taillights turning the corner—too fast, too familiar.

The same damn car. Her ex. Ben stood in the street, fists clenched, chest heaving, the cold biting through his shirt. He didn’t chase it. Not tonight. But next time?

Next time he’d be ready.

When he walked back inside, Y/N was sweeping up the glass like it was nothing, but her jaw and her hands were bleeding. The glass must have hit her.

He took the broom from her without asking. They didn’t say a word for a while. He’d given up war for her. Because she was his battle. And he had no intention of losing.

The brick was gone. The glass swept. But the silence lingered, heavy and strange.

Y/N sat on the edge of the bar, knees together, one palm upturned in her lap. A thin trail of blood curved across her skin, glass having left its mark.

Ben kneeled in front of her with the first aid tin cracked open beside him. The alcohol stung, but his hands—those were gentle. Ridiculously so. He worked with care, eyes narrowed in focus like she was made of something rare.

“You’re good at this,” she whispered. He looked up, a smudge of blood on his knuckle. “Huh?”

She gave a soft, wry smile. “Tender. I wonder if you learned that from a pretty little girl?” His gaze didn’t flinch. “My mom," he said softly, he never spoke of her.

"Besides, you know, I only have eyes for you.” The room shifted.

She blinked, her smile faltering just slightly. Something tightened behind her ribs. There was a line—bold and simple—and it was not a line she wanted to cross.

Y/N waited for the punchline, the cheeky follow-up, the it was just a joke explanation. But he just looked at her. Looked at her like she was holy. Ben leaned in a little, eyes flicking from hers to her mouth.

She pulled back. The movement was small, barely a breath’s worth of space, but enough.

“I—I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I don’t… feel that way.”

Ben’s brow furrowed, confusion painting itself across his face. “What about everything between us? All the flirting… teasing?” She shook her head softly. “You mean the jokes? The laughter?”

He didn’t answer.

“That’s friendship, Benjamin.”

He flinched at the name. The one no one called him anymore. The one that made him sixteen again, not almost eighteen. Not a man.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” she said, gently but firmly.

“I’m not a kid anymore.”

“No, you’re not. But Ben,” she sighed, “I do like you. I care about you. Just not like that.” His throat hurt, like he was swallowing glass.

“I’ll treat you better than any of them,” he whispered.

“I know,” she said, reaching out to touch his hand, warm and firm. “That's not it. ” He stared at her hand on his. Then slowly stood up, the air colder now between them.

The wound on her palm was forgotten.

Ben stood there, unmoving. He looked at her like he was trying to memorize every line of her face, like if he just understood her expression, maybe the ache in his chest would make sense.

She only now noticed how tall he’d gotten in the last two years. He wasn’t that lanky boy with too-big hands and sleeves rolled up to the elbows anymore. His shoulders had settled broad and strong, the kind that filled a doorway. His voice had dropped a register—warm, firm, sure.

But the look in his eyes tonight was something else entirely.

He licked his lips like the words were too dry to say. “Is it because…” he paused, eyes falling to the floor, “because I have no… experience?”

Her brows drew in, caught off guard.

“I mean—” he rushed to explain, “I know most guys my age… they’ve had girls. In their beds. At parties. I just…” He shrugged, suddenly bashful. “I figured I’d wait. For the one that mattered.”

There it was. That truth, naked and soft in the middle of his chest. Y/N’s breath caught. She stood quickly, stepping toward him, eyes wide.

“No,” she said, almost pleading. “No, that’s not it. That’s not why, Ben. That has nothing to do with it.”

He looked at her, half-hopeful, half-lost.

“I think it’s… it’s cute, that you’re waiting for the one.”

He flinched. “Cute,” he echoed, quietly. A word that stung worse than it should have. "So I'm more like your kid brother?"

“Oh, Ben,” she sighed. “Don’t—don’t take it that way.”

“How else should I take it?” His voice cracked just a little. “You think it’s sweet, adorable. But you’ll never see me like them. Like the men who leave you bruised, and hurt. You rather have you face beaten up and cheated on than date a guy a few years younger?”

“That’s not fair—”

“I’d never hurt you.”

“I know,” she said. “I know you wouldn’t. But who said I won't hurt you?”

The silence wrapped around them. He didn’t look angry, not really. Just… wounded. Like something sacred had cracked in his chest and he didn’t quite know how to hold the pieces.

“I care about you,” she said, quieter now. “God, Ben, I care about you so much. But you’re still figuring out who you are.”

“I already know who I am,” he said. “I’m yours.”

Her breath hitched. But she couldn’t say what she wanted to. Not now. Not when the right words didn’t exist.

She just stepped back. "Ben, I'm not the girl for you." She let him go.

---

Two Weeks Later

Y/N hadn’t seen him.

Not for thirteen days. Not since the night he’d left without looking back, heartbreak stitched across his broadening shoulders.

And then, on the fourteenth morning, there he was—just like always.

No fanfare. No words.

Just Ben, sleeves rolled, arms straining as he carried two heavy crates through the back door like he’d never left. She blinked from behind the bar, setting down her coffee. “You’re alive.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even glance her way. Just walked past and set the crates down where they belonged. Her smile faltered.

Something had changed. And it was her fault.

---

She didn’t get a chance to ask. Not then. Because an hour later, he walked in.

Tommy.

The guy who’d thrown a brick, bruised her arms, and spat at her name in the street. His swagger oozed entitlement, like nothing had happened, like he belonged.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, loud enough for Ben to hear. And then, without warning, he grabbed her by the waist and kissed her.

Y/N froze. Not responding. Not resisting. Just… enduring.

Ben was across the room, stacking a barrel near the back. He turned slowly, jaw clenched, eyes dark. Tommy caught it.

“Oh, it’s the boy again,” he sneered. “Still sniffing around like a mutt.”

Ben didn’t respond. Just went back to what he was doing. Focused. Calm. If Y/N wanted him rather than him he would behave, for her.

But the guy wasn’t having it. He strode over and shoved Ben forward, hard, slamming him chest-first against the barrel.

“Don’t ignore me, punk.” Y/N moved to help—fast—but she didn’t need to.

Ben whipped around, jaw tight, eyes burning, and drove his fist into the man’s face. A clean, sharp punch—one he’d clearly been holding back for months.

The man staggered and crashed into a table, toppling it sideways. Chairs scattered. Blood bloomed from his nose. He groaned, standing up, teeth bared. “You little shit—”

He lunged. But before he could lay a finger, Y/N stepped between them.

“Don’t!”

She wasn’t shouting. But her voice cut like a blade. “I’m done. You hear me? Get out of my bar. Out of my life.” He stared at her, stunned. “You’re choosing him? A goddamn kid?”

“Better than a coward who only feels strong when he's hurting someone smaller.”

“You crazy bitch,” he snapped, wiping his nose. “You’d rather play house with a teenager? Fine. You’re nothing but a slut. A child abuser.”

Ben moved again, fury in his stride—but Y/N grabbed his arm. Her head shaking no. She turned back to Tommy. “If you ever come near me again, I swear on every name I’ve ever loved—I will call the cops.”

He hesitated. Then spat on the floor and stormed out, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the windows.

Silence returned, thick and humming.

Y/N stood there, breathing heavy. Still between Ben and the door. Then slowly, her shoulders sank.

Ben stepped forward. “You okay?” She nodded, not looking at him. But her hands were trembling. Her eyes finally lifted to his, her hand moving over his cheek.

"Thank you.... soldier."

**Philadelphia, Spring that same year**

They’d fallen into their old rhythm again—like nothing had ever broken between them.

Ben came in early, lifted the heavy stock, cleaned without asking. She poured his coffee just how he liked it, always before the bar opened, always before the real world could intrude.

They didn’t talk about that night anymore. The one with the fight and the shouting and her standing between him and the kind of man she swore she was done with. But things were different after that. Not in big ways—just in the quiet ones.

He watched her more protectively. She touched his arm a little longer when saying thank you. Neither of them said what it meant.

---

One morning, Ben lingered by the register longer than usual. She was cleaning glasses, humming low, when he finally spoke.

“Hey, uh…” He cleared his throat. “You think I could maybe… get a raise?”

She paused, one brow lifted. “A raise?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “My dad said I should at least be making double. Said I’m being used.”

It was a lie. A clumsy one. His father barely spoke to him anymore. Y/N frowned, glass halfway polished. “Ben… I can’t pay that. I barely make enough to cover my own rent.”

He winced. “Right. I shouldn’t’ve—” She stepped around the bar quickly, grabbing his arm. “Hey. I didn’t say no.”

He blinked.

“I said I can’t pay that much. But I can give you something. A little more. Whatever I’ve got to spare.” He looked down at her hand on his arm. Then at her eyes—soft, tired, but still kind.

“Thanks,” he said, giving a half smile. “That’s… that’s really kind of you.”

But guilt still hung on his shoulders.

After a beat, he added quietly, “Maybe I could find a second job. You know. For evenings, after I'm done here here. I just… I don’t wanna be a burden.”

Her face changed. “You’re not a burden, Ben. I just make enough for myself and I do appreciate your help but... ” He looked at her, and for a second, the air between them felt like that night again. Unspoken things. Uncrossed lines. "I get it."

“I just o do my part,” he said. “I know,” she replied. “You always had my back.”

And then she did something she hadn’t done in a long time. She reached up, and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. A touch too tender to be casual.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. But neither of them said a word.

---

**Philadelphia, Summer **

Ben had picked up a second job two weeks after asking for the raise. It paid good money, enough for him to save. But more than that, the work gave him something else—distance. Time to think. Time to breathe.

The place was just a few blocks down. A brothel hidden behind a red-painted door, dressed up like a jazz club to fool the right eyes. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t safe. But it paid in cash and didn’t ask questions.

He worked the door mostly. Kept drunks out, broke up fights before they started. He didn’t look like the kind of boy you’d mess with anymore, and people listened.

And then there was Minny.

She was Y/N’s age. Maybe a little older. Red lipstick, lazy laugh, cigarette always dangling between her fingers. Minny was smart. Sharp-eyed. She liked to come outside for a smoke and talk to him, especially when the night was quiet.

“You’re sweet,” she’d tell him. “Too sweet for this place.”

He trusted her. Maybe because she never looked at him like he was a kid.

One night, he told her everything.

About the bar. About Y/N. About how she called him her soldier, About her troubled love life and how his dad saw her as cheap. About how it hurt when she didn’t look at him the way he looked at her.

Minny smiled around her cigarette.

“Let me guess,” she said. “She likes her men rough. Loud. With hands like vices.”

He blinked.

“She likes experienced men,” Minny said. “Women like that, like us..." Ben frowned but she just continued. "we don’t admit it, but we don’t want to teach. We want to be taken.”

Ben swallowed. His cheeks red.

"Would you like to learn?” Her lips curved. Slow. Knowing. “I could teach you,” she said. “Nice and slow.”

His mouth went dry. “What’s… what’s the price?”

She grinned wide, all teeth and mischief. “Oh, honey. For you? First lesson’s free.”

---

Weeks later

Y/N wasn’t looking for him.

She was just walking home after closing. Same route as always passed the red door. The sky a navy bruise above her, streets slick from earlier rain. She tugged her coat tighter around her ribs, cutting down the side street for once. Tired. Bone-deep.

That’s when she saw him.

Ben.

Tall, lean, head down as he followed a woman out of a building. Y/N slowed. Watched the red door swing shut behind them.

Her stomach twisted. That building. The girl had red lips, long legs, her hand brushing Ben’s chest like she’d done it before.

Y/N stood frozen. The ache in her chest blooming sharp, fast, ugly.And just like that, it made sense. Why he needed the money.

Why he stopped coming around as much. Why his eyes had started looking elsewhere. She turned before the tears could sting.

And for the first time since that boy walked into her bar with eager hands and dreams of becoming a soldier—she felt ... jealous.

---

The next morning, Ben came in quiet.

Tired. Under-eyed. His shirt rumpled, knuckles slightly bruised from God knows what. Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t let the strange tightness in her chest change the tone of her voice.

“Morning, soldier,” she said like always, handing him his usual coffee.

He smiled—faint, grateful—and sipped like it was the only warm thing in his life. She asked him, casually, “How’s the new job going?”

“Good,” he said.

That was it. No details. No mention of Minny or what he was really learning behind that red door. Just a tight-lipped answer that sounded more like a lie.

And then came the nights.

---

Y/N told herself she wasn’t checking. But she was. Every night after closing, she’d pass by the brothel on the way home, gaze hidden under the brim of her coat. Once. Twice. A third time.

And always—always—there he was. Sometimes handing the girl with red lips folded cash. Sometimes disappearing inside after a quiet word, like it was routine now.

And it burned.

Not just the thought of him with another woman. Well if she was honest that too. But the look on his face—gentle, soft, like she used to see when he brought her her favorite beer after a rough night. The look, that smile, used to be hers.

It was raining again. Cold and sharp against the sidewalk.

Y/N stood across the street under the eaves of a shuttered deli. Her hands buried deep in her coat. Ben stood out front of the brothel with that girl again. Talking. Close. She said something and laughed, touching his arm.

Then she kissed his cheek. Her red lips leaving a stain on his cheek. He smiled, slow and soft. Y/N’s heart stuttered. She turned on instinct—spun away fast, like the very sight had cut her.

She didn’t hear his footsteps until they were behind her. “Y/N—!” She didn’t stop. He chased her through the wet streets, calling her name until she finally snapped, “Let me go home, Ben!”

But he didn’t. She reached her apartment door, keys shaking in her hand, when he grabbed her shoulder and turned her around. “What were you doing there?” he asked, breathless, wet from the rain. "That is a dangerous alley to be in for a woman."

She laughed bitterly. “I should ask you that.” His face tightened. “It’s not what you think.”

“You sure about that?”

“She’s just a friend. At my new job.”

“Friends don’t take your money, don't lead you inside a brothel and, and... and kiss your cheek like that. Besides its none of my business who you fuck around with Ben!"

He flinched.

She scoffed. “That’s none of my business, right? I’m just your boss.”

“No, you’re not,” he said, voice cracking. “You never were just my boss.” She looked at him then—really looked. He was wet, shivering, bare in a way he rarely let himself be.

“I needed someone to talk to,” he said. “And I work there, I watch the door. And Minny, she.. I, I needed someone who wasn’t you, because you never let me in.”

She blinked.

“I wanted to know why I wasn’t enough,” he said. “Why I wasn’t man enough to you. So I... I...”

Silence stretched long between them.

And then she whispered, so quietly, “You were always enough. You are more than enough!”

He stepped forward.

The storm outside intensified as Ben closed the gap between them, his chest rising and falling with each breath, the rain dripping off his damp hair. The world felt muffled, contained between the two of them. There was something about the silence in the air, heavy with confession and unspoken emotions.

Ben’s words cut through the stillness.

“You never thought I was enough for you.?” He leaned in closer, his green eyes dark with something she couldn’t quite place. “Not enough to be with you, not enough to be with you.”

Y/N’s heart sank. She opened her mouth, but the words caught in her throat. She felt trapped in that moment, the rain pouring, cold between them, and Ben standing there—waiting.

“I work there,” Ben said suddenly, his voice steady but his hands shaking. “As a bouncer, at the brothel.”

Y/N didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t form a response, so she just stared at him, wide-eyed, her mind racing. He took that as a cue to continue, his words spilling out faster now, raw and unguarded.

“I only slept with Windy twice,” he confessed, and the way he said it made her insides churn. “I didn’t know anything about women. I thought… maybe if I did this, you’d see that I wasn’t just some kid. That maybe, one day, you'd let me in. I thought maybe you’d see me differently, that I’d at least know something.”

Y/N’s heart twisted. She wanted to speak, wanted to tell him that he was so much more than that, but the words wouldn't come. She felt something deep in her gut—a kind of anger mixed with regret—but mostly… sadness.

“And Minny…” Ben’s voice dropped lower, hesitant now. “She said you’re a woman with experience. She said you need a man with experience, someone who knows how to take you, how to handle you, how to be the man you need.”

Y/N felt her breath catch in her throat. There it was—the truth, sharp and unforgiving. Minny had told him what he thought was the reason, the explanation he’d needed all this time. She’d put the idea in his head that she wanted someone like that—someone who could match her in ways Ben hadn’t been able to.

She played him.

For a second, the air around them felt heavy, crackled. Like a storm waiting to break. Y/N blinked, forcing herself to steady her breathing, to look him in the eye, to see the boy she had always known.

But this—this was new. This was him being something he wasn’t. Y/N didn’t know how to answer, but she needed to. She had to say something. Anything.

“I never needed someone like that, Ben,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “I just… You don’t have to pretend to be something else, not for me, not for anyone.”

Ben stepped back, almost stumbling, and he ran a hand through his wet hair, frustrated. He wanted to argue, but the words felt foreign now. Everything felt too raw. His lips trembled as he tried to piece together the jumble of emotions.

“I wanted you to see me differently,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I wanted you to see me as a man, not a kid.”

Y/N reached out, gently touching his arm, her fingertips cold against his wet sleeve. “Ben, you’ve always been more than a kid to me. I see you. I always have.”

He shook his head, the doubt still clouding his eyes. “Then why didn’t you ever…?” He trailed off, unable to finish. His vulnerability hung in the air like a weight neither of them could escape.

“I was scared" she admitted. “I was scared of what would happen if I let you in. What it would mean for us. I was scarred you'd learn I'm crazy or or I don't know, not what you want. Scarred you'd leave me like every man in my life had ever done!”

Ben stepped back again, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “I won't. Not now to ever.”

Y/N’s gaze softened as she took a step toward him. The rain poured down on them, but it was nothing compared to the storm inside them both.

“I know,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

The rain kept falling, heavy and relentless, as they stood pressed against the door. The storm outside seemed to echo the tension between them, the weight of everything unspoken, everything unsaid, finally crashing over them.

Ben’s hands gripped her arms, holding her firmly, but there was a gentleness now in the way he touched her. His face was close—so close—and his breath was shaky, full of longing and uncertainty.

“Tell me what to do, Y/N,” he pleaded, his voice thick with emotion. “Tell me what to do. I don’t know how to fix this. How to make you see me the way I see you.”

She reached up, her fingers trembling as they pressed against his lips, silencing him gently. His words died in his throat, his eyes wide, searching hers.

The world outside was muted—the steady rhythm of rain, the crackle of thunder, all faded in comparison to the intensity of the moment.

Her fingers lingered on his lips, the touch tender, almost hesitant, but there was something about it that grounded them both. Her heart raced, her pulse quickened, and she finally realized that everything that had built up between them—the fear, the desire, the confusion—was ready to spill over.

A flash of lightning lit up the dark street, and in that blinding moment, something shifted. The walls between them, the distance they’d tried to maintain, crumbled.

Ben’s gaze flickered to her lips, then back to her eyes, searching for permission, for some sign that she wanted this too. The question in his eyes was so raw, so vulnerable, it made her heart ache.

Without thinking, without hesitation, she stepped forward and kissed him.

His lips met hers with an intensity that caught her off guard, his kiss desperate and sure, as though he’d been waiting for this for so long. The heat of it spread like wildfire, and her breath hitched as his lips moved against hers, slow at first, then more urgent.

Ben pulled her hand to his lips, kissing her palm softly, his lips warm against her skin. She gasped, the sensation sending a shiver down her spine, and then he kissed each of her fingers, one by one, his mouth worshipping the delicate skin of her hand.

Her body tensed, her breath quickening, and before she could stop herself, a soft moan escaped her lips. The sound—raw, hungry—echoed in the space between them, only fueling Ben’s need.

In one swift movement, Ben leaned in, his mouth capturing hers once more. This time, it was more than just a kiss. His tongue swept against her lips, demanding entry, and she parted her mouth without thinking. The moment his tongue slid against hers, a gasp broke free from her throat, and she felt the world fall away.

Y/N opened the door blindly behind her, pulling Ben inside with her.

The kiss deepened, both of them losing themselves in the heat, in the urgency. The way he kissed her, like he couldn’t get enough, made her heart race faster. Her hands moved to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat, matching the pounding of her own.

Y/N’s hands fisted in his wet shirt as she pulled him closer, her body responding to the magnetic pull between them. She moaned again, louder this time, the sound almost foreign to her, but it felt right, felt like something she’d been holding back for far too long.

Ben broke the kiss, both of them gasping for air, but his lips stayed close, brushing against her skin as his hands roamed to her waist, pulling her in tighter.

“I don’t know if I can stop,” he whispered, his voice thick with desire. Y/N looked up at him, eyes wide, chest heaving. She felt like she was floating, drowning in the feeling of him.

“I don’t want you to stop,” she murmured, barely able to form the words.

His lips crashed against hers again, this time with no hesitation, no fear. The storm outside raged on, but it was nothing compared to the feelings between them.

The rain hammered against the windows as Ben followed Y/N to her bedroom, his heart racing, the heat of the moment making everything feel surreal. She tugged him toward her bed, her hands shaking slightly, but there was no hesitation in her movements.

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her wet jacket as Ben shed his soaked clothes, the storm outside growing louder, more intense.

Every touch between them was electric, charged with all the emotions they had never allowed themselves to feel before. Y/N pulled him closer, her body pressing against his as she kissed him once more, desperate, as if afraid of losing him.

Ben gently guided her to the bed, the softness of the sheets contrasting with the urgency between them. He lay her down carefully, as if she were something precious—something worth protecting.

She wasn’t just overwhelmed by desire—there was something in Ben’s touch that made her feel seen, understood, as though they were both finally shedding their fears and their insecurities.

Ben kissed her softly, his lips trailing down her neck, her shoulders, his hands exploring her skin with a tenderness that made her heart flutter.

His touch was both reverent and needy, as if he had waited a lifetime to get to this moment—and in some way, maybe they both had.

She closed her eyes, her breath shallow as she felt the heat of his body against hers. But then, when he moved lower, she stopped him, her hand gently on his shoulder.

“Ben… What are you doing?” Her voice was soft, uncertain, but she wasn’t pulling away. He looked up at her, his eyes full of that familiar intensity, but this time there was something else—vulnerability, an unspoken question.

He smiled, that mischievous grin she knew all too well, and then he whispered, “Lay back. Let me show you something.”

Y/N hesitated for a heartbeat, but then she relaxed, sinking back into the bed, her hands gripping the sheets beneath her while she felt his wet hair trailing the way his lips kissed her lower and lower, until his head was between her thighs.

--

Later that night, the storm had quieted, the thunder now distant and low, like the final heartbeat of something long chased. Rain still whispered against the windows, soft and steady. The room was dimly lit by the occasional flicker of lightning far off, casting silver shadows across the tangled sheets and the two bodies entwined within them.

Ben lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting lightly along Y/N’s spine. She was tucked against him, her bare skin warm and relaxed against his side, her head rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath. Her fingers traced slow, lazy patterns across his chest—circles, stars, lines with no real destination. It was quiet in the way people grow quiet after sharing something that changes them.

She broke it first, her voice low and thoughtful. “Why didn’t you ever go?” she asked softly, her finger pausing over his heart. “You always talked about joining the army. You were going to be a soldier.”

Ben didn’t answer right away. His chest rose, then fell, and he turned his head to look at her, his damp hair curling a little at the edges. “You know why.”

Y/N looked up at him.

He exhaled through his nose and gave a small shrug. “I stayed for you.”

Her eyes searched his, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t shy away. It wasn’t a line. There was no performance in the way he said it. Just quiet truth, raw and simple.

“I couldn’t leave you, not with the way things were. After... after everything... You weren’t some damsel, I know that. But you were hurting. And I couldn’t bear the thought of being gone and something happening to you.”

She laid her head back on his chest, heart aching, fingers still against his skin. “You shouldn’t have given up on your dream for me.”

Ben smiled a little, the corner of his mouth tugging up as he looked at the ceiling. “Didn’t feel like giving anything up. Felt like doing the only thing that made sense.”

She was quiet again, her fingers drawing shapes once more—slower now, thoughtful.

“You still could,” she whispered. “If you wanted it.”

He glanced down at her, brow furrowed. “What, join up now?”

“You’re still young. And strong. And stubborn as hell. You’d make a damn fine soldier.” Ben was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know if that dream still fits me, y’know?”

“You talk like you’re fifty,” she said, laughing softly. He grinned, pulling he in closer. “Feels like I’ve lived a lot in the last few years.”

Y/N propped herself up just enough to look at him, her hand resting on his chest, fingers splayed over his heartbeat. “Whatever you do, don’t do it for me, Ben. Not anymore. I care about you too much for that.”

His green eyes held hers. “And what if everything I want just happens to have you in it?”

That made her heart flutter—and ache at the same time. She wasn’t sure what the future looked like. The world was still at war, and they were two people who’d crossed a line they couldn’t uncross. But in that quiet, rainy moment, tangled in each other, she didn’t look away.

She leaned down and kissed his chest softly. "I promise I'll be here at home, waiting for you."

Y/N blinked, her lips still parted from the soft kiss she’d just pressed to his chest, her breath catching in her throat as Ben suddenly slipped from the bed in a rush.

“Ben?” she asked, pulling the covers up instinctively, the air around her cool without his warmth.

“Just wait,” he said over his shoulder, voice breathless, urgent—like he was afraid if he didn’t move fast enough, the moment might vanish. She heard the shuffle of clothing, then the creak of the floorboards as he made his way back to her side of the bed.

He was still completely bare, skin kissed gold by the faint flicker of the streetlamp outside, but he didn’t seem to care. His chest rose and fell with the weight of everything he was feeling, everything he hadn’t been able to say until now.

“I’ll sign up,” he said, voice low but certain, green eyes locked on hers. He was trembling slightly—not with fear, but with something bigger, heavier. “I’ll go. I’ll fight. I’ll do everything I said I would.”

She sat up a little, her brows furrowing, confused by the shift, her heart hammering.

“If…” he took a breath, then dropped to one knee beside the bed, the small velvet ring pouch clutched in his fingers. His hand shook as he opened it.

“If you do me the honor of marrying me.”

The ring wasn’t flashy or grand. It was simple. Modest. A delicate gold band with a single glimmering stone—likely one he’d saved for over months with whatever money he could spare. But in that small piece of jewelry, she saw every early morning he’d helped carry boxes into her bar, every heavy can he’d lifted without being asked. Every bruise he noticed on her arm before she could hide it. Every time he came to work with tired eyes and a quiet heart.

And now he was here. On one knee. Bare and open and honest. Asking her for something that scared them both.

Y/N’s lips parted, but no words came.

Ben swallowed hard, his eyes searching hers. “I know I’m young. I know this is fast. But I’ve loved you since I was just a dumb kid carrying boxes. I loved you when I didn’t even understand what love really was. And I swear, if you say yes—I’ll come back. I’ll survive whatever hell they throw me into just to get back to you.”

Y/N looked down at him, at the ring, at the man he’d become— but after all these years still hers.

And for once, she didn’t think about what was proper, what was smart, or what the neighbors might say. She thought about how she hadn’t really slept the week he disappeared.

She leaned forward, cupping his cheek, and whispered against his mouth, voice trembling—

“Yes, Ben. Yes.”

His exhale was ragged, his forehead falling to hers as he wrapped his arms around her, both of them tangled up in each other again, the storm outside now just a hum. There were still things to face, still a world at war waiting for him—but for that moment, there was only the promise between them.

And it was enough.

For now

--

Taglist Jensen:

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꒰ lick it up, fucking eat. ᮫ ⭒

married!ellie x interior designer! reader Summary: Ellie hires you to bring her shitty wife’s so-called "dream home" to life, but you end up fufilling something else.

The house was silent, save for the low hum of the air conditioning, which flowed through the sprawling, half-renovated living room. You stood in front of a swatch of paint samples, holding each one up to the fading light from the bay window. The sun dipped low, casting golden fingers across the unfinished floorboards, hinting at what the space might look like when it was finally complete. Ellie watched you from across the room, leaning casually against the doorframe with her arms crossed, her gaze drifting between you and the wall.

“That one,” she muttered, jerking her chin toward the beige sample you held. Her voice was laced with something close to disdain. “She thinks it’s ‘elegant.’ "

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at the shade—a flat, muted tone that felt as lifeless as the drywall it would cover. "Well," you replied, “if she wants ‘elegant,’ I’m sure we can do more than beige."

Ellie’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, a glint of something both dark and playful in them. She pushed off the wall, coming a little closer, her boots scuffing against the rough wood. "Exactly what I was thinking," she murmured, her gaze lingering on you a second too long before shifting to the wall.

You let out a quiet breath, suddenly very aware of the way her presence filled the room, heavy and warm, with a pull that seemed to demand attention. Her sleeves were pushed up, revealing her tattooed forearm—faintly smudged paint stains and a few scratches etched across her knuckles. Her messy hair fell into her eyes, and she brushed it away, glancing down at the floorboards as if they might give her the answers she was looking for.

“So… if it were completely up to you,” she continued, her voice softer now, “what would you do with the place?”

You felt a small jolt of excitement, surprised that she cared enough to ask your opinion. You took a slow breath, letting yourself look around the room with fresh eyes. "Something warm, to make the room feel alive. Maybe custom furniture, something that doesn’t look like it’s from a catalog."

She nodded slowly, her gaze following yours as you spoke, but there was something deeper, something unspoken in the way she looked at you. Like this wasn’t about the walls or the furniture.

"We could go for that," she said, and her voice dropped, quiet, the weight of her words sinking into the empty space between you. "Anything that makes this place feel less… hers."

Your heart fluttered at the faint edge of bitterness in her voice, the quiet rebellion hiding beneath her sarcasm. She was closer now, close enough that you could feel her warmth radiating toward you in the cooling room, close enough that you could see every detail of her: the subtle flecks of green in her eyes, the faint line of a scar near her temple.

You reached out, brushing your fingers over a scratch on the windowsill. "This place could be incredible. It just needs to feel lived in, loved.”

Ellie swallowed, her eyes following your hand. “Can you fullfill that?,” she murmured, and there was a softness in her voice now, something that made your stomach flip.

Your breath caught, pulse quickening as you felt the subtle shift in the air between you. The moment held a thread of tension, tight and fragile, like something waiting to be snapped. You swallowed, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’d love to show you. Just need a little… freedom with the choices.”

Ellie’s smirk returned, faint but laced with something deeper, "Freedom, huh?" She stepped back, giving you a lingering once-over before nodding, her voice a low murmur. "Yeah… I think we can work something out."

She pulled her gaze away reluctantly, as if forcing herself to break the spell, and you felt the strange tug of her absence, the fading warmth of her presence as she retreated toward the hallway. "Just… no beige," she added, her back already turned, her voice drifting down the hall like an invitation. 

You stood there, the glow of the setting sun washing over you, you realized you felt a thrill. 

The days passed in a blur of decisions, late-night calls with suppliers, and a dozen small, carefully calculated adjustments to make the space feel warmer, more vibrant—despite the rigid input from Ellie’s wife. You’d spent the afternoon with her, going over fixture placements and fabric swatches. She was precise, clinical, every suggestion an opportunity to correct, to refine, to turn down anything that dared to stand out.

Ellie’s wife stood in the middle of the room, studying the sofa with a critical eye. She let out a sigh, her fingers skimming over the velvet, dismissing it as though it were somehow beneath her. “I thought I made it clear I wanted something more sophisticated. This feels… almost flashy.” Her gaze landed on you, thinly veiled irritation simmering beneath her smile.

You opened your mouth to explain the intention behind the choice when the front door opened. Ellie walked in, still in her work clothes, a slight weariness to her step. Her gaze moved from you to her wife.

Ellie’s wife immediately turned to her, her posture stiffening. “There you are. I was just telling our designer here that this,” she gestured to the room around her with an air of distaste, “is not what we discussed.”

Ellie’s face tightened, a frustrated, almost exasperated look clouding her eyes. “ A little color wouldn’t kill you.”

“Yes, but I expected you’d listen to what I actually wanted.” She crossed her arms, her gaze pointed. “This was supposed to be tasteful, Ellie. Not… whatever this is.”

Ellie let out a dry laugh, brushing past her, stepping closer to you as she took in the room. “And by ‘tasteful,’ you mean dull walls and soulless furniture. Right?” 

Her wife’s eyes flashed, and she folded her arms tighter. “It’s not my fault you don’t understand the concept of refinement.”

Ellie’s jaw clenched, her hand flexing at her side. “God, do you even hear yourself? It’s a fucking home, not a damn workplace. Just—" she glanced over at you, her face softening briefly as if realizing you were caught in the middle. "Never mind.”

You held your breath, feeling the tension swell, a raw kind of frustration radiating between them. But Ellie’s wife was relentless, her voice sharp and dismissive. “Oh, here we go again. You act like I’m asking for something ridiculous. Just admit it—you’re the one who’s never satisfied. You’re the one who thinks everything has to be some big, meaningful statement. Not everything’s about you, Ellie!”

Ellie’s face flushed, her eyes flashing with something dangerously close to anger. She opened her mouth, then closed it, a defeated breath slipping past her lips as she seemed to reconsider. She cast one last glance at you, and you felt that familiar pull between you—a silent, unspoken understanding—and then, with a shake of her head, Ellie stormed off, her shoes echoing down the hallway until the door slammed behind her.

Silence swallowed the room, leaving you and her wife alone once more. 

“See what I have to deal with?” she muttered, shaking her head. "She gets these weird ideas about what’s ‘creative’ or ‘cool’ and just… doesn’t listen to reason. She doesn’t even understand what it takes to make a space look sophisticated. Her taste—it’s like a teenager trying to decorate a dorm room."

You felt your grip tighten on the sample book, but you forced yourself to stay professional. “Well, Ellie did mention she wanted something with a bit more character.”

Her wife snorted, crossing her arms with an exasperated sigh. “Exactly. Character. She’s so out of touch with what a home needs to feel welcoming. She can’t just accept that maybe—just maybe—she doesn’t know better than me.”

She flipped past a deep, velvety forest green swatch Ellie had specifically loved. “This green? I mean, it’s hideous. Who even wants a dark color like that in their home? It’s depressing.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, looking at the swatch she’d just discarded. “It could add some depth to the space. Sometimes dark colors bring a warmth that—”

Her wife gave you a sharp look, like you’d crossed some invisible line. She forced a tight smile. “Trust me,” she said, voice dripping with condescension, “there’s nothing to ‘deepen’ here. I know what I want, and I don’t need Ellie’s… outlandish tastes cluttering up my vision.”

The house had transformed into a hive of activity, buzzing with the sounds of hammers, paint rollers, and snippets of conversation as workers bustled around. Every corner of the room felt alive with movement, a stark contrast to the emptiness you’d felt days prior. Furniture was being hauled in, drapes were hung, and the walls were beginning to take on their new colors. Yet despite the flurry of activity, your attention was divided, searching the room more often than not for a familiar face.

And then, as if on cue, Ellie appeared.

She wove through the workers, carrying a crumpled paper bag in one hand and balancing two cups of coffee in the other. She wore a smile, her messy hair peeking out from under a faded baseball cap, a glimmer of excitement lighting up her face as she caught your eye. She slipped between a worker with a paint can and another adjusting a lamp, until finally, she stopped in front of you. 

Ellie held up the bag with a faint smile. “Thought you could use a break,” she said, nudging the bag into your hands. “There’s a place around the corner that makes delicious pastries.”

Surprised and a little touched, you opened the bag, the warm, sweet scent wafting out immediately. “Thank you.”

The noise of the workers faded into a distant hum, becoming a mere backdrop to the moment as you took a bite of the pastry. The warm sweetness melted on your tongue, rich and comforting, drawing a soft sigh from your lips. But in your enjoyment, you didn’t notice the crumb that fell, catching just at the corner of your lips. 

Ellie did, though.

In the midst of all the clamor—the sharp buzz of saws cutting through wood, the metallic clinking of hammers striking nails, and the sound of her wife’s sharp voice scolding a worker about the paint application—Ellie stepped closer, her expression suddenly serious.

Her fingers were careful, warm, and impossibly soft as they brushed the crumb from your lips. You felt her fingertip linger there, feather-light, barely skimming your skin, but enough to make your breath catch.

Her gaze held yours, deep green eyes flickering with an unreadable emotion that pulled you in. Ellie’s fingers felt electric against your skin, her knuckles resting against your cheek, the warmth radiating from her touch contrasting with the cool air of the room. Ellie’s eyes dropped for just a heartbeat, shifting from your gaze to your mouth, where her thumb hovered near your lip. You could feel your heart racing, each beat echoing in your ears as she lingered just a moment longer than necessary.

You could hear her breath hitch slightly as her fingers finally pulled away, leaving your skin cold in their absence.

“Fuck” she murmured, voice low and just a little hoarse. Her gaze drifted to your lips one last time, almost on purpose, before she forced her eyes to focus anywhere but on you. 

You remember when the affair began.

It was a cold winter, the kind that seeped into your bones, making everything feel heavy and muffled. Snow blanketed the world outside, a serene white glow through the window. 

Ellie was pressed against you, her body radiating heat as she leaned in closer, her face achingly near yours. You could feel the warmth of her breath mingling with the cool air between you. Her hands flexed around your hips, desperate to grip them, to anchor herself to you. 

There was a desperation.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” She pleaded, her voice strained,  a wish that perhaps if you rejected her, if you spoke the words she needed to hear, the desires swirling for you would vanish. 

But as she leaned in closer, her lips brushing against yours in a feather-light touch, the world around you blurred.  A shiver raced down your spine, igniting something deep within you—a spark that flared into a flame, daring you to give in. 

“I need you,” Ellie breathed, the urgency in her voice sending warmth pooling in your stomach. Her words ghosted over your skin, leaving a trail of heat that made it impossible to think straight. “I need to feel you, to taste you. Please, let me have you…” 

You could see it in her eyes—the hunger, the need. 

Your lips touched Ellie’s, slowly, tentatively at first. You hesitated for a moment, searching her eyes for any sign of hesitation, any hint that this was a mistake. But all you found was a dark hunger reflected in her gaze, a need that mirrored your own. The soft sound of falling snow outside barely registered as you leaned in closer, feeling the warmth of her body.

Ellie’s lips then pressed against yours, slow and soft, “Oh, fuck.” she gasped, her breath warm against your mouth. 

It was all you needed. 

You kissed her again, this time deeper and more sensual, losing yourself in the taste of her. Every brush of your lips was a question, every stroke of your tongue an answer. Savoring the way her tongue stroked against yours with caresses that left you breathless.

“God, you taste amazing,” she murmured against your lips. The way she spoke made you feel seen, desired, as if every part of you was exactly what she craved.

“Ellie…” you breathed, her name slipped from your lips so easily. 

Ellie’s kisses grew more urgent, each one a desperate plea for more as her hands gripped your hips with bruising force, anchoring you against the wall. Her lips trailed down your neck, gasping as her teeth grazed over your skin.  And then, without warning, she sucked hard, her mouth forming a seal against your neck. 

“Oh fuck..” you breathed, your voice aching to be more than a whisper. 

Ellie was already lost in her own world, her focus entirely on you, on the way your body responded to her touch.

"Shhh, we need to be quiet," she whispered, her voice low with need, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, pupils dilated with lust, a fiery spark that made your stomach knot.

Her hands wandered down your body, fingers tracing the contours of your ass, kneading the soft flesh as she pulled you closer, digging into your skin and leaving dents where her grip tightened.

"God, I can’t get enough of you." she breathed, her hands slipping to unbutton your jeans. Her fingers teased the waistband of your panties, dipping just beneath the fabric to caress your folds, igniting a heat through you. She kissed and nipped at your neck, her tongue flicking out to taste your sweat-slicked skin.

Her hand slid further into your panties, her fingers parting your slick folds to stroke your sensitive clit. You gasped, your mouth agape as she circled the swollen nub with a feather-light touch. Her other hand slid up your body, cupping your tit and kneading the soft mound. Her fingers found your hardened nipple, pinching and rolling the sensitive bud between her thumb and index finger.

"Oh fuck.." you hiccuped, “please.." 

Leaning down, ellie’s hot breath hovered over your sensitive skin before she took your nipple into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it. She moaned against your nipple, her tongue flicking against the hardened bud as she sucked hard, her teeth grazing your skin, making you gasp.

"Ellie," you begged, your voice strained with need. "I need more.”

Her eyes darkened with lust as she gazed at you, turned on by your desperate pleas. "Beg for it," she groaned, her voice low. Ellie's fingers stroked your slick folds, teasing your entrance but not yet delving inside. She circled your clit with light touches, making you buck your hips, seeking more friction.

“Please," you moaned. "Please, fuck me."

Apparently she didn’t need much convincing.

With an urgency, Ellie plunged two fingers knuckle-deep into your soaking cunt, curling them upward to stroke that sensitive spot inside you. The lewd sound of your juices squelching filled the air as she pumped her fingers in and out, stroking your inner walls with each thrust, her thumb rubbing soft circles around your aching clit.

"Atta girl.." Ellie groaned, her voice thick with desire. "Ride my fucking fingers."

"fuuck, right there," you moaned, your eyes rolling back in pleasure. 

You reached down to slide your hand to unbutton ellie’s jeans. Her belt clinking as her hips bucked forward. Your fingers crept beneath the waistband of her boxers, feeling the slick flesh of her dripping hole.

"Fuuck me," Ellie moaned, grinding her hips against your hand, spreading her thighs wider to give you more access to her aching cunt. Her movements were desperate, urging you to rub her swollen clit, the sensitive nub pulsing beneath your touch.

"Yes, fuck, just like that," she groaned, her perky tits bouncing slightly with each thrust. Her head rolling back in pleasure, eyes fluttering shut as she lost herself.

"Yes, just like that," You moaned, ellie’s fingers pumping faster in and out of your dripping cunt. She could feel your slick coating her fingers, your juices dripping down her wrist. Your hips jerked erratically, your stomach beginning to knot. With a sharp cry, you came, your pussy spasming around her fingers as you rode out your orgasm.

"That's it, cum for me," she moaned, rubbing your clit faster to prolong your pleasure. "Come all over my fucking fingers." Your body shuddered, your walls clenching around her as you milked her fingers for all they were worth. She could feel your juices gushing out, coating her hand and dripping onto the floor. Your moans filled the room, echoing obscenely off the walls.

Ellie slowly withdrew her fingers, feeling your walls clench around her as she pulled them out. Your juices coated her hand, glistening in the low light of the room.

She grabbed your shoulders, pushing you down to your knees. She hooked her thumbs in her waistband, shimmying her boxers down her thighs before stepping out of them. Ellie's pussy was glistening, she parted her folds to reveal her throbbing clit. She straddled your face, her dripping cunt hovering just above your mouth

“Fuck I -" Ellie moaned, grinding her hips down to press her pussy against your lips. “Fucking taste me.” Ellie's juices coated your mouth as you flicked your tongue out, lathering it along her slick folds before delving inside her dripping hole. Ellie's poor thighs trembled, her hands gripping your hair as she rode your face frantically, bringing her fingers to her lips, sucking your slick off of them with a low moan.

“You’re so fucking good," She groaned, her juices coating your mouth, dripping down your chin.

"That's it, right there," Ellie panted, her thighs trembling around your head. "Fuck, your tongue feels so good." Her hands gripped your hair, pulling you closer as she rutted against your mouth. 

"That's it, fuck, I'm gonna cum-," Ellie moaned, her hips jerking erratically. You plunged two fingers deep into Ellie's soaked cunt, her walls clenching around quickly, her juices gushing out. You sucked ellie's clit faster, feeling it twitch beneath your tounge as she came. 

“What the fuck!?” ellie’s wife excalimed. 

She had walked in, her eyes widening in shock as she took in the scene before her. 

Ellie was still straddling your face, her dripping pussy pressed against your mouth. The obsecene sounds of slurping and moaning filled the room, leaving no doubt as to what had been happening. 

You remember when the affair began. 

You remember when the affair ended.

lee byung hun but like him married with a young wife!? Pleaseeee!!

BIRTHDAY WISHES | lee byung-hun and his young wife

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byunghun0712

liked by yourusername and others

byunhun0712 happy 26th birthday to the love of my life

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user46 HAPPY BIRTHDAY

yourbestfriendsuser HAPPY BIRTHDAY BEAUTIFUL

byunghunfan HE’S MARRIED!?

user4 @/byunghunfan they’ve been married for 2 years

byunghunfan @/user4 STOP

yourusername ur making me feel old (not as old as you but still)

byunghun0712 @/yourusername haha 😂

yourusername

liked by zendaya and others

yourusername he always makes sure I look good especially for my birthday

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yourfriendsuser why is he so focused 😭

user09 WHY CANT HE LOOK AT ME THAT WAY

ilovedilfs i aspire to be you

user64 @/ilovedilfs marry a dilf?

user12 I wish to be his controversially young wife just like you

y/nfan4 can’t believe this beautiful woman is married

yourusername

liked by yourbestfriendsuser and others

yourusername my fav pictures from my birthday

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yourbestfriendsuser YOUR LOOKING WAY TOO GOOD

liked by author

user76 how old are you now??

y/nswifey @/user76 she’s 26!

userfan18 I can’t believe she just turned 26

claireeperrz @/user18 Frl I’m 26 and I’m not even married yet

y/nsworld they’re so cuteee

y/nsdiary can’t believe I wasn’t invited ☹️

marrymey/n

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marrymey/n our beautiful queen turned 26 <3 here’s pictures via her husband’s [lee byung-hun] story today

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y/nssoulmate HUSBAND!? HELLO!??

user13 she’s prettyyy who is she?

mrslee don’t remind me they’re married

user5 SHE LIKED YOUR POST

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yourusername thank you everyone for the birthday wishes!!! love you all

marrymey/n @/yourusername omg no way you commented

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a/n: sorry I haven’t really updated. I’m back in college so I’ve been pretty busy

i saw someone mention an idea a while ago (i cant remember who im sorry!!!) about what would happen if baby (the impala) became a real person from some witch spell and what theyd be like 'n ive been thinking about it ever since ...

"would you still love her so much if she was a person?

what a weird thing to ask about a car, dean had thought in that moment, but hey, witches were weird sons of bitches. he'd laughed about it, shoved the stupid witch killing potion down her throat, and went on his merry way.

baby wasn't where he'd parked her. he walked all around the place, head spinning in absolute befuddlement, because how does a parked car move, when-

"dean!"

a girl in a black leather jacket, only a black leather jacket, sprints up to him like he's some kind of sight for sore eyes. his eyes widen, absolutely certain this was just going to chalk up to the weirdest night in the world, and then he remembers the witch and her cryptic talk.

"ah, fuck," dean groans, and the chipper girl in front of him merely blinks, the bags under her eyes a little dark, a little heavy. he knew he needed to get baby an oil change. seeing how rundown she was starting to look now that she was real was like icing atop a fucked up cake.

the girl's head tilts. "is something wrong with my engine?"

dean blinks once. twice. "what?"

"you say that when something's wrong with me." in her hand is his to-go cup from the diner. straw to her mouth and drinking like she'd been in a desert for weeks. right. maybe the oil change was more than overdue. he'd been busy, alright? "i think it's my engine."

"yeah? why's that?"

the girl blinks again. looks down at herself, and then back up. "something did not start right."

no. something did not start right. she's practically bouncing on her heels, though, and she's pretty as all sin, so at the very least, dean's body upkeep with his car was spot on.

it was a long walk back to the hotel. he wasn't even sure how to explain this to sam, or how exactly to handle walking down the highway with a half naked girl, but. stranger things had happened and would happen, he supposed.

the slurping noises from her drinking only got louder as they walked. it was empty, except for the ice melting and pooling in the bottom of the styrofoam. "this was really good. tickled my tongue."

dean couldn't help the curl in the corners of his lips at that. the answer was yes. he would still love her as much if she was a girl.

HOPE THIS IS GOOD I JUST WOKE UP N HAD TO MAKE SOMETHINNGGGG BC THIS IDEA IS SO CUTESIE SILLY AND I TOO DIDNT STOP THINKING AB IT UNTIL I GOT SOMETHIN OUT < 3