I'm finally getting a hang of all this tumblr shit and I made a cute little Navigation to stuff I post on here.
*ahem* So here it goes:
Welcome to my cutsie little chaotic corner of the interwebs.
I'm a 30 something, tarot reading, ADHD brained baddie who happens to be a multi-disicplinary artist. I share mostly Supernatural related work, traditional and digital stuff. Nail content, cuz Im an amature nail tech baddie, hence the fist line *cough* duh *cough*. Plus other random stuff that makes my brain happy.
Thanks for stopping in.
ADIOS!
⨠Artwork â¨
Collection of all my process videos, quick sketches, and digital art.
⨠Nails â¨
All my past and present sets plus process videos (sometimes)
â¨My 2025 Supernatural Fic Recc Listâ¨
A nice long and very extensive list of stories I read this year and reccomend that you read them too!
â¨Writing(sorta kinda)â¨
Just a few thoughts and random headcanons, and things that made me giggle enough that I had to write them down.
â¨My Supernatural Fanfiction Archive (in progress!)â¨
In here you'll find the information about my big passion project plus a little post about how you can help a girl out! (Google Survey linked in here as well).
My first time making a tag game! Answer this prompt and tag some friends ! !
What are some parts of a character/headcannons unique to your style that is kept consistent in all/most of your fics?
For me, I always make my more human version of Castiel the product of generational wealth. His dad is rich. He grew up in a mansion.
And all of his siblings are half siblings! I hc that Chuck made a lot of bad choices with the fans of his novels, and out came Cas and his siblings. But Cas is the only kid who Chuck has full custody of.
Cas is the youngest sibling! Heâs always baby brother.
What are some parts of a character/headcannons unique to your style that is kept consistent in all/most of your fics?
Sam and Dean are virtually always little spoons. They each need someone to take care of them and once they feel safe, they'd melt if someone pulled them into their arms
The reader always calls Cas "Angel" and when he's distressed, his full name, because no one else calls him Castiel and he misses it more than he'd ever say
The reader is pretty much always sarcastic bc I am lol
What are some parts of a character/headcanons unique to your style that is kept consistent in all/most of your fics?
I don't know if this is unique to how I write, because to me it's canon, but I write Dean as always being a little too obsessed curious about Sam's sex life. He wants to know if his little brother's getting laid. And how. And when. And if he's done a good job.
Dean also cusses like a sailor. If "Ghostfacers" taught us anything, it's that that man has a filthy mouth. đ
He is also, when I write from his POV, in a constant thought spiral. His brain does not shut off (hence all the self-medicating with violence, meaningless sex and booze).
Sam, especially in later seasons, I write constantly terrified of severely hurting or traumatizing someone else.
Sam is also a master yearner. They didn't give him the chance to, but he years like it's his full time job.
Did I do this right? I feel like i didn't do this right, but I am also the sleepiest little guy in the universe. Tagging some lovelies who I think will have some fire HCs: @kblognar @aniresrene @bettystonewell @aseafullofstars @ambiguous-avery @thesundontshineontheseeyebrows @theedaythatnevercomes
John Winchester, who really thought he was doing his best.
Dean hustles pool, Sam hustles darts.
Every version of Sam is steeped in a rage he doesn't quite know what to do with. At times it's explosive, others he literally quakes with the force of containing it. It is equal and opposite to the grief and sadness that consumes him which, unsurprisingly, he also doesn't really know how to contain.
Dean thinks Kurt Russell is practically religion (an actual fact of this world.) Between Wyatt Earp, Jack Burton, Snake Plissken, and all those other gloriously camp B-movie and genre roles, Dean fashions a good part of his everyday heroism after things he saw Kurt Russel do first.
Bobby sponsors a car at the Big Sioux County Fair's demolition derby every year.
There are, ofc, so many many more but not all of them are fit to print...
Tagging a couple cuties I'd love to see some tasty HCs from : @aniresrene (I KNOW you got the goods, ma) @bettystonewell @jollyhunter @velvourne @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery
Thank you for tagging me @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth & @kblognar
I promised myself i'd actually get to these tag games and im here im here!!!
But really this is kinda up my alley ? Because I have lots of thoughts and Head Cannons on the boys but here are a few of my favs !
What are some parts of a character/headcanons unique to your style that is kept consistent in all/most of your fics?
Okay first and foremost, Sam is a HUGE Celine Dion fan. I mean the biggest. He's in retirement life now and hes comfortable enough to put her on during a late night with a little wine after the kiddo(s) are asleep and his wifey is in his lap. And yes this is what peace is like because he is 'done' (see what I did there? yes ?no. okay).
Sam and Rowena are besties. They hold a bond deeper than just shared trauma because when the two of them get together, oh its a night on the town. They are always going on side quests together and its always fabulous. A spa day here, a trip to the Met there, and even front row tickets to see Celine in Paris (yes Row' is also a huge fan, she has great taste, duuuuh). And also Deans there , ofc, in the background doing something silly and dumb (and when he speaks its like the horns that play when the parents of kids from peanuts talk) or hes being turned into a hamster by Rowena and put on a little wheel to run off his anger for awhile.
Sam goes to book club and its smut book club!!
Dean is religiously on reddit pages that are dedicated to his favorite mom-blog or reality tv (which is housewives, and that thought its thanks to @sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth) and is starting shit pretending to be a middle aged woman on those forums but in reality is sipping his beer and talking shit about Helens choices in those nasal aspirators (or booger suckers as he calls them).
Dean is a tiktok doom scroller and thats how he discovered ASMR
Dean is terrible at spelling (but so am I so we are one in the same)
Dean says 'No Homo' after alot of stuff that he feels makes him sound homosexual because hes just a little homosexual
Here are my peer pressure tags: @bettystonewell @jollyreads @thesundontshineontheseeyebrows @ambiguous-avery @lunexiax @chevroletdean @spectralgalaxygauntlet @zepskies @voodoochildthings (I wanna hear about your one piece HCS BEBE)
How fun! hope I did this right, i kinda went off on a tangent but also I'd love to hear everyone elses personal HCs!
Summary When Mrs. Ellen Harvelle receives a letter from the daughter she believed dead, she makes her way to Kansas. Takes place after Blackbird and contains spoilers for the main story.
CWs Loss of a loved one. Mentioned sexual abuse by a family member. Mentioned forced prostitution. Reunions. Murder and revenge.
2.2k words
On an afternoon in February, Ellen Harvelle receives a letter from the daughter she believed dead.
She almost throws it out. There is no return address, and the envelope looks worse for wear than she is used to. The letters Mrs. Harvelle receives are usually written on the prettiest, bleached paper.Â
The reason she is not surprised to receive a letter addressed to her personally, rather than her husband, who is in the next room, snoring while taking his second nap of the day, is because Ellen Harvelle is a business woman of the highest order. She inherited her familyâs business - freight - and with no brothers to take it on, she applied her own skills after her daughterâs birth and her husbandâs sickness that made him too poorly to work. She has amassed a considerable fortune since, evident by the fine rooms she and her husband occupy here in Chicago. She is an attractive, strong woman. People greet her by name in the street. They move to the side. They respect her. She dines in the finest establishments, wears the finest gowns. Men treat her as their equal, even if she does not â she treats them as her lessers.
Still, Ellen Harvelleâs heart is heavy.
Jo was the prettiest baby, golden curls and a smile to light up the world. Mrs. Harvelle doted on her like no mother had ever doted on her daughter. As she grew older, she developed a mind of her own, often leading to arguments between mother and daughter, but the truth is, Ellen couldnât have been any more proud. She would have hated having a daughter who was nice and quiet and always did as she asked.
Which is why when Jo ran away at sixteen, Ellen might as well have died. One day, the girl was there, and the next she wasnât, and it was as if someone had ripped her heart clean from her chest.
Efforts were made, of course, to find Jo, both by the law and people Mrs. Harvelle hired privately. But no one could find her little girl. None of her money, her strength of character and her loud, deep voice could bring her daughter back to her.
Ellen Harvelle kept living, but she was not alive. Her husband encouraged her to accept that the girl was gone, so Ellen continued paying people to look for her, only stopped telling Mr. Harvelle about it. But to no avail.
So here she sits, opening a letter with no return address, her name written on the envelope in a small and fine hand. It reads as follows:
Dear mother,
I do not know if you ever made an attempt to look for me, or if you have forgotten me at this point, but it is I, your daughter Jo, that is writing to you.
Before you continue reading, I need to ask you to not show this letter to Father. I cannot tell you now why, I only need you to trust me.
I am struggling to decide where to begin - what to tell you about first, not knowing what your turn of thought towards me is, or even if you are alive. Itâs been years since we have last seen each other, and the thought that I have waited all this time to contact you, only for something to have happened to you in the meantime⌠Mother, I cannot think it.
I realize you must not be sure that I am even who I claim to be. I could be someone pretending, someone trying to fool you for money or simply because some people enjoy playing with the lives of others.Â
Do you remember that day we went to that small park not far from where we lived? It must have been mere days before I left Chicago. It was a cold day, and I was telling you about some boy I thought was pretty and my dreams of marrying him and being his wife. Mother, can you believe I do not remember his name now? I would tell you, to further prove that I am who I claim to be, but I do not remember. It seemed like the most important name in the world that day. Now I cannot even recall his face.
You had brought some apples to the park. We sat on a bench, our noses going red from the cold. You had listened to me going on about that boy, then turned to me. And I remember your words exactly:
âJoanna,â you said. âI know a young, spirited girl like you will never listen to what her mother has to say. But there is one thing I need you to follow, no matter what: never, ever marry a pretty man.â
Ellen Harvelle does not tell her husband about the letter. She claims to need to travel to see an old friend who is sick. Jo, or the person pretending theyâre Jo, has given their address at the bottom of the letter.
Mrs. Harvelle travels with an entourage of two hired men. They are intimidating looking creatures. Even in the business of freight, she has not always gotten along without needing to make her point through more forceful measures. The two men are loyal, and handsomely paid. If someone is pretending to be her daughter, they will see that that person gets their rightful reward.
The Kansas countryside is flat and wide. The address Mrs. Harvelle was given is a farm. Newly built, beautiful. Cattle grazing nearby, and they raise their dumb heads as she passes. She gazes out of her carriage, studies the view. She feels like her heart is in her throat. She feels like sheâs going to scream, thatâs how terrified she is that this isnât real. Or that it is.
The carriage slows when they reach the main house. The last few miles have been bumpy along the narrow country road. They stop, one of the horses neighing. Mrs. Harvelle continues looking out the small window. There is light on in the house, and then the front door opens.
A man steps outside, vest and trousers over long johns, a shotgun under his arm. He walks towards the carriage. Nods his head.
âHelp you?â he says in a deep voice. Mrs. Harvelle could let the men do the talking for her, but that is not her style.
She opens the door, steps out, elegant despite her skirts. The man looks at her, eyes narrowed. Heâs handsome, pretty even. Short hair and stubble and an adventurous tilt to his jaw She walks a few steps towards him.
âI was given this address,â she says, voice loud and clear, or as loud and clear as she can manage with the painful way her heart is thudding. âI was told my daughter lives here. Joanna Beth Harvelle. Do you know her?â
The man blinks, lets his shoulders sink a little. Doesnât say anything, but he doesnât have to. Thereâs movement by the door. Mrs. Harvelle is almost certain the men behind her have their own guns at the ready. Theyâre good like that.
The woman who steps out of the house is a ghost. Mrs. Harvelle knows her, but she also knows she is dead, gone, lost somewhere to the great world out there, victim to a million horrible fates, each one of which she has imagined in great detail. So it canât be her Jo, despite the fact that she looks like her, long, golden hair half pinned up, wearing a simple cotton blouse and skirt. The way she walks isnât like her Jo, much more careful, more cautious. Her Jo skipped everywhere, never able to slow, always rushing out into the world.
âMama?â the ghost says, and a violent sob breaks from Ellenâs throat. Then the two of them are running towards each other.
Ellenâs traveling hat goes flying but she couldnât care less. She opens her arms, and her Jo runs into them, and then both of them are collapsing onto the dusty ground, holding each other close close close.
They invite her in. Ellen and Jo do not let go of each other, not for a moment.Â
The inhabitants of the house are as follows: three men, one of them old, the other two younger, brothers. The one with the shotgun is Joâs husband, Dean. So she did marry a pretty man after all. There is another woman, the wife of the other brother, who Jo grabs by the hand, pulls close to introduce her.
There are also two children, a little girl and a baby that could not be older than a few months. Those are Joâs children, Ellenâs grandchildren. She looks at them, her lips trembling. She needs to hold on to Jo. It is all too much.
The other woman offers her tea, but Ellen asks for something stronger. She smiles, nods, and gets out a bottle of whiskey. Jo laughs while tears stream down her face as she watches her mother shoot back her drink.
The others leave them, taking the children with them to give mother and daughter some privacy. They sit, hands intertwined. Ellen only looks at her daughter. Keeps shaking her head.
A ghost, but her ghost.
Eventually, she needs to ask. Needs to know what happened to Jo, where she went. Joâs face darkens. Ellen is well aware that it will be a sad story. She steels herself for it, holds her daughterâs hands. Nods.
And Jo tells her. Tells her how her father, Ellenâs husband, had been taking advantage of his daughter for some time, how he would tell her to keep quiet about it, that her mother would hate her and be jealous if she knew. A whimpering sound escapes Ellen. She cannot help it. She holds Joâs hands harder. How Jo, growing older, began threatening to tell her mother. How her father responded by taking her away. Took her to a man and sold her to him. A man that was looking for girls for a brothel in New York.
Ellen lowers her head. With the way Jo disappeared, there have been many moments of utter desperation in her life, moments when she has been filled with such grief she thought it would plain stop her heart on the spot. But she never gave up on believing her daughter was alive somewhere. Now that she is here, next to her, holding her hands, she can finally grieve for her.
Jo tells her more. About how she went to a frontier town to work there, and how she met her husband there. How he married her and they came here. She looks up at Joâs precious face, both of their cheeks wet with tears.Â
âI always knew,â Ellen says, her voice shaking. âAlways knew you were out there, my little bird.â
They hug for a long while, cry some more. Eventually the children call for Jo. They come back in, and Ellen meets them properly. Holds her grandson in her arms, her granddaughter on her lap. Talks to her son-in-law, his brother, the brotherâs wife. The old guy, who is charming and rough in a way that reminds Ellen of her own father.
She stays for a week. Spends time with them. Sees that her daughter has a family, and love and goodness around her. She holds her often. Business requires her to return to Chicago soon, but they promise to keep writing letters, and that Ellen will visit.
She travels back. Sits so that she can watch the farm disappear in the distance. Her hand is clasped over her heart. She allows herself more tears until the farm is out of sight. Then she straightens her back, nods to herself.
She arrives in Chicago on a rainy morning. She tells the two men to follow her into the foyer, wait for her there. Walks into the study, to her desk, the one she keeps locked with the key around her neck. When she finds what sheâs looking for, she walks into the living room.
Her husband is in his chair again. Smacks his lips when he wakes and blinks at her. Smiles a little.
âYouâre back, dear?â he asks, as Ellen crosses the distance to him. âHow wasââ
She never finds out what he meant to ask her. She brings up the revolver sheâs hiding behind her back, and shoots him between the eyes.Â
The two men are paid a handsome sum to get rid of his body. Ellen disposes of the revolver, of the dress which has blood spatter on it. The armchair is burned to ashes in an alleyway a day later. Once all that is done, she sits at her desk. Writes to Jo, telling her she arrived safe and sound. That her father, shockingly, has died of a heart condition in the time she was gone.
She stops, her pen hovering over the page. Puts it down, walks over to the bar, pours herself a glass. She taps her finger against it.Â
It takes a special kind of stupid to fuck with Ellen Harvelle.
Thank you for reading! âĄ
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Summary: Congrats! You've finally broken Dean Winchester â bikini tops were lost and lips crashed. Now it's time to break some motel pool rules and dive right into that Florida madness.
Part 3 in the One Helluva Drug series
Warnings: 18+ due to language and smut (motel pool sex, fingering), humor, fluff, friends to lovers, Florida
Word Count: 2.3k
Posted on Patreon May 22, 2026
Song Inspo: Slut! â Taylor Swift
A/N: Welcome back to Florida and the third installment in this hot and humorous little series! Get ready to melt in a pool because we're letting every inhibition go in this beautifully crazy state đŤ đŚ
Main Masterlist|| DW Masterlist || Tag List
The motel pool glows an unnatural Caribbean blue under the floodlights, water rippling lazily and inviting, the chlorine mesmerizingly addicting against the thick, syrupy summer night.
Florida doesnât do quiet after dark. Even now, with the neon signs buzzing pink and teal like a drunk flamingo under a bruised-lavender sky that refuses to surrender to darkness, the air feels electric with cicadas, distant police sirens, and the occasional splash of something thatâs probably not a fish.
And you? Youâre topless, skin still slick from the pool, your bare tits pressing against Dean fucking Winchester like youâre trying to climb inside his ribs, nipples hardening to aching peaks with every scrape against the damp cotton of his shirt.Â
The kiss lingers like lightning in humid air â slow, searing, and inevitable. His mouth is hot and greedy on yours, tongue sliding deep, tasting like the beer he never got around to drinking and pure, pent-up desperation.Â
His hands roam â big, calloused palms sliding down your bare back, following the trail of water droplets down your spine, mapping your waist with reverent hunger, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as if memorizing scripture written in skin.
You pull back just enough to grin against his lips, wicked and a little sun-drunk, your voice a velvet dare wrapped in saltwater sweetness. âStrip, Winchester.â
Dean blinks, lips kiss-swollen, breath stuttering, those forest-green eyes â now as dark as storm-tossed mangroves â drifting across the empty parking lot. His gaze roams the cracked pavement and Baby gleaming under the lights. There are no guests, no souls stirring, and even Kyle the gator has retreated into the shadows.
âHere?â he croaks, his deep voice sounding like gravel dipped in raw want, cheeks flushed under freckles that scatter his skin like starlight.
You nod, biting down on your bottom lip, water still dripping from your hair down your tits. âRight here,â you confirm, smirking. âUnless the Sunshine Stateâs finally made you shy. But trust me, Floridaâs not gonna judge us.â
He barks a laugh that sounds half-drowned, a mix of disbelief and surrender swimming underneath. âSweetheart, Florida stopped judging the second that dude grilled fish on his hood.âÂ
He then reaches behind his neck, grabbing the hem of his tee and yanking it over his head in one fluid motion. And Jesus fucking Christ, the sight of him makes your mouth water.Â
Moon-silver and neon-glow illuminate the broad planes of his chest and shoulders, littered with cinnamon freckles across tanned skin, tracing the soft give of his stomach and the light trail of hair arrowing downward and disappearing inside his jeans like an invitation.
Boots thud against concrete next. Then his belt. He pops the button on his jeans slowly, eyes locked on yours like heâs daring you to look away, but you never would. His stare alone causes liquid heat to pool low in your belly. The denim then slides down those thick thighs and bow legs, and fuck, the outline of his bulge in his black boxers is already obscene â impossibly hard, straining painfully, and completely ready for you.
The second he kicks the jeans aside, you barely manage to wait and surge forward, crashing your lips back to his. Tongues tangle, wet and messy. Your bare breasts press against his bare and warm chest now, nipples pebbled from the cool night air and the way his hands cup them, thumbs brushing over the sensitive buds until you moan into his kiss.
And then, with a playful grin and a wicked laugh, you shove.
Deanâs eyes go wide as he stumbles backward, arms windmilling for half a second before he hits the pool with a spectacular splash. Water explodes around him in bursts of turquoise fire and diamond spray.Â
When he surfaces, water streams down his gorgeous face as he pushes wet strands of hair from his forehead. You canât help but giggle when he looks at you equally shocked but stupidly turned on as well.
âYou littleââ he starts, but youâre already launching yourself in after him, bikini bottoms still clinging to your hips.Â
You hit the water smoothly, gliding over to him, and the second youâre close enough, his arms band around you, hauling you against him. You wrap your legs around his waist, grinding down against the hard line of his cock through his soaked boxers. He groans, low and wrecked, hands palming the globes of your ass as you kiss him again â filthy, open-mouthed, all teeth and tongue and years of finally, finally, finally.
Your teeth tug cheekily at your lower lip as your thumbs hook into the sides of your bikini bottoms, shimmying them down your legs underwater. You make a show off it, making sure he catches every second of it as you toss the soaking-wet fabric onto the concrete by the lounge chairs.Â
Deanâs jaw goes slack, ravenous juniper eyes devouring every naked inch of you. âFucking hell, sweetheartâŚâ
Your smile curves like the crescent moon above. âYour turn, Winchester. Fairâs fair in Florida.â
He doesnât argue or even hesitate, shoving his underwear down his hips and kicking it somewhere toward the shallow end. Even through the aquamarine blur of pool water, you recognize the sheer size of his cock â perfectly long, thick, and heavy, tip flushed a deep rose.Â
God, youâd kill to take him into your mouth and see how far heâd get till you choke around him. Maybe if Sam doesnât return anytime soon, you still might find some time to try in the motel room later.Â
For now, though, you just pull him close and wrap your legs around his waist again, naked skin meeting naked skin underwater. You claim his plush lips, slow and deep, tongues dancing like the palm fronds above in the ocean breeze. His cock slides hot and heavy against your belly, and Dean hisses at the contact, forehead dropping to yours.
âFuck, baby⌠you sure?â
Heâs never called you baby before. In fact, you canât remember if you ever heard him call anyone baby before, except for his beloved car, and your heart flutters a little at the thought.Â
You still canât believe you did this. Maybe you did get hexed or possessed down here in Florida after all. God knows you never behaved like this in any of the other forty-nine states. But thereâs an undeniable electricity vibrating through your blood that youâve never felt before, and youâre still not sure if Florida is truly to blame or if itâs all just Dean Winchesterâs fucking fault.Â
You answer by reaching between you, wrapping your hand around his length and stroking him slow and tight, your fingers not even closing fully around his massive girth. Heâs rock-hard, velvet over steel, the head already leaking.Â
âBeen sure for years,â you whisper against his lips, his little grunts of pleasure like the most beautiful song in your ears. âNow shut up and touch me.â
Dean doesnât wait to be told twice, letting his hands explore with exquisite and maddening patience now, no longer rushing. Calloused palms wander up your ribs, groping your tits with worshipful weight, rolling your nipples between fingers till sparks explode behind your eyelids.Â
His mouth trails kisses down your throat, sucking gently at the fluttering pulse there, then lower and lower, lips closing hot and wet over one sensitive peak, teeth scraping skin. You arch into him with a throaty moan that echoes softly through the empty motel lot.
One hand then slips between your thighs, fingers parting your folds and finding you soaked â hotter than the Florida night, slicker than the pool. Two thick digits circle your entrance teasingly before pushing inside your pussy with barely any warning.Â
When he curls them just right, deeply stroking that perfect spot with devastating accuracy, you cry out, head tipping back. The water laps at your tits as he pumps them in and out before his thumb finds your clit, drawing lazy, firm circles that make your hips jerk against his hand and scream for more.Â
âLook at me,â he murmurs, voice husky and commanding.Â
His green eyes are hooded now, pupils blown wide with lust, swallowing the color until only a thin ring of emerald fire remains. He watches every flutter of your lashes, every parted gasp, as he pumps his fingers faster, scissoring them, pressing deeper. The water splashes around your joined bodies in rhythmic waves, cool against the burning heat building inside you.
âGoddamn,â he growls against your neck, sucking a mark there that will surely bloom in more beautiful colors than the Florida sunsets have to offer. âSo fucking tight. This what youâve been hiding from me? This pretty little pussy dripping for me all this time?â
You clench around his fingers, rocking your hips harder against his hand. âDeanâ⌠Oh Godââ
Your nails dig into his shoulders, thighs trembling around his wrist. He doesnât relent even for a second, adding a third finger that stretches you beautifully while his mouth claims yours again, swallowing every desperate sound.Â
The coil in your belly tightens and tightens â sharper, brighter, hotter â until it shatters.Â
You come hard on his fingers â clenching, pulsing, a broken cry spilling into the night. Unfathomable pleasure crashes through you in golden, syrupy-sweet waves, leaving you boneless and gasping against his shoulder as you cling to his chest like youâd drown without him.
But Deanâs nowhere near done.Â
He pulls his fingers free, spins you around gently yet firmly, and presses your front against the cool tile of the pool wall. Your elbows brace on the edge, tits deliciously squished against the slick surface as you still try to catch your breath.Â
Dean crowds in behind you, his massive frame enveloping you, cock sliding hot and heavy between your thighs. He teases relentlessly â dragging the thick, velvety head along your drenched slit, nudging your swollen clit with every pass, coating himself in your release.
âDean,â you whimper, pushing back, chasing friction. âPleaseâŚâ
He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath scorching against your skin. âWant to feel every inch, baby. Want you dripping for it.âÂ
Those lust-drunk eyes stay locked on your face as he notches the head at your entrance, pressing in the barest fraction before pulling back, again and again â torturous, perfect torment.
Only when youâre shaking, begging in broken whispers and moans, does he finally thrust forward â slow, inexorable, stretching you open inch by inch around his considerable girth till heâs buried to the hilt, balls-deep in the tight heat of you. The fullness is fucking harrowing in the best way possible, bordering on overwhelming, a delicious burn that melts into liquid bliss.
âFuck, yes,â you moan, the sound echoing off the motelâs stucco walls. He feels enormous like this, the blunt tip pushing against your cervix.Â
âSon of bitch, sweetheartâŚâ Deanâs groan is guttural, animalistic as his forehead drops to your shoulder, the scruff on his cheeks and jaw scraping your skin. âYouâre practically strangling me.âÂ
Then he begins to move â deep, rolling strokes that send water splashing in time with his hips. He pulls back and slams in again and again, and the angle is destructively perfect â his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes like supernovas.Â
One hand then snakes around to rub your oversensitive clit while the other grips your hip tighter, anchoring you as he fucks you against the wall â harder, faster, hotter. The pool water sloshes wildly around you, cool against overheated skin, and every thrust sends ripples outward like youâre the center of some filthy hurricane.Â
Deanâs mouth is on your shoulder, teeth grazing and biting skin, deep voice rough in your ear. âThatâs it, baby. Take it. Been dreaming about this pussy for years. Fuckinâ years. You and me in this stupid state⌠finally losing our goddamn minds together.â
You push back against him, meeting every merciless thrust, the coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter again. âGive it to me, De. Want you to ruin me.â
He snarls â actually fucking snarls â and fucks you like the world might end tomorrow (which to be fair, it always could in this life). The night spins in watercolor blurs of neon rose, chlorine blue, and moonlit silver. Your second orgasm builds slower but deeper, a gathering storm fed by every filthy praise growled against your ear and the relentless slap of wet skin on wet skin.
His strokes are deep and punishing till all you see is buzzing neon and twinkling stars above. His fingers work your clit faster, pinching and rubbing until your thighs shake.Â
It hits you like a tidal wave, stronger than the first, vision breaking into prisms of color as you clench hard around him, crying out his name into the humid Florida night.
Dean fucks you through it, hips stuttering, chasing his own release. âFuck, baby, gonnaâ⌠whereââ
âInside,â you barely manage to gasp. âCome inside me.â
He buries himself deep and follows with a choked moan, throbbing hot and thick inside you, ropes of cum marking your fluttering walls and filling you to the brim as pleasure wracks his powerful frame.Â
His forehead then drops back to your shoulder, breathing ragged, strong arms wrapping around your waist like he plans on never letting go. The water settles slowly around you both, lapping gently now, as if even Florida is giving you a minute to breathe.
For a long moment, thereâs just panting and the buzz of the motel sign then, cicadas humming a lullaby as the two of you stay locked together, not wanting it to end.Â
Then, Dean begins pressing soft, reverent, open-mouthed kisses along your neck and shoulder before scoffing an amused laugh against your damp skin. âFloridaâs still a goddamn circus, but I think I just found the main attraction.â
You laugh breathlessly, turning your head to catch his lips in a lazy, sated kiss. âTold you. Sink or swim, Winchester.â
He chuckles against your lips. âWell, Florida can still eat my ass.â
You grin broadly and wiggle your brows. âPretty sure thatâs my job now.â
Hope you enjoyed this smutty little summer treat, friends! I'll see you guys back next Friday for another smutty treat with Russell Shaw that will get your heart rate up đâ¤ď¸âđĽ
On July 31, we're then diving back into Glitch đŽ (If you can't wait that long, Interlude II, Chapter 7, and Chapter 8 are already on Patreon, with Chapter 9 coming this Sunday đ¤)
2003-5 Stanford era Samantha with her aaaabsolute bombshell of a girlfriend Jess Moore, theyâre so special to me oml
Speedpaint under the cut and the non show coloring version of them
I love samwena and saileen a lot but theres just something so gut wrenching about samjess dude, like they really were doomed from the start- god it blows
Omg before I started really watching SPN my friend was talking about Gabriel and would say âGabe if ya nastyâ and I genuinely thought that was a quote from the show đđ
You should draw him introducing himself and being like âThe names Gabrielâ and they he takes off sunglasses and says âGabe if ya nastyâ with a wink
his silliness is off the charts and charm irresistible
Gotta throw this in the ring for your JPad tiddy series, but we got a LOT to unpack here. Namely, you can see his fucking BALLS hello???? Slutty waist. Happy trail. Tiddies. Balls. Yes to all of it.
OH HELLO BEA đ¤đ¤
I tell you, when I opened this, I went âoh fuck meâ because HEâS SO RIPPED WHAT THE HELL??? and like WHERE SHOULD I EVEN BEGIN TO LOOK???
Iâm actually overwhelmed. The hair everywhere is REALLY making it hard to breathe in here.
