Summary: After bombing your European History exam, you seek comfort from your secret boyfriend, Professor James B. Barnes.
Pairing: Professor James Barnes x College Student!Reader
Word count: 2.5k
Warnings/tags: porn with absolutely no plot; secret relationship; age gap (bucky in his 40s, reader in her 20s); semi-public sex (office sex); student anxiety; student stress relief; kind of comfort sex?; oral sex (f receiving); fingering; praise kink/worship kink; one instance of pussy pronouns; use of petname (love & goddess); bucky is the gentlest lover; bucky loves being on his knees; no use of y/n; unbeta’d
Notes: so. we're all crazy about the new cartier photoshoot, right? right. i feel like every time a new Seb photoshoot comes out, some new inspiration for Professor Barnes comes to the light for me. here's the new hallucination somewhere in that universe.
Dim lights of the humanities building are practically vibrating as you walk through the hallway. There’s a chance it might just be the sheer volume of caffeine and panic coursing through your veins causing you to feel that way, too.
It’s half past six in the afternoon when you open the door to office 304, the one that has Professor James B. Barnes written on a small rectangle in golden letters. You don’t knock. Simply push the door open, slip inside and click it shut behind you, the sound definitely too loud in the quiet hallway now that most students have already gone home.
Inside, Professor Barnes, who has the reputation for being the toughest grader in the department and object of half the campus’ unrequited crushes, looks up from his desk, one brow arched, red pen hovering whatever he had been grading, silver-rimmed glasses perched on his nose and sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
You recognize it immediately, the slightly judgemental expression of someone who was not expecting to have his work interrupted with even as much as a knock; but the moment he notices the expression on your face, your hands still shaking with adrenaline, his own shifts from professional uptightness to something much softer. A soft look you’ve come to know, too, after the two of you began a secret relationship a little over four months ago.
“Sorry,” you say, already stumbling through words. “Sorry, I know I didn’t knock, I just—"
“Come in. Lock the door.” His voice drops, shifting from Professor Barnes to your James in the space of a few words.
You do just that. Then you stand there, backpack still hanging off one shoulder, hands twisting the strap.
“I’m freaking out about the European History exam,” you start. Professor Barnes shows no signs of being bothered by you immediately firing information his way.
“Sit down first.”
“I can’t sit down, James. I’ve been sitting for the past four hours, trying to—" You drop your bag onto the floor and start pacing the narrow strip of space between his bookshelf and the leather couch pushed against the wall. “I completely bombed it, okay? I know I did. Question three asked about the socioeconomic impacts of the Treaty of Tordesillas. I wrote about trade routes, James. Why did I write about trade routes? That wasn’t the prompt. And then I couldn’t remember some exact years, so I guessed, and I’m pretty sure I guessed about two decades off. If I fail this exam—”
“Please, sit—”
“—my GPA drops, and if my GPA drops, I lose my seminar slot for next semester, and then my entire track is ruined, and I'll end up living in a cardboard box—”
“Love.”
You stop, the way you always stop when he calls you that, like your mind still hasn’t quite learned to process that this man, older, more experienced, with a salt and pepper beard that makes your knees weak, would want to call you love.
James is leaning back in his chair now, arms crossed with muscles straining slightly against the shirt, and watching you with a particular patient expression, despite your serpentining conversation.
“The exam is done. You're spiralling," he tells you, and the second after he is getting up from his chair and stepping into your pacing path. A hand reaches for your wrist and makes you stop in front of him. “Breathe for me?”
“I’m not breathing, I can’t breathe, I have three more finals this week and I feel like my skull is gonna fracture from the pressure,” you whine, but are already leaning into his touch, seeking the warmth of him through your most stressful moments. He lets out a sympathetic sigh, fingers curling firmer around your wrist and pulls you fully to him before he presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head.
“There’s nothing you can do about it now.” And he’s not wrong. You open your mouth, close it, then sigh. Because there is nothing you can do about it now, and that’s somehow better, but also considerably worse. James tips your chin up with two fingers, ocean blue eyes meeting yours from behind his glasses.
“You have barely slept or eaten properly for the past week. I don’t like it. The way you chastise yourself whenever something goes wrong.” His thumb traces your jaw, and some of the tight coil in your chest loosens very much against your will. “Take a seat.”
“James, I don’t need to—"
“I’m not asking,” he says gently, which makes it incredibly more effective than if he had said it any other way, then nods towards the leather couch. “Sit. You’ve been white-knuckling it for days, give yourself ten minutes.”
You consider it. Not because you want to sit down, not because the exam is finally slipping away from your mind, but because James has shifted into that version of him he only ever lets out when he’s near you, with you, the one that breaks down all your defenses and leaves you bare, although not unsafe. You always feel safe with him.
Slowly, you agree and take a seat on the couch, back slumping against the cushions. Your body recognizes it as home almost immediately, letting the familiarity seep into your bones and making you relax.
James crouches down in front of you and rubs one hand over your right knee.
"Still thinking about it?" he asks.
"...A little."
You sink deeper into the worn leather of the couch, the tension in your shoulders only kind of melting under the weight of his gaze. James remains crouched between your knees for a long moment, large hands taking residence on your thighs, now, thumbs stroking soothing circles through the fabric of your jeans.
“You know I’ve always got you, right? Prettiest girl I’ve ever met. Smartest, too,” he murmurs, voice wrapped in velvet. That does it quickly, for you, and you know he knows it. He showers you in praise every time, because every time your body opens to him like a flower blooming in the sunlight.
Before you can overthink it, you simply nod. There’s a brief moment where you’re sure he whispers something like ‘let me take care of you’, and you do, you let him, the permission being the way your legs gently pry open right in front of him. A shaky exhale, head falling back against the couch. All the agreement he needs.
His long fingers travel upward and make easy work of the button of your pants before peeling them down your legs slowly. James pulls your boots off, then the pants along with them, and he leans forward, mouth pressing a kiss to your left knee. Upward, to the skin of your thigh, a bit to the side, to the inside of your leg. Three days' worth of stubble prickles against you as he moves, and you make a noise, something he sees quickly as desperation, and you know the complaint is futile. When has Professor Barnes ever given you anything quicker than the exact pace he wanted to?
“Relax,” he says against your thigh, then presses his lips to the skin again, an open-mouthed kiss before he bites down so gently you are barely even able to call it a bite. “Didn’t I just say I’ve got you?”
Large hands slide from your thighs to wrap firmly around the backs of your legs, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to tug you forward on the couch, sliding your ass closer to the edge so you’re perfectly positioned for him. That’s when you open your eyes again, just in time to watch him hook his fingers into the waistband of your panties and peel them down slowly, dragging the fabric along your thighs and off your ankles. And he does it all with his eyes on yours, two blue pits making you feel dizzy, but you still don’t look away. You couldn’t if you tried.
Cool air hits your now exposed pussy, making you shiver. James lets out a quiet hum of approval at the sight of you, already glistening with arousal.
“She’s always so beautiful,” a reverent whisper before his large hands wrap around your legs again and lift effortlessly to drape them over his broad shoulders, heels of your feet resting against his back. The new angle tilts your hips up towards his mouth, spreading you open for him completely, and before you can even catch your breath, or take a moment to push down the flush on your skin growing from the vulnerable way you are exposed to him, he leans in and drags his tongue through your folds in a filthy stripe from your entrance to your clit.
A breathy moan tears from your throat, echoing in the quiet office like a confession, and it unravels the last threads of your anxiety as pleasure rises in its place. Then James does it again, a little slower, savoring the taste of you, messy and unhurried, spit mixing with your arousal until your folds are slick and shining. On his knees in front of you, this brilliant man, esteemed professor, becomes nothing more than a servant doing worship at the altar of his Goddess. His broad shoulders carry your legs like an honor he would gladly take forever, and his eyes flutter shut as he presses closer.
He’s incredible at this; you’ve known it from the first time he fell to his knees, right here, in this office, always reading every twitch, every gasp, mouth moving with exquisite skill. Slow and indulgent at first, mostly for himself, drowning in the taste of your slick, before giving way to teasing flicks of the tip of his tongue around your swollen clit only to dip lower again, lapping messily at your entrance where your arousal flows for him.
Wetness coats his silver-streaked beard, glistening on his chin as he buries his face deeper between your thighs. The obscene sounds of his mouth feasting on your fill the room, wet slurping and sucking noises, a slick glide of his tongue, an occasional hungry groan into your cunt that sends sparks flying up your spine, all of it the actions of a man who could be on his knees for hours.
Your hands fly to his hair, gripping the dark strands as your thighs tremble around his head. “James…”
No words come out of his mouth then, none you can understand, anyway; instead, the response comes in the way he sucks your clit between his lips, wet suction making your hips jerk, before he releases it with a lewd pop. One hand claws at your thigh, keeping your legs right in their place, while two thick fingers slide into your welcoming heat, curling against the spongy spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids. James pumps them slowly, in time with the dance of his tongue over your clit.
Exam long forgotten, the world narrows to nothing but him, the way his blue eyes will sometimes flick up to watch you through fogged glasses, dark with lust and adoration. Only when he needs to take a moment to breathe, a quick one, enough to allow him to keep going for as long as you need him to, does he speak again.
“Goddess,” he whispers teasingly, slowing his fingers as if to get your attention. Your head tilts forward and you watch him through hooded eyes. “Will you cum for your most loyal subject?”
You huff in soft frustration, the sound breaking into another shaky moan as your body refuses to cooperate with your irritation. Because the edge is so close, molten in your belly, and here he is, being a wicked scholar and working you through comedic words.
“James, don’t… fuck, I’m so close, don’t play with me right now…” you manage, trying to reprimand him. But even as you say it, your cunt betrays you completely, clenching hard around his fingers, fluttering and squeezing with need and pulling them deeper as slick coats his hand.
Your favorite Professor gleams with amusement, lips curled into a devastating half-smirk, swollen and shiny. “You like it when I’m funny. You’ve told me before.”
You want to protest, but he curls his fingers again, strokes the perfect spot and dips his head again, sucking your swollen bud with perfect pressure, flicking the tip of his tongue rapidly in a rhythm that makes your vision spark white. For a second, he slips his fingers out and instead fucks you with his tongue, thrusting it inside you, before dragging it back up to torture your clit again while his fingers move back to their rightful place. His free hand grips your thigh harder, holding you open for him as you start to grind against his face, chasing the pleasure.
The combination is merciless. Frustration melts instantly into overwhelming pleasure, and another broken moan rips from your throat as your thighs tighten around his shoulders, heels digging into his back. Every stroke, every suck makes the coil in your belly tighten, pulling you deeper into a sea of sensation where exams and fears cannot reach. His beard scrapes deliciously against your sensitive skin with every movement of his head, and arousal drips down his chin onto the leather couch, but he only presses closer, as if he would gladly drown in you.
And just like that, your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, sudden and blinding. You cry out sharply, back arching off the couch as pleasure tears through every nerve in your body. James moans against your pussy like a man receiving divine absolution, your walls pulsing and fluttering around his fingers, gushing against his mouth. And he drinks down every drop of you until your trembling begins to quiet down, slowly easing his movements before pressing a couple of tender, open-mouthed kisses to your oversensitive pussy and to your inner thighs.
Still, he keeps your legs draped over his shoulders a moment longer, gazing at you through glasses that look slightly uneven with the most loving expression you have ever seen on a man. Breathless and floating, you manage to meet his eyes, and you smile at the sight of your brilliant professor on his knees, face glistening with the evidence of your pleasure.
“You’re trouble,” you whisper, though the words carry no real heat in them. James is busy kissing down your legs, lips reaching softly to every inch of skin, but he smiles in the midst of it.
“Trouble?” he repeats, feigning offense. “My goddess calls me trouble after I’ve knelt here and offered proper tribute? How cruel.”
You let out a breathless laugh that turns into a soft gasp when he nips gently at the crease of your thigh.
“You do know I love you, right? Even when you’re being silly while going down on me.”
That makes him smile wider. “I reckon you love me especially when I’m being silly while going down on you.”
people always talk about someone getting fucked stupid but what about a top going stupid while fucking someone? their brain shuts off and they just become a horny mutt with the only goal of getting off as hard as they can, breeding their sub. incoherent whimpers and moans of pure lust and desire. just a thought
him feeding you frosting from his birthday cake with his fingers; breathless smile plastered on his face as you suck on his digits, your eyes tender as you look up him. and his cock is so hard, he wants to ask everyone to leave so he can fuck you
✦summary: everything was fine between you and dean until you moved into the bunker. everything is tolerable until you get hurt on a hunt. dean loses his mind. and when you try to apologize, dean tells you exactly why.✦
✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, pining, average dean winchester emotional intelligance, shameless smut (dry humping, knee riding, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, oral f!reciving, pussy slapping, fingering, breif mentions of spanking, dean's dirty talk, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, crying, creampie, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦
✦wc: 10.3k✦
✦author's note: old dean you've done nothing wrong ever. murder? what murder? i can't hear you over how fine he is.✦
“She should stay in the car.”
“I’m not staying in the car-“
“It’s a small nest.” Dean doesn’t even acknowledge you, tapping his thumb on the wheel as he addresses Sam. “She’d just be an extra block, you know we can clean that place up blindfolded and ball-gagged-“
Your nose wrinkles. “Why would you be ball gagged-“
“We leave her with a knife.” He keeps ignoring you. “Lock the doors, crack the windows, and we’re in and out like-“
You slam your feet into the back of Dean’s seat, cutting him off with a grunt. He whips around to shoot you a glare, and you stick out your tongue.
“What the hell was that.”
“I’m not a dog, dipshit.” You snap, and he scowls.
“I know you’re not good at listening, sweetheart, but I didn’t call you one-“
“It was implied.”
Dean rolls his eyes, giving Sam a you see what I gotta deal with expression, like he’s not the one making the whole fucking issue.
“I’m not staying in the car.” You repeat, louder than before, and Dean chuckles dryly.
“Yeah. You are.”
“I’m not-“
“You are-“
“You lock me in here, I’ll start screaming-“
He gives you an unimpressed look. “I’ll gag you.”
You grin at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “Kinky.”
Dean jaw clenches. You beam. Somewhere in the background, Sam sighs.
“Guys…”
“You’re staying here.” Dean snaps. “That’s that.”
“You’re not the boss of me, Winchester-“
“The hell I’m not-“
“You don’t offer me health insurance-“
“None of us get health insurance, sweetheart, that’s why I’m telling you to stay in the car-“
“Guys.” Sam sighs, looking between you with the same, exhausted expression as usual. “We only have until the sunrise, and it’s already 4am. Can you please do this after?”
You don’t look away from Dean. He doesn’t look away from you. You raise your brows mockingly.
“He’s talking to you, Dean. Can you do this after?”
Dean narrows his eyes, and he opens his mouth to bark something at you that you probably would’ve deflected now—using taunting words and matching his harsh tone—then cried about later. In the safety of your bedroom, where Dean can’t see you. The only place that you can go to let everything out. It’s safe in your room. Dean never even knocks on your door, always sending Sam in his stead. But you don’t go to his room either. It’s an unspoken rule that you’ve never had steady enough feet on the ground to bother breaking. You’re pretty sure that if Sam doesn’t kill you both over this, he’s going to strangle you later for making him a messenger pigeon.
But you need that solace. That quiet, where Dean can’t shake your world with sneers and glowers. It hits something raw in you, a wound that you’ve never bothered to stich up or cauterize because you love the bleeding too much. It pours all over your hands when you hug your stomach, out of your mouth like bile when you try to defend yourself—to make him stop just seeing you as some stupid, naive civilian girl he needs to heard around—and out of your eyes when you cry over all of it.
The things that do make you that naïve civilian girl. The things that make you barely any better than a teenager with a crush, wandering around after the boy you like and pulling at his sleeve for just an ounce of attention.
No one can blame you for falling for the hero who saved your life and swept you off your feet. Offered you a new life, taught you how to shoot a gun with his arms around your body—you can still feel him sometimes, when you rub your shoulders—and told you that he’ d always keep you safe.
Dean had been straight out of a romance book. You’d let yourself get starry eyed, you’d daydreamed that he lingered around you out of affection rather than obligation. You’d been an idiot, and you’d gotten comfortable, and when Sam said you had a knack for the lore and were more than welcome to stay, you’d said yes without a thought.
You’d thought Dean would’ve been happy.
But you’d told him, and he’d looked like he was going to put his fist through a wall.
Everything had shifted, like a picture into the negative. Dean stopped seeking you out for anything, stopped training you, almost stopped looking at you all together. In the first months, he’d walked out of a room the moment you entered. At one point, you’d overheard him having a very loud fight with Sam about letting you stick around.
He hadn’t been speaking to Sam either. They’d gotten over it, because they always seemed to. Your second foolish fantasy was that Dean would get over whatever you’d done to him—you’re still not all that sure—and decide that he actually did like you. That he’d remember how good things had been at the start, and if you proved yourself to him, everything would go back to normal.
But it’s been a year.
And normal is this now.
Dean hates you. He must hate you. There’s no other reason he’d argue with Sam about bringing you on hunts, even when they need the extra hands or your research. And even when Sam wins the fight—which is always, you think he might have a cheat code that makes Dean always agree with him, and you’d very much like access to it please—Dean still acts like you don’t exist. Or worse, like you do, and it’s the bane of his entire life. For the whole fifteen hour drive, and you get handed snacks without eye contact and checked on like you’re a dog he’s making sure didn’t piss all over his precious car.
For the entire hunt, you’ve been able to feel his attention burning through you. Whenever you’d look over, he would’ve already looked away, but you could feel it. And you’re the one who tracked the nest and identified the mutation in these vamps that made them daywalkers, but when you’d looked to Dean with a hopeful smile for approval, he’d looked away again.
You might’ve sat in the bathtub with the water burning yours shoulders and useless tears sliding down your cheeks after. Clawing at your face like you could remove the pain, remove all the love you felt for him with all the brutal precision of a hungry animal. But if you did, it’s none of his fucking business.
And you might not want to join in on the actual hunt—that sounds gross, and bloody, and kind of scary—but Dean doesn’t get to win. You can handle it, and if you can’t he’s there.
It makes you feel safer than it should. Dean always makes you feel safer, and you hate him for it.
The thing about loving him is that it’s not so much a choice as something that slammed into you like a comet. Dean left a massive depression in something so vital you think it might be your soul, and now it blooms all the time. Alone and in the dark, finding sunshine in every piece of him that’s worthy of such a feral, unyielding devotion.
It’s most of him. He’s still that hero who saved you, and your body knows it better than your head sometimes. He opens doors for you even when he keeps his gaze fixed firmly over your head. He makes you coffee in the mornings before stalking out of the room like you make the whole place reek.
He’s going to keep you safe, even if he bitches about it and shouts at you the whole time.
And it’s so easy to love him for all of that. In the end, most of your desperation isn’t really to stop loving him.
It’s to scream loud enough that he stops pretending he can’t hear it. That he saves you again, even if it’s from yourself.
You win the argument about going into the house. For all his postering and deep, commanding grunts and threats, Dean’s not actually that good at telling you know. You’ve told Sam it’s because you have the numbers against him. Sam always gives you a strange look and says uh huh, like you’re supposed to know what that means.
“You stick with me.” Dean snaps, pulling out his dainty little baby gun and passing it into your hands. “You wanna speak, think five times, then don’t say it. These things are noise-sensitive, they hear you breathe, they rip you up.”
“I know.” You grumble. “I discovered them.”
Dean sighs heavily, just loud enough for you to know he heard you. “I don’t want you out of my sight.” He mutters, and you give him a flat look.
“So you’re planning to look at me today?”
He shoots you a glare, saying your name in a low warning, and you roll your eyes.
“Never mind.” You mutter under your breath, like a petulant child. “Guess it’s easier to look at ugly things when they’re in the dark.”
That makes him flinch back, like you punched him in the gut. He’s going to say something again, and you really don’t want to hear it.
You stalk over to Sam, leaving Dean gaping and rigid at Baby’s truck. Sam looks between you, but doesn’t bother to ask what you’re fighting about. He rarely does, and it’s always followed by an annoyed now, like it’s somehow your fault Dean thinks everything you do is a sin. What are you two doing now. Why are you mad at him now. Why is Dean being an idiot now.
He’s always an idiot. A handsome, insufferable idiot you want to sucker punch, then make out with until you can’t breathe. If you tried to hit him, maybe he’d catch your wrist and pin you to something. His massive body crowded over yours, his face inches away, lips brushing as he shouted at you, then gave up when you moaned—he’d be too close, his crotch pressing you down, you’d probably moan—and started touching and kissing you until your legs gave out and you were putty in his hands and he worshipped you with the same soft attention he used to offer-
“Stop flirting and fall in.” Dean snaps at you and Sam, standing in complete silence.
Sam rolls his eyes, and hisses something to Dean when they walk past each other that makes Dean look murderous. You flush—thankfully hidden in the dark—and grip your baby-gun tight as you follow.
“Stay with me-“
“I know.” You snap, not looking him in the eyes. “I’m not an idiot.”
Dean grunts, and you can’t tell if it’s an agreement or dismissal. You’re not sure which would be worse.
The moment you’re in the nest, you remember why you don’t usually do this. Why you actually prefer waiting at the motel for them to come back, or just staying in the car with an anxiously bouncing knee. You always ask to go with them because you hate the dread. Hate watching them—both of them, because you might not be in love with Sam but he’s sort of your only friend anymore—walk out the door for what always might be the last time. They never think it will be.
You do. Every time, Dean pulls out of the parking lot with your heart in his dumb, big hands, and you know it could stop beating any second. That you won’t even know until you get a phone call, and a part of you withers that’s never going to be reborn.
So you ask to go with them. To help. Do first aide, be extra hands, anything so you don’t just have to wonder if they’re okay.
But then you actually get here, and you hate it.
It’s scary. Scary and quiet and loud all at once. You have to physically yank yourself back from grabbing Dean’s forearm and clinging to him. He radiates heat, and this barn is so fucking cold, and you’d like to go back to the car now, thank you very much-
Everything happens so fast. It always does, on a hunt.
You find the vamps. Sam offs one, Dean gets another two, and your fingers tremble but you manage to kick a third back into Dean’s machete. He gives you an approving look, and you feel like you’ve grown wings.
Then another on comes out of nowhere. Slams into Dean and starts driving him backwards.
You scream, and shoot. It won’t kill them, but it’ll distract.
And it does.
The vamp stumbles when you hit his calf, dropping Dean to the floor. It turns on you with glinting eyes, and lunges.
You’re thrown to the ground with teeth gnashing near your throat. There’s a roar in the background, and you feel a rush of pain through your stomach as the vamp hits you. Heat burns over your neck, and your arms are starting to get weak, and-
All the noise stops. The body over you slumps.
You open your eyes to find Dean standing over you, just like that first time he saved you.
Only now, he looks like he wants to cut off your head next.
He’s staring at you a strangely furious and pallid expression all at once. There’s something glinting in his eyes that you can’t place. His breath is heavy through his nose, and he’s not even blinking as he scans over you.
His eyes widen, when he sees the blood blooming through your shirt. He drops his machete, bends down, and scoops you up into his arms.
The rest of the night is a little hazy.
Dean carries you to the Impala. He smells good, like leather and pine trees and something a little spicy. He looks really good, too. Covered in blood and grease and so angry he’s almost feral. His hands are warm, and make you feel fuzzy when they brush over your stomach, checking the wound.
The whole thing feels like a dream. Especially after he coaxed some painkillers down your throat, and the world all becomes just color and Dean’s undivided attention, pressing over you.
He doesn’t speak to you the whole time. He’s humming something, fingers brushing over your bare skin, and the feel oddly light. Almost shaky.
You breathe out his name. You don’t know why. Through the drugs, it’s sort of the only word you know.
His hands still for a heartbeat, then grab you a little tighter.
Before you pass out, your vision swimming and thoughts covered in a fog, you could swear you see him bow his head against your chest. He holds your hips tight, lips brushing against your exposed stomach.
Your weak fingers reach up, brushing through his hair. A deep sound rumbles from his chest, and it’s soothing.
The world goes peacefully dark, and Dean stays wrapped around you all the way into your dreams.
He hasn’t spoken to you.
It’s been three weeks, and Dean hasn’t said a single word.
It’s worse than before. Worse than it’s even been. Even those first months after you moved in permanently, he’d at least acknowledge your existence. It had been via avoiding you like the plague and snipping and glaring, but at least you’d known he could still see you. That he still thought of you.
Now, he’s treating you like a ghost.
The first week you’d expected. The drive back from the hunt had been tense, everyone dead silent. Rest stops happened when Dean decided they would. Sam never once asked him to turn down the music. You turned your face into the window and hid behind your jacket, hoping to hide the shame burning through you.
Dean had been right. You couldn’t handle that hunt.
But he hadn’t even rubbed it in your face. Hadn’t done an I told you so.
When you got back to the bunker, he’d shoved the door open and marched inside without looking back. Sam had rubbed a hand over his face, given you an apologetic look in the mirror, and you’d just shaken your head.
“He’ll get over it-“
“It’s fine, Sam.” You’d muttered. “I’m fine.”
You were not fine.
You hadn’t even been able to sit up without Sam’s help. He’d half carried you out of the car, a hiss of pain escaping your with every movement, and when you’d finally gotten on your feet you’d looked up to find Dean standing in the doorway.
His hands had been fisted at his sides. He’d been staring at you like he wanted to say something, jaw clenched so tight you could see a vein.
You hadn’t quipped. Hadn’t pushed. You’d just watched him, praying he’d do anything but just stand there. Part of you had wanted him to yell. To let out all the anger you could see simmering behind his gaze, so you could all move on.
But Dean had turned, and stalked back into the bunker.
The ignoring had begun. And you didn’t think you could last a day of it, let alone almost a month.
When you’re in the same room, he pretends you’re not even there. If you’re talking to Sam, he cuts you off like he didn’t hear. If you pass each other in the hall, he looks firmly ahead and bumps your shoulder. If you’re blocking him from getting something in the kitchen, he just reaches over you like you’re part of the room.
His chest presses against your back, and your breath hitches. You bow your head, fighting the instinct to moan and push back into him. He’s so warm, a secure and unwavering pillar of resolve that you want to worship at the feet of forever. He’s sturdy, he’s safe, his muscles flex around you and his breath is warm on your neck and he’s acting like you don’t even exist.
It’s cold when he pulls away.
You retreat to your room, and lie on the floor until you’re out of tears.
Part of you wonders if Dean even knows what he’s doing to you. He can’t. He thinks you hate him with all the fever and loathing he hates you. There’s no possible way for him to understand that every second he ignores you, something in you cowers and whines. That you’ve been passing the door to his room just to try and run into him, even though that breaks the unspoken rule of never invading such a sacred space. That this is killing you more than the injury did, because at least that was allowed to heal.
Dean fixed you, there.
Here, he’s just clawing you wider and wider, until there’s a gaping pit in the cavity of your chest, and you’re about to fall through.
He’d been going out drinking every night. He comes back reeking of liquor and perfume, but he comes back. Every single night, he’s back around 1am.
You know, because you stay up waiting.
Dean always walks past your room, when he gets home. His shadow lingers under your doorway, and sometimes you swear you hear a thud against your door. As if he’s knocking, or just leaning there.
Breaking the rule himself.
It’s the only way you still know you’re not a ghost. That he still knows you exist.
But that’s it.
Otherwise, you’re nothing to him at all.
You can’t take it anymore. Sam says you haven’t been eating as much, but you barely even noticed. You’re too tired, from losing sleep. And everything tastes like ash, anyway.
Sam also says that Dean’s being a dick, but he’ll get over it. They went on a hunt a few days ago—they’re talking again, although from what you’ve seen it’s clipped, and they’re both still pretty pissed—and Sam told you he’d try to talk some sense into Dean and his silent treatment. You have no faith it will work. Sometimes living in the bunker feels like a pissing contest of who can be the most stubborn, if every contestant had an infinite bladder and thought they’d die if they lost.
You’ve been checking your phone for updates every ten minutes. You’re getting itchy and restless, and you can hardly breathe. What if this is it, and foul voice reminds you. What if he dies, and he dies angry at you, and you can’t even remember the last thing he said to you because it was a month ago.
The seams in you are coming apart. Sam sends you a brief text, saying the hunt is over and they’ll be back tonight. You don’t bother to ask how the talk went. If Sam even went through with it, you already know the answer.
But you can’t. You can’t keep living like this. That voice is only going to get louder, and you’re only going to waste away, and Dean won’t even notice with how determined he is to make you nothing at all.
You’ve been crying too much. Your eyes are red when you look in the mirror, and your lips are swollen.
Maybe you shouldn’t stay here. Maybe Dean’s right, and you never belonged here at all.
He once acted like you did. And you still don’t know what made him change his mind.
And you don’t want to leave. This is home. Dean is home, because despite everything you still think of him, and you feel safe.
You know that’s why it hurts so much. You’re not weak. You can stand to be ignored, and you’ve certainly had louder and more violent and cruel fights with people you’d actually been dating. But Dean being so mad feels like your heart is trying to eat itself. And you can’t take it.
It takes all night, but that’s the perfect amount of time. You go out to the grocery store and get everything you need, then haul up in the kitchen and bake like your life depends on it. A fairly big fraction of it does.
You think about writing I’m sorry or You were right on the pie with whipped cream. That feels like a little too much. Hopefully, that part will speak for itself.
When they get home, it’s with a slam of a door. There’s no shouting, but you have a feeling it’s because the fight already passed. You watch Sam give you a tight smile before slumping off to his room, and you know he tried. You appreciate it. But only you can fix this now.
“Dean.” You force your voice to be steady. It doesn’t work that well. “Dean.”
He looks up at you with a heavy, tired glare. He doesn’t speak, but he looks at you, and it makes you sit a little taller. You can do this.
“I’m sorry.” You push the pie forward, and he blinks.
“You’re sorry.” He echoes, like he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’re sorry?”
You nod, chewing your lip nervously. “Yeah. For- For the hunt. And anything else I did to you.”
“Anything else you did.”
“Um- mhm.”
Dean stares at you, and you push the pie again. Look down to it, then back to him, swallowing the nerves in your throat.
“I- I made you pie.”
“Yeah. I can see that.”
“Oh- Okay.”
The silence is suffocating. Your face is starting to burn, and you’ve never cried in front of him before, but the tears are insistent. The ache of loneliness, of just missing him, it’s insistent. Like a hurricane, devastating and impossible to ignore. You bite the inside of your cheek to hold them back, and that usually works.
It’s useless now. The first tears burn on your cheeks, and you wipe them away with trembling, frantic hands.
Dean rasps your name, taking a lurching step forward. As if someone shoved him, his hand reaching out before he yanks it back.
You swallow, and find a painful, barbed lump in your throat. You shake your head, and look to the side.
Dean repeats your name, his voice thick and strained.
You realize this is the first time he’s said it in a month.
A damn breaks in your chest. Something snaps near your ribs, and a pathetic, choked sob rips from your throat. You can’t stay here.
“I- I’m sorry.” You shoot to your feet, pushing the pie roughly forward. “It’s- It’s cherry.”
“Sweetheart-“
“The pie.” You clarify, staring at Dean’s knees.
“Yeah, I know-“
He takes a step forward. You take a step back, and he freezes.
When you look up, he’s watching you like you’d just smacked him in the face. You swallow, lip wobbling as you keep losing the battle against your own tears.
“I- I’m sorry.” You choke out, wrapping your arms around your stomach.
Dean works his jaw, shaking his head. “You said that already-“
“I- I know. I’m sorry-“
“Stop saying sorry!”
He takes a larger, firmer step forward. His voice echoes off the walls, and you bite the inside of your cheek until it stings.
Dean rubs his face, lowering back down to rough, low words as he says your name. “Just- Fuck- I don’t want a sorry.”
“I-“ You cut yourself off, shrinking further into your body.
He doesn’t want an apology. He doesn’t want you.
“I’ll go.” You whisper, looking down to his shoes.
Dean makes a choked sound. “You’ll- What-“
“I’m going to go.” You can’t be here right now. Can’t break down when you’re really not sure if he’ll pick you back up. “I- I’m-“
You swallow another apology, and duck past him. Dean shouts after you, so you walk faster. Almost running to the safety of your room, to the one place he won’t follow. Where you can fall apart alone, and wrap yourself in blankets you pretend are his arms, because you’re the exact, pathetic, stupid girl he thinks you are. You’re crying so hard you can’t breathe, and you hate him, and you hate yourself more for knowing you’ll still love him once the tears dry out.
There’s a knock on the door. The fight must have been that loud.
“Go away, Sam.” Your voice is muffled through the sheets.
Dean’s is muffled through the door. “Not Sam, sweetheart.”
You sit up, still holding your blanket to your face. As if he might somehow see you. There’s a long silence—he’s not supposed to be here, why is he here—and Dean coughs.
“It’s, uh- It’s Dean-“
“I know.”
“Oh. Okay.” He pauses, then, “Are you gonna open the door?”
You shake your head, then remember he can’t see you. “No.”
Dean grunts your name, and you raise your voice a little.
“Leave me alone-“
“No. We gotta- There’s stuff I have to- Fuck.” There’s a thump on the door. You think he’s leaning against it. “You’re crying, alright? Just let me in so I can fix it-“
“I’m fine.” You snip, and he laughs dryly.
“I can hear you. I know you’re still upset, and-“
“Why do you care?”
Dean goes silent, and you glare at where you think he’s standing.
“Why do you care, Dean. You never cared before-“
“That’s not true.” He snaps, and you roll your eyes.
“Don’t lie-“
“I’m not lyin’, I just-“ He cuts himself off. “Just open the door, alright-“
“Not until you tell me why you give a shit-“
“I just do, alright?”
“No, you don’t-“
“Stop- Stop saying that.” He’s not shouting, but you can hear him fighting against the urge. “Stop telling me what I care about, you don’t get to decide that-“
“I’m not deciding.” You push the words out, even as they burn on your tongue. “You just don’t get to act like you care about me when you wish I didn’t exist.”
The silence falls again. It’s thicker than before. So heavy it pulls your heart down to your stomach. You’re so sure he’s going to walk away, just leave you there to finally, fully break.
Instead, when he speaks, his voice is rough.
“Don’t say that.” He grunts. “I’ve never wished that. Not once.”
Your heart flutters. You want to smack it, remind it that it’s only hurting because of him. “Whatever.”
The door shakes again, as Dean’s shadow shifts.
Despite yourself, you lean closer.
“Open the door.” He says your name again, the tone a command.
You raise your chin. “No.”
“Come on, just open it-“
“Go away, Dean-“
“No.” It’s shockingly firm. You sit up in surprise. “No, I’m not- I’m not just gonna leave and let you go, no. That’s not fuckin’ happening, sweetheart, just- Open the door-“
His voice is getting louder, every word sounding more and more strangled. You shift to your knees, saying his name softly through your tears, but he doesn’t seem to hear.
“You can’t leave me, alright? You win, you fuckin’ win, I’m the idiot. You can stay and run me into shape, whatever the hell you want, just- just open the door, please-“
You’ve never heard him like this before. Rambling like a broken record. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was crying.
“I’m sorry for being a dumbass.” He’s not pushing the door anymore, but his voice is muffled and loud all at once. He’s leaning against it. “Sorry for being a dick, sorry for- For whatever the hell you’re cursing my name with, I know I deserve it, I was a douchebag and if you wanna hate me you got every right, but-“ His voice breaks. “Don’t leave me. Fuck- Please don’t leave me, please-“
You slide off the bed, gliding across the room like you’re in a trance, and open the door.
Dean stumbles forward, catching himself against the doorframe. He’s only inches away, and you can read it all over his face. How much he means every strangled word.
His hair is disheveled, his eyes red as he scans over your open, sad features, his jaw clenched so tight you think he might break his teeth. His arm flexes over your head, hand fisting and unfisting at his side. There’s a stain of a tear on his cheek, gleaming in his stubble like he’d half wiped it away.
He watches you like he’s a dog, bracing to be kicked.
You hold his gaze, letting your voice stay small. You have a feeling he’d cling to every word if you only breathed it out.
“You’re sorry.”
He nods. You swallow.
“Why-“
“All of it.” Dean mutters. His eyes are locked onto yours. It’s almost too much, making you feel molten when you need to be unmovable.
You look down to your fingers. “What you said?”
“And did. And-“
“Being a douchebag.”
He chuckles, but it’s more of a rasp. “Yeah.”
“For how long?” You look at him under your lashes, and maybe it’s a bit of a test, but you need to be sure he understands. The sheer magnitude of how this—all of this—has hurt you.
“The whole year.” He says immediately. “From when Sammy told me you were staying to- Shit, five freakin’ seconds ago. I’m sorry.”
You hear it again, even if he doesn’t say it.
Don’t go.
“You didn’t want me to stay here.” You say lightly.
Dean shakes his head. “That’s not true-“
“You told Sam he never should’ve asked me.” With all the bravery in your body, you meet his gaze. “You said you wanted me far away from here.”
Shame almost pours from Dean’s expression. He bows his head, as if he’s trying to make himself smaller. “I- Uh- I didn’t know you heard that-“
“You’re both very loud.”
“Ah.” He pauses, shifting on his feet. His handsome features twist into a tight frown. “But- That’s not what I said.”
“Yes, it is-“
“I said you should be far away from here.” He mutters. “Not that I wanted you there.”
“That’s the same thing-“
“No, it’s not.” Dean gives you a firm look, his voice dropping impossibly lower. “What I want and what’s right?” He chuckles dryly. “Ain’t ever really the same thing.”
For a long moment, you just watch each other. And he means it. Every inch of you knows that, right into your bones. But you’re still fragile from a year of him acting like you were nothing. And you want that to be enough, you want that so desperately. To just give Dean all of you to freely break, and trust that he won’t. But-
“What about me.”
Dean blinks. “What?”
“Am I right?” You raise your chin, crossing your arms over your chest. Dean’s frown deepens.
“Are you-“
“You’re sorry. You said you don’t me to leave.”
“I don’t.”
“So I was right.” You challenge. “I was right to stay.”
Dean swallows. You don’t waver.
“Do you care, Dean. If you don’t want me to leave then you have to tell me why you’d even fucking care-“
“I care.” He grunts, pressing further over you. “I care more than you can imagine.”
You snort. “I don’t know about that-“
“I can’t imagine it, sweetheart.” Dean reaches down slowly, cupping your jaw. You freeze. “Sometimes I- I can’t even work it out in my head. Can’t measure it, can’t justify it, can barely even understand how it’s possible.” His thumb drags over your cheek. “How much I fuckin’ love you.”
Oh.
Oh.
“Love is different than care.” You whisper, and Dean’s lips twitch.
“Yeah. But not by that much.”
You stare at him. He stares back, and when you don’t move away he drops his brow. Presses it against yours, his voice lowering gently.
“You don’t gotta forgive me. Just-“
“I love you, too.” You blurt, and Dean’s eyes shoot open. “And I’m not leaving.”
Dean swallows. Searches your gaze, like he’s trying to find the a tell that you’re lying. “You don’t have to-“
“Shut up.”
You grab his neck, and drag him down. You’re tired of talking. Of fighting and crying and being so far away. Even an inch feels like too much right now.
Dean must feel the same way.
When you pull him into a kiss, he’s rigid for a second. The brief, electric brush of your lips. Your noses bump, and your nails dig into his neck. He grunts, his hand on your doorway sliding down. You flush and try to pull away, but he’s not having it.
Dean melts over you so fast your brain can’t keep up.
He grabs your hip, blunt nails digging into your shirt, and tugs your head gently back as his lips work over yours. It’s so sudden you don’t immediately kiss him back, just grabbing the collar of his shirt for balance. Dean grunts, the hand on your hip sliding around your lower back. Grounding you against him as he almost bends you backwards, never once breaking the kiss.
His lips are softer than you dreamt of. Plush and a little chapped, but still so soft. He moves them slowly but insistently over yours, tasting and letting his tongue brush slightly. When you shiver and try to rise up a little higher, he meets you immediately. He kisses like he already somehow knows exactly how you like it. Easy but a little messy. Close, so close he’s almost eating your face while you try and claw closer. He tastes like salt from the tears, but under that is a little bit of cherry.
“You-“ You speak between kisses, dizzy from desire. “You ate the pie-“
“Tasted it.” He grunts, walking you back into your room. “Checkin’ it wasn’t poison.”
You lean back, glaring up at him. “I would not poison you-“
“I know.” He grins, kissing your pouted lips. “But I woulda deserved it if you did.”
You want to argue with that, too, but Dean’s faster. He kicks the door closed behind him, grabs your waist, and picks you up with barely a grunt. Your arms fly around his neck as you yelp in surprise, but the sound quickly falls into a loud, long moan when he pins you against the door.
His kisses are turning more frantic. Hungry and bruising, but still restrained. His hands stay politely on your clothing, his lips pressed over yours with only small grazes of his tongue.
You open your mouth in a long, shaky moan. Dean takes the permission, grabbing your jaw and tipping it a little further back. His tongue brushes over your teeth, and you wrap an arm around his neck. His chest is pressed right against yours, and it’s secure and sweet and hot. You’ve never been this hot just from a few kisses.
Passionate, messy kisses. With Dean. His broad fingers on your soft skin, and his solid body right against yours. You comb your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and he groans. The noise vibrates through you, and you shudder with that burning, needy heat.
Dean notices. Of course he does. He’s Dean.
“Do you want-“
“Yes.” You moan against his lip, trying to spread your legs. “God, Dean- Fuck-“
He sucks on your lower lip before releasing it with a wet pop. Licks over the hurt before travelling down. Over your cheeks, then your jaw, repeating the same motion. Your arms wrap tight around him, your hips bucking mindlessly up.
“Oh- Dean-“ Your nails scratch his neck, and he hums. “You- You can’t just- Holy shit-“
He shoves his knee right between your thighs, the sudden pressure a curse and a relief. Your hips roll like they have a mind of their own, and head dropping against Dean’s shoulder as you cry his name. He moans, his hand on your waist tugging at your shirt.
You grab it and move it under the fabric, moaning at the feeling of his rough callouses, his warm palms, how possessive just a light touch can be. His fingers splay, the tips pressing into your skin, and you’re fully humping him now. He hisses when your knee bumps into his hard crotch, and you giggle, dragging a hand down his spine.
Dean pulls back, watching you ride his thigh with hooded eyes and a lazy grin. “Something funny, pretty girl?”
You giggle again, pressing purposefully against the bulge in his jeans. He groans, pressing his brow to the top of your chest.
“Shit- You’re tryin’ to fucking kill me-“
“Nuh uh.” You breathe out, not caring how convincing it is. You can feel the pressure building in your core, but it’s not quite enough. You need him to give you more. “De- Dean-“
You grab his wrist again, trying to pull it to your ass, but he resists. He yanks his hand from your grip, sliding it up your ribs slowly. His thumb brushes under your breast, and you bow into the touch with another loud moan.
“Jesus.” He mutters. “You look fuckin’ gorgeous like this, sweetheart. Think putting you on my cock might turn me into a religious man.”
You grab his shirt, yanking desperately, and he clicks his tongue. His voice is deep and taunting, and he leans forward so his lips brush yours with every word.
“Easy, baby girl.” He coos, his thumb grazing over the curve of your breast. “Thought about this for so long. Wanna take my time with you, show you that I mean what I’m saying. Love these pretty tits,” he palms it as he speaks, grinning as you moan like a shameless whore. “And this smart fucking mouth.” He nips your lower lip. “And your whole, sexy fuckin’ body. Love it almost as much as that impossible, pretty head you got. And I’m not wasting my shot on making you mine.”
You shake your head, the wet heat becoming almost unbearable. “Al- Oh-“
Dean’s mouth attacks your neck and shoulders, and you have to take a deep breath to remember how to speak.
“Already yours, Dean, always been yours, always- Fuuuuck-“
He grabs you hips and moves them so your clit is always dragging against him, the friction from his jeans and your panties making your head spin.
“I know.” He mutters, breath warm against your ear. “You think I didn’t know, princess? That I didn’t see every time you’d give me those Bambi eyes and beat my cock in the shower that night, thinkin’ about what you’d let me do to you?”
You moan as shock and surprise burns on your cheeks, but it also floods south. Right to your core, making you squirm in his arms. Dean chuckles, watching you with a dangerous smirk.
“Thought it was just a crush, at first. Thought you’d get over it, move onto someone better-“
“No- No one better.” You breathe out despite yourself, and Dean’s eyes flash. “No one better, Dean, just you, just you-”
He grabs your jaw, kissing you long and rough. You whimper, pressing your tongue into his mouth. He pushes you further back against the door, kissing you with teeth and spit. You give in immediately, just trying to chase anything, anything he can give you at all.
“De- Dean-“
“Always someone better for you.” He growls against your lips, grabbing under your knee. He squeezes it tight before hiking it up, offering even more friction.
You moan, dropping your head back against the door. He’s almost fucking you through your clothing, his bugle pressed right against your throbbing pussy. Dean’s mostly just letting you grind down onto him, but every few moments he gives a shallow thrust of his hips, grinning when the pleasure shakes through your whole body.
“Look at you.” He coos, reaching up to smear some of his spit on your cheek. “You deserve the fuckin’ world, sweetheart. Deserve a guy with his shit all in order, someone half as sweet as you are-“
“You- You’re sweet-“ You gasp when he shoves his hips up, slamming right against your clit. “Holy shit- Dean-“
“I’m sweet.” He mocks, and it shouldn’t make you feel as needy and light as it does. “I treated you like shit, baby. Thought it would help you get over it, but look at you. You like this. Like bein’ my pretty fuckin’ slut.”
You let out a guttural, strangled noise of desire, and Dean taps his thumb against your lips. When you open them, he slides his thumb inside. You suck obediently, watching him under dazed eyes. His throat bobs, eyes blown out with lust.
“Good girl.” He mutters, lips twitching when you hum happily around him. “Oh, you like that, too. My good girl.”
He leans forward, whispering into your ear, and your eyes flutter hopelessly.
“You’re such a fuckin’ brat, sweetheart. You’d sass me and I’d think about kissing you nice and stupid, then giving you the whole fuckin’ world.”
You whine, and Dean pulls his thumb out to let you speak.
“Don’t- Don’t want the world.” You gasp. “Just want you, Dean, please-“
He hauls you off the bed, and your legs wrap around his middle. This time when he kisses you, he’s holding you over his body like you’re something for him to worship. He’s slow and sweet, just like you know he is. He tosses you down onto your bed before pulling off his shirt and prowling over your body. He pulls your pants down, kissing back up your ankle, your knee, your hipbone. He sucks your clit lightly through the fabric of your ruined panties, pinning your pelvis to the bed when your hips slam up.
You fist a hand in the sheets. “De- Dean-“
He hums, pressing you down harder. His tongue flicking, and you pant, desperately trying to wiggle out of his grip, to chase release.
Dean stops suddenly, chuckling when you whine like a spited child. Two fingers hook around the center of your panties, and he yanks away the ruins fabric like it was made of paper.
“So wet.” He mutters, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips. “You’re like a fuckin’ dream, baby, son of a bitch.”
He slaps your clit once, grinning when the reaction shakes through your whole body. You can almost see him making the metal note, before moving on. Dean grabs the hem of your shirt and tugs it over your head, kissing your tummy, your sides, the valley of your breasts and a tiny mark he’d left on your neck.
His lips meet yours, lazy and gentle. He palms at your exposed breasts, slowly kneeing your legs apart.
When he settles between them, he slows down even more, his breathing ragged and voice low and almost desperate.
“Say it again.” He mutters, and you hum.
“I want you.”
Dean kisses the corner of your mouth. “And- The other thing.”
“I love you.” You say, easy as breathing. “Love you, Dean.”
He grunts, planting a kiss on your nose. “Thank you, my love.”
You smile, letting your hands wander over the broad planes of his back. You’re still so close to the edge, tingly and aching, and maybe he’s just going to fuck you stupid like he promised right now-
Dean pulls away.
He sits up on his knees, one hand pressing you into the mattress. His thumb lingers just above your clit, capable of reaching it if he reaches. But instead he just watches you, shuffling out of his own pants and tossing them off to a corner of the room.
You swallow, salivating at the sight. He’s thick. Long and thick in every way you’d imagined. Broad and angry at the top, leaking with pre-cum that he swipes with his thumb. You’ve only see cocks like that made of silicone with a vibrator built in. You bought one once, feeling pretty brave. You’d given up very fast.
“De- Dean-“
“Yeah, baby?”
He squeezes your thigh, and you look up to him with wide eyes. “I- I can’t take that.”
“Yeah, you can.”
“No, I-“
“Shh.” He coos, thumb grazing over your clit. You shudder, grabbing his wrist.
“Dean-“
“I’m gonna help, princess.” He says. “You’re gonna take it.”
He says it so certainly, you fucking believe him. He’s got a goddamn monster-porn cock, but his rich, deep tone has you convinced you can somehow fit it easy.
“Guess that’s why you’re so confident all the time, right?” You giggle nervously, and Dean raises his brows.
“Excuse me?”
“Just if- If I had- That-“
“You mean a big dick?” He drawls, and you flush.
“Um. Yeah.” You turn your face into the pillow, trying to hide. “Shut up.”
He laughs, guiding your face back up as he leans down. Dean kisses you slowly, and you hum dazedly into his lips. He starts to drag his thickness up and down your soaked cunt, and your mouth falls open in a loud moan.
“You’re so fuckin’ cute.” He mutters. “My girl.”
“Yours.” You echo, and he grins.
“Can we try something, baby? You trust me?”
“Mmmm,” you mumble, mostly thinking about the friction he’s giving, the pleasurable shock every time his dick bumps your clit.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You breathe, and Dean smirks.
“Good girl.”
Then he’s gone again. Your fluttering eyes shoot open, and you try to reach up but he slams you right back down. Pinning you to the mattress as he sits on his knees, watching you drink him in a slowly stroking his cock.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do.” He drawls, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “You’re gonna tell me exactly what you want me to do to you, then I’m gonna make you cum until you can’t even talk.”
You gape at him. “Wha- What-“
“You’re so smart, princess.” He taps your clit, and your breath hitches. “Talk.”
“Dean, don’t tease-“
“Not teasing. I’m dead fuckin’ serious.” He gives you a stern look. “You don’t tell me what you want, you don’t cum.”
You glare at him, and he just shrugs. He’s still pumping himself with thick, long strokes, and you’d kill him if you didn’t feel like a firework only he could set off.
“Touch me.” You grumble, and he gives you a flat, amused look.
“How.”
“I- I don’t know- With your hands- Oh-“
Dean’s thumb starts to rub around your clit, and your let out a shaky breath. The gleam in his eyes tells you all you need to know. You listen, you get a reward.
“Touch me there.” You breathe, nervous and breathy. “Keep- Keep doing that, Dean- Ooh-“
He snorts as you hug yourself, pressing his thumb directly down and making you squeak.
“Fuck-“
“You’re bad at this.” He observes, and you reach up to whack his forearm.
“I’ve never done it before, dick-“
“So I’m givin’ you a new skill-“
“You’re making me insane.” You whine. “Just- Just fuck me, Dean, it shouldn’t be that hard!”
“Yeah?” He grins down at you, letting go of his dick to rub your thigh. “Big words from the girl who’s not gonna do any of the work.”
You stick out your tongue, and he laughs.
“I knew you liked being a little cockslut, dripping just thinkin’ about taking me, probably gonna call me daddy and beg-“
“Shut up-“ Face burning, you kick his chest, and Dean catches your ankle, kissing it before moving it back to the bed.
“Well if it’s so easy, I should be guessing right-“
“I just want you to fuck me stupid, Dean!” You shout, the words desperately pouring out of you. “Just- Just take your hands and toss me around, use me and- and kiss me and touch me- Fuck-“
He’s rubbing your clit again, eyes almost black with desire. You push on, grabbing his arm to keep focus.
“Use- Use your fingers and make me cum on your hand.” You breathe out. “Then- Then flip me over and fuck me- Fuck me until I can’t talk, fuck me stupid, Dean, please-“
Your words fall off in a moan as Dean rubs faster, leaning down over your body.
“You want me to talk?” He rumbles, and you nod.
“Talk- Talk the whole time- Oh my god-“
“Tell you how good you’re doing for me?” He mutters, a finger teasing over your entrance. “How good your pussy feels, how crazy you make me, what a perfect fuckin’ girl you’re being when you take my cock-“
“Yes.” You whine, pussy squeezing as he presses that finger slowly inside of you. “Yes, fuck, yes-“
“You want it rough?” He pumps slowly in and out, his thumb still working your clit. “Wanna feel me? Be fucked like you deserve?”
You nod, babbling agreements. He drags lightly against your g-spot and you let out a shuddering gasp, scratching at his shoulders. Dean groans, adding a second one, pushing them knuckle deep and scissoring the thick digits inside you.
“Fuck- Fuck-“ He’s kneading that gooey spot, and you’d already been wound so tight. “Dean, oh my god- Yes-“
“And where am I gonna cum, princess?” He coos in your ear, setting a shallow, deep pace with his fingers. They open you up and massage your pussy until it’s fluttering, until there’s a fuse burning your tummy that needs to be lit, that needs Dean to light it-
“Inside.” You breathe. You need more of him. All of him. “Want you to cum inside Dean, God, please-“
He moans—fully moans—and rubs your clit in furious, tight circles as he kisses you.
“Knew you could do it.” His thumb flicks as he presses your g-spot, and you whine. “Cum for me, baby girl, show me what you’ve got-“
Your release hits you with a scream of Dean’s name, making your toes curl and your back arch off the bed. Dean groans, twisting his hand so his palm is flat against your clit, rubbing and pressing down until you’re trembling and trying to shove him away.
“Look at you.” He says under his breath, like he’s admiring some sort of art. “Look at you, so goddamn sexy, making such a mess on my hand. Bet you’re gonna look even better, getting wrecked on my dick.”
“De- Dean-“
“I know.” He mutters, pulling his fingers fully out. “Soon. I’ll fill you up nice and pretty, fuck you ‘till you can’t think. It’s gonna feel so good, sweetheart. This tight fuckin’ pussy, strangling me while you beg.”
He lands a sharp hit on your pussy, and you barely get out a broken plea before he’s grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your stomach. You squeal, scrambling for a grip on the sheets as Dean drags your ass into the air.
“Such a mess.” He hits your pussy again, and you press your cheek into the mattress, panting as heat floods your body. “Greedy little pussy, don’t even gotta do much to get you ready for me. No,” he pushes his fingers back inside of you, the angle letting his knuckles massage your g-spot. “Basically fuckin’ begging for it, trying to fuck yourself on my fingers. Dirty girl.”
You hadn’t even realized you were doing that. Fucking back onto Dean’s hand, ass wiggling in the air as his free hand soothes down your spine. You’re shaking, but already ready for more, the sensitivity from the first orgasm building you back up.
“Deeean-“ You whine, spreading your knees wider. “More, need more, please-“
“Ah. Just feel this.” He yanks his fingers out, spanking your clit three sharp times before shoving his fingers back in. “You asked me to touch you, I’m touchin’. Touching you real good.”
He starts to knead your g-spot again, kissing slowly up and down your spine.
“Want you to come for me again, baby girl.” He mutters, lips wandering over the curve of your ass, then your thighs. “You’re gonna cum until you can’t stay up, then I’m gonna fuck you. Alright.”
You nod, but there isn’t something he could ask you that you’d say no to right now. “Oh- Okay.”
“Awesome.” Dean sucks on the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, pushing you higher in the air. “Hold onto something.”
Your hands fist in the sheets, right before his sinful mouth latches onto your clit.
You almost scream. Dean starts to make out with the bundle of nerves like it can kiss him back, shifting below you until you’re almost sitting on his face. His fingers keep grinding down onto your g-spot as his tongue flicks back and forth, your button sucked between his soft lips, and you push your hands into the sheets, almost unable to take the pleasure.
“Dean- Dean- I- I’m gonna- Fuck-“
A sharp spank lands on your ass before grabbing a handful of the fat and shoving you fully down. You cum with a scream of Dean’s name, the pleasure rolling through your body like a wave.
But he doesn’t stop.
Dean keeps you trapped against his face, working you so hard you see starts, then other universe. His stubble burns against you and it’s perfect, his tongue moving so relentlessly—in tight little kitten licks, working you into a blind frenzy—and the feeling to overwhelming you can’t even remember how to close your mouth. Dean drags you on his face when you try to pull away, chuckling against your pussy, and the vibration is too much.
This time when you cum, you’re shaking and boneless. You think you might be about to cry, but maybe that’s just how hot this is.
He still isn’t stopping, and you might be in heaven. Blissful and dumb from pleasure, just a fuck doll in Dean’s big, careful hands.
You’re about to cum again, and you didn’t know you could do twice, let alone four times.
“De- Dean-“ You whimper. “Can’t- Can’t do it again-“
Dean grunts, lifting you over his head. “Yes, you can.”
He yanks his fingers out, rubbing your clit quickly before flipping you back over. You blink up at him, the coil in your stomach burning to snap. You’re so cockdrunk and dazed you almost don’t feel it at first.
Dean’s cock, slowly pushing into you.
When it hits you, he’s already got the thick head inside. You mewl, trying to cover your chest as he presses in deeper, but Dean grabs your wrists and pins them next to your head.
“Let me see you.” He mutters, sounding just as wrecked as you are. “Wanna watch you. So pretty, fucking crying for me.” He leans down, kissing your cheek, and you sob with delight. “Feels good, doesn’t it. So- Shit-“ You clench around him, and he hisses. “So fuckin’ good.”
“Good.” You repeat, just trying to stay conscious as Dean drags through your oversensitive, abused pussy. “So, so good, Dean, so fucking- Ooooh-“
He bottoms out, and you could swear you feel him up your spine and in your mouth. You’ve never been so full before, never had someone hit so many sensitive spots inside of you, and it lights you up like a summer sky.
Your eyes cross, as the almost peaceful orgasm blooms from your womb to your lips. You smile up at Dean, twisting to tangle your fingers together, and he swallows.
There’s a soft shine in his eyes. Pure, utter affection as he watches you come undone around him. It even moves into his voice, all the teasing and dominant command coated in devotion.
“You’re so beautiful.” He murmurs, bowing over you until there’s no telling where you stop, and he ends. “Feel that, baby?” He gives a long, lazy roll of his hips, and you gasp. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s you, takin’ my cock. Just like I said you could.” He kisses you, repeating the motion. “Good girl.”
You pant, grabbing his bicep as he fucks slowly into you. He mutters low praise in your ear, bullying your pussy open with every thrust. You’d asked for it rush, but this is better. You feel priceless. You feel like Dean’s.
“Breathe.” He reminds you, and you take a stuttered gasp. “Good job, princess. Don’t want you passing out on me. Need to see those pretty eyes when I cum inside of you,”
You moan, body moving in a mindless rhythm with his, and Dean grins.
“Yeah, I’m gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Make this pussy mine, let it drip out, show everyone who fucks you so good.”
“You.” You whimper out. “You, Dean, ‘s you- Fuck-“
“Damn right it is.” He grunts, dropping his hips so he hits your g-spot even better. “You’re my girl, never gonna let you think anything else again.”
You nod, your breathing getting short and desperate. The room is filled with the wet sound of his dick sliding in and out of you. Your body is slick with heat and Dean’s kissing every inch of it he can reach. Grabbing and squeezing soft skin until you’re sure you’ll be covered in handprints and finger-shaped bruises in the morning, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
Not as his cock drives deep into your with every, precise thrust.
Dean kisses you, dragging his tongue over your upper lip, and your pussy flutters.
Oh. God. “Dean, I- I think-“
“I know.” He grunts, like he’s just attuned to that. “You can do it, baby girl.”
“No- No-“
“Yes.” Dean kisses the tears, streaming down your cheeks from overstimulation. “Do it for me, come on. Just feel it, let it happen. Bet it’s good, isn’t it. Nice and sweet, right here.”
He presses down on your pelvis, right over where the fire is building. You sob with pleasure, and Dean grins.
“That’s right, there it is, come on-“
You cum like you were struck by lighting. Every muscle in your body seizes, the pressure where Dean’s pressing breaking like a damn. You gush and squeeze around his cock, arching off the bed like you’re trying to take flight, and Dean drops over you with a shameless moan.
“Fuck- Fuck yeah-“ He presses his face into your neck as you milk his dick. “Holy- Christ-“
Thick spurts of Dean’s release fill you up. They’re hot, and you hug Dean’s head, whimpering in his ear as you take them. He’s kissing your shoulder, but it’s unmeasured and desperate, and you’re sure you’re having the same control issue right now.
The feeling is so consuming you can’t think of anything but Dean. You’re saying his name like a prayer, as he ruts into you, sloppy and desperate. Neither of you really come back to earth, as your orgasms fade. Dean just slumps over you, cradling your body in his arms, and you smile at the ceiling, completely fucked out.
“Shit.” Dean rasps, and you giggle.
“Yeah.”
“You know you could squirt?”
You shake your head, and he grins against your neck.
“Awesome.”
His cock twitches inside of you, and you hit his shoulders.
“Dean, oh my god-“
“Not now.” He groans, rolling onto his back and hauling you with him. “But later, right?” He gives you a hopeful, almost boyish look.
Like you might reject him while he’s still fucking inside of you.
“Cause I meant it.” He adds quickly. “Everything before, uh- This. Meant every word, promise, and- You can hit me or something, if that makes you feel better-“
You lean down, taking his sweet, dumb face between your hands and kissing him. Dean hums in surprise, but kisses you back immediately. One hand slides through your hair, the other up your spine, but he lets you lead. Looks up at you with a drunken smile when you pull away, like you’re some kind of god.
“I don’t want to hit you.” You say, tracing his tattoo.
He nods quickly. “Good. I mean- for me-“
“But you have to ask me out for real.” You give him a firm look. “And take me on a nice date.”
“I can do that.” He grins. “And then… You’re my…”
He trails off. Lets you fill in the space.
You think he got it right, just like that.
“Yeah,” you smile. “But you’re mine, too.”
And there’s nothing on Dean’s face that tells you he’s going to argue with that.
✦End note: im drooling. i know most of you prob dont read my main dean series, but every day i dream about getting to the end and just making him old and happy. very normal about how i want this old ass man.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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logan howlett/bucky barnes/clark kent x f!reader, smut mdni
tw: somnophilia, not proofread
he comes home to you sleeping, which is not a new occurrence. it’s late. you probably did your best to stay up and wait for him.
what’s new is the weather. temperatures getting warmer sees you wearing less and less—at home, outside, and to bed.
tonight it’s just a shirt—his shirt—and a pair of panties, something he catches a glimpse of in the dim.
and a damning glimpse it turns out to be.
you must’ve kicked the covers off of you at some point, given your bare legs. it’s likely that the heat made you twist and turn in your sleep, which shifted the shirt you’re wearing and your underwear: because the shirt’s hem rides up past your ribs, and the underwear gusset isn’t exactly covering you.
he can tell that your pussy’s wet.
it’s the smell that drives logan howlett crazy, subtle as it is even to his senses. you aren’t dripping, not yet, and that’s a thing he’d happily remedy.
he strips himself down to nothing and slips onto bed behind you, careful not to wake you.
the first thing he does is bury his nose in your hair and breathe you in—it’s enough to make him shiver.
then his hands move: fingers trace your exposed stomach, taking in the warmth of your skin. slow strokes, up and down, deceptively comforting. your chest rises and falls evenly, asleep and none the wiser.
“almost like you’re doing this on purpose,” he hums to himself when those same fingers snake south.
his face is in the crook of your neck now, because he wants to smell the change: a shift in your pheromones that only he can sense.
it hits him like a drug.
the catalyst? his fingers ghosting your hole above the fabric.
he moans .
you shift in his arms, the cleft of your ass rubbing against his already hard cock. logan’s fingers begin to circle, feeling the growing dampness of you, teasing the outline of your firm clit.
despite being a man of rough repute, he can be gentle, especially if being gentle means torturing you better.
“she’s dripping,” he’s talking to himself now, his own breath catching as he tugs your panties to the side, callused fingerpads rubbing your wet slit, “leaking, need to plug her full. yeah? you won’t mind? no, you won’t, you’re a good girl.”
when he sinks a finger in, you let out a hazy moan, spine arched into a large palm that’s busy groping your breast. the friction pulls you out of slumber, but only barely.
“l-logan—”
“sshh. go back to sleep, baby. let me have my fun with you.”
but you can’t—not when he’s fucking you with his fingers like you owe him, and not while he’s murmuring filth into your ear the whole time he plays with your clenching hole.
“need this pretty pussy to cum for me. she’s been wantin’ that, yeah? c’mon, sweetheart, let her cum for her old man.”
bucky barnes is hungry. and not for the dinner he willfully skipped.
the sight is the catalyst for this certain appetite: he finds himself kneeling on the bed just to watch your unconscious body and the gift between your legs, presented so beautifully in that pretty underwear.
“for me? you shouldn’t have,” he breathes, just as his face lowers to your inner thighs.
his hands spread you open just so he can see you better.
and that’s all he does. stares. amuses himself with the wet spot on the fabric that grows ever so slowly—must be because of his warm breath fanning your pussy. he swears he can taste you in the air, and the sensation makes him painfully aware of the tent in his pants.
so he rewards himself. his reward is you.
just a little bit, though: his lips kiss your pussy through the underwear, tongue pressing against the fabric for a taste.
your hips chafe against the air. his eyes look up, only to find yours still closed. still asleep. that pulls a grin out of him.
“i’d normally ask you to beg, but oh well,” before he slides your underwear down, throwing it somewhere on the floor.
his mouth on your cunt is designed to keep you asleep, and you do remain sleeping while he plants slow, open-mouthed kisses on your slit, nip your clit, dip his tongue teasingly into your hole—not enough to wake you.
some would argue he loves torturing himself just as much as he does torturing you.
but the goal is to get you unmistakably wet. and it’s working.
the evidence of his restraint pools near your ass on the bedsheets. he collects the slick with his finger and puts it in his mouth, moaning at your taste.
his meal is ready to be devoured.
and devour is exactly what he does to you. his mouth is no longer kind: lips move with hunger, kissing yours, then his tongue curls past your entrance to fuck you.
that wakes you up. he can tell through the strangled moan you let out.
hands pin your hips. you feel more than hear his voice, muffled against your sopping cunt:
“settle down, sweetheart. let me eat.”
the sight of you sleeping in his white button-down and little else shoots lust through clark kent’s veins.
he tries to be a good person and exercise restraint, despite the many conversations had with you about—in your own blunt words—using you when you’re asleep. and an agreement was reached. but still, a part of him can’t fathom the thought of just... taking you without you begging him to.
that part of him leads his feet to the bathroom. a cold shower is due.
except the running water doesn’t clean his dirty thoughts, instead exacerbate them—until he realizes he’s jerking himself off and that white stuff going down the drain isn’t soap.
okay. at least now he can go to bed without a raging hard-on.
wrong.
sleep doesn’t find him—mainly because he’s so aware of how easy it would be to take you the way you’ve consented to. how easy it would be to pull your underwear down. gosh, he can smell you from here. why are you so wet? are you having a really good dream?
clark gets hard again just laying next to you.
if you ask him, he doesn’t know how he got here. doesn’t know how he has your body atop his, doesn’t know who took your panties off.
doesn’t know why his thick cock is between your naked thighs.
he only knows how good it feels to rub himself against you.
“f-fu—ngh—”
his chin presses gently on the top of your head as he rocks, watching himself: the bulbous head poking out between your thighs, only to disappear and come back again, pearly bead at the red tip. he loves the feeling of it: your soaked panties wetting the length of his cock, the skin of your thighs rubbing against his veins...
somewhere along the way, he slips his cock into your panties and slides himself against your cunt.
your juices coating him makes him moan, the sound reverberating deep in his chest while his fingers play with yours, circling and tugging at your nipples.
“mmh...”
he freezes. that’s his cue. you’re waking up, he should stop, should ask you if you’re okay—
instead, a lie tumbles out his mouth so easily, he almost scared himself.
“’s okay, sweetheart, it’s just a dream. just lay back and feel good for me, m’kay?”
the next murmur that leaks out of you sounds sweet, sleepy and pliant. clark takes that as permission to continue ruining you.
ive been talking to Amy all day about the knight and im OBSESSED with the idea she had about you, being highborn, being your husband's guide through the political and social aspects of the court.
one day you block him from the front door.
"You are forbidden from going to the capital."
the knight reaches to stroke your cheek. "It's only a day's journey, lamb. I will be back within a week."
"I am not allowing you to leave to see the king's court dressed like that!" you point to his cloak and garments. your husband furrows his brow hard, inspecting himself. "They are stained and ripped!"
"My appearance doesn't matter, my performance is battle does." Clothing wont fix his face or scars.
"Nonsense." Clothing has always been important to you; half of the gowns you wear are made by your own hand, the fabric supplied by your father. There's been a pile of things set aside for your hubsand, but he refuses to stay still enough for you to measure. "I am coming with. There are clothes I have half sewn for you that I can finish. The rest we will buy when we arrive."
"We will be late to the council meeting-"
"And then you can blame your wife."
usually your husband rides a horse to the capital, but you have forced him into the carriage with you.
"You look regal in a high collar," you say and you work a hem. "Why are you even being summoned?"
The knight adjusts uncomfortably, looking out the window to avoid your focused expression.
"They wish to move troops back into the north in case of uprising," he whispers, voice low. "It's a terrible idea. Forcing already exhausted men to march hundreds of miles before the cold season ends is just going to lead to illness, infighting, and death."
"They don't listen to you when you tell them these things?"
"Rarely."
"Well, then make them listen. Why have a commander if they insist on ignoring him? You have earned their respect."
at the capital, you stand up for him in ways he didnt know he needed. Another member of the council greets him coldly, biting his name out with an overly polite statement that might be a jab-
"Forgive me for interrupting, sir, but you must not have heard," you say, hand coming to rest on your husbands chest, your mdoest ring glittering on your finger. "My husband has been titled as Lord of The Ironhills because of his actions as Commander of The Royal Legion."
The man blinks slowly, one eye slower than the other. "I am very aware, miss."
"Oh, forgive me! You didn't use either title, so I assumed you did not know better," you laugh. The joyous air you keep has this deeper, more pointed undertone. Many of the spots he overhears in the capital have this rhythm to them, but he never has the ability to bit back in the same way. "And you may refer to me as lady."
The man is clearly unhappy, but he turns back to your husband. "Forgive me, my lord."
and the knight realizes that his position here may grant him more power that he thought.
and frankly by the end of the day you start to worry that you've upset your husband by acting like that but the second you're alone he's gathering your skirts up and promising to make you cum as many times as you please--
umm this may be not so happy for happy pride month but because i live in a conservative country and is a pastor's "daughter" and have grown majority of my childhood w/ the presence of my churchmates and said churchmates are living in the city where its a small world, i......cannot date people who look like women </3
and to spare myself from the heartbreak of being in a closeted relationship, i decided to fixate on my attraction towards people that look like men ahaha </3
it's all fun and games when you and your best friend and roommate mattsun are jointly bringing in enough money from each making your own solo adult content to cover the rent. when you jokingly ask issei if he wants to do a collab one night.
(your followers have been begging for the real thing ever since you posted a series of dildo pussyjob videos.)
it's all fun and games until he's kneeling between your spread thighs. until you're faced with the reality of just how big issei's dick is. until you're so embarrassingly wet from the first testing strokes through your slick folds alone that he doesn't even bother grabbing the lube.
until your legs are shaking and your hands are trembling and you can barely hold your phone still enough to keep filming with each vertical thrust. until your pussy is nothing but a sloppy, empty, dripping mess.
(until you cum hard with a sob to the fantasy of issei plunging his dick inside of you and fucking you through the mattress.)
(and you hope maybe, while he's groaning above you as he paints your chest with thick, hot ropes of cum, that maybe. just maybe. he's thinking the same.)
