$ log - riding steve rogers reverse cowgirl because the argument will continue even while you crave his cock.
$ warn --nsfw --dom!afab!reader --sub!steve --reverse-cowgirl --whiny-and-devoted --begging --clit-play --lowk-using-him-like-a-toy
$ cd masterlist / steve-rogers
even though you're absolutely fuming, you're still grinding down hard with the friction of his cock filing you up spending pleasurable sparks through your nerves. you keep your back to him, shoulders tense, refusing to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.
"could you please turn around, honey?" steve's voice is rough, strained from the way your pussy grounds out around him.
"shut up, steve," you huff, rolling your hips in a slow, punishing circle, "i'm still pissed at you — you completely blew off our planned date tonight."
his massive palms slide up from your thighs to settle onto your waist. his thumbs find the base of your spine, massaging the muscle there in a way that makes your clit throb despite your anger.
"as much as i love your —" he pauses, gazing down at the way you sucked him, rode it out, grinded and repeated. " — tush, i do love seeing your gorgeous face, sweetheart," he whines softly.
you roll your eyes, leaning forwards slightly to prod his tip at a different angle within you.
"tush? what the — i told you, no one says that anymore," you mutter, though your hips betray you by stuttering against his cock.
"ah, my apologies," he breathes out, voice dropping an octave as his hands slid down to cup your arse. he squeezes firmly as you ride him. "i meant your ass is beautiful. but i would like to see my love, so please could you turn arou —"
you don't listen, instead reaching down to work your clit while you maintain that gruelling find. the friction is too good to stop. you can hear him whining behind you like a pathetic puppy (you almost give in).
steve soon realises his little pleas were getting him nowhere past your stubbornness. he opts to just watching you ride him like so. that is till he notices your thighs trembling in that familiar manner.
"why are you doing that?" he whimpers, sounding genuinely distressed. "why won't you let me make you cum?"
he hates being useless, especially when he knows he's the one who messed up.
"let me do it, please," he begs, voice cracking with desperation. warm hands move from your backside to your inner thighs, forcing them wider so he can get closer to where you're touching yourself.
he's practically imploring for permission to make amends, his girth twitching inside you as he watches you just use him like a toy.
"you don't get to make up for tonight by just being good in bed, steve," you snap, ignoring the way your voice breaks when his fingers finally make contact with your clit — replacing your own unsteady touch with a his steady, practiced pressure.
he groans at your defiance, but he doesn't stop. he increase the pace of his hips beneath you, trying to meet every punishing grind you give him. "i know, i know, i'll make it up to you — tomorrow, next week, whatever you want — just let me take care of you right now, please —"
his thumb digs into your hips, anchoring you to him as he drives upwards with increasing urgency. the combination of his thick cock stretching you open and those calloused digits working magic on your clit was just enough to send you over the edge.
you gasp out his name — with some swear words due to residue annoyance — as your hips stuttered in a desperate rhythm as your orgasm washed over.
"that's it, honey — let go, m'giving you everything —" steve murmurs against the nape of your neck, breath hot and shaky, sounding so damn relieved as you cum. he's even holding back his aching hardness! his entire body's rigid as he fights the overwhelming urge to cum along with you.
maybe that will land some gold stars by his name later in the night.
once the remnants of your orgasm pass over, you let out an amused growl over your shoulder.
"fine. you can use your fingers," you huff, voice slightly breathless, but you can feel that underlying tenacity resting. "but i'm still not looking at you."
steve's breath catch audibly — a win is a win. he will put on his best performance tonight, watch the freak out. he wants to hear you cum, to hear you lose control even if you're still pretending to hate him. so devoted to your pleasure he is, as he leaves a chaste kiss to your forehead, murmuring a sweet anything you want, sweetheart.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus @hisokamywaifu @lj-to-lz
$ log - you've been trying on sexy, little outfits for your boyfrie bodyguard — whatever sam wilson's been assigned to you as. he’s currently trapped in a velvet chair watching you try on lace. blame security protocol for saying you can't date anyone who hasn't been background-checked by the entire detail.
$ warn --sfw --suggestive --afab!reader --tensionnnn --trying-on-outfits --teasing --you-know-exactly-what-youre-doing
$ wc -w 1.8k
$ cd masterlist / marvel
You'd stayed home for two days.
No reason, no explanation. Just two full days of nothing — padding around in socks, reheating leftovers, lying on the couch with your phone held above your face. All while Sam stood by the kitchen counter doing existing in a state of quiet, competent vigilance.
It would have been very easy to ignore if he weren't also six feet of broad shoulders and a jaw that could cut glass.
Two days. Peaceful and simple. He should have known better.
"I need to run an errand," you'd said this morning, already dressed, already glossed, bag already on your shoulder. The word errand had done a lot of heavy lifting considering where you'd taken him.
The store was the kind of place that didn't have a sign out front. The kind where the lighting was warm, low and everything was displayed like it was sacred — three pieces per rack, fabrics you weren't supposed to touch without asking, a saleswoman who greeted you by name.
She even offered Sam sparkling water in a crystal flute. He declined, since he’s working.
The dressing room was in the back. Wide, carpeted, a row of curtained stalls with a set of low velvet chairs opposite the mirrors. In fact there were three walls of mirrors, floor to ceiling, angled to catch every version of you from every direction. Sam chose the seat with the clearest sightline to the shop floor, sat down, and crossed his arms.
That was an hour ago.
You'd started with something reasonable — a fitted midi dress, dark, simple, the kind of thing a person might actually wear to dinner. You stepped out and turned once in front of the mirror and asked, "What do you think?"
"Looks fine."
"Just fine?"
"It's a nice dress."
You'd looked at him for a beat, smiled like you were filing something away, and gone back behind the curtain. That was the last reasonable thing you did.
The second dress was shorter. Not dramatically — just enough that when you turned in front of the mirror you did it slower, watching his face in the reflection instead of watching yourself.
"Night-out option," you said. "Too much?"
Sam's eyes tracked to the front of the store. A woman walking in — mid-forties, one shopping bag, no concern. The saleswoman moved to greet her. A till drawer opening, shutting. He processed all of it fast and automatic, the low hum of awareness that never turned off whether he was in an embassy corridor or a shopping mall or… sitting in a velvet chair watching you test the structural limits of a hemline.
"It's fine," he said.
"You said that about the last one."
"They're both fine."
You'd narrowed your eyes, but you were smiling, and that was the part that worried him.
The third one was a set — camisole, low skirt, silk that caught the light every time you shifted your weight. You stood in front of the mirror adjusting the hem and he made a deliberate decision to look at your face. This was also a problem, since your face was doing the thing where you knew exactly what was happening and you were enjoying it.
"Casual but elevated," you said. "For, like, a dinner or gala thing."
"Sure."
"Sam. You're not looking."
"I'm looking."
"At the outfit."
He looked. The mirrors caught it from three angles. His jaw tightened and he made himself relax . Tension was a tell and tells were unprofessional. He had not survived two tours and a decade of combat to be undone by a camisole.
"It's nice," he said.
"Nice," you repeated, tasting the word. "Okay. I'll keep trying."
The fourth was a slip dress, bias-cut, the kind of fabric that moved when you breathed. You smoothed your palms down over your hips in the mirror like you were looking for flaws you knew weren't there.
Behind him, something clattered near the registers — a handbag hitting the counter, the browsing woman paying. His head turned a fraction on instinct and by the time he looked back you were watching him with your head tilted, studying him the way he was supposed to be studying the room.
"You hear everything, don't you?" you quip.
"That's the job."
"Must be tiring. Being on all the time."
"It's fine."
"You really like that word."
He didn't answer. You disappeared behind the curtain again, and he heard the sound of hangers sliding, fabric shifting, and then a pause that went on just slightly too long.
When you stepped out, the dress was — not a dress, not really. It was short, dark and lacy and it covered everything technically and structurally it was barely there. Thin straps. A neckline that had apparently given up trying. The kind of thing that existed in a category he was not going to name while on the clock.
You looked at yourself in the mirror, and turned once. Then you frowned.
"Hold on," you said, "this strap isn't sitting right."
You stepped toward him. Not toward the mirror behind you, not toward the full-length one to your left or the one to your right — toward him. Toward the mirror that happened to be on the wall directly behind his chair.
"Sorry, I just need to — " You stepped between his knees like it was nothing. Like the geometry of the room demanded it. Like there weren't mirrors on literally every other wall in a ten-foot radius that would've worked just as well.
Sam didn't move. His arms stayed crossed, and his back stayed straight. You were standing in front of him and your chest was right there, right at his exact seated eyeline. You reached up with both hands to adjust a strap that was sitting perfectly fine on your shoulder.
"This keeps slipping," you murmured, fingers working slow, pulling the thin lace strip off your shoulder and resettling it like it was giving you real trouble.
Your eyes were on the mirror behind him or they were supposed to be. Every few seconds they dropped down to his face, checking, gauging, the way someone watches a fuse burn.
He could smell your perfume. He could see the lace pattern shifting with every breath you took.
He could see — he was not going to catalogue what he could see, because he was a professional. Professionals don't sit in velvet chairs cataloguing the exact way a neckline moved when someone reached above their body.
His teeth came together. Not hard, but just enough to feel the pressure run up through his jaw, a slow clench he couldn't quite stop.
"There," you said, settling the strap. You didn't step back, as your fingers trailed down from your shoulder. You smoothed the lace over your collarbone, slow, unnecessary, standing close enough that if he unfolded his arms his hands would be on your hips.
You both knew that and neither of you said it.
"You know," you said, and your voice was easy, light, conversational, the tone you'd use to talk about the weather, "this whole arrangement isn't really fair to me."
He didn't trust himself to answer immediately. "What arrangement?"
"The bodyguard thing, the vetting, the protocol." You adjusted the other strap now — it also didn't need adjusting — and your weight shifted slightly.
Your knee brushed the inside of his thigh and you didn't acknowledge it at all. "I can't go on dates. Can't bring someone around without three people running a background check. Can't get a guy's number without someone standing behind me looking like they're going to snap his hand off."
"That's the protocol."
"I know it's the protocol, Sam." You looked down at him. The mirror behind his head was catching the line of your back and you weren't looking at it, not even a little, you were looking at him. "I'm saying it limits my options. Personally."
Somewhere in the shop a door opened and closed. He heard it. He heard the till. He heard the low murmur of conversation near the front and the soft click of shoes on tile. Every sound in the building came through clean and sharp the way it always did, his training never turning off.
However, none of it helped, none of it mattered, because every sense he had was currently full of you — your perfume, your breathing, your weight shifting on the carpet, the exact distance between your body and his hands.
"So this is kind of all I get," you said, and you gestured between the two of you like it was a reasonable observation, a logical conclusion. Someone already vetted. Already cleared, here, and already looking at you.
"That's not what this is," he said. His voice was steady. The rest of him was not.
"I know." You smiled. It was sweet and devastating. "I'm just saying. It's not really my fault."
You held there for one more second. One more breath. Long enough for his hands to feel heavy on his own arms and enough for the distance between you to feel like a decision someone was actively making rather than a fact of the room.
Then you stepped back. Easy, light, like nothing had happened, like you hadn't just stood between his knees in a piece of lace and dismantled him with a logistics argument.
You turned for the curtain and he watched you go and let a breath out through his nose — controlled, measured. It was the kind of exhale they teach you when you're trained to stay calm in situations significantly more dangerous than this and somehow less difficult.
You were behind the curtain for a while. He sat in the chair and swept the room — the registers, the door, the window, two new customers near the front, the saleswoman rearranging something on a display. Everything accounted for and in order.
"Sam?"
"Yeah."
"If I get, like, three of these — is that excessive?"
"I don't have an opinion on your shopping."
"Yes, you do."
He did. He had several, and none of them were rated safe for a debrief.
"Get what you want," he said.
A pause. Hangers clicking. Then: "Which one, though? If you had to pick."
He should say he didn't notice the difference. He should say they all looked the same. He should say something neutral and bland, the kind of answer he could repeat in a report without his ears getting warm.
"The third one," he said, without hesitating, because apparently his discipline had an expiry date and it had lapsed somewhere around minute forty-seven.
Silence from behind the curtain. Then, soft, pleased, and worse than every single thing you'd done all afternoon:
"Yeah. I liked that one too."
He sat back, crossed his arms, and just watched the room.
Everything accounted for and in order. Everything except him.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus @elarapheonix @hisokamywaifu
SIREN!READER deep dark waters. pescatarian picky. seren. voice full of orphean tones. beguiling words and demise. drags ships down out of boredom. scales that catch light wrong on purpose. calls it love, means something closer to hunger.
0001
[sfw][fluff][gn] you have a tendency to venture out for midnight swims in the gloomier depths of public lakes and rivers. tony stark isn't a fan of you roaming too far from his yearning eye. so he builds you a bespoke pool - complete with all your habitual needs.
0010
[sfw][fluff][gn] tony stark insists on training your voice somewhere contained - the tower, soundproofed, supposedly controlled. the side effects are immediate and inconvenient: half the team drifting mid-conversation, drawn toward the sound like it means something. he's the only one who doesn't look up. his heart's already spoken for.
0011
[sfw][fluff][gn] your scales dry out fast if you're away from water too long - something you mentioned once, in passing, expecting him to forget it by dinner. tony stark didn't forget it. now the tower runs humid enough to fog every window on the common floor, air thick as a rainforest. he'll deny engineering an entire building's climate around your comfort. the thermostat says otherwise.
EX-HUSBAND!TONY STARK divorce never occurred. toxically yearning after you. subservient sugar daddy. obscene invoice amounts. calls it alimony out of spite. keeps paying anyway. begging with a platinum card.
0001
[nsfw][gn] still angry about the divorce, you're running his pockets dry - designer bags, restaurants he can't pronounce, a car you don't even drive. he pays every invoice without blinking, transfers the money himself, like he wants to feel it leave his account. what a shame that he keeps getting turned on with this financial ruin. what a shame he'd let you take more.
0010
[nsfw][gn] in the midst of a heavy-debit transaction - somewhere in the six figures, nothing you actually needed - your phone buzzes with a voicenote. you expect his lawyer, some clipped warning about the spending. it isn't. it's him. he sounds needy, whining down the line like the transaction is the only attention you've given him in weeks. maybe it is.
0011
[nsfw][amab] you and he have different definitions for reconnecting - yours is showing up for the money transfer confirmations and whatever intimacy comes attached to it, no more, no less. he's letting you have all of him, like the deal was ever about the wire transfers. whatever the gap is, he doesn't care enough to point it out. he'll take the version of you that leaves by morning if it means he gets a version at all.
awkward!bucky barnes
bodyguard!cap quartet
ex-husband!tony stark
siren!reader
note = masterlist for fics surrounding a certain theme or au — they can be read as standalones. I just want better organisation since I might be expand on some 😛.
i was just rereading your ex husband tony stuff god he's so pathetic. Need a fic where ex-husband top mreader agrees to try to reconnect again but they end up just as absolutely smitten sugar daddy x sugar baby who dgaf
Am I in love with sir stark? Maybe, do I want to drain his bank accounts while fucking him? Yes
$ log - you and ex-husband!tony stark have different meanings for reconnecting. whatever the difference, he really doesn't care — he just wants you back with him. even if it's just for a night.
$ warn --nsfw --toxic --mean!amab!reader --dom!top!reader --sub!bot!tony --pathetic!tony --doggy --anal --sensory-depriv(gag) --no-aftercare
$ cd masterlist / tony-stark && ex-husband!tony
$ echo "mean!reader calls out to me like the green goblin mask istg" > authors-note.txt
the desk creaks under your doubled weight as you drive into him. your cock pulses with each thrust into his heavily wettened ass. you keep one hand clamped on his waist to pin him, the other shoving his face down into the wood. you don't even want to see him; only caring about the gripping friction.
"fuck, you're taking it so well," you grumble, your teeth grazing his ear.
tony's voice comes out as a wrecked, muffled noise against the desk. "please!" he gasps, his hips bucking back momentarily to meet yours, "don't stop — mmph — just, fuck — jus' keep —"
you reach down, snatching the wad of cash that had been stuffed between his lips. you toss the bills aside like trash, letting them flutter across the persian rug. you deliver a sharp smack to his arse that makes him yelp.
"got that one dirty," you drawl, voice dripping with venomous amusement, "now you have to withdraw more, honey."
the petname lands like a sneer, but tony just nods meekly. "anything." he chokes out in between ragged breathes. "whatever you want. just — don't leave tonight."
he's so pathetic. he's literally begging for the privilege of being used, convinced that if he pays enough, he can just pretence this isn't a transaction.
"will you come back?" he whimpers, his voice cracking as your cock bottoms out inside him flatly. "to reconnect? I can — I can make it worth your while. whatever you need —"
you feel your cock nudge against his prostate with a lazy accuracy, making his eyes roll. "depends," you purr, your hips stuttering as you savour the way he shudders around you. "that new penthouse suite in monaco just hit the market —"
"done." tony gasps before you even finish. his head whips back over his shoulder, eyes glazed and unfocused. "I'll — I'll wire the deposit now. just fuck, please, harder —"
his fingers scramble for his phone on the desk, smearing sweat across the screen as he frantically taps at a banking app. "I'll send more — whatever the price is — just don't stop."
you watch with cold amusement as he stumbles through the transfer, while you hike on his legs up onto the desk's edge. the new angle budges your cock to prod even deeper, making his head loll against the surface.
"fuck, fuck — " he whines loudly, his fingers twitching uselessly against the screen, "transferring now — just — ack — give me —"
twitching with every thrust of yours, his cock swings uselessly between his thighs. a thick string of precum leaks from his tip, dripping steadily. that rug costs more than most people's houses, and it's being ruined by his pitiful need to please you.
"there," he gasps, his voice cracking as he fumbles with the confirmation button. "it's sent. check your phone. please check it."
you don't even bother checking — you don't need to. you already know the numbers have climbed. the notif chime from your phone is drowned out by the wet slap of harsh skin meeting skin.
"fuck the phone, tony," you scoff, grabbing his hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat, "pay attention to what's actually inside you."
"yes, yes, fuck, sorry," he pants as his breathing comes in shallow, desperate stabs. "I'm — I'm paying attention. I'm here — I'm yours — "
what a wretched man.
as you fuck into him one last time, slumping into him as he lets out a guttural moan that dissolves into puny whimpers. his body trembles as you cum inside. he collapses forwards, forehead pressing hard against the desk.
with a wet, sucking sound, you pull out of him, leaving him gaping and twitching of the desk. you reach for your phone — the screen lighting up with three consecution notifs from your bank. the numbers are obscene.
tony rolls onto his side, looking up at you with eyes that glassy and desperate — he looks like a poor mutt waiting for a scrap of attention.
"I'm so sorry," he mumbles, voice thick with shame and lust, "I know, I'm — I'm a mess. but I'll do better next time — I'll — I'll have the penthouse ready before you even ask!"
he's lying to himself, but you don't correct him. why would you? the lie keeps the money flowing.
"next time," you start, pausing to adjust your belt as you catch his pining stare, "the transfer better be complete before I even arrive. if I have to wait even one second, I've using that pretty little mouth of yours instead."
you catch the way his pupils dilate at the threat, his breath hitching audibly at the word pretty.
"yes," tony whimpers, voice cracking with a desperate gratitude. "yes, anything — just — please come back."
you don't offer a kiss, nor a promise. you simply turn on your heel and walk towards to door. the silence stretched behind you, broken only by the sound of his unsteady breathing.
he pleasantly calls out, reminiscent to your pre-divorce days, "get home safe, sweetheart!"
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus @hisokamywaifu
$ log - dean winchester's not supposed to crave you like this — to the point his pussy aches at the sight of you. you're bobby's best friend, you're double his age, probably even slain thousands of demons compared to dear ol' dean. so, when the opportunity spreads itself wide in front of him, boy does he hang onto it tight like a fucking vice.
$ warn --nsfw --(mild)dark --dubcon(at end) --older!amab!reader --dom!top!reader --mean!reader --afab!dean --sub!bot!dean --older-man-younger-man --age-gap --dads-bsf --wet-dream --masturbation --prep --praise --condescending --degradation --humiliation --vag-fingering --spanking --size-diff-kink --mention-of-anal --mirror-involved-once --reverse-cowgirl --dirty-talk --dumbification --orgasm control --overstimulation --clit-play --pussyjob --thigh-grinding --doggy --p-in-v --begging --dacryphilia --fucked-to-passing-out --creampie --rough --unresolved-sexual-tension
$ wc -w 7.2k
$ cd masterlist / jensen-ackles
$ echo "the demon of crude, mean sex possessed me while writing this" > authors-note.txt
You’ve been a fixture in the hunting world for as long as Bobby can remember, a seasoned veteran whose reputation for grit and wisdom precedes you.
When you’re called in to help the Winchesters with a particularly nasty case, your presence brings a heavy, grounded authority to Bobby’s place. Sam’s immediately drawn to your expertise, eager to soak every bit of hunting knowledge you have to offer. But Dean?
Dean’s struggling to even breathe.
He watches you move with a calm confidence and his pussy actually pulses. Every time you walk into a room, the air feels thicker, and he can feel that familiar, humiliating heat pooling between his legs, his pussy getting ridiculously wet from just the sight of you.
During hunts, you offer brief commendations with a hand on his shoulder or a simple good work on that trap that sends jolts of electricity straight down his spine.
You drink heavily and smoke long into the night, but unlike John, you carry your strength with a lazy grace that never turns into anger. Seeing you laugh with Bobby makes him crave the heated stability.
Sometimes, Dean finds himself staring, unable to look away from the way your jeans, staring against the heavy, unmistakable bulge of your cock, a silent promise of the size he knows he needs.
The darkness of the room was suffocating, thick with the scent of old wood and Dean’s own frantic arousal. He lay sprawled on the mattress, his body trembling with a need so sharp it felt like a physical wound. His fingers were slick, sliding deep into his needy pussy with a desperate friction, while his other hand slapped hard against his own jaw, trying to sting himself into silence.
“Fuck — please — ” he mewled a tiny sound, before swallowing it back.
Every time a quiet, broken moan escaped his lips, he froze, heart hammering against his ribs — absolutely terrified that Sam or Bobby would hear the sound of him unravelling late at night.
Then, the fantasy took over, pulling him under like a tide. Suddenly, he wasn’t alone. The scent of leather and stale smoke overwhelmed his scenes, while all he felt was the unyielding weight of you crushing him into the cushions. His legs were shoved wide and his back curved as you hovered over him.
“That’s it, Dean,” your voice rumbled in his ear, low and commanding. “Take it all. You’re so fucking greedy for it, aren’t ya?”
Then, the phantom sensation of your cock hit him thick, hot, and unyielding, driving straight into his messy, overstimulated pussy. He let out a choked sob real-time, his hips jerking upwards to meet the imagined thrusts.
“God, you’re so wet f’me,” you murmured, voice a rough vibration against his skin. “Wrap those legs around me, take it all, Dean — show me how much you want it —”
His fantasy seemed to reach its peak in tempo, followed by a white-hot sensation that sent Dean over the edge.
Back straining off the sheets, he buckled hard as he orgasms — a silent, shaking mess in the dark. He buried his pace into the pillow to muffle the desperate, broken cries of your name, his heart was a frantic patter against his ribs.
“Fuck — you're —,” he gasped with a trembling whisper as he lay there in the cooling dark, trembling and spent from the illusory feeling of your weight. That soothing voice was still echoing in his mind, leaving him more desperate for the real thing than he’d ever been in his entire life.
Minutes later, Dean stumbled towards the bathroom, his legs feeling like jelly and his skin still flushed from the friction. He cleaned himself up with the cool water doing little to dampen the remaining pleasurable sensation of you. He felt wrecked, a shivering version of himself, desperately trying to pull his composure back together before the sun came up.
Thirsty and feeling the post orgasmic ache in his core, he crept down towards the kitchen, hoping to grab a glass of water without making a sound. But as he rounded the corner, the sight of you stopped him dead in his tracks.
You were sitting on the couch, a half finished whiskey in your hand, a stack of lore books spread out on the coffee table in front of you. The low light of the lamp casting long shadows across your face, making you look even more formidable, even more grounded.
“Can’t sleep?”
The question came in that same coarse rumble that had been haunting his dreams only minutes before. Dean felt his knees actually weaken — a traitorous heat instantly blooming at his clit as if he hadn’t just finished coming to the thought of you. He had to physically grip the doorframe to keep from swaying.
“Nah,” he managed, forcing his voice to stay steady, though it came out a fraction higher than usual. He plastered on his best ‘tough guy’ nonchalance, leaning against the wall with a practise ease that felt entirely fake, “Just… thirsty. Brain won’t shut up, ya know?”
He kept his eyes averted, terrified that if he looked at you too long, he’d lose his fucking mind. But, he could feel the heat of your gaze on him, a heavy masculine weight that made his skin prickle. He focused intensely on a random spot on the floor.
“I hear that,” you replied before taking a slow sip of your drink, the movement effortless. “Sometimes the world’s too loud, even when it’s quiet.”
Dean nodded, a very jerky and unconvincing movement. “Yeah, tell me about it.”
He finally risked a singular glance at you, and his heart nearly stopped. You were looking at him, your expression unreadable, but your eyes sharp. It’s as if you could see right through his ‘tough guy’ facade and straight into the trembling mess.
You set the whiskey down, your gaze softening with a genuine, steady warmth that only makes his heart hammer harder. “What’s going on, Dean?” you ask, voice dropping into a comforting register. “You know you can talk to me about anything, sport. Whatever’s on your mind — I’ll help.”
Sport.
The term of casual, masculine endearment hits him like a physical blow, that makes his pussy throb with a sudden, shameful ache.
How the fuck am I supposed to tell you that?
He wants to scream it. He wants to grab the front of your shirt, pull your frame down until your lips are inches from his and tell you that the only thing keeping him sane is the desperate, pulsing need to feel you inside him. He doesn’t want you to just be a listening ear; he wants you to act on your words firmly too.
Ugh, fuck.
He needs your calloused hands pinning his wrists or your thick fingers stretching him wide till he sobs — or better yet, your heavy cock driving into his weeping pussy till his brain’s fucking empty. The ache is getting unbearable by each grovelling minute. It’s a heavy, wet throb that him want to sink to his knees right there on the kitchen linoleum. He needs the pressure, the weight, the stable masculinity.
He needs you to stop being his “mentor” and start being the person who ruins him.
“Just… thinking about the case,” Dean lies, the words feeling like ash in his mouth. He forces a lopsided, cocky grin — the kind he’s used a thousand times to hide the fact that he’s falling apart.
Unfortunately his eyes betray him. Pining green lingers a second too long on the way your throat moves when you swallow or the way your large hands were splayed upon the case studies.
“The case can wait ‘til morning, Dean. You look like you’re wound tighter than a guitar string.” You chuckle while gesturing to the empty spot on the couch beside you, “Sit, drink your water — you’re pacing like a caged animal.”
Dean hesitates, his heart performing a frantic drumroll against his ribs. He should go back to his room, back to the safety of his blankets and his lonely aching silence.
But the pull of your presence is too fucking strong.
With stiff movements, he moves towards the couch, trying to mask the way his thighs rub together with every step. He sinks into the cushion beside you, careful to leave a respectful distance — though every instinct in his body is screaming at him to close the gap.
“Yeah, well, the Winchester brain never really shuts off right?” he says, as he takes some heavy sips of his water.
As he drinks, he can’t help — he really can’t help — but steal a glance at you.
Composed and steady, you’re leaning back with the lamp light catching the rugged lines of your face. You look so damn comfortable, so entirely in control of yourself, while he feels like he’s one second away from shattering.
The silence between you stretches thick with everything he isn’t saying. He sets the glass down, his knuckles white as he grips the cushion’s edge. He’s trying to play it cool, trying to be the legendary hunter, but the heat radiating from your body is making it impossible to focus on anything but the proximity of your thigh to his.
“You’re a terrible liar, Dean,” you say softly, not even looking up from your book, though the corner of your mouth twitches with a knowing smirk.
He stiffens, a flush creeping up his neck. “Yeah? And since when did you become an expert on me?”
“Since you started looking at me like you’re starving — and I haven’t even fed you yet?”
The sheer audacity of the comment leaves him breathless. Dean opens his mouth to snap back a witty retort, but the words die in his throat.
You don’t even look up from the page as you reach out, your large hand landing on his thigh. You don’t move it far, but the stable heat was enough to make his breath hitch. His reaction is instinctive. His legs don’t move nor straddle; they widen, his knees falling open in a silent, desperate invitation that he can’t control.
Then, your hand shifts.
Your fingers slide upward, moving with a terrifying, calm precision. Because he was so frantic to get back to bed, he hadn't even pulled his boxers back up, leaving himself completely exposed to the cool air and your sudden touch.
Your digits find the wet heat of his bare pussy, grazing a stripe of his labia, your blunt fingertips catching on the sensitive flesh. Dean lets out a strangled, high pitched gasp, his entire body jolting as if he’d been struck by lightning. He tries to pull his legs back together — to hide the evidence of his shame — but your hand is a heavy anchor, holding him wide and vulnerable.
You finally shift your gaze from the book, your eyes dark and knowing as they land on his flushed, trembling face. You don't pull your hand away; instead, you press a little deeper, your finger curling slightly into his wetness.
"You're soaking," you murmur, your voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrates right through him. A smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth. "Naughty boy, been watching some porn late at night?"
"I — it's not — " Dean stammers, his cocky facade completely demolished. He's staring at you, his eyes wide and glazed with terror and lust. He looks like a man caught red-handed, his chest heaving as he tries to find a lie that doesn't sound pathetic.
"It's not — it's not like that," he breathes, though the way his hips instinctively tilt toward your hand tells a completely different story.
You let out a low chuckle, finally closing the book and setting it aside. You don't pull your hand back; instead, you increase the pressure, your thumb beginning to grind slow, heavy circles against his clit, catching on the wetness he's been producing all night.
"Then what is it, Dean?" you demand, your voice dropping an octave, becoming that commanding tone that makes his insides melt. "Because you're dripping all over my hand, and you're shaking like you're waiting for me to do something about it?"
Dean can't even find the breath to argue. His head falls back against the couch cushion, his eyes fluttering shut as he lets out a broken, needy whine. The sensation of your thumb grinding against his clit is too much; it’s the exact friction he’d been trying to mimic with his own fingers in the dark, but your hand is larger, heavier, and infinitely more authoritative.
"Please —" he whimpers, the word slipping out before he can censor it. He doesn't even know what he's asking for. More pressure? More fingers, or the real thing he just knows the ache in his pussy is screaming for relief?
You lean in closer, your shadow swallowing him whole. The scent of your skin, mixed with the faint aroma of alcohol and tobacco, wraps around him like a physical weight.
"Please what, Dean?" you murmur against the shell of his ear, your warm breath hot against his skin. "You want me to stop — or do you want me to show you exactly what you were dreaming about?"
Dean's eyes snap open, glazed and unfocused, as he lets out a shuddering breath. He can't even lie anymore; the truth is written in the way his hips buck weakly against your hand, seeking more of that brutal, grounding pressure.
"Don't stop," he chokes out, his voice a mere thread of sound, stripped of all its usual bravado. "Please — don't stop."
You grin, a slow, predatory curve of your lips, as you slide a second finger deep into his tight, pulsing heat. The sudden fullness makes him cry out, a sharp, needy sound that echoes in the quiet kitchen, but you don't let him recover. You start to move, your fingers working with a rhythmic, punishing pace that drives him straight back toward the breadth of you.
You haul him up effortlessly, dragging his body until he's straddling your massive thigh, his back pressed flush against your chest. Your left hand fists in his hair before sliding down to grip his jaw, tilting his face at a sharp angle. You press your lips to his in a bruising, demanding kiss, then abruptly yank his head to the side, holding him there so he can feel your breath against his ear.
"Look at you," you murmur, your voice a controlled, gravelly purr. "You're fucking soaking, Dean. Every time I move my fingers, you squelch. Tell me truthfully, have you been touching yourself like this all night?”
Dean swallows hard, his throat working against your grip. "No," he gasps out, the lie tasting bitter even as his hips betray him by grinding harder against your palm. "Just, some lousy porn — nothing else."
You don't call him out immediately. Instead, you let the silence stretch, the only sound is the wet, rhythmic slap of your fingers working inside him.
In the corner of the room, Dean's eyes catch your reflection in the dusty mirror. The sight of himself completely exposed, helpless, and being handled like a toy sends a fresh wave of shame and arousal crashing through him. He knows he's lying; he knows you can see every tremor in his body. But he can't stop looking.
His gaze drops down the mirror's reflection, trailing past your broad shoulder to where your hand is buried between his thighs. He watches as your fingers disappear into his slick folds, working with a ruthless efficiency that makes his vision blur.
In the mirror, he sees your thumb hook under the sensitive edge of his flesh, pulling his labia wide to expose the raw, swollen pink of his entrance.
"Look at that," you murmur against his ear, your breath hot enough to scald. "Look how fucking open you are for me. Look at how you're begging for it."
Dean's breath hitches as he stares at the reflection. Seeing it from the outside — seeing how your thick fingers stretch him apart — how his own pussy glistens and pulses around your knuckles makes the reality of his degradation hit him like a freight train.
"Fuck," he chokes out, his forehead dropping against your shoulder as his hips buck involuntarily. "Fuck, please — please!"
"Shhh, easy now, Dean," you coo, your voice dripping with that infuriatingly calm, patronising affection. You sound less like a lover and more like someone soothing a needy puppy — which only makes his blood boil and his pussy clench tighter. "There we go. Just let it happen, don't fight it."
You pick up the pace, your fingers working with a cruel, precise rhythm that targets every nerve ending he has. Dean's hips buck violently against your thigh, his back arching until his spine cracks audibly.
A wrecked, high pitched keen tears from his throat as his orgasm hits sudden and overwhelming. His body shudders uncontrollably as he spills over your fingers, his vision swimming behind closed eyelids.
But you don't slow down. You don't let him collapse into the afterglow. The moment his tremors begin to subside, you immediately resume the punishing stroke.
Dean gasps, his eyes snapping open in genuine shock.
"Wait fuck no, I can't — " His voice breaks as he glances back at you over his shoulder, his expression one of pure bewilderment.
His brain is short circuiting; he knows he's already come multiple times tonight, alone in his bed, exhausted and desperate. His body should be spent, his nerves fried, but the way you're touching him the overwhelming authority of your hand is forcing new waves of arousal through him that shouldn't exist.
"What's wrong, champ?" you murmur, your thumb finding that sensitive spot again with unerring accuracy. You tighten your grip on his jaw, forcing him to meet your amused gaze. "Already spent? After all that lying?"
"I'm — I'm already —" he stammers, his hips jerking involuntarily as your thumb finds that perfect, swollen nerve again. "I can't — I'm already fucking empty, I swear to God — "
"Empty?" you interrupt, your chuckle dangerously as you lean closer, your lips brushing against his ear. "You don't know shit about being empty, Dean. You're just sensitive. Your body is still screaming for more."
You increase the pressure, your fingers sliding deeper, stretching him wider with each thrust. You're working him open, your blunt fingertips slick with his arousal as you relentlessly massage the walls of his pussy.
"If you want the real thing tonight, you need to be ready for it," you murmur, your voice dropping into something darker, more utilitarian. "You need to be loose — you need to be fucking dripping so I can slide right in without tearing you apart. Consider this an investment."
Dean's head lolls back against your shoulder, his breathing coming in shallow, confused pants. "An investment? What the fuck are you — "
His words die in his throat when he shifts slightly, his ass grinding against your thigh.
In that movement, he feels it: the unmistakable, rock hard ridge of your cock pressing through the denim of your jeans, poking insistently against the sensitive cleft of his ass. The heat of it radiates through his clothes, a promise of something far more devastating than your fingers.
The realisation hits him like a physical blow. You weren't just tormenting him for sport, nor were you being cruel. You were prepping him. Every punishing stroke, every forced climax, every stretch of his labia had been calculated to make his body surrender completely to what was coming next.
"Oh," he breathes, the syllable more of a whimper than a confession. His clit throbs painfully, slick with the evidence of his own undoing, while the hard bulge behind him promises a different kind of fullness entirely.
"Oh," he repeats, his eyes blown wide as they fix on your reflection in the mirror, seeing the way your erection strains against your jeans right where his ass meets your thigh. "Oh god," he chokes out, his hips stuttering in a helpless attempt to both escape and press closer.
"I'll pull one or two more orgasms out of you, Dean," you state plainly, your tone as matter of fact as if you were discussing the weather. "Maybe three, if you're as good as I think you are."
"No — fuck you, I can't — " Dean protests, his voice cracking as he tries to twist away from your relentless fingers. But there's nowhere to go.
Your body is a wall behind him, and your hand on his jaw is an iron vise that keeps him exactly where you want him. He can only squirm, his hips bucking uselessly against your thigh in a desperate, futile attempt to regain some semblance of control.
Smack!
The sound of your palm connecting with his jaw is sharp and startling in the quiet room. It isn't enough to hurt him, but it's firm enough to shock the protest right out of his lungs.
You hold his face steady, forcing him to meet your gaze. "Listen to me, Dean. What you see in those stupid fucking porn videos — that's all bullshit. Real sex requires preparation — and I'm the one teaching you how to actually handle it. You need to learn how to take this."
You lean in closer, your lips grazing his earlobe while your fingers work deeper, stretching his slick walls with increasing urgency. "Now, you're going to be a good boy and accept this. Say it, say you'll take whatever I give you."
"I — I won't —" Dean starts to protest, but you tighten your grip on his jaw, applying just enough pressure to remind him who holds the power here.
"Wrong answer," you command, your voice dropping to that stern register that leaves no room for argument. "I want to hear you say it properly, through every one of those pathetic little gasps."
Dean's body betrays him completely. His hips roll forward in a desperate, involuntary search for friction as your fingers stretch him to his limit. A broken, strangled noise escapes his throat as he finally surrenders to the authority in your voice.
"I'll — fuck — I'll take it," he manages to choke out, his words punctuated by sharp, hitched gasps that leave him panting. "I'll take — whatever you give me."
"Good boy," you murmur, the praise dripping with that same patronising satisfaction. You give his jaw one last firm squeeze before releasing him, though you don't pull away.
Instead, you let your hand slide down from his face to rest heavily on his chest, feeling the frantic, rabbit quick hammering of his heart beneath his ribs.
"See?" you whisper, your breath hot against his neck. "That wasn't so hard, was it? Now we know you're listening."
The room falls into a heavy, charged silence, broken only by the ragged sound of Dean's breathing. His body has finally gone boneless against you, his muscles twitching with the aftershocks of the orgasm you forced out of him. He drips freely, sending warm rivulets of cum down your thigh.
You withdraw your fingers slowly, the wet sound of your exit making him whimper. Without hesitation, you take those slick, swollen fingers and press them against his mouth.
He doesn't resist, leaning into the touch, his eyes rolling back as he begins to suckle on your fingers — tasting the salty, unmistakable evidence of himself. He heaves against your chest, his mouth working around your knuckles with a desperate, unconscious hunger, seeking comfort in the very thing that just broke him.
While he is momentarily occupied, lost in that haze of shame and sensory overload, you give him a moment to catch his breath against your shoulder. Your fingers slip free from his mouth, leaving him panting and dazed, but you don't release your hold on his waist. You keep him pinned against you, anchoring him while you shift to the next phase of your plan.
With one hand still possessively wrapped around his middle, you reach down with the other. Your movements are efficient, practiced, and utterly calm as you unbuckle your belt with a metallic click that sounds deafening in the quiet room.
You work the zipper down, and then, with a gradual motion, you free your aching cock from your jeans.
Dean's breath hitches audibly as he feels the sudden change in temperature and weight beneath him. He shifts his hips slightly, and his eyes go wide as he sees the thick size of you lying just beneath his thighs.
The heat coming off your cock is staggering, a physical force that makes his entire lower body tremble. His gaze drops to where your cock presses against his swollen pussy, already wet with the mess of his own orgasms.
"Oh god —" he murmurs, his voice barely a thread of sound, thick with awe and terror. "It's so — it's so big —"
He can feel the sheer girth of you spreading his folds apart even before you make contact. He's terrified of how much he wants it, terrified of how perfectly his body seems to be reaching for you despite the exhaustion still clinging to his limbs.
As you prepare to make your move, your hand dips into your pocket. The crinkle of plastic fills the space between you as you tear open a sachet.
Dean catches the sound, his eyes darting to the packet in your hand. A weak, self deprecating laugh escapes his lips — a pathetic attempt to reclaim some dignity through humor.
"You — you always carry lube around with you?" he manages to wheeze out, trying to sound teasing when his voice is clearly trembling.
"I was going to go out to the bar tonight," you reply, your tone casual, and utterly unbothered by his attempt at levity. "But then I heard your pretty little whines coming down the hallway." You let out a dark chuckle at the way his face instantly floods with a deep, mortified crimson. "Figured I'd come see what all the noise was about instead."
The implication hangs heavy in the air between you.
You begin to lather the sweet scented slick over your cock, the clear gel catching the dim light as you coat yourself from base to tip. Then, with deliberate slowness, you smear the rest over his dripping labia, ensuring every inch of his entrance is glistening and ready.
Even after the work you've put in, you can feel the resistance beneath your touch; despite the lube and his arousal, his body is still coiled tight.
"Your walls are quite thin, Dean," you murmur, watching how his pupils dilate at the implication.
His heart hammers against your chest. The realisation that you've been listening to him every desperate moan, every wet slap of his own hand against his thighs every single night since you arrived here threatens to overwhelm him. But there is no room for shame now.
His entire universe has shrunk down to the point of contact between his pussy and the massive heat between your cock and his pussy. He's too far gone, too consumed by the physical presence of you to even process the humiliation of being caught.
So, he gives a tentative, desperate grind, his hips rolling against your cock in a silent plea for friction.
You glance down at the sight of him in your lap, watching how his hips stutter against you. His desperate self is thinking exactly the right way. You can see it in the way he arches, seeking that contact, begging for the fullness he knows is coming. Good. You'll let him have this — you'll let him work for it, getting a job out of him first, letting him ride that slick heat until he's begging for mercy.
But you aren't planning on being gentle when you finally decide to fuck him mean. You've spent the last hour preparing him, stretching him, and breaking his resistance, all so you can fuck him without hesitation.
"Slow down, Dean. I told you we're still prepping."
You grip his hips with bruising force, your fingers digging into the soft flesh above his pelvic bones to anchor him. However, you don't let him sink down. You simply hold him just at the threshold, forcing him to hover there, suspended between desperate need and the agonising promise of fullness.
"But please — " Dean gasps, his voice breaking as he tries to push downward, his hips stuttering in an involuntary attempt to impale himself on your cock. "I need — I need you inside — fuck, please."
"I said slow," you growl, your voice dropping into that stern tone that brooks no argument. "You're still too tight. If I push you now, you'll tear, and I'm not interested in hearing you scream from pain instead of pleasure."
It's a lie, and his younger, desperate mind knows exactly what you're doing, but he's too far gone to care about the deception. He can feel the truth in the way your cock pulses against his pussy, teasing the very edge of his folds without giving him the release he's starving for.
"I'm not fucking you yet," you murmur, your breath hot against the nape of his neck as you begin to move him. "We're going to work this friction until you're completely slick, until you're begging me to ruin you."
Instead of pushing inside, you begin to guide his hips in a slow, punishing grind. You force him to slide his pussy along the entire length of your cock, but only on the outside.
You make sure his clit catches repeatedly against the sensitive ridge of you, the friction sending sparks of electricity straight to his brain. The wet, squelching sound of your cock sliding between his labia fills the room as fills the space between your bodies.
Every time he grinds down, you make sure he feels the full, unforgiving texture of your cock sliding between, never letting him slip past the entrance
You keep him exactly where you want him: hovering on the precipice of ecstasy, his pussy’s stretched taut and glistening with lube as it rubs relentlessly against you.
"Please, please, please —" Dean whines, his head tossing back against your shoulder as his hips stutter in a desperate rhythm. "It's — it's too much, I can't — "
"You can, and you will," you cut him off, your grip tightening on his hips to control the pace. "Feel that? That's what happens when you don't know how to prepare yourself properly."
You deliberately angle your cock so that each downward roll of his hips forces his clit to scrape directly against the edge beneath your cock's head.
"Please — fuck, please just fuck me already," Dean sobs, his voice breaking into something raw and pathetic. His hips are working in frantic, uncoordinated jerks, trying to force his way down, but your hands are like iron shackles around his pelvic bones.
You move him with effortless, terrifying strength, sliding his pussy up and down your cock as if he weighs nothing at all, controlling every millimetre of friction.
"Shhh, easy, sport. Don't get ahead of yourself," you coo, pressing tender kisses to his sweat slicked temples.
You sound like a guardian angel soothing a frightened soul, but internally, you're scoffing at how goddamn easy this is. His body is responding to every single movement with desperate, unguarded need; his pussy is practically begging for the invasion, slick and pliant under your expert torment.
"I can't — I'm gonna — " he gasps, his entire body trembling as he teeters on the razor's edge of another orgasm, his breath coming in short, broken whimpers. His hips stutter helplessly against you, his pussy already raw from the relentless grinding — each movement sending fresh waves of overstimulation through his already fried nerves.
"I'm gonna fuck, I'm gonna cum —"
"Not yet," you murmur against his ear, your voice dripping with mock concern. You maintain that torturous rhythm for three more agonising seconds, pushing him to the absolute brink where his vision blurs and his muscles lock up, before suddenly stopping.
You pull back just enough to feel the cool air hit his slick skin, then you give his ass a cheerful, affectionate pat. "Okay, now you're ready."
Before he can even process the sudden absence of friction, you manhandle him. With practiced ease, you flip him over on the couch, pressing his chest down into the cushions while forcing his hips high into the air. You plant yourself behind him, your knees bracketing his thighs as you spread his ass wide with both hands.
The sight is perfect — his pussy all flushed a deep shade, glistening with lube and his own releases, stretched open and waiting.
"There we go," you murmur, the tenderness gone from your voice, replaced by something hungry and predatory. "Now we can actually begin."
You don't pound into him straight away. You don't give him the violent release he's begging for. Instead, you press the broad, blunt head of your cock against his entrance and begin to push, inch by agonising inch.
Dean's entire body jerks as he feels the intrusion. "Ah fuck! Oh god, it's — it's too — " His voice cracks as he realises you aren't rushing. You're taking your time, forcing his tight walls to accommodate your girth one excruciating inch at a time.
You reach forward, threading your fingers through his hair and yanking his head back just enough so you can watch his face. His eyes are blown wide, pupils swallowed by irises as they fix on yours, glassy with tears and overwhelmed by the sensation of being split open.
"Look at me, Dean," you command, your voice a low, dangerous purr. "See how well you take it?"
You push again, a slow, inexorable advance that forces his pussy to stretch to its absolute limit. The wet, sucking sound of your cock sliding past his tight entrance echoes in the quiet room.
Each inch feels like an eternity, each millimetre a new lesson in surrender. His walls flutter around you, clenching desperately as they try to accommodate the invading girth, but you don't give an inch of slack.
"Fuck — it's so big — you're stretching me so much " Dean whines, his fingers clawing into the couch cushions.
His breath comes in ragged, terrified gasps as you continue your methodical assault. The resistance is delicious the way his muscles spasm and fight against the intrusion before finally yielding to the overwhelming pressure.
"That's it, Dean. Take it all," you whisper, your voice devoid of any real sympathy as you drive deeper. "Every single inch."
You watch with clinical fascination as his body reacts to the fullness. The sensation of his tight pussy gripping you is intoxicating — a warm vice that threatens to undo even your own composure.
"I'm — I'm full, oh god — you're so deep — " he chokes out, his back arching involuntarily as you finally bottom out against his cervix.
The teasing is over. The performance of the gentle mentor has been discarded like yesterday's trash, replaced by something far more primal.
You shift your weight, planting your knees wider to brace yourself as you settle into a brutal, relentless position. One hand remains buried in his hair — not to soothe him this time — but to hold his head exactly where you want it tilted back. Just enough so you can watch every expression of his degradation.
"That's enough playing around, sport," you growl, your voice dropping the pretense of sweetness. It's cold now, hard as flint, the voice of someone who has stopped asking permission and started taking what belongs to them. "Time to actually fuck you properly."
Without warning, you drive forward. You don't ease in anymore; you thrust into him with powerful, piston-like paces that send his entire body bunching forwards against the couch cushions.
Each thrust is deep and utterly relentless, forcing the air from his lungs in ragged, broken cries. You're not interested in his comfort anymore; you're only interested in his capacity to endure you.
"Look at this pussy," you sneer, your free hand coming down to slap against his thigh as you drive home again. "So fucking messy. So fucking desperate." You lean down, your mouth close to his ear as you continue the brutal rhythm. "Bobby talks about you like you're some kind of legend, Dean. A grand hunter — the best there is. But right now? All I see is a needy little boy who can't even handle being filled up."
Dean can't even form coherent sentences. He just nods dumbly against the cushion, his brain short circuiting from the intensity of the penetration.
He's lost in the sensation of you stretching him apart, shattering under the onslaught. He can only manage weak, incoherent sounds that dissolve into wet whimpers every time you bottom out against him.
"Listen to those moans, Dean," you chuckle darkly, the sound vibrating against his spine as you pick up the pace, your thrusts becoming faster, more punishing. "Goddamn, they're fucking pornographic. If Sam or Bobby heard you right now, they wouldn't be able to tell the difference between you and some R-rated video — you sound exactly like what you are: a fucktoy."
The words hit him harder than the physical impact, but he has no defense.
His body betrays him with every word, his pussy clenching around your cock in desperate, involuntary spasms that only make you want to fuck him harder. You reach around, your palm connecting with the meat of his ass in a sharp, stinging spank that makes him cry out.
"Such a pretty ass, too," you drawl, your voice dripping with cruel amusement as you deliver another smack that leaves a blooming red handprint across his pale skin. "All flushed and shaking for me."
You watch with predatory satisfaction as his body arches involuntarily, his hips stuttering against your cock in a futile attempt to find some kind of rhythm amidst the chaos you're creating.
His tears have begun to spill freely now, dampening the couch cushions as he sobs through each deepening thrust, but you don't stop. If anything, the sight of his breakdown only fuels your hunger.
"God, you're gorgeous when you're breaking like this," you murmur, your grip tightening on his hair to yank his head back further, forcing him to meet your cold, hungry gaze. "So helpless — so fucking perfect."
As you drive yourself into him again, your cock sliding through the slick, messy heat of him, your free hand slides down, fingers tracing the sensitive edge where his pussy meets his ass.
You pause there for a heartbeat, the tip of your cock grinding against his inner walls while your touch lingers dangerously close to his tight, puckered hole.
"You know what I'm thinking about, Dean?" you chuckle darkly, your breath hot against his ear as you watch his hips quiver in terror. "All this mess, all this wetness — it's a shame it's only coming from one hole."
You deliver one last, devastating thrust that makes him cry out in a high, broken note, before leaning down to whisper the promise that makes his entire body freeze.
"Next time, I'm not stopping at your pussy — I'm going to open you up right here, too. I'm going to stretch that pretty little asshole until you can't even remember how to walk straight."
You watch as the threat sinks in, his entire body going rigid beneath you, every muscle locking up in terror at the prospect of what's to come. The way his breath hitches, the way his pussy clenches around you in a desperate, instinctive attempt to protect itself — it's intoxicating.
"That's it, freeze for me," you growl, feeling the delicious tightness of his internal muscles as they spasm around your cock. "Let that fear sink in. Let it make you even wetter."
You don't give him a moment to recover. You resume the mean rhythm, each thrust more punishing than the last, driving him further into the cushions.
You want him to remember this feeling — the feeling of being completely owned, completely exposed — and utterly powerless against the promise of what you'll do to him next.
The final thrusts come with an unrelenting force that leaves Dean completely undone.
His body has reached its absolute limit; his muscles have gone beyond exhaustion into a state of pure, boneless surrender. As you feel your own orgasm building your balls heavy and aching with the need to release you lean down, your voice rough and demanding.
"Should I cum inside you, Dean? Should I fill you up with everything I've got?"
He doesn't even hesitate. His mind is too fried, his body too overwhelmed to consider the consequences. He simply nods dumbly against the cushion — a pathetic, desperate movement that says he doesn't care if he gets pregnant, doesn't care about Bobby, doesn't care about anything except the relief of your cum flooding his abused insides.
"Attaboy," you growl.
With one last, bone-deep lunge, you bottom out against him, cumming in hot, thick pulses that fill him to the brim.
Dean's body convulses beneath you, a final, weak tremor running through his spine as the overwhelming sensation of being filled sends him spiraling past the point of conscious thought. His breathing becomes shallow, erratic gasps before smoothing out into the heavy, unconscious rhythm of someone who has simply given up.
"Fuck, sport," you grumble, a snarky, almost disappointed sound escaping your throat as you feel his strength drain away entirely. He's teetering on the edge of passing out, his limbs going limp as his brain shuts down to escape the sensory overload. "Look at you. Can't even stay awake for the best part."
You feel him slipping away, his forehead pressing limply against the couch cushions. You lean down, your voice dropping into that dark, possessive comfort that promises no escape. "Don't worry, you'll stay right here — I'll continue fucking my fill. After all, this is exactly what you've been craving all these weeks, isn't it?"
You watch with cruel satisfaction as his consciousness finally fractures.
Dean's body goes completely boneless, his face pressed limply into the fabric of the couch, tears still wet on his cheeks. He has passed out, his mind unable to process any more of the exquisite torment you've inflicted.
He lies there in a state of beautiful, broken surrender: face down, ass up, completely exposed to your whims.
Even as he sleeps, you aren't finished.
The rhythmic slap of flesh against flesh fills the room as you continue to claim him, your thrusts methodical and unhurried now that he can no longer fight back or beg for mercy. Poor boy.
Maybe he should’ve thought twice before desperately chasing after the heat of someone double his age, double his intelligence, and double his lust.
Watching his tired form twitch under your touch brings a surge of dark triumph that no supernatural battle could ever match.
You think to yourself how fortunate you were that you agreed to take on Bobby's request for this particular case; it had promised danger, but it delivered something far more intoxicating. The raw power of breaking a legend, the feel of his flooded pussy clenching around you even in his stupor is undoubtedly the most exhilarating sensation you have ever experienced.
It surpasses every hunt, every demon slain, and every supernatural victory you've ever claimed. As you drive yourself home one last time, you realise that this conquest is the only reward that truly matters.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @hisokamywaifu
WOULD YOU EVER DO TRANS STEVE sorry I feel like all my posts are yelling at you, I'm just very excited and gay.
t4t Steve riding our strap,, 🤤🤤🤤
- RT, since I'm on your taglist now :o]
are you in my in walls rn 🤨😌 bc I literally was thinking of a similar-sounding fic idea:
1940s!steve x doctor!reader — he's attending his weekly appointment with the base's doc. it's just a checkup to make sure the serum / experiments haven't produced any negative side effects.
this week, his usual doc seemed to be on leave, so you're here instead. it's all fine, he likes meeting new people anyways. steve places his cheery smile and as he listens to your instructions, he feels like he's in good hands.
I'm thinking freaky gyno trip, dubcon, medic-play and the good ol' strap coming out for "testing the muscle against strenuous routines".
whose pussy won't stop getting wet at the sight of you. a renowned hunter, you're a good friend of bobby's, called around to help the boys with a current case. sam loves how knowledgeable you are; dean just wants you to finger him till he cries.
you carry all the heavy stuff, show the boys the right ropes with weapons n traps n what not. though, every time you praise him on hunts, his knees buckle bad. even when you're smoking heavy, several drinks in, you're still laughing along, not an ounce getting all angry-drunk like other older figures in his life. there's something about that stable masculinity which makes him go insane.
best believe, in the dark confines of his room, dean's trying to muffle his little whines as he frantically fingers his leaking pussy, thumbing his clit to another fantasy of you dicking him down, talking him through. he just knows that soothing voice of yours would do wonders while he's fucked out blissfully.
I need this BADLY. I have this headcanon that bucky is gender fluid in a way that he doesn't care what people call him at all. Can you write something about bucky's partner calling him their girlfriend as a joke and bucky genuinely liking it.
$ log - bucky barnes drops his rifle because of your term of endearment, and he's been giddy for ten uninterrupted minutes. you simply cannot tell.
$ warn --sfw --gn!reader --genderfluid!bucky --sweetheart!bucky --fluff --established-relationship
$ cd masterlist / bucky-barnes
$ echo "omfg I got lost in the sauce and realised I barely wrote the prompt; I saw cutie!bucky and ran with it, enjoy" > authors-note.txt
the debrief had run forty minutes. bucky had spent most of it watching you argue extraction timing with clint and thinking, not for the first time, that you were the most interesting thing that had ever happened to him. he isn't a man who thinks in superlatives, but he makes exceptions.
the armoury smells like gun oil and someone's very poor microwave decisions. you're leaning against the rack — post-mission grime on your boots, hair frizzed with dust — talking with two of the maintenance crew about nothing in particular.
bucky is some feet away, breaking down his rifle on the bench. this is all normal. you debrief in motion, he doesn't, and you converge somewhere in the middle, leaving through the same door.
he likes this about you; he likes most things about you actually. he just hasn't ever told you this at the volume it deserves.
he's on the firing pin when you say it.
"— yeah, me and my girlfriend are going to dinner after this," Casually gesturing back at bucky, easy, liking you haven't just quietly upended something. "Little date night. We've both had a tiring week, y'know."
the rifle hits the floor with a loud CLANG.
inside, bucky is absolutely grinning.
he can feel it — the split of his own face, the warmth pulling at the corners of his mouth, the heat he's totally certain has reached his ears. his heart's beating briskly with no tactical justification. he is beaming.
there's a blush climbing his neck right now, he's sure of it — that deep red he could never hide in Brooklyn and he never tried to. smiling came easy once, and blushing was just the price of it.
mind you, his face is doing nothing. complete blank slate.
this is the part nobody really talked about, post-hydra, post-war, post-all of it. not the arm, nor the memory gaps, but this specific thing. the tedious aftermath of a body trained into stillness so completely, for so long, that it stopped asking for permission. his emotions and his face are on different systems, unfortunately.
internally, bucky is a disaster. externally, he's standing with his hands at the height the rifle used to be, looking directly at you.
you turn and find him so. your expression runs through several things in quick succession.
"you good?" one of the staff asks.
"yeah," bucky says, staring deep at you only.
he is smiling and he knows this. he can feel it from the inside with the specific realness of it, the stretch too. he waits for your eyes to find it on his face.
your eyes find nothing.
"you dropped your gun," you say slowly.
"i know."
he picks up his rifle, setting it on the rack. his hands need something to do. the blush is so there, you don't get it. he can feel the heat of it sitting just beneath — loyal and completely useless.
you're looking at him like you're trying to decipher what the situation is itself.
bucky is so happy right now, he's actually over the moon and he would like you to know that.
"should i — are you —"
"I'm great," he says.
he means this entirely. you had said girlfriend like it was the most natural word in the world, like you'd reached for it and it had just been there waiting. you'd said to a stranger in passing — soft, warm, unexpected.
choosing to trust the feeling, he knows he's smiling.
"james," you close the distance with a careful voice — the one that means i'm not alarmed but i could be. "hey, you with me?"
"yes."
"your face is —"
"my face is perfectly fine."
his face is, demonstrably, plain. not cold — you'd know cold, you'd be more alarmed — but still. just unreadable. he's aware of this and can't correct it in real time. but, somewhere behind it, he's having the best moment he's had all week.
"honey," you try, "did i say something wrong?"
"no."
the maintenance crew find reasons to be elsewhere, good instincts.
"because you look —"
"i'm fine," he says, all level and even, but it gives you nothing. what he means is: i've been feeling giddy for the past ten minutes and i understand you can't see it, but i need you to know that it's there. you're so gorgeous, i love you- oh is that too early? never mind, you're my love.
what he means is girlfriend landed somewhere soft and he'd like to keep it, if you're going keep saying it like that — natural, sweet, like the word was always his.
bucky's eyes, which have their own separate glaring problem, do what his face won't. too much of him still in there, pressed up close against the glass, giving him away the only way it knows how.
you go quiet, he watches you find it, find him.
"steak place closes at ten," he says.
"... yeah."
"we should go."
hand at the base of your back, his thumb finding the notch of your spine, and he steers you out.
on the walk back, you try it again — casual, sideways, like you're testing something. my girlfriend. to no one really, just out into the air.
bucky misses a step. he almost fell in the steep gap between the hangar and platform. but, never mind that, inside he's sparking up, so warm down to somewhere in his heart he'd stopped expecting anything to reach.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus @elarapheonix @rosemint-tea @hisokamywaifu
$ log - low on pay, sgt. barnes turns to escorting as a feasible service. you're his client for tonight.
$ warn --nsfw --older!afab!reader --mean!dom!reader --sub!bucky --older-woman-younger-man --age-gap --1940s --titles(ma'am) --pegging --toys(strap-on, cock ring) --orgasm-control --begging --praise
$ cd masterlist / bucky-barnes
the 1940s were hell of time for a man to be broke, even a howling commando. bucky knew how to charm a dame to get a few bucks, but he hadn't expected this job to break him.
he'd walked into your house with that cocky soldier's grin, expecting a quiet night of companionship. instead, he was face down in your expensive satin sheets, his face mashed into the fabric, drool slicking the surface.
"there you go, sugar," you cooed, voice dripping with that condescending sweetness that made his skin crawl in the best way. "just a good boy, taking all of me, aren't ya?"
the girthy rubber pushed into his ass with a heavy, rhythmic thud. some of the residue lubricant oil spluttered out with each lunge. bucky let out a pathetic whine into the sheet, his eyes rolling back.
the cock ring was tight, trapping the blood within and making every sensation feel so explosive. he was fucking losing it.
"please, ma'am — let me cum," he choked out, his voice thick and desperate, his face flushed a deep red.
you just laughed patronisingly, raking your nails down his muscled back. "what was that, james? you didn't use your big boy words. you want to orgasm — you have to ask properly."
every time the strap hit that sweet spot deep inside, his toes curled and his back arched, trying to find some kind of relief you wouldn't give him. the ring was a cruel pressure; it made his cock with a near-painful need.
"please ma'am — please just let me — let me go — please, please, ple —" he whimpered, his jaw slack against the pillow.
"now, now," you murmured, leaning down to whisper in his ear, pressing a chaste kiss to his shoulder, "a gentleman doesn't just beg — he asks nicely. tell me exactly what you want, sweet boy."
"i want — i want to cum for you ma'am, please!" he cried out with a sharp voice crack and a hitched gasp.
however, you don't give him relief. you just thrust the strap-on back into with heavy push. you sigh as you reach down to finally around his cock. bucky was quite proud of it, the girth, the length — it truly made all the dames giggle and gasp. it was one of the major reasons he'd even opted for his secret hustle anyways.
you ignored it; you barely even stroked it.
honestly, you don't give a singular darn about his pleasure. you heard the talk of him during tea parties, you paid for this night, you're going to use his body.
"there we go, sugar," you mutter down to his trembling figure, driving in meanly, "just take it like a sweet, useful thing, alright?"
he's practically vibrating, his muscles twitching under your touch, but you keep your hand on his cock minimal — just a teasing, useless friction. it was enough to keep bucky on the brink of madness without letting him fall over the edge.
"s'too much — oh lord — i'm gonna —" he gasps, burying his face further into the satin, his voice breaking with each quick prodding reaching deep within him.
with a smirk, you slide the cock ring off. the sudden rush of blood makes him howl a high-pitched sound of ecstasy. he's lost all control, clutching the pillow tight as he grinds his hips frantically against the sheets, trying to find the right friction.
"there we go, my handsome soldier," you sharply command, voice dripping with honey-like poison, "so sweet for me, taking it all and now giving it all."
between your mean praise and his prostate getting bumped with a patter of brisk thrusts, he finally snaps. he cums hands-free, body spasming against the sheets, completely undone by the way you've been wringing that orgasm out of him.
"good boy," you praise, watching him tremble and deflate, "you're so hardworking, so obedient."
panting heavily, bucky stays face down, his forehead pressed against the damp satin as the last of his tremors fade. his pride as a man was thoroughly dismantled — all while you're just watching him lie there, satisfied with the job well done.
as his breath calms down, you reach out and give his flushed arse a polite, stinging slap. he lets out a tiny whimper into the pillow, his body still twitching from the orgasm.
"i believe we still have another hour left on the booking, no?" you tell him, your voice smooth and entirely unapologetic.
bucky drags his head up just enough to glance over his shoulder, his eyes glazed and unfocused. he gives a small whine — without a second of hesitation, obediently spreads his thighs a wider, offering himself back up to you.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @froggibus
