Fandom: A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms & The House of the Dragon
Pairing/Characters: Daemon Targaryen x reader
Word count: ~ 1600
Includes: -
Warnings: death by dragonfire, unspecified and unsaid threaths, grabbing and bruises
Other: My first time writing for Daemon, and the HOTD fandom. I'm planning to watch it soon, but my brain would not leave me alone with this idea so I've been slowly working on it for a while now and it's finally finished. I've been getting a lot of HOTD edits on my FYP in addition to AKOT7K, so it's been on my mind a lot.
High Valyrian translations from valyriantranslate.com, they're in bold
An unknown woman wearing Targaryen colours and symbols is brought to Ashford Castle by the guards, and the situation quickly turns dire.
My AKOT7K Masterlist HOTD Masterlist coming soon!
One of the Targaryen guards rides to the yard, out of breath and dismounts with haste, leaving the reins dangling as he hurries inside. The Ashford guards tense as the man moves with a frantic pace, hinting at something being terribly wrong.
It is not long after that when the rest of the entourage that has ventured out to search for the missing princes returns, but they are escorting a woman, not the young princes they were meant to find. Her posture is straight and regal, eyes sweeping over the yard, making the men quickly tick their heads in. They’ve never seen or heard of anyone like her, but she carries herself in a way that promises trouble for the people who disrespect her.
You stand with a rigid posture, very unnerved by the hostile behavior of the guards. Had something happened in your absence? Your mind is hazy, making it hard to grasp onto a memory you’ve had last, but you do remember clearly speaking with your husband, your hand in his as you watched the scenery ahead of you.
Then, you see more men arrive at the yard, dressed in the familiar colors of the Targaryen house, but your nerves do not ease. You do not recognize one of them. They still see you standing there, the intricate dragon you’ve painstakingly stitched cascading down the hem of your gown, in full view, the diadem of twisting flames on your forehead glinting in silver. The two eldest share a look, clearly unnerved.
“Bring her to us.” It is a silent command, snipped and curt, but it is put into effect immediately.
You are accosted from both sides and forced forward, and your anger flares.
“Sȳzdaghonys nyke! (Release me!)” Your voice cuts through the cooling eve, the mother tongue of your husband slipping out in your outrage. You wrench your arm free from a guard's hold and give him a venomous glare while rubbing the spot where you know a bruise will form.
“My husband will have your head.” You hiss, straightening your back and giving a withering look to the men still awaiting you ahead.
“If you wish to speak to me, you can simply ask.”
You now stand in front of them, after making your own way, trying to keep your unease hidden. You do not know these people. They wear the same colors as you do, but you know nothing more of them. They’ve introduced themselves, spoken their titles with ease and practice. You are simply staring at them, as the dark-haired one announces himself as the heir to the throne. Princess Rhaenyra is Viserys’ heir, has been for a time now. Your hand winds around the hilt of the knife Daemon had gifted you, the twists of the intricate dragon handle soothing your nerves as you stand there in front of the crowd, evaluated like a pig headed for slaughter.
Oh, how you wish Daemon were here with you. There would not be these prying eyes inspecting you, no whispers you are forced to pretend you cannot hear. They speak of you being an impostor, of dirtying the name of the royal family, and it angers you.
There is a long silence, but you abide it, not letting emotion show on your face.
“Sparos Āegenkon Dēmalion dēmassis? (Who holds the Iron Throne?)” The question comes from Baelor, quiet yet even as he inspects you from head to toe, brow drawn into a frown. The Valyrian makes you still, evaluating the man in front of you.
“Viserys I Targaryen. King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm. Last rider of Balerion, The Black Dread. The brother of my husband.” You speak his title with such ease that you’ve clearly spoken it many times before. Baelor still evaluates you with a raised brow, and Maekar has stilled his pacing, now staring openly.
There is a screeching cry, and the people in the yard shift, glancing around in fright. A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as it sounds again, louder and louder. You know that sound. It is as familiar to you as your own voice, and while it fills others with dread, it is a calming sound to you. Your husband grows near.
Caraxes slides out of the clouds, red wings taking over the sky, serpentine body twisting and turning as he evaluates for a place to land. His lithe body dives, and people yell in alarm as he approaches, another roar splitting the sky. The ground shakes as his hind legs meet the ground, gouging deep grooves, his wings folding in as his forelegs grasp onto the wall of Ashford Castle, the stone crumbling under his weight. Guards shout in alarm, stumbling backwards. The Targaryens stare as Caraxes screeches again, the sound deafening as his neck slithers lower.
The rider dismounts, climbing down from the saddle with agility, the gravel rustling as he drops down. You hear his steps, the rustle as he removes his helmet, and the bang it gives as he tosses it to the side. A startled murmur spreads in the crowd as his silvery hair falls to his back, violet eyes darting around the yard. You do not need to turn, you see him clearly in your mind. Instead, you keep your eyes on the Targaryens ahead, a brow now quirked, daring them to accuse you now.
Only when Daemon stills next to you, one hand coming to rest on your belly, while the other tilts your head up for a kiss, do you look up at him. His eyes inspect you in a glance, raving over you for any injuries. Your fingers wind around his wrist and give it a reassuring squeeze, shaking your head as you let your head drop to his chest, heaving a breath of relief. All is well now.
Caraxes reaches his head towards you, eyes darting between the men of the yard. They quickly drop their gazes as the sight of the blood-wyrm’s eye pierces them.
“Sagon sȳzorys, Cá’rauxethnos. (Be calm, Caraxes.)” You coo, fingers sliding along his scales as the beast hums, nudging you gently with his head. Daemon resists the urge to shake his head, biting his tongue to remark about you turning his war-dragon into a kitten. Instead, he steps forward, inspecting the men with a glance. They are foreign for him too, but he has learned in his years to evaluate his opponents first (your influence, Viserys insists).
So, he offers a stiff bow, introducing himself while you lavish Caraxes with affection. You catch one of the younger Targaryens staring at the dragon with an almost divine adoration in his gaze. One of the guards makes the mistake of stumbling too close to Caraxes, and the dragon reacts immediately, his growl shaking the earth, hissing as the man backs away in a panic. The yard shifts as the dragon raises his head and releases a shrieking cry, stretching his body out to cry towards the skies. Caraxes, too, is disoriented and on edge of the strange situation, and it does not bode well.
Daemon calls for you then, gentle and loving, and you leave Caraxes as you make your way to his side, your favourite place in the world. He introduces you to the men properly, hand brushing on the skin of your bare arm in passing, making shivers race up your spine. His affection is warm, even if his exterior is hardened, posture stiff as he ponders over words.
But before he can gather the words, his eyes darken as they catch the bruise on your wrist.
“Who - did - that.” He demands, and the silence that falls across the yard is deafening. You shake your head, hand pressing to his chest, trying to soothe and calm him. He does suck in a deep breath, but the fire burns in his eyes, hot as ever, as his eyes meet yours.
“Daemon.” You plead, shaking your head.
“It will fade by tomorrow.” He simply shakes his head.
“He left a mark on you. I will not abide it.” His voice is even, deceptively calm, as his gaze finds the guard. Baelor speaks up for the first time in a while.
“I cannot allow you to harm Ser Grendling. He was acting under orders-“
“I do not give a fuck about orders. He laid hands on my wife, left a mark on her.”
The man has realized the severity of his situation and is now begging.
“Pl-Please, m-my prince. Let me keep my head.” Daemon does not blink as the guard pleads for his life.
“You will not part with your head tonight.” He promises evenly, and the man sags in relief.
“Thank-“ He begins, but Daeron pays him no further mind, speaking to his dragon.
“Dracarys.” The command is silent, almost inaudible, but Caraxes hears it, head rearing up.
Your eyes close as the dragon’s head rises, eyes locked on the poor knight. You hear the anguished cry that cuts off, feel the heat of the fire, and the rustle as it fades away. The yard is covered in spots of fire that crackle while dying out, left by the intense heat of dragonfire. Caraxes crumbles, his head reaching down for the two of you, weight shifting on the wall, causing more stone to rain down. The ash shifts with the air, dancing on the black-stained stone, then the yard is silent still.
*****
Masterlists coming soon!
Leave a comment if you want to be added to Daemon's or for my masterlist for all characters, AKOT7K and HOTD alike.
dean told you to help him out. "it will go faster if we do it together". yeah, right.
but now, his cock was pushed deep inside you, his thick girth stretching your pussy open. his hand caressing the soft skin of your thigh, fingers of the other one turning pages of the book he's reading, eyes scanning every letter as if he's not burried deep inside you at this moment.
your back pressed against his wide chest, legs spread over his lap, your panties are shoved to your ankles. legs trembling, pussy throbbing.
and he's still not moving.
"please, de-" you try to rock your hips, just to feel his tip kissing your cervix. your pussy fluttering around him from how bad you just wanted him to thrust up inside you.
the way he just filled you, so perfect and deep... you just wanted to move, just a little bit. take more of him inside your greedy cunt. but he just wouldn't let you.
"ah ah. i told you not to move." he said, voice raspy. he still haven't looked up at you from his book. "you can take it, just a little more. let me finish it, baby..."
but you're just too impatient and needy for him, aren't you?
you were already getting dizzy, your puffy cunt clenching around him as his cock twitched inside you. your eyes rolling back as you felt that one thick vein of his dick throbbing against your walls.
"you're so warm..." he whispered into your ear, hand ghosting over your skin. "i promise i'll take care of you later. if we start now, i won't get any work done, you know it."
and you just had to obey, keeping your hips still because you know he will. he always takes care of you.
➳ three times you and dean winchester have sex, and one time you make love.
working on the next chapter of birdie!reader (one of my dean series) as we speak, but i'm keeping you guys fed in the meantime with a little drabble. friendly reminder, i take requests and my masterlist of all my fics is pinned to my page. if you're just here for the dean content, here's my dean winchester mlist.
dean winchester x fwb!reader. approx. 1600w. explicit sex, canon typical violence. pre-series. unedited because i like my fics how i like my dick. raw.
𝘔𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘺. Monster guts in your hair, blood caked under your nails with graveyard dirt wedged in the crevices of your palms, the grooves in the soles of your shoes. It is a violent collision put into motion the second you put the revenant back in its coffiin. Remind it how it died, pin it down. Easier said than done, especially when they like to bite. Your favorite jacket is torn from teeth. You're fine, but frustrated about the leather.
"Memento fuckin Mori," you mutter under your breath, kicking the motel door open a little further behind you, to make space for Dean shambling in with your duffel bags. He's always insisted on carrying yours, no matter how many times you tell him not to, that you can do it yourself.
You're not sure how it happens. Maybe you're just unwittingly standing a little too close to him when he moves to lock the motel door. Maybe you turn around too fast to find the heat of his body, hard lines of muscle, just inches away. Your head nearly knocks into his chin, and your feet are brushing against his, and the air is suddenly charged, the way the midwestern sky breaks before a lightning bolt. There's static building a current in your spine, your heartbeat in your ears, and heat radiating through you, through him.
And then you're kissing. Hard. Teeth knocking. Aggressive, violent, turbulent, and somehow beautiful. He pins you against the door, working the button of your jeans with one dexterous hand, until you shove him back just enough to kick them off. He unbuckles his belt, you kiss his neck and rip off his shirt, and then he's inside of you. There's the delicious stretch, a small sting of pain, and then pleasure that curls your toes. Your panties are pushed to the side, and as he rolls his hips into yours, his cock caressing every inch of your inner walls, the blunt head of him rutting into your cervix, you moan into the shell of his mouth. You feel the lace of your panties creating friction on your clit, and you've never been wetter in your life. Your body is tightening, on the verge of oblivion, and he continues to pound into you until you're coming so hard you've got stars in your eyes. He pulls out just in time, covering your thighs in thick ropes of his cum. For a moment, the two of you just catch your breath. Then, he retreats into the bathroom and comes back with a washcloth, cleaning his spend off of your legs without a word. You're both still covered in graveyard dirt and blood, so the gesture is ironic, but you don't question it.
You don't ask what it means. What he wants of you. You've been best friends and hunting partners for a couple of years now, keeping him company and watching his six since his brother, Sam, went off to Stanford. Neither of you get attached. You're both broken in the same ways. Letting it be is all you can do.
𝘚𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘺. It takes a few times before you two stop getting motel rooms with two beds. You spend a couple of nights a week fucking yourselves silly, and usually wind up falling asleep in one of them, naked and sex drunk. Once the false pretenses fall away, you pick sides of the king or queen sized beds, but inevitably wind up in the middle, wrapped around each other like quotation marks. But you don't talk about that, because that's uncharted territory.
Sometimes, you're both too worn out after a hunt to do much of anything, but you'll wake up in the middle of the night with that ache between your thighs, blooming hot in your lower belly. And he'll press his erection into your ass as light flits through the blinds with the first gray of morning. It's easy then, to kick off your panties, tear off your t-shirt. He sleeps shirtless and in his boxers anyway, so one smooth pull and he's bare, hot and girthy and hard, sliding between your thighs and collecting your slick wetness on his shaft as he pushes himself between your folds, but never inside. Not until you're writhing. Then, he wraps his arms around you, pressing a hand against your lower belly so he can feel it bulge when he finally sheathes his cock inside your weeping cunt. He rocks his hips into yours slowly, kissing your shoulder and neck as he applies pressure to your lower abdomen, making the pleasure radiate through you. Dean always makes sure you cum first. And usually more than once.
"Doin so good f'me, sweetheart. She's squeezing me so tight. Not gonna last, baby. Fuck. You're so good. That's it. That's it—"
You're on the pill, but he still likes to cum on your back, your ass. He likes the view, the act of marking you and claiming his territory. Even if it goes unspoken. Even if you're just friends.
It's casual, isn't it? Once the sex fog clears, anyway. Or so you pretend.
𝘊𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘵𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘭𝘺. The first time a man hits on you at a bar in front of Dean, he nearly explodes. He's across the room, hustling pool and pretending to be wasted, but when he sees you, the act falls away. He grabs his cash, drops the cue with a hard crash! The sound reverberates, even over the chatter and the music. He crosses the room in a couple of strides, sidling up to you.
"This guy giving you trouble, baby?" he asks. But his smile doesn't reach his eyes. Not even as he slides an arm around your waist, kissing your forehead. He's never done that before, but he's also never been so outwardly affectionate with you in public.
"Hey, man," the guy says, "I didn't know she was your girl. Honest." He holds up his hands in surrender and walks away, but the damage is done.
"You're an asshole," you hiss at Dean, teeth clenched. "I'm not your property. And sure as hell not your girl. I don't belong to you."
His eyes are dangerously dark, pupils blown, the green melting into emerald. "Don't you?"
Your panties are damp. Your chest heaving. Not with anger, but lust.
He grabs your arm and yanks you into the single-stall bathroom, locking the door before he bends you over the porcelain sink. Your mini-skirt bunches over your hips, your panties ripped off and shredded with the force. He spits on his hand, pumping his cock once before he slams into you. The force is enough to make you lose your balance, but he catches you. One hand under your shirt, twirling and pinching your nipples, the other bruising fingerprints into your thigh. He fucks you hard enough that your brain stops working.
"Not my girl, huh?" he taunts you. "That why you're gushing 'round me? I think your pussy knows who she belongs to, doesn't she, sweetheart?"
You're drooling, face flushed, hair sticking to your face with sweat. You watch him in the dirty mirror, see yourself coming apart as he fucks you, deep and hard, just the way you like it.
"You wanna cum, baby?" he asks.
You nod.
"Then tell me who you are. Who you belong to."
"You," you whimper. "Yours. Dean, yours. I'm your girl. Fuck!"
"That's right. That's right." He moves his hand higher, shifting from your thigh to your slick folds, and then he rubs your clit until you shatter around him. This time, he comes inside of you, blowing his load so hard it drips down your thighs when he pulls out. He crooks two fingers into your pussy, shoving it all back in.
"Every drop," he says. "So you don't forget."
As if you ever could.
𝘙𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺. It takes a witch's truth spell, a bottle of whiskey, and a feverish night sweating out the curse in Bobby Singer's basement, for you to admit you love Dean. Of course, he thinks it's just the spell, a side effect of taking the blast for him, but when you come to your senses and still feel the same, you know it's not just witchcraft. It's something deeper, engraved in your ribs so that it kisses your heart with every beat. You love Dean Winchester, and you probably always have.
So later that night, while you drink whiskey on the porch and celebrate your recovery, he dares to ask, "Did you mean it?"
"It was a truth spell, Deano."
"I know that, I just..." He scratches the back of his neck. "If you want me to ignore it, pretend it never happened, I will. But I need to know if you meant it, because I'm not about to let you slip through my fingers if I can help it."
Your breath stops. Your heart flutters. "Dean, what are you saying?"
"I'm saying I love you, too," he whispers, calling out your name like a prayer. "And I'm sorry it took a witch to say it, but fuck, baby, you've got me on my knees for you, and you don't have any idea—"
You kiss him to shut him up.
You make love in the Impala. It's not the first time you've ever had sex in the car, but it's special, sacred. He drives you out into a field where there's nothing but stars and sky for miles, and then he undresses you in the backseat slowly, memorizing every inch of you as he traces your skin with his lips and fingertips. He whispers I love you between your thighs and eats you out until you're a writhing mess with a swollen clit, aching for him, pussy weeping. He fucks you slowly, deeply, his eyes on yours the whole time, moving without haste, knowing he's got all the time in the world now.
Because you're finally his girl. Properly. For good.
And Dean Winchester plays for keeps.
so anyway, hope you guys liked this. i've had the idea/concept for a while, but i'm a mood writer, so i have to wait for inspiration to strike before i can tell a story the way it deserves.
i think this is the ultimate recession indicator: me using my master's degree in creative writing to crank out supernatural smut weekly.
cw: smut, p in v (unprotected), creampie, squirting
you don't even get to say hi to him before dean's lips press against yours.
you only heard the sound of bunker's door being shut, then his hands were on you. his big digits pressing at your hips as he lifts your body up, setting your ass on wooden dresser in your hallway. he's kissing you so hard, you forget your own name, his stubble scraping against your jaw, creating red marks and delicious friction.
his mouth lowers to your neck, his lips were hot and shaky at your soft skin. you feel his fingers thighten on your hip bones. your hands moving to grasp his shoulders through his flannel. he's tense.
"bad hunt?" you murmur, your lips grazing his cheekbone, pressing a soft kiss there.
he doesn't answer. just tugs at the button of your jeans, opening them. you lift your hips, letting him slide off your pants.
"need you, sweetheart. so bad." he tugs at your lacy panties, dropping them to the floor. his hands going to fumble with his belt. you hear a click when the metal clip hits the ground. his jeans pooling at his feet as he spreads your legs, stepping between them.
you feel the thick, already wet with precum head of his cock pressing against your entrance, already slick with your arousal.
he pushes into you in one, deep thrust, burying himself inside you to the hilt. a choked, loud cry was torn from your throat. you never felt so full in your life. wet sounds of your pussy getting pounded by him filling up the room.
"fuck, dean-" you gasp out, nails scratching his back through his flannel.
"you're so damn tight, baby. gonna milk me dry." he groans, his balls slapping your puffy cunt with every thrust, getting as deep as it's possible. you whine when he hits this one place deep inside you, that makes you feel so good. he can feel you squeezing his dick with your walls.
you can't even think. hands scrapping at his back as his cock splits you open. he's moaning and kissing your temple as his pace fastens. "so damn warm. always taking me so well."
deep, fast thrusts that make the dresser shake. his grip on your hips so tight it hurts. his hips changing angle just to drive into your gspot.
your thighs are shaking as you feel your orgasm building up. "gonna cum..." your voice cracking as he fucks you through it. he moves his hand to your clit, his thumb circling your needy heat as he pounded into you. his cock hitting your walls until you can't take more.
you cry out, body trembling as your juices splatter over yours and his thighs, when you reach your climax and squirt. your pussy clenching around his lenght, your arousal dripping on the wooden furniture.
"shit, sweetheart-" his head going to rest in the crook of your neck. "that was so hot..."
he can feel his balls tightening, he grinds his hips against yours. his cock twitching inside your throbbing cunt, spilling his hot ropes inside you with a loud groan. you feel him pulsing inside you for a few seconds before he pulls out. cum dripping out of your used hole.
summary While Sam is at a witnesses’ house to figure out the current case you're stuck in a car with Dean. Which turns out to be much more fun than you first thought.
word count 1363
a/n another request my best friend had :) hope I did this right. figured dean would end up being a softie with the right person heh
masterlist
“Dean. Turn that off,” you repeat with a groan, head dropping back onto the nonexistent head rest of Baby's comfortable leather seat.
“No. Do you even know good music?” he refuses, cockily turning the volume up with a self satisfied grin. You give him your best bitch face as the rock music plays which in turn just makes him grin wider at you and play an invisible drumset.
“Dean—” he ignores you, saying something about ‘a good part’ and singing along to the lyrics of the song you'd heard probably every day since starting to hunt with him and Sam.
When the song fades out he gives in and turns the volume down and chuckles, “You know the rule, sweetheart. Driver picks the music—” You wave your hand and nod, “I know, I know. Shut up.”
He laughs in his usual manner, head slightly dropping forward and green eyes sparkling, making something in your chest twist.
“I don't get how you don't like my music. It's genius.” He concedes, looking out of the car and habitually analyzing your surroundings. “It's not that I don't like it. But you have like ten cassette tapes you switch between every time you drive. Even Baby has got to be tired of it by now.”
He pretends to be hurt by that and makes an ‘ouch’ before easily grinning again. “Baby understands me. She doesn't mind,” he pats the steering wheel but ultimately switches from his music to the radio. “There. You're lucky I like you.”
You guess you should've answered with something sarcastic and keep up the usual banter between you and him, but instead you muse an agreement with a voice way too soft to fit into your and Dean's usual back and forth.
He catches onto it and stops for a moment, just looking at you.
The song on the radio station switches to something slow and soft that you absently recognize but can't put a name to. “That's the type of song old people dance to, doll. I don't get people who like it.” Dean huffs as if the song personally offends him.
You chuckle, “Sounds like you're just jealous you have no one to dance to slow music with.”
He laughs and shakes his head, licking his lips before shrugging lightly, “Not true ‘cause I got you. And you certainly love old people music.”
You sense the way he tries to turn the statement into a dig at you, but it doesn't work and instead leaves you and him looking at each other with a softness that you'd never dared to acknowledge before.
“You do. Got me, I mean.” you shrug to appear like the way he's looking at you doesn't make your insides turn into a bunch of butterflies.
The always-there-furrow between his brows softens for a fraction of a moment and he swallows with a sharp nod. Because Dean Winchester doesn't do feelings or chickflick moments and especially not more than one night stands. Dean Winchester remains stoic and cocky and listens to too loud music, wears leather jackets and drinks too much whiskey.
And though he wants others to see him in just that light, you know he's much more complicated than that. You've seen almost all of him, the good he doesn't think he has and the bad he very much hates about himself.
And it makes you realize, right here next to him in his beloved Impala, that you don't just think of him as a friend. You're in love with him, irrevocably so.
The moment between you and him breaks when Sam opens the squeaking door of the car and starts sharing what he found out about the case from the witness. You're not listening although you should be, mind lingering on the moment with Dean.
Later that night you're curled up in one of the armchairs in the bunker, browsing through one of the books Sam had added onto the to-be-read stack, an old leather bound notebook at your side to write down relevant information that could help with your case.
You're pretty sure Sam had left for a run about half an hour ago and Dean is probably somewhere around with a beer, leaving you in comfortable silence that's only disrupted by the soft crackling of your favorite scented candle burning.
“You look awfully cozy over there.” You perk up with a little glare because why was he sneaking up on you like that? There's the familiar smirk on Dean's face, hands stuffed into his jeans pockets and red flannel replaced with a softened gray henley.
“I told you I hate when you sneak up on me, Dean.” He shrugs and approaches until he's almost right in front of you. “It's too much fun to stop.”
You try and kick at him but he's already anticipating it and dodges with ease, grin softening. “C’mon. Wanted to show you something.”
He seems sheepish and a little bashful, which makes you curious and all warm on the inside. Laying aside the book and your notes you take his offered hand and trail behind him, trying not to focus too much on the roughness of his palm that's holding yours with a firm gentleness that just screams Dean.
“Figured I have to prove I do have someone to dance with.” he murmurs as you reach the kitchen, aka the only room where the old radio had enough signal to work. A slow song is playing at a comfortably quiet volume and you realize why he brought you here.
“You know how it works, don't you sweetheart?” he asks, hand finding its place on your waist and the other holding your hand. In stunned silence you manage a nod and put your free hand on his shoulder.
He's awkward at first; swaying with you in a slow dance that contradicts his usually rough demeanor. But he's trying and he's doing you this favor because he knows you well enough to remember that you like soft and slow like this between the brutality of hunting and it's making you turn into a puddle of admiration for him.
“I can get behind why old people like this.”
You chuckle a little, misstepping just enough to end up right in his space, his hand holding you steady. “Woah, I gotcha, doll.” he comments under his breath. He always does; always has your back and always steadies you. You figure that's why you couldn't help but fall for him.
“Thank you. This was nice.” You concede as the song ends and you stop swaying, though his hands settle nicely on your hips and yours find their place on his broad shoulders, the worn fabric of his shirt comforting under your palms.
“I hate that I gotta agree,” he grumbles, voice low.
The silence that follows is comfortable but nevertheless charged with the tension between you both that has been simmering for years. He's the one to cup your chin in his hand, tilting your head back. “I'm no good for you.”
It's his way of telling you to stay away because he can't, that he'll ruin you the way he's convinced he does everything else. And you just can't have that — can't have him thinking he should push you away for your own sake. So, you do the only rational thing and kiss him.
It's electric and so different to other guys you'd kissed because he leans in and holds you so tenderly but with an underlying rough-around-the-edges only he can make look good.
When he pulls away to let you breathe he remains close enough for his nose to brush yours, eyes focused on yours. “God, I love you.” he murmurs, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. One of your hands finds his and curls around his fingers, firm, “Never thought you'd admit that.”
He snorts lightly and shakes his head, “You're infuriating.”
cw: p in v (no condom), cowgirl position, squirt&creampie
you two weren't exactly together. dean doesn't do relationships. he was always too afraid to let himself be vulnerable, too scared to let his emotions get in the way. especially with you.
did it stop him from fucking you, though?
your knees were on both sides of dean's hips as you rocked your hips up and down, slowly taking more of dean's cock inside you. his hands gripping your hips, helping you move. but his eyes? they were locked right where you two were connected with eachother. his thick lenght disappearing inside your puffy cunt, taking him balls deep.
"holy hell, baby..." he breathes out. "you're always so tight for me."
you find a rhythm that makes both of you moan. his hands still on your hips but letting you set the pace. dean's cock throbs inside you, his breath hitching with every grind. "that's right, baby. get off on my dick, i know you need it."
the sound of creaking bed and your wet pussy hitting his pelvis filling up the room. you can feel the warm feeling pooling in your belly as your orgasm is approaching. your walls clenching around his dick.
you're so close, so close, he can feel it.
"i got you, baby..." his grip on your hips thightening as he takes over the control and start thrusting into you. fast and rough. the tip of his cock hitting that one sweet spot inside your pussy that made you cry out. he moves his hand to your clit, his thumb circling your needy heat as he slammed into you.
"fuck-" your hands bracing at his chest as he continues pounding into you. each thrust making your eyes roll back. "gonna cum, dean..."
the coil in your stomach snaps, wave of ecstasy crashing through your body, your pussy squeezing and throbbing around his cock as you find your release.
your juices splatter across his thighs and stomach, making his skin sticky. he gives a few more sloppy thrusts, splashing your release around the bed more, until he comes with a loud groan. hot, thick ropes filling you up so deep, like he wants his load to stay inside you forever.
Summary You share something with Dean that an ex used to say to you. Leave it to a Winchester to tickle the truth out of you. Kind of literally.
CWs Dean being his most charming self. Casual sex. Dumb exes. Squirting. Dean talkin' filth. Lots and lots of bodily fluids.
18+. 1.6k words
AN Something short and sweet to start us off! Welcome, my darlings! ❤️
Smutober prompt Squirting
Smutober masterlist ⏐ Dean Winchester masterlist
“And that’s the thing,” witness number 5 says, not bothering to keep his gaze off your cleavage even for a second. “I like a chick who’s insatiable. Who wants to keep going even after we’ve gone over and over, you know?” He chuckles, looking into your eyes for the first time.
“Uh huh,” you say, wondering how the hell you got from talking about the last time anybody saw the victim alive to talking about this asshole’s preference in regards to chicks. Remember what Sam said, you tell yourself. Punching witnesses bad. Punching witnesses bad. Punching witnesses–
“A wild cat, kinda,” he continues and you need to physically restrain yourself from rolling your eyes and relocating his nose a couple inches deeper into his head. “Just can’t get enough, the little –”
“And that’ll be all, Mr., uhm…” you say, looking down at your notes. “Ambrose. Thanks for the info.” You throw a look over his shoulder at Dean, but not quickly enough to miss the douchebag in front of you fucking winking.
Four hours later, and you’re throwing your head back to down another shot. The glass lands on the table with a loud thud, and you suppress a violent burp.
“Jesus Christ!” you groan over the loud music being played in the bar, bringing up your hand to brush it over your forehead. “What is wrong with these people?”
Dean pushes your new beer towards you and you reach for it, shaking your head.
“They get someone who listens to them and they think you’re their shrink,” Dean says, taking a sip from his own beer.
“But still, they just tell on themselves,” you say, the mask of disgust slowly turning into a grin. You lean forward, one arm going out to steady yourself a little. Maybe the last two shots were a bit of a mistake. “This one guy, the sleazy one? He told me…”
You laugh, feeling some heat rise to your cheeks, but this is Dean. If anyone’s gonna love this story, it’s him.
“He told me all the women he has sex with are insatiable,” you continue, dramatically emphasizing the last word. “No matter how many rounds they went. Or he went, I guess.”
Dean’s eyebrows go up and the corners of his mouth quirk up in one of those endlessly charming smiles he has.
“Is that right?” he says, his voice all scratchy and curious.
“Yeah,” you say, regaining some of your composure. “I have this feeling he was getting insatiable and unsatisfied mixed up.” Dean scoffs, then chuckles.
“Some people just love oversharing,” he says, lips pouty. “Or maybe that’s what he was into? Like those guys that like it when you laugh at their dicks?” Now it’s your turn to raise your eyebrows.
“Dean!” you say and he laughs, evidently loving that he was able to surprise you. You shake your head, pick at the label on your bottle. “Well, can’t ever do it right, that’s what I learned. As a woman, I mean. Either you’re not coming often enough, or you’re too fast or too slow or you’re too loud, too… enthusiastic.”
Dean’s just taking a sip of his beer and he puts the bottle down with a frown.
“Sweetheart,” he says, “I don’t think there’s a man on this planet would complain about that last one.” You give an awkward chuckle, shift around on your stool.
“You’d be surprised,” you mutter, brushing some hair behind your ear, looking down at the table. You only look up when you notice Dean leaning back. He’s studying you, an unreadable expression on his face.
“You’re serious?” he says. “What kind of douchebag–”
“My ex,” you interrupt him. Maybe you really shouldn’t have had those two last shots, but damn, it feels good to talk to someone about it. “He found it off-putting, said I got too…”
You look into Dean’s eyes and he’s looking back and all of a sudden, it feels like there’s something in the air between you, something fiery and heated, like a gas leak someone held a match to, something that makes your breath catch in your throat. Could be the shots. Could be, well, just Dean.
“Wet,” you finish what you were saying. Dean’s eyes narrow just the tiniest bit, and then there’s that smile again.
“Not gonna lie,” he says, voice a little lower as he leans in again. “But I’m kinda itchin’ to see that for myself.”
Dean rolls the two of you so you’re on top of him and you push yourself up, hands on his chest, before you continue fucking yourself down on him at the same pace he just picked - which is fast and relentless. There’s loud, desperate sounds coming from your throat every time Dean’s cock hits that magical spot inside you, and for the first time in you can’t remember how long, you’re simply letting them out.
Dean’s not faring much better. He’s vocal, and you had no idea he would be, but it’s a damn nice surprise. One of his hands is on your hip, the other traveling up your side, squeezing the skin. He looks down at where he’s appearing and disappearing inside of you, his mouth dropping open.
“Jesus, fuck, darlin’,” he pants, then looks back up at your face. “You’re fuckin’ drenching me. Fuckin’ sexy.”
You moan loudly, your head dropping back again as another orgasm shakes your body, your toes curling, muscles trembling.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” you cry out as all of you convulses, Dean groaning loudly under you as you keep riding him to prolong your release.
“Sit up, sit up,” he says, just as you’re coming down and your brain barely has the capacity to understand him, and it definitely doesn’t have the capacity to question him, so you do. Dean’s cock slips out of you and just as you’re wondering what the hell he’d want to go and do that for, Dean’s hand moves and then two thick fingers are pressing into you.
You see the tension in his underarm, the tendons and muscles playing, the strength there, and then you don’t see anything because you need to lean your head back and close your eyes as Dean fingerfucks you hard and fast, basically assaulting your g-spot. You nearly scream when another orgasm rips through you, and this time you feel it under you, the wetness, the spread, the all of it, as your stomach clenches and a volley of broken whines leaves you while your brain goes postal. But rather than express the disgust you expect, Dean seems to love it.
“Oh shit,” he presses out as you drop your head forward, try to focus on him, “you’re so fucking gorgeous. That’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.” Your brain is pretty much mush and you try to lower yourself again, but it’s impossible with how your legs have turned to jello. Dean sits up, quickly, toned muscles moving under sweaty skin, and wraps an arm around you, flips you around. Your back meets the mattress, your head hanging off the side and then Dean pushes into your sopping pussy again and goes to town.
Your fingers claw into the thickness of his arms while his other thickness pounds into you. You’re gasping and crying out, no longer chief to your physical reactions. Dean groans loudly over you, then grabs your hip, pushing himself up, switching to smooth, deep, rolled thrusts that make you whimper.
“Look at that,” he says, and blinking him into focus is about as hard as, well, as hard as Dean is. You follow his gaze, see it’s going between your legs. “That’s all you, sweetheart. All for me.”
Dean’s cock is glistening with your wetness when he pulls out, only his head remaining inside of you. There’s also, and your insecurity might return at that if Dean hadn’t fucked it right out of you, a white ring of your arousal at the base of his cock, wrapped around it like a crown, shoved there by his relentless fucking.
“Dean,” you whine, but he’s already positioning himself again. He looks down at you, pretty brow glistening, chest heaving.
“Let’s see how loud you can really be,” he says and rams himself into you so hard you see stars.
Ten minutes later, you’re still on your back, but Dean’s lying next to you. You can feel his spendings slowly dripping out of you, and you’re almost certain you’re gonna have to burn those sheets you’re lying on, though they might be too drenched to actually catch fire. Dean is catching his breath, completely out of it, while your heartbeat is still roaring loud in your ears.
He groans, turns his head towards you.
“I think I got third degree burns on my johnson,” he mumbles and you snort, then give a lazy laugh. He smiles at you, looking blissfully fucked-out.
“Tell me about it,” you reply. Dean pushes himself up with a groan, but it’s only to roll closer to you.
“So,” he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows, “still feeling insatiable? Or unsatisfied?” You raise your hand, run it over his shoulder and then his back, as far down to his absolutely delectable ass as you can without moving the rest of your buzzing body.
“I’m pretty sure,” you reply, “that was my orgasm contingent for the year.” Dean gives you a broad, proud smile, presses a kiss to your shoulder, which must taste salty.
“Anything else your asscrack of an ex complained about?” he asks and you purse your lips, pretend to think.
“There’s a few things I seem to recall,” you say, voice playful and Dean grins, taking your meaning.
“Alright,” he says, slinging his arm over you and pulling you in. “Rest up. Sounds like we got work to do.”
A/N: A tiny lil something for Daemon and his twin. Just a taste. I’ve got a huuuuuge folder prepped for Matt and his bimbo reader, like it’s actually concerning at this point. 😇 Gawd. Also… would y’all be into a Daemon Smut Bingo? Cause I’ve been thinking. 👀 (But first I have to finish all my Tom Taylor one shots and smuts. Ya filthy animals.)
————
The stone walls whispered. The tunnel breathed, ancient and alive beneath the Red Keep, and you followed your twin brother through it, heart thrumming like a caged bird. Maegor’s tunnels were a myth to most, but to the blood of the dragon, they were memory. Daemon had discovered them first, or claimed to. Now you wandered together, a flickering torch in his hand casting long shadows on carved stone, dancing firelight across his pale silver hair and the line of his jaw.
You shouldn’t have come. That truth flickered as faintly as the flame. It should have stopped you when he turned to you, violet eyes burning with something deeper than mischief. Something darker than play. You’d seen it before in the way he looked at your maids, in the way he lingered too long after your sparring matches, in the curl of his smirk when he watched you speak with noble boys at court. But he’d never touched you. Not until tonight.
He stopped at a dead end, but his hand reached for a hidden seam. The stone groaned as he pushed it open. Inside, a narrow chamber waited. Dusty, private, old. A forgotten room in the veins of the castle, lit only by the fire he brought. He stepped inside, and without a word, he turned to you. His torch clicked into a bracket on the wall. Silence hung thick.
You stepped through the threshold, and the door slid shut behind you.
Daemon said your name low, like a prayer and a curse in one. His gaze drank you in, starting from your eyes, dropping slowly to your mouth, then to your throat where your pulse pounded. It drifted lower, to the curves your nightdress barely covered. Your breathing caught. You should have looked away. You didn’t.
He stepped closer. His fingers reached for a strand of your hair, tugging it gently, playing with the ends.
“You don’t belong to them,” he said softly. “Not to father’s court. Not to any Lord who dreams of bedding a dragon. You are mine. Always have been.”
His words made your stomach twist, but not in revulsion. There was something thrilling in it, something forbidden that soaked through your blood like wildfire. You’d known he was watching. You’d let him. You’d dressed more boldly when he was near, spoke more sweetly. And now you felt the air split between you, thick with heat.
“I want to see you,” he said. “No lies between us. Not tonight.”
You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You lifted your hands and untied the thin laces at your collar. The silk slid from your shoulders, brushing over your nipples, revealing the pale skin beneath. His eyes followed it hungrily. When it pooled at your feet, he stepped closer and cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing your lower lip.
“You don’t even know what you do to me,” he murmured. “But I’ll teach you.”
His lips crashed into yours before you could breathe. Not a kiss. A claiming. His hands moved down your body, urgent, possessive. He gripped your hips, pulled you against the hard line of him through his breeches. You gasped into his mouth and felt him smile. It wasn’t soft.
He backed you against the wall, cold stone on your spine, heat everywhere else. His hands roamed your body like he’d starved for it. They curled over your breasts, thumbs brushing the peaks until they stiffened, and you whimpered under his mouth. That sound made him groan.
“You’re going to take me,” he said. “Here. Like the dragon you are. My dragon.”
Your fingers worked his belt loose, desperate, trembling. You shouldn’t want this. But you did. Every part of you burned for it. When his cock sprang free, thick and flushed, you stared. You felt small in comparison. But the hunger in your belly swelled, need tightening in your core.
He turned you gently, pressed your front to the stone. The cold helped you focus, just enough. His hand slipped between your legs, stroking through the slick that already coated your folds.
“So ready for me,” he said. “You’re perfect.”
He didn’t tease long. His fingers spread you open, and you bit your lip as he lined himself up behind you. The tip nudged your entrance, and your whole body tensed. He leaned over your back, breath hot against your ear.
“It will hurt a little,” he whispered. “But I’ll make you love it.”
Then he pushed in.
You gasped, breath stolen as your body stretched to fit him. The burn was sharp at first. He stilled, hands on your hips, whispering soft nothings to calm you. His fingers brushed over your belly, up to your breast, grounding you. Then he moved, slow and shallow, letting you adjust. You clenched around him, tight and slick, and he hissed through his teeth.
“Sweet girl,” he said. “So tight. Gods, you were made for me.”
Your body sang with the sensation, pain blurring into pleasure as he rocked into you with more force. His rhythm grew steadier, hips snapping against your backside, filling you again and again. You arched for him, moaned for him, fingers clawing at the stone. Each thrust lit fireworks behind your eyes. You didn’t want to think. You only wanted to feel.
“Say it,” he growled. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you gasped. “Daemon, I’m yours.”
He drove into you harder at your words, voice filthy in your ear as he praised your tightness, your moans, the way you clenched around him.
Your peak built fast. He reached down and rubbed tight circles against your clit, knowing exactly how to tip you over. You broke around him, body trembling, gasping his name as you pulsed on his cock. He followed you seconds later, spilling deep inside, cursing as he did. His grip on your hips bruised, but you didn’t care.
He stayed inside you as he kissed the back of your neck, murmuring dragon-tongued phrases against your skin. You turned your head, seeking his mouth, kissing him soft and slow now.
“We should not have,” you whispered.
“No,” he said. “But I’ll do it again. I’ll have you again. No matter who tries to stop me.”
You believed him. The way his body curled protectively around yours, the way your thighs still trembled with the memory of him, the way his hand slipped down between your legs once more, coaxing another wave of pleasure from you while you were still full of him.
This was no childish love. No soft courtship. This was the beginning of something dangerous. Something only fire could understand.
My dragoness – Daemon Targaryen x fem!niece!reader
Summary: Weeks have passed since the announcement of your betrothal to your Uncle Daemon. Since then, hardly a night has gone by without Daemon visiting you - without disregarding your wish not to take the final step yet.
But tonight, on your wedding night, you will finally be fully his.
Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!niece!reader
Warnings: Smut; 18+; NSFW; Fingering, sex (p in v), breeding kink, size kink, loss of virginity
Author’s note:
English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:
This is another part of my Shared Future series.
x3 When @targaryen-dynasty asked me if I would like to participate in celebrating her 3K follower milestone, of course I agreed x3
Some have asked for another part for the Shared Future series, which is why I'm celebrating Laura's milestone with this story.
I hope you enjoy it!
Word count: 2.5 k
Other stories of mine
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Your eyes are closed and your shaky breath echoes in the chambers. The rooms that you will share with your husband from now on.
The ceremony seems only distant in your memory and now so surreal as you lie here on this bed. How all eyes were on you when your eyes only looked into your uncle's. How you couldn't suppress a grin when you recognised the slightest smile around his lips. How he gently cupped your cheek with his rough hand before enveloping your lips with his…
"Hey... open your eyes," you hear Daemon say - almost softly.
You obey him and your eyes slowly open. The scenery shoots in on you as you lie on the bed in just your nightgown, your husband standing in front of the bed, looking at you, slowly opening his shirt.
"That's better," he says gently and smiles at you.
You don't know why you're so nervous. He's seen you naked countless times, driven you to ecstasy with his touch. But this time it's different, it's your wedding night.
He slowly approaches you as he slowly opens his trousers. Your fingers fiddle with the hem of your nightgown as you try to breathe more calmly. Without looking at him, you hear his trousers slide down.
Daemon's eyes linger on you. He takes in every nervous twitch and quickened breath and he moves closer.
"There's no need to be nervous. I've seen every inch of you, explored every curve, and tasted your sweet surrender. Tonight, we seal our union, and I will show you just how much you belong to me," he purrs, his voice low and seductive, "It will be special," his soft voice sounds and you hear the words you whispered to him countless nights ago.
His words send a shiver down your spine, and you feel a mix of anticipation and excitement bubbling within you. You know that Daemon is a man of passion and intensity, and tonight, he intends to leave his mark on you in more ways than one.
Daemon's eyes flicker with a mixture of amusement and possessiveness as he watches you fidget and nervously avoid his gaze.
He reaches out, his hand gently caressing your cheek before trailing down your neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His touch is both tender and possessive, a contrast that only adds to the intensity of the moment. His fingers curl around the hem of your nightgown, slowly lifting it up, revealing your body to him in all its vulnerability.
You feel the mattress give way as Daemon kneels on the bed. You look up and your purple Targaryen eyes meet. A gasp leaves your lips as his hand brushes across your thigh, gently grasping the underside of it and spreading your thighs slightly - his rough hand, a stark contrast to your soft skin. His other hand slides to your face, his index finger and thumb cupping your chin, lifting your head slightly.
"Look at me... focus on me..." he whispers and you nod slightly as you look into his eyes. Carefully, he pushes your legs apart as he kneels between them. His lips glide over your cheek, over your neck, while his hand slides further up your thigh.
Your eyes flutter shut as you concentrate fully on his touch. His warm breath glides over your skin as his lips caress you. The sweetest moan escapes your lips as his fingers grip your inner thigh.
"That's my girl... concentrate on my touch..." he whispers against your skin. You nod slightly again and gasp as his fingers cup your folds - you'll never get tired of this feeling. Slowly, his fingers move, smearing the wetness along your folds. His fingers find your sensitive bud, light circular movements follow and as if of their own accord your hips move to follow their movement.
Daemon follows your movements, sliding his fingers to your soaked opening, applying light pressure. His fingertips are literally sucked in and a mewling sound comes from your lips. You exhale heavily, his fingers thrust deeper, your eyes still closed.
Daemon's lips curl into a smug smile as he watches your reactions, relishing in the way you respond to his touch. He takes pleasure in knowing that he can easily bring you to the edge with just his fingers alone.
His fingers continue their exploration, sliding in and out of your wetness, gradually increasing the depth and pace of his thrusts. He watches as your hips buck against his hand, seeking more of the pleasure he's giving you.
"You're so wet... I don't even really need to work to get inside you," Daemon murmurs and you blush slightly, but your moans don't let up.
"Open your eyes" he whispers, "I want you to watch as I prepare you for me. See how wet and ready you are for my cock."
As you obey again, your eyes meeting his, Daemon's fingers quicken their pace, delving deeper into your core. He revels in the way your breath hitches, your body trembling with anticipation.
"Such a good girl," he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "You're ready for me, aren't you? You want my cock inside you, filling you completely."
You blush even more - you know that Daemon loves to fill your mind with filthy words. Even if they have the desired effect on you, you can't help but blush.
But suddenly you feel him pull his fingers out of you and a soft whimper leaves you. You feel your nerves again as you look down and see him pulling down his undergarments. You've seen his manhood many times before, on the nights he's visited you - but this is different.
His length is released and you gasp slightly - it's never seemed so big to you, so thick. His hand slides along his throbbing length and you hear him grunt slightly.
"Daemon... this... this won't fit..." you suddenly whisper nervously and your hand slides to his arm.
Daemon smiles, still pumping his hardness.
"Hey... look at me," he whispers again and you look up. But then he kisses you, wrapping his lips around yours, swallowing your doubts.
The kiss is filled with a hunger that ignites a fire deep within you. His hand roams your body, claiming every inch, as if marking you as his territory. The intensity of his touch, the way he dominates your senses, leaves you breathless and wanting more.
"It will fit... we will make it fit... It will hurt at first, but the reward will be all the better," he whispers against your lips. You can't help but nod as he slides the tip of his hardness through your folds.
Your eyes flutter shut and you inhale sharply. Your fingers dig into his skin as his length presses against your pearl. Again your hips move towards him, seeking more of that touch.
Daemon looks down, between your bodies, watching closely as your wetness and his precum mingle. His growl echoes through the chambers. You concentrate fully on the sensation as he guides its length to your entrance.
Slowly he pushes forward and you feel the pressure as his manhood tries to penetrate you. A slight whimper leaves you as your heat envelops his tip. He growls slightly, senses your tightness and starts to move slowly.
"You're doing great..." he whispers in your ear, gently kissing your cheek as he pushes further. You feel the pressure, biting your lip as he impales you on his hot length. The feeling of him stretching you, filling you, is overwhelming. Your walls clench around him, trying to accommodate to his size. Daemon's pace is slow and deliberate, relishing in the tightness and warmth of your core.
But Daemon still feels a lot of resistance, he's nowhere near all the way in yet.
"Love... it's going to hurt for a moment now... but it has to be," he whispers and your eyes open again, looking at him. You whimper, but you nod slightly.
He leans his forehead against yours, lets his nose slide gently along yours before kissing you softly again. His rhythmic movements don't let up as his tongue searches for yours and you moan slightly.
When suddenly he thrusts and you cry out as the sharp pain runs through your abdomen. He swallows your cry, his hand on your hip as his thick length works you open. "Uncle Daemon..." you whimper into his mouth as he slides in and out.
"I know..." he whispers, but he keeps moving. The pain slowly subsides. Your cunt, clenching around his cock in protest, slowly gives way. He feels the fluttering of your walls and closes his eyes briefly.
"Gods you feel so good," he growls. Slight mewling sounds leave your lips as your hips begin to move with him.
He smiles at you, "That's my girl," he whispers a little breathlessly as his hips move faster. He can feel you soaking his cock, your pleasure increasing, and it spurs him on.
His thrusts get harder as he tries to bury himself completely inside you. He revels in the feeling of your tightness around him, the way you yield to his every thrust. Moans escape you now as your hands grip his upper arms. His hand still on your hip, holding you in place.
He watches your face, observing every flicker of pleasure that crosses your features. His grip tightens on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin, marking you as his.
"You're so tight, so wet," his voice filled with a mix of satisfaction and hunger. "You were made for me... Made to be filled by me," he grunts as he feels the tight grip of your cunt.
You are completely overwhelmed by the sensation as your cunt is fully stretched. You feel his balls slapping against you with every thrust and you whimper.
His grunts echo through your chambers as he feels the continuous spasming of your wet walls. His eyes drift down again, seeing his glistening length disappear into your perfect womanhood again and again - the moment he's been waiting for so long, finally fulfilled.
He looks at your face again, sensing your impending climax - your eyes closed, your lips slightly parted as you try to follow his movements. Your noises a mixture of moans and whimpers. His hand slides to your abdomen, pressing lightly against it. He wants to feel his hot length sliding into you, bringing you to climax.
His thumb begins to tease your bud as he thrusts harder and faster into you. You cry out slightly, but you can feel the pressure in your abdomen. Your fingernails dig deeper into his skin as he pumps in and out, his thumb rubbing faster.
"Come for me... Soak my cock, suck up my seed..." he growls in your ear and you moan again. You open your eyes and look into his - blown wide with lust.
As your climax approaches, Daemon's pace quickens, his thrusts growing more powerful. He can feel the walls of your core tightening around him, signaling your imminent release.
With one final powerful thrust, he plunges deep within you, his cock pulsating as he finds his own release. The sensation of him emptying himself inside you pushes you over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you like a tidal wave.
You moan out, your walls milk his cock and he grunts loudly. He watches your face contort with pleasure as moan after moan leaves your lips while your warm walls spasm around him. He's never seen anything so perfect - you're finally his.
He leans down, kisses you, swallows your moans of pleasure. His hips move more slowly as you come sliding back to reality from the veil of lust.
When his movements slow down completely, he releases the kiss. You can still feel him inside you, his nose slides gently along yours, you see him smile slightly.
"Are you all right?" he whispers a little breathlessly. You just nod and a breathless "Okay," leaves his lips. You whimper slightly in protest as he slowly pulls out of you. His length glistening with a mixture of your fluids. He watches you, his eyes filled with a mix of desire and satisfaction, before leaning down to capture your lips in a searing kiss.
In this moment, there is no one else but the two of you, lost in the aftermath of your shared passion. Your bodies are entwined, your souls connected in a way that words cannot describe.
Your heavy breathing echoes in your chambers as he slowly releases the kiss, his gaze travelling down your body as he leans back.
His gaze is fixed on your womanhood and you feel something unfamiliar dripping out of you. Your hand instinctively wants to slide between your legs, but you only notice a slight shake of his head before he stops your hand. His other hand slides to your folds and slowly he pushes his fingers inside you, but you are overstimulated, your hips jerk back slightly.
"Don't," he whispers, "My seed must stay inside you.... I want a perfect heir to grow inside you"
You blush slightly, but his fingers slowly slide inside you, pushing the seed deeper inside you. Your eyes flutter shut slightly as you surrender to this feeling.
Daemon's eyes darken with possessiveness as he watches your reactions, his fingers still buried deep inside you. He can feel the wetness and warmth around his digits, evidence of the pleasure he has brought you. The thought of his seed filling you, the possibility of creating an heir, sends a surge of pride through him.
His thumb brushes against your sensitive pearl, eliciting a shudder from your body. He can sense your sensitivity, the overstimulation that threatens to overwhelm you. But he doesn't stop, his fingers continuing their relentless assault on your pleasure.
"You're mine… My dragoness" he murmurs, his voice low and almost commanding. "And I will fill you with my seed until you bear me a child. You will be the mother of my heir“
Daemon watches you, his fingers still buried deep inside you. His fingers move faster, his thumb pressing harder against your clit. He can feel the tension building within you, your body on the precipice of another climax. He wants to take you there, to see you come undone in his arms once more.
As the waves of pleasure begin to build once again, you can feel his fingers curling inside you, hitting that sweet spot that sends sparks of ecstasy coursing through your body. It's almost too much to bear, the pleasure threatening to consume you.
And as your moans fill the air, your body convulsing around his fingers, he knows he has succeeded. He watches with satisfaction as your pleasure washes over you, your walls clenching around his fingers. In his mind, your precious womb sucks up his seed with every contraction.
Finally he slowly pulls his fingers out of you – a mixture of his seed and your arousal covers his fingers. He smiles and collapses next to you on the bed, his breathing still heavy and laboured.
He looks at you, his eyes glowing with satisfaction. You smile almost shyly before his arm wraps around your middle and pulls you closer. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling your scent. His fingers glide gently over your abdomen as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear - your heavy breathing and light giggles fill the air.
Summary: Queen Alicent Hightower attempted to humiliate you, the pregnant wife of Daemon Targaryen, by summoning you to the throne room in a calculated power play. However, Daemon fiercely defended you, publicly dismantling Alicent’s scheme and forcing King Viserys to intervene in your favor. Alicent’s plan backfired, exposing her desperation and strengthening your bond with Daemon. Together, you stood as an unshakable force, a reminder that dragons bow to no one.
Pairing: Reader/Daemon Targaryen
The Red Keep had always been a maze of whispers and shadows, but since Queen Alicent Hightower had risen to power beside King Viserys, the castle walls seemed alive with sharp ears and sharper tongues. You had lived within these halls long enough to understand how quickly alliances could shift, how loyalty could be traded like coin. Yet, for all the intrigue that surrounded you, you had never let the weight of court life break you.
You were Targaryen, wife to Daemon Targaryen—the Rogue Prince—and mother to his children. For over a decade, your union had weathered storms that would have destroyed others. Now, pregnant with your fourth child, you carried the latest testament to the strength of your bond. But this time, the storm came not from without, but from the very heart of the Red Keep.
The morning had been peaceful, the sun streaming through the windows of your chambers. You reclined on a cushioned chaise, a hand resting on the swell of your belly as you read. The warmth of the fire lulled you into a sense of calm until hurried footsteps interrupted the tranquility. A servant entered, pale and trembling.
“My lady,” the servant began, their voice unsteady, “the Queen requests your presence in the throne room.”
You frowned, sitting up straighter. “In my condition?” you asked, your hand instinctively cradling your belly.
The servant hesitated. “Her Grace insisted, my lady. She wishes to… address you before the court.”
You understood immediately. This was no simple summons; it was a calculated move. A veiled insult. Alicent had always sought ways to assert her power, to remind others that she ruled beside the King. Now, she sought to humiliate you in front of the court as she had done to Rhaenyra years before.
“Fetch my husband,” you said firmly, closing your book. “I will not attend alone.”
Moments later, Daemon entered, his steps deliberate, his expression dark. The servant recounted the Queen’s summons, and as they spoke, you could see the fury building in your husband’s eyes. His jaw clenched, his fists curling at his sides.
“She dares to summon you like this?” Daemon growled. “In your condition?”
“She wishes to make a spectacle,” you replied calmly, though your pulse quickened. “To remind me—and the court—that she is queen.”
A dangerous smile spread across Daemon’s lips, one that never reached his eyes. “Then she will be reminded why I am her greatest threat.”
He helped you to your feet, his hand gentle but unyielding as he guided you. “You will not walk into her trap alone,” he promised. “And if she dares to humiliate you, I will tear her games apart.”
The throne room was filled when you arrived, the weight of countless eyes pressing down on you. But you held your head high, refusing to show any weakness. You were a dragon, and no Hightower would ever make you cower. Your hand rested lightly on Daemon’s arm as he led you into the hall, his presence a shield against the sea of whispers.
Queen Alicent stood near the Iron Throne, draped in green silk that shimmered in the torchlight. Her smile was thin, her eyes sharp as they fixed on you. King Viserys sat upon the throne, his frame frail, his face lined with illness. He looked troubled, his gaze flickering between you and Alicent.
“My lady,” Alicent greeted, her tone sweet but laced with malice. “It is so good of you to join us. I hope the walk was not too taxing in your… delicate state.”
You met her gaze evenly, refusing to rise to the bait. “I am quite capable, Your Grace. Though I admit I was surprised by your summons.”
“It is important for the realm to see the strength of its women,” Alicent said, her voice carrying through the hall. “Just as Princess Rhaenyra demonstrated after the birth of her sons.”
The implication was clear. Alicent wanted you to endure the same humiliation Rhaenyra had suffered years ago, parading yourself before the court mere days after childbirth. It was a calculated move to demean you and remind the court of her power.
Daemon’s low chuckle broke the tension, drawing every eye in the room. “You must be mistaken, Your Grace,” he said, his voice as sharp as Valyrian steel. “My wife is no servant to be paraded before the court like a curiosity.”
Alicent’s smile faltered, but she recovered quickly. “It is a gesture of unity,” she replied, though her tone tightened. “One that would surely be appreciated by the people.”
Daemon stepped forward, his presence consuming the room. “Unity?” he echoed, his voice mocking. “Unity is forged through respect, not humiliation. My wife carries a Targaryen heir. If you think I will allow her to be used as a pawn in your games, you are gravely mistaken.”
A murmur rippled through the court, courtiers exchanging wide-eyed glances as Alicent’s composure slipped. Her cheeks flushed with anger, and her voice rose. “You overstep, Prince Daemon. This is not your decision.”
Daemon’s laugh was cold, his violet eyes darkening with fury. “Everything concerning my wife and child is my decision. And you would do well to remember that.”
The tension in the room reached a breaking point until Viserys raised his hand, his voice weak but firm. “Enough,” he said, silencing the court. “This matter is settled. My daughter-in-law will not be subjected to such treatment.”
Alicent opened her mouth to argue, but Viserys’s glare stopped her. She curtsied stiffly, her expression tight with barely concealed anger. “Of course, Your Grace.”
As you left the throne room, Daemon’s hand remained on your back, his fury palpable. Only when you were alone in your chambers did he let his anger spill over.
“She will pay for this,” he said quietly, his voice cold and dangerous. “Alicent forgets that dragons do not bow.”
“She sought to humiliate me,” you said, placing a hand on his arm. “But she failed. Thanks to you.”
His expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing as he cupped your face in his hands. “I will not let anyone harm you,” he vowed fiercely. “Not her, not anyone. You are my wife, my queen, and the mother of my children. Let her play her games—I will burn her ambitions to ash if she dares threaten you again.”
You leaned into his touch, your heart swelling with gratitude and love. “We are stronger together,” you said softly. “Let her see that she cannot break us.”
Daemon kissed your forehead, his lips lingering as if to seal his promise. “Together,” he agreed, his voice low and certain. “Always.”
Word of the exchange spread quickly, the whispers echoing through the Red Keep. Alicent’s attempt to assert her dominance had backfired, and even her closest allies began to waver. The queen had sought to humiliate you but instead found herself exposed as desperate and grasping.
Within your chambers, there was peace. Daemon remained vigilant, his protectiveness extending to you and your children. The tension of the court lingered, but in his arms, you felt safe—untouchable. Alicent had underestimated the fire that burned within you and the bond you shared with your husband.
You were a dragon, and dragons did not kneel. Together, you and Daemon would ensure the world remembered that truth.
Warnings: reader is described as short, name-calling, swearing, Daemon being a horny menace, soft!dom! Daemon, talk of impregnation, talk of pregnancy, pregnancy, smut
Summary: It was Daemon’s life mission to remind you of your size difference, in every aspect of your shared lives.
A/N: This is part of the wonderful @targaryen-dynasty 3K celebration, congrats by the way!!!! I had so much fun with this prompt. Enjoy everyone and enjoy the other wonderful and talented writers' fics. 3K Celebration Masterlist
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The gods make humans in their image. They make them grow until they see them as perfect. Or so your Septa used to say whenever you were frustrated about your small stature. And it was no help that the greatest rake of the realm, Lord Flea Bottom, the Rouge Prince himself, made it his life’s mission to remind you of how small you were.
As children, you had been a bit taller than him. He had a problem with it. The need to be bigger than a stupid girl was great. His growth spurt came and he nearly towered over you, looking down at you with a smirk on his lips. “How is the weather down there?” He would often tease. “Just fine.” You would retort back. “I hope your small brain will get enough air up there. A shame if you lost more of it.” Was your sarcastic comeback.
The older the two of you got, the taller he would get and you would only grow a few inches if you even grew at all. First, he was slightly lanky. His muscles had yet to grow. He would remind you of a newborn horse whenever he would stumble over his two long feet as he trained with his sword. Often giggling to his dismay.
“I will cut your head off, and then you will be smaller!” He would shout in anger when he saw you snickering. Daemon’s temper seemed to grow with every inch he gained. You enjoyed it immensely when it would rise because of you.
As young adults, it was fairly certain that you would grow no more. If you stood behind one of the large dinner chairs you could easily hide behind them. Everything seemed to dwarf you.
Daemon prided himself in the knowledge that he was taller than you. Towering over you like the Hightower in Oldtown. And he never passed down the opportunity to remind you. “Shouldn’t you be with your nurse, little one? I think you got the wrong room. The nursery is that way.” Or other things.
You would glare at him. Often kicked his shin when no one was watching. He would yowl in pain. Jump around and hold his leg. “You little pest.” “Maybe you should get your head out of the clouds.” You teased back.
But there were the times he would call you more affectionate words associated with your small stature.
“Why the sour face, my little love?” He mumbled into your ear as he stepped out of the shadows. He had been hiding from his grandmother and her attempts to put boring and plain noblewoman under his nose.
A huff of annoyance escaped your throat. “Mother forced me to wear this ridiculous gown.” You seethed. Your teeth bared like a wolf snarling.
Daemon found your discomfort rather amusing. You looked like a pretty doll all dressed up. Your hair braided into the style of the land you came from. The gown so unmistakably the colours of your house, shining in the light of the candles.
"Oh, no - you're a lady and you have to wear pretty dresses and jewels and oh no, how horrible!" He teased you lightly. He leaned his head on top of yours. A habit he adopted quite recently. Loving the way you fit under him.
You snorted, very un-ladylike. But he was used to your characteristics. You were not one of those up-tied, boring wenches who tried to turn his head. He would rather gauge his eyes out before he gave them a second of his attention.
His attention was only worthy of one woman. And she was right literally under his nose.
He leaned down, just next to your ear. His hot breath fanned over the sensitive shell. “Do you think it would fit?” You could feel the smirk in his voice. You turned to him with a confused look on your pretty face.
It stayed that way until you felt something. You felt it, him. Hard as a rock, pocking you through the fabric of your wedding gown.
Your face grew hotter than the flames of Caraxes. Your body stiffened as you felt him softly rub against your buttocks. He only laughed lowly. His chest vibrates, sending chills up and down your spine. “You scoundrel!” You lowly scoffed. Your heart beating faster.
Not from his antics. Oh no, you were used to them by now. About the whole banquet finding out about Daemon’s little innuendo. “Oh, little love. I am your scoundrel now. It was ordered by the Queen herself.” He chuckled darkly.
She hit his shoulder lightly. “Stop it!” You tried to reprimand him. But your words fell on deaf ears. “Oh, my little love. How funny you will look with my seed growing inside you.” He began to whisper his lewd words. “You probably won’t be able to walk, so large your belly will grow.”
Your body grew hotter and hotter. It didn’t help that he had you pressed to his chest. His erection pressed against the cheeks of your perfect ass. His hands wander lazily over the front of your dress. Stopping over your belly before wandering further down.
“Oh my little love, will it even fit in your little tight hole? Or will I have to mould your little cunny so only my cock can fit inside?” Your breathing hitched at his dark, lustful words. Daemon’s predatory smile grew at your body's reaction to his scandalous words whispered so softly into your ear.
He often wondered if he was unfair to his wife. She was small, her body had nearly strained from the weight of the beautiful two children she had already given him.
He was right at their wedding feast. Her swollen stomach looked too large for her body. It hadn’t been long before the first signs of pregnancy made themselves known.
From the small bump only three moons after they conceived. He still can remember how his hands could cover it until she was seven moons pregnant. She had been ordered to rest. To not exhaust herself too much.
Daemon, looking at the image of her laying in their bed, their little one nestled in her belly. The sight did things to him. Things where his darkest desires seemed light in comparison. Oh, how he had spent his days behind her, driving himself into her tight cunt instead of sitting in a boring small council meeting. His wife and unborn child needed him, and he needed them.
“Another one?” You looked at him from where you stood. Children’s toys in your arms as you helped your daughters clean the room for the day.
Daemon just shrugged. “Why not? Add another one to our hoard. What about you girls? Do you want another sibling?” He crouched down so he was level with Alyssa and Visenya. Both girls looked away from their task to clean up the solar, screeching with joy as their father spoke to them.
“They are tots, Daemon.” You protested. Picking up more of the girls’ toys. “They will agree to anything if you say it with enough enthusiasm.” Daemon chuckled. “Oh, I think they know what I am saying, elillus (honey).” He smirks softly. His eyes roamed her body without shame.
“It has been so long.” “It has only been a few hours. You had me in the morrow.” You snapped back. Cleaning your daughters’ toys from the floor. Putting it into the chest designated for their toys. “I did not mean our coupling, prūmȳs ñuhus (my heart). I meant another child. The girls are six and four.” He mumbled gently.
She looked up at him sitting in the armchair at the edge of the carpet where the girls were playing moments ago. His violet eyes were dark as he watched her like the hunter his prey. “I don’t know, valzȳrys (husband). You heard the maester's words after Visenya’s birth.”
Daemon saw the change in demeanour. He nearly had you, only a small push. “It is your choice, ābrāzȳrys (wife). I do not want to force you.” He stood up, kissing your forehead before helping you with cleaning the toys up.
You were tossing and turning in bed. Nothing seemed right. Thoughts swirled through your head. So many voices at once.
You wanted to scream. But you would only wake up your family.
“Tell me what is keeping you from sleep, ābrāzȳrys (wife)” Daemon's gravel voice rang through the room. He sounded tired. His back turned to you.
“It’s nothing.” You whispered. “Bullshit!” Daemon groaned. Turning to face you. “It feels like I am sleeping next to a bloody sack of kittens. What is it.” He tiredly glared at her. Knowing full well what was going on.
“You’ve gotten into my head, you menace!” You growled out. Pouting at him. His usual smirk grew on his lips, a soft chuckle escaping. “Apologies for that, ābrāzȳrys (wife).“ „You are not sorry, Daemon.” His grin widened more. “You know me so well.”
A huff escaped your lips. “Why must you torment me so?” Daemon sat up on his forearm, looking down at you. Your hair was splayed out in a messy halo. A bright smile adorned his face as he saw the light, tired glare and the pout on your lips.
“Oh, little love, I vowed to be the bane of your existence since we played with the small dragon figurines our daughters’ play with now. And ever since it was announced you would be my dear lady wife I swore to torture you even more.” He softly nipped at your collarbone, his large hands coming to rest on your rips, just under your breasts.
“Let me help you with your decision-making. Let me enter your little cunny and stay there when I cum. Let my seed fill your womb once more.” His imposing frame loomed over you. Covering you like a blanket.
“What if the maester is right?” “The maesters are cunts who want to see me unhappy and you in doubt. They told you after Alyssa you could not carry another child. Two years later they said the same after Visenya.” He kissed your shoulder gently before his expressive violet eyes stared at you. “What is your body telling you?”
You bit your lip gently, A small rumble going through Daemon’s chest at your gesture. But he restrained himself. “I want another one.” You whispered gently.
A smile broke greater than before out on his lips, his dimples showing. “I will not let anything happen to you. The moment your body is resisting, I will get you moon tea or whatever is necessary.” You nodded gently.
His eyes darkened with lust. “Now before we can even discuss the pregnancy, we must make it happen.”
He lifted himself so his arms were on either side of your head. “Oh my sweet, I longed to fill up your little cunny. Seeing it overflow with my seed. Stuffing it back in.” He laughed gently as you shuddered.
With haste born of his pent-up desire, he ripped all of your clothes off your and his body. You gasped softly, scolding him for literally ripping your nightgown. “I never liked it anyway.” He mumbled against the skin between your breasts. Slowly moving down to your stomach.
He worshipped your body, caressing your thighs and hips. Squeezing the flesh around them, even gently nibbling on it.
He kissed each and every lightning-bold-like scar. Mumbling with every kiss a small thanks. These were the marks of his children. Evidence of your brave sacrifice.
He went further down. His lips ghosted over the soft locks, his eyes watching you heave out breaths of anticipation.
A loud scream ripped from your throat when you felt his tongue plunge deeply into your wet core. The eagerness of his lapping overwhelmed your senses. His nose ever so lightly brushed against your pearl. Teasing it to shoot lightning throughout your body.
You came undone. His tongue, nose and two of his digits working in tandem to torture you. And it worked. Your back arched off the bed. Loud cries of his name and pleas for him to stop accompanied your downward spiral into the abyss of your pleasure.
He stared down at you hungrily. His vibrant eyes were dark with lust. He looked every bit the dragon he ought to be. “Little rabbit.” He growled out. “Sweet, little rabbit. Trapped beneath the large dragon.”
He leaned down again. Like Caraxes would decent upon his pray, Daemon came down upon you. Devouring you once more.
He held your thighs wide open as he ploughed into you. The wet sound of skin slapping against skin rang through the room. His large hand wrapped around your delicate neck, softly pressing against it. Your breathing coming out in small pants.
“You should see yourself, little darling. My large hand is like a necklace on your throat. I can nearly wrap it around.” He chuckled darkly.
His words elicited shivers to run up and down your spine. This action causes your body to tense slightly. Daemon roared as he felt you squeeze his cock. “Seven fucking hells, woman! Do you want to kill me?!” He panted out. Driving his cock deeper inside you. The stretch is a familiar pain. But not too unpleasant. He had prepared you for him. And he would hate for you not to enjoy your coupling.
He leaned down, capturing your lips in a soft, sensual kiss. It was so different from the way his hips moved. So slow and loving. “I am not hurting you, am I, my little darling?” He whispered. You shook your head. “Nothing I am not used to from you.” He grinned, nipping at your lower lip, “That’s my good girl.” He whispered.
He picked up his pace. His hands on your thighs clawing into your skin. His knuckles are white. He groaned and grunted, looking down at you with an intense stare. Your own moans and cries mingle with his. Creating a symphony of pleasure.
He came with a roar of your name, his face buried into your neck. Panting heavily next to your ear. Your own climax is triggered by the feeling of being filled with his potent seed. Both your eyes closed in bliss.
He stayed inside you even as his member softened inside you. The grip on your thigh remains tight. Like he needed to be grounded by you.
Your arms wrapped tighter around his neck, softly caressing his head. He hummed gently, letting you know he loved what you were doing. “Do not dare to stop.” He mumbled gently into your neck. You continued with your caress. Softly petting him like he was a dog.
He fell asleep like this. His spent cock inside you, keeping his precious seed inside you. His body acted like a blanket. Your hand in his hair.
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{Daemon Targaryen x Reader}
You haven't seen your husband since your passionate wedding night, leaving you to doubt his love. Now, three months later, you're round with child and missing him more than ever—until he suddenly returns.
♡♡ This is purely just to get all my daddy Daemon feelings out, I 100% believe he has a breeding kink. ♡♡
3.2k words - Warnings: smut, major breeding kink, slow sex, so so so much fluff, a little bit of angst and Daemon apologizing in bed...
It was another quiet night, in a bed far too large for one. The wind was gently blowing through the curtains, bringing with it a cool breeze and the smell of the sea. It was late, and everyone was asleep, yet you laid awake, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep.
You rolled over onto your side, the silk of the sheets sliding against your bare skin. These days, sleep evaded you, no matter how much you tried. If it wasn't your thoughts keeping you up, it was your changing body and the ever growing life inside of you.
Three months ago you had gotten married to the prince Daemon, a dream of many girls across the kingdom. But your marriage was hardly that. The day after the ceremony you woke up in an empty bed, and hadn't seen your husband since, leaving you to wonder if you had done something wrong.
He had left you no letter, no message. Nothing. Only the memory of your wedding night, the way he touched and kissed you, his sweet whispers of adoration as he made you his. On the loneliest days you would close your eyes and remember it all, his lips on yours, the way his fingers caressed you, the feel of him inside you.
You place your hand on the small bump of your stomach, a smile spreading across your lips. Although it had only been one night, he did his duty and you were pregnant. A piece of him was always with you.
But it wasn't enough.
You longed to see him again, to touch him and be held by him, to tell him of the life growing within you. You wanted so desperately to be with him, but instead you were left with the ghost of his love, a memory that wasn't enough to fill the hole in your heart.
You sighed, trying to push away those thoughts, and attempted to fall asleep, but every time you closed your eyes all you could see was his handsome face. You opened them again and sat up, staring into the darkness.
You could see the light of a torch through the cracks of the door, and the sound of footsteps. You knew exactly who it was, the guard outside your door. His shift was almost over, and soon a new one would be out there, watching over you. There was a muffled conversation, and the sound of someone walking away.
A few moments later the door cracked open, and the torch light poured into the room. Your eyes squinted at the sudden brightness, and as the person entered the room they shut the door.
You were about to give your guard a kindly lecture on waking you up when you noticed that it wasn't the guard who had walked in, but a hooded man. You opened your mouth to call for help, but before you could get a sound out he was at your bedside, his hand covering your mouth.
"Don't scream, my love, it's me." He whispered.
You blinked at the voice, your mind taking a second to process what was happening. Your eyes widened, and you reached for his hand. He took it away from your mouth and intertwined your fingers together, his other hand pulling down his hood.
"Daemon." You breathed, looking up at his face.
The torchlight casted a warm glow on his handsome features, highlighting his strong cheekbones and sharp jawline. His hair was longer than the last time you saw him, hanging past his shoulders, his eyes were dark and clever, looking you over with admiration.
You pulled him towards you, your lips crashing into his. He let out a sigh, a sound that sounded almost pained, and returned your kiss. Then you harshly pushed him away, hitting his chest.
"Where have you been?" You demanded.
"I had matters to attend to." He told you.
"Three months!" You cried. "Three months I waited for you, and you were doing what?"
He smiled and pulled off his cloak, his eyes raking over your form. He reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your skin.
You wanted to be angry with him, you really did, but the look he was giving you, like he was starved, melted away your resolve. You leaned into his touch and looked up at him through your lashes, a smile tugging at your lips.
"Asshole," You whispered.
"My love." He whispered back, leaning down and placing a kiss to your forehead.
You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for another heated kiss. You were angry, yes, but seeing him now made all of that fade away. Your ire could wait until the morning.
His lips were gentle and loving, and you were so happy that you had almost forgotten that he had been gone. He kneeled on the bed and pulled you close, his hands cupping your cheeks.
When he pulled away, you rested your forehead against his, smiling and breathing hard.
"I thought you left me," You admitted, your hands gripping his wrists, as though you could keep him there forever by holding on to him.
He hummed, his nose nuzzling against yours and you pressed yourself closer to him, trying to get as much contact as possible.
His large, warm hands moved down to the swell of your stomach. He placed his palms flat against the bump and leaned back, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Did the maesters tell you?" You asked, placing your hands over his.
He nodded, his eyes lifting up to meet yours. "How are you feeling?" He asked, with such gentle kindness that it made your heart melt.
"Big." You answered, laughing slightly. "I can't wear any of my old clothes, and I have to have new ones made all the time. And the way the ladies look at me when I go out..."
He shook his head, a breathy laugh escaping him, his thumbs caressing your skin. It was true that you had changed since the wedding, your body swelling with his child. You were nervous about how he would react, but the softness in his eyes and the way he touched you told you otherwise.
"I wish I could have told you the news myself, it's a shame you had to hear it from some crusty old maester," you said.
"It is a wonderful thing to return home too," he smiled, leaning forward and pressing his lips against yours.
He kissed you deeply, his arms wrapping around your waist. You smiled into the kiss, your fingers weaving through his long, silver hair. You could feel his lips turn up against yours, and you both pulled away.
He looked at you for a moment, his eyes raking over your features, a smirk tugging at his lips. His hands trailed down your sides, sending a wave of heat through you.
"My prince," you said softly, your fingers brushing along his cheekbone. "We've already made a baby. You don't have to do this."
He laughed, and shook his head, a look in his eyes you couldn't decipher. "I forget just how innocent you are," he said, his hands trailing down to your thighs.
“Well, whose fault is that?” You teased, smiling up at your handsome husband.
You sucked in a breath as he leaned down, his lips trailing kisses along your neck, his teeth grazing over your skin.
"It's true, I've been away for too long, my lady wife has forgotten what it is I crave," he breathed against your skin, his lips finding yours once more.
Your hands slid down his shoulders and arms, feeling his muscles. He pulled back slightly and tugged off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor.
"You have gotten bigger as well," you said, running your hands across his chest, feeling the hard muscles.
He smirked, a cocky gleam in his eyes. "Oh?"
"It suits you," you said, a playful smile on your lips.
His hand came to rest on the side of your neck, his fingers caressing your jaw. His thumb brushed against your bottom lip and he leaned in, capturing your mouth with his.
"And you are more beautiful than the day we wed," he said, his voice husky.
"My prince flatters me." You breathed, a blush rising on your cheeks.
His eyes went to the ties on your nightdress, a row of pretty little bows that went down to the valley of your breasts. He tugged at one of the ribbons, the fabric becoming loose.
He pushed it aside and his hand moved up to caress your breast, his thumb rubbing your nipple, causing you to gasp.
"Still as sensitive." He said, a smirk on his lips.
He leaned down and took your other nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it, before gently biting down. You tugged hard on his hair, your legs kicking and squirming as he continued to play with you.
"Daemon," you moaned.
He hummed, the vibration causing a wave of pleasure to wash over you. He let go of your nipple, and his mouth moved lower, placing hot kisses along your skin, his hand pushing up your night dress.
"Perhaps a bit more sensitive." He commented, his hand brushing along your thigh.
He hooked a finger into the waistband of your small clothes and pulled them off. You were now naked, your body on full display for him, and he leaned back and admired his work. His hand on the swell of your belly, his thumb tracing over a stretch mark.
"Beautiful." He said, a sincerity in his voice that made your heart skip a beat.
You looked away, suddenly shy. You had only spent one night with him, and now he was here again. His touch, his words, they all still had an affect on you, making your stomach flutter and heart race.
He leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your bump, his hand resting on the side of it, his lips trailing lower. You smiled softly, and ran your fingers through his hair, the silver strands smooth between your fingers.
His hand came to rest on your thighs, gently coaxing your legs open. You watched as he positioned himself between them, his head almost disappearing behind your bump.
His eyes flickered up to yours, and his smirk was all too knowing, causing you to blush and turn away. He leaned forward, his tongue darting out and licking up your slit.
You gasped, your grip on his hair tightening. He did it again, this time focusing his attention on that sensitive little spot he introduced to you on your wedding night. He placed a soft kiss on it, his tongue circling it.
"Dae-ah," you moaned, trying to muffle the sound by pressing a hand over your mouth.
You didn't know if it was the fact that you were pregnant, or maybe that you missed him more than anything, but everything felt different, his touch more intense.
His hands gripped the backs of your thighs, holding you down as his tongue licked and circled you. His mouth moved down and his tongue slid into you, making you arch and cry out. He lapped at your arousal, his tongue going in and out, the sounds he made, the hums and sighs, driving you wild.
He groaned, a sound that vibrated through your entire body, and his tongue went up, swirling around that little spot again, his mouth closing over it.
You moaned his name, your thighs squeezing him, your whole body trembling as your release washed over you.
He placed a few more kisses to the inside of your thighs before rising up, his hair messy and face glistening with you. He wiped his face with his arm and leaned down, his lips capturing yours.
You could taste yourself on him, and you kissed him hard, your hand tangling into his hair, the other reaching down to the ties of his trousers. He helped you undo them, and kicked off his pants.
His hard length sprung free, and you wrapped a hand around it, causing him to let out a shaky moan. He pressed his forehead against yours, his hand cupping your cheek, and his eyes locking onto yours.
You slowly started to stroke him, and he let out another moan, his eyes fluttering closed, his breath hot against your skin.
"My love," he groaned, his hips thrusting into your hand.
You loved the effect you had on him, the control you had. To have the prince of dragonstone, the most dangerous man in the realm, at the palm of your hand, made your heart flutter.
His hand found yours, and he guided it away from his length, a whine leaving your throat. He chuckled and gave you a quick kiss before positioning himself between your legs.
He slowly pushed himself in, causing you both to moan. It hurt a little, just like the first time, but his hands were on your thighs, his thumb caressing your skin, and he slowly pulled out and pushed back in, letting you adjust.
"My love, I'm not going to break," you said.
He smirked and gave a shallow thrust, a gasp leaving you.
"I can't be too careful with what is mine." He said, leaning down and giving you a heated kiss.
He pulled away and rested his forehead against yours, his hand sliding up the length of your leg, coming to rest on your bump, his other hand planted next to your head, holding himself up.
He started to move, his length slowly sliding in and out, the pace slow and gentle. You could feel every inch of him, rubbing against that perfect spot. A soft moan left you, and you reached out, your hands on his chest, feeling the hand planes of muscle underneath his skin.
His thumb caressed your belly, his eyes never leaving your face, studying every detail, memorizing each feature. You felt so exposed under his gaze and turned away, your cheeks flushed.
He smiled, a soft, loving smile, and kissed you.
"How I've missed you, my beautiful wife," he said, his voice thick with emotion.
You looked up at him, seeing nothing but love in his eyes. It was the way he had looked at you at your wedding, the two of you standing there in the sept, whispering promises to each other. The world had disappeared around you, and in that moment you were the only people that existed.
He kissed you again, and began moving a little faster, the sound of his hips meeting yours filling the room. He groaned, his hand still gently stroking your bump.
"I can't believe such a perfect creature could bear my child," he said, his eyes trailing down to where his hand rested.
"Our child," you corrected, giving him a teasing smile.
He hummed, leaning back and wrapping his arms around your waist and helping you into a sitting position. He pulled you onto his lap, and you moaned at the way he was buried deeper inside you.
His lips left open mouth kisses on your shoulders, and his hands rested on your hips, guiding you. You braced yourself on his shoulders, his hands back on your bump as you moved. You knew he liked the feel of it, and he couldn't get enough.
Your name left his lips as you bounced in his lap, his hands cupping your ass, squeezing you. You moaned, your hands sliding into his hair, tugging at the silver locks. You were growing louder, your body humming, that feeling building within you.
"Not too loud, my love," he whispered. "I do not wish for the guards to hear,"
A moan, that was halfway to a laugh escaped you, and he cut it off with a deep kiss. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, as you kept moving, the feeling of your release building.
"For your lovely sounds are only for me," he continued, his voice in your ear.
You let out another shaky moan, his hands squeezing you. He was moving his hips to meet yours, and you could feel him shaking beneath you. His hands gripped your hips tighter, and pulled you harder, his voice soft yet commanding as he talked you closer to your peak.
Your hands gripped his arms and back, and when he said your name, a deep, low groan that sounded almost pained, you toppled over the edge, falling in a pool of ecstasy. All the pent up emotions and frustration that you had been holding in were released, and you let go of a final moan that you muffle in the crook of his neck.
He followed soon after, capturing your lips in a heated kiss and letting out a deep, satisfied moan. You clung to him, afraid that he might disappear if you didn't. His arms were wrapped around your middle, cradling you close to him, his lips pressed to your temple.
The two of you breathed in each other's air, a simple shared breath, your foreheads pressed together, your eyes closed. You could feel his lips on your sweat slicked skin, his fingertips still caressing your bump.
When you both had returned to your senses, he gently laid you back on the bed. He leaned down, the tip of his nose nuzzling against yours, and peppered your face with little kisses. You smiled and let your eyes flutter open, finding him staring at you, a sweet, lovestruck look in his eye.
He grabbed the blanket, and covered your naked form with it, tucking it around you, almost protectively. He crawled under with you,his head resting against your chest, his hand still protectively cradling the swell of your stomach.
You wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and ran your fingers through his hair, smiling. He looked up at you, his eyes sleepy, and he pressed a kiss to your bump.
"I hope it's a boy," you said, continuing to stroke his hair. "With the most handsome features, and a true warrior, like his father."
"Mm," he hummed, his eyes closing, and his arms wrapping around your waist. "I hope it is a girl, a daughter that looks just like her mother."
He was silent for a moment, and you wondered if he had fallen asleep, when his eyes suddenly opened.
"Or perhaps both," he said, his voice serious, a glimmer of something in his eyes.
"Twins?" You laughed. "I don't think I could handle two little dragons running about."
He chuckled, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your skin. "I will be here to help you," he said, his eyes meeting yours. "I am not going anywhere."
"You better not," you warned, poking his chest. "You've kept me waiting long enough."
He laughed again and caught your wrist, bringing your finger to his lips and placing a gentle kiss there. He slid his arms back around you, and pulled you close, your foreheads touching, your noses brushing.
You were content, your heart filled with so much love for him, and as his breathing evened out and his eyelids drooped, you knew he felt the same. You drifted off to sleep, dreaming of what was to come. Of a big family, a happy life, and many more nights just like this one.
estelle yaps : and we’ve begun! let the kinkiest month begin.
cw : mdni. no use of y/n. no explitic description of reader's appearance. slight dom/sub dynamics. lap dance. typical spn crime ( credit fraud ). lingerie kink. sexual content. consensual no-touch teasing. alcohol consumption. pet names [ sweetheart, ma'am, baby, good girl, little slut ]. very slight degradation.
word count : 2.2K
There are a few good things that come with credit card fraud.
Hunting isn’t a dream job. It doesn’t pay the bills– nor the thousands in gas Dean’s precious Baby guzzles each month. So, like most hunters, the Winchester brothers commit fraud. They apply for credit cards under different names to use for food, motel stays, and more recently, for Dean to spoil himself with.
Spoiling?
If that’s what you really wanted to call it. Dean ‘spoiled’ himself in the form of maxing out an Amex on lingerie for you to wear. He’s bought everything from silk and satin to ruffles and garters. He likes spending his down time giggling– yes, giggling– at the Victoria Secret website, muttering to himself about how he feels like a kid in Build-A-Bear.
After a week of begging and promising to be good, Dean splurged for you. He would swear in the twenty minutes he was on the Dior and Chanel websites, he had blacked out– completely. Everything he bought was out of his control because all he could think about was seeing you prance around in the delicate intimates.
And when they arrived? Dean was ecstatic. He went so far as to even kick Sam out of the bunker, sending him for a case along with a card for all the ‘kale smoothie shit’ he could ever dream of. Dean wanted no chance of interruption as he feasted upon the tantalizing vision that was you in lace.
Several bags had been placed on the bed in your shared room. Each one had two sets in them, others had slips, but they were all an assortment of different colors and materials. Dean loved the way your body looked in lace and silk. Every curve was supported so beautifully it took every ounce of self-preservation to not bend you over when he saw you just holding the sets up.
Your eyes flicker over to see Dean standing in the doorway. His presence is dark– from need and lust, gaze flickering over the mess of lingerie now sprawled across your bed. His jaw was set tight. Probably tight enough to crack bone.
The surge of want blooms in your abdomen, dripping down to your pelvis and heating your thighs. You watch as he steps past the threshold, conquering the room in three calculated strides. His scent hits you first. It’s something sweet enough to remind you how he’s still your goofy Dean and just masculine enough for the idea of him forcing you down onto your knees make your thighs clench together.
“Pick your favorite.” He says roughly, jaw tightening. “Want a show, sweetheart.”
His words send a chill up your spine, every nerve flushing with fever. You nod your head– probably too fast because it makes a smirk crack through his hardened expression. A devilish idea pops into your head and suddenly the flush that was creeping up your neck was forgotten.
Your hands plant themselves on his chest, feeling the solid muscle and erratic beating of his heart. A smile turns the corners of your lips up. Your hands gently drag up his chest a=until your arms link around his neck. Your voice is soft as you whisper your words. “Go sit in the library.”
Something akin to amusement flashes in Dean's eyes, clearing the clouded lust from his emerald greens for a moment. “Yes ma’am.”
Dean’s head dips down, tilting to the side to pepper kisses along your neck. His scruffy cheeks brush against your skin, his five o’clock shadow feeling more like a porcupine than you’d like. A chuckle falls past your lips and you reluctantly push him off, patting his chest.
“You’ll get your show.” You murmur lowly, seduction dripping from every word.
It takes him a moment before he finally detached, like he was waging a war in his mind to force himself away. His expression cracks– just a fraction– enough to see the ghost of a pout curling the corners of his mouth down. Dean forces a nod, sauntering off down the hallway.
It only takes a few minutes to jump into the shimmery tights that went with the two piece set. You probably looked more like a giraffe with its limbs on wrong trying to shimmy your way into them. The thought of lighting them on fire crossed your mind a few times– but when you turned to the mirror, the shimmering material making you look like a goddess, the thoughts instantly subsided.
The set was a delicate black lace skirt and top. Pink satin bows adorned the waist line of the skirt– that barely covered anything. Your ass was on full display, the black lace only barely shielding your cunt. A grin captures your lips as you pull on the top. It’s lace, too. Your breasts are barely covered by the thin fabric.
Glancing down at the little black panties, you make a split decision to leave them on the bed. Your hands tremble slightly when you grasp your phone, the adrenaline barreling through your veins. You load up Cherry Pie and slink through the bunker's shadows to peek into the library.
Dean is sitting with his legs sprawled out on one of the big armchairs, a beer bottle resting on the arm. His large hand curls around it, swallowing the glass whole. With just his slack stance, he somehow still has the ability to have his own gravitational pull. An air of command drifts around him like smoke.
With haste, you turn the volume up all the way and set your phone down, pressing play. The opening guitar cords strum and Dean turns like a damn sleeper agent. His jaw drops when his eyes watch you step into the room.
The air changes. It’s a shift that isn’t heard but felt– it’s in the way his jaw clenches, hand grasping the beer bottle tighter. The air felt like it had been knocked from his lungs. You looked like a vision in front of him– sauntering over looking like a sex symbol. Short skirt and lace and the obvious lack of underwear.
A choked breath rips from his throat, eyes scanning your body like he’s overstimulated. As if just looking at you was overloading his mind. And it really was. Thoughts were racing through his mind: mainly about how he’d been so lucky to have an angel like you in front of him.
“Fuck.” He gasps, feeling his cock stir in his pants.
The song continues and you walk towards him slowly, swaying your hips with each step. When you stop in front of him, your eyes take him in. His chest rises and falls like he’d just run a marathon, the beer bottle was a second away from cracking in his hand, and the tent in his jeans was evident. You almost wanted to laugh. He was looking up at you like you’d just hung the stars.
His hand reaches out to grasp your hip but you slap it away, smiling at the offended look that captures his expression. “No touching.”
He whines. Like a child who’s just been told off from getting dessert before dinner. Dean’s head flops back against the chair, his hand curling into a fist. It’s obvious to see this is killing him– his knuckles were turning bleach white.
Your hands run up his thighs, feeling the solid muscle beneath the denim. A groan leaves his lips and his eyes focus on you, half-lidded and clouded with too many emotions to decipher. “Sweetheart, please. Shit, y’look so fuckin’ pretty, baby.”
The compliment lands like gold, sparks of joy shooting through your nerves. Your hands leave his thighs and your turn, swaying your hips and running your hands up and down your body. It was truly exhilarating. Because Dean was holding himself back from launching off that seat– and you could tell. He tried to stay still but the feeling of his eyes darting around your figure was evidence enough.
Spreading your legs, your palms find the backs of your thighs easily. Your hands run down your legs as you lean down, giving Dean a perfect view of your already glistening cunt. The sound of a groan is heard from behind you. A grin plasters across your face, the feeling of pride swelling in your chest.
Got him.
Your movements are in tandem with every strum of the guitar. Every time your hands grope at your sides, your chest, your ass, Dean is reacting like a damn ticking timebomb. His cock strains against the zipper of his jeans, feeling like he’s about to rip at the seams.
A string of curses leave his lips, eyes blown like he’s on ecstasy. “Look at you.” He murmurs, voice rough like gravel. “Fuckin’ drippin’, sweetheart. Love dancin’ for me, huh? Gettin’ so wet from this, baby.”
Your skin burns with heat as you walk back towards him, bringing your lip between your teeth. As you come closer, it feels like walking through a high radiation field. The heat and tension coming off him knocks the air from your lungs, need churning low in your abdomen.
You support yourself by bringing a leg up, resting your foot beside his hip. Dean’s eyes are glued to the shimmering tights, drinking you in. His hands twitch and he clenches his jaw– hard enough to crack bone.
“What are the rules of a dance?” You whisper lowly, knowing he’s so tuned into you that the volume of the music didn’t mean a thing.
His jaw clenches impossibly tighter. “No touching.” He grits out, as if the words were physically paining him.
“That’s right.” You respond, voice dripping in slight mockery. Because this was funny– watching him fight against himself from pouncing on you like a tiger. “No touching the dancers.”
You press your knee down into the cushion, straddling his lap. Your knees bracket his hips as you sit on his thighs. When your eyes flicker up to look at him, you almost gasp.
His expression is one you’ve never seen before. Every line of his jaw somehow looks sharper. Shadows dip in the curves of his face, painting him to look like the devil himself. He brings the beer bottle up to his lips, taking a languid pull from the neck of the bottle. His voice is low when he speaks. “Go on, then. Be a good girl and give me a show.”
You nod, almost as if you were waiting for his permission to do this. Your hands brace against his chest as you bring your hips to settle against the tent of his jeans. A soft whimper falls from your lips. He’s thick and heavy against your thinly veiled cunt, the need for friction already clawing at your insides.
So you grind down against him, rubbing yourself up and down the hard impression of his cock. Every time the seam of his jeans catch your clit, a whimper falls from your lips. Jolts of electricity course through your nervous system.
“Dancers aren’t supposed to act like little sluts.” The sound of his voice is like a splash of cold water against your skin, the degrading name feeling like ice. “Makin’ a fuckin’ mess of my jeans. Look at that wet spot. Weren’t you taught not to make a mess?”
Your eyes cast down, seeing the dark spot forming on his jeans. But you didn’t care. It felt so good. Your hands turn into fists as your clutch his shirt. Pants leave your mouth, hips twitching and grinding against him. Your eyes flick up to his, delving into the deep darkness.
His hands are clenched tight, teetering on the edge of throwing this little role play out and fucking your brains out.
“Thought you liked it messy.” You gasp, moving your hips in a circle before bucking them against his.
He groans and the sound vibrates through your whole body. You feel yourself clench around nothing, a whimper falling from your lips. Grinding against him felt so good but it wasn’t enough– you needed more.
“Just you.” He whispers. “Jus' like you all messy, sweetheart.” His fingers twitch like there’s electricity coursing through his nerves– like he’d explode if he didn’t touch you. “Especially like this. Watchin’ you make yourself feel good. S’it good, baby? But you want more, don’t you?”
The sound of his voice consumes your senses. It’s like the world around you fizzles out to a hum, the only thought in your mind being him. Your head jerks around in what’s supposed to be a nod. “Mhm, yeah.”
“But you said no touching.” He roughs out, forcing his voice to sound nonchalant. But the underlying grit tells you what you need to know: he wants– no, needs to touch you.
“Dean, please.” You breathe, hands pawing at every available inch of him.
It takes a second for him to weigh his options before his palms fall to your thighs, letting the empty beer bottle clatter to the ground. Dean’s hands are warm and they almost burn your skin, every nerve ending singing in harmony.
“Oh, sweetheart.” He mumbles, watching you wither atop him and buck your hips around against him. His palms trace the familiar path from your thighs to your hips. “So needy. Need it that bad, don’t you? Just wanna make yourself feel good.”
Every drag of your hips presses you perfectly against him. “S’okay, sweetheart. I’m gonna give you what you need.”
HE'S BUSY, HE'S WORKIN', HE DOESN'T HAVE TIME FOR ME — d. winchester
† SYNOPSIS: dean winchester is a little too old for you, which means he knows what he’s doing, and you… well, maybe you don’t know as much as you thought.
† WARNINGS: MDNI. 18+ content. corruption kink, older!dean, age difference, begging (f is doing the begging), dry humping, soft!dom!dean, p in v, edging, fem!reader, praise kink (f receiving), not proofread.
† WORD COUNT: 2300
*** for my kinktober event.
The scent of Dean’s cologne was warm, notes of cedarwood mixed in with his own pheromones caused goosebumps on your skin and a flash of heat on your cheeks. Every time you looked at Dean, the mental image of swiping your tongue up the base of his neck and just under his jawline to get a taste of the cedarwood played like a film in your mind. At this point, it wasn’t just a want. Being with Dean was a need.
The first time you saw him, you chewed on your finger, twirled your hair, and batted your mascara coated eyelashes at him, thinking your flirtatious tricks would pan out in the way you desired. Guys your age just didn’t do it for you, especially not when men like Dean Winchester existed. It took longer than you cared to admit to finally get his attention. It was months of crossing each other’s paths while hunting with your respective crews when he finally gave in, just as you were about to switch your sights to Sam because Dean was giving you nothing. In a bar on the outskirts of a town you and the Winchesters had completed a hunt in, you watched as Sam leant over the pool table, his flannel riding up just enough to expose his abdomen. If Dean wouldn’t give you the time of day, Sam would work just fine.
“Hey,” Dean spoke low, peering at you through his dark lashes as his big hand cupped your waist, “Stop looking at Sam like you want to devour him.”
You could feel your cheeks heating, the implications of being called out by Dean was clearly reflecting on your facial expression. For a moment you contemplated acting dumb, but then your vision blurred and you clenched your jaw in a flash of anger. Now he wanted to detect the desire written across your face? When it was directed at Sam? Not at him?
“And what if I do want to devour Sam?” You challenged, setting your glass of water on the bartop. Dean’s thumb slipped under your cotton t-shirt, his calloused fingers pressing against your flesh as he gently ushered you in the direction of the bar stool next to him.
“We both know what you want.” Dean clicked his tongue, looking down at his nearly empty glass of whiskey. He lifted his hand, using his forefinger to circle the rim of the glass. Clearing his throat, he continued, “I was trying to be a gentleman about it. You’re young, you know? Older men are trouble. Especially terminal bachelors like me.”
You scowled at him, digging your fingernails into the linoleum countertop. The bartender was looking in your direction, eyeing Dean’s glass, but decided he would wait for the flames to simmer in your eyes before interrupting the conversation that could quickly turn explosive.
“I don’t need you to protect me from myself,” You spit. Suddenly, the irritation of being ignored by Dean for months on end was boiling over, and the sexual frustration was the icing on top of the cake.
“No,” Dean agreed, nodding once. “But I need to protect my brother from you. You’re looking at him like a mountain lion scouting out a deer.”
Teeth clenched together and an eye roll later, you knew he was right. After months of Dean playing it cool, you decided he wasn’t worth the fight anymore. You were trying to get laid, and if it was going to be anyone, it was going to be with a Winchester.
“I just want…” You trailed off, unsure if this was information you wanted to offer Dean. “I just want someone a little older.”
Dean’s jaw dropped, his eyebrows shooting up as the straightforwardness in your words cut through him. As soon as he registered the shyness on your expression at his reaction to your admittance, he quickly recollected himself and cleared his throat. “Not me and not Sam, babe. We’ve got a policy on not dipping your pen in company ink.”
The rejection was palpable, an acidic bile caught in your throat when you looked away from Dean. He was trying to say they didn’t mess around with other hunters, but you knew that wasn’t true. Maybe there was just something wrong with you.
You could still feel that shame, even now. A month later.
That conversation happened a month ago, and you spent the past thirty days trying to forget it even happened. Dean didn’t mention it again and you had felt too exposed to even attempt to pursue something with Sammy.
The motel room you were in with Sam and Dean smelled of cigarette smoke and bleach. The curtains, flooring, and bedding was reminiscent of decor from the early 2000s.
Dean looked at the laptop in front of him, offering a sigh pulled from deep within his chest as he nursed a cold beer he pulled from the motel fridge. “I’m no good at this research stuff. When Sammy gets back, he’s gotta take over.”
“When does he get back?” you asked curiously, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Ever since that conversation with Dean, Sam had acted as a good buffer for the two of you. Your eyes refrained from fluttering over to him, careful to not drink in the way his shirt fit over his muscles or how his jeans were clinging to his hips.
Dean swallows the beer he was holding in his mouth, and from your peripheral vision, you see the outline of his shoulder shrugging up and down. “Not for a couple more hours, he’s still a couple towns away. Hey—” Dean started, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You ever gonna look at me again?”
With warm cheeks, you offer a brief glance in his direction. Now it’s your turn to shrug your shoulders. Digging your fingers into the quilt lining the bed, you shift yourself so you’re sitting with your legs crossed on the edge of the bed.
Dean stands from the table, taking slow slides in your direction. His knees dip on the bed and he brings his hand to gently rest against your chin, using his forefinger and thumb to stabilize your face and maintain eye contact with him. “You’ve been pouting for the last month.”
“Rejection stings,” you explained vulnerably. In all honesty, you hadn’t even meant for the words to come out, but your tongue worked faster than your brain did.
Dean dropped his hand, chewing on the inside of his lip. He took in a deep breath, clearly unsure how to navigate the current predicament. “It’s not like that. I think you’re beautiful. I want you, trust me. It’s just… Like I said, don’t mix business with pleasure.”
“Please,” the word comes out as a whine, nearly begging to be with Dean.
He stills, his jaw clenching slightly. There was a definite reaction to the way your tone carried out the word.
“Please, Dean,” you tried again, the same tone, the same whine, this time tacking his name on at the end.
Dean doesn’t need you to beg again. He dips down, his face mere inches away from yours before jutting his tongue out and swiping it across your bottom lip. He has his hand positioned behind your head to stabilize you as his mouth works against yours. The stubble on his chin is rugged against the smooth nature of your skin, and when he bites down on your lip, tugging at it softly, he uses the yelp you let out to slide his tongue into your mouth.
You’re unsure how it happens. Everything is moving so fast, but suddenly Dean’s back is pressed against the bed, and you’re on top of him, mouths connected and moving in a rhythmic sync. His hand skims your lower back, inching your shirt up just enough to feel the softness of your skin. With your core pressed against him, even through the clothes, you can feel him hardening beneath you.
Dean tugs at your chin, moving your mouth off of him before gripping your hips and gently moving your clothed core against his length. Moans spill from your lips while your head tips back to expose the base of your throat.
“There you go,” Dean mutters, watching your face contort into pure pleasure.
“Feels good,” you gasp, finding your own rhythm for the rocking motion Dean was guiding.
Flipping you over, Dean positions himself in between your thighs. He’s quick about pulling his shirt off, peeling his jeans and boxers off like he’s a professional at taking his clothes off in front of women. You’re still clothed beneath him, and your eyes widen at his length hanging between his thighs. When he realizes your look of concern, he furrows his brows before clearing his throat. “I don’t want to wreck you,” Dean muttered softly, an inkling of concern tipped off in his tone. “I’ll take it nice and slow for you.”
He’s careful to peel your clothes off. Paying attention to all the details to make you the most comfortable as possible. When his hand slips in between your thighs and fingers slide against your core, he offers a groan at the feel of your slickness against his digits. Your face heats, the feeling of Dean actually touching you was exactly how you had fantasized about it. “Thank you,” you breathe.
“You’re thanking me?” Dean chuckled softly, inserting his fingers coated in your arousal into his mouth. His eyes roll back at the taste of you, pure ecstasy rolling through him at the feeling of your wetness glazing his taste buds. “You’re such a sweetheart, you know that?”
Your hips buck in response to his praise, and he offers a quirk of his brow before the dots connect in his head. He tests it again, “Yeah? You’re so good, huh?”
The whine that formulates in your throat comes out as a wanton moan. With shut eyes, you buck your hips against him again, and Dean is more than aware of what you’re needing. “You ready, sweetheart?”
Your nod and verbal confirmation comes out more excited than you intended it to be, but you truly don’t care at the moment. His hips align with yours, the tip of him teasing your entrance as he preps you to take his length.
“More,” you beg, “please, Dean.”
And that is all he needs to hear before sliding the full length into you at a tantalizing speed. He doesn’t bottom out during the first gentle thrust. Instead he lets you get used to the feeling of him inside. Snaking his hand in between your bodies, he moves his fingers against your clit until you’re breathless beneath him. He’s intrigued by the way you react, almost like you can’t control the impulsive movements because it feels too damn good.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Dean instructs as he bottoms out for the first time, “tell me how you’re feeling.”
You gasp at the feeling, your walls clenching around him as his tip kisses your cervix. “Feels too good, it’s too much.”
His fingers continue to circle your clit, focusing on your pleasure before he can register his own. It’s when you clench around him again, your warm walls tightening around his cock that he seizes the movements of his fingers around your clit. “Not yet, baby. Don’t you wanna enjoy it a little longer?”
“No,” you shake your head, big eyes peering up at him as you writhe beneath him. “Please, I wanna cum.”
“You’re so polite,” Dean pulls himself *almost* all the way out before thrusting himself back into the depths of your core in a gentle manner. “I know what I’m doing, baby.”
This cycle continues multiple times before you lose count. He almost gets you to the finish line, your pleasure dancing on the edge of completion, before stripping the stimulation from you to stunt your orgasm before it has the chance to follow through.
The last time he does it to you, you grunt in frustration and he offers a sympathetic look. He pulls his hand toward your face to tug on your lips that have formed a pout before giving you a melting smile. “‘Kay, baby, don’t worry. I got you.”
He pushes in and out of you, directing your attention downward so you can watch as he enters in and out, the speed consistent enough to bring you to the brink of your orgasm. Throwing your head back, you’re unsure if he is actually going to let you finish this time, or if this is just a mean ploy to get you worked up and frustrated.
Dean is an expert at your body, in just under an hour of communicating with it. He feels the way you tighten around him, and knows that he needs to follow through with this orgasm by the way you clench around his cock. With a gentle, “Let it out, baby,” his lower abdomen is sprayed with liquid that has been pent up in you for… Well, who knows how long.
“Oh,” you mutter shyly, the aftermath of the intense orgasm bringing you back to reality. Embarrassment washes through you as you realize you’ve squired, coating the bedding and Dean with the fluids.
“Hey,” Dean pecks at your lips, eyes gentle as he gauges how you’re feeling by a simple sweep of your expression, “that was so good– look at me.”
He points down, the evidence of his own climax coating his chest.
Your shyness eases at the realization that Dean was edging himself too, but he was more focused on you receiving the benefits of it.
“Oh,” you say, covering your eyes with your hands. “Thank you, Dean.”
“Always so polite, baby,” Dean mutters, grabbing his t-shirt to wipe you down. “Now let’s get you cleaned up. A hot shower is calling your name. I’ll even shampoo your hair for you.”
summary: he wants you to show him how much you missed him.
warnings: um tit-fucking, briefest mention of nipples being played with, a little bit of spitting cause you gotta lube it up duh. I THINK that's it? this work is not suitable for minors, so please stay away, k? thanks!
letter from lyn: you all can act like i posted this on the 2nd and not today! this took me FOREVER to write for some reason. i have never written tit fucking so if this sucks, im sorry :( keep it to yourself or ill delete my account. but i hope it's not awful i reread it like 12 times.
wordcount: 2,159 (probably my longest fic)
you walk through the bunker, the air feeling heavy, almost repressive around you. your feet carry you before you can even think — straight to the basement. sam told you several times to stay away, yet it was like a beacon, calling out for you to come. he knew you wouldn’t be able to withstand seeing dean like this. and yet, you couldn’t resist.
you had to know, even if it wasn’t what you wanted to see.
your hand trembled on the doorknob, uncertain but yet so certain at the same time. curiosity was stronger than any alarm going off in your head. a shaky hand turns the knob, pushing the door open, the hinges groaning in a way that felt like mockery.
it’s silent. almost too silent.
you reach to your side, heart pounding in your ears, and flip the switch on. the fluorescent light stuns you for a brief moment. your eyes adjust as you take in the metal retainer cabinets. on any other day, they wouldn’t be imposing, not today though. they stand tall, filled to the top with useless shit, most of which has been untouched since the bunker came to be. to anyone else, there’s nothing behind them. but anyone familiar with the layout of the bunker knows that isn’t true.
your hand reaches around the pole of one cabinet, pulling it back towards you with ease. the rolling feet squeal in protest at the shift of the cabinet. the crates stacked on the unit are merely distractions, simply there to make the cabinet look heavy, to keep people from even bothering to try.
you peer through the opening, your breath catching as soon as you spot him. he’s hunched over in the chair, head sagging between his shoulders, wrists bound to the arms of the chair, thighs spread in an almost obscene way. for a moment he’s unmoving, so still it makes you question if he’s asleep, almost missing the small twitch of the muscle in his thigh.
“should you be here, sweetheart?” he hums, his voice rumbling out low and clearly amused, laced in a mocking lilt. his head lifts slowly, pitch-black eyes stare straight back at you.
“i had to see you,” you whisper, voice sounding timid and guilty all at once, you know you aren’t supposed to be here. however, you already crossed the line so there’s no turning back now.
“didn’t sammy tell you to stay away,” he hums, dark eyes sliding down your body like a heated caress. “but you couldn’t help yourself, could you, hm?”
“dean, you have to let sam and cas help you,” your insist, voice firm but a desperate plea. you know he’s in there somewhere, listening to you. but all you're met with is cold indifference and something notably hungrier, something that sends goosebumps rising across your skin.
he doesn’t speak for a moment, giving you time to assess him. there’s nothing wrong with him on the outside. he’s unharmed, but the energy radiating off him in angry waves? that’s wrong. it’s dark and…predatory. he’s like a tornado, willing and ready to destroy anything and anyone in his path.
“you gonna stand there and stare?” he scoffs, slouching back in the metal chair, the demon sigil under him is the only thing keeping him in place. a grin curling across his face. “c’mere. i won’t bite. unless you want me to.”
your feet betray you, carrying you toward him with the same compliance as always. it’s not like you could help it, dean was dean. you were always drawn to him. always seeking him out in crowded rooms, determined to be at his side no matter what. now was no different. you had faith the boys could tear this forsakenness out of dean — you had faith he was still your dean.
“could never resist me, could you?” he hums, mockery dripped in every word, his head tilting as you step closer. his brow quirks up as you stop right at the edge of the sigil. “come on, baby, don’t you wanna come closer?”
“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mumble, your gaze flickering away from him. a cheap attempt to not feed into him anymore than you have.
“don’t play coy now, sweet girl,” he pressed, he could always read you like a book. even when you were being stubborn and fighting him every step of the way. “we both know you can’t stay away.”
he stretches out a large, rough hand towards you — beckoning you closer to him the best he can against the bite of the rope. and for some reason, despite every nerve ending telling you not to do it, you do it, closing the last remaining distance between you.
a moth to a flame.
“atta girl,” he grins, watching as you finally step closer. your foot halts over the edge of the entrapment sigil, before you step over. the black marking smudging beneath your foot, unbeknownst to you.
he noticed though.
and like a switch, something snaps in dean. the power caged inside the circle surges through the room. a pulsing beat thrumming through the basement like a heartbeat. leaving a metallic, foul taste in the air. the fluorescent lights over head flicker aggressively, the room being bathed in pure darkness for a beat, then snapping back on.
your gaze falls back to dean, still seated. his eyebrow is raised in question, a slight tug of a grin on his lips. the ropes that once restrained him are gone, laying discarded on the floor beside the chair. you should feel fear — he’s free now after all — but you don’t.
“scared, sweetheart?” he hums, tilting his head to take you in now standing properly in front of him. “there she is. my sweet girl.” a possessive claim wrapped in pure filth and promise.
the term of endearment falls from his lips with ease, so distinctly dean but not at the same time. his voice full of intent, the kind that makes heat pool in your lower belly. the same voice he uses right before he fucks you. but this time, it sounds more like he wants to devour you, to consume you whole.
he’s drawing you in, whether you realize it or not.
“you know i missed you,” he murmurs lowly, like he’s sharing a secret just between the two of you. “sammy’s been keepin’ us apart. can you believe that?”
the scoff in his voice is hard to miss. he’s saying all the right things, the things you want to hear. it’s hard to tell if he actually means them or not though. somewhere in the back of your mind, your brain is telling you not to believe him, every other part is telling you something different.
“he wouldn’t let me see you,” you faltered, your heart pounding so loudly in your ears it sounds like a drum. you take a step back as he stands, his broad form towering over you.
“aww sweetheart,” he coos gently, hand reaching out to grip your chin gently. “he’s so mean ain’t he?”
your voice fails you, all you’re able to muster up is a small nod. his touch sends jolts through your body, the time apart having taken a toll on you. your hand reaches up to hold his wrist gently, a touch that should have reassured him — yet he seemed indifferent to.
“how much you miss me, huh?” he croons, hand shifting from your chin to cup your jaw more firmly, tilting your head back so you meet his eye.
“a lot,” you mumble, his intense gaze keeping you hooked, practically pinned in place.
“yeah?” he grins, the rough pad of his thumb swiping over your bottom lip gently, dragging it down slightly. “that’s my girl.”
he lets his thumb trace your bottom lip again before pulling away, dropping back into the wooden chair. the wood practically protesting under his weight. “you know… i just don’t believe that you missed me.”
“i did,” you protest quickly, stepping forward before you can stop yourself, his thighs spreading wider to accommodate your form.
“hmm,” he hums in thought, eyes raking over you before leaning back further. “why don’t you prove it for me then?”
“how?” your words don’t even hesitate, firm and absolute. you would do anything to make him happy, and dean knows it.
“come on, baby, use that pretty little head of yours,” he mused, his position lax. “make me come.” his tone is blunt, not mincing any words.
your fingers instantly reach for the waist band of your bottoms, because who are you to deny him?
“uh uh,” he tuts, tongue clicking in disapproval like he’s scolding a puppy. his mouth twists up in a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “on your knees.”
just like that, it only takes three words to have you sinking onto your knees between his parted thighs. your hands settling on his thighs patiently — awaiting his next instruction. your eyes darting across his face, watching as for approval, but his eyes drop down to your tanktop clad chest. Your nipples pebbled against the thin material.
“use your tits, sweetheart,” he says simply, absolutely firm in how he wants you to give him pleasure. no negotiation to be had.
you don’t stall. the tanktop peels off your body and drops beside you, baring your tits for deans heated gaze. he can read the uncertainty in your movements, the way your hands can’t seem to stay still on his thighs.
“unbuckle my jeans, doll,” he murmurs, his voice deceptively soft. every word is coaxing, designed to remind how he owns you — your mind, your body, your entire being. his lidded eyes track your clumsy fingers as they fumbling with his belt. “atta girl.”
it takes you a couple tries, but you finally release him, his cock jumping free, tip flushed a bright angry red. he look calm, collected, like he isn’t bothered, but his body is aching for you to give him something. anything. his hand reaches out tugging your body closer so it’s easier for you to reach him.
“press your tits together,” he mutters, voice a rough rasp with need, dark eyes watching as you follow his order. the soft flesh of your tits closing around his thick length. your gaze flickering up to search his face for approval, only receiving a grunt.
“use spit,” he mutters, thighs spreading wider, framing your figure between his knees. something in his dark gaze flashes as you obey, letting a glob of spit fall from your lips. it lands right on the swollen head of his cock.
“fuckin’ hell,” he grits out, voice strained.his hand reaches out to tug at your hair, a sharp enough tug to make your scalp tingle, a nonverbal command to move.
and so you do. your tits squeezing around his cock, moving up and down slowly in a deliberate movement. his hand in your hair slips down to one of your nipples, rolling it between his rough fingers before offering a tug that makes you gasp. “speed up, baby.”
you instantly listen, quickening your strokes to something he wants more. his hips bucking upward, a strangled groan falls from his lips as his head drops back for a split second. when it returns to place, his gaze is fixed on you. unrelenting.
“more spit,” he rasps, struggling to keep his hips in place. his eyes follow another glob of spit, slicking his cock and making it easier for him to thrust between your cleavage. his hips begin to fuck up harder. you stay sat there, tits pressed together hard for him to use, while his focus shifts to his release, pre-cum beading at the top of his tip.
his groans only seem to deepen, cock practically twitching against your cleavage, he’s almost there. you take the hint, squeezing your tits tighter, allowing him more pressure, desperate to please him. his thumb pinches and twists your nipple as a reward.
his hips buck wildly, practically sloppy as pleasure paints his face. a deep groan rips from the back of his throat, his body tumbling over the edge. warm white ropes of cum spill across your chest, neck, and chin. once he’s done he sits back in satisfaction, his green eyes submerged by inky black voids.
you scramble back, trying to put distance between you, suddenly reminded why sam said to stay away. the lights flickering off plunging the room into darkness again…and then on. he’s no longer lounging in the chair. his head is cocked to the side, a grin etched across his face.
“don’t run away now, sweet girl,” he coos, crouching down to be at your level. his calloused hand clamps around your ankle, yanking you across the floor and closer to him. “can practically smell how wet you are for me.” his grin only seemed to widen, pearly whites flashing dangerously. “we’re only just gettin’ started.”
A/n: Dean would absolutely much you on your period.
Day 7: Bloodplay, Dean Winchester x reader
Warning: oral f! receiving, mentions of period blood, unprotected PIV, fingering
Summary: Dean's helping yoy relieve period pain
You had been very cranky all day, during the hunt and now on laying curled into yourself on the bed. Dean had noticed, because he’s always noticed the little changed in your mood. “Baby,” he murmured softly, sitting down on the edge of the bed next to you, his hand moving to rest on the small of your back. He didn’t want to assume anything, but he asked anyways, just to be sure. “Are you on your period baby?” He asked, his voice soft and gentle like it usually was when he was you. When you nodded, confirming his suspicion, he sighed softly, pressing a kiss onto your forehead.
“How bad is it honey?” He asked you, gently rubbing your back. “S’bad,” you mumbled, “S’ like someone’s stabbing me in my uterus.” He let out a soft wince, shifting to lay next to you, pulling you close to him. He had your back against his chest, his hand splayed over your stomach. His fingers gently rubbing over your supple skin. He pressed soft kisses against your neck, letting out a soft hum against your skin. “I know something that might help you.” he smirked against your neck, “if you’re in for it ‘f course.” He murmured, pressing his hardening cock against your ass. Because of course Dean got horny in the worst moments.
“Don’t wanna make a mess.” You murmured which earned a snicker from him. “Baby god… we’re in a shitty motel room, i don’t give a shit if we make a mess.” He murmured against your neck, his hand moving down to cup your pussy through your pajama shorts. But you didn’t budge, saying something along the lines of “we still have to sleep in the bed.”
He sighed softly, pressing his lips against your temple. “Not even when we lay a towel underneath?” He asked, and that got a smile on your lips. “Fine… fineeeeee.” You groaned, turning on your back. Dean had a stupid grin on his face, practically running to the bathroom to grab a couple towels. When he came back he dropped them on the bed, making you lift you hips up so he could slide a couple of them underneath you. “That’s it sweetheart, good girl.” He murmured, giving your hip a soft pat.
He got back on the bed, kneeling between your legs, leaning down to press a kiss on your lip. “I’ll be gentle, promise.” He murmured, his hands moving to take your pajama top off. “God… I always love how your tits look on your period.” He murmured, cupping them in his large hands. “All.. swollen and perfect.” He purred, his mouth gently kissing one of them because he knew how sensitive they could be. “Shut up.” You huffed, your hands moving to take his shirt off, throwing it somewhere on the floor. Then they moved to the back of his head, tangling in his short strands. He was grinning at you, swiping his tongue over your pebbled nipple to make you squirm.
“Shhhh,” he shushed, kissing down your stomach. “Let me enjoy this.” He mumbled against your skin. His fingers hooking in your shorts, tugging them off. He chuckled the sight of you in what you called your “granny panties” he thought you looked adorable. “Don’t even think about saying anything of them.” You warned, watching him let out a laugh. “What… not sayin’ anythin’ darling.” He murmured, giving you a grin as he pulled them off. Being careful with putting them away, trying not to get the blood from your pad on the carpet.
“God… look at you baby.” He purred, placing a kiss above where you needed him the most. “Gonna help you relax yeah? Help you get rid of those cramps baby.” He cooed, spreading your thighs apart. “Fuck.. please do. They’re bad.” You murmured, fingers scratching at his scalp.
Your back arched off the bed as his tongue swept through your folds, your wyes closing. Dean let out a soft groan at the tase of you, his tongue now eagerly lapping at your pussy. Wet sounds filled the room, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Dean… baby..” you moaned as his thumb started rubbing over your clit, he looked up at you for a moment. Blood staining his lips and nose, and oh, how he looked like he was in heaven. His pupils were blown wide, and he dived right back. His fingers were digging into your thigh. He groaned against your pussy, his lips now wrapping around your clit. His circled one finger over your entrance before pushing it in. You gasped softly, letting your head fall back against the pillows. “Dean… right there..” you moaned as he curled his finger just right.
He looked up at you through his lashes, pushing another finger inside you, working you open. He thought you looked fucking beautiful like this, writhing and moaning for him. He pulled away from you, pushing his sweats and boxers down with his clean hand while the blood stained one smeared it out onto your tits. “My god… look at you..” he groaned, lining himself up with your entrance.
You looked at his face, bloodstained but he was grinning nonetheless. “You actually look really hot like that.” You murmured, wrapping your legs around his hips to pull him closed. Which made his cock push in just a little, letting you let out a soft, breathy moan. He smiled, pushing in a little more. “Yeah?” He rasped, licking some left over blood off of his fingers. “Can’t wait to see my cock covered in your blood.” He rasped, pushing in until he was bottomed out inside you. He grunted, pulling out before pushing all the way back in, knowing how much you loved it when he fucked you like that.
“Dean.” You moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pounded into you, making you forget about your period cramps for now. “That’s it baby… take my cock.. oh fuck it’s so wet.” He moaned, his clean hand resting on the bed, holding him up while the other fumbled with your now bloodstained breast. His pace was hard and deliberate, he had one goal in mind and that was making you forget about your period. The way you moaned drove him crazy, giving your breast a little squeeze. “Baby… eyes on me.” He murmured, tilting your head up so you’d look at him. He was panting now, his hips slamming into yours.
“Dean… dean.. baby.. gonna come.” You moaned, clenched around him which made him let out a low groan. “Come with me baby.” He panted, driving his hips into yours. His pace faltered as he spilled inside you with a grunt, the hot, sticky liquid coating your walls. You clenched around him, coming too. “Holy… shit.” You murmured as he pulled out of you. His cock glistening with your blood. “Thats… hot.” He murmured, grinning up at you. “C’me on.” He murmured, picking you up from the bed and walking to the bathroom. “Gonna get you clean.” He murmured, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead.
✦Read on a03!✦
✦Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Dean Winchester x female!reader✦
✦summary: Friends with benefits means no claim. Dean can do what he wants, and so can you. But you don't. And when you start to, it makes Dean have a realization.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends with benefits, jealousy, angst, pining, shameless smut (blowjobs, Dean Winchester eating pussy like a madman, oversitmulation, p in v sex), no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: Request from an anon! Dean is a yearner in every life. Enjoy!✦
You watch the sunlight float in through the windows, and hold your breath.
If you don’t breathe, maybe you can trick this moment into lasting forever.
Time suspends, in the air with the swirling dust of the motel and the quiet birdsong outside. Little trills and caws, as the light gets more golden, and you just pretend. These sheets are soft because they’re yours. This morning is light because there’s no pressure, pushing down on your chest. You heard the birds, and you’ll hear them tomorrow, and they’re all just singing for you.
Dean is lying next to you, mouth hanging open and arm haphazardly thrown over your waist—such a light touch, like he knows he doesn’t have to pull that hard to get you back to him—not because of last night, but because this is just where he belongs.
If you fall asleep again, he’ll be there when you wake up. If you press your face into his chest, you’ll hear his heartbeat without wondering if—for only a second—it’s ever belonged to you. If you reached out to touch his face, he’d lean into it, and your hand wouldn’t get swatted away with a stern glare.
You’ve never been brave enough, to just reach out and touch him. Not when he’s quiet and vulnerable like this, and as strong as Dean is—a mountain of a man, unmoving and towering over everything, even Sam—you still feel like you could break him. That your fingers would trace over the wrong line of his face, and he’d dissolve under your hands. It’s something about how peaceful he looks. How his skin is little golden in the morning, and his hair seems to look softer and his lips get swollen with sleep.
No armor made of sharp words or imposing presence. Not heat radiating from him like the sun, drawing you—and everyone else, but mostly you—in like moths. No anger, or sadness, or pain engraved onto ever deeper shadow of his handsome features.
It’s just Dean, lain bare at your side, and not yours to see at all.
You roll over and blink at the ceiling, watching it slowly lighten, and Dean’s hand flexes on your hip. He drags you a little closer, with a low grunt, and you squeeze your eyes shut. It’s nothing. It’s never anything, when his lips press to your neck and his rough, deliberate fingers dip slightly under your shirt to trace your spine. This would have to be something different, for it to be something. You’d have to not have rails up, to block yourself from toppling over and bursting into tears every time he gives you that look, and you know you’re not sleeping alone.
It’s always just a look.
That’s how it started. Just one, strange look from Dean one night at a bar, and then suddenly he was kissing you in an alleyway and hiking your leg up to rub his hand over your core.
“You know that wasn’t-“ He’d sighed your name the next morning, as you’d sat on the couch with your knees curled to your chest. “Can you look at me?”
You’d nodded, and turn with a plastered smile, so well-crafted and fucking delicate just one word would have shattered it like China. “Yeah.”
“I don’t do relationships.” Dean had muttered, watching you carefully from the bed. His shirt had still been off, and it had only felt a little cruel. “You know that, right?”
“I know.” Shorter answers had been better. Safer. Made it sound like you really didn’t care at all.
Dean had fallen for it. He’d nodded slowly, and never once looked like he doubted a word slipping out of your mouth.
“Good. But, while I got you here,” he’d giving you the charming, rogue, wouldn’t it be easy to fall in love with me, but don’t try to drive down this one-way road, grin, and your fingers had curled into fists in your lap.
Where he couldn’t see them.
“You’re clean. I’m clean. We’re pretty fuckin’ good at that,” he’d jerked his head back to the bed. “I’m willing to jump back in, whenever you need something scratched. Long as you scratch me back, y’know. That’s the classic deal.”
It was the classic deal.
But you’d watched enough movies to know that the other part of the classic deal—the one Dean seemed to have been leaving out, because he doesn’t watch chick flicks so he doesn’t know they can be cautionary tales—was that it never ends well. Someone falls in love, and someone breaks the other’s heart.
You’d lied to yourself. You’d said it would be different, because you were already in love with Dean, and he’s broken your heart in a million silent ways before. It’s always glued itself back together, even if your hands have end up with jagged cults that sting when you try to touch someone else.
It’s not different.
Dean still doesn’t know he breaks your heart, with every single look of him needing you, but not wanting you. With every flirty comment at a witness, or joke with Sam about bein’ a lone wolf, Sammy, I’ll settle down when I’m dead.
Or worse, the way he won’t treat you like only a hookup when he’s buried inside of you or laying between your legs, but doesn’t even acknowledge that this happens once you leave the bed.
It’s why you’re not moving now.
It’s why you have those rails up. Dean can keep breaking your heart all he wants. He doesn’t get to take anything else.
You don’t make flirting comments back anymore, when he teases you. You walk behind him now, so you don’t have to feel his stare. You don’t pull away when he drags you to his chest in his sleep, but you don’t hug him either. Not even outside of the motel rooms.
“You okay, sweetheart?” He’d asked you last night, a few hours before the look, and you’d smiled at him.
“I’m always okay. I was born okay.” You’d turned away from him, and the low light had been hiding the tears in your eyes. Your voice hadn’t had the same kind of loyalty. “I’m great.”
Dean had made a motion like he was going to reach for you. A lurching step, his hands flying out and face drawn with worry. You’d taken the smallest pace back.
That had been all it took to make him give up.
That’s always all it takes.
And you didn’t stop time. Eventually you have to pee, and you climb out of bed without looking back. Stare at yourself in the mirror, at the hickeys on your neck, and wonder if Dean will even remember putting them there after you cover them up.
It doesn’t matter. It never matters.
You’re almost done with the case—just a salt and burn—and by tomorrow you’ll be back at the bunker. Where you seem to transform from something Dean looks at, to something he files into the same category as his brother.
Still important to him.
Probably less sexual than his fucking car.
“Morning, sunshine.” Dean says when you come back out of the bathroom, and you’re not sure how he got up so fast. “Have a nice piss?”
“The best.” You mutter, and he holds out a cup of coffee for you.
“You ready to kick ghost ass so we can get the hell out of here?”
You take the coffee and just hum, shuffling over to the table. Dean doesn’t push you. He never pushes you, when it’s about anything but safety.
That would imply he cares where you end up.
“I think I know what we gotta do.” He tells you over breakfast, and you hum, spinning your fork in your hands. “Found the grave, ran it by Sammy, he says it’s the guy we’re looking for. We can head there this evening, so we don’t get caught grave digging again. Spend the day just camping so no one else gets whammied by this son of a bitch.”
“Okay.” You poke at your pancakes, and Dean says your name with a tight frown.
“Are you feeling alright?”
You sigh. “I told you, Dean, I’m fine-“
“You’re not acting fine.” He grunts, narrowing his eyes. “You didn’t accuse me of messing up the last grave we dug.”
“Do you want me to?”
“No, I just-“ His fingers tap quickly on the table, and he shakes his head. “Never mind.”
You don’t mind. You let it wash over you, and you walk behind Dean back to the car. For most of the stakeout, you keep your eyes closed so you can only hear the music.
But there are moments of weakness.
There are always moments of weakness.
“I fucking hate these pretzels.” You grumble, poking at the bag, and Dean chuckles.
“You bought those, sweetheart, you got no one to blame but yourself.”
“I didn’t mean to buy them.” You shoot him a glare. “You could’ve stopped me.”
“And how the hell would I have stopped you?”
“By reminding me that I hate these pretzels-“
“I did remind you,” he drawls your name, giving you an amused look. “I said hey, whenever you get those you end up just throwing them at my face and stealing my shit, put them back, and you ignored me.”
“Oh.” You flush. “Shut up.”
“That doesn’t sound like sorry- Fuck-“
You laugh as one of the pretzels hit his cheek, and Dean groans.
“Fine. I’m never lettin’ you get those again. I’ll tackle you next time.”
“You’ll tackle me?” You raise your brows, and he nods, drumming arrhythmically on the wheel.
“I’ll jump you, sweetheart, don’t test me.” He pauses. “That’s not a challenge.”
You grin at him. “It sounds like a challenge. I think I’d win anyway?”
He snorts. “You think you’d win if I tackled you?”
“I’d get away.” You shrug. “I’m slippery, like a seal. You wouldn’t be able to get a grip, then I’d just wiggle away.”
Dean makes a low sound, shifting in his seat, and shakes his head. “You’d just wiggle away, huh.”
“Yep. You wouldn’t even know what happened.” You pause. “Or I’d kick you in the balls.”
“Christ.” He mutters, lips twitching in the dark. “You know I love it when you talk dirty, baby.”
Shit. “All for you, Winchester.” You pop another shitty pretzel into your mouth, playing it off. “I know it turns you on when I threaten you.”
He chuckles. “I think I just like fuckin’ the sass out of you.” He shoots you one of those looks, and you can resist this. You just have to stop flirting back, to keep the guards up, to remind yourself that the sex means nothing.
To him.
Never to you—to you, it’s the closest you’re ever going to get to the stratosphere, the only kind of heaven you’ll be allowed to see—but to Dean. It means nothing.
“And you’ve really succeeded into that so far.” You mutter, making your voice a little more bitter, a little more spiked, than you can manage to actually feel.
Dean just shrugs. “Takes some time, sweetheart. You got a big mouth, can’t fill it up all at once.”
There’s a slight pause as you try to figure out how to stab him back without the blade turning on you, but Dean clears his throat and breaks it first.
“And I’m not gonna tackle you. I’ll just go in myself. Get you what you want, keep you away from the pretzels.”
“Dean, you don’t know what I’d want-“
“Yeah, I do.” He waves you off with a small grin, and there’s the weakness. You can survive the electric, when he flirts. You can’t survive the warmth, waving in the air between you, reminding you that he really does care. He knows what you’d want, because you’re more to him than just one night but not enough to just lean over and kiss him right now.
“Fine.” You wrinkle your nose at him, looking away before he somehow sees it on your face. How your stupid heart is breaking again. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” He shrugs. “Try and toss them into my mouth.”
“Dean-“
“You’re not eating them, gotta prevent food waste or whatever.” He bumps your shoulders together. “C’mon.”
You roll your eyes, but turn and start to toss them into his mouth. And it hurts, with every giggle and small joke. It hurts that he can do this with you when your knees are only casually bumping, but not when he’s whispering filth in your ear.
But that’s why you have the rails up. This is Dean, your friend, who throws M&Ms into your mouth and listens to you when you start to ramble about something dumb, after the snacks run out. Who jokes and teases you and makes you stand guard while you’re grave digging, instead of letting you help.
“Latest report,” you call down to him. “There’s a fox up here. It’s my new best friend.”
“What?” He looks up at you, and you grin. “What’s it got that I don’t?”
“A tail.”
“I can grow a tail.” He shovels out another thing of dirt, and you giggle.
“Can you catch me squirrels?”
“I dunno. Probably. That all I gotta do to be number one again?”
“Oh, Dean.” You give him a teasing pout. “You were never number one.”
He groans. “Sam’s the one who messed up your laundry, sweetheart, don’t forget that-“
“Sam’s not number one either.”
“Well, who the hell am I losing to then?”
“The concept of time.” You hum, looking back up the graveyard, and Dean snorts.
“Yeah, yeah, alright-“
“All these creepy dead people? They’re my best friends.”
“This one tried to kill you,” he drawls your name, and you can hear his smile. It pulls on your own.
“We have a complicated relationship. She tries to kill me, I try to kill her, but at the end of the day? Best friends.”
Dean laughs again, the sound echoing through the night and making it warmer, and there’s no way to freeze time here.
No way to freeze it ever.
He hops out of the grave, lights the bitch up, and looks at you with bright eyes in the light of the fire. With all the shadows and light, it’s sort of like he really is just a comet that crashed out of the sky, and right into your side. You’re blinking at him a little too slow, before he looks away.
“You want to make marshmallows?” You say, trying to lighten the taut, painful and hungry feeling in your chest, and Dean’s grin almost knocks you off your feet and right into the fire.
The heat can’t be that much worse than what you’re feeling right now.
“Not on the dead body, but we can get some in the car tomorrow.” He puts a hand on your back, and slowly starts to guide you away. “Bet I can fit more in my mouth than you can.”
You scoff. “That’s a stupid bet, your mouth is bigger.”“Hell yeah, it is.” He winks at you, and you whack his chest. The lingering warmth of the fire hides your flush.
And even if it didn’t, it’s not like he ever sees.
Dean makes you go get drinks, before you leave town. He always wants to get drinks. You’re pretty sure it’s so he can draw that hard line back up, when he takes someone else, and you know that there’s nothing for you to cling onto. No hope. No delusions that he loves you back. Just Dean, leaning on the bar and flirting with some redhead while you try to see how many shots you can get in before they cut you off. You know how this dance goes. You’ve done it a million time.
You pretend that you don’t care, when nails trace on Dean’s forearm and he grins like he won the lottery. You get drunk enough that it’s all just a little numb. Dean disappears to the bathroom, you stare at the shelf behind the bar, and try to count how many bottles there are. Dean comes back with a lazy smile, and tells you it’s time to go.
And you do, because part of Dean having your heart means he gets to pull on it, and tug you wherever he wants.
Then you end up back at the bunker, the slate wipes clean, and you sit in a purgatory of waiting for the next case. For the next time the mountain is going to ask you to climb it, as if you’re more than an ant. For when the Sun is going to shine, and it’s only going to be for you. In the dead of night, where no one else can see, and it’ll be gone in the morning.
This is all going to be gone in the morning.
“Hey, doll. Drinkin’ all alone?”
You glance up, and find a pretty, rough featured man grinning at you. He’s got perfectly straight, shining white teeth, and messy hair. He looks like he’d been pulled out of one of those old black and white movies Dean likes. His hand is resting near your elbow, brushing lightly as he leans towards you, and there’s no electricity. No little sparks that fly through you like lightning, the way that Dean’s touch does. This man’s lips pull into a smirk, and it’s not none of the charm Dean’s has. There’s a scar on his cheek, but it makes him look less heroic—like Dean—and more like someone you’d regret ending up behind a closed door with.
It’s not fair to be comparing him to Dean so much. He can’t be blamed for not being the man you love, because no one ever comes close. And he doesn’t have that snake-like glint in his eyes that always makes you cover your drink.
This won’t go anywhere.
At least while you’re looking at him, you won’t have to look at Dean and his redhead.
“I wasn’t.” You smile at him, a little polished and polite. “But I am now.”
“Well, only a fool is leavin’ something like you behind.” The man drawls, and you raise your brows.
“Something?”
He doesn’t skip a beat. “You’re too gorgeous to be anything human, sweetheart. That’s all.”
You smile softly, looking back to your drink, and you can feel something prickling on the back of your neck. It feels like a wired, burning heat. The buzzing feeling you only get under Dean’s attention.
When you risk a quick look, out of the corner of your eyes, he’s staring at you. The redhead is draped over him, and his hand is on her waist, but he’s looking right at you.
Code red? You mouth to him with a small frown—he and Sam have a bad habit of making out with monsters, so you had to develop a whole fucking plan for it—and his jaw just clenches.
Weirdo.
You look back to the man with another smile. If Dean’s not about to sleep with a vampire or something, you just don’t want to see it.
“Smooth recovery.” You tell him, and the man lets out a low laugh, extending his hand.
“Archer. I never leave pretty girls at bars.”
You say your name, taking his hand. “Admirable of you. Let me know if you find any.”
He laughed again. “You got a mouth on you, huh?”
“So I’ve been told.” You hum, and Archer’s grin grows.
“You talk big when you play darts?” He leans in a little closer, and he mostly smells like booze and oddly sweet amber. “You seem like the kinda girl that would be good at dart.”
“Well,” you smile at him. “Why don’t we find out if I am.”
Archer helps you up, and he really is nice enough. He doesn’t get mad when you beat him at darts, but he also stands a little too close the whole time. He throws too much with his shoulder, and you don’t think he’d be open to the feedback, so you just laugh softly at all his jokes. They’re not bad jokes, but they have an edge that might cut you if you’re not careful. You’re already good at cutting into yourself with words. You don’t need Archer to do it for you.
That’s one of the reasons you love Dean. All his jokes are so fucking stupid, and they feel like being wrapped in a hug or having the barbed wire around you softened into nothing.
You need to stop comparing him to Dean.
But it’s hard, when he’s right across the room. Still with his redhead, who’s combing her fingers through his hair possessively, and pouting at him with honeyed words he can’t seem to hear any better than you. She touches him like he’s hers.
Right now, he is. Maybe more than he’s ever yours.
But he’s still glowering at you. It’s like a dagger, driving into your heart and making you a little dizzy.
You look away.
If he needs you, he’ll come get you.
And he never does.
You spend the rest of the night drinking with Archer, trading sharp jokes like a sparring match and grinning in the hazy light of the bar. His hand rests on your hip while you choose a song from the jukebox. Sits next to you in a booth, thighs pressed together, and his shiny grin completely focused on you. It doesn’t make you feel gooey and malleable, like Dean’s does. For a moment you think Archer at least gives you the hummingbird heartbeat that Dean does—where your breath gets shallow and your hands get restless to touch—but that’s just Dean.
Still staring at you.
All fucking night.
“So,” Archer drawls, and you refuse to look away from him. It takes more effort than when you stare at Dean. It’s less magnetic.
You need to fucking stop.
“You’re not from ‘round here, are you doll?”
You grin at him, playing with the straw in your glass. “You’re just asking that now?”
“Forgive me,” he places a hand over his heart. “Wanted to make sure you weren’t just a dream.”
“Yeah, okay.” You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not from here. I’m passing through for work.”
“Ah. Any chance you might pass through more than once?”
“Depends. Are you going to murder someone to make me come back?”
Archer’s brows raise. “Murder? What, you a fed?”
“No. I’m more of a… private investigator.”
“Interesting. You dazzle them out of all their secrets, doll?” He smirks at you, and you tense slightly.
“Actually, I’m the muscle.” You hum, just to test how he reacts.
Another laugh. It was a joke. You can’t fault him for that.
Dean would’ve laughed as well.
But Dean never would’ve said you dazzle. He would’ve chuckled and said something like private investigator? Like those mind-reader shows?
You would’ve said, Yeah, but I don’t need to read minds. People usually tell you everything by themselves.
Yeah? He would’ve leaned in, holding your gaze. What am I telling you, sweetheart?
And you would’ve flushed, and whispered. You’ll have to pay me first.
Dean would’ve made a big show of grabbing a twenty out of his wallet and passing it to you. Would’ve said something else like, probably should be worried you got me all figured out-.
Archer says your name, and you blink at him.
“Huh?”
“I was askin’ if you wanted to get out of here.” Archer grins at you, leaning in so close you can smell the whiskey on his breath. “I got a truck you can investigate, doll?”
You swallow. You can’t.
Archer is nice.
He’s not Dean.
“I’m sorry.” You give him a small smile, bracing for a possible fight. “I have to leave pretty early in the morning. I can’t tonight.”
Archer shrugs it off. “Alright. I leave my number. But-“ He hasn’t leaned back. “Price of it is one kiss.”
You let out a slow breath, and nod. Archer almost crashes into you, a little more rough and passionate than it feels like it needs to be. There’s a lot more teeth and spit than there needs to be. It’s clumsy, and mostly him grabbing your jaw and you trying to breathe through your nose. Not the worst kiss of your life.
Nothing you’re going to remember in a week, no matter how Archer presses into you.
Dean snaps your name, and you pull back suddenly with wide eyes.
He’s standing at your booth, his redhead nowhere in sight. You’ve never seen his jaw that tight before, and his arms are crossed over his chest the same way he headlocks a demon so Sam can exorcise it.
The same way he’s head locked you, when it’s dark outside and he’s shoving his hand between your thighs, keeping you pressed against him while you scream his name, overwhelmed with his fingers playing your pussy and his lips attached to your neck-
Not a helpful thought to be having right now.
“What’s up, man.” Archer grins at Dean lazily, wiping his mouth, and Dean’s nostrils flare.
“We need to go.” He grunts your name, gaze fixed on yours, as if Archer isn’t even there. “Sam called. Might be a storm. Don’t wanna drive Baby in the rain.”
You frown—he drives Baby in the rain all the time—but don’t call after him when he marches away.
“Sorry.” You mumble to Archer. “He takes his car really seriously.”
“’S alright. You want, you can call me if he’s an ass to you, and I’ll beat him up.”
Archer grins as he says that, sliding you the paper with his number, and you press your lips together. Dean’s never an ass to you. He’s just frustrated about something, because that’s how he acts when he’s about to snap, and trying to shove it down. You know him. You know whatever it is isn’t your business, and he won’t take it out on you, but it’s best not to push him when he’s trying to push it down.
You wish, more than anything, that if you took his hand and asked him what was wrong, he’d tell you.
But he won’t. So you kiss Archer’s cheek, thank him—and murmur another apology when Dean barks your name from the door—and walk away. You don’t look back. Archer’s nice. You might end up back here in a few week, if you get lonely enough.
But right now, everything you love is in front of you.
Grumpy and silent, barely speaking in more than grunts, but in front of you.
Dean still opens the door for you. Still guides you through it with a hand on your lower, and helps you into the Impala before rounding the hood with a scowl. He turns on the engine a little more aggressively than he needs to, and grips the wheel with white knuckles, glowering out at the road. You want to reach over and rest your hand on his knee. Ask him what’s wrong, if you can help.
Help by talking about it, or help by letting him fuck it out into you, until he collapsed with a groan of your name and his brow pressed to yours. Then he could say that’s just what I needed sweetheart, thank you, and you’d say always, and he’d look at you like he was seeing you for the first time-
“That guy looked like a discount cowboy.” Dean grunts, and you blink at him.
“Who?”
“The dude you were with.” He won’t look away from the road. “Looked like someone pulled him right off the street.”
“Oh.” You look down to your fingers. “He was nice.”
“Yeah, I bet he was.”
You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean-“
“You gonna go back and see him?” Dean ignores your question, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break his own hand.
“Maybe. I don’t know. I- He was nice.”
Dean’s jaw ticks. “You said that already.”
“Yeah, well- He was.” You sink into your seat, glaring at your nails. “And he liked me.”
Dean laughs, cold and flat, and you scowl at him.
“Why is that funny, Dean? Is it really that insane to you that someone might actually like me?”
“I never said that.” He snaps, and you roll your eyes.
“Really? Because it fucking sounds like you think him liking me is funny-“
“It’s not.”
“The why’d you laugh, Winchester?” Your heart feels like it’s ripping apart. Splintering and fracturing, all the glue that kept it together unraveling, and you don’t know why this is the line. Dean’s been mad at you before, when you jumped in front of him during a hunt or made a choice he didn’t agree with. But it’s how he fights with everyone he cares about.
This is different.
This is about nothing, and even if you’re not the source of his wrath, you’re the target. And you don’t even get a grumble of Sam messed up or found out someone died. He’s just pissed, and he’s being a dick, and you’re too tired to pretend it doesn’t hurt.
He can’t just laugh.
It’s killing you faster than the indifference did.
“Is it hilarious to you?” You sneer, twisting to fully face him. “The idea that someone could actually talk to me, and find me interesting, and want to see me again?”
“I never said that, sweetheart-“
“Don’t sweetheart me, Dean. You can’t fucking fathom that maybe someone would find me attractive-“
“I never said that.” He snaps your name, and some small part of you that’s only there to please him cowers. “I just meant that discount cowboy isn’t fuckin’ special for finding you attractive, alright. Don’t matter how nice he is.” The words sound like they’re physically hurting him. “He’s not the only douchebag who likes you.”
You snort. “Yeah, alright. I think you just don’t want to lose your fucktoy.”
The car jerks slightly. “Don’t fuckin’ say that.”
“Why not?” You lean back into your seat, propping your knees on the dashboard. “Once I find someone who actually likes me, which I will because apparently they’re everywhere and just alluding me somehow, you lose your backup, Winchester. You can’t wrap your head around a world without your plan B, if you strike out. You can’t imagine that they’d kiss me in public, instead of behind a door so nobody else has to see. That they wouldn’t want to go around and fuck someone else while they kept me on standby.”
Dean’s words are pushed through his teeth. “Oh, he’ll fuck someone else, sweetheart. Don’t worry about that.”
You gape at him, blood pounding in your ears. “What the fuck is your problem, Dean?”
“Nothing.” He mutters, and you scoff.
“Nothing.” You echo, tone filled with more venom than you thought you were capable of, and you could swear you see him flinch. “You know, he did like me. He laughed at all my jokes, and he paid attention to me, and maybe I will go see him. Maybe we’ll fall in love, and I’ll move out, and I can send you Christmas cards every year so you can see how much he actually fucking likes me-“
You cut yourself off with a noise of surprise, as Dean turns the car and slams on the breaks. Your stupid, traitorous hands fly to grab him, because he’s still the safest place in the world, even when he’s being a dick.
Dean stares out at the dark of the woods, breathing heavily. You slowly draw your hands away, and wrap your arms around your stomach. Too far. You pushed it too far.
“I’m-“
“Shut up.” He grunts, and you scowl.
“I’m trying to apologize to you, asshole-“
“Save it. Don’t want it.”
“I- You don’t get to stop my apology-“
“You don’t- No.” He bows his head, fingers still clenched on the wheel. “You didn’t do anything, sweetheart. Just- Forget it.”
You stare at him. Forget it. He wants you to just fucking forget it, and you can’t.
“Dean.” You say, lowering your voice like you’re telling him a secret. “You- I’m sorry.”
“Stop.” He looks up at you with a rough glare, voice hoarse. “Don’t- I said you didn’t do anything-“
“It seems like I did.” You hold his gaze, refusing to let your voice falter. “Considering you fucking shouted at me and pulled over.”
He blinks at you, then lets out a dry, humorless. “So you want me to apologize? That all I gotta do, to make you drop it?”
“No, I want you to tell me what I did.”
“You didn’t-“
“Don’t lie to me, Dean.” You let out a long, slow breath. “Just- Please. We don’t have to talk about feelings, but just say like, you forgot to get me a drink and we’ll… pretend this never happened.”
Dean stares at you for a moment. “You think I’d get that pissed because you forgot to get me a drink?”
“No.” You mumble, picking at your nails again. “That was just an example.”
He keeps staring at you, tapping his fingers on the wheel again, and lets out a slow breath. “Do you really believe that?”
You frown. “No, I told you, I was just thinking of something stupid and random, like a drink-“
“No, not that.” He sighs, scanning over your face for something he can’t seem to find. “You think I don’t actually like you? That you’re just my backup, that I’m ashamed of you or something?”
“Oh.” You flush, and suddenly you can’t bear to look at him, but you can’t figure out how to look away. “Maybe.”
“Maybe-“
“I don’t know, Dean, and- I don’t know why that’s important, it’s just- I was angry, I was just saying things-“
“But you believe them.” He mutters. “Fucktoy, sweetheart. That’s what you said.”
“I- Yeah.” You swallow. “This isn’t about me, Dean.”
He laughs dryly, looking out to the road with a shake of his head. “Yeah. It’s not about you.”
“Dean-“
“It’s always about you,” he says your name, giving you a strange look. “Every time, it’s- Goddamnit, it’s never not about you, and I didn’t- I never thought that was something- It’s always about you.” He says it again. He keeps saying it. Like mantra. “You wanna know what’s wrong, sweetheart. You really wanna know?”
You nod, not trusting your own voice, and his throat bobs.
“I didn’t like it. Seein’ you with him. Didn’t like that you smiled at him. Didn’t like how you were looking at him. Didn’t like how he was touching you.” He glares out at the night, hands twitching slightly. “Didn’t like it.”
There’s a long moment of silence, as his words sink into you, and you start to feel a little dizzy.
“You- Dean-“
“I know what it sounds like. But- I never once thought of you as plan B.” He turns back to you, eyes shining in the dark. “Ever.”
You shake your head, voice barely more than a breath. “Dean, you- You can’t say that-“
“You asked me what was wrong. I’m telling you the truth-“
“That’s not the truth-“
“Yeah. It is. Like it or-“
“You don’t even let me have sex with you when we’re home, Dean!” You cut him off, voice rising quickly. “You- You don’t even look at me, you’ve never once said anything, and if you did you’d have said something like- We’ve been doing this for nine months-“
“I didn’t think about it until tonight, alright-“
“No,” you shake your head, reaching for the door. “No, you just didn’t think you could lose me until tonight, then suddenly it’s always about me-“
“Shit, no- Wait-“ He grabs your arm, eyes filled with a strange kind of pain. “I didn’t mean it like that, don’t- I didn’t know. It was always about you but I didn’t let myself fuckin’ think about it, and I didn’t think about how I can’t lose you until I could see it, and I hated it, and- Just don’t walk away,” he says your name, and it comes out low and desperate. “I know it’s fucked, sweetheart, but I didn’t let you in my room ‘cause then it would be something real that I could lose, and turns out I can lose it anyway, and- Don’t walk away. Don’t.”
You blink at him, and let go of the handle. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite, Dean Winchester.”
He lets out a low breath, drawing back his seat with that flat, empty amusement. “I don’t think I am, sweetheart. Road’s gotta go both ways for that.”
It’s your turn to laugh, and he frowns at you.
“What.”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing-“
“No.” You shoot him a tight smile. “But you see how annoying that is?”
He stares at you, then chuckles, leaning back in his seat. “Alright. Fair hit.”
“Thank you.” You look down to your nails, then mumble. “It goes both ways.”
“It- What?”
“Why do you think I cared so much, about being your fucktoy?”
“Uh-“ He coughs. “Objectification?”
You laugh softly, and there’s no fight left in you. “No. I- I hate it.” You look up at him, letting the words spill out of you before you can stop them. “I hate it when you go home with other people. I hate it when you fuck me then pretend it didn’t happen. I hate it when you break my heart and put it back together and never even think about what you’re doing.”
“I-“
“I hate it because it’s not fair.” You whisper, and he stares at you with a slack expression. “It’s not fair that I love you and I have to pretend that I don’t.”
Dean rasps your name, and you give him a small, sad smile.
“But I do love you, Dean. And I don’t hate that.”
He swallows, then shakes his head. “No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.” You lean forward, bracing your hand on his knee. “Do you love me?”
Dean stares at you, his hands flexing on the wheel again, and you don’t look away. Don’t take it back. It’s too late for that, and you don’t want to back. Not if you’re headed where you think you are.
“You don’t- Son of a bitch-“ Dean looks away, shaking his head. “Don’t just say that- You don’t get what you’re doin’, sweetheart.”
You just keep watching him, waiting, and he looks back to you with an expression like you’re physically hurting him, and something shifting in his eyes.
“Say it again.” He mutters, and you smile.
“I love you, Dean.”
He makes a low sound in his throat, and almost lunges for you. Wraps his hand around your neck and pulls you forward, grabbing your thigh and dragging it over his. Dean’s lips smash into yours with a brutal fervor, and your hands shoot to grab his shirt in an attempt to balance on his lap.
Dean wraps his arm fully around you, and balance isn’t a problem anymore. You’re pinned to his chest as he kisses you like he wasn’t just kissing you last night, like he’s never going to kiss you again. Like he’s been starved of it, and can’t do anything but devour you and hope it saves him. You wrap an arm around his neck as a small sound of need leaves your throat, and Dean grunts, deepening the kiss by pressing your head closer. It a rough, messy kiss, but it’s fucking wet and breathless and making your head spin because you don’t ever want to pull away.
Your nails dig into his neck as he pulls you a little further forward, making your core press right against his crotch. He’s pressing through his jeans and hard, and your mouth falls open in a wanting moan as you start to grind down on him. Just a little friction is all you need, and Dean is swallowing every sound, and with the jerk of his hips up when you bite on his lip, maybe he’ll give you everything you want-
He grunts, and suddenly you’re being flipped over. Pinned down on the bench, Dean never once breaking the kiss. One of his hands shoots under your shirt to trace your sides, and it sends little shivers through you that make your back arch.
“Dean-“ You whisper, the sound falling into a broken moan when his hips drop over yours. “Oh, god- You didn’t-“ His knee pushes up, right against your core, and you push out the words before you forget you were ever fighting at all. “We were talking-“
“Yeah, I know.” Dean kisses the corner of your mouth. “And I love you,” he mutters your name, lips wandering everywhere on your face. “Love so much it makes me fuckin’ sick, sweetheart. Made me want to rip off his arms then rip off mine for letting someone else-“ He takes a ragged breath, pressing his brow against yours and searching your open face with hooded, shining eyes.
“Dean, I-“
“Never think of anyone but you.” He rasps, leaning down to kiss you again, this time slower, with so much care it almost breaks your heart. “And I’ll keep tellin’ you, I swear. Never gonna be a question, you’re never gonna think I don’t care, I-“ He leans up, handsome features almost fallen in desperation. “Won’t mess it up this time, baby, it can be whatever you want.” He reaches out, tracing his thumb over your cheeks. “I can be whatever you want.”
“Dean,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his face. “I just want you. I’ve only ever wanted you.”
You stare at each other, and you’re not entirely sure this isn’t a dream. But Dean feels real, over you. Settled between your legs and hard and looking at you with obvious, plain adoration written on his face. It’s a look you’ve only ever seem limited to his eyes, in the dead of night.
But now it’s all you can see. And it’s every bit as beautiful as the rest of him.
Dean’s throat bobs, and he dives back down, pressing another, softer and passionate kiss to your lips. You hum happily into it, and his lips curve into a grin.
Then he’s gone.
Dean sits up, taking you with him, and moves you back into your own seat as he looks back to the wheel. You blink at him, so cold from the loss of him everywhere over you. You’re about to open your mouth and plead for him to come back, or maybe just cry, when he grabs your thigh and squeezes.
“Sorry, baby.” He mutters, glancing over his shoulder to the road. “We’re not doin’ this here.”
“Doing-“ Your mouth falls open as his hand moves up, letting two fingers press against your aching center. “Oh.”
He smirks, rubbing his fingers back and forth with slow, teasing motions as he pulls back onto the road.
“Dean.” You whisper, grabbing his wrist as it starts to feel unbearable. “Why, I- We can do it in the car, I don’t mind-“
“I mind.” He grunts, curling his fingers so his knuckles press against you. “You think I don’t wanna have you in my room, so we’re goin’ there.”
“But there’s still and hour-“
“So sit still, baby.” He drawls, using the low taunting voice that follows you into most dreams. “You can take what you want,” he rubs his knuckles, and you head falls back with a moan. “But you’re cumming ‘least three times once I get you in my bed. So play careful.”
You glare at him, squeezing his wrist like it can somehow teleport you back to the bunker, and Dean’s grin just widens.
“You know how pretty you are, when you’re pissed at me?”
“Shut up,” you mutter, dropping your face into his shoulder, and he laughs, kissing your brow.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Dean’s hand between your legs shifts—easily despite your hold on him—and suddenly his palms is pressed over your clit, his fingers crooking right over where he knows your entrance is. And you might have given him too much power, but there’s no one else you’d rather have this effect on you. No one else would so stupidly obey your command with such a strange, smug pride on their face. Dean keeps humming along with the radio and lazily rubbing his fingers like this is just perfectly normal. A little boring, as if your cunt is just a toy for him to play with while he drives.
But you can see the evidence of his own desperation, pressing through his jeans. And when you press your thighs together, trapping his hand, he grunts and flexes his fingers. A moan slips through your lips and he grins with that same, smug pride, repeating the movement. The louder you moan, the more he looks like a child on Christmas.
And it can’t be comfortable, how hard he is right now.
You can help with that.
You lean back, grabbing his arm and slowly dragging it away. Dean shoots you a curious look, but—per your earlier instructions—doesn’t say anything. You give him an innocent, slightly pouting smile, and trace your hand up his thigh until you’re brushing against his cock through his jeans.
He coughs, grabbing your wrist. “What’re you doin’.”
It’s not a question. He fucking knows, with how his ears are red and voice is low.
“Nothing.” You hum, scooting a little close on the bench, and his throat bobs.
“You don’t gotta-“
“I want to.” You hum, brushing your lips over his neck. “Please?”
“Jesus.” He mutters, already sounding wrecked, and lets go of your wrist. “Yeah, okay. Just- be careful, don’t hit your head on the wheel or somethin’-“
“You thought I was talking about going down on you?”
He shoots you a slack, guilty look, and you giggle.
“Don’t worry, I was.” You squeeze him over his jeans, and Dean lets out the loudest, longest moan of your name you’ve ever heard. You could get addicted to that.
You kind of already have.
With slow, careful hands, you unzip his jeans. Dean lets out another guttural sound as you pull out his cock, rock hard and already weeping with pre-cum. You swipe your thumb over the angry head of him, then stroke him with a firm, dragging pace. A vein in his neck bulges, his chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm as his grip on the wheel looking like he’s about to try and rip it from the car.
You squeeze the base of his cock, then lean down to swipe a tiny, kitten lick over the slit.
He makes that same, loud and desperate moan of your name, and you can feel his thick muscles fighting to not slam up into your mouth. You wrap your lips fully around him, swirling your tongue and sucking like he’s the best lollipop you’ve ever had, and Dean makes a broken, pained sound that vibrates through you.
“Son of a bitch, baby.” His voice is loud and rough, sweeping straight through you like an electric fire. “Gonna fuckin’ kill me- Christ-“
You start to bob your head up and down until he’s hitting the back of your throat, and wrap your hand around what you can’t fit in your mouth. His cock is heavy on your tongue, and he keeps groaning your name, and you can feel your own arousal starting to drip down your thighs. It’s too much heat for you to handle yourself, and this has always been the part where Dean takes over. But when you drag one of his hands down to grab your hair, he just holds it with a loose grip and keeps still below you.
You double your efforts, starting to grind against the air and moaning around him, and Dean chuckles.
“Too much, baby? You start somethin’ you can’t finish?”
No. You can finish it. Dean’s hand is gliding away from your head to rub your back, and you can finish this yourself. You whine and moan around him, speeding up until you’re lightheaded, and you’re rewarded with the deepest, most desperate groan of your name yet.
You smile around him, using every broken noise from Dean’s chest as fuel, and keep fucking the air as you suck him off. You know what the sight is doing to him. His hand on your back is pressing and firm, his thighs are strained as you drive him right up to the edge, and he’s losing control faster and faster.
Dean ruts up into your mouth with a groan. “Shit- Baby, you gotta- I’m ‘bout to-“
You throw everything you have into him, moaning his name as he hits the back of your throat, and Dean’s hips slam up so fast you almost choke.
“Fuck- Sorry, sweetheart-“
You shake your head, even as tears prick at your eyes, and don’t stop.
Dean cums down your throat with an almost feral groan of your name, and the leash he’d been keeping on himself snaps. He fucks up into your mouth as he cums, and when you risk a look up at him under your lashes, he staring at you like you’ve fallen from space. Hooded eyes and face painted with a hungry, insatiable kind of pleasure.
You swallow every bit of his release. You pull off of him with a pop, and barely get a chance to lick your lips before he’s dragging you up into a heavy, deep kiss.
Dean groans at the taste of himself on your lips. “Look at you, doing it all by yourself.” He drawls. “Dirty girl, you get off sucking my cock, don’t you baby?”
“Yes.” You whisper, and Dean’s grin widens.
“You wanna see what I get off on?”
You nod, mouth hanging slightly open, and Dean drags you into another, deep, heavy kiss.
“Lemme show you, sweetheart. C’mon.”
You’re not sure exactly when Dean parked the car, but you know you’re back at the bunker. With Dean. And he’s not ignoring you this time.
He carries you bridal style inside, marching with long strides and only a shout of don’t bother knockin’ to Sam. You’ve only ever seen this kind of determination in him during a hunt.
But he’s a man on a mission. And you have a feeling he’s not going to stop until you can’t walk for a week.
Worse things have happened.
Dean kicks the door to his room closed, eyes flashing as he looks down at you, and he lowers you carefully down onto the bed.
You stare at him, mouth hanging open, and his mattress is so soft. The whole room smells like Dean, and he’s towering over you, tracing his hand gently over your face like he’s trying to memorize you with every touch.
“Lie down, baby.” He mutters, and you nod crawling backwards until your head is settled on the pillows.
Dean groans, prowling slowly over you and dragging your knees apart.
“You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous.” He mutters, playing with the hem of your bottoms and holding your gaze. “You wanna know how often I’ve imagined you in here? Lyin’ down just like this, all ready for me, all mine?”
You shake your head, a little at a loss for words, and Dean smirks.
“Every goddamn night.” He leans down, brushing his lips over yours. “These sheets already know who you are, pretty girl. They’ve heard me callin’ for you.”
This still feels like a dream. A hot, wet dream where Dean’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.
“Dean-“
He silences you with a deep, long kiss, and there’s so much electricity buzzing through you, that alone almost sends you over the edge.
“I know, sweetheart.” He mutters, pressing another, sloppy kiss to your neck. “I’ve gotcha. Arms up.”
You obey his low command, and Dean undresses you with a slow, taunting deliberation. His eyes are locked onto yours the entire time, as he drags your shirt over your head and unhooks your bra with a single hand. Calloused, warm fingers cup your breasts for a moment and his gaze drops, filled with a gentle awe as he rolls your nipple between his fingers.
“God-“ Your breath hitches, even as you roll your eyes. “Dean, you’ve seen them before-“
“Yeah, but they never get any less hot.” He mutters, grinning at you and his hands travel lower.
“Dork.” You mumble, and he just laughs.
“Save the dirty talk, sweetheart. Haven’t even given you that first orgasm yet.”
You blink at him—you’d forgotten that promise—and before you can ask if he’s serious, Dean picks your legs up and pulls off your pants. Every word vanishes into a lustful daze as he kisses your ankle, then your knee, drawing a line with his mouth right up to your inner thighs.
He sucks a tiny, mark on the soft skin, keeping your hips angled up with hands on your ass, and you grab at the sheets as your need for him grows painful.
“I- More, Dean, more-“ You gasp as he open mouth kisses your cunt over your panties, eyes locked onto you and almost glittering with lust.
“So wet,” he teases, repeating the movement. “Always so wet for me, baby girl, and just from thinkin’ about me wrecking this pretty pussy.”
Tears of need start to prick at your eyes. “Dean please-“
“Here’s what gets me off, darling.” He almost growls, and that’s new. Darling. Low and rough, like he adores you. “You, lookin’ at me like you fucking love me. Like just this,” he kisses your inner thigh again, and you shudder. “Is enough. Is it enough, sweetheart?”
No. “I- I don’t know-“
“Yeah, you do.” He smirks at you. “It’s not, is it. You want me to wreck you. Fuckin’ ruin you, make you feel me for a week, show you who owns this pussy.”
“Dean-“
“Cause you own me,” he mutters your name, voice suddenly soft, breath warm over your ruined panties. “You know that, baby. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll get it for you-“
“Fuck me.” You almost scream, because any more teasing might kill you. “Just fuck me, Dean, please fuck me, please- Oh-“
He grabs your panties and your breath hitches as he rips them from your body in a single motion.
“Good girl, usin’ your words.” His thumb brushes over your clit, and you shudder below him. “Turn around.”
You blink at him, too dazed to register his words, and Dean doesn’t wait for you to catch up. He grabs you and flips you onto your stomach, dragging your ass up so you’re fully exposed to him.
“Jesus.” He mutters, dragging two fingers between the fold over your pussy. “Just for me, huh, baby.”
“Yes.” You breathe out, twisting to try and look at him over your shoulder. “Dean, don’t tease-“
“I’m not teasing.” He winks at you. “Just admiring the view.”
You open your mouth to snap something back, and Dean shoves his face right into your cunt. You fall forwards at the overwhelming feeling of him, making out with your pussy like a man possessed. Swiping his tongue through your arousal, and dragging you back against him as he presses his tongue flat on your clit. You press your face into the mattress as you moan his name, fisting the sheets for some kind of anchor.
Dean groans against you, the sound reverberating against you and making your grind against his mouth. One of his hands squeeze on your ass as the other rubs up and down on your thigh. You feel his tongue drag around your clit and his arm wraps fully around you, forcing you to stay up as your knees go weak.
His free hand moves to your clit, rubbing furious, tight circles as his tongue refocuses onto fucking and eating you, and you feel a burning coil in your gut snap. You cum so hard the edge of your vision goes white, but Dean doesn’t stop. He keeps going through your orgasm until you feel like you’re made lightning. You’re arching into and away from his touch, trying to chase more while clawing at the sheets to try and get away from his unrelenting mouth.
“Dean-“ You whine, trying twist back around but pinned by his grip. “Dean, too much- Can’t take it-“
He pulls back so fast, leaving only one sloppy kiss against you before drawing fully up.
“You can take it, baby girl.” He mutters, rubbing your thigh gently, and you shiver. “Look at me, darling.”
You twist your face, still pressed into the mattress, and he’s looking at you like you’re an angel. You don’t feel like one. You mostly feel like a hot, needy mess that’s devout to the wrong type of god.
“I can stop.” He says your name gently, still rubbing your thigh. “You want me to stop?”
“No.” You whisper quickly, and he smirks.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” His thumb presses over your clit again, and you whine, turning your face into the mattress as you roll your hips. “That’s my girl.”
His girl. Your head spins around the words, trying to find the divet in them that will let you tear them apart. That means they’re a lie, and this is really all a dream.
But it’s not. And Dean sounds like he’s saying those words like a vow.
He grabs your jaw, and gently turns your face for a deep kiss. You hum against his full, perfect lips, then gasp as his cock rubs between your dripping pussy lips.
Dean grins against you, even as a low sound rumbles through him. “Relax.”
You go slack, trusting his words more than almost anything, and Dean kisses your neck, pushing himself into you with one move.
“Good girl.” He starts to trail the kisses up spine, hands wandering over your body, touching and groping every bit of you he can reach. “So fuckin’ tight, baby, every damn time, drives me crazy.”
He pulls almost fully out, grabbing your hips to keep you steady, and slams fully back into you.
A broken sound falls between your lips, and you shudder and clench around him. That’s all it fucking took, with all his teasing from before. Your face presses into the mattress as your toes curl and you start to feel limp, but Dean doesn’t let you hide. His arm wraps around your stomach, hauling you up onto all fours as he starts to fuck into you with a rough, unforgiving pace.
“One more, baby, you got one more.” He kneads at your hips, filling you up over and over, slamming over every sensitive spot inside of you. “So tight, my pretty girl, fuckin’- Hell yes-“
“Dean- Dean-“ You keep fluttering around him as he groans your name, unable to keep yourself up, and you can’t remember any other words. “Dean-“
He understands, not breaking pace as he pulls you up against his chest and grabs your throat. Kissing you with an open mouth and moans as the angle lets him hit deeper.
You grab his arm, staring at him with an open, adoring expression. He’s always handsome, but it’s never sharper than when he lets go. Then when he envelops you with his everything, when you can feel him everywhere. You shake in his arms, lost in the taste of him and lewd sounds of sex filling his room.
You don’t even see this one coming. Dean fingers find your clit again, right as his movement get staggered, and pleasure washes through you. It makes you float, so high that it feels like you’re never going to come down. It feels so good, you might be crying from how much it is, but then Dean kisses your cheeks. Mutters your name in your ear as you sink backwards into him, and ruts into your abused cunt as he falls over the edge with you.
You just smile a little stupidly at the air as Dean heaves behind you, leaning your head against his shoulder.
He lowers down onto his knees, keeping you pressed against him, and he looks just as wrecked as you feel. He kisses your cheek once, before turning you onto your back and lowering you back down to the mattress.
His mattress.
You’re lying on Dean’s mattress, where he’s never let anyone else sleep before. Where he said it made this real.
And it is real. He really loves you.
When he tries to rise back up—probably to do something stupid and romantic—you find enough strength to grab him.
He looks down at you with raised brows, and you just keep smiling at him.
“What’s wrong, darling.” He mutters, and you giggle.
“No. I just love you.”
His lips twitch, his voice still rough. Like he can’t fully believe it either. “Yeah?”
You nod eagerly, and Dean grins.
Time feels frozen. Just you and Dean, smiling at each other in the low light, his hands on your so careful, still trying not to break you.
You don’t care if he does.
He knows just how to put you back together.
✦End note: God he's such an idiot. I need him.✦
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