⤷ CAPELLA .ᐟ 18 . they/them . queer . capricorn . 4w5 . avid superhero fanatic . lover of poetry and the stars; intrigued by misery and minds . occasional and sporadic writer . mdni .
"and lovers, you run
always from something;
come back to me to be saved,"
── dream woman, suki waterhouse
⤷ asks open for hot-takes on characters/fandoms , requests, etc .ᐟ (please note that requests are something i'm unlikely to do, but i am open to them! i struggle with motivation and unless i am very inspired, the request may not be fulfilled. i apologize in advance .ᐟ )
⤷ mainly writing blurbs and headcanons for current interests .ᐟ includes: the boys, marvel (daredevil, punisher, spiderman, x-men, avengers), supernatural
⤷ will not write .ᐟ pregnancy, overly graphic/dark themes, a/b/o and similar themes, age play / age regression (even non-sexual)
⤷ end notes .ᐟ though i am not new to tumblr, i am horrible at its mechanics and lingo, so please bear with me as i learn .ᐟ also, if you ever see me claim to know what i'm doing on here, please assume i have been hacked. i do not, in fact, know what i am doing at any given time. thank you all, and welcome .ᐟ
frank castle and his sweet girl ( SPOILERS FOR BND !!!! )
The hospital room was too quiet.
That was the first thing Frank noticed when he pushed through the door, shoulders still tense from the fight, from the chaos, from watching that kid take a bullet meant for Jean. The second thing he noticed was you.
You were standing by Peter's bed, one hand hovering near his, like you were afraid to touch him, afraid he might shatter. Your back was to Frank, shoulders curved in on themselves, and even from across the room he could see the tremor running through your frame. The quietest little shake, like a leaf in a storm.
Frank closed the door behind him with a soft click. His boots were heavy against the linoleum, and he watched you flinch at the sound. Still didn't turn around. That wasn't like you. Usually, you met his eyes as soon as he walked into a room.
"Hey." Frank said quietly, crossing the room until he was close enough to see your face. And that was when his chest tightened, a familiar ache that had nothing to do with the bruises he'd collected tonight.
You were crying.
Not the way most people cried, not with heaving sobs or wailing. You were crying the way someone who'd learned early that noise meant danger. All silent, hitched little breaths. Tears streaming down your cheeks in steady rivers, your jaw clenched so tight he could see the muscle jumping. Your lower lip was trembling, bitten raw, like you were trying to hold it all in and failing miserably.
"Hey," Frank said again, softer this time. His voice dropped an octave, that particular tone he only ever used with you. The one that still surprised him sometimes, how easily it came out. "C'mere, sweetheart."
You shook your head, a tiny, jerky motion. Your eyes were fixed on Peter's sleeping face, at the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital blankets. Jean had done her work, kept him stable, kept his heart beating. The doctors said he was going to be fine. But you were still looking at him like he might disappear at any moment.
Frank understood. God, did he understand.
"Sweet girl.." he murmured, warningly, and the endearment slipped out before he could stop it. He'd started calling you that a few weeks ago, when he'd found you sleeping on a park bench in the rain, drenched to the bone and shivering. He'd scooped you up like you weighed nothing, carried you back to his place, tucked you into bed. Called you "sweet girl" without thinking, and you'd looked at him with those big, watery eyes and something in his chest had cracked wide open.
You'd never asked him to stop.
"You're gonna get tired, standing there like that," Frank said gently. He reached out, not to grab you, just to let his fingers brush against your elbow. "C'mon. Sit with me."
You finally looked at him then, and Frank's heart lurched at the sight of you. Your face was blotchy and tear-streaked, your eyes rimmed red, your nose running. You looked like a mess. You looked like a kid. You looked like his kid.
You looked at him for a long moment, and then you folded. You walked right into him, and Frank caught you automatically, his arms coming up to wrap around you, pulling you against his chest. You buried your face in his jacket, and he felt the wetness of your tears soak through the fabric as your shoulders started shaking again.
"Shh, shh, I got you," Frank rumbled, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head, cradling you the way he might cradle a small, frightened animal. "I got you, sweetheart. You're okay."
He guided you over to the armchair in the corner, sitting down heavily, and then he pulled you with him, settling you between his spread legs, standing in the V of them. This was the only way he could really meet your eyes at eye level, and right now, he needed to see you.
But you weren't letting him, keeping your gaze fixed on the floor, lips parting to let out those wet, sad sounds.
"C'mon," he murmured, shifting in the armchair, his hands coming up to cup your face. "Look at me, sweetheart. C'mon, now."
"You're alright," Frank said again, looking up at you, his thumbs immediately moving to wipe away the tears tracking down your cheeks. His palms were so big against your face, so warm, and you leaned into the touch like a flower turning toward the sun. "I got ya. Just breathe f'me, baby. Nice and slow."
You shook your head, a soft, broken little sound escaping your throat. It wasn't a word, just a whimper, high and wounded. Your hands came up to grip his wrists, not to push him away, just to hold on.
"Hey, hey," Frank cooed, his voice dropping even lower, going syrupy sweet. He leaned forward slightly, bringing his face closer to yours. "Look at me, sweet girl. There you go."
Your eyes met his, and he watched fresh tears spill over, watched your lashes cling together in wet spikes. Your nose was running, and you sniffled miserably, a tiny, pathetic sound.
Frank's thumbs kept moving, wiping away the tears as fast as they fell. He was relentless about it, gentle but persistent, wanting you to know he was here, he wasn't going anywhere.
"Awh, sweet girl," he cooed, and the sound was so soft, so tender, it was almost unrecognizable as his voice. "Nah, don't cry. Don't cry, baby, c'mon. Look'a him, he's okay. He's a hell of a tough nut to crack."
You made another sound, wet and incomprehensible, and Frank's heart broke a little more. He'd watched you face down armed men without flinching. He'd watched you take a beating and give it right back. He'd watched you be so angry, so bitter, so full of that burning hatred for a world that had failed you so completely.
But this? Seeing you fall apart over Peter, someone you barely knew, a someone who'd taken a bullet for someone else? This was something else entirely. This was the softness you tried so hard to hide, the gentleness that snuck out when you thought no one was looking.
"He's young, sweetheart, jus' like you." Frank reassured you. "He's gonna bounce back. You know how kids are. You've got that rubber band thing goin' on. Bounce back from anything."
You let out a watery laugh, just a huff of air, and Frank felt something loosen in his chest.
"You're alright. You gonna be okay."
You shook your head, a frantic little motion, and Frank felt your breath hitch against his palms.
"It is gonna be okay," he insisted, and he was surprised by how steady his voice sounded. By how gentle. By how much he sounded like the father he'd never gotten to be, the father he'd thought he'd buried along with his family. "He's gonna be fine, sweetheart. Jean said so, didn't she? Said he's gonna wake up. Said he's gonna be okay."
Your hands tightened on his wrists, and you made another sound, trying to speak, but it came out garbled and wet. Frank shushed you gently, his thumb pressing against your cheekbone, wiping away another tear.
"I know." he murmured, and he did know. He knew what it was like to watch someone go down. He knew the terror of it, the way it hollowed you out and left you nothing but a shell of adrenaline and panic. He knew what it was like to look at a person you cared about and see blood, see damage, see everything you couldn't fix. "I know, baby. I know it's scary."
Your breath hitched again, and Frank felt tears, warm and wet, slide down his hand.
"Hey," he said, tilting your face up further, making you meet his eyes. "Hey, look at me. Spidey's tough, yeah? And you and me.. we're right here. We're not goin' anywhere."
Your bottom lip wobbled dangerously, and Frank felt his heart crack along a fault line he'd thought was sealed shut.
"Can y'use y'words f'me?" he asked, his voice dropping even softer. "Can y'tell me what's goin' on in that head of yours?"
You blinked, and more tears spilled over, tracking down over his thumbs. He caught them both, his hands so gentle on your face, so careful.
"He- he saved her-" you managed, your voice thick and wet. "He jumped in front f'her, Frank. He didn' even—he didn' think- and- and-"
"It should've been-" You choked on the leters, swallowed, tried again. "It should've been me. I was- I was closer, I could've-"
"Don't." Frank said, and his voice was sharper than he'd intended, but he couldn't—he wouldn't—let you go down that road. "Don't you dare, sweetheart. Don't you dare think that."
Your eyes widened, and Frank softened immediately, his thumbs moving to stroke the apples of your cheeks.
"Listen to me," he said, his voice rough but gentle. "Listen to me, okay? That kid, he made a choice. A stupid choice, a reckless choice, but it was his choice. You don't get to take that from him, 'kay? You don't get to wish it was you instead, because then where would I be? Huh? What would I do with myself if you were the one in that bed?"
Your breath stuttered, and Frank felt the tears start up again, fresh and hot against his palms.
"I can't-" You broke off, swallowed hard. "I can't lose anyone else, Frank. I can't."
And there it was.
The real reason you were crying like a little girl lost in a mall.
"C'mon baby, look at that," Frank murmured, tilting his head to look at Peter. "He's got good color. Healthy kid. Probably eats like a horse. You see that? You see how steady he's breathin'?"
You turned your head slightly, just enough to look at Peter, and Frank felt you relax a fraction. Just a tiny bit of tension leaving your shoulders.
"That's it," Frank encouraged, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. "That's my girl. Just breathe for me, nice and slow. In… and out. That's it."
You sniffled, and Frank reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a crumpled handkerchief. He pressed it into your palm, and you clutched it like a lifeline.
"He almost died," you finally got out, your voice wrecked, as you tried to wipe at the mess that was your face. "Frank, he almost-"
"Shh, shh, I know," Frank soothed, cutting you off gently. "I know, sweetheart. But he didn't. He's right there, see? He's okay. Jean made sure he was okay. And he's got you and me watchin' over him. He's in good hands."
You hiccuped, a soft, wet sound, and Frank's heart clenched.
"Such a good heart you got, baby," he murmured, almost to himself. "So good. You try so hard to hide it, but I see it. I see every bit of it."
You made a sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and you shook your head.
"Don't you shake your head at me, you little brat." he said, his voice still impossibly soft. "I know what I see. I see a girl who's been through hell and back and still worries about people she barely knows. I see someone so strong she doesn't even know it. I see my sweet girl."
Your lower lip trembled, and Frank caught it with his thumb, smoothing over the abused skin.
"You're alright," he said again, like a promise. "We're both alright. And that kid is gonna be fine, and then he's gonna drive us both crazy with all that chatter, and you're gonna be annoyed, and I'm gonna be annoyed, and it's gonna be great. You hear me?"
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, and Frank felt like he'd won a war.
"There she is," he breathed. "There's my girl."
You leaned forward, your forehead dropping to rest against his, and Frank closed his eyes. He let himself have this moment, this quiet, soft, precious thing. Your breath fanning across his face, your tears still wet against his thumbs, your small hands still clutching his wrists.
"I got you," he murmured one more time, a vow, a promise, everything he was. "I got you, sweet girl. I'll always got you."
cuddle pile ❪ n. ❫ — 〔 /ˈkəd(ə)l pīl/ 〕 𝟏. refers to the grouping of three (3) or more persons close together in a ‘pile-like’ formation in a caring manner, usually for sleep.
“the cuddle pile gives sam and dean the physical touch they’ve been missing.”
IN YOUR ENTIRE TIME KNOWING THE WINCHESTER BROTHERS, you’ve found yourself in a cuddle pile with them two times.
they’ve been drastically different situations, and yet, not very different in terms of the ‘pile’ itself: you sandwiched between both sam and dean, their heads resting on you, their arms slung over some part of you. they’re both breathing deep, both relaxed as much as they could be. they’re still wound so tight somewhere you can’t reach, somewhere no one can seem to penetrate—but yet, they let their guard down around you. and you hold that fact close in your heart.
⁰¹ AFTER A NIGHTMARE.
the first time, it’s from a place of sheer desperate need. dean comes into your room first, his chest heaving from another nightmare of the pit. he’s shaking when he approaches your bedside, like a leaf in the wind. you look up at him not with pity, but with every intention to just help him. to hold him. and that’s what makes him cave like a house of cards.
you don’t ask questions. you just hold him under your blankets, like you want to shield him from everything in the world. he’s grateful you don’t say anything. you’ve always been able to figure out exactly what dean needs, without him telling you a thing. it’s made him seek you out—because half the time, he doesn’t know what he needs.
dean ends up buried in your chest, holding onto you for dear life as he fights to keep from drowning. his breathing is just starting to even out against you when you hear a creak of the floorboard and see sam standing in your door. he, like dean, is also shaking. or a brief second, you wonder if they had the same nightmare. is that even a thing? but you sit up a little more, dean still in your arms. he’s tensed up completely again—and after seeing who’s there, every cell in his body is telling him to run. sam can’t see him like this: his big brother, curled up into you like a scared little kid. but he is.
sam ends up on the other side of you, not saying anything, either. it’s quiet, the only sounds the fan and dean and sam’s uneven breathing. dean’s arm is wrapped high on your torso, close to your diaphragm, his head on your shoulder. sam’s arm is wrapped more by your hips, his head resting on the side of your chest. your own arms are wrapped each of the brothers’ shoulders.
technically, sam and dean are facing each other as they lay on either side of you, but they’re not looking at each other—probably as to not psych themselves out. they’re aware of the other’s presence, but don’t necessarily acknowledge it. after all, they’re both seeking comfort from you, not each other. you can’t see much of them through their tufts of hair, but you don’t need to. you can feel them both relaxing into your body, their once unbelievably tense shoulders now just a tad tense. you’re sure something inside both of them will never let them fully relax, but you take this moment. you take this win.
⁰² AFTER A DAY OF SWIMMING.
it’s a sunny day at bobby’s—and for once, you and the boys have a day to yourselves. no case, no leads to chase down, no research to do. sam suggests going to the lake nearby bobby’s house, and you all agree. soon enough, you’re on the road in baby, cooler sitting next to you in the backseat.
dean, of course, cannonballs into the lake. you and sam are walking side by side on the dock, chairs that bobby digged out for you in hand—and a whoosh of air flows past you both as dean jumps in, the splash starting a ripple spreading through the entire lake. his head pops up after a few beats, grinning wide. you shake your head as dean goads you to come join him, but you hold off for now.
sam’s next to go in the water—well, dean may have triple dog dared him to—and you pretend to be annoyed that he splashed you upon jumping in. you think at this moment, they kind of remind you of dogs. their hair’s wet, and you can almost imagine a pair of floppy ears on sam.
you find the frisbee one of you packed, wiggle it at the boys wading in the water. you promise whoever gets the frisbee the most times gets first pick on the lunch you all brought. it’s not much of a prize at all—but sam and dean take it seriously. you’re not sure who wins, anyway. sam and dean push at each other every time you threw it, splashing at the other to deter them. they’re laughing—and you haven’t heard that sound in a while. a long while.
after the lunch is eaten and the sun is dipping into the horizon, you decide to head back. droplets make their way down, soaking into the soft fabric of your shirt as you sit in the backseat once more, looking at the sunburned necks of the winchester brothers. it’s silent, but not uncomfortable. it’s probably the most comfortable you’ve been in a while, you think.
after you showered, you realize your day the sun has taken most of your energy away. you lay down on the bed bobby brought into the living room for you, sighing once your head hits the pillow.
sam’s not sure why he lays down next to you after his own shower. his entire face hurts from the sunburn, and his back isn’t doing so hot, either. it’s cold in the room, but he doesn’t reach for the bigger blanket, just the sheet that’s covering you. he doesn’t reach for you or anything—he doesn’t know if he’s allowed—but you seem to find him in your sleep, regardless.
dean, still wincing from the shower’s stream hitting his own sunburned skin, also finds himself laying on the opposite side of you, the cold pillow a contrast to the red on his face, giving his freckles a chance in the spotlight again. you and sam are both asleep already—and dean falls under quickly too, his head resting close to the crook of your shoulder. sam’s slumped on your other side haphazardly—but still touching you. you’re all dead to the world as you lay there.
it’s strange, how these boys are just that: boys. even though they are well above 6 feet and could hunt and kill anyone and anything, they’re still boys. they’re still full of energy, like when they were young—although, it may be a little depleted now. but they had a good day today.
a good day in the sun.
📨 many a time have i discussed this concept with @aseafullofstars… now it has come to life. also still wishing we got a beach episode. guys let them play frisbee.
~♡ꜝꜞ ❝ 𝓑ite me ❞
────── · · Sam Winchester x fem ! vampire ! reader
a / n : hey soo... hiiii..... pathetic sam winchester nation... can yall hear me? hiii helloooo... haiiii.... here is my offering....
character/s featured. sam winchester .ᐟ dean winchester .ᐟ
rating: smut .ᐟ
summary : three weeks forced to sleep in the same bed as Dean, or on the back of the Impala, three weeks of absolutely no privacy to help himself to some hand action. and now you two are alone, and he knows you know, but for some reason you don't want to give him privacy.
The Impala's engine rumbled beneath them like a living thing, its familiar growl filling the comfortable silence that had settled over the car. Dean's eyes were fixed on the road ahead, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching for the half-empty beer bottle wedged between his thighs. The highway stretched out before them, endless and dark, the only illumination coming from the headlights cutting through the oppressive blackness of the rural Kansas night.
In the backseat, Sam Winchester sat with his long legs folded awkwardly in the cramped space, his shoulders hunched, his jaw tight. He'd been like this for days now. All coiled tension and barely suppressed irritation, snapping at the smallest things, his patience worn thinner than the tires on Baby after a particularly rough hunt.
You sat beside him, pressed against the opposite door, your posture relaxed despite the uncomfortable position. Your dark sunglasses were perched on your nose even in the darkness of the car, the thick frames and heavily tinted lenses hiding your eyes from view. Black long-sleeved shirt, black jeans, black boots—you looked like you'd stepped out of a noir film, all sharp angles and shadows. The only splash of color was your skin, almost luminous in the dim light filtering through the windows.
Three weeks. Three weeks of sleeping in cramped motel rooms with only one bed, three weeks of Sam's body screaming for relief and getting nothing but frustration. He couldn't even jerk off, not with Dean sleeping two feet away, not with you standing guard just outside the door with your supernatural hearing, not with the constant threat of monsters lurking in every shadow.
It was driving him slowly, torturously insane.
His jeans felt too tight. Everything felt too tight. His skin, his muscles, his control: all of it stretched to the breaking point. Every time you shifted beside him, every time your arm brushed against his, every time he caught a whiff of your scent, something clean and sharp and utterly foreign, his body responded with embarrassing eagerness. His cock would twitch in his pants, filling with blood, and he'd have to shift his position to hide the evidence of his desire.
God, he was pathetic.
A seventeen-year-old with his first crush couldn't have been more needy, more obviously desperate. He could feel the heat in his cheeks every time you so much as glanced in his direction, and he was absolutely certain you could hear his heartbeat racing whenever you got too close. Your supernatural senses had to be picking up on his agitation, his arousal, his complete inability to function like a normal human being around you.
"Alright, listen up," Dean said suddenly, breaking the silence. He pulled the Impala to the side of the road, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as he came to a stop. "I'm going to go find that bar we passed about two miles back. The one with the.." he paused, a grin spreading across his face. "blondie. The one who was giving me the look."
Sam's jaw tightened even further. "Dean, we're on a hunt. We don't have time for you to-"
"Relax, Sammy." Dean waved his hand dismissively. "I'll be back in a few hours. You two can sleep in the car—or not sleep in your case, vamps." he added, glancing at you with a wink. "Just keep an eye on my Baby while I'm gone. If I come back and she's got a single scratch on her, I'm blaming you."
"Dean."
"Sam." Dean's voice took on a sharper edge. "I haven't gotten laid in two weeks. I'm about to crawl out of my skin. And you've been in a shit mood for days, so honestly, I could use a break from your bitchy face. I'll be back before sunrise."
Sam opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. What was the point? Dean was already getting out of the car, already striding away with that confident swagger he'd perfected over years of hunting and womanizing. Within seconds, he was just a dark shape on the road, growing smaller and smaller until he disappeared around a bend.
The silence in the car was deafening.
Sam could feel you beside him, your presence radiating a strange kind of stillness. You didn't breathe, not really. Not in the way humans did. You'd fake it for the sake of appearances when around other people, but Sam knew you didn't need it. You were just... existing. Waiting. Watching.
He shifted in his seat, trying to find a position that would be comfortable for his aching body. The movement jostled his legs, and he felt the unmistakable pressure of his hardening cock against his zipper. God, he'd been half-hard for hours now. It was getting worse by the minute, the heat in his gut building to a fever pitch.
He thought about the hunt they'd just finished. The vampire nest they'd cleared out, the bodies they'd burned, the constant fear that one of them would get bitten or turned. And here he was, sitting next to another vampire and all he could think about was how fucking bad he wanted to get his hands on you.
What was wrong with him?
His dick didn't care about morality. His dick didn't care about the danger. His dick only cared about the way you moved, the way you spoke, the way you looked at him from behind those dark glasses. His dick only cared about the fact that you were a vampire, something dangerous, powerful, dark, and everything inside him wanted to submit to that darkness, to give in to the primal urge that had been building for weeks.
"I know you know."
The words escaped his mouth before he could stop them. He winced, turning his head to look at you. You were already watching him, your head tilted slightly, an expression he couldn't quite read on your face.
"I know you can hear it," he continued, his voice rough. "My heart. It's been pounding like crazy for the past few days. And you've definitely seen—" he gestured vaguely at his lap, where the unmistakable bulge in his jeans was pressing against the fabric. "—that, by now. So just... just go outside. Give me five minutes. Ten minutes, tops. I'll take care of it, and we'll never speak of this again."
The silence stretched between you for a long moment.
Then, slowly, a smile spread across your face. It was a dangerous smile, the kind that promised trouble and pleasure in equal measure. Sam felt his stomach drop, his cock twitching with sudden interest.
"What's so funny?" he asked, hating how defensive his voice sounded.
"You're so cute when you're flustered, Sam." Your voice was low, smooth, like honey poured over steel. "All that big, strong hunter attitude, and here you are, asking me to give you a little privacy so you can get yourself off. It's adorable, really."
Sam's face burned. "It's not- I'm not-"
"Not what?" You shifted closer, your body sliding across the seat until you were pressed against his side. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through his system, and he had to bite back a moan. "Not desperate?"
He let out a whiny sound of complain that would have embarassed him into an early grave if his brain wasn't deprived of blood enough to notice it.
"I'm a vampire, Sam." You reached up, your cool fingers brushing against his jaw. He shuddered at the contact, his eyes fluttering closed. "I know everything. I know you've been dying to get your hand down your pants, not that you could with Dean snoring right next to you or me keeping watch outside the door."
Your hand slid down his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles through his shirt. He was trembling now, his body reacting to your touch with a hunger he couldn't control.
"Let me help you," you murmured, your lips brushing against his ear. "I can do it better than your hand."
Sam's breath caught in his throat. "You... you don't have to do this. I'm fine. I can-"
"You can't." Your voice was firm, insistent. "You've been pent up for weeks, Sam. I can practically taste it on you. Your need. Your desperation. It's.. intoxicating."
You pulled back, and he could have sworn he saw something flicker in your eyes behind those sunglasses. "Don't you want to know what it's like? To have me take care of you?"
Sam swallowed hard. Every rational thought in his head was screaming at him to say no, to push you away, to pretend this conversation had never happened. But his body, his stupid, traitorous body, was already leaning into your touch, his hips shifting to create more pressure against his aching erection.
"Yes," he whispered, his voice cracking. "God, yes."
Your smile widened. "Come on, then."
He was moving before he could think, lunging across the backseat and crashing his lips against yours.
The kiss was messy, desperate, all teeth and tongue and the kind of raw need that came from three weeks of denial. You made a sound against his mouth—surprise, pleasure, he couldn't tell—and then you were kissing him back, your cool hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.
Sam groaned into your mouth, the sound ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. This was what he'd been craving. This was what he'd been dreaming about. Your lips, your taste, the way you moved against him like you wanted to devour him whole—
"Sam," you breathed against his mouth, and the sound of his name on your lips almost sent him over the edge right there. "Sam, slow down. We have time."
"I don't want to slow down," he gasped, his hands finding your hips, pulling you into his lap. "I've been waiting for weeks. I can't—I need—"
"I know." Your lips traced along his jaw, down his throat, and his head fell back against the seat with a thud. "I know, baby. I've got you. Just let me take care of you."
His hands tangled in your hair as you kissed your way down his neck, your teeth grazing his skin in a way that made him shudder. He could feel your fangs, just barely there, and the knowledge that you could bite him at any moment sent a thrill of fear and desire straight to his core.
But you didn't bite. Not yet.
Instead, you pulled back, looking down at him with that same unreadable expression. "You've been so patient," you murmured, your hand sliding down his chest, over his stomach, to the button of his jeans. "So good for me. I think you deserve a reward, don't you?"
His mind was a haze of sensation and need. He could feel every inch of you against him, the coolness of your skin through your clothes, the subtle shift of your muscles as you moved atop him. He could smell you, too.. that strange, clean scent that drove him crazy, and taste you on his lips, something metallic and sweet, like copper and honey.
"I'm going to lose my mind," he muttered, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "I've been so fucking pent up, and you're so-" He broke off with a groan as you arched, your hips meeting his in a perfect rhythm.
"So what, Sam?" Your voice was teasing, almost playful. "So what am I?"
"So fucking perfect," he breathed. "So dangerous. So... everything."
You laughed, a soft, musical sound that made his heart stutter in his chest. "You're sweet, Sam Winchester. Stupid, but sweet."
"Stupid?" He pulled back, his eyes wide. "How am I-"
"Because you're about to lose control," you said calmly. "Because you've been holding back for so long that you're about to come in your pants like a teenager. And you think I'm not going to notice?"
Sam's face flamed. "I'm not- I can control myself-"
"Can you?" Your hand slid down further and he practically sobbed at the feeling. When you reached his belt, you paused, your fingers hovering over the buckle. "Because I think you're right on the edge, Sam. I think you've been on the edge since the moment Dean left. And I think you need someone to push you over."
He didn't have words. He couldn't form thoughts. All he could do was nod, his eyes fixed on your hands as they worked at his belt.
"Then let me help you," you said softly. "Let me give you what you need."
The next few minutes were a blur of desperate movement and barely controlled noise. Sam's hands fumbled at his jeans, trying to get them off while you worked at your own clothes. The Impala's backseat was cramped and awkward, practically no room to maneuver, but neither of you cared. The need was too great, the urgency too overwhelming.
Somehow, you ended up with Sam on his back, his jeans and boxers shoved down around his thighs, his cock standing proud and aching against his stomach. And you were on top of him, your legs straddling his hips, your own pants and panties discarded somewhere on the floor of the car. He could feel you, the heat of you, the wetness of you, and it took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to thrust up into you like a fucking animal.
"You're so big," you breathed, your voice filled with wonder and heat. "Sam, you're fucking huge."
He groaned, his hands gripping your hips. "Fuck- don' say that shit to me-"
"What?" You chuckled breathlesly as you leaned forward, your hair falling around his face like a dark curtain. "It's the truth, Sammy."
You lowered yourself fully onto him, and Sam saw stars.
The feeling was indescribable, your heat enveloping him inch by agonizing inch. He was so hard it hurt, so desperate he could barely breathe, and you were so tight, so perfect, so fucking good. He moaned, a broken, desperate sound that he'd be embarrassed about later. Right now, all he could do was feel.
"That's it," you murmured, your hips rolling against his. "That's it, Sam. Let me have you."
He did. He let you have everything: his control, his worries, his fear of the darkness inside him. He let himself sink into the feeling of you, the pleasure of your body moving against his. And when you leaned forward, your lips brushing against his neck, he almost came right there.
"Bite me."
The words escaped his mouth before he could stop them. He heard them echo in the small space of the car, felt the shock of his own need ripple through his body. His hands tightened on your hips, his hips thrusting up into you even as he spoke.
"Please. Please, bite me. I need it. I need to feel your fangs in my neck, to feel you drink from me. Please, please, please-"
You froze above him, your eyes wide behind your sunglasses. "Sammy-"
"Fuck, please." He was begging now, and he didn't even care. "I've been dreaming about it for weeks. It's all I can think about. I've been so fucking hard just from the fantasy of it, and now- please. Please, just-"
"Sam, that's... that's a lot." Your voice was softer now, almost tender. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." There was no hesitation, no doubt. "Yes, I'm sure. I want this. I want you."
For a long moment, you just looked at him. Then slowly, so slowly, you leaned forward once again, your breath warm against his neck. He could feel your fangs grazing his skin, sharp and dangerous, and his entire body shuddered with anticipation.
"Tell me again," you whispered. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you to bite me," he whined, his voice rough with need. "I want you to drink my blood. I want you to make me yours."
"Yes." He felt your lips curve into a smile against his skin. "Yes, Sam. That's exactly what I wanted to hear."
And then your teeth sank into his neck.
The pain was sharp and shocking, a burst of white-hot agony that made him cry out. But it was followed by something else.. something incredible. Pleasure flooded through him, hotter and more intense than anything he'd ever experienced. The feeling of your mouth on his neck, of your fangs deep in his flesh, of his blood flowing into your mouth..
His orgasm hit him like a freight train. He came harder than he'd ever come in his life, his hips bucking up into you as his cock pulsed and spilled inside you. He could feel your own climax, your muscles clenching around him as you milked him for everything he had. And still, you drank from him, your fangs buried in his neck, his blood flowing into your mouth in a slow, steady stream.
He felt lightheaded, disconnected from his body. The pleasure was so intense, so all-encompassing, that he couldn't tell where he ended and you began. He was just sensation, just feeling, just pure, blissful surrender.
Eventually, you pulled away, your tongue laving over the wounds on his neck. He whimpered at the feeling, his cock twitching weakly inside you. Your lips brushed against his jaw, his cheek, his lips. leaving a trail of soft, tender kisses that seemed almost reverent.
"Sam," you whispered. "Sam, wake up."
He blinked, his eyes focusing on your face. He hadn't realized he'd closed them, had forgotten he had a body. Your glasses had been discarded somewhere sometime, and he could see your eyes for the first time.. dark and deep, filled with something that looked almost like affection.
"Holy shit," he breathed. "That was..."
"Yeah." You smiled, a soft, genuine smile that made his heart ache. "It was."
The Impala was warm and intimate, the windows fogged with the heat of your bodies. Sam lay beneath you, his softening cock still inside you, his cum slowly leaking out of you and onto his stomach. He should have felt gross, or weird, or at least a little awkward. Instead, he just felt... content. Peaceful. Like every nerve in his body had been soothed.
You kissed his forehead, his nose, his lips. Small, gentle kisses that made his heart flutter in his chest. Your fingers traced patterns on his chest, soothing and soft.
"Are you okay?" you asked. "I didn't take too much?"
"fine." His voice was hoarse, but genuine.
"Yeah?" You smiled again, that soft smile that made him melt. "Good. You deserved that, Sam. After all these weeks of putting up with Dean's snoring and bad jokes and sleeping in the car, you deserved something good."
He chuckled weakly. "don't think Dean would agree with you.."
"Dean's an idiot." You kissed his jaw, his neck, just below where the bite marks were.
His heart swelled. He opened his mouth to say something, to tell you what you meant to him, but you silenced him with a kiss.
"Don't," you murmured against his lips. "Don't say it. Not now. Just... let this be what it is. Let us have this."
He nodded, not trusting his voice. He could feel sleep pulling at him, his body demanding rest after the ordeal of the past few weeks. He let himself sink into it, let himself drift, with you curled against his side and his blood still on your lips.
He was safe. He was warm. And for the first time in a long time, he was completely, utterly at peace.
Sam drifted in a haze of contentment, his body still humming with the aftermath of the most intense orgasm of his life. Every muscle in his body felt loose, relaxed, like he was floating on a cloud. He could feel you still pressed against him, your cool skin a perfect counterbalance to his flushed heat, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his bare chest.
He was getting sleepy—really sleepy, in a way he hadn't felt in weeks. The constant tension, the constant vigilance, the constant need that had been driving him crazy—it was all gone now, replaced by a deep, bone-deep satisfaction. He felt like he could sleep for a week.
"You did so well, Sam." Your voice was soft, almost dreamy, a warm murmur against his skin. "So good for me. You were so sweet."
He made a small, pleased sound, his hips shifting slightly. He was still inside you, softening but not completely soft, and the sensation of your warmth around him was keeping him in a state of blissful semi-arousal.
"Are you going to sleep?" you asked, your lips brushing against his collarbone. "Because I can stay with you, if you want. I can keep watch while you rest."
"Mn." He couldn't form words. His brain had melted somewhere around the moment his orgasm had hit him, and it hadn't reformed yet. All he could do was make small sounds of contentment.
Your soft laughter washed over him like music. "You're adorable like this, Sam. All fuzzy and cuddly. Is this how you always are after sex, or is this a blood-loss thing?"
He made a vague noise. It didn't mean anything. He wasn't sure he even knew what his own noises meant anymore.
"That's okay. You don't have to talk." You pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Just rest. I'll take care of everything."
His eyes fluttered closed. He could feel the car's engine, still running, he realized, and felt a small surge of gratitude that the air conditioning was keeping them from overheating, as a faint vibration beneath you. The hum was soothing, a white noise that mixed with the slow haze of his thoughts.
"We should probably clean up.." you murmured eventually.
"Probably." He didn't move.
You laughed, a soft sound that vibrated against his skin. "Dean's going to be back soon, Sammy."
"Dean can wait."
"Sam." There was a warning note in your voice, but it was undercut by amusement. "He's going to know."
"don' care." He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Let'im know."
You pulled back, looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. "You mean that?"
"mean it." He reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.
The smile that spread across your face was like sunrise after a long night. "Okay," you said softly. "Okay."
You untangled yourself from him, and he immediately missed the warmth of your body. But you were right, you needed to clean up, needed to make sure there was no evidence of what had happened before Dean got back.
Sam watched as you found a napkin from the glove compartment and started wiping yourself down, and the sight of his cum dripping from between your thighs made his cock twitch with renewed interest.
"Don't even think about it, mister." you said without looking up. "We don't have time."
"wasn't thinkin' 'bout nothin'."
"Liar." But you were smiling as you said it.
Dean came back two hours later.
Sam was half-asleep in the backseat, his head resting against the window, his body limp with exhaustion and satisfaction. His jeans were hastily buttoned but not zipped, half hidden under the blanket you had drapped over him.
You were outside, leaning against the Impala's hood, your sunglasses back in place despite the darkness. When Dean approached, you gave him a lazy wave.
"Have fun?" you asked, your voice perfectly neutral.
Dean narrowed his eyes, looking between you and Sam. "What happened to him?"
"Fell asleep." You shrugged. "He was tired."
"Riight." Dean's eyes flickered to Sam, and then back to you. "And those marks on his neck?"
"Bugs."
"Bugs." His voice was flat. "Bugs bit him in the shape of two perfect puncture wounds."
You smiled, and Dean saw it—the flash of your fangs, still extended, still stained with something that looked suspiciously like blood. "Mosquitoes," you said innocently. "They're vicious this time of year."
Dean groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "You're telling me you- in my car- with my baby brother-"
"Don't worry." You patted his shoulder, and Dean shot you a look that could curdle milk. "We cleaned up."
"I don't-" He stopped, turning to look at Sam again. The younger Winchester had shifted in his sleep, revealing the full extent of the marks on his neck and chest. He groaned, opening the door as you stepped aside to reach down and shake his brother into awakeness.
"Sam. Sam, wake up."
"Hmm?"
"Did you-" Dean couldn't even finish the sentence. "Did you two seriously-"
"Mnh." Sam's eyes fluttered open, and there was a dreamy quality to his gaze that made Dean want to bash his head in against the door. "Hey, Dean. Did you have fun?"
"Don't 'hey, Dean' me. What the hell happened while I was gone?"
Sam blinked, seeming to process the question. Then a slow and lazy smile spread across his face, the kind of smile that made Dean want to smack him into tomorrow morning. "We fucked." he said, his voice filled with a lazy and smug kind of satisfaction that made Dean groan.
"With the vampire."
"My vampire."
"For fuck's sake- in my Baby, Im going to be sick."
Explicit/16+ - biting, switch Sam and reader, rough sex, blood - gn!reader
Sam Winchester is a biter.
When he's kissing at your neck, he's leaving as many bites behind as possible. He'll drag his teeth over your pulse again and again, nipping at your sensitive skin for so long, getting hard just from that.
When he's inside you, it's only worse. He spreads his bites down your shoulders, over your chest, all while thrusting deep inside you.
When he's close, desperately close, he'll bite down on the place where your neck and shoulder meet, hard.
He'll have your crying out, holding onto him for dear life as you clench down around him, pulling his release from him.
And when you bite? Dear. God.
If you bite him hard, leaving teeth marks all over his biceps, he's hard every time he sees them, cumming without you paying any attention to his cock when you give them to him, your tongue soothing over the marks as his panting slows.
And if you ever bite him hard enough to break the skin, if he looks up and sees his blood on your lips, he's either a beautiful, whimpering mess underneath you, or his throwing you down on your back and railing you until you both physically can't take any more.
forcemasc!winchester brothers but not even in a kink way. like they were raised as girls until mary died and then john basically reasoned that they’d be safest as boys. he also selfishly always wanted boys to raise too, but he used the excuse that in order for them to survive his lifestyle, they had to be raised ‘like men’. thinking about forcemasc!dean specifically, having to learn to bind his chest on his own and having permanent marks from how tight he’d been binding, refusing to take it off even sometimes for bed. …ok goodnight
𖥔 hurts like hell, she's a painkiller .ᐟ (miniseries — part two)
part two ⊹ — a calling card
chapter summary: a long day turns into an even longer night when days of surveillance from your stalker tracker come to a head. bubbling with frustration, you decide to confront your newfound problem. the result is… less than desirable. or, maybe too much so.
chapter tags / warnings: sort of masochistic!dex, slight blood kink, light violence, stalking(?), semi-dark themes, reader takes prescription meds (intended for this to be for stress or something similar!), swearing, semi-suggestive themes, implications of oral (a very brief fantasy)
wc: 2.2k
in the few days since your encounter with the hitman, you’ve ascertained that eyes have been on you essentially ever since. though you’ll admit the near-constant surveillance makes you the slightest bit uneasy, you’ve done little in the name of precaution.
with all your time in the field, you know by now that this is more so a game of chicken than an impending threat on your life. plus, you’ve said your piece during the first interaction the two of you had — if you can call it that. simply put, if he doesn’t have the balls to try and kill you head on, then you won’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledgement.
had you a little more fearlessness, you would’ve left the curtains open when you changed to let him know you really don’t care. that part of your ‘ignoring the assassin possibly hired to kill me’ plan was… ‘workshopped’ for the foreseeable future.
given that he appears to be holding off on any hostile advances, you continue on with your days as normal, more or less electing to act as if your mysterious spectator doesn’t exist.
it’s nearly two days into what was quickly (and scarily) becoming a sort of routine when you leave for work hurriedly, having padded frantically around your apartment for the past twenty minutes before abandoning the hope of looking your normal level of ‘presentable’.
to hell with it, you acquiesce as you attempt to smooth out the flyaways with the heel of your palm like they were a personal affront to you, the door to your apartment shuddering from the unnecessary force you put into shutting it.
it’s barely ten minutes later when he slips through the window, boots landing with a soft thud on the tile.
he decides to give himself a tour of your apartment—as if he has a right to it, the entitled bastard. takes off a glove, runs a hand over the imprint left by your body upon your rumpled sheets, where you had laid no more than an hour ago. scans over the scattered papers on your desk. finds a discarded paper towel on the floor that must’ve missed your kitchen trash can during your rush to get out of the flat. it has a lipstick stain, slightly smeared but more or less a perfect impression of your lips. he can only assume you put too much on, maybe didn’t like the color or something. it doesn’t stop him from folding what should be a piece of trash carefully and tucking it into his back pocket.
only then does he finally do what he came for, walking back to your bedside where a pill bottle sits on the nightstand. he considers the object briefly as he picks it up, then cracks the top off and pours the contents down the toilet. he leaves the open, empty bottle haphazardly in front of your apartment’s entrance, then slips back out and waits.
you come home a little late and a little frustrated. you almost don’t spot the empty pill bottle — not until your shoe meets it and sends it rolling a few inches across the tile. you curse softly underneath your breath at the sight, snatching up the container from the floor with a scowl.
as if my day hasn’t been long enough, you think wearily, picking your bag back up and turning heel back out of your apartment.
the walk to the pharmacy is something akin to a haze, irritation clouding your conscious mind and reducing you to simply running through the motions of routine.
riding on the vestiges of the sun, you make your way home. it’s a sharp turn for a shortcut through an alley, the sudden prickle at the back of your neck the only indicator of danger before a knife hurls out from the shadows — which you manage to dodge just in time, saving you from a very inconvenient and very expensive emergency visit to the hospital.
it just barely nicks your forearm, slightly below your elbow, before it sinks into the side of the dumpster you had been walking past. you don’t pause to watch the weapon reach it’s new—and final—destination, of course, more concerned by ensuring you keep the remaining blood you have inside your body.
you can sense the assailant approaching, pinpointing just where he is behind you, despite him masking the sound of his steps — and you twist around at an almost inhuman speed when he reaches for you, swinging a right hook so fast that he doesn’t have time to dodge. your fist makes contact, and his head snaps to the side, drawing a small grunt from your attacker.
you don’t give him time to recover. he starts to take a single step backward—for what you’re not sure—but as soon as he lifts his foot to do so, you slam the heel of your foot into his standing leg. he hits the ground with a quiet thud, knees meeting dirty pavement so harshly it would make a lesser man wince.
he doesn’t.
as soon as you raise a fist in preparation for another attack, gloved hands slowly come up to either side of his head in a sign of surrender. it makes you stop in your tracks, even if you briefly consider hitting him one more time out of sheer principle. he’s been fucking with you for days, rooting around in the corners of your apartment and your mind, and you’d grown tired of the cat-and-mouse game right around the time he ransacked you of your daily medication.
“calm down, i just wanted to talk,” he explains, voice gravelly and tired, but you can just barely make out the way his eyes crinkle in amusement through the cutout on his mask.
your own eyes narrow, unable to help the small scoff that escapes your lips.
“yeah, could’ve fooled me with the knife you flung at me,” you shoot back dryly with an agitated undertone, crouching slightly to pat him down, making sure he doesn’t have anything else he can throw at you. strangely enough, you only find a singular blade in the tactical belt on his waist — despite the storage for a hell of a lot more with the suit he wears. you toss it far away without a second thought, wrenching off his mask a little rougher than needed.
to your surprise, he doesn’t move, save for the minute tilt of his head as he lazily eyes you, the beginnings of a smirk playing at his lips. the sight makes your fists curl tighter, his mask rumpling further under your grip.
“i need those, you asshole,” you hiss, using your free hand to jab a finger at the prescription bag near your abandoned purse, likely knocked out of it during the chaos. he doesn’t even spare a glance at where you point — you don’t take your eyes off him for a second either, but it still annoys you that he can’t even muster up the consideration to look.
“i know,” he murmurs lowly, and the asshole has the audacity to sound amused.
“what is wrong with you, huh?” you nearly seethe, taking a step closer. it only makes his head tilt up a little more to keep eye contact with you, “you do all this for what—just to get my attention?”
“i told you, i wanted to talk.”
his voice is strangely calm — a low, nearly lulling timbre. you feel anything but calm.
“i’m not big on repeating myself,” he continues, and his tone isn’t even mildly authoritative; he might as well have been telling you his favorite goddamn color instead. you’re pretty sure it pisses you off even more.
“fine. talk, then.” it’s a demand, the words coming out clipped in the same way a lighter sparks just before the heat engulfs the wick.
something in his face shifts, like he’s struggling with something he can’t quite put into words. he says your name, with a tenderness and familiarity it shouldn’t have. as if he’s been whispering your name into the quiet the dark brings for a lifetime. it’s not right — you don’t even know his name; you’ve only learnt of his existence in the past few days, for god’s sake.
it doesn’t stop your heart from twinging at the thought that he’s said it before.
savored it, before.
“you’re bleeding,” he observes, the slight raspiness at the edges of his tone suddenly bringing you back to reality. it’s not quite apologetic, but not free of weight, either.
the comment makes you finally tear your eyes from his, shifting your gaze to the small cut just below your elbow, the offending wound drawing a few sluggish beads of blood down your forearm.
you open your mouth to shrug it off, weirdly urged to dispel any worry — though he had none in his voice to begin with — but as you draw your eyes back up to his face, they catch on something. dark fabric, too taut for comfort, bunched right at his—
the words slip out of your mouth before you can think, static filling your brain.
“you’re hard,” you reply in similar fashion, like it’s a fact. it is a fact, of course, but your tone is more detached from your very real and very intense bewilderment than you had intended.
you don’t mean to stare. really, it’s just—you’re not quite sure if it’s a trick of the light or you’ve finally, truly lost it, because he couldn’t have been chubbing up in his pants; you haven’t even done anything—
the swarm of your thoughts screech to an uneasy halt when something wet registers on your skin, slow and molten. you can’t help the intake of breath, too stuttered to be a gasp, too sharp to be purely surprise.
during the moments of your internal disarray, he must’ve taken your arm with both gloved hands—as if holding something precious, which was outlandish in its own right—and brought it to his mouth. the first two licks are hesitant, like he’s trying not to scare you off.
but when you stiffen under his touch, when he knows you’ve caught on to exactly what he’s doing, his eyes flutter back open. he makes a point to keep eye contact through pale lashes, completely unabashed, as he licks a broad stripe up your forearm, collecting your shed blood on his tongue before it flattens and his mouth slots over the wound itself.
it’s completely, utterly, fucking obscene. there’s no other word to describe what he’s done, what he’s doing.
the worst part is the disgust.
or better: the lack of it.
and for a moment, his eyes nearly flutter shut when your blood hits his lips. with the furrow of his brows and expression beginning to twist in some sickly pleasure, he might as well have been drawing honey from your veins.
against all common sense, you think of his mouth further down, on some softer, slicker part of you, whispering prayers with each flick of his tongue, the syllables reduced to simmering vibrations against heated flesh as your hand finds purchase of dirty blonde hair, pushing him closer—
—the realization hits you full-force, singeing nerve-ends like a live wire, the electricity dizzying. the unbidden shock rips you out of the fantasy so violently that you barely have time to process how harshly you shove the man before you away.
initially, he doesn’t seem to budge much more than an inch or two. then, he’s falling backwards with zero grace or concern for the impact. the movement is delayed in the way that lets you know his falling backwards had nothing to do with your shove — that he let himself fall. he lands with an unceremonious thud to the cool concrete, a dry huff of enjoyment leaving his now-bloodstained lips, the corners of his mouth curling up lopsidedly in satisfaction.
your feet move to flee before your brain has the chance to catch up, all the while muttering under your breath about ‘what the hell just happened’ and how you’ve ‘never seen someone so batshit delusional’.
last fucking time i ever take a shortcut, you vow, swearing off alleyways altogether. meeting that man twice in such a space was more than enough for one lifetime.
the rhythm of your heart falters and races all at once, tripping over itself with unnerving ease. you tell yourself it’s from the way you rush to get home, to get distance from that mess in the alley.
surprise, not intrigue.
frustration, not desire.
reaching your apartment is a blur. as soon as your shoes hit familiar tile, you lock the door. within the span of just a few moments, you’ve taken just a few long strides to the window, wrenching the curtains shut and locking the windows (despite living several stories up) in a near frantic manner.
you banish every thought of him away — back to the depths of your mind, where darkness shrouds any coherent idea of him — while you work on ridding your forearm from the result of an unsanitary mingling of city air, fresh blood, and his saliva.
foolish hope manages to pull you into uneasy sleep after a while; hope that he will fade from memory with ease just as colors do with the sunlight.
but you live in the darkness, and so does he.
notes: no clue what i’m doing tbh guys. sorry this took so long, the final chapter might be an even longer wait :( but i hope you guys like it!
𖥔 hurts like hell, she's a painkiller .ᐟ (miniseries — part two)
part two ⊹ — a calling card
chapter summary: a long day turns into an even longer night when days of surveillance from your stalker tracker come to a head. bubbling with frustration, you decide to confront your newfound problem. the result is… less than desirable. or, maybe too much so.
chapter tags / warnings: sort of masochistic!dex, slight blood kink, light violence, stalking(?), semi-dark themes, reader takes prescription meds (intended for this to be for stress or something similar!), swearing, semi-suggestive themes, implications of oral (a very brief fantasy)
wc: 2.2k
in the few days since your encounter with the hitman, you’ve ascertained that eyes have been on you essentially ever since. though you’ll admit the near-constant surveillance makes you the slightest bit uneasy, you’ve done little in the name of precaution.
with all your time in the field, you know by now that this is more so a game of chicken than an impending threat on your life. plus, you’ve said your piece during the first interaction the two of you had — if you can call it that. simply put, if he doesn’t have the balls to try and kill you head on, then you won’t give him the satisfaction of acknowledgement.
had you a little more fearlessness, you would’ve left the curtains open when you changed to let him know you really don’t care. that part of your ‘ignoring the assassin possibly hired to kill me’ plan was… ‘workshopped’ for the foreseeable future.
given that he appears to be holding off on any hostile advances, you continue on with your days as normal, more or less electing to act as if your mysterious spectator doesn’t exist.
it’s nearly two days into what was quickly (and scarily) becoming a sort of routine when you leave for work hurriedly, having padded frantically around your apartment for the past twenty minutes before abandoning the hope of looking your normal level of ‘presentable’.
to hell with it, you acquiesce as you attempt to smooth out the flyaways with the heel of your palm like they were a personal affront to you, the door to your apartment shuddering from the unnecessary force you put into shutting it.
it’s barely ten minutes later when he slips through the window, boots landing with a soft thud on the tile.
he decides to give himself a tour of your apartment—as if he has a right to it, the entitled bastard. takes off a glove, runs a hand over the imprint left by your body upon your rumpled sheets, where you had laid no more than an hour ago. scans over the scattered papers on your desk. finds a discarded paper towel on the floor that must’ve missed your kitchen trash can during your rush to get out of the flat. it has a lipstick stain, slightly smeared but more or less a perfect impression of your lips. he can only assume you put too much on, maybe didn’t like the color or something. it doesn’t stop him from folding what should be a piece of trash carefully and tucking it into his back pocket.
only then does he finally do what he came for, walking back to your bedside where a pill bottle sits on the nightstand. he considers the object briefly as he picks it up, then cracks the top off and pours the contents down the toilet. he leaves the open, empty bottle haphazardly in front of your apartment’s entrance, then slips back out and waits.
you come home a little late and a little frustrated. you almost don’t spot the empty pill bottle — not until your shoe meets it and sends it rolling a few inches across the tile. you curse softly underneath your breath at the sight, snatching up the container from the floor with a scowl.
as if my day hasn’t been long enough, you think wearily, picking your bag back up and turning heel back out of your apartment.
the walk to the pharmacy is something akin to a haze, irritation clouding your conscious mind and reducing you to simply running through the motions of routine.
riding on the vestiges of the sun, you make your way home. it’s a sharp turn for a shortcut through an alley, the sudden prickle at the back of your neck the only indicator of danger before a knife hurls out from the shadows — which you manage to dodge just in time, saving you from a very inconvenient and very expensive emergency visit to the hospital.
it just barely nicks your forearm, slightly below your elbow, before it sinks into the side of the dumpster you had been walking past. you don’t pause to watch the weapon reach it’s new—and final—destination, of course, more concerned by ensuring you keep the remaining blood you have inside your body.
you can sense the assailant approaching, pinpointing just where he is behind you, despite him masking the sound of his steps — and you twist around at an almost inhuman speed when he reaches for you, swinging a right hook so fast that he doesn’t have time to dodge. your fist makes contact, and his head snaps to the side, drawing a small grunt from your attacker.
you don’t give him time to recover. he starts to take a single step backward—for what you’re not sure—but as soon as he lifts his foot to do so, you slam the heel of your foot into his standing leg. he hits the ground with a quiet thud, knees meeting dirty pavement so harshly it would make a lesser man wince.
he doesn’t.
as soon as you raise a fist in preparation for another attack, gloved hands slowly come up to either side of his head in a sign of surrender. it makes you stop in your tracks, even if you briefly consider hitting him one more time out of sheer principle. he’s been fucking with you for days, rooting around in the corners of your apartment and your mind, and you’d grown tired of the cat-and-mouse game right around the time he ransacked you of your daily medication.
“calm down, i just wanted to talk,” he explains, voice gravelly and tired, but you can just barely make out the way his eyes crinkle in amusement through the cutout on his mask.
your own eyes narrow, unable to help the small scoff that escapes your lips.
“yeah, could’ve fooled me with the knife you flung at me,” you shoot back dryly with an agitated undertone, crouching slightly to pat him down, making sure he doesn’t have anything else he can throw at you. strangely enough, you only find a singular blade in the tactical belt on his waist — despite the storage for a hell of a lot more with the suit he wears. you toss it far away without a second thought, wrenching off his mask a little rougher than needed.
to your surprise, he doesn’t move, save for the minute tilt of his head as he lazily eyes you, the beginnings of a smirk playing at his lips. the sight makes your fists curl tighter, his mask rumpling further under your grip.
“i need those, you asshole,” you hiss, using your free hand to jab a finger at the prescription bag near your abandoned purse, likely knocked out of it during the chaos. he doesn’t even spare a glance at where you point — you don’t take your eyes off him for a second either, but it still annoys you that he can’t even muster up the consideration to look.
“i know,” he murmurs lowly, and the asshole has the audacity to sound amused.
“what is wrong with you, huh?” you nearly seethe, taking a step closer. it only makes his head tilt up a little more to keep eye contact with you, “you do all this for what—just to get my attention?”
“i told you, i wanted to talk.”
his voice is strangely calm — a low, nearly lulling timbre. you feel anything but calm.
“i’m not big on repeating myself,” he continues, and his tone isn’t even mildly authoritative; he might as well have been telling you his favorite goddamn color instead. you’re pretty sure it pisses you off even more.
“fine. talk, then.” it’s a demand, the words coming out clipped in the same way a lighter sparks just before the heat engulfs the wick.
something in his face shifts, like he’s struggling with something he can’t quite put into words. he says your name, with a tenderness and familiarity it shouldn’t have. as if he’s been whispering your name into the quiet the dark brings for a lifetime. it’s not right — you don’t even know his name; you’ve only learnt of his existence in the past few days, for god’s sake.
it doesn’t stop your heart from twinging at the thought that he’s said it before.
savored it, before.
“you’re bleeding,” he observes, the slight raspiness at the edges of his tone suddenly bringing you back to reality. it’s not quite apologetic, but not free of weight, either.
the comment makes you finally tear your eyes from his, shifting your gaze to the small cut just below your elbow, the offending wound drawing a few sluggish beads of blood down your forearm.
you open your mouth to shrug it off, weirdly urged to dispel any worry — though he had none in his voice to begin with — but as you draw your eyes back up to his face, they catch on something. dark fabric, too taut for comfort, bunched right at his—
the words slip out of your mouth before you can think, static filling your brain.
“you’re hard,” you reply in similar fashion, like it’s a fact. it is a fact, of course, but your tone is more detached from your very real and very intense bewilderment than you had intended.
you don’t mean to stare. really, it’s just—you’re not quite sure if it’s a trick of the light or you’ve finally, truly lost it, because he couldn’t have been chubbing up in his pants; you haven’t even done anything—
the swarm of your thoughts screech to an uneasy halt when something wet registers on your skin, slow and molten. you can’t help the intake of breath, too stuttered to be a gasp, too sharp to be purely surprise.
during the moments of your internal disarray, he must’ve taken your arm with both gloved hands—as if holding something precious, which was outlandish in its own right—and brought it to his mouth. the first two licks are hesitant, like he’s trying not to scare you off.
but when you stiffen under his touch, when he knows you’ve caught on to exactly what he’s doing, his eyes flutter back open. he makes a point to keep eye contact through pale lashes, completely unabashed, as he licks a broad stripe up your forearm, collecting your shed blood on his tongue before it flattens and his mouth slots over the wound itself.
it’s completely, utterly, fucking obscene. there’s no other word to describe what he’s done, what he’s doing.
the worst part is the disgust.
or better: the lack of it.
and for a moment, his eyes nearly flutter shut when your blood hits his lips. with the furrow of his brows and expression beginning to twist in some sickly pleasure, he might as well have been drawing honey from your veins.
against all common sense, you think of his mouth further down, on some softer, slicker part of you, whispering prayers with each flick of his tongue, the syllables reduced to simmering vibrations against heated flesh as your hand finds purchase of dirty blonde hair, pushing him closer—
—the realization hits you full-force, singeing nerve-ends like a live wire, the electricity dizzying. the unbidden shock rips you out of the fantasy so violently that you barely have time to process how harshly you shove the man before you away.
initially, he doesn’t seem to budge much more than an inch or two. then, he’s falling backwards with zero grace or concern for the impact. the movement is delayed in the way that lets you know his falling backwards had nothing to do with your shove — that he let himself fall. he lands with an unceremonious thud to the cool concrete, a dry huff of enjoyment leaving his now-bloodstained lips, the corners of his mouth curling up lopsidedly in satisfaction.
your feet move to flee before your brain has the chance to catch up, all the while muttering under your breath about ‘what the hell just happened’ and how you’ve ‘never seen someone so batshit delusional’.
last fucking time i ever take a shortcut, you vow, swearing off alleyways altogether. meeting that man twice in such a space was more than enough for one lifetime.
the rhythm of your heart falters and races all at once, tripping over itself with unnerving ease. you tell yourself it’s from the way you rush to get home, to get distance from that mess in the alley.
surprise, not intrigue.
frustration, not desire.
reaching your apartment is a blur. as soon as your shoes hit familiar tile, you lock the door. within the span of just a few moments, you’ve taken just a few long strides to the window, wrenching the curtains shut and locking the windows (despite living several stories up) in a near frantic manner.
you banish every thought of him away — back to the depths of your mind, where darkness shrouds any coherent idea of him — while you work on ridding your forearm from the result of an unsanitary mingling of city air, fresh blood, and his saliva.
foolish hope manages to pull you into uneasy sleep after a while; hope that he will fade from memory with ease just as colors do with the sunlight.
but you live in the darkness, and so does he.
notes: no clue what i’m doing tbh guys. sorry this took so long, the final chapter might be an even longer wait :( but i hope you guys like it!
When Dex asks you out, it's not because he's particularly attracted to you or anything. Logically, it's the next step in your relationship. You see him around at work a lot, and conversation flows rather easily, even though you're the one instigating it most of the time. Not that he minds, however, it's nice to have someone to do most of the heavy lifting in a "normal" conversation. He thinks a part of you, consciously or subconsciously, is aware that he's not the best at holding those—but you still want to interact with him, for whatever reason.
Shared smiles turn into small talk, then coffee runs together, walking down the street to the tiny place you discovered on a slow day, shoulders brushing together. He doesn't mind the closeness when it's you. You text occasionally, which he finds himself looking forward to, and he's almost sure that your smile is different when it's just for you. You let him walk you home sometimes, his jacket 'round your shoulders like it was made just to be there.
It's kind of obvious you like him, and, well, this is what people do, right? Talk, go on dates, fall in love. That last part has never seemed quite real to him, but everyone does it this way. So—
He's standing in front of the steps leading up to your door when he asks; you're already halfway up. For a moment, you freeze in place and he wonders if he'd misread the situation, but you turn back, eyes lit up as you hurry down to him again. You're understandably nervous, far more so than him—because to him, it's more of a chore than anything else—when you say yes. And that's that.
The first date goes well; it's a nice little restaurant, nothing too fancy. At the end of the night, you press your lips to his cheek, the flowers he got you held to your chest, and his heart skips a beat, the new feeling a little unnerving to him. There's a glossy stain on his cheek now, one that you wipe at with a tissue to the best of your ability. You're both laughing then, but when he gets home, he notices there's still some residue left. Instead of wiping it off, he sits at the kitchen counter, fingers pressed to his cheek, enveloped in the lingering scent of your perfume. Something has changed drastically, he realises, and the scary part is he doesn't know what it is just yet.
It's after the third one—a fancy place, reservations only—that you invite him into your apartment. He's never actually been inside before, so it's new, vaguely disconcerting in the way unfamiliar things are with him. Dex thrives off familiarity, of knowing things. But it's not too bad, because even though he doesn't know your place, he does know you. That should be enough for now.
But then you close the door behind you, turn to him—you're so close, he can feel your breath on him, feel your hands ghosting up the lapels of his jacket. Your eyes flicker down to his lips, then back up again, a question. Naturally, he dips his head and kisses you.
He likes it more than he expects, knows why people do it so much now. When your hand comes up—the other still clinging onto his jacket like a lifeline—and threads through his hair, he thinks he sees heaven. You pull away, but you're not done yet.
"You're a good kisser," you breathe, which is funny considering it's been a good few years since he's done anything at all—it's never been a priority, in any case. Your lipstick is smudged, and for a moment he imagines it messed up further, smeared across his jaw and your mouth, you, wide-eyed and breathless, and he's left light-headed as his blood rushes south.
You notice the change almost as soon as he does, see the sudden stiffness in his posture, the new discomfort in the way he stands. He waits for you to be weirded out, disgusted maybe, but your touch brings him back to earth, gentle and wanting.
"My room's that way." You nod at one of the open doors behind you, then hesitate. "If you want to—"
His mind blanks. He'd never imagined he'd come this far with anyone, let alone you, not to mention this fast. The worst part is, he wants it so bad he can't think; he swallows thickly, throat dry. "I- okay, yeah."
"Cool," you say, and loop your arms around his neck and kiss him again. It's longer, more of everything this time, feelings and sensations, the duration, everything—you nudge him in the direction of your room, still kissing; he gets the hint, guides you back while his mouth is still on yours. You're eager, excited in your movements, as opposed to his controlled ones, the restraint that's hanging on by a thread. More than once, he stops you from bumping into furniture, an armchair, a side table, until he's pressed up against the wall outside your room, your teeth grazing his neck with his hands in your hair while he lets out sinful little whimpers, too far gone to care.
His jacket is on the floor somewhere; you're unbuttoning his shirt now while his head lolls back, exposing his pale throat further, impatient fingers fumbling until he moves your hands away to do it himself. You detach yourself from him with a groan, stumble into your room before Dex follows behind you, shirt half off to reveal his firm chest, a few scars scattered here and there. You turn around just in front of your bed, pull him in by the unbuttoned collar and press your mouth to his collarbone. There's a rosy blush on his cheeks as he brushes your hair out of your face tenderly, kissing the corner of your mouth. He takes a step back, pupils blown before he slips a strap of your dress off your shoulder; he kisses the newly exposed skin, reverent, before doing the same on the other side. His devotion makes you feel more vulnerable than you have all evening; it makes you feel naked, even though he hasn't unzipped your dress just yet—actually, he makes no move to do it at all.
Instead he pushes you back half a step so the backs of your knees hit the bedframe, and then he's on top of you, knees bracketing your thighs, kissing you again. You push yourself up on your elbows while he tilts your face further upwards, hand braced by your head as he moans shamelessly into you mouth before sitting up on his haunches; he looks down, hand brushing your thigh before he pulls back abruptly. You blink up at him through your lashes, wide-eyed. "Is something wrong?"
He shakes his head, embarrassed. "No, I just- I'm new to-"
New to this. New to you.
He sighs, looking away. "I don't know what you like."
You grin, flushing. This is probably the most romantic thing he's said yet. "I like whatever you're doing, babe," you tell him, and you put his hand back where it was, and he hikes your dress up, fingers skimming along the lace of your underwear as you tilt your head back at the sensation, and his heart soars higher and higher.
1.2k words but 61% of it is not plot... lol ok this was not supposed to be written today but my inventory rn includes 1 suspicious dream 1 broken claw clip 1 broken heart (fic came to me in the suspicious dream) (im packing stuff rn) do you guys want a taglist for fics perhaps <3
𖥔 hurts like hell, she's a painkiller .ᐟ (miniseries — part 1)
pairing: benjamin poindexter x reader ᥫ᭡
chapter summary: first encounters don't really go as planned. an attempt on your life (at least, you're fairly certain that's what it was) fails, and things get...unconventional from there. to your dismay, the encounter leaves both you and your tracker wanting more.
series tags / warnings: miniseries, reader insert, strangers to ...more?, masochistic!dex (more so coded but whatever), dex has a slight blood kink??, light violence, dex is stalking reader somewhat (does it count as stalking if you know and allow it to happen?), sort of dark themes, reader has a vague backstory but it’s essentially that you were an agent in the past (i had SHIELD in mind, but it’s up for interpretation!), intended to be female!reader but fairly gender-neutral?, reader takes prescription meds (intended for this to be for stress or something similar!), implied age gap but reader is full at an adult (i had late 20s in mind), i’ve probably used too many italics but i’m kind of a fiend for them, be warned i have not seen ddba season 2 so this is based off of what little we got of dex in season 1!
wc: 1.1k
sure, you’ve retired from your days as an agent.
but you haven’t been out of the game long enough to miss when someone is tailing you. whoever it is, you can tell he’s good — despite not glancing back to get a read on your pursuer.
too risky at the moment, you decide, and too many years of staying on your toes to make that kind of rookie mistake.
it’s early enough in the evening that crowds are still flocking on the streets, to and fro with little coordination, in an rush to get home quickly.
when the opportunity comes, you duck into a nearby alley, the ever-moving bodies allowing you a few gracious seconds of cover. slipping back out onto the busy street promptly, you watch as the figure takes the bait, diverting into the alley you had just feigned taking safety in. it’s only about the span of a breath before he realizes that no one is there, facing the end of the small nook between two adjacent buildings.
by the time he starts to whip around — presumably to try and resume tailing you — thin, sharp metal meets fabric-covered flesh as you jab him in the shoulder with the last resort you’ve kept at the bottom of your bag, saved for situations like this. a… parting gift of sorts you had given to yourself from your previous (and unsuspecting) employers, at the tail-end of your ‘previous life’: a paralyzing agent.
the figure — who you can now see is a sharp-eyed older man, maybe early forties, a jagged scar set into his right cheekbone — is only caught off-guard for a moment, if the briefest widening of his eyes says anything. he jolts slightly, shoulders slumping directly after.
the rest of his body follows his shoulders — down.
you manage to catch him by his upper torso before he hits the ground, grunting with the effort of bearing the weight of a man you are quickly becoming aware is pure muscle, a hulking mass of six-foot-something, for all your dog shit luck.
bending at the knees, you do your best to set your tracker down relatively gently, pushing his broad form against the wall of the alley as his head lulls to the side, indicating to you that the drug has taken full effect.
“it’s temporary,” are the first words out of your mouth, void of any sympathy, closer to cold-cut steel than anything resembling reassurance.
his eyes flutter, half-lidded as they manage to track you again. you’re surprised to note that his breathing has barely changed. most people would be heaving right about now after being involuntarily reduced to a rag doll.
must not be most people, you note absently.
his lips part a sliver, indicating to you that he’s most likely trying to speak. it’s a futile attempt, and he seems to realize this soon enough.
“yeah, it does that.” you murmur as you crouch down to eye-level, the crook of your arms coming to rest on your bent knees, regarding the man with mild intrigue.
you feel a bit bad, even if he was probably trying to kill you.
your gaze shifts to the hem of his shirt, which you tug up just enough to reveal the gun he had been concealing. figures.
a raised brow is the extent of the reaction he gets from you, and you exhale sharply from your nose.
the silence is only broken by the occasional coo of a nearby pigeon and the unintelligible chattering of passersby just outside the secluded alley.
“look, you want to fight, or try and kill me? fine by me, buddy,” you start, unamused, as if this is somehow a completely normal encounter to have.
“but don’t hide or ambush me. it’s just frowned upon, from one professional to another. hell, you wanna talk? come and find me again, but do it right.”
should you be a little more concerned? probably.
should you just let him go? hell no. but you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been missing the thrill of your past life, just a little.
ever since, the days have begun to stretch and blend, all muddled shades of grey that leave a dull ache in your chest. for so long you’ve been wired for chaos, you’re still not quite sure how to live without the thrill of crises.
going somewhere as mundane as a cafe, you habitually choose the spot that gives you the best vantage point to spectate and evaluate threats; you could find every single exit in your neighborhood grocery store blindfolded; you pass alleys with the tinge of anticipation that danger is seeking you out—maybe in the form of a pickpocket, or a helpless civilian in duress that you just can’t turn away from—not the other way around.
it hums in your blood, a white noise that lingers incessantly: the need for more.
the man in front of you happens to look a lot like that.
it sets your blood alight.
the observation comes as such a shock to your system that you’re rattled out of your internal dialogue, a pang of panic hitting you at what you surmise.
no. i’m out of the game, you drill into your head, steeling your expression as you rise. you look down at a man who has managed to make you startle yourself, nod stiffly just once, and turn to exit the alley.
you feel as if you’ve left a piece of yourself behind with him. forcing your head to stay set forward, you make the journey home — allowing you to miss the look in his eyes.
dex is taken aback, more than accustomed to the expectation that others would want him to bury his true nature, had they ever learned of it.
you’ve had no introduction to that watered-down, hollow version of himself that he projects to the world in the hopes that he won’t be shunned or locked up like a creature again, more brute than man.
but you weren’t disgusted. you weren’t even surprised for that matter, let alone scared.
hell, you even told him to to hide from you. you, frankly, just didn’t care.
that’s alright, he tells himself. i can fix that.
the idea is nothing short of thrilling. there’s no pretense; no hiding from you now that he’s exposed himself; now that you’ve decided to let him live after his clear attempt to harm you. and for all that dex is, like voltage galloping through his veins, he feels hunger.
hunger for more.
and now? now, he has no intention of letting you go.
notes: title is a lyric from "painkiller" by DREAMERS btw! this was very self-indulgent if you couldn't tell. this is my first time truly writing x reader, so please bear with me! this series will most likely be three parts ;) i'm honestly not too happy with how this chapter turned out tbh, so constructive (polite) feedback is welcomed! also i hope i did ddba!dex justice??? let me know what you think, and thanks for reading!
