AISLING

She/her, 20 Men fear me, fish love me

[cujja]

MASTERLIST

SUPERNATURAL

DEAN WINCHESTER SAM WINCHESTER

THE BOYS

SOLDIER BOY

[cujja]

i need u to know that i think about your dog days series basically every day. it truly is that good

I originally only intended to only make it one part but I’m so glad I didn’t and that you all enjoy it, it seriously warms my hear ❤️❤️❤️

Also, pic of squirrel after I came back from holiday and hadn’t fed her for ten days….

[autumnbutterflyy]

Sleeping Beauty

Summary: While investigating a string of fairy tale-inspired attacks, you become the next victim of the curse. Dean refuses to accept there's nothing he can do about it. Pairing: Dean x F.Reader (Hunter) / (Established relationship) Warnings: Fairy tale stuff, magical sleep/unconsciousness, (really)soft Dean, hurt, comfort, light mention of Dean's deal, softness, too much softness, takes place during Season 3 Episode 5. Notes: I am watching spn again, bedtime stories gave me this idea and why not do this with my favorite Disney princess? Word count: 4.3k

“All right, maybe it is fairy tales,” Dean said, staring at the frog sitting in the grass. He still looked unconvinced. “Totally messed-up fairy tales,” he added, pointing at it with two fingers, “but I’ll tell you one thing. There’s no way I’m kissing a damn frog.” You couldn't help smiling.

“The stories follow a script, right?” you said, glancing toward Sam. “You probably don't have to kiss one unless something forces you to.”

“That’s usually how fairy tales work.” Sam nodded toward a house across the street. “Check that out.” He looked toward one of the houses across the street, a lone pumpkin sat on the front porch steps.

“Yeah, it's close to Halloween,” Dean said with a shrug, like that explained everything. Maybe, but still, it felt a little early.

“You remember Cinderella? The pumpkin that turns into a coach? The mice that become horses?” at this point, you were pretty sure he was talking mostly to you. Dean looked like he'd rather wrestle the frog than discuss fairy tales.

“Dude, could you be more gay?” Dean scoffed.

“Dean.” You nudged his arm with yours. “Leave him alone.”

Dean looked at you. “You're taking his side?”

“I'm taking the side of the guy who actually read a book once in his life.” Sam smirked. Dean shot you an affronted look.

“Wow.”

“I'm just saying.”

“You wound me.” You laughed as the three of you headed toward the house.

Sam unlocked the front door. Inside, the place felt abandoned. Too quiet.

You split up, checking the downstairs rooms while Dean and Sam moved further into the house.

The living room was empty.

Dining room too.

Then you heard something, a metallic rattling sound. You immediately headed toward it.

Someone sat on the floor beside the cabinets, handcuffed to one of the drawer handles. You crouched beside her.

“Hey, hey, it's okay.” Sam and Dean appeared a second later. “We're here to help.”

The girl looked relieved once she realized nobody was going to hurt her, the words started spilling out all at once.

Her stepmother had beaten her, locked her in the kitchen, handcuffed her to the drawers, and forced her to clean while the rest of the family went out.

Definitely Cinderella.

While Sam worked on the handcuffs, movement caught your attention.

A little girl appeared on the other side of the hallway, half of her body was visible. She didn't seem to have anything to do with it, but it made sense when you remembered one of the victims mentioned a little girl before.

“Dean,” you called. He was already moving, you watched them disappear through the hallway. Meanwhile, you called 911 while Sam freed the girl and made sure she was okay.

When the police arrived and the victim was being looked after by paramedics, the three of you regrouped outside.

Dean tossed something into the air and caught it. A shiny red apple.

“The kid left this.”

You exchanged a look with Sam. “Snow White,” he nodded.

“So what? We look for a…”

“A girl in a deep sleep,” you completed.

“Of course,” Dean said. You couldn't help smiling at his tone. May not be the easiest task but at least you knew what you were looking for.

“We should start with hospitals,” Sam said and the three of you headed back toward the Impala.

You had barely made it halfway across the street when a wave of dizziness hit without warning. The ground seemed to shift beneath your feet for a second, forcing you to slow down.

Dean noticed immediately.

“You okay?”

You blinked hard. “Yeah. Just... tired,” you admitted quietly. “Head hurts.” Dean’s brows pulled together.

“You should’ve said something.”

“It literally just started.” He still didn't look convinced, not even a little persuaded by your explanation. You reached the Impala and leaned against the door. “Would you mind dropping me at the motel first?”

He exchanged a look with Sam. “We're heading to the hospital anyway.”

“I think I just need sleep.” He hesitated. You could see him weighing the options in his head, so you reached out and touched his hand. “Dean,” you said softly. “Really. I'm okay.”

The second your fingers brushed his, his hand turned instinctively, fitting against yours perfectly like it had done a hundred times before.

“Okay,” he finally said.

You knew that tone. It wasn't agreement. It was Dean deciding to worry about it later.

His hand lingered around yours for a second longer before he finally let go.

“…Call me if anything feels weird.”

Sam snorts from the door.

“A little late for that warning, don't you think?” Dean shot him a look but didn't argue.

You squeezed his hand once. “I'll be here when you get back.”

Dean leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “Better be.”

Then he and Sam were gone.

The motel felt strangely empty after that.

You tried distracting yourself for a while. Flipped through channels. Sat on the edge of the bed. Eventually, you stretched out on top of the covers, hoping sleep might take care of the headache.

It didn't.

The headache hadn't gotten any better. If anything, the longer you lay there, the worse it felt. Not painful enough to alarm you, just enough to keep you from relaxing.

You closed your eyes, hoping a few minutes of rest would help, when a faint sound drifted through the silence.

Your eyes snapped toward the door.

Nothing.

Just the television and the hum of the motel's air conditioner. You almost convinced yourself you'd imagined it when the sound came again.

It wasn't loud enough to make out. Not a voice, not exactly. Still, something about it settled deep in your chest, tugging at you with quiet persistence.

Without really deciding to, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood.

The movement felt natural, automatic. One moment you were in bed, the next you were reaching for the door.

The cold night air greeted you outside, but it did little to clear your thoughts. Across the road, beyond a chain-link fence and a row of storage units, stood an old warehouse you'd barely noticed earlier that day.

Now it was impossible to look anywhere else.

You crossed the empty lot without hesitation. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a warning whispered that this was a bad idea. That you should turn around. Call Dean. Go back to the motel.

Instead, you kept walking.

The warehouse door stood slightly open, swaying gently in the wind. You pushed it wider and stepped inside. Moonlight spilled through broken windows, illuminating dust-covered machinery and forgotten crates. At first, nothing seemed unusual.

Then you saw it.

A spinning wheel sat alone in the center of the room.

Your stomach dropped.

Every instinct screamed at you to leave. To run. To do anything except take another step forward, but you did.

“No...” you whispered.

The word sounded weak, swallowed by the darkness around you.

That was the worst part. You could still think. Still understand exactly what was happening. Somewhere between leaving the motel and walking through that door, you'd lost control of everything except your own awareness.

The spinning wheel waited silently beneath the moonlight.

Waiting for you.

Your hand lifted despite every effort to stop it. Your arm trembled as you fought against the movement, and for a brief second, you thought you might actually win.

Then your fingertip brushed the spindle.

A sharp sting shot through your hand and the room vanished.

Darkness swallowed everything.

Dean knew something was wrong before Sam even finished parking the Impala.

The hospital had given them answers, just not the ones they needed. They knew who was behind the attacks now. They knew why people were ending up trapped inside twisted fairy tales. What they didn't know was how to stop it.

None of that mattered the second your call went to voicemail.

“She’s not answering.” Dean was already trying again as he crossed the motel parking lot.

Straight to voicemail. His jaw tightened.

“She said she'd stay here. She's probably asleep.” Sam didn't answer right away. By the time he stepped into the room, Dean was already inside.

The television was still playing quietly in the corner. The blankets were tangled on the bed like you'd only gotten up a few minutes ago.

But you were gone. You wouldn't just leave. Not after the conversation they'd had before he left.

“The door was open, Sam.” His eyes swept across the room, searching for anything out of place. Your bag was still there. So was your jacket.

Enough to tell him you'd walked out in a hurry. Or hadn't had much choice.

Dean was moving out of the room before the thought had even finished forming.

Outside, his gaze traveled across the empty lot until it landed on the warehouse across the road.

The same warehouse they'd driven past earlier.

The same warehouse sitting there now like it had been waiting all along.

“Sam.” That was all he said. Sam followed his gaze and immediately understood.

They ran.

The metal door slammed against the wall when Dean shoved it open. For a second, everything seemed frozen.

Dust hung in the air, illuminated by moonlight spilling through the broken windows.

The spinning wheel standing in the center of the room, and you, lying motionless beside it.

Dean crossed the distance in seconds and dropped to his knees beside you. “Hey. Hey, come on.”

Nothing.

His hands shook as he reached for your pulse. The relief nearly knocked the breath out of him when he found it.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he muttered, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Wake up.”

Behind him, Sam had gone completely silent. Dean looked over his shoulder, his brother was staring at the spinning wheel.

"What?" Sam swallowed but didn't answer. A knot immediately formed in Dean's stomach. “Sam?”

“Sleeping Beauty.” Dean frowned.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“In the original Grimm story, the princess pricks her finger on a spindle and falls asleep.” Dean glanced at you. Then looked back at Sam.

“How do we wake her?” Sam hesitated. Which was answer enough. “Sam.”

“We can’t. She’s sleeping for a hundred years.” The words seemed to echo through the warehouse. Dean just stared at him.

“A hundred years?”

“Dean, listen—”

“No.”

“Dean—”

“No.” His voice cracked. “Fix it.”

“We don't even know if—”

“FIX IT, SAM.” Silence settled between them. After a moment, Sam nodded.

"We need to get back to the hospital."Dean didn't answer. He simply slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back before lifting you carefully into his arms.

Like letting go wasn't an option.

Hours had passed.

Sam had gone to talk to the doctor after putting together a theory, leaving Dean alone with you.

The hospital room had grown darker as the afternoon slipped into evening. Nurses came and went, the muted television murmured from the corner, and at some point Dean had stopped paying attention to any of it.

You hadn’t moved once.

And Dean hated it.

Sitting beside your bed, he rubbed a hand over his face and glanced at you again, as if maybe this time something would be different.

It never was.

The worst part was how normal you looked.

No pain. No fear. No sign that anything was wrong.

Just asleep.

Dean's fingers tightened around yours.

“Y'know,” he muttered after a while, staring at the floor, “I'm starting to think fairy tales suck.”

The joke landed exactly as well as expected.

Silence.

A humorless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before fading again. His gaze drifted back to you. “I should've stayed.” Guilt sat ugly in his chest. “I’m supposed to protect you.”

Then Dean exhaled slowly and leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. Another against your hair. And finally, a lingering kiss against your lips.

Not magical. Just Dean.

When he pulled back, something shifted. A tiny movement. So small he almost thought he'd imagined it.

Dean froze.

“Sweetheart?” Your brows furrowed slightly before your eyes slowly opened.

Dean laughed out a breath that sounded suspiciously close to breaking. You blinked up at him slowly.

“...Dean?”

“Yeah.” He immediately leaned closer. “Yeah, sweetheart. I'm here.”

“What happened?” Dean let out a short laugh.

“You know what? Better if you don’t ask.” Before you could ask anything else, the door opened. Sam walked in carrying a folder under one arm. He took one look at you sitting awake in bed and stopped cold.

“Sammy,” Dean said proudly, pointing at you. “Awake.”

“I can see that.” He smiled.

You looked between them. “Now can you tell me what happened?” Sam pulled a chair closer.

“The doctor finally let his daughter go.” Your confusion must have shown immediately because he continued. “The girl who's been in a coma all these years? She was the one causing all of this. The fairy tales, the curses... everything.”

You slowly remembered pieces of the case.

“The doctor?” Sam nodded.

“He couldn't let her go. Not after everything that happened. But once he finally did...” He gestured toward you. “The curse ended.”

“That's rough,” you murmured.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed softly.

The silence lasted all of three seconds before Dean ruined it.

“So, Sleeping Beauty, huh?” He teased, you groaned immediately.

“Shut up. I would've preferred the Disney version.”

“The Disney version?” Dean asked.

“Way more romantic.” You explained.

“More romantic? I literally kissed you and you woke up.”

“You did?” He looked at you offended. You were unconscious back then, so you really had no clue.

“I did.”

“Dean,” Sam interrupted, fighting a smile, “that's not actually why she woke up.” Dean pointed at him without even looking.

“Nobody asked.”

“In the story, the curse ends because enough time passes.” Dean rolled his eyes.

“Okay, and the hundred years are up?”

“Dean—”

“Looks like all that fairy tale knowledge finally failed you, Sammy.” Sam sighed. You laughed, and for the first time since he'd found you lying beside that spinning wheel, Dean felt the knot in his chest begin to loosen.

Without thinking, he reached for your hand again.

This time when your fingers curled around his, he didn't let go.

The next few days were... weird.

Not bad.

Just different.

Dean didn't let you out of his sight. At all.

At first, you thought he was being subtle about it. Then you woke up one morning to find him already awake, sitting in the chair across from the bed with a lore book open in his lap. He was supposedly reading, but his eyes kept drifting over the top of the pages.

"...Dean." He didn't even blink.

"What?"

"Why are you staring at me?"

"I'm not."

"You literally are." Dean shrugged.

"Could be dead asleep for a hundred years right now. Think I earned staring privileges." You just stared at him.

From the other bed, Sam snorted loudly into his coffee.

"Oh my God." Dean tossed a balled-up napkin at him without looking.

"Shut up."

But it kept happening.

Dean hovering. Constantly.

A hand at your back whenever you walked somewhere. Asking if you were tired. Checking if you felt dizzy. Reaching out to touch your arm for no reason at all, like he needed proof you were actually there.

A few days later, you were sitting at Bobby's kitchen table with a book in your hands when Dean came through the door carrying groceries.

The second he spotted you, something in his shoulders relaxed.

It was subtle. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed, but you did.

Dean caught you watching him and immediately frowned.

"...What?"

Your expression softened. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Checking if I'm alive." Dean scoffed.

"That's exactly how I’d say it."

From the couch, Sam spoke without even looking up from his book. "But it’s true."

Dean pointed at him.

"Nobody asked you." Sam grinned.

"You almost went full Disney prince in that hospital, man." Dean looked genuinely horrified.

"Do not call me that."

"You said it yourself. You kissed her and she woke up." A laugh slipped out before you could stop it. Dean's head immediately turned toward you and there it was again.

That tiny shift in his expression.

Like hearing you laugh settled something inside him.

Sam noticed it too. Which meant Dean was completely doomed.

The teasing faded after that, leaving a comfortable silence behind. Dean set the groceries on the counter while Bobby disappeared somewhere deeper into the house, muttering about beer.

Then Dean spoke again.

"You scared me." The words came out quieter than expected.

You looked up.

Dean wasn't joking this time.

"I mean it." His gaze dropped briefly to the floor before returning to you. "When Sam said you'd be asleep forever..."

The sentence died there. You knew Dean well enough to hear the rest anyway.

The fear.

The helplessness.

The thought of losing someone and not being able to do a damn thing about it.

Dean looked away for a second, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. "I hated that."

Something in your chest ached.

Dean usually hid behind jokes when things got too real. If he was saying this out loud, it meant he'd been carrying it around ever since.

You stood from the table and crossed the kitchen. Dean's eyes followed you automatically. They always did.

When you stopped in front of him, your hands slid into the front of his jacket, lightly gripping the fabric.

"You know," you said softly, "hovering isn't actually preventing supernatural attacks." Dean hummed. "Counterpoint: maybe it is." That earned a smile.

Then, more quietly, you added, "I'm okay."

Dean looked at you for a long moment. Like he was trying very hard to believe it.

Finally, his hand lifted and brushed gently along your cheek before settling at the back of your neck.

"I know." But even as he said it, he tugged you a little closer. Instinctively. And you let him.

Dean pressed a kiss to your forehead.

From the couch, Sam immediately made a disgusted noise. "Okay. That's enough."

Without taking his eyes off you, Dean flipped him off. You laughed against Dean's shoulder.

For a moment, Dean closed his eyes. Just a second, long enough to feel the warmth of you standing there.

The steady rise and fall of your breathing. The simple fact that you were alive.

Still here.

And for now, that was enough.

Dean had been unbearably clingy all day.

Not that you minded.

At some point, while Bobby and Sam were out getting supplies, Dean had somehow ended up stretched across the couch with you trapped between him and the cushions, one arm around your waist while he half-watched some old western on TV.

His fingers absentmindedly played with the ends of your hair. Every few minutes, he pressed a kiss somewhere random, your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, like he physically couldn't help himself.

You finally laughed softly after the fourth forehead kiss in ten minutes.

"What?" Dean looked down at you innocently.

"What what?"

"You're being weirdly affectionate today." Dean scoffed.

"Weirdly? Rude."

You smiled, shaking your head. "Sorry, sorry."

Dean narrowed his eyes suspiciously before leaning down to steal another kiss anyway. You laughed against his lips this time.

"You know," you said once he finally pulled back a little, "Sam was right."

Dean groaned instantly. "Those are words nobody should ever say."

You ignored him completely.

"You kind of are my Prince Charming."

"Sweetheart, I'm way hotter than Prince Charming." You rolled your eyes. Dean looked entirely too pleased with himself. "You seen me? C'mon."

You laughed, fingers idly playing with the collar of his flannel.

"Well... Prince Phillip was really handsome."

Dean froze.

"...Excuse me?" You nodded seriously.

"He was always my crush when I was little." Dean stared at you in disbelief.

"Cartoon prince?"

"He had the sword, Dean."

"I have guns."

"That's true."

"And a car."

"Also true."

"And better hair." You pretended to think about it. Dean immediately grabbed your jaw, turning your face toward him. "Wrong answer. Try again."

By now, you were grinning. "Okay, okay. Maybe you're hotter."

"Maybe?"

"Don't push it." Dean squinted at you before lightly biting your cheek in retaliation.

"Dean!"

"That's what you get." You were still laughing when he kissed you again, slower this time. His hand slid up your side, settling comfortably at your waist while his thumb brushed absentmindedly against your sweater.

When he pulled back, you were still smiling at him.

Dean tried very hard to look unaffected.

"...You liked that." He immediately looked away.

"Liked what?"

"The Prince Charming thing."

"I did not."

"You did."

"Nope." You watched him for another second, amused. Dean suddenly seemed very interested in whatever was happening on the television, which told you everything.

Your expression softened. "You know," you murmured quietly, "I don't actually care about the prince part."

That got his attention.

You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly along his jaw.

"If I got to choose..." Your thumb traced softly over the little crease near his mouth. "I'd still pick you." His breath caught.

Tiny.

Barely noticeable.

But you saw it anyway. God, you always saw right through him.

"Yeah?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah." A small smile tugged at your lips. "Even over Prince Phillip."

"Good choice." His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your skin. "I really like having you here."

The honesty in his voice almost hurt.

Instead of answering, you leaned forward and pressed three quick kisses against his lips. Dean smiled helplessly into the last one.

"See?" you whispered against his mouth. "Definitely my prince." He rolled his eyes, but the faint blush creeping into his ears ruined the effect.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The TV droned quietly in the background while Dean's arm stayed wrapped around your waist, his thumb tracing lazy patterns against your side. Neither of you were really paying attention to the movie anymore.

"You went somewhere."

You blinked. "Hm?"

Dean tilted his head slightly, studying your face.

"That look." His thumb brushed lightly against your hip. You looked down at the fabric of his flannel between your fingers.

"...I just wish this could stay like this." The words were quiet, but Dean felt them anyway. Because he knew exactly what you meant.

Not the couch.

Not the teasing.

Not the kisses.

Him.

His hand stilled for a moment before he forced himself to keep moving, thumb brushing gently against your side again.

"Hey..." You shook your head quickly.

"No, it's okay." But your voice already sounded thinner. "I just..." You exhaled shakily. "I hate that every good moment turns into me remembering..." You couldn't finish it.

You didn't need to.

Dean's chest tightened painfully.

Less than a year.

He hated that you had to carry that around now. Hated that every happy moment came with a countdown neither of you could ignore.

His hand slid up slowly, fingers curling gently beneath your chin until you looked at him. Your eyes were already glossy.

Dean swore it wrecked him every single time.

"Don't do this to yourself." You laughed softly, but it broke in the middle.

"How do I not?" Dean didn't have an answer. Because honestly, he didn't know either.

So instead, he brushed his thumb beneath your eye, careful and gentle, like touching something fragile. "I'm here right now," he said quietly.

You nodded. "I know."

But the sadness remained. Dean could still see it.

So he leaned down and kissed you softly. Not trying to distract you. Not trying to fix it. Just reminding you he was here.

You kissed him back immediately, almost desperately, your fingers tightening in his shirt as you pulled him closer.

Dean paused for a second when he realized what you were doing. Trying to stop thinking. Trying to drown it all out before it settled in your chest again. His heart ached at that, but he didn't call attention to it or make you explain.

He simply slid a hand into your hair and kissed you back slowly, carefully, giving you something else to hold onto for a little while.

When you finally pulled apart, you kept your forehead resting against his, eyes closed and breathing uneven.

"C'mere." Dean pressed one last kiss near the corner of your mouth before pulling you fully into his lap.

You went willingly, arms wrapping around his neck. He held you there for a moment, content just to have you close.

"You know what I think?" You hummed quietly. "I think we should go get dinner before Sammy eats everything." A tiny smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. Dean noticed immediately and looked absurdly pleased about it.

"There she is." You shook your head.

"You always do that."

"Do what?"

"Change the subject when things get sad." Dean thought about it for a second.

"...Yeah."

You finally opened your eyes and looked at him properly again.

For once, there wasn't a joke ready on his tongue.

"I can't fix this one, sweetheart." The words were quiet. Honest. "I can't." You swallowed hard. Dean's hand settled against your cheek. "But I can get you pancakes at midnight." A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Dean smiled immediately. "And pie," he added. "Very important."

You leaned forward and kissed him again, softer this time.

"I love you," you whispered against his lips. Dean's expression softened instantly.

"Love you too." Then, because he physically couldn't leave a serious moment alone for too long. "Now c'mon, princess. Your prince is starving."

You groaned. "You ruined it."

Dean grinned, pressing a kiss to your temple as he stood and pulled you up with him.

"Yeah," he said, lacing his fingers through yours. "But you're still smiling."

And annoyingly enough, he was right.

[thesundontshineontheseeyebrows]

𓍯𓂃 all the things i wish i could do if i could have you (p2) || dean winchester x fem!reader 𓍯𓂃

➶ warnings: 18+, MOC!Dean, angst, pining and possessiveness and perversion, fingering, oral sex (m!receiving), making out, sexual fantasies, dean grappling with actually feeling emotions, light alcohol consumption, violent/dark imagery, best friends to (technically) lovers, slow burn, porn with plot -- please let me know if i miss anything!

➶ summary: it’s Dean’s birthday. He knows he’s meant to be having a good time and focusing on all his friends and family celebrating him, but all he can seem to think about or see is you. Especially what he would do if you were his.

➶ word count: 7.6k words

quick note: hello folks! so, i decided to split part two (so there's one last part to come!!) because otherwise it was going to be like 25k and that just felt a bit silly. enjoy <3

(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ find part one back here (☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part three here

Make no mistake, Dean has thought deeply and thoroughly about the first time he makes you his and he yours. Many times before.

But tonight... tonight feels different. It feels certain.

It’ll all start at the end of the night. When everyone’s said their final goodnights and happy birthdays to Dean and left the bunker. You and him are cleaning up after the party, the music’s still playing but it’s much quieter now. Dean’s told Sam not to worry about helping clear the mess of dirty plates, finished bottles, and half-eaten food because he really should get some well needed beauty sleep.

Sam rolls his eyes from the hallway passage, tilting the right side of his head towards his brother with an annoyed huff before throwing his left hand in the air and walking away. Dean can hear you behind him, over by the wooden table in the middle of the room, fail to stifle a chuckle. 

He carefully watches Sam walk down the bunker’s corridor and disappear around a corner, and when he hears his brother’s footsteps fade to nothing and the door to his bedroom shut, Dean can’t help the guileful smile painted on his face as he turns 180 towards a preoccupied you, his feet carrying him to your left side without a second thought. You’ve got three stacked plates in the crook of your right forearm against your chest, your left arm reaching out over the table for another plate.

Dean reaches you in six steps.

His feet plant him half a step away, his front facing your side. “Thank you,” he says, your name lingering in the air.

You’ll flick your head towards him with that warm smile, your cheeks full and eyes crinkling, that sends soft waves over his chest. “I didn’t do anything, Dean,” your face and eyes shift back to the table, scanning for any other plates to grab, “Not really.”

He’ll be quick with his response, not allowing the air from your self-effacing to settle, “You did everything, sweetheart.” And you’ll tilt your head, your face in a dubious scrunch. He won’t let you challenge him – not right now, at least. “You are everything,” he counters, low and firm.

That makes you pause, your breath hitching, left arm hanging mid-air.

Your voice is slightly hoarse when you speak again, big soft eyes with a glint, as you turn your head to look up at him, “Dean...”

He’ll take the final half-step towards you, and the tip of his shoe will bump the side of your own. He’s looking down at you and he can see the complete change in your breathing. Just how he likes it. Your mouth has parted, chest rising and falling in weighted movements.

You blink twice – not breaking eye contact with him – swallow, and then put the four plates nestled in your right arm back on a small cleared space on the table in front of you. They’ll clatter a little. Then you turn fully to him. Tilt your chin up.

There’s a little bit more space between your shoes and bodies now – maybe a finger apart – because of the shuffle of your feet to make sure you’re giving him your full attention.

Dean needs to close it.

And he doesn’t need The Mark to tell him.

But Dean’s right hand will flex in anticipation first, then he’ll raise it from his side to cup your face, the pad of his thumb resting on the top of your cheekbone while his folded index finger sits just behind the hinge of your jaw, near your ear. He starts to rub his thumb back and forth, impressing the skin, yet still soft with the touch. Measured. Tender.

A little sound escapes your mouth, and it’s almost a whimper.

Oh, darlin’, the sounds I’m gonna pull from you.

You lean lightly into the side of his palm, and he’ll take a deep inhale in return. Because you didn’t flinch or look disgusted. You didn’t pull away from him. You lent further into him. You want him to touch you.

He’s always wanted to feel your head tilt into his hand.

Despite the bunker’s usual prickling coldness, your cheek feels so warm – lush and beautiful and everything that Dean isn’t against his rough and battered hands. Although filtered by the yellow hue of the lamp-lit room, the rosy haze across the tops of your cheeks is blooming again.

The eye contact connecting you both is heavy. Your eyes are big. Puppy-like. Long electrical currents pulse between your bodies, and there’s a soft golden gleam in your eyes from that very same lighting that makes Dean’s stomach flip. Like he’s riding the downhill dip of a rollercoaster.

Your right arm moves to touch Dean – and he can’t wait for this part. Your fingers start at his left rib set, slowly sliding up his chest over his dark checkered flannel, and he can feel the fabric run against his heated skin as your hand glides upwards, before finally stopping over the spot where his heart is beating. Fast. So fast he thinks his sternum will crack open.

But his body is relaxed. Not tensed. He knows he’s about to be yours, and you be his. At last.

His eyes will drop to your lips. But instead of moving between each of your own eyes – calculatedly pausing just like he had earlier in the night – his gaze will run up to the dip of your cupid’s bow, then to your nose, and finally lock back onto both your eyes.

A ragged breath falls from you, your right fingers bunching his shirt, and then you pull him down slightly as you lean up. To kiss him. Dean’s never sure if his mouth will dry or pool with saliva in anticipation of this touch.

In most of his fantasies, Dean likes to think you’ll be the first one to close your eyes when you first kiss – because you’ve been waiting for this just as long as he has, and needed it just as badly. And he needs to see that look on you.

Not tonight, though.

No, he’ll be the first to close them. Because this clawing precipice of longing is killing him and he needs it to happen now.

So he goes to close his eyes to make the moment real and now. But when your lips don’t meet his within two heavy breaths, he opens them just a little. Confused. And when he looks down at you, searching, your eyes are watching him, half-lidded. A soft grin twitches over your lips, your nostrils expanding as a small satisfied huff of air ghosts Dean’s lips.

Are you teasing him?

Cheeky.

He smirks back. The touch from his thumb and index finger shifting to just the slightest grip. Christ, you make him hard.

And then you both close that final distance in an insisting motion that makes Dean’s heart lurch as his lips meet the softness and wetness of yours.

This, Dean thinks, is the good moment.

It’s not a quick kiss.

It’s slow, so slow. And warm. Deep. Open-mouthed but no tongue.

And it’s not tentative. It’s charged. A reclaiming. Like you’ve done this together a million times before. Because he’s yours. And you're his.

He can taste the last wisps of alcohol you were drinking earlier, and he wishes he could just drink in every single inch and strand of you.

The Mark buzzes. Euphoric vibrations travelling across his right forearm. A white-hot tingle washes through the muscles and tendons of his back, down each vertebrae of his spine. The tip of your nose is brushing the dip between his own nose and cheek, and he can feel your slowed exhale fanning his face. There’s an unmistakable relieved tension dissipating between you both with each heartbeat and languid movement of lips against one another’s, the mortar binding together Dean’s withholding, self-loathing, and unworthiness crumbling to let himself have you.

A quiet, warm hum sounds in your throat, and it redirects all the blood coursing through his veins to his head and heart in a thick, sweet rush; a smooth burn like a slow savouring sip of scotch whiskey, running from his tongue down his throat to his chest, with a mingling malted edge. The warmth doesn’t finish when it pools in his stomach – it flutters down the back of his thighs, down his calves, and through to his toes to make him feel like his entire body has dissolved into the air.

He can’t help but groan lowly into you – you’re too divine to not touch. Taste. Feel.

Dean brings you in closer. His fingers slide across the underside of your jaw to the line of your neck, fingertips just reaching your nape while his thumb rests hungrily on the hinge of your jaw. He can feel your pulse thrumming. It’s just as quick as his.

Rising from his side, his left arm snakes around your waist, bypassing the curve (that he reminds himself to come back to later) to splay and push his big hand into the dip of your lower back so that you’re pressed firm against him. The swell of your breasts is soft against his chest, making a full-body shudder run through Dean at the sensation.

You gently break the kiss, panting hot little breaths, but Dean immediately chases the warmth and softness of your lips and pulls you back in. Because finally. Finally he’s getting to kiss you. To know and savour you.

And he doesn’t want to stop.

He’ll feel you smile against him when his lips meet yours again, and you moan, dark but sweet, and he’ll swallow it like it’ll be his last meal. This time, he starts lightly biting your bottom lip. And with each kiss, the way you move against each other quickens and heats. Moulding to each other. Devotion and desire beginning to blur.

A huff of air leaves you with a whine, and your right hand unbunches from the middle of his shirt to slide up to the hollow of his neck before moving to grip his hair at his nape, your forearm against his clavicle. Your left hand runs purposely up the side of Dean’s waist – goosebumps rising with each clothed touch – reaching out to feel the taut muscles and curving of his back as your arm hooks under his upper arm to grip tightly onto his shoulder.

Fucking yes.

He feels like he’s going to pass out. You’re hungry for him. He doesn’t know when his dick became rock-hard (again, or did it ever stop being hard?), but the throbbing between his thigh and jeans is now achingly undeniable.

“Dean...”, you mumble heatedly, intoxicatingly into his mouth, wet lips gliding heavily against his. Your right hand is raking through his short hair, teasing his scalp with each curling of your fingers and scratch of your nails. It’s almost torture. “Take me to my room.”

And when he stops, not wanting to pull back – because he needs to keep kissing you, but doing so because he has to make sure that he can somehow protect what little bit he has left of his pathetic self after three decades of perpetual loss, death, and pain, and tell you that he can’t just do this for one night, be something that doesn’t really mean anything to you because you are everything to him – he’ll see a look in your eyes.

The look.

The one with a consuming heat that seeps into every pore and crevice of him to draw him into you impossibly further, and he couldn’t tear away from it even if he tried. You’re asking him to touch you. Need him to touch you. And you’re not asking for just one night. You’re asking him for all of them.

All that stupid, backbreaking, and soul crushing fear that ropes constrictingly around his neck and fuses his bones tightly together, that stops him from hoping he might be good enough for you and you might love him the way he loves you, dissolves into nothing.

And this might be the only time you let yourself ask something of Dean. He sure as hell won’t say no.

He’ll grab your right forearm pressing just above his heaving chest, give one last kiss to your lips – this one a little sweeter but just as deep – then down to the skin of your wrist where your veins catch the light, and drag you down the hallway to exactly where you both want to be.

The grey brick and cement bunker walls blur as he pulls you along, arms outstretched, hands clasped tightly together. The biggest smiles on your faces. Panting. Glowing. You giggling. He can’t stop looking at you. But that’s okay. He could run to your room with his eyes closed.

The only thing outside of you that he notices is the corner you pass together, the one that he’d waited for Sam to turn before he hungrily sought you out. 

Maybe you’ll want to take control, though.

Mmm, he likes that idea.

So he backtracks his daydream a little; you’ll stop him halfway down the hallway, overcome by the need to have his lips, have him, on you.

With both hands (and a slightly impressive strength), you shove him against the wall, the echo of his back thudding into the brick mixed with the sudden loss of air from his lungs, and the impact force against his muscles sending a wave of sickening arousal through him.

The way you’re looking at him – like you’re simultaneously about to worship and devour him – makes his cock twitch violently, and a wrecked sound Dean tries so suck in reverberates off the walls of the empty hallway.

Jesus Christ.

You’re panting, chest rising rapidly and weighted. The tip of your tongue is running along the back and top of your bottom teeth. He can’t wait to feel it in his mouth and suck it.

You almost pounce on him, hands flying to possessively grip each of his shoulders, forearms pressed into his heaving chest. Then your mouth crashes into him, messy and hard, followed by a roll of your hips and chest into his, making his eyes close with a sinful flutter. The coiling wrapping around and pulling his stomach sharpens so tight that he thinks he might go blind with lust. His hands shoot up to your waist, his hold on you only to be described as desperate.

Your left hand pulls the collar of his shirt across his shoulder to expose his skin, your face moving to press a hot open-mouthed kiss to the dip of his left collar bone, and you lick up his neck to his jaw. This time, Dean’s hips jerk uncontrollably forward into you, and he knows you can feel just how badly his taut dick is straining against his jeans.

It’d be impossible not to.

“Dean,” you purr, breathy in his ear, nipping at the lobe. Your right hand's moved from his shoulder to grip his neck with just a hint of pressure, “why’d you make me wait so long?”

It makes him groan into your ear, brows pulling together in searing pleasure and agony, his big hands with a bruising clutch now firm on both your hips, his fingers digging into the plush to centre himself.  I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.

The left side of his stubble will scrape deliciously along your jaw as he leans down to return your heated kisses on your neck, lightly biting and sucking spots before he licks them.

His hold on you suddenly disappears as you fall to your knees in front of him, a sexy giggle leaving you and your eyes staring lazily up at him, pupils blown wide and black with need. Your hands slip down his chest to his waist, a wave of heat trailing from your clothed touch as you slowly inch towards his thick muscled thighs before your hands glide behind them, splayed. Dean’s nostrils flare with each pant, and he feels himself salivating. He can hear how loudly the sound of his harsh breathing fills the watching hallway.

There’s no embarrassment or shame to feel about how needy (and maybe a little pathetic) he is. But there is a thrill that rushes through his veins and makes a possessive spark ache in his lungs and bones – a thrill that somebody could see you touching him like this because you just have to. His balls pull tight.

You’ll grab at his flannel, lifting it up a little to touch his bare stomach and rake your nails down his flexing muscles. He really likes the whisper of pain it leaves.

You trail wet kisses across his navel, looking beautifully up at him through your eyelashes. Dean’s hands press against the cold bricks of the hallway, pushing his hips off the wall so he can watch you better, and he sees the sides of your mouth turn in a proud, knowing smile, pricking up at the sides. Each calculated kiss feels like you’re branding him with your mouth. He loves it.

Then you begin downwards, following his snail trail with a suck and a lick, and Dean’s breath stutters when your mouth and hands pause as you reach the waistband of his jeans. Your index and middle fingers run along the top of the denim fabric, nails skimming the dip between his hips. The muscles there twitch as your hot breath fans the flushing skin, and your low-hung eyes drink in how his body is helplessly reacting to your touch.

Your thumbs press into his leather belt, and then your fingers slip in between him and his jeans.

Fuck.

Your fingertips slide along the inside band of his jeans, Dean helplessly bucking his hips in drowning desire, and on your way back to the middle just below his belly button, your fingers dip further down so that your knuckles dig a little into his brief-covered groin.

Your head bobs down slightly, eye-contact breaking only to press a deep kiss into Dean’s prominent bulge. You both moan at the sensation – Dean’s stifled by him biting sharply into his bottom lip while yours is muffled by his jeans.

Your face moves back to be an inch away from his dick, tilting your chin up to look at him. Lust-blown eyes return to his with an erotic smile, and your fingers slip out and begin slowly unbuckling his belt. The metal clink and leather slapping as you draw out the belt from the denim loops makes Dean dig his fingernails into his palms at the sweet torture of your teasing.

“Goddamnit, sweetheart,” he rasps. Over the almost deafening thumping of his heart, he can just hear an echoing clunk down the hallway walls as you drop his belt to the floor.

“You okay, Dean?” you respond, your brows pulling up as you pout, voice laced with fake-concern, hands moving to unbutton his jeans with a pop, “you seem a little...”, your right thumb and index finger pull down the zipper, “tense.”

All he can do is release a gruff, breathy huff in amazement.

In contrast to your earlier movements, you waste no time yanking his jeans down his hips, leaving them to hang just above his knees. His boxers are obscenely tented, and your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip, both of your hands gripping the muscle of his warm, bared thighs, thumbs pressing into the inner sides. Then you wink up at him.

Oh baby, I can’t wait to fuck you.

You rub the left side of your face up and down against his cock straining in his briefs like a cat, your cheek running firm along his length, nose pressing at his tip where there’s most definitely a wet patch you can see and feel. His eyes almost roll to the back of his head, your nose dipping in a half-circle near his balls to press the right side of your face against him, but he’s trying so hard to keep his eyes open and locked on you kneeling in front of him – for him – to make sure he doesn’t miss a second of you.

Your right cheek rubs along him again, and your name falls from his lips in both a trembling and reverent plea and praise. Your head turns up to meet his gaze as you begin placing filthy kisses and mouthing at his aching cock.

He might just come undone from you doing just that.

Then you flutter your lashes with big eyes and take him into your mouth through his briefs. Just the head. You’ll moan vulgarly at the feel of him heavy on your tongue. The taste. And the view Dean has of you is nothing short of holy – plush lips wrapped tightly around the blackened outline of his ridge; fingers kneading deeply into the muscle of his thighs; wide eyes with almost no ring of colour staring up at him through your lashes like he’s something to worship – and his head thuds against the wall, a hot sting flooding his brain that makes him feel fuzzy like he’s drunk.

He can feel how hot and wet your mouth is as you start sucking obscenely on his tip, rolling your tongue flat along the bottom side of his throbbing cock head, and the noise that spills from his own mouth sounds like he’s been sucker punched.

Dean curses, his left hand unclenching from his side to tangle in the crown of your hair. Not forceful, but devotional. To know and feel that you’re real.

Your right hand will move to cup and fondle his balls, your left hand sliding up his thigh to where his briefs finish and back down to his burning bare skin. You start bobbing your head, lips only ever going just past his sensitive ridge each time you take him in deeper, and Dean’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding.

The fingers of his left hand are laced with the soft locks of your hair. Every time your lips run over that bump, he can feel the precum drip from his throbbing slit, his hand squeezing. You hum around him in response, licking at him, and it vibrates up his length, making his groin and stomach coil with an intense, heavy heat.

Both your hands are still on him as you pull your mouth away from his thick cockhead, a filthy line of spit still connecting you both. Dean makes something between a grunt and a whine at the sudden loss of your heat and touch as the cold bunker air replaces you around the now fully soaked outline of him. There’s a smug grin on your face, and with a final, slow lick along his twitching length, your right hand grabbing at the belt by his feet, you begin rising from your knees.

Dean bends to immediately grab your face with both of his hands and pull you up into a messy, teeth-clashing kiss. It’s sloppy, and you grind your hips into him with each sharp heavy inhale, moaning.

He brings your bottom lip in between his teeth to bite as both your own hands reach down to grab the waistband of his jeans. You drag them up to sit back around his hips, but let them hang open, his bulge poking through the gap, your hands gripping at his hipbones. Tongues start licking into each others’ mouths, and he can feel the kiss thickening with saliva and lust and urgency. The warm and wet taste of your mouth is sweet, and Dean thinks he might drown in it. Happily.

Your feet move away from him first, then your hips. Your mouths are still slick and frantic against each other as you hook your right middle finger into one of Dean’s front belt loops and tug him towards you off the wall, his grunt swallowed by your mouth as he walks along with your back stepping. And he follows you like the good dog that he is.

Instead of turning left at the split of the hallway – like he would to go to his room – you pull him right, and he lets out a rough and broken breath. He’s going to your room. Your bed.

Your mouths meet again in short, brutal bursts as you reach your door. You’ll fumble for the metal handle behind you with your left hand, but it’s not quick enough for Dean, so his right hand drops from your jaw to twist the handle and shove the door open. It bangs loudly against the wooden chest of drawers to the right in your room, rattling, as you fall into the room together. He uses the momentum to calculatedly guide and turn your body around with his hips and his right hand on your waist, pushing your frame to slam the door close. His shadow casts possessively over you, drawn by a bedside lamp, and he deliberately ruts his soaked clothed cock into your heat, making you arch into him, whine at him.

Yeah, pretty girl, let me know how badly you need me.

You’re both headily breathless now. The shared air between your bodies losing oxygen with each kiss, your mouth searing against his. Hungry. Filthy. Dean opens his eyes, closes them, then opens them again – he can’t decide if he wants to watch you or be totally consumed by you. He can feel your jaw flexing in the palm and fingers of his left hand in rhythm with the devouring shifting of your lips and tongue. Skin hot and alive.

Your hands are everywhere in his hair, tangled, pulling, scraping, and he knows if he saw himself in the mirror at this very moment, he’d look like the happiest man in the history of every universe who’d just grabbed a live wire from an electric fence. 

Dean’s right hand is sliding up and down the clothed side of your waist, dragging and measured squeezes with a lasting burn, the fabric of your top bunching in between his curling fingers. Your top is riding up unevenly at the hem from his touching, and on one particular glide of his hand, his rough fingers meet the soft flesh of your waist and disappear underneath the black material on the slide back up. You make a beautiful high, needy sound.

Both of your hands move to the back of his head, right hand gripping his nape, left palm over the shell of his left ear and fingers reaching to the back of his head, pulling him in impossibly closer. You kiss him hard and long.

Dean’s trying to take in the actual feel of you. Your skin. Your heat. His touch is reverent attention – learning the warmth and shape and movements so uniquely you. Steady yet urgent.

The fingers of his right hand are featherlight as he grazes over your navel, deliberately pausing in the middle to test how little pressure from his touch it takes to make you react, then dragging them slowly down like he’s tracing a river on a map. Down over the start of your skirt – your breath hitching, a shiver, the muscles of your lower stomach twitching – down the middle of the burgundy fabric, over the mound of your core – he doesn’t press, just graces the fabric with his calloused fingertips, making you buck into his touch in desperate want and need. He keeps going to the hem – feeling the heat radiating from in between your thighs – and then his fingers fall briefly to empty space between your legs, before he pushes forward to claim flesh and warmth, slowly lifting the skirt up with the twist of his wrist as his fingers slip behind fabric and move upwards.

When he finally touches the skin of your bare thigh, Dean can’t help the ungodly and low groan that rolls into your mouth, pulling your bottom lip in between his teeth to suck it. Your chest rises and falls with a stuttering heavy weight, breathing sharp and ragged.

He shifts his left knee to sit in between your legs to keep them apart, pressing against the inner side of your right thigh. He’ll let you use your thighs to squeeze him later when you ride him.

The sides of his fingertips and fingernails stroke up the flesh of your inner left thigh, and you’re just so soft and warm.

He should just drop to his knees and absolutely ruin you with his tongue and mouth.

Ruin you for anybody else.

Only his.

As Dean’s hand continues up, he feels something wet and sticky against his touch. Realisation that it’s your slick dripping down from your cunt sends a hot bolt of pure and unforgiving need straight to his stomach and groin.

Fucking fuck.

Against your lips, eyes shut in dark delirium and rapture, he says your name in awe, “sweetheart, already this wet just from–”

“You can’t talk, Winchester,” you interject with a smug huff. There’s that witty bite of yours that he loves.

And you’re 100% fucking right.

Your words are like oxygen to the fires blazing in his body. A slow, dangerous smile spreads across Dean’s face – his heart surging – and then his mouth is back on yours, kissing you in raw hunger. Almost animalistic.

His long fingers will slip higher, and when he reaches the soft crease between your thigh and pussy, he’ll discover you are, in fact, not wearing any underwear. His face pulls away from yours, just a few inches, and his gaze snaps to where his hand is hidden, a brief impasse of shock, before his eyes return to your glinting ones. Dean will quirk his eyebrows, a dark and predatory smirk breaking.

So he wasn’t imagining it.

Awesome.

His index and middle fingers drift across your heat, and he can feel how puffy and soaked your slit is as your smeared arousal coats his fingertips. Dean’s mouth is watering.

He won’t dip in between your slit – not yet – instead running his calloused fingertips along the outside curves, circling up to where your clit is – but still not touching where he knows you want him most – and sliding along to the other side of your swollen lips. Your fingernails dig sharply into his scalp and the skin and muscle of his neck. Your hips jerking. For his touch.

Oh you’re so beautifully desperate for him. And Dean, even with The Mark, isn’t mean (he is, just not to you) – so he hums with deep indulgence as he slips over your folds – but still with a little teasingly slow shift to really draw you into him – burning fingers sitting right where your dripping entrance is, before he dips in between your puffy lips to collect more of your slick and drag his fingers up to your clit.

Your breath cracks loudly. You stop kissing him; hot, laboured panting replacing the movements of your mouth, fanning Dean’s lips and nose. Your lashes flutter twice, then your black eyes almost snap back up to his. Locked. He can feel your legs twitch, a whole-body shudder, fingers lingering on your pulsing clit.

Dean wears a lazy grin, his forehead dropping to yours with his eyelids hanging low as he watches you, devours your reaction.

The hold his left hand has on your jaw is looser, now. Tender but still with a firm possessive touch.

He circles your clit once, twice, kissing you on the high of your right cheek, chaste but lovingly, then kisses your left one with the same affection. Dean’s gaze returns to yours, burning electricity sparking, and he’ll slide his index and middle fingers back down to your soaked entrance. Then he pushes in.

And the sound that spills from your mouth into Dean’s is a sin.

He begins to pump, slowly, into your heat, just to his mid knuckles, and the wet squelching of his thick fingers sliding against your walls each time he moves in and out of you is already lewd.

“Oh my god...” you moan, your voice failing on the last syllable. Your head lulls back to hit the wooden door. Your hips buck, warm thighs tensing and pushing Dean’s right hand against his knee still pinning you open.

“Yeah, pretty girl?” he hums, his mouth moving down to your neck, sucking and licking at your skin like greedy worship, “Makin’ you feel good, aren’t I?”

And he could almost cum just from the way you nod, frantic, brows in the most beautiful scrunch, “My fingers never feel this good, Dean.”

His hips roll hungrily into yours and stay firmly pressed against you. His face moves back up to kiss you hard, lips meeting with a bruising force, and he thrusts his fingers deeper, to the base knuckles of his hand, into you to reach that deliciously hot and gooey spot deep inside you that makes your knees falter. He chuckles low against your lips at the whorish moan you push into his mouth.

Dean detaches his mouth from yours again, shifting back just enough so that he can look down at you and watch the pleasure building on your face.

He wants to hear how you make yourself feel good, what spots make you moan the loudest, how many times you can make yourself cum.

“You touch yourself, baby?”, he drawls. Your top front teeth are just visible as they bite hard into your bottom lip.

A wrecked mmmhhm is all you can muster.

Dean’ll go to ask what you think about, fantasise about, because whilst he wants to – needs to make sure he makes you feel fucking amazing and blows your mind, he’s also secretly hoping that he already has a special spot in your thoughts – like he’s a photo framed and hung on the wall of your mind you fondly pass every day. He’d certainly carved out a space for you – a big one.

But you’re already a step ahead of him.

“But I always imagine it’s you touching me...your fingers inside me,” you simper, eyelids hung low but staring up at him with that sexy grin again. The sound that leaves Dean’s chest is fucking feral.

Dean’s mouth latches back onto yours, carnal and sloppy. His long fingers are pumping and curling with utter precision and devoted desire, the palm of his hand grinding into your clit with each thrust into your cunt. He can feel you clench around and suck them in as he rubs against your soft, wet walls. Still buried in his hair, your left hand is tightly gripping him, flexing almost in tandem with every thrust of Dean’s fingers. You’re struggling to kiss him back, trying so hard to match his lips and tongue, but you’re too caught up in ecstasy.

Choked gasps swim through the air of your bedroom. Thick with desire. Your hot and frantic panting heats Dean’s mouth, and he swallows every single one of them with pride. A deeply smug and satisfied curve definitely on his lips pressed against yours.  

Your right hand drops from its place on his neck to grope at your right breast, squeezing and kneading it, and Dean and The Mark could scream; you’re enjoying this. Really enjoying this. He’s making you feel so good that you have to touch yourself.

Dean knows the pressure must be building in your stomach, that you’re close to cumming, because your pussy is pulsing and gripping him tighter and tighter. He can feel your warm and sticky slick running down his long fingers, pooling in his soaked palm with growing obscenity in sound and sensation every time he pumps into you.

“Good girl, baby,” he purrs, his big left hand sliding down from your jaw to layer and grip your smaller hand squeezing your breast, his face shifting so that his lips sit next to your right ear. His stubble will scratch against the soft, flushed skin of your jaw and cheek, making you whine.

Dean’s still pressed hard against your body, and when you start wantonly rolling into him to meet his hand, he realises he had somehow forgotten about his cock, swollen and stiffly erect, and prodding incessantly at your hip through his ruined briefs, jeans still wide open.

He licks your ear, possessive, keeping his mouth open as he breathes heavy and sultry into you, “Look how responsive you are to me.” Your choked gasps are growing quieter as you keep sucking in air, not breathing out, and Dean thinks you’re about to cum.

And you do.

As the first wave hits you, your whole body tenses. Dean makes sure to immediately pull his head back to watch you, his lips ghosting yours and trading your air, because he cannot fucking miss this. When the peak finally washes over you, he’s awed and shamelessly gluttonous, committing to memory the way your eyes roll helplessly to the back of your head, only little bits of white visible as your jaw falls blissfully slack and a long, high-pitch moan shatters.

He needs to make you make that sound again.

And pull out all your others, too.

His own helpless groan responding to you slips from his mouth as your body arches off the door, pushing the back of your right hand and chest into Dean’s as your body starts vibrating, your walls clenching and spasming around his fingers still pumping and curling fast into your heat while his palm rubs your clit with primal need to keep you high.

The whole scene is art. And your beautiful face, with your sweet, warm noises and moving body go straight to Dean’s head, chest, fingers, and toes. And dick.

“That’s it,” he cooes sinister and low, deliberately pausing his words for a beat after he says your name, “give it all to me.”

Dean knows from the...long...list of women he’s fucked that they love to hear him say their name during sex with him – he never really understood why – but he realises at that exact finite moment why, and that he’s exactly like them; because he has to hear you moan his name.

He slows the thrusting of his middle and index fingers in and out of you to guide you gently down, delicate kisses placed on your forehead and rosy cheeks, and your soft little whimpers land like a light summer rain at twilight, making everything around you and him glow and blur at the edges with a quiet warmth.

When your eyelids drift back and fully open, Dean stills entirely – save for his slightly choppy breathing – and he can see that your eyes are a little glassy now, but the dark shade of lust and desire for you to have him is still humming.

And then, like a faint halo, there’s a ring cradling that need for him that Dean thinks (and really fucking hopes) is love.

Should I say something now?, he thinks.

His left hand finds a new place, sliding down along your arm to rest on your waist, grabbing carefully, thumb pressed to the front of your frame whilst his fingers sit measuredly behind the curve.

Your arms move to twine loosely and hang over his shoulders, and you tilt your chin up, a little to the side, to capture Dean’s lips in a tender, unhurried kiss. He can’t help but smile into it – a genuine, proper smile – and he can feel you echo him.  

Another good moment.

He’s been very lucky tonight.

Correction; he will be very lucky tonight.

Dean suddenly becomes aware of just how loud his heart is beating, still a little fast, but more steady. Full and warm. He knows it’s because of you.

He wants to hold your face with his right hand, but he’s still inside you.

“Gonna take my fingers out now, sweetheart.” He mumbles against you before leaving your mouth to kiss the tip of your nose. “That okay?”

You nod, eyes closed again and jaw shifting to chase and keep his lips on yours. When he fully slips his fingers out of you, a small whimper sounds, your mouth faltering briefly against his, brows lightly creasing.

Dean immediately misses your heat.

He can feel the way his two fingers stick together, coated in your warm, milky arousal for him, and he has to bring his right hand up to his face so that he can see it. Revel in it.

He shifts back a little, just so he can study his soaked fingers and palm, and when you try to pull him back in because you have to keep kissing him, he presses his hips firmly into yours to pin you against the door and leans back. You pout, huffing at the space Dean’s created as your arms still wrapped over and around his back extend so that your fingers are only just interlinked at his nape.

His right arm moves in between your bodies, just below his jaw so that you can both look at his fingers. And fuck.

He is glistening. Your slick clings to him as it runs slowly down to his palm. He’s fucking mesmerised, eyes wide and mouth parted, twisting his wrist to watch the light from your lamp catch your arousal. When he separates his fingers, an obscene, long, wet line of slick connects his index and middle fingers. The Mark pulses hot and violently and in primal satisfaction, building along his forearm, rippling up to his hand and bicep.

A smooth breathy chuckle rises from his chest, “Jesus,” he says with your name.

Your right hand moves up the back of his neck to thread in his hair, tugging gently, “What can I say, Dean Winchester”, your left hand slides to his jaw, sparking something low and dangerous in his heart and stomach as your soft and warm palm rubs against his stubble, your thumb running back and forth – languidly yet certain – over his bottom lip, “you get me really fucking wet.”

He’ll look down at you, a little stunned, but with the biggest, smitten grin on his face. And you’re looking up at him, chin tilted in a proud, almost challenging way because you know you got him good with that. There’s a pulse. A beat. No one blinks.

The air is humming. Heavy and pulling like just before a summer thunderstorm. Your face says it all: You’re move, Dean.

Okay, sweetheart. Let’s play.

Without breaking eye-contact, he slowly raises his right hand to his face, gliding deliberately over your thumb still grazing his swollen lips, and pushes his slick-covered fingers into his mouth.

The instant head rush nearly makes him pass out.

Rich heat consumes him entirely, heady coursing from his mouth through his nose and down his throat, saliva pooling as a taste so unequivocally you melts across and into his tongue with each swirl and suck of his fingers. It’s sweet. Fuck, you’re sweet. It’s like he’s breathing in your underwear again – but it’s so much better than that night. Stronger. Even more drunkening.

Is that a word?

Fuck it – it is now.

And he could almost blow his load right then and there. He’s sure you can probably tell that, too, by the absolute wrecked noise he makes.

But Dean manages to hold himself back – together – keeps his eyes open. Just. Because he needs to see your reaction for what he’s done and is about to say.

So he swallows you down, and his eyes refocus on you; your face, your body, your breathing, carefully tracking every single moment and shift and movement with that particular gaze he wears on a hunt – calculating, dark, unwavering, and completely patient. And you’re already watching him, especially the way his lips are wrapped around his glossy middle and index fingers, just a little transfixed.

Good.

Dean (almost reluctantly) pulls his fingers out of his mouth with a lewd smack, dragging the wetness from both you and him down your thumb, now stilled just below his lower lip. “God, sweetheart, d’you know how good you taste?”, he asks, voice rough but laced with guile.

The smart look you were holding fizzles with a catch in your throat, mouth lightly gaping. And you blush. That beautiful pink tinge across your cheeks that makes his heart swell and constrict, that he would die for because he knows it means he got you good. He can see the shift in your legs as you squirm, then try to press your thighs together despite his knee still between them, trying to find some friction. And your eyes that are unable to stay fixed, moving focus between his fingers and mouth and eyes and back? Almost entirely dilated black, again – engulfed by hunger for him – like a cat about to pounce, ready to bite and tear him apart. Exactly how he wants it. Exactly how he wants you.

You don’t let him be cocky for long, though – you never do, if you can help it – playing your next move almost straight away.

Leaving his face, your left hand grabs his right, wrapping around as much of his palm as you possibly can, and he has just enough time to blink only once before you slip the two fingers he’d just had in his mouth past your lips and into your own mouth.

Jesus fuck.

Your eyes roll back, lids deliberately fluttering with careful, sinful intent as you suck hard once, twice on his fingers – hard enough that he can feel a deep pull in his body towards yours, and a warm, sultry moan rumbles from you through his fingers, reverberating over his hand and up his arm. The Mark spasms.

But you don’t give Dean long enough to properly feel it as you pull his hand back, releasing his fingers from your wet and velvety mouth with a slippery pop. Your big eyes return to his, parted kiss-swollen lips shining from the seraphic mixture of yours and his spit, and a burning, unrepentant fervour set across your face that he knows means you know that he’s completely lost to you.

He definitely needs to put his fingers in your mouth again.

SO SORRY this has taken me so long to post. Shits and shenanigans. I think the next (and last) part is probably going to be my favourite for this mini series, so stay tuned!! <3

tag list for attiwicdiichy:

@noisyflowerking @youdontknowmethatwell @kelseaackles @yournaughtyandcutelittlegirl @rach5ive @spectralgalaxygauntlet @slavic-empress @spxideyver @thatonedindjarinfan @moonbakugo050 @logansdollxx @spookyysinsanity @retrobabe8-5 @aniresrene @imarealmermaid777 @k-d--h @swoopyloopy @laniluvsit @jazzz0 @honeyed-hazed @leopardprintlover89 @cndmdzc

[cujja]

Cuffing Season

Dean has always made things hard for you, so why would now be any different?

Part 1, Part 2 Warnings/tags: Everyone being in denial, Sam Winchester cries during sex but make it Dean crying during head, making it weird by almost saying L word, sloppiest of toppies, smidge of jealousy, Dean kinda being the only emotionally forward one in the relationship (first time ever), changed from the preview so there's another part in the works cuz im a rascal, reader is lowkey kinda mean but he kinda deserves it bc im rewatching s9, some references to Dean's internalised misogyny/manwhore-ness. Also, no one talk to me about s5 of the boys. it is a very sensitive topic for me....

You don't mention the Arizona incident. Or the car incident. Or the one after that. Or that other time.

Outwardly, nothing's changed. You and Dean still fight like cats and dogs. He goes left, you spitefully go right. Sam's still left playing arbitrator, he just doesn't know about the alternative mediation tactic you two have tucked up your sleeves: sex. A whole lot of it. 

Dean still flirts with anything alive and you still snark about him needing to get tested despite you both knowing he's not going to call the number the waitress slipped him and you've stopped bothering with condoms after he proudly presented you with a clean report. It only got weird in Washington when he didn't bite the bait thrown out by the gorgeous mechanic. 

Sam was so concerned he even asks you about it when Dean had slunk off to the bathroom at lunch. 

"I don't know, Sam, but I have better things to worry about than your brother's overactive sex-life." You'd lied convincingly through a mouthful of fries. Sam's eyes lag on the spot where Dean had ducked into the men's room, sparkling with concern. 

He pushes unenthusiastically at his yoghurt, "It's not like I enjoy thinking about it either, it's just..." He shrugs his shoulders and slumps his chin into his palm, "He's different. Not bad different. Just not himself. Don't tell me you haven't noticed it."

"Fine, I guess maybe a little, but different isn't a bad thing, right? No offence, but Dean definitely has room for improvement, personality-wise. It wouldn't kill him to think with his head rather than his dick for once." You muse, and it placates Sam enough to squeeze a perfunctory chuckle from him. 

He twirls his spoon, absorbed in thought. You sneak a look between him and your lunch, which has started to taste like chalk in your mouth. Dean's sliding of that clean test over to you was an implicit pledge of not dipping his wick in every candle that gave him a solicitous once over. You'd requited that by skipping condoms and working into conversation about your IUD. That was the extent of the commitment. There was no dates, no aftercare. Just fucking. 

Him passing up a leggy brunette who was also a mechanic didn't sit right with you, though. It felt too much like strings were being attached. 

You'd confronted him about it when he'd snuck into your room after lights out. Dean was lounging on your mattress, looking mightily pleased with himself, like he had a right to be there. He'd looked at you strangely when you broached the topic.

"Just wasn't feeling it, that's all," Dean had shrugged, ambling his deft fingers underneath the back of your shirt to tickle up your spine. You were perched at the foot of the bed with a respectable distance put between the two of you. He'd closed it within an instance, nosing against your jawline, "But, if you're sayin' you don't want me to pay you back for the blowjob in Portland, then just let me know..."

That drew the conversation to a grinding halt and Dean had spent the rest of the evening getting comfy between your thighs. 

The case in Idaho Falls was your tipping point, though. 

Sam lost shotgun privileges after choosing to eat something with beans in for lunch. It's not often you get the passenger seat, mostly because you're liable to jerk the wheel into oncoming traffic if Dean irritates you too much, so you make the most of it. 

Dean's mumbling along to the song playing, Sam's catching up on his eight-hours and you're reviewing the case. It was Dean's choice. He'd sprang it on you after barely wrapping up a poltergeist in Glendive. It was a suspected werewolf, and Dean loved hunting werewolves, so you were on the road within the hour. 

"Pretty gruesome, right?" 

You blink up from the page, looking at him a little dumbfounded, "Huh?"

Dean flicks the paper you're holding without taking his gaze off the interstate marker ahead, "The case, stupid. What else would I be talking about? Your face?" 

"Real mature. How long did that one take you to think up?" You mutter with a quirk of your brow, rustling through the newspaper clippings. For Dean, he'd done a commendable job pooling all of it together. He hadn't just blindly insisted he had a bad feeling about one of the headlines, like usual. 

It sounded like the start to one of those run-of-the-mill horror films Dean makes you and Sam watch where there's excessive gore and girls running without bras. A local lovers' lane was being terrorised by a series of mysterious and vicious attacks. More than three couples had been torn to shreds, each missing their hearts, and found a disturbing distance from their parked cars. 

You set the bundle down in the footwell, crossing your arms, "So, what's the plan when we get there? We going the animal control or FBI route?"

"Neither," He chucks a roughish grin over his shoulder that fills you with doubt. A Dean plan never goes according to plan, "Best course of action is taking Cujo down head on. We can go undercover as a couple, shoot the bastard and celebrate with mind-blowing sex for three hours. Win-win." 

You consult the rearview mirror. Sam's still soundly asleep. You don't think you'd hear the end of it if he found out about your fraternising. Dean isn't half as careful as you are, especially if he's had a few drinks and decides he wants his hand under your shirt right then and there. 

"Sounds risky. We should all go." 

Dean grimaces, "I don't want people thinkin' I'm in a thruple with Sammy, even if it is only to a werewolf. We're not bringing him." 

"Alright, what about me and Sam? I'd feel a lot safer with someone a lot less trigger happy." You snipe, ever the contrarian. He waves off your suggestion by throwing his head back with a loud laugh, slapping the steering wheel.

"You and Sam? Please. Like anyone's gonna buy that." He shakes his head as though that's truly the most facetious thing he's ever heard, his lips bent into a wide smile that brightens up his whole face. 

You harrumph, "But people will buy you and me?" 

Dean's hand abandons its post on the gear stick and squeezes your thigh. You frown down at it, debate shoving him off, but you'll allow it. Sam's not looking, so what does it matter? 

"Hell yeah, sweetheart. We've got chemistry. We can be like one of those couples that hates each other's guts but still screw like rabbits," He lowers his voice and gives you an absurd wink, "We've got good practise at both of those things." 

Despite yourself, you laugh. It's a small one, more of a scoff, but it validates Dean all the same, "Jesus Christ, fine, fine. I'll do it if it'll shut you up."

It does, and his hand remains a steady presence on your thigh up until Dubois, when Sam starts stirring.

The budget stretches to afford you your own room for a change. It's a rare treat, but without the recurrent warble of conversation flowing between Sam and Dean, you're left stewing in your own thoughts. And it's not a nice place to be, because you're mostly thinking about Dean.

You hadn't told anyone. Directly. Bobby knows, but Bobby doesn't count, because he'd come to the conclusion on his own. It'd been after the blizzard conundrum in Wyoming, and Dean had whipped up stuff from childhood in your head, and you were very, very lost. Bobby always gave you clarity.

In not so many words, he'd disapproved. Said that the guy you weren't seeing, but weren't not seeing, and who's definitely not Dean, was a good man but you'd fare well not to get attached. Not-Dean's fun and exciting in moderation, yet if you think you can fix him, you should cut your losses before someone gets hurt.

And you can't fault Bobby for any of it. So, it was decided. You'll give Dean a few months of fun then throw in the towel. Everyone wins. Things can go back to normal and you can find a more appropriate guy to have casual sex with rather than the guy who still thinks pulling on a girl's pigtails is an acceptable way to flirt.

It was like you'd conjured him. You'd just switched into pyjamas and made your mind up about him when Dean was inviting himself in, looking for trouble.

"You've showered and you're wearing a clean shirt. You going out?" You remark, hands on your hips as you make a big show of taking him in. He's clearly planning on staying for a while, though, because he hangs his leather jacket over the back of the chair.

"Nah, just had to sell it to Sammy that I was off out, chasin' tail, and not next-door." He shrugs, eyes twinkling. Dean collapses on the bed and snatches up the TV remote, flicking lazily through channels.

When you don't move from your spot at the vanity, observing him with a weird look, he lets out an impatient sigh and beckons you over, "If I wanted to watch TV alone, I coulda done that back at mine. Get over here, woman."

You're tempted to refuse on principle alone, but soon defer when grapples with his fly and tugs out soft cock, and you can't resist. As long as he's here for something sexual, you can handle that. Dean drapes his arm around your shoulders as you settle in beside him, chin stationed on top of your head.

Through the thin material of his t-shirt, you can feel Dean's muscles flexing when your hand travels across his abdomen. He's just the right amount of muscular, in your opinion. Enough thew to fuck you up against the wall, not too much that there's not some softness there too.

"You actually smell really nice. What is that? I know it's not motel shampoo." You prop yourself up a little and use his stomach as leverage, which makes him huff.

Grumbling, Dean pats his hair, which has turned spiky now that it's damp, "So shoot me, I put a bit of effort into my appearance. Don't chicks like that? Want me to go smear myself in pig shit, or something?"

"So long as you don't expect me to start tasting of daisies, scrub up all you like," You surrender, stifling a giggle on his behalf. You ruffle his hair yourself and Dean delivers a playful, reproving swat to your ass, "Hey, it's cute. Like a baby duckling, only grumpier."

He's offended by the comparison, you can tell by the way his lips press in a straight line, but he recovers quickly and has you swinging a leg over him with a hand to your hip. Dean's lap is a familiar spot to you now and it's intuitive the way you stabilise yourself on his chest while his palms rest over your parted thighs.

"Sweetheart, you taste way better than daisies," He drags his hands listlessly up the length of your thighs, just shy of massaging the muscles there. Dean's brow then cinches, "But that's not saying much 'cause Sam dared me to eat one once and it tasted awful. Worse than that green gunk he always has instead of fries."

You fluff up his hair again, but he indulges you with a grunt of permission, "You mean salad. Having some would probably do you some good, you know. Fruit cooked in sugar and wrapped in pastry doesn't count as one of your five a day."

"Now you tell me." Dean teases, canting his head to grant you better access to fuss with his hair. Momentarily, you pause, considering laying a boundary, because this is feeling borderline intimate. Once won't do you any harm. Your fingers venture to the nape of his neck, scratching the shorter scruff there.

And it definitely feels too intimate. Dean's looking at you, not your lips - you. His hands aren't straying to cop a feel, he's not labouring to get in your pants. Hell, he's not even fully hard yet. You're not behaving any better with your hands in his hair and smiling all coquettish. This doesn't feel sexual.

You wrench your hands to your side, burned, "So, how long do you think Sam will buy your 'going out' lie until he comes looking?"

Confused and maybe a little hurt, his smile goes a bit flat. It doesn't last long. Dean gives an indefinite wave of his hand and lets his head fall back against the bed frame, "Whole evening, if you're lucky."

"Like you could last an entire evening." You murmur in a low, provocative drawl and trail a finger over the waistband of his boxers peeking out from the undone zip of his jeans. His Adam's apple bobs, the fingers parked at your hips tightening their grip almost imperceptibly.

Dean sucks in a long breath that you can feel originates from the very bottom of his chest, "Gonna put your money where your mouth is, or are you gonna keep bein' a little cock-tease?"

"Bit of both, I reckon." You hum, grinning.

You more than take your time wriggling down his jeans. He can huff and puff all he likes, but Dean's eyes are the window to his soul, and they're more glazed than the pack of doughnuts he'd inhaled for dessert. The damp patch bleeding through his underwear is also a dead give away, too.

His hips ripple against the mattress uselessly, because you've already walked your hands back up his chest and press them into the cords of muscle all coiled up in his shoulders.

Dean's eyes briefly fall shut, "You're blue-balling me here."

"Thought you said you could last all evening?" You counter innocently as the pads of your thumbs bite into a particularly stubborn knot. His eyes open to slits.

"And I thought I told you to put your damn mouth to work." He removes a hand from white-knuckling your hip to spring himself free, his teeth gritting when the cold air of the motel greets the warm skin of his cock.

He's got a such a pretty dick. You haven't really had the chance to stop and admire it during the whirlwind of hookups the two of you have had. The curtains more than match the drapes; neatly trimmed but with a hint of rakish charm shining through. Just toeing the line of above average length maybe, but it's the width you'll be writing home about.

You don't need any more goading. You bend down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the flushed head of his cock, letting your tongue sweep a long stripe over the leaking slit. Dean's abdomen flexes as your lick disrupts the steadiness of his breathing.

His fingers loosely entangle in the back of your hair, not guiding, just resting. He's not one to let someone else take the reigns outside of the bedroom, so it's a nice change of pace for him to be at the mercy of your hands between the sheets, you've found. He deserves as much. Dean's many things, but selfish isn't one of them. You're happy to take a load off for him once in a while.

You continue to lathe his cockhead with kittenish laps of your tongue until the stubs of his nails are clawing at your scalp. His pre-cum tastes musky on your palate. Far from unpleasant. It's full-bodied, like sipping from a rich barrel aged whiskey. An acquired taste, but one you've grown to appreciate. You take just the tip of him between your lips and revel in the husky groan that rolls deliciously over your ears.

"Shit, sweetheart, you're a real sight down there," Dean's eyes are on you, unwavering, relishing in the sight of your mouth stretching to accommodate him. He makes a conscious effort to keep your hair from hanging over your face. Dean wants to see you. And it's feeling all too intimate again, "A good sight. The fuckin' best, actually. Only I get to see this, right?"

You mistakenly assume he's just talking through the haze of lust, but then he cups your chin, pausing you from taking him deeper. His eyes are insistent. He wants you to look at him, "Only me?"

Pulling off, with a glistening string of salvia connecting his cockhead to your lips, you satisfy him with a stiff nod. It seems to appease him, and even if it doesn't, he drops the subject the moment his dick is back resting against your tongue.

And, yeah, only he does. At least, at the moment. Blowjobs aren't your favourite, but when it comes to Dean, you're starting to think you judged them too rashly. You like the heft of him weighing down your jaw. You like eliciting all those noises from him, be them breathy whines or rasped moans. You like that his eyes don't stray from you for one minute, like it's not the simulation alone that drives him to spilling down your throat, but who the simulation is being delivered by. Talk about him making it personal; you're no better.

His fingers that keeps your hair parted glides down to splay over your cheek, thumb tracing the strained line of your jaw. There's a slight distension to your throat from the heft on him currently sitting on your tongue, and Dean's thumb veers down to brush it. It's done with the sort of obeisance you wouldn't expect from a casual hook-up. The tender movement sends a shiver down your spine.

He looks soft. Mushy. Something you'd label as fond, if you weren't familiar with his game. The Dean you've seen mete out dozens of sleazy pickup lines that shouldn't work, but somehow do, and proudly tout a double-digit body count doesn't sit happily alongside this version of him. The caricature of Dean you've grown to associate with him is one dimensional, impervious to change. You remember the little boy who chucked worms at you to see you squirm, or the teenager that juggled four girlfriends at once without either one finding out about the other, or the man who thought star signs and boob sizes were interchangeable.

A nicer, forgiving version of Dean throws a spanner in the works. This one seems worth a shot. Deserving of a second chance. Not all the rom-coms about taking a leap of faith with the fixer-upper can be wrong, can they? This one you can't dismiss as quickly.

You focus on his cock nudging the back of your throat instead. It's an easier thing to swallow. When your nose kisses the tamed thatch of his pubic hair, you sputter somewhat, and he seizes up, as though mindful to your enjoyment of this. You quash the concern by doubling down, willing your throat to loosen rather than reflexively fight against the intrusion. Through lowered, heavy lids, you glance up at him.

Dean very much seems to be a man who'd died happy. His eyes are reduced to slithers of green framed by dark lashes, fluttering, bewitched. His nose twitches, rabbit-like, and the perfect acuate of his jaw flexes. He's relaxed, for once. Unburdened. He prefers armour of the haughty variation and wears his lazy grin as a shield. There's a lot hidden underneath there, things no one could peel back, not even Sam. But here, it looks as though he's caught a much needed break between the lips of someone dear.

"Fuck, I love-" You both flinch. Dean's eyes fly open, a fat tear clinging to his lash line, and you can see his Adam's apple bob, "This. I love this."

Your mouth is full with him spilling down your throat, which is probably for the best, because a slew of expletives sounds off in your head. You have half a mind to repeat them into the silence of the room.

His head is tipped back, partly in pleasure, partly in shame. Even facing away from you, you spot the pink clawing its way over the expanse of his cheeks. Dean might have had the forbearance to correct himself, but it was fooling neither of you. You pull off him with a wet noise, swallow, and pull back. Pull into yourself.

Surprisingly, the cum shot isn't what settles unpleasantly in your stomach. It's the quiet that hurts. The noise of something unspoken, palpable in the air, too gruelling to speak into the world. Only Dean could make a blow-job feel like something other than sexual. It's disgustingly off-brand for him.

You don't think you'd believe him if he said it aloud anyways. You don't think either of the Winchesters understand the concept of non-transactional love. How you can give without chipping off a piece of yourself. How you can love, but not love. It's an all or nothing deal with them, and that's an exhausting way of living. Anything remotely affectionate would feel like devotion to a man who knew the cold metal of a gun before the warm hand, or mouth, of a friend.

He's spent, softened against his jeans. You keep your hands and eyes to yourself because touching him now is like touching something tainted. Seeing Dean in your peripheral is enough. He's desperate to catch your eye, get something out of you - positive or negative. He gets nothing as he works himself back into his boxers, wincing.

Dabbing your lips, you stand up, swaying a little, "I should probably get some sleep."

The announcement is a dismissal. You want him gone now. Your jaw aches, throat feels raw. Everything tied tight enough to snap. Dean doesn't move from the bed immediately. His hands spread on his thighs, fingertips twitching, and there's a cinch to his brows as though he wants to say something further. You nip it in the bud.

"Goodnight, Dean." You say, firmly. He moves at a lethargic place, almost expecting you to budge, to change your mind, but you're implacable. A maiden of stubborn stone and crossed arms, watching him down the slope of your nose as he gathers himself.

When he reaches your door, he turns once again, arms open and eyes still glossy. It tugs the softer side of you, but spite wins out. A collage of Dean's previous exploits flares behind your eyes, fuelling the fire more. You tilt your head, expectant and cruel.

"What? Expecting a parting kiss?" His head shakes slowly, hung a little, and he departs, closing the door softly behind him. The gesture incenses you more.

You flop to the bed and glare up at the popcorning pattern on the ceiling. If boys being mean means they like you, what does it mean when they're nice to you instead?

[bitchinwallabyfaves]

Ooo here come the feels. Ouchie. ♥︎ Praying for a happy ending for them, please let there be a happy ending for them!!

Wow your writing blows me away and I think this is my favorite part so far, in terms of that. I'm not big on angst but when it's written this gorgeously, it's hard not to see the appeal. Beautiful, beautiful torture. ♥︎♥︎

[cujja]

Thank you sm I was lowkey kinda critical of this part, but I’m v glad you enjoyed it!! 💞

I will def do part four and feel free to chase me up on it cuz I’m a #procrastinator and forget I enjoy writing sometimes

[bitchinwallabyfaves]

Came for a revisit and oh. The pain. You better make it all good or I stg I will.. still love you. But I'll be real sad about it. ♥︎

(Been tapping my foot impatiently, waiting for an appropriate time to start asking about part four hehe. ^^ ♥︎)

[cujja]

Dw bb I’ve already got some ideas cooking for part four!! And I’m glad you caught the cujo reference LMAO my namesake

[cujja]

Im feeling evil but cant decide who to write angst for

Sam

Dean

Voting ended onJun 7

[cujja]

hey!! i just binge read your dean fics and safe to say you are now one of my fav writers. sending love and support to you

Stop this is too sweet thank you much for supporting my silly little fics I can’t believe how much support ive gotten in like the few months I’ve been posting!! 😭

Pic of one of the squirrels in my garden watching me very suspiciously when I’m in my own bedroom?

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Any recommendations for other writers who write age gap dean i finished your masterlist and I am obsessed with your fics especially your age gap series it's scrumptious but I'm currently experiencing withdrawal symptoms and don't know where to look for more fics😔🙏🙏

Hello my lovely, thank you so, so much! ❤️ I assume you're talking about I wish I'd known you in your wilder days - I miss these two idiots so much, and I can't wait until I have the time to spend some time with them again!

I unfortunately do not have any recs for age gap stuff since - dramatic pause - it's something I usually really, really don't like to read. 😄 A lot of things that I enjoy writing, I don't enjoy reading (probably because when I'm writing it I have control and when I read I don't... actually, there's so many examples of this, it's kinda crazy).

Annnyyyhooo, the only fic I can think of is Spare the rod, spoil the child by @cujja, which I just checked and it's not even explicitly age gap. 😄 It does have a power dynamic though, and it reads very age gap-y - warning for some darker themes, but if that's something you're okay with, I highly recommend it, it's amazing.

Other than that, this is the call for anyone else to recommend Dean x reader age gap fics! Hear thee, hear thee! I hope we can find some good recs for you (and maybe for me?).

Smooches! ❤️

[cujja]

Literally one of my fav spn writers, fangirling so hard rn 🤭🤭

Def check out all of their stuff I cannot stress enough how top tier they all are!!!

[cujja]

Cuffing Season

Dean has always made things hard for you, so why would now be any different?

Part 1, Part 2 Warnings/tags: Everyone being in denial, Sam Winchester cries during sex but make it Dean crying during head, making it weird by almost saying L word, sloppiest of toppies, smidge of jealousy, Dean kinda being the only emotionally forward one in the relationship (first time ever), changed from the preview so there's another part in the works cuz im a rascal, reader is lowkey kinda mean but he kinda deserves it bc im rewatching s9, some references to Dean's internalised misogyny/manwhore-ness. Also, no one talk to me about s5 of the boys. it is a very sensitive topic for me....

You don't mention the Arizona incident. Or the car incident. Or the one after that. Or that other time.

Outwardly, nothing's changed. You and Dean still fight like cats and dogs. He goes left, you spitefully go right. Sam's still left playing arbitrator, he just doesn't know about the alternative mediation tactic you two have tucked up your sleeves: sex. A whole lot of it. 

Dean still flirts with anything alive and you still snark about him needing to get tested despite you both knowing he's not going to call the number the waitress slipped him and you've stopped bothering with condoms after he proudly presented you with a clean report. It only got weird in Washington when he didn't bite the bait thrown out by the gorgeous mechanic. 

Sam was so concerned he even asks you about it when Dean had slunk off to the bathroom at lunch. 

"I don't know, Sam, but I have better things to worry about than your brother's overactive sex-life." You'd lied convincingly through a mouthful of fries. Sam's eyes lag on the spot where Dean had ducked into the men's room, sparkling with concern. 

He pushes unenthusiastically at his yoghurt, "It's not like I enjoy thinking about it either, it's just..." He shrugs his shoulders and slumps his chin into his palm, "He's different. Not bad different. Just not himself. Don't tell me you haven't noticed it."

"Fine, I guess maybe a little, but different isn't a bad thing, right? No offence, but Dean definitely has room for improvement, personality-wise. It wouldn't kill him to think with his head rather than his dick for once." You muse, and it placates Sam enough to squeeze a perfunctory chuckle from him. 

He twirls his spoon, absorbed in thought. You sneak a look between him and your lunch, which has started to taste like chalk in your mouth. Dean's sliding of that clean test over to you was an implicit pledge of not dipping his wick in every candle that gave him a solicitous once over. You'd requited that by skipping condoms and working into conversation about your IUD. That was the extent of the commitment. There was no dates, no aftercare. Just fucking. 

Him passing up a leggy brunette who was also a mechanic didn't sit right with you, though. It felt too much like strings were being attached. 

You'd confronted him about it when he'd snuck into your room after lights out. Dean was lounging on your mattress, looking mightily pleased with himself, like he had a right to be there. He'd looked at you strangely when you broached the topic.

"Just wasn't feeling it, that's all," Dean had shrugged, ambling his deft fingers underneath the back of your shirt to tickle up your spine. You were perched at the foot of the bed with a respectable distance put between the two of you. He'd closed it within an instance, nosing against your jawline, "But, if you're sayin' you don't want me to pay you back for the blowjob in Portland, then just let me know..."

That drew the conversation to a grinding halt and Dean had spent the rest of the evening getting comfy between your thighs. 

The case in Idaho Falls was your tipping point, though. 

Sam lost shotgun privileges after choosing to eat something with beans in for lunch. It's not often you get the passenger seat, mostly because you're liable to jerk the wheel into oncoming traffic if Dean irritates you too much, so you make the most of it. 

Dean's mumbling along to the song playing, Sam's catching up on his eight-hours and you're reviewing the case. It was Dean's choice. He'd sprang it on you after barely wrapping up a poltergeist in Glendive. It was a suspected werewolf, and Dean loved hunting werewolves, so you were on the road within the hour. 

"Pretty gruesome, right?" 

You blink up from the page, looking at him a little dumbfounded, "Huh?"

Dean flicks the paper you're holding without taking his gaze off the interstate marker ahead, "The case, stupid. What else would I be talking about? Your face?" 

"Real mature. How long did that one take you to think up?" You mutter with a quirk of your brow, rustling through the newspaper clippings. For Dean, he'd done a commendable job pooling all of it together. He hadn't just blindly insisted he had a bad feeling about one of the headlines, like usual. 

It sounded like the start to one of those run-of-the-mill horror films Dean makes you and Sam watch where there's excessive gore and girls running without bras. A local lovers' lane was being terrorised by a series of mysterious and vicious attacks. More than three couples had been torn to shreds, each missing their hearts, and found a disturbing distance from their parked cars. 

You set the bundle down in the footwell, crossing your arms, "So, what's the plan when we get there? We going the animal control or FBI route?"

"Neither," He chucks a roughish grin over his shoulder that fills you with doubt. A Dean plan never goes according to plan, "Best course of action is taking Cujo down head on. We can go undercover as a couple, shoot the bastard and celebrate with mind-blowing sex for three hours. Win-win." 

You consult the rearview mirror. Sam's still soundly asleep. You don't think you'd hear the end of it if he found out about your fraternising. Dean isn't half as careful as you are, especially if he's had a few drinks and decides he wants his hand under your shirt right then and there. 

"Sounds risky. We should all go." 

Dean grimaces, "I don't want people thinkin' I'm in a thruple with Sammy, even if it is only to a werewolf. We're not bringing him." 

"Alright, what about me and Sam? I'd feel a lot safer with someone a lot less trigger happy." You snipe, ever the contrarian. He waves off your suggestion by throwing his head back with a loud laugh, slapping the steering wheel.

"You and Sam? Please. Like anyone's gonna buy that." He shakes his head as though that's truly the most facetious thing he's ever heard, his lips bent into a wide smile that brightens up his whole face. 

You harrumph, "But people will buy you and me?" 

Dean's hand abandons its post on the gear stick and squeezes your thigh. You frown down at it, debate shoving him off, but you'll allow it. Sam's not looking, so what does it matter? 

"Hell yeah, sweetheart. We've got chemistry. We can be like one of those couples that hates each other's guts but still screw like rabbits," He lowers his voice and gives you an absurd wink, "We've got good practise at both of those things." 

Despite yourself, you laugh. It's a small one, more of a scoff, but it validates Dean all the same, "Jesus Christ, fine, fine. I'll do it if it'll shut you up."

It does, and his hand remains a steady presence on your thigh up until Dubois, when Sam starts stirring.

The budget stretches to afford you your own room for a change. It's a rare treat, but without the recurrent warble of conversation flowing between Sam and Dean, you're left stewing in your own thoughts. And it's not a nice place to be, because you're mostly thinking about Dean.

You hadn't told anyone. Directly. Bobby knows, but Bobby doesn't count, because he'd come to the conclusion on his own. It'd been after the blizzard conundrum in Wyoming, and Dean had whipped up stuff from childhood in your head, and you were very, very lost. Bobby always gave you clarity.

In not so many words, he'd disapproved. Said that the guy you weren't seeing, but weren't not seeing, and who's definitely not Dean, was a good man but you'd fare well not to get attached. Not-Dean's fun and exciting in moderation, yet if you think you can fix him, you should cut your losses before someone gets hurt.

And you can't fault Bobby for any of it. So, it was decided. You'll give Dean a few months of fun then throw in the towel. Everyone wins. Things can go back to normal and you can find a more appropriate guy to have casual sex with rather than the guy who still thinks pulling on a girl's pigtails is an acceptable way to flirt.

It was like you'd conjured him. You'd just switched into pyjamas and made your mind up about him when Dean was inviting himself in, looking for trouble.

"You've showered and you're wearing a clean shirt. You going out?" You remark, hands on your hips as you make a big show of taking him in. He's clearly planning on staying for a while, though, because he hangs his leather jacket over the back of the chair.

"Nah, just had to sell it to Sammy that I was off out, chasin' tail, and not next-door." He shrugs, eyes twinkling. Dean collapses on the bed and snatches up the TV remote, flicking lazily through channels.

When you don't move from your spot at the vanity, observing him with a weird look, he lets out an impatient sigh and beckons you over, "If I wanted to watch TV alone, I coulda done that back at mine. Get over here, woman."

You're tempted to refuse on principle alone, but soon defer when grapples with his fly and tugs out soft cock, and you can't resist. As long as he's here for something sexual, you can handle that. Dean drapes his arm around your shoulders as you settle in beside him, chin stationed on top of your head.

Through the thin material of his t-shirt, you can feel Dean's muscles flexing when your hand travels across his abdomen. He's just the right amount of muscular, in your opinion. Enough thew to fuck you up against the wall, not too much that there's not some softness there too.

"You actually smell really nice. What is that? I know it's not motel shampoo." You prop yourself up a little and use his stomach as leverage, which makes him huff.

Grumbling, Dean pats his hair, which has turned spiky now that it's damp, "So shoot me, I put a bit of effort into my appearance. Don't chicks like that? Want me to go smear myself in pig shit, or something?"

"So long as you don't expect me to start tasting of daisies, scrub up all you like," You surrender, stifling a giggle on his behalf. You ruffle his hair yourself and Dean delivers a playful, reproving swat to your ass, "Hey, it's cute. Like a baby duckling, only grumpier."

He's offended by the comparison, you can tell by the way his lips press in a straight line, but he recovers quickly and has you swinging a leg over him with a hand to your hip. Dean's lap is a familiar spot to you now and it's intuitive the way you stabilise yourself on his chest while his palms rest over your parted thighs.

"Sweetheart, you taste way better than daisies," He drags his hands listlessly up the length of your thighs, just shy of massaging the muscles there. Dean's brow then cinches, "But that's not saying much 'cause Sam dared me to eat one once and it tasted awful. Worse than that green gunk he always has instead of fries."

You fluff up his hair again, but he indulges you with a grunt of permission, "You mean salad. Having some would probably do you some good, you know. Fruit cooked in sugar and wrapped in pastry doesn't count as one of your five a day."

"Now you tell me." Dean teases, canting his head to grant you better access to fuss with his hair. Momentarily, you pause, considering laying a boundary, because this is feeling borderline intimate. Once won't do you any harm. Your fingers venture to the nape of his neck, scratching the shorter scruff there.

And it definitely feels too intimate. Dean's looking at you, not your lips - you. His hands aren't straying to cop a feel, he's not labouring to get in your pants. Hell, he's not even fully hard yet. You're not behaving any better with your hands in his hair and smiling all coquettish. This doesn't feel sexual.

You wrench your hands to your side, burned, "So, how long do you think Sam will buy your 'going out' lie until he comes looking?"

Confused and maybe a little hurt, his smile goes a bit flat. It doesn't last long. Dean gives an indefinite wave of his hand and lets his head fall back against the bed frame, "Whole evening, if you're lucky."

"Like you could last an entire evening." You murmur in a low, provocative drawl and trail a finger over the waistband of his boxers peeking out from the undone zip of his jeans. His Adam's apple bobs, the fingers parked at your hips tightening their grip almost imperceptibly.

Dean sucks in a long breath that you can feel originates from the very bottom of his chest, "Gonna put your money where your mouth is, or are you gonna keep bein' a little cock-tease?"

"Bit of both, I reckon." You hum, grinning.

You more than take your time wriggling down his jeans. He can huff and puff all he likes, but Dean's eyes are the window to his soul, and they're more glazed than the pack of doughnuts he'd inhaled for dessert. The damp patch bleeding through his underwear is also a dead give away, too.

His hips ripple against the mattress uselessly, because you've already walked your hands back up his chest and press them into the cords of muscle all coiled up in his shoulders.

Dean's eyes briefly fall shut, "You're blue-balling me here."

"Thought you said you could last all evening?" You counter innocently as the pads of your thumbs bite into a particularly stubborn knot. His eyes open to slits.

"And I thought I told you to put your damn mouth to work." He removes a hand from white-knuckling your hip to spring himself free, his teeth gritting when the cold air of the motel greets the warm skin of his cock.

He's got a such a pretty dick. You haven't really had the chance to stop and admire it during the whirlwind of hookups the two of you have had. The curtains more than match the drapes; neatly trimmed but with a hint of rakish charm shining through. Just toeing the line of above average length maybe, but it's the width you'll be writing home about.

You don't need any more goading. You bend down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the flushed head of his cock, letting your tongue sweep a long stripe over the leaking slit. Dean's abdomen flexes as your lick disrupts the steadiness of his breathing.

His fingers loosely entangle in the back of your hair, not guiding, just resting. He's not one to let someone else take the reigns outside of the bedroom, so it's a nice change of pace for him to be at the mercy of your hands between the sheets, you've found. He deserves as much. Dean's many things, but selfish isn't one of them. You're happy to take a load off for him once in a while.

You continue to lathe his cockhead with kittenish laps of your tongue until the stubs of his nails are clawing at your scalp. His pre-cum tastes musky on your palate. Far from unpleasant. It's full-bodied, like sipping from a rich barrel aged whiskey. An acquired taste, but one you've grown to appreciate. You take just the tip of him between your lips and revel in the husky groan that rolls deliciously over your ears.

"Shit, sweetheart, you're a real sight down there," Dean's eyes are on you, unwavering, relishing in the sight of your mouth stretching to accommodate him. He makes a conscious effort to keep your hair from hanging over your face. Dean wants to see you. And it's feeling all too intimate again, "A good sight. The fuckin' best, actually. Only I get to see this, right?"

You mistakenly assume he's just talking through the haze of lust, but then he cups your chin, pausing you from taking him deeper. His eyes are insistent. He wants you to look at him, "Only me?"

Pulling off, with a glistening string of salvia connecting his cockhead to your lips, you satisfy him with a stiff nod. It seems to appease him, and even if it doesn't, he drops the subject the moment his dick is back resting against your tongue.

And, yeah, only he does. At least, at the moment. Blowjobs aren't your favourite, but when it comes to Dean, you're starting to think you judged them too rashly. You like the heft of him weighing down your jaw. You like eliciting all those noises from him, be them breathy whines or rasped moans. You like that his eyes don't stray from you for one minute, like it's not the simulation alone that drives him to spilling down your throat, but who the simulation is being delivered by. Talk about him making it personal; you're no better.

His fingers that keeps your hair parted glides down to splay over your cheek, thumb tracing the strained line of your jaw. There's a slight distension to your throat from the heft on him currently sitting on your tongue, and Dean's thumb veers down to brush it. It's done with the sort of obeisance you wouldn't expect from a casual hook-up. The tender movement sends a shiver down your spine.

He looks soft. Mushy. Something you'd label as fond, if you weren't familiar with his game. The Dean you've seen mete out dozens of sleazy pickup lines that shouldn't work, but somehow do, and proudly tout a double-digit body count doesn't sit happily alongside this version of him. The caricature of Dean you've grown to associate with him is one dimensional, impervious to change. You remember the little boy who chucked worms at you to see you squirm, or the teenager that juggled four girlfriends at once without either one finding out about the other, or the man who thought star signs and boob sizes were interchangeable.

A nicer, forgiving version of Dean throws a spanner in the works. This one seems worth a shot. Deserving of a second chance. Not all the rom-coms about taking a leap of faith with the fixer-upper can be wrong, can they? This one you can't dismiss as quickly.

You focus on his cock nudging the back of your throat instead. It's an easier thing to swallow. When your nose kisses the tamed thatch of his pubic hair, you sputter somewhat, and he seizes up, as though mindful to your enjoyment of this. You quash the concern by doubling down, willing your throat to loosen rather than reflexively fight against the intrusion. Through lowered, heavy lids, you glance up at him.

Dean very much seems to be a man who'd died happy. His eyes are reduced to slithers of green framed by dark lashes, fluttering, bewitched. His nose twitches, rabbit-like, and the perfect acuate of his jaw flexes. He's relaxed, for once. Unburdened. He prefers armour of the haughty variation and wears his lazy grin as a shield. There's a lot hidden underneath there, things no one could peel back, not even Sam. But here, it looks as though he's caught a much needed break between the lips of someone dear.

"Fuck, I love-" You both flinch. Dean's eyes fly open, a fat tear clinging to his lash line, and you can see his Adam's apple bob, "This. I love this."

Your mouth is full with him spilling down your throat, which is probably for the best, because a slew of expletives sounds off in your head. You have half a mind to repeat them into the silence of the room.

His head is tipped back, partly in pleasure, partly in shame. Even facing away from you, you spot the pink clawing its way over the expanse of his cheeks. Dean might have had the forbearance to correct himself, but it was fooling neither of you. You pull off him with a wet noise, swallow, and pull back. Pull into yourself.

Surprisingly, the cum shot isn't what settles unpleasantly in your stomach. It's the quiet that hurts. The noise of something unspoken, palpable in the air, too gruelling to speak into the world. Only Dean could make a blow-job feel like something other than sexual. It's disgustingly off-brand for him.

You don't think you'd believe him if he said it aloud anyways. You don't think either of the Winchesters understand the concept of non-transactional love. How you can give without chipping off a piece of yourself. How you can love, but not love. It's an all or nothing deal with them, and that's an exhausting way of living. Anything remotely affectionate would feel like devotion to a man who knew the cold metal of a gun before the warm hand, or mouth, of a friend.

He's spent, softened against his jeans. You keep your hands and eyes to yourself because touching him now is like touching something tainted. Seeing Dean in your peripheral is enough. He's desperate to catch your eye, get something out of you - positive or negative. He gets nothing as he works himself back into his boxers, wincing.

Dabbing your lips, you stand up, swaying a little, "I should probably get some sleep."

The announcement is a dismissal. You want him gone now. Your jaw aches, throat feels raw. Everything tied tight enough to snap. Dean doesn't move from the bed immediately. His hands spread on his thighs, fingertips twitching, and there's a cinch to his brows as though he wants to say something further. You nip it in the bud.

"Goodnight, Dean." You say, firmly. He moves at a lethargic place, almost expecting you to budge, to change your mind, but you're implacable. A maiden of stubborn stone and crossed arms, watching him down the slope of your nose as he gathers himself.

When he reaches your door, he turns once again, arms open and eyes still glossy. It tugs the softer side of you, but spite wins out. A collage of Dean's previous exploits flares behind your eyes, fuelling the fire more. You tilt your head, expectant and cruel.

"What? Expecting a parting kiss?" His head shakes slowly, hung a little, and he departs, closing the door softly behind him. The gesture incenses you more.

You flop to the bed and glare up at the popcorning pattern on the ceiling. If boys being mean means they like you, what does it mean when they're nice to you instead?

[lunexiax]

i want to bash their heads together!!!! loved this so much, you capture dean so perfectly every time. also want to take a sec to appreciate that usually in dean x reader, reader is the lovesick heartbroken one and dean is the one with the fear of commitment but you've turned it on its head and did so beautifully. i would read 10000 parts to this series 🤍

[cujja]

Ugh you’re too kind I’m blushing. I love Dean, but I just know that mf has diseases scientists haven’t even heard of and some of the bullshit he says??

I adore the typical yearning reader x Dean cuz let’s be real, who wouldn’t wanna ride that, but I like the idea of the inverse, and I’m glad you noticed!!

[cujja]

Cuffing Season

Dean has always made things hard for you, so why would now be any different?

Part 1, Part 2 Warnings/tags: Everyone being in denial, Sam Winchester cries during sex but make it Dean crying during head, making it weird by almost saying L word, sloppiest of toppies, smidge of jealousy, Dean kinda being the only emotionally forward one in the relationship (first time ever), changed from the preview so there's another part in the works cuz im a rascal, reader is lowkey kinda mean but he kinda deserves it bc im rewatching s9, some references to Dean's internalised misogyny/manwhore-ness. Also, no one talk to me about s5 of the boys. it is a very sensitive topic for me....

You don't mention the Arizona incident. Or the car incident. Or the one after that. Or that other time.

Outwardly, nothing's changed. You and Dean still fight like cats and dogs. He goes left, you spitefully go right. Sam's still left playing arbitrator, he just doesn't know about the alternative mediation tactic you two have tucked up your sleeves: sex. A whole lot of it. 

Dean still flirts with anything alive and you still snark about him needing to get tested despite you both knowing he's not going to call the number the waitress slipped him and you've stopped bothering with condoms after he proudly presented you with a clean report. It only got weird in Washington when he didn't bite the bait thrown out by the gorgeous mechanic. 

Sam was so concerned he even asks you about it when Dean had slunk off to the bathroom at lunch. 

"I don't know, Sam, but I have better things to worry about than your brother's overactive sex-life." You'd lied convincingly through a mouthful of fries. Sam's eyes lag on the spot where Dean had ducked into the men's room, sparkling with concern. 

He pushes unenthusiastically at his yoghurt, "It's not like I enjoy thinking about it either, it's just..." He shrugs his shoulders and slumps his chin into his palm, "He's different. Not bad different. Just not himself. Don't tell me you haven't noticed it."

"Fine, I guess maybe a little, but different isn't a bad thing, right? No offence, but Dean definitely has room for improvement, personality-wise. It wouldn't kill him to think with his head rather than his dick for once." You muse, and it placates Sam enough to squeeze a perfunctory chuckle from him. 

He twirls his spoon, absorbed in thought. You sneak a look between him and your lunch, which has started to taste like chalk in your mouth. Dean's sliding of that clean test over to you was an implicit pledge of not dipping his wick in every candle that gave him a solicitous once over. You'd requited that by skipping condoms and working into conversation about your IUD. That was the extent of the commitment. There was no dates, no aftercare. Just fucking. 

Him passing up a leggy brunette who was also a mechanic didn't sit right with you, though. It felt too much like strings were being attached. 

You'd confronted him about it when he'd snuck into your room after lights out. Dean was lounging on your mattress, looking mightily pleased with himself, like he had a right to be there. He'd looked at you strangely when you broached the topic.

"Just wasn't feeling it, that's all," Dean had shrugged, ambling his deft fingers underneath the back of your shirt to tickle up your spine. You were perched at the foot of the bed with a respectable distance put between the two of you. He'd closed it within an instance, nosing against your jawline, "But, if you're sayin' you don't want me to pay you back for the blowjob in Portland, then just let me know..."

That drew the conversation to a grinding halt and Dean had spent the rest of the evening getting comfy between your thighs. 

The case in Idaho Falls was your tipping point, though. 

Sam lost shotgun privileges after choosing to eat something with beans in for lunch. It's not often you get the passenger seat, mostly because you're liable to jerk the wheel into oncoming traffic if Dean irritates you too much, so you make the most of it. 

Dean's mumbling along to the song playing, Sam's catching up on his eight-hours and you're reviewing the case. It was Dean's choice. He'd sprang it on you after barely wrapping up a poltergeist in Glendive. It was a suspected werewolf, and Dean loved hunting werewolves, so you were on the road within the hour. 

"Pretty gruesome, right?" 

You blink up from the page, looking at him a little dumbfounded, "Huh?"

Dean flicks the paper you're holding without taking his gaze off the interstate marker ahead, "The case, stupid. What else would I be talking about? Your face?" 

"Real mature. How long did that one take you to think up?" You mutter with a quirk of your brow, rustling through the newspaper clippings. For Dean, he'd done a commendable job pooling all of it together. He hadn't just blindly insisted he had a bad feeling about one of the headlines, like usual. 

It sounded like the start to one of those run-of-the-mill horror films Dean makes you and Sam watch where there's excessive gore and girls running without bras. A local lovers' lane was being terrorised by a series of mysterious and vicious attacks. More than three couples had been torn to shreds, each missing their hearts, and found a disturbing distance from their parked cars. 

You set the bundle down in the footwell, crossing your arms, "So, what's the plan when we get there? We going the animal control or FBI route?"

"Neither," He chucks a roughish grin over his shoulder that fills you with doubt. A Dean plan never goes according to plan, "Best course of action is taking Cujo down head on. We can go undercover as a couple, shoot the bastard and celebrate with mind-blowing sex for three hours. Win-win." 

You consult the rearview mirror. Sam's still soundly asleep. You don't think you'd hear the end of it if he found out about your fraternising. Dean isn't half as careful as you are, especially if he's had a few drinks and decides he wants his hand under your shirt right then and there. 

"Sounds risky. We should all go." 

Dean grimaces, "I don't want people thinkin' I'm in a thruple with Sammy, even if it is only to a werewolf. We're not bringing him." 

"Alright, what about me and Sam? I'd feel a lot safer with someone a lot less trigger happy." You snipe, ever the contrarian. He waves off your suggestion by throwing his head back with a loud laugh, slapping the steering wheel.

"You and Sam? Please. Like anyone's gonna buy that." He shakes his head as though that's truly the most facetious thing he's ever heard, his lips bent into a wide smile that brightens up his whole face. 

You harrumph, "But people will buy you and me?" 

Dean's hand abandons its post on the gear stick and squeezes your thigh. You frown down at it, debate shoving him off, but you'll allow it. Sam's not looking, so what does it matter? 

"Hell yeah, sweetheart. We've got chemistry. We can be like one of those couples that hates each other's guts but still screw like rabbits," He lowers his voice and gives you an absurd wink, "We've got good practise at both of those things." 

Despite yourself, you laugh. It's a small one, more of a scoff, but it validates Dean all the same, "Jesus Christ, fine, fine. I'll do it if it'll shut you up."

It does, and his hand remains a steady presence on your thigh up until Dubois, when Sam starts stirring.

The budget stretches to afford you your own room for a change. It's a rare treat, but without the recurrent warble of conversation flowing between Sam and Dean, you're left stewing in your own thoughts. And it's not a nice place to be, because you're mostly thinking about Dean.

You hadn't told anyone. Directly. Bobby knows, but Bobby doesn't count, because he'd come to the conclusion on his own. It'd been after the blizzard conundrum in Wyoming, and Dean had whipped up stuff from childhood in your head, and you were very, very lost. Bobby always gave you clarity.

In not so many words, he'd disapproved. Said that the guy you weren't seeing, but weren't not seeing, and who's definitely not Dean, was a good man but you'd fare well not to get attached. Not-Dean's fun and exciting in moderation, yet if you think you can fix him, you should cut your losses before someone gets hurt.

And you can't fault Bobby for any of it. So, it was decided. You'll give Dean a few months of fun then throw in the towel. Everyone wins. Things can go back to normal and you can find a more appropriate guy to have casual sex with rather than the guy who still thinks pulling on a girl's pigtails is an acceptable way to flirt.

It was like you'd conjured him. You'd just switched into pyjamas and made your mind up about him when Dean was inviting himself in, looking for trouble.

"You've showered and you're wearing a clean shirt. You going out?" You remark, hands on your hips as you make a big show of taking him in. He's clearly planning on staying for a while, though, because he hangs his leather jacket over the back of the chair.

"Nah, just had to sell it to Sammy that I was off out, chasin' tail, and not next-door." He shrugs, eyes twinkling. Dean collapses on the bed and snatches up the TV remote, flicking lazily through channels.

When you don't move from your spot at the vanity, observing him with a weird look, he lets out an impatient sigh and beckons you over, "If I wanted to watch TV alone, I coulda done that back at mine. Get over here, woman."

You're tempted to refuse on principle alone, but soon defer when grapples with his fly and tugs out soft cock, and you can't resist. As long as he's here for something sexual, you can handle that. Dean drapes his arm around your shoulders as you settle in beside him, chin stationed on top of your head.

Through the thin material of his t-shirt, you can feel Dean's muscles flexing when your hand travels across his abdomen. He's just the right amount of muscular, in your opinion. Enough thew to fuck you up against the wall, not too much that there's not some softness there too.

"You actually smell really nice. What is that? I know it's not motel shampoo." You prop yourself up a little and use his stomach as leverage, which makes him huff.

Grumbling, Dean pats his hair, which has turned spiky now that it's damp, "So shoot me, I put a bit of effort into my appearance. Don't chicks like that? Want me to go smear myself in pig shit, or something?"

"So long as you don't expect me to start tasting of daisies, scrub up all you like," You surrender, stifling a giggle on his behalf. You ruffle his hair yourself and Dean delivers a playful, reproving swat to your ass, "Hey, it's cute. Like a baby duckling, only grumpier."

He's offended by the comparison, you can tell by the way his lips press in a straight line, but he recovers quickly and has you swinging a leg over him with a hand to your hip. Dean's lap is a familiar spot to you now and it's intuitive the way you stabilise yourself on his chest while his palms rest over your parted thighs.

"Sweetheart, you taste way better than daisies," He drags his hands listlessly up the length of your thighs, just shy of massaging the muscles there. Dean's brow then cinches, "But that's not saying much 'cause Sam dared me to eat one once and it tasted awful. Worse than that green gunk he always has instead of fries."

You fluff up his hair again, but he indulges you with a grunt of permission, "You mean salad. Having some would probably do you some good, you know. Fruit cooked in sugar and wrapped in pastry doesn't count as one of your five a day."

"Now you tell me." Dean teases, canting his head to grant you better access to fuss with his hair. Momentarily, you pause, considering laying a boundary, because this is feeling borderline intimate. Once won't do you any harm. Your fingers venture to the nape of his neck, scratching the shorter scruff there.

And it definitely feels too intimate. Dean's looking at you, not your lips - you. His hands aren't straying to cop a feel, he's not labouring to get in your pants. Hell, he's not even fully hard yet. You're not behaving any better with your hands in his hair and smiling all coquettish. This doesn't feel sexual.

You wrench your hands to your side, burned, "So, how long do you think Sam will buy your 'going out' lie until he comes looking?"

Confused and maybe a little hurt, his smile goes a bit flat. It doesn't last long. Dean gives an indefinite wave of his hand and lets his head fall back against the bed frame, "Whole evening, if you're lucky."

"Like you could last an entire evening." You murmur in a low, provocative drawl and trail a finger over the waistband of his boxers peeking out from the undone zip of his jeans. His Adam's apple bobs, the fingers parked at your hips tightening their grip almost imperceptibly.

Dean sucks in a long breath that you can feel originates from the very bottom of his chest, "Gonna put your money where your mouth is, or are you gonna keep bein' a little cock-tease?"

"Bit of both, I reckon." You hum, grinning.

You more than take your time wriggling down his jeans. He can huff and puff all he likes, but Dean's eyes are the window to his soul, and they're more glazed than the pack of doughnuts he'd inhaled for dessert. The damp patch bleeding through his underwear is also a dead give away, too.

His hips ripple against the mattress uselessly, because you've already walked your hands back up his chest and press them into the cords of muscle all coiled up in his shoulders.

Dean's eyes briefly fall shut, "You're blue-balling me here."

"Thought you said you could last all evening?" You counter innocently as the pads of your thumbs bite into a particularly stubborn knot. His eyes open to slits.

"And I thought I told you to put your damn mouth to work." He removes a hand from white-knuckling your hip to spring himself free, his teeth gritting when the cold air of the motel greets the warm skin of his cock.

He's got a such a pretty dick. You haven't really had the chance to stop and admire it during the whirlwind of hookups the two of you have had. The curtains more than match the drapes; neatly trimmed but with a hint of rakish charm shining through. Just toeing the line of above average length maybe, but it's the width you'll be writing home about.

You don't need any more goading. You bend down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the flushed head of his cock, letting your tongue sweep a long stripe over the leaking slit. Dean's abdomen flexes as your lick disrupts the steadiness of his breathing.

His fingers loosely entangle in the back of your hair, not guiding, just resting. He's not one to let someone else take the reigns outside of the bedroom, so it's a nice change of pace for him to be at the mercy of your hands between the sheets, you've found. He deserves as much. Dean's many things, but selfish isn't one of them. You're happy to take a load off for him once in a while.

You continue to lathe his cockhead with kittenish laps of your tongue until the stubs of his nails are clawing at your scalp. His pre-cum tastes musky on your palate. Far from unpleasant. It's full-bodied, like sipping from a rich barrel aged whiskey. An acquired taste, but one you've grown to appreciate. You take just the tip of him between your lips and revel in the husky groan that rolls deliciously over your ears.

"Shit, sweetheart, you're a real sight down there," Dean's eyes are on you, unwavering, relishing in the sight of your mouth stretching to accommodate him. He makes a conscious effort to keep your hair from hanging over your face. Dean wants to see you. And it's feeling all too intimate again, "A good sight. The fuckin' best, actually. Only I get to see this, right?"

You mistakenly assume he's just talking through the haze of lust, but then he cups your chin, pausing you from taking him deeper. His eyes are insistent. He wants you to look at him, "Only me?"

Pulling off, with a glistening string of salvia connecting his cockhead to your lips, you satisfy him with a stiff nod. It seems to appease him, and even if it doesn't, he drops the subject the moment his dick is back resting against your tongue.

And, yeah, only he does. At least, at the moment. Blowjobs aren't your favourite, but when it comes to Dean, you're starting to think you judged them too rashly. You like the heft of him weighing down your jaw. You like eliciting all those noises from him, be them breathy whines or rasped moans. You like that his eyes don't stray from you for one minute, like it's not the simulation alone that drives him to spilling down your throat, but who the simulation is being delivered by. Talk about him making it personal; you're no better.

His fingers that keeps your hair parted glides down to splay over your cheek, thumb tracing the strained line of your jaw. There's a slight distension to your throat from the heft on him currently sitting on your tongue, and Dean's thumb veers down to brush it. It's done with the sort of obeisance you wouldn't expect from a casual hook-up. The tender movement sends a shiver down your spine.

He looks soft. Mushy. Something you'd label as fond, if you weren't familiar with his game. The Dean you've seen mete out dozens of sleazy pickup lines that shouldn't work, but somehow do, and proudly tout a double-digit body count doesn't sit happily alongside this version of him. The caricature of Dean you've grown to associate with him is one dimensional, impervious to change. You remember the little boy who chucked worms at you to see you squirm, or the teenager that juggled four girlfriends at once without either one finding out about the other, or the man who thought star signs and boob sizes were interchangeable.

A nicer, forgiving version of Dean throws a spanner in the works. This one seems worth a shot. Deserving of a second chance. Not all the rom-coms about taking a leap of faith with the fixer-upper can be wrong, can they? This one you can't dismiss as quickly.

You focus on his cock nudging the back of your throat instead. It's an easier thing to swallow. When your nose kisses the tamed thatch of his pubic hair, you sputter somewhat, and he seizes up, as though mindful to your enjoyment of this. You quash the concern by doubling down, willing your throat to loosen rather than reflexively fight against the intrusion. Through lowered, heavy lids, you glance up at him.

Dean very much seems to be a man who'd died happy. His eyes are reduced to slithers of green framed by dark lashes, fluttering, bewitched. His nose twitches, rabbit-like, and the perfect acuate of his jaw flexes. He's relaxed, for once. Unburdened. He prefers armour of the haughty variation and wears his lazy grin as a shield. There's a lot hidden underneath there, things no one could peel back, not even Sam. But here, it looks as though he's caught a much needed break between the lips of someone dear.

"Fuck, I love-" You both flinch. Dean's eyes fly open, a fat tear clinging to his lash line, and you can see his Adam's apple bob, "This. I love this."

Your mouth is full with him spilling down your throat, which is probably for the best, because a slew of expletives sounds off in your head. You have half a mind to repeat them into the silence of the room.

His head is tipped back, partly in pleasure, partly in shame. Even facing away from you, you spot the pink clawing its way over the expanse of his cheeks. Dean might have had the forbearance to correct himself, but it was fooling neither of you. You pull off him with a wet noise, swallow, and pull back. Pull into yourself.

Surprisingly, the cum shot isn't what settles unpleasantly in your stomach. It's the quiet that hurts. The noise of something unspoken, palpable in the air, too gruelling to speak into the world. Only Dean could make a blow-job feel like something other than sexual. It's disgustingly off-brand for him.

You don't think you'd believe him if he said it aloud anyways. You don't think either of the Winchesters understand the concept of non-transactional love. How you can give without chipping off a piece of yourself. How you can love, but not love. It's an all or nothing deal with them, and that's an exhausting way of living. Anything remotely affectionate would feel like devotion to a man who knew the cold metal of a gun before the warm hand, or mouth, of a friend.

He's spent, softened against his jeans. You keep your hands and eyes to yourself because touching him now is like touching something tainted. Seeing Dean in your peripheral is enough. He's desperate to catch your eye, get something out of you - positive or negative. He gets nothing as he works himself back into his boxers, wincing.

Dabbing your lips, you stand up, swaying a little, "I should probably get some sleep."

The announcement is a dismissal. You want him gone now. Your jaw aches, throat feels raw. Everything tied tight enough to snap. Dean doesn't move from the bed immediately. His hands spread on his thighs, fingertips twitching, and there's a cinch to his brows as though he wants to say something further. You nip it in the bud.

"Goodnight, Dean." You say, firmly. He moves at a lethargic place, almost expecting you to budge, to change your mind, but you're implacable. A maiden of stubborn stone and crossed arms, watching him down the slope of your nose as he gathers himself.

When he reaches your door, he turns once again, arms open and eyes still glossy. It tugs the softer side of you, but spite wins out. A collage of Dean's previous exploits flares behind your eyes, fuelling the fire more. You tilt your head, expectant and cruel.

"What? Expecting a parting kiss?" His head shakes slowly, hung a little, and he departs, closing the door softly behind him. The gesture incenses you more.

You flop to the bed and glare up at the popcorning pattern on the ceiling. If boys being mean means they like you, what does it mean when they're nice to you instead?

[bitchinwallabyfaves]

Ooo here come the feels. Ouchie. ♥︎ Praying for a happy ending for them, please let there be a happy ending for them!!

Wow your writing blows me away and I think this is my favorite part so far, in terms of that. I'm not big on angst but when it's written this gorgeously, it's hard not to see the appeal. Beautiful, beautiful torture. ♥︎♥︎

[cujja]

Thank you sm I was lowkey kinda critical of this part, but I’m v glad you enjoyed it!! 💞

I will def do part four and feel free to chase me up on it cuz I’m a #procrastinator and forget I enjoy writing sometimes

[cujja]

i love the dirtbag version of dean you write so so much. something i can picture so clearly is him telling reader who is determined not to fuck him: 'it's not fucking if i don't put it in' to 'it's not fucking if it's just the tip' to 'it's not fucking if i just don't move' to 'it's not fucking if i don't come inside' and of course he can't help but fail at them all bc he has no self restraint and probably doesn't care that much anyway. what are your thoughts!!! the floor is yours!!!

Wait this is kinda evil but hot asf….and I kinda got carried away…..

Def picturing older, more jaded Dean. He’s seen some shit. Seen that shit chew up and spit out nice, good people like you. So he’s made a vow to himself that he will never, under any circumstances, fuck you. You wouldn’t want anything to do with a dirty old man like him anyways, so he’s pretty sure he can keep this promise.

Then maybe you start hanging around the bunker more, or need some pointers to polish up on your shooting, or maybe it’s divine fucking intervention, but you’re suddenly still here. Yeah, you stick with Sammy and his dusty old books and grimace at the smell of gunpowder, but you’re within his four walls. You’re in his domain.

So Dean starts giving himself little crafty loopholes. Well, it’s not fucking if it’s his dick in his hand and only to the thought of you, is it? Technically, he’s not doing anything to you, just dream you. By god does he do everything to dream you, though.

Starts out tame-ish. Porno set-ups; you’re step-siblings, you’ve got to fuck to save the world, strict teacher and naughty school girl. As he gets to know you, and your lip, it shifts. Less plot, more desperation. You’re always begging for it, in his dreams. All wide, wet, blown out eyes and a pouty, kiss-bitten mouth. You like it rough, hard and crushing. Any hole, any where.

Dean’s actually started doing his own laundry he’s woken up with wet sheets so many times now. Once, your underwear got stuck in one of his pillow cases and fell out while he was mid-making the bed. Finders keepers.

Dreams start to not be enough and spill out into the waking world. You’ll do something innocuous, like nibble your lip or wear a lower cut top than usual, and he’s popping a stiffy like some fucking spotty teenager seeing boobs for the first time. If you catch him, he plays it off, makes a crass joke that scrunches up that little nose of yours. It only gets him harder.

The chase is fun and all, but Dean starts wanting you to want him. You don’t have to like him, you can even hate him if you want, but he needs you to acknowledge him. He’ll sleep around more. Make it obvious. The walls of the bunker may well dampen most noises, but from the darkened rings under your eyes and scowl to your brown, Dean’s sure you got the gist of it.

He flirts with you more too. More openly, more crassly. You shrug him off usually but you’re not immune; he relishes in the slight stutter of your breath before answering or the exaggerated look of disgust on your face. Dean gets you familiar with him. Familiar with casual touches - his knee against yours under the table, hand to your back when walking together, leaning too close during conversation. It’s exposure therapy.

It’s probably been a bad day. Tough case or something. It doesn’t matter, what’s important is that your defences are down. Dean’s hoping you’ll feel shitty enough about yourself to let him cop a feel. Copping a feels not fucking, so that’s allowed, he’s told himself.

You’ve had a drink and Dean’s had five. Sam’s locked away in the library, pouring over lore, so he’s out of the way. You’re looking particularly adorable and hard done by today, and you’ve got his favourite colour on with that nice bra that really accentuates your cleavage.

Dean makes the first move, obviously. You shove him away, chagrined, utterly irate at his audacity, then you pull him back by your fist balled in his shirt. You’re more recalcitrant in real life than in his dreams. As he kisses you, firm hand to the back of your head and tongue lashing with yours, you don’t melt into a subservient puddle. You push back, bite his lip, dig your fingernails into the meat of his shoulders. He kinda prefers it.

When he starts moving under the clothes, you slap his grabby hands away. Shake your head, all indignant. You don’t want to sleep with him, you say. He’s probably disease riddled, you argue. Dean’s well-versed in finding loopholes, though.

“It’s not sleeping together if it’s just hand stuff.”

So you do hand stuff. He makes you cum twice on the sofa that night and you leave him blue-balled, because you say he should learn restraint, and you skip off to your room with a smug smile and a bit of a hobble to your gait. Your restraint doesn’t last long, which is lucky for him because his was waning too, and you give him a hand-job while Sam dips in to interview one of the witnesses.

The sneaking around is fun, and so is the random groping you dole out to each other, but man. Dean wants to try another loophole. Surely it also isn’t fucking if he doesn’t enter anything, so pushing your thighs together and putting his dick there isn’t entering jack-shit. You don’t disagree.

And that scratches that itch for a bit, but now he’s felt the drag of your cunt against him, he’s tweaking for more.

“It’s also not fucking if it’s just the tip. You can’t half do something, can you? So that’s not half-fucking. It’s just hand stuff with extra steps.”

You sigh, unconvinced, but happily lead him to your bedroom by the loops of his jeans. He goes happily, too. And goddamn he is a satisfied man when he’s nudged himself the first few inches into you. You’re wet enough that, if he wanted, if he wasn’t keeping to the no-fucking rule, he could just slide right in with no resistance.

You sound as though you wouldn’t object to that either. He’s got you face down in the pillow, head to the side to gulp down lungfuls of air, hair askew and moans reaching a new pornographic sounding symphony. It’s also really fucking hard to keep his thrusts shallow enough to not feed in more than just the tip. It’s actually harder than just full on fucking, and wasn’t the whole point of this was so that it wasn’t hard or complicated?

“Okay, new rule; it’s not fucking if I pull out. The whole part of sex is cumming together, so if I don’t finish inside, it doesn’t count.”

Dean takes your twitching hips and muffled moans as agreement. He wants to just shove all the way in like a bull in a china shop but he knows you’ll probably kick him in the face and he’ll probably cum immediately if he does that. So, through gritted teeth, he builds up to it. Let’s you feel every inch before situating himself inside of you completely.

He knew all the loopholes would be worth it. You’re warm, and moulding around him so sweetly, so invitingly. He really, really likes this. Each snap of his hips chips away at the logic behind his no-finishing-inside rule. Can you narrow the definition of sex solely down to the exchange of bodily fluids? No, you can’t, because that’s gross. And if Dean’s already here, already buried all nice and cosy inside, what more is a little bit of semen? It’s just biology, after all.

He doesn’t pull out. Couldn’t even if he wanted to. You were no help resisting either, because when he withdrew (with the full intention of pushing right back in) you let out a pitiful whine and threw a hand back wildly to coax him. Little minx. Dean doesn’t even have the wherewithal to pull out after he’s spent, just manoeuvres you in bed to sprawl atop him.

“Yeah, fine, we broke the no-fucking rule. Who cares? Do you care?”

You shake your head. Good, because he sure as shit didn’t.

[cujja]

Cuffing Season

Dean has always made things hard for you, so why would now be any different?

Part 1, Part 2 Warnings/tags: Everyone being in denial, Sam Winchester cries during sex but make it Dean crying during head, making it weird by almost saying L word, sloppiest of toppies, smidge of jealousy, Dean kinda being the only emotionally forward one in the relationship (first time ever), changed from the preview so there's another part in the works cuz im a rascal, reader is lowkey kinda mean but he kinda deserves it bc im rewatching s9, some references to Dean's internalised misogyny/manwhore-ness. Also, no one talk to me about s5 of the boys. it is a very sensitive topic for me....

You don't mention the Arizona incident. Or the car incident. Or the one after that. Or that other time.

Outwardly, nothing's changed. You and Dean still fight like cats and dogs. He goes left, you spitefully go right. Sam's still left playing arbitrator, he just doesn't know about the alternative mediation tactic you two have tucked up your sleeves: sex. A whole lot of it. 

Dean still flirts with anything alive and you still snark about him needing to get tested despite you both knowing he's not going to call the number the waitress slipped him and you've stopped bothering with condoms after he proudly presented you with a clean report. It only got weird in Washington when he didn't bite the bait thrown out by the gorgeous mechanic. 

Sam was so concerned he even asks you about it when Dean had slunk off to the bathroom at lunch. 

"I don't know, Sam, but I have better things to worry about than your brother's overactive sex-life." You'd lied convincingly through a mouthful of fries. Sam's eyes lag on the spot where Dean had ducked into the men's room, sparkling with concern. 

He pushes unenthusiastically at his yoghurt, "It's not like I enjoy thinking about it either, it's just..." He shrugs his shoulders and slumps his chin into his palm, "He's different. Not bad different. Just not himself. Don't tell me you haven't noticed it."

"Fine, I guess maybe a little, but different isn't a bad thing, right? No offence, but Dean definitely has room for improvement, personality-wise. It wouldn't kill him to think with his head rather than his dick for once." You muse, and it placates Sam enough to squeeze a perfunctory chuckle from him. 

He twirls his spoon, absorbed in thought. You sneak a look between him and your lunch, which has started to taste like chalk in your mouth. Dean's sliding of that clean test over to you was an implicit pledge of not dipping his wick in every candle that gave him a solicitous once over. You'd requited that by skipping condoms and working into conversation about your IUD. That was the extent of the commitment. There was no dates, no aftercare. Just fucking. 

Him passing up a leggy brunette who was also a mechanic didn't sit right with you, though. It felt too much like strings were being attached. 

You'd confronted him about it when he'd snuck into your room after lights out. Dean was lounging on your mattress, looking mightily pleased with himself, like he had a right to be there. He'd looked at you strangely when you broached the topic.

"Just wasn't feeling it, that's all," Dean had shrugged, ambling his deft fingers underneath the back of your shirt to tickle up your spine. You were perched at the foot of the bed with a respectable distance put between the two of you. He'd closed it within an instance, nosing against your jawline, "But, if you're sayin' you don't want me to pay you back for the blowjob in Portland, then just let me know..."

That drew the conversation to a grinding halt and Dean had spent the rest of the evening getting comfy between your thighs. 

The case in Idaho Falls was your tipping point, though. 

Sam lost shotgun privileges after choosing to eat something with beans in for lunch. It's not often you get the passenger seat, mostly because you're liable to jerk the wheel into oncoming traffic if Dean irritates you too much, so you make the most of it. 

Dean's mumbling along to the song playing, Sam's catching up on his eight-hours and you're reviewing the case. It was Dean's choice. He'd sprang it on you after barely wrapping up a poltergeist in Glendive. It was a suspected werewolf, and Dean loved hunting werewolves, so you were on the road within the hour. 

"Pretty gruesome, right?" 

You blink up from the page, looking at him a little dumbfounded, "Huh?"

Dean flicks the paper you're holding without taking his gaze off the interstate marker ahead, "The case, stupid. What else would I be talking about? Your face?" 

"Real mature. How long did that one take you to think up?" You mutter with a quirk of your brow, rustling through the newspaper clippings. For Dean, he'd done a commendable job pooling all of it together. He hadn't just blindly insisted he had a bad feeling about one of the headlines, like usual. 

It sounded like the start to one of those run-of-the-mill horror films Dean makes you and Sam watch where there's excessive gore and girls running without bras. A local lovers' lane was being terrorised by a series of mysterious and vicious attacks. More than three couples had been torn to shreds, each missing their hearts, and found a disturbing distance from their parked cars. 

You set the bundle down in the footwell, crossing your arms, "So, what's the plan when we get there? We going the animal control or FBI route?"

"Neither," He chucks a roughish grin over his shoulder that fills you with doubt. A Dean plan never goes according to plan, "Best course of action is taking Cujo down head on. We can go undercover as a couple, shoot the bastard and celebrate with mind-blowing sex for three hours. Win-win." 

You consult the rearview mirror. Sam's still soundly asleep. You don't think you'd hear the end of it if he found out about your fraternising. Dean isn't half as careful as you are, especially if he's had a few drinks and decides he wants his hand under your shirt right then and there. 

"Sounds risky. We should all go." 

Dean grimaces, "I don't want people thinkin' I'm in a thruple with Sammy, even if it is only to a werewolf. We're not bringing him." 

"Alright, what about me and Sam? I'd feel a lot safer with someone a lot less trigger happy." You snipe, ever the contrarian. He waves off your suggestion by throwing his head back with a loud laugh, slapping the steering wheel.

"You and Sam? Please. Like anyone's gonna buy that." He shakes his head as though that's truly the most facetious thing he's ever heard, his lips bent into a wide smile that brightens up his whole face. 

You harrumph, "But people will buy you and me?" 

Dean's hand abandons its post on the gear stick and squeezes your thigh. You frown down at it, debate shoving him off, but you'll allow it. Sam's not looking, so what does it matter? 

"Hell yeah, sweetheart. We've got chemistry. We can be like one of those couples that hates each other's guts but still screw like rabbits," He lowers his voice and gives you an absurd wink, "We've got good practise at both of those things." 

Despite yourself, you laugh. It's a small one, more of a scoff, but it validates Dean all the same, "Jesus Christ, fine, fine. I'll do it if it'll shut you up."

It does, and his hand remains a steady presence on your thigh up until Dubois, when Sam starts stirring.

The budget stretches to afford you your own room for a change. It's a rare treat, but without the recurrent warble of conversation flowing between Sam and Dean, you're left stewing in your own thoughts. And it's not a nice place to be, because you're mostly thinking about Dean.

You hadn't told anyone. Directly. Bobby knows, but Bobby doesn't count, because he'd come to the conclusion on his own. It'd been after the blizzard conundrum in Wyoming, and Dean had whipped up stuff from childhood in your head, and you were very, very lost. Bobby always gave you clarity.

In not so many words, he'd disapproved. Said that the guy you weren't seeing, but weren't not seeing, and who's definitely not Dean, was a good man but you'd fare well not to get attached. Not-Dean's fun and exciting in moderation, yet if you think you can fix him, you should cut your losses before someone gets hurt.

And you can't fault Bobby for any of it. So, it was decided. You'll give Dean a few months of fun then throw in the towel. Everyone wins. Things can go back to normal and you can find a more appropriate guy to have casual sex with rather than the guy who still thinks pulling on a girl's pigtails is an acceptable way to flirt.

It was like you'd conjured him. You'd just switched into pyjamas and made your mind up about him when Dean was inviting himself in, looking for trouble.

"You've showered and you're wearing a clean shirt. You going out?" You remark, hands on your hips as you make a big show of taking him in. He's clearly planning on staying for a while, though, because he hangs his leather jacket over the back of the chair.

"Nah, just had to sell it to Sammy that I was off out, chasin' tail, and not next-door." He shrugs, eyes twinkling. Dean collapses on the bed and snatches up the TV remote, flicking lazily through channels.

When you don't move from your spot at the vanity, observing him with a weird look, he lets out an impatient sigh and beckons you over, "If I wanted to watch TV alone, I coulda done that back at mine. Get over here, woman."

You're tempted to refuse on principle alone, but soon defer when grapples with his fly and tugs out soft cock, and you can't resist. As long as he's here for something sexual, you can handle that. Dean drapes his arm around your shoulders as you settle in beside him, chin stationed on top of your head.

Through the thin material of his t-shirt, you can feel Dean's muscles flexing when your hand travels across his abdomen. He's just the right amount of muscular, in your opinion. Enough thew to fuck you up against the wall, not too much that there's not some softness there too.

"You actually smell really nice. What is that? I know it's not motel shampoo." You prop yourself up a little and use his stomach as leverage, which makes him huff.

Grumbling, Dean pats his hair, which has turned spiky now that it's damp, "So shoot me, I put a bit of effort into my appearance. Don't chicks like that? Want me to go smear myself in pig shit, or something?"

"So long as you don't expect me to start tasting of daisies, scrub up all you like," You surrender, stifling a giggle on his behalf. You ruffle his hair yourself and Dean delivers a playful, reproving swat to your ass, "Hey, it's cute. Like a baby duckling, only grumpier."

He's offended by the comparison, you can tell by the way his lips press in a straight line, but he recovers quickly and has you swinging a leg over him with a hand to your hip. Dean's lap is a familiar spot to you now and it's intuitive the way you stabilise yourself on his chest while his palms rest over your parted thighs.

"Sweetheart, you taste way better than daisies," He drags his hands listlessly up the length of your thighs, just shy of massaging the muscles there. Dean's brow then cinches, "But that's not saying much 'cause Sam dared me to eat one once and it tasted awful. Worse than that green gunk he always has instead of fries."

You fluff up his hair again, but he indulges you with a grunt of permission, "You mean salad. Having some would probably do you some good, you know. Fruit cooked in sugar and wrapped in pastry doesn't count as one of your five a day."

"Now you tell me." Dean teases, canting his head to grant you better access to fuss with his hair. Momentarily, you pause, considering laying a boundary, because this is feeling borderline intimate. Once won't do you any harm. Your fingers venture to the nape of his neck, scratching the shorter scruff there.

And it definitely feels too intimate. Dean's looking at you, not your lips - you. His hands aren't straying to cop a feel, he's not labouring to get in your pants. Hell, he's not even fully hard yet. You're not behaving any better with your hands in his hair and smiling all coquettish. This doesn't feel sexual.

You wrench your hands to your side, burned, "So, how long do you think Sam will buy your 'going out' lie until he comes looking?"

Confused and maybe a little hurt, his smile goes a bit flat. It doesn't last long. Dean gives an indefinite wave of his hand and lets his head fall back against the bed frame, "Whole evening, if you're lucky."

"Like you could last an entire evening." You murmur in a low, provocative drawl and trail a finger over the waistband of his boxers peeking out from the undone zip of his jeans. His Adam's apple bobs, the fingers parked at your hips tightening their grip almost imperceptibly.

Dean sucks in a long breath that you can feel originates from the very bottom of his chest, "Gonna put your money where your mouth is, or are you gonna keep bein' a little cock-tease?"

"Bit of both, I reckon." You hum, grinning.

You more than take your time wriggling down his jeans. He can huff and puff all he likes, but Dean's eyes are the window to his soul, and they're more glazed than the pack of doughnuts he'd inhaled for dessert. The damp patch bleeding through his underwear is also a dead give away, too.

His hips ripple against the mattress uselessly, because you've already walked your hands back up his chest and press them into the cords of muscle all coiled up in his shoulders.

Dean's eyes briefly fall shut, "You're blue-balling me here."

"Thought you said you could last all evening?" You counter innocently as the pads of your thumbs bite into a particularly stubborn knot. His eyes open to slits.

"And I thought I told you to put your damn mouth to work." He removes a hand from white-knuckling your hip to spring himself free, his teeth gritting when the cold air of the motel greets the warm skin of his cock.

He's got a such a pretty dick. You haven't really had the chance to stop and admire it during the whirlwind of hookups the two of you have had. The curtains more than match the drapes; neatly trimmed but with a hint of rakish charm shining through. Just toeing the line of above average length maybe, but it's the width you'll be writing home about.

You don't need any more goading. You bend down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the flushed head of his cock, letting your tongue sweep a long stripe over the leaking slit. Dean's abdomen flexes as your lick disrupts the steadiness of his breathing.

His fingers loosely entangle in the back of your hair, not guiding, just resting. He's not one to let someone else take the reigns outside of the bedroom, so it's a nice change of pace for him to be at the mercy of your hands between the sheets, you've found. He deserves as much. Dean's many things, but selfish isn't one of them. You're happy to take a load off for him once in a while.

You continue to lathe his cockhead with kittenish laps of your tongue until the stubs of his nails are clawing at your scalp. His pre-cum tastes musky on your palate. Far from unpleasant. It's full-bodied, like sipping from a rich barrel aged whiskey. An acquired taste, but one you've grown to appreciate. You take just the tip of him between your lips and revel in the husky groan that rolls deliciously over your ears.

"Shit, sweetheart, you're a real sight down there," Dean's eyes are on you, unwavering, relishing in the sight of your mouth stretching to accommodate him. He makes a conscious effort to keep your hair from hanging over your face. Dean wants to see you. And it's feeling all too intimate again, "A good sight. The fuckin' best, actually. Only I get to see this, right?"

You mistakenly assume he's just talking through the haze of lust, but then he cups your chin, pausing you from taking him deeper. His eyes are insistent. He wants you to look at him, "Only me?"

Pulling off, with a glistening string of salvia connecting his cockhead to your lips, you satisfy him with a stiff nod. It seems to appease him, and even if it doesn't, he drops the subject the moment his dick is back resting against your tongue.

And, yeah, only he does. At least, at the moment. Blowjobs aren't your favourite, but when it comes to Dean, you're starting to think you judged them too rashly. You like the heft of him weighing down your jaw. You like eliciting all those noises from him, be them breathy whines or rasped moans. You like that his eyes don't stray from you for one minute, like it's not the simulation alone that drives him to spilling down your throat, but who the simulation is being delivered by. Talk about him making it personal; you're no better.

His fingers that keeps your hair parted glides down to splay over your cheek, thumb tracing the strained line of your jaw. There's a slight distension to your throat from the heft on him currently sitting on your tongue, and Dean's thumb veers down to brush it. It's done with the sort of obeisance you wouldn't expect from a casual hook-up. The tender movement sends a shiver down your spine.

He looks soft. Mushy. Something you'd label as fond, if you weren't familiar with his game. The Dean you've seen mete out dozens of sleazy pickup lines that shouldn't work, but somehow do, and proudly tout a double-digit body count doesn't sit happily alongside this version of him. The caricature of Dean you've grown to associate with him is one dimensional, impervious to change. You remember the little boy who chucked worms at you to see you squirm, or the teenager that juggled four girlfriends at once without either one finding out about the other, or the man who thought star signs and boob sizes were interchangeable.

A nicer, forgiving version of Dean throws a spanner in the works. This one seems worth a shot. Deserving of a second chance. Not all the rom-coms about taking a leap of faith with the fixer-upper can be wrong, can they? This one you can't dismiss as quickly.

You focus on his cock nudging the back of your throat instead. It's an easier thing to swallow. When your nose kisses the tamed thatch of his pubic hair, you sputter somewhat, and he seizes up, as though mindful to your enjoyment of this. You quash the concern by doubling down, willing your throat to loosen rather than reflexively fight against the intrusion. Through lowered, heavy lids, you glance up at him.

Dean very much seems to be a man who'd died happy. His eyes are reduced to slithers of green framed by dark lashes, fluttering, bewitched. His nose twitches, rabbit-like, and the perfect acuate of his jaw flexes. He's relaxed, for once. Unburdened. He prefers armour of the haughty variation and wears his lazy grin as a shield. There's a lot hidden underneath there, things no one could peel back, not even Sam. But here, it looks as though he's caught a much needed break between the lips of someone dear.

"Fuck, I love-" You both flinch. Dean's eyes fly open, a fat tear clinging to his lash line, and you can see his Adam's apple bob, "This. I love this."

Your mouth is full with him spilling down your throat, which is probably for the best, because a slew of expletives sounds off in your head. You have half a mind to repeat them into the silence of the room.

His head is tipped back, partly in pleasure, partly in shame. Even facing away from you, you spot the pink clawing its way over the expanse of his cheeks. Dean might have had the forbearance to correct himself, but it was fooling neither of you. You pull off him with a wet noise, swallow, and pull back. Pull into yourself.

Surprisingly, the cum shot isn't what settles unpleasantly in your stomach. It's the quiet that hurts. The noise of something unspoken, palpable in the air, too gruelling to speak into the world. Only Dean could make a blow-job feel like something other than sexual. It's disgustingly off-brand for him.

You don't think you'd believe him if he said it aloud anyways. You don't think either of the Winchesters understand the concept of non-transactional love. How you can give without chipping off a piece of yourself. How you can love, but not love. It's an all or nothing deal with them, and that's an exhausting way of living. Anything remotely affectionate would feel like devotion to a man who knew the cold metal of a gun before the warm hand, or mouth, of a friend.

He's spent, softened against his jeans. You keep your hands and eyes to yourself because touching him now is like touching something tainted. Seeing Dean in your peripheral is enough. He's desperate to catch your eye, get something out of you - positive or negative. He gets nothing as he works himself back into his boxers, wincing.

Dabbing your lips, you stand up, swaying a little, "I should probably get some sleep."

The announcement is a dismissal. You want him gone now. Your jaw aches, throat feels raw. Everything tied tight enough to snap. Dean doesn't move from the bed immediately. His hands spread on his thighs, fingertips twitching, and there's a cinch to his brows as though he wants to say something further. You nip it in the bud.

"Goodnight, Dean." You say, firmly. He moves at a lethargic place, almost expecting you to budge, to change your mind, but you're implacable. A maiden of stubborn stone and crossed arms, watching him down the slope of your nose as he gathers himself.

When he reaches your door, he turns once again, arms open and eyes still glossy. It tugs the softer side of you, but spite wins out. A collage of Dean's previous exploits flares behind your eyes, fuelling the fire more. You tilt your head, expectant and cruel.

"What? Expecting a parting kiss?" His head shakes slowly, hung a little, and he departs, closing the door softly behind him. The gesture incenses you more.

You flop to the bed and glare up at the popcorning pattern on the ceiling. If boys being mean means they like you, what does it mean when they're nice to you instead?

[cujja]

Once An Addict

The consequences of demon blood and denial.

Heavily inspired by this ask! Warnings/tags: 5x14, effects of famine, addiction/withdrawal issues, Sam's got hella insecurities, he's also a munch (canon), cumming untouched & in pants, oral sex (f receiving), body worship, kinda subby Sammy cuz he's basically in heat, a bit sappy.

Sam's cuffed himself to the sink for your safety just as much as for his own.

He's pulled the bathroom door to. Not locked, because he couldn't stomach that. The only thing worse than having you see him in such a pitiful state is not seeing you at all. A year and a half in the cage was enough separation from you to last him a lifetime.

Just as friends, though. Only friends. Sam only wants to burrow between your thighs, risk suffocation, as friends only. It's for the best, really. Sam's carcinogenic; anything he touches atrophies, withers, wilts. He can't do that to you. You deserve much more out of life than fusty motel rooms and mattresses that feel like cinderblock.

He's already put you through enough. Dean stays because he's his brother, Castiel stays because it's his duty - but you stay because you want to. That's the difference; that's special. Sam's not going to fuck that up because his heart does that stupid little sputter around you.

And he's content with being your friend, honestly and truly. Sam has self-control. He's not Dean, who pops a boner if the wind blows in the wrong direction. Sam's schooled himself: he keeps the giddiness to a minimum when you lean in closer to squint at the computer, tamps down his envy after a man at the bar pays for your drink, and politely diverts his eye if he walks in on you changing, even though he really, really doesn't want to.

In normal circumstances, he'd be fine. But famine's not normal. Nothing about his life is normal. That'd be too easy, too predictable. Sam wants you. It's not the usual pang of desire he'll get every so often when you do something particularly endearing, it's a debilitating hunger. A gaping void of emptiness rending him in two, clawing its way up his ribcage until it leaves his mouth in anguished and miserable groans.

The demon blood withdrawal has taken a backseat. It's definitely not helping Sam's situation, but it's a pain he's used to. It's the devil he knows. This omnivorous, unfettered lust for you is vibrating at a frequency he didn't know he possessed.

"Sam?" You call, concerned, from behind the drawn door, "You've been quiet in there for a while. Are you okay?"

Sam's drooped against the wall, legs kicking out unproductively every so often to physically vent the appetite he can't sate. His hairs clinging to his forehead, slicked with sweat, and sticking up at odd angles from how many times he's restlessly ran his fingers through it.

Maybe worst of all is the way his dick is practically bursting through his jeans. It's been like that since you helped fasten him to the pipes and wiped at his forehead with a devastating look of reassurance. That little gesture you'd probably already forgotten you'd done has seared itself into the forefront of Sam's mind.

His head sags, eyes squeezing shut as a nasty twinge of arousal knots his stomach, "M'fine. Just...just don't come in."

You don't answer immediately. It wears at his already wafer-thin resolve. Sam wants you to come in, he wants you to come in and dab at his forehead again, or smooth down the mess of his hair, or let him rabidly hump your leg. Either, or.

"Are you sure?" You say quietly, ruefully.

"Please..." He manages through gritted teeth. Sam doesn't think you heard him at first, thinks the chip in his armour of self-denial will go unnoticed, but he hears you move closer to the door.

"Please what?" You press. You're worried. You only use that low, steady tone when something's gone drastically awry, "Please leave, or please come in?"

His arm flexes against the cuff, the rattling of metal against metal deafening amidst the tense silence. Sam stifles a whine unbefitting for a man who's done a stint in Hell.

"I don't know."

He sounds pathetic, all croaky and hoarse. He looks even worse. You open the door slowly, like one would to the enclosure of a feral animal, and lower yourself to his side. Sam opens his eyes to somnolent slits to greet you.

"Oh, Sam," You whisper, hand raising to smooth the strands of hair out of his scrunched up face. He keens into your touch, no matter how fleeting it is, and nuzzles at your palm, "Let me help."

You guide him to rest against you; Sam goes willingly. His arms clamber to wrap around you with the dedication of a boa constrictor, hands balling into fists around the fabric of your shirt. He crumples, face-first to your chest, sprawling the rest of himself out in an ungainly manner.

Sam shivers and shakes in your arms. Mindlessly, his fingernails will bite in tighter as he rides out a wave of withdrawal, but ease off when you murmur sweet nothings of consolation in his ear. You tell him things he doesn't deserve to hear, like how strong he's being, how brave he is, how proud of him you are.

Your proximity fixes some of his problems by creating new ones. Now that you're in arm's reach, Sam's getting his hopes up along with his cock. He noses at the column of your throat, shamelessly inhaling the warmth sitting where your clavicles meet. It's where the scent of your perfume and musk have coalesced into one bouquet that's making all of his muscles strain.

He's gone. Surrendered. Mouthing at your throat at an asinine pace, hands scrabbling for any inch of skin it can get, body thrumming with unspent energy. You exclaim something, notably not of rejection, but the actual syllables are lost in translation. Sam's whimpering, snivelling, against the reddened patches of skin his lips are leaving behind.

"I need this. Need you. I-I can't..." He garbles, fingers finding anchorage in your hips and clasping them like a lifeline. His squirming has leveraged your outstretched leg to be positioned just strategically enough for him to nudge his conspicuous bulge against your knee, "M'sorry. You're just - shit - you're so perfect."

Tears, big, fat unmanly ones, well up at his waterline. Sam's so hard it's gone past the point of feeling good, it just hurts. The gentleness of your fingers combing through the length of his hair only encourages the inchoate stuttering of his hips. He can feel the dampness of his pre-cum smearing the front of his boxers. It only makes everything that bit more uncomfortable. Unbearable.

You shush him, "I told you I'd help. Just show me how."

Clarity fizzles in fleetingly. Sam cranes his neck back enough to meet your eyes, gauge your commitment to helping him whatever the cost. You seem pretty dedicated. It's as green of a light he's going to get.

Sam nearly connects with your chin with the velocity of which his head jerks up to devour your lips. The hungers not surfeited, but it does lessen the weight bearing down on his chest. Kissing you was long anticipated and it didn't disappoint. He can't get enough. Sam's nose knocks yours as he deepens the kiss, his tongue darting out to run over the pout of your mouth.

When your experimentally presses up against his crotch, he moans. Ragged and adenoidal. Sam's hand retaliates by gripping your inner thigh and tugging, opening you up to make room for him. This type of hunger can only be solved in one way.

He pulls away from your lips, diving back in only once more to make sure he's got his fill for the time being, and hunkers down between your parted thighs. Above, you're a bit dazed, breathless, but you cotton on quick when Sam twiddles with the button of your jeans. You raise your hips enough for him to get the pesky things down.

Sam doesn't bother prying your cute striped panties down too, just latches his mouth over where he knows your cunt lies concealed. Your legs clamp lightly against the sides of his head, startled.

"You surprised me." You exclaim, chest heaving, a wisp of a smile crinkling the inviting corners of your lips.

He drags the bridge of his nose up the length of you and prods more earnestly at the top, at your clit. Sam feels the muscles in your thighs tense against him in response. It's a proud moment. He winds an arm underneath the arc of your leg and braces a hand to your leg, holding you steady.

He laves his tongue over the gusset. After a few ardent licks, the slick of his spit has coaxed your wetness through the fabric. The taste is like a sacrosanct sip of water in the desert. Sam groans, nipping the material between his teeth and letting it snap back down with a squelch. You shudder.

He rubs his cheek to your thigh, glancing up with hazy eyes and shiny lips, "S'perfect. You're perfect. You're everything."

He says such nonsense with such veneration. To Sam, in this moment, it's the closest he can muster to a proclamation of love. You get the gist, and brush his overgrown fringe out of his eyes. Yours is a proclamation too.

Sam peels back the soddened gusset enough to let his tongue run over your entrance uninhibited. You're so warm, and damp, and soft. So heady as the taste glides over his palate. The tip of his cock is weeping in his underwear, tumescent and throbbing. He's confident you finishing in his mouth would have him shooting helplessly into nothing.

Testing his theory, Sam tugs your panties a little further, giving his lips more real estate. He suckles at your puffed up clit until your fingers fly to knot in the roots of his hair. The delectable scratch of your fingernails to his scalp coupled with the fortunate placing of the seam on his jeans is dizzying.

His attention to your clit melts into kisses down the stretch of your cunt, stopping at your entrance. Sam had rather hoped the first time he got to do something so special with you wasn't in a motel bathroom, but the location tends not to matter when you're with the right person - and Sam knew you were always the right person for him.

He dips inside. Shallow, at first, testing the waters. Your tremulous exhale is a good start. Sam gets braver, lapping at you with joyful abandon, his fingers biting crescent moons into your thighs. His tongue's a piston; programmed and honed to pleasure.

Your hand to the back of his head is guiding him nowhere. Sam was already flat against you anyways, nose jostling your clit with every nudge of his head. Underneath tear-matted lashes, he peers up, delighted at the sight of your eyes only not meeting his because they're forced shut in bliss.

When you cum, loud and glorious, it's his turn to shut his eyes. You quiver against Sam's mouth, walls pulsing at the lash of his tongue, an added trickle of arousal straight from the source overwhelming his tastebuds. He doesn't stop, he can't stop.

"Sam..." You paw at his shoulder, a weak plea for recovery. Your convulsing is kept to a minimum by the grip he has on your thighs as he perseveres in making out with your cunt.

It burns behind the back of his eyes when it hits. Sam feels it ripping its way up from his toes to his hairline, culminating in a guttural sob interrupting the smack of his lips. His hips twitch, abdomen tightens. He came in his fucking pants.

Your fingertips grazing his cheek wrench him from his post-nut reverie, "Sam." You repeat, still short-breathed, but much more lucid than before.

Timidly, he lugs himself upright, wincing as his sensitive cockhead catches. Your arms loop around his neck and breezily collide his lips with yours. The kiss lacks the swelter of the first, instead it's charged with something Sam might categorise as affection.

"I needed that as much as you did." You confess, head bowing to the side as you size him up. A unique glimmer of intimacy has glossed your eyes and pinned an infectious, beatific smile on your face.

Sam exhales, relieved, his forehead going slack to yours, "I'm glad."

[roadhousearchivesstacks]

Hot damn. I'm usually careful with addiction/withdrawal themes, but this was worth throwing caution to the wind.

The balance of desperation, depravity and devotion in this is absolutely delicious.

[cujja]

Tysm withdrawal sam n actively dying sam r very near and dear to me he deserves so much better 🥹🥹

[ambiguous-avery]

All We Have Are Glory Days

Mister Marathon x fem!Supe!Reader | WC: 5239

Summary: It’s 2014. Mister Marathon’s starting to slip a little, but he’s not ready to give up the spotlight just yet. What better way to stay in the public’s eye than to try and orbit Centerfold’s gravity and call it a strategy?

Tags/Warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI, male masturbation, drug use, Mister Marathon only thinks with his dick, enemies-to-?, canon-typical depravity, no use of Y/N, no beta we die like men

A/N: My disappointment in how they used JarPad’s cameo in The Boys is absolutely immeasurable. So how do I cope with it? By creating an entire backstory and character to pair with him so that I can write his character better. Am I devoting all this time and energy into a side character solely because he’s played by JarPad? Yes. Am I ashamed? Absolutely the fuck not. Gimme my speedster boy. I’ll make him plenty pathetic by the end of this. Also, yeah, this is gonna be a multi-parter. But I don’t have any idea how many parts or when I’ll upload more pieces of this.

The studio was already humming by the time he stepped onto the set, all warm lights and overworked assistants scrambling around with lint rollers and clipboards like the world would end if a single wrinkle made it into frame. Standard Vought production. He could appreciate it. At least there was decent scenery. One of the assistants – an intern, from how young she looked – kept glancing his way, and he wondered if he could sneak a quickie in before the photoshoot started. Wouldn’t need any oil if he worked up a real sweat.

He spotted you the second you walked in. It was impossible not to.

Every head in the room tilted towards you in some subtle, little way, like gravity actually bent around you. For all he knew, it did. Fitting name with a fitting power. Centerfold. You moved like you already knew everyone was looking and couldn’t be bothered enough to acknowledge it. No rush. No nervous energy. No overeager smile like most people got around him. Interesting.

Mister Marathon straightened a little where he was standing center stage, smoothing a hand down the front of his mesh tank. The assistant beside him was still talking, – lighting adjustments or something – but he didn’t hear her anymore. His attention locked onto you as you crossed the studio floor.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Vought knew what they were doing with you. He’d seen plenty of your spreads before. All of them were prime fap material. He’d know. They could probably put you in a burlap sack, and he’d get a chub at the very least. But the outfit they had on you? Fucking criminal. It was the kind of thing that made men fall to their knees and women reconsider their life choices. He was already picturing it on the dressing room floor. He whistled, quickly adjusting himself in the track pants that left very little to the imagination. Especially now.

“Centerfold!” he called, spreading his arms wide with an easy grin. “Big fan.” Your eyes landed on him, flicked down to his dick, then back up to his face.

“Of yourself?” A few crew members laughed under their breath. He grinned wider. There it was. Attitude. All for show, of course. Nobody talked to him like that, unless they wanted his attention. He knew the game. Sharp tongue, cold exterior, the whole too good for you act. Usually, it lasted right up until he had them bent over and was railing them into next week.

“Of you,” he corrected, stepping towards you and offering his hand. “Queen Maeve’s threatening to slash your tires if you beat her in another popularity poll. Figured I’d finally get to see what the hype’s about.” Your gaze dropped to his hand. Didn’t take it.

“Mm,” you hummed. “Disappointed yet?”

You brushed past him. It almost made him laugh. Not because it bothered him – though it caught him off guard – but because it was a bold move. Cocky. Like you thought you could ice him out and he’d lose interest. If anything, it made you hotter. He pivoted, following after you.

“You always this friendly on set, or am I just getting special treatment?”

“Special?” You glanced back over your shoulder. “You’re not a Make-A-Wish kid.”

Mister Marathon popped his neck. Cute. The thing about banter, about chemistry, was that if someone didn’t want to engage, they didn’t. They shut it down. Walked away. Kept things polite and cold. You kept answering him. Kept turning back. Kept giving him ammunition to keep the conversation going.

“Oh, wow,” he said with a low whistle. “So the rumors are true..”

“Hm?” You paused, glancing at your phone.

“You’re a fucking bitch.” He let his eyes drag down your body while he said it, deliberate and unapologetic. Women liked that look. Straightened up a little. Pushed their tits out. Played offended while secretly liking the attention. You scowled at him, and his cock twitched as he imagined painting those lips white. “Guess that’s one way to stay relevant when you’re not in The Seven,” he added.

Your response? Nothing. No defensive reaction. No irritation. No wounded ego. In fact, you smiled. Slow. Almost pitying as you turned to face him fully.

“Oh sweetheart,” you drawled. “Every star collapses under enough pressure.” Something sharp flickered behind his ribs. Not anger, exactly. More like a challenge. He stepped closer, his polished grin sharpening.

“Pressure just makes stars like me shine brighter.”

“That supposed to impress me?”

“No. Just means I don’t have to try as hard.”

“And yet,” you gestured vaguely at him, “here you are. Trying.”

The intern he’d been eyeing earlier snickered across the way, and he cleared his throat, adjusting his shirt. He exhaled through his nose, smile tightening before me smoothed it back into place. His voice dropped an octave as he crowded you more.

“You know, most people would kill to be in your position.”

“Most people,” you echoed.

“Yeah.” He flashed you an easy smirk. “Paired with me? National campaign? That kind of exposure doesn’t come around often.”

“I’ve had better offers.”

He pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Jesus, you were relentless. But honestly? It was kinda doing it for him.

“You mean sucking off execs?” he asked. “Didn’t realize that was the better career move these days.”

“Well,” you said, picking at your fingernails, “it’s more action than you’re seeing.” That got an actual laugh out of him. It wasn’t funny (okay, it kinda was), but you said it like you genuinely expected it to hit him. Like you thought that he’d be rattled by it.

“I could leave if I wanted. I don’t have to stand here taking this shit from you.”

“No, you don’t,” you agreed. “But you want to.” You laughed at him, and there it was again, that tiny little sting right under his skin. Damn, you knew exactly where to aim, and you weren’t pulling any punches. Before he could answer, the photographer clapped loudly from behind the camera.

“Alright! Positions! Let’s get some push and pull energy going on here!” You and him were already three steps ahead. You moved towards your mark without another glance at him. He watched the sway of your hips as you walked away, shamelessly staring at your ass and wondering how many handprints he could fit on it.

“Try to keep up,” he muttered as he stepped in behind you.

“Don’t need to. You can’t outrun gravity.” 

“Perfect! Hold that!” The photographer practically lit up behind the camera, the shutter snapping in quick succession. Mister Marathon slid a hand to your waist, fingers running along the thin fabric of your outfit. He didn’t miss the way your gaze flicked down for a brief second.

“Careful,” you murmured. “Grip any tighter and people might think you’re compensating.” He flexed his hand against your side, blunted nail digging in.

“Oh, I am,” he shot back. “Compensating for someone who thinks brooding is a personality.” You shifted against him, not away but closer, aligning yourself perfectly with him for the camera. The way your body fit against his sent another pulse of heat straight to his cock. No doubt you could feel it pressed against your thigh. For all the attitude and snapping and little hooks you kept trying to sink into him, you were still leaning into him. Still touching him. Still playing the game.

“Centerfold, chin down – yes, perfect. Marathon, lean in a little more. Pretend you’re telling her a secret.” He did as instructed, his lips ghosting along the shell of your ear.

“I give it ten years before you’re a dry, crusty has-been that no one remembers.”

“That’s ten more years than you’ve got,” you whispered back, voice honey-warm. “People are already saying you’re slowing down, big boy.” His hold on you tightened before he could stop it. “People’ll still be getting off to my photos long after your limp dick stops working. How’s that for being remembered?”

His expression almost slipped. Almost. Not because of the insult – there was absolutely nothing limp about his dick – but because holy fuck, you could flirt. Sure, he’d snuck some real sassy ones into Vought Tower before, but goddamn, college girls couldn’t hold a candle to the kind of heat that was building between the two of you.

“Getting off to photos? How fucking vanilla. You think you’re real special, don’t you?” He took the opportunity to slip his hand lower to where your hip curved into your ass. You batted his hand away, purposefully moving it as your chest brushed against his when you turned to face him fully.

“Haven’t you read the papers? I am special.” You leaned in close, fingers sliding along the back of his neck and tangling in his hair. For a split second, he thought you might kiss him. “And I don’t need you to stay relevant.” The photographer made a strangled noise somewhere behind the camera, but Mister Marathon barely heard it. He was already lost in how fucking awesome the sex after this was going to be.

The dressing room was the quiet reprieve you needed. Away from the flashing lights. Away from the photographer’s incessant demands. And most importantly, away from him. You slumped into the chair in front of the vanity, kicking off your heels and grabbing one of the make up removal wipes. The makeup artist had done her job well. You looked flawless in the photos, all smoky eyes and pouty lips, but at the end of the day, it was always a mask you couldn’t wait to remove. The door opened without a knock, and you scowled, already knowing who it was without looking.

“You make a habit of walking into people’s private spaces, Marathon?” you asked, beginning the process of removing your makeup.

“Just yours,” he replied, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “Figured we should talk. Away from all the cameras.” You glanced at him in the mirror, finding him leaning against the door and looking far too comfortable in your space. His eyes met yours in the mirror. He had ditched the smile meant for the papers, but his ego was still fully intact and encroaching on your limited space. You frowned.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you said. “We got the shots. They’ll be great. Vought will be thrilled. End of story.”

“Y’know,” he said like he was continuing a conversation you never agreed to have, “for someone who ‘doesn’t need this,’ you really leaned into it out there.”

“It’s called acting.”

“Is it?” He perched himself on the edge of your vanity table, watching you with eyes that reminded you of a rat’s. “Because it felt pretty damn real to me.”

“Maybe that’s because your ego can’t handle rejection,” you said, dabbing at your eyeliner with careful precision. He laughed like it was the funniest joke he’d heard all day, and the sound grated against your already-frayed nerves.

“Maybe,” he said in a tone that suggested he didn’t think that was the case at all. “Or maybe I’m ready to see what happens when we finally stop pretending.” You paused, the makeup wipe hovering halfway to your face.

“Pretending what?”

“That we don’t want this.” He gestured between you both. “The tension’s good for the cameras, yeah, but it’s better in private.” His voice dropped to a register that might’ve been seductive if it wasn’t so obviously rehearsed. You arched a perfectly drawn eyebrow.

“That’s your move? Really?”

“I don’t need a move.” He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees. “I’m just giving you permission to openly admire.”

A beat passed between you. Then, you laughed. Not a mean one, exactly, though it certainly wasn’t kind. It wasn’t as sharp as a mocking laugh, though. But you had to admit that you were amused.

“Oh, that’s got to be so embarrassing for you.” His expression tightened, but he pushed through it, leaning back and rolling his shoulders like he was settling in.

“I’m serious. You don’t get that kind of chemistry if there’s nothing there.” You set the makeup wipe down and finally gave him your full attention.

“Chemistry?” you echoed. “No, that’s gravitational pull. You can’t resist it, but I don’t notice that it’s there.”

“God, you are–” He cut himself off and scrubbed a hand over his jaw, fingers running through his beard. “Look, are we gonna fuck already or are you one of those ‘dinner first’ kind of people?” You just stared at him.

“Where do you get it?” you asked. His brow furrowed in confusion, clearly not expecting that sort of response.

“What?”

“Where do you get the fucking audacity to think that after all of that out there,” you motioned in the direction of the set, “that I would want to have sex with you?” He didn’t flinch. Didn’t miss a beat.

“I think you’re just playing hard to get,” he said with a smirk that you were severely tempted to slap right off of his face. “And I’ve got the stamina to wait you out.” He winked. 

“Stamina?” You scoffed. “From what I’ve heard, you’re all flash and no follow-through.” Your eyes narrowed to slits, the last remnants of your professional facade crumbling away. “Get out,” you said, voice low and dangerous. “Now.” Mister Marathon didn’t move. Instead, he had the gall to sigh and shake his head, that goddamn smirk unshaken.

“Fine, you want follow-through?” He held up his hands like he was surrendering as he pushed away from your vanity counter and drew closer. “Let’s do dinner first.” He seemed entirely unfazed by your demand, moving on with whatever rehearsed script he had like this was the next natural step. “There’s a place downtown – impossible to get into unless you’ve got a name – but–”

“No.” The word was immediate. Your tone was flat with zero hesitation behind it. He stopped short.

“…No?” he repeated, like maybe he had misheard you.

“No,” you confirmed, staring him down. “I’m not interested.” He huffed a laugh, but it wasn’t the same, confident one from before. There was uncertainty laced through it.

“C’mon,” he said, his tone faltering. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“This,” he gestured vaguely at you. “The whole ice queen thing. It worked for the shoot, but you don’t have to keep it up off-camera.” You met his beady little eyes, and this time, there was absolutely nothing performative in your expression.

“No,” you said again. “You’re fucking dense. That wasn’t a bit. None of this is.”

That landed. Really landed. You could see it in the way his perfectly polished mask shattered. Mister Marathon didn’t have a comeback or a pivot. Just the realization that he had been reading from an entirely different script than you.

“You’re serious,” he said at last.

“I usually am.” He studied you, really studied you this time like he was trying to recalibrate everything he thought he knew about the situation. You watched his throat work around a hard swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly.

“Christ, make some actual use of your power and lighten the fuck up,” he spat back finally. “Your pictures put out more than you.” There was a rush of air beside you, and in an instant, he was gone from your vanity, the door to your dressing room left wide open in his wake. You righted your chair with a sigh, collapsing back into it and returning to your methodical removal of your makeup.

It didn’t fully hit him until ten minutes after he was back in his apartment at Vought Tower. At first, he did what he always did. Scoffed. Rolled his shoulders. Ran a hand through his hair like he was shaking it off.

“Whatever,” he muttered to the empty room, grabbing a bottle of sparkling water off the kitchen counter. “Her loss.” He had said that line a hundred times. A thousand, even. Usually, it worked. Usually, he could turn around, find some other warm cunt to sink his dick into, and fuck it out of his system. But the second he even tried to think about some other pretty little thing wrapping her lips around him, his brain replayed it.

No.

Flat. Easy. Worse than that, though, was what it wasn’t. You weren’t angry or disgusted even. You gave him absolutely nothing. The lint on your sleeve got more of a rise out of you than he did. And it fucking grated.

The bottle remained unopened in his hands as he paced the length of his living room, the afternoon light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows and casting long shadows across the polished marble floor. His reflection caught in the glass as he passed by, and he stopped, examining himself. The same face that had graced billboards and magazine covers for the past three years stared back at him. Still handsome. Still powerful. Still worth millions.

And yet you had looked at him like he was nothing.

And that’s what stung.

People didn’t look at him like that. They looked at him like he was someone. Like he was a surefire thing. Like all they had to do was wait for him to notice them. But you didn’t wait. You didn’t care. That flipped something ugly and electric in his chest. He hurled the sparkling water across the room, the glass bottle shattering against the wall. It fizzed as it slid down, dripping onto his collection of Playboy magazines and soaking into the pages like the world’s saddest fucking money shot. 

He showered. Changed into something with his branding on it. Checked his phone. He had three missed messages. Two from PR and one from someone named Kinleigh, whoever the fuck that was. Normally, he’d answer. Normally he’d want to. But now, he swiped all of them away. “Fuck,” he hissed, tossing his phone onto the couch beside him. It bounced once before landing face down.

Several volumes of Vought Monthly were scattered across the coffee table in front of him, the most recent issues that featured him on the front page. No slowing down: Mister Marathon’s road so far. Carry On, Marathon: The speedster who never backs down. Marathon, Interrupted: One of the Seven injured during heroic rescue! He snatched one of them up and flipped through it without thinking.

And there you were.

Centerfold.

Exactly where your namesake said you would be.

“Of-fucking-course.” He let out a short humorless laugh and rolled his eyes as he reached up to turn the page. His hand hesitated. You looked like the perfect sex icon. You always did. The lighting sculpted you just right, shadows deepening right at the junction of your thighs. Your expression was balanced on that razor-thin edge between inviting and untouchable, though your ‘fuck me’ eyes were enough to make people think they had a chance. It was the kind of image that was manufactured to make people think they were getting something without actually giving them anything real. He’d seen photos of you hundreds of times before.

But this was different.

Now, he had seen you off the page. And suddenly, the version of you in the magazine felt incomplete. His thumb dragged across the glossy image, mentally cursing as he caught sight of your name printed in the lower corner. Centerfold: Get caught in her orbit. God-fucking-dammit. The camera hadn’t caught the way your mouth looked when you talked down to him. It hadn’t been a bit. Then why had it made him so fucking hard? He tossed the magazine aside, thought twice about it, then grabbed it out of the air before it could hit the ground and crease the pages. He heaved a sigh, dragging his hand down his face.

He was too keyed up. Restless. Wired. His thoughts were a whirlwind that even he was struggling to keep up with. Comebacks that would’ve been nice to have a few hours earlier. Better lines. Sharper ones. Ones that would’ve landed and cut into you. Ones that might’ve gotten you to look at him with something. Anger. Disgust. Spite. Hell, he’d thought he would’ve at least gotten a hate-fuck out of you. Anything more than just sheer indifference.

“Jesus Christ, shut up,” he grumbled. He pushed himself off the couch abruptly, like he could physically outrun the noise in his head. It didn’t work. It never did. His thoughts kept pace, darting ahead of him before looping back. Picking apart every second in the damn dressing room, every look you’d given him, every lack of a reaction. He paced around his apartment. Once. Twice. A third time. Too fast. He was a caged animal.

This was fucking stupid. 

He moved without thinking, crossing the room in half a breath and yanking open the drawer where the answer to his problem sat. A small baggie. Familiar. Reliable. He shook it between his fingers. It was lighter than he remembered it, but that didn’t matter. It was still enough to do the trick. He nodded to himself, feeling the anticipation of relief building behind his ribs. The one that promised to smooth everything out and wrap him in that warm, numb nothing that had gotten him through plenty of times before. Calm settled over him as he cut himself a line, practiced precision of card on glass. He bent. Rolled bill. Sharp inhale.

Bitter. Chemical. Fucking finally.

The noise in his head didn’t stop. Rather it just... dropped out. Like someone had yanked the cord on a speaker mid-song. The constant chatter, the looping what-ifs, the sharp edges of it all – gone, just like that. He sniffed and breathed a sigh of relief. His shoulders loosened. The tension in him unwound in a rush, like a coiled spring finally just giving up. The world felt smoother. Manageable again. He dragged a hand through his hair, beginning his pacing once more, but this time, it wasn’t frantic. It was easy and controlled. 

He was Mister Marathon again.

The thing about being the fastest man alive was that nothing could keep up with him, not even drugs. But they did give him just a few blessed minutes where his thoughts finally moved at the same speed as the rest of the world. Some armchair therapist online had said something about stimulants and some mental illness interacting differently or shit. He didn’t care about the why or the how. Only that it fucking worked.

His gaze flicked to the coffee table, eyes darting from one image to another. And this time, it didn’t sting. He scoffed, a hint of that polished arrogance sliding back into place. What the hell had he been thinking? He was one of The Seven. Thousands of people wanted him. Wanted to be him. There was no reason to be so hung up on one stuck up bitch.

Better. This was better.

He moved back to the couch and dropped down onto it, stretching his arms along the back and spreading his legs like he owned the world. His foot started bouncing again, but it felt good this time. Energizing. Like he was plugged back in. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the cushions, reveling in the peace of feeling in control. Hell, maybe he’d even text that Keyleigh girl back. He was fairly confident that she was the one who had sucked him off right after he fucked her ass. God, he loved college freshmen.

He straightened up and reached for his phone. Your photos taunted him in his peripheral vision, and before he knew it, his eyes had been dragged back to the centerfold spreads on the table. It was just a glance. Just a– 

Mister Marathon shifted, rolling his neck and trying to shake it off. He pulled his confidence closer to himself, trying to wrap it around his shoulders like a comfortable blanket. It didn’t stay. It slid off. His foot bounced faster. The silence didn’t feel clean anymore. It felt thin. Like the quiet that came before something terrible happened. His stomach twisted, that brief, artificial calm fracturing all at once as the noise came rushing back in, louder than before. Like it had been building up and waiting just outside the door. 

He groaned as his thoughts raced again, this time with more teeth. Every second replayed in high definition. Every missed opportunity. Every look. Every word you hadn’t said. The silence couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds. Probably less.

The realization dawned on him slowly. This wasn’t complicated. None of this was about you. It was just... residual energy. Leftover adrenaline. The kind of thing that stuck under his skin when he didn’t burn it off properly. He knew how this all worked. He’d dealt with it plenty of times before. Bad nights. Bad press. Bad fucking moods that wouldn’t let go.

And there was an easy fix to all of it.

He looked at the glossy spreads of you. Frozen in perfect lighting. Perfectly posed. Perfectly manageable. That was his problem. He had been giving you way too much power and sway. You were fucking nothing next to him. None of this meant anything. The only reason this bothered him was because you’d fucking blue balled him. He just needed to get it out of his system, and he’d be right as rain again. 

He picked up one of the issues that had you leaning seductively over the edge of a pool, tits pushed up and cleavage on full display. His gaze dragged over it, slower this time, as he finally let go of his thoughts. They bolted back to you, and it took very little convincing to get them to circle around the memory of your hands at the nape of his neck. Of the way your chest felt pressed against his. It took even less coaxing to get his cock on board.

He leaned back against the cushions, the magazine in his hand feeling less like a source of frustration and more like the tool it was meant to be. His hand slid into his pants, fingers wrapping around himself and stroking a few times, eyes fixed on your image. The curve of your hip. The arch of your back. The way your lips were parted just slightly as if you were waiting for something he could give you. In his mind, you were on your knees, looking up at him with that same defiant expression, but now with something else mixed in. Want. Need. A hunger that he could satisfy.

“That’s more like it,” he muttered, his grip tightening as his thumb traced the swollen head of his cock. He groaned, low and throaty, as he let his imagination run away with his fantasy. “Something you wanna say?”

“I was wrong,” you said, pouting up at him. “I shouldn’t have brushed you off like that. I didn’t– I didn’t realize.” 

“Didn’t realize what?” he prompted in the emptiness of his apartment. He pushed his pants down just enough to free himself and positioned the magazine so you looked up at him from between his legs. He dragged the head of his cock against the page, smearing pre-cum across your lips. 

“How amazing you are. How much I…” you faltered for a second but pushed through it. “How much I want you.”

He should’ve grabbed a bottle of baby oil from his room before starting, but he couldn’t be bothered now. He paused just long enough to spit in his hand to ease the drag of his palm against his length. His lips curled into a smirk. 

“Took you long enough,” he said, his tone bored.

“I’m sorry.” You leaned closer to him, and he could feel your breath ghost against his cock. “I should’ve said yes.” Your chest heaved, eyes fixated on him. Begging him to let you have a taste. His gaze raked over you, like he was trying to decide if you were even worth the effort anymore. Like you were the one who needed to impress him now. 

“Yeah, you should’ve.” 

His hand moved faster, the fantasy burning through his veins, better than anything he snorted earlier. He rolled his fingers over the head of his cock with every upstroke, groaning at the mental image of you looking at him like you were finally seeing him for who he was. The Mister Marathon. The one who could have anyone he wanted, but he deigned to spare you an ounce of his attention. 

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Let me make it up to you. I’ll do anything.” You wet your lips in anticipation, waiting for his command. “Please, I need you.”

There was a beat. A long one. 

He let it stretch, watching the way you waited for him. The way you hovered there, caught between confidence and uncertainty. That was the best part of the whole moment. The reversal. The control. He leaned forward just enough to make it seem like he might just close the distance. To give you the permission to beg for forgiveness by choking him down.

Then, he grinned, all teeth and spite.

“Nah, not interested.”

He came, hard, all over the glossy image of your face, eyes screwed shut as he held onto the mental image of your shocked expression. The rush hit him like a freight train, better than any high he’d ever chased before. Better than coke. Hell, better than the fucking orgasm itself. The feeling of power that surged through him as he imagined rejecting you – watching your face crumple with disbelief – was intoxicating. 

He hadn’t expected that. Hadn’t known that it was even possible. This was a fucking high he needed more of. He slumped back against the couch cushions, watching his release drip down the page, obscuring your face like some sort of symbolic victory.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, catching his breath. The feeling stayed, lingering longer than the drugs could ever hope to last. It was a different high than he was used to. Better. More potent. 

He stared up at the ceiling, a slow grin spreading across his face. God, if he could get that just from his imagination, he couldn’t even fathom what it would be like in person. Hell, he could probably ride that high till he fucking died. The idea coiled in his gut like a snake, and for the first time since the photoshoot, he felt a semblance of himself return. He sat up, wiping his hand on his pants. This was a game he could play. And he was going to fucking win.

He reached for his phone. Not to text you – he didn’t have your number. Not yet, at least. His thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before he opened up his messages with his PR team, ignoring whatever they had sent him. He typed his message, fast and decisive. He already had everything he needed to make this work. He just needed to play it right.

Set me up with Centerfold again. Another photoshoot. An interview. I don’t care. Make it happen. Make it public.

He tossed his phone aside again, leaning back with a quiet exhale. There was that feeling in his chest again, sitting just behind his ribs. Restless. Charged. “Not interested,” he muttered, echoing you. His grin widened, just a fraction, his cock still half-hard in his lap. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

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[cujja]

Ugh he’s such a piece of shit I’m obsessed

[cujja]

Cold Snap

You're giving Dean the cold shoulder, but circumstance forces you to thaw.

Part 2 of Dog Days Warnings/tags: Enemies-to-fuckers, John's amazing parenting, Dean epitomising 'he's only teasing you because he likes you' philosophy, so toxic masculinity, teasing, sex for warmth (but not actually), pinch of humiliation, unprotected sex, Dean being a shithead (affectionately)

You hadn't liked Dean since you were kids.

He was loud and disruptive. Boisterous. Would needle you incessantly until big, fat tears welled up in your eyes. He'd jeer, call you a baby, to which you'd fiercely object with a pitchy, tight voice and run over to tell tall tales to uncle Bobby. Dean'd get all sulky and kick your shin under the table at dinner, or hide your favourite teddy under the basement stairs he knew you were afraid of, or sneak bugs down the collar of your shirt.

You were often carted off to uncle Bobby in the holidays. He was uncle by association, not blood, but same difference. And sometimes, while you were there, the Winchesters would be in town. John would only ever go as far as the welcome mat and he left his car engine running. He never stayed for long. Only long enough to drop off his sons, then he was off without so much as a kiss goodbye.

Sam was a few years younger, quite shy, but you liked him. You spent a lot of time parked at the kitchen table, drawing together side by side. Dean didn't draw. He dismissed it as too girly. He grubbed about in the dirt, and rough-housed, and ate worms, and was always sporting some kind of bruise. The quietest you'd ever seen Dean was when John caught him pulling your hair, and he'd thwacked him round the back of his head.

You didn't like Dean as an adult either, and you certainly didn't like him right now.

"You're such an idiot, Dean," You bristle as he fumbles haplessly with the ignition. Baby's engine sputters, coughs, then falls dead silent. He turns the key again, and this time, the car doesn't even bother spitting out a wheezy noise, "I told you it was going to snow, but no, you just had to tempt fate, didn't you?"

He sneers at you, "Oh, talkin' now, are we? Thought you were ignoring me."

You purse your lips together, sour-faced. Dean's been on the receiving end of your cold shoulder since Arizona. So much so that Sam felt an intervention was needed, like when you were kids and Bobby would make you hug it out. Instead, he'd handed you two a case and told you to sort not only it out, but also whatever issues you had as well.

It hadn't worked so far. Without Sam playing mediator, your investigation was sluggish. Your stakeout seemed promising, until Dean forgot to check the forecast, and now the car wouldn't budge an inch. Baby wasn't built to drive through blizzards.

You could see your breath start condensing in the air. Shivering, you cram your gloved hands deeper into your pockets, but it does little to combat the chill seeping in. Dean's bent over, head shoved in the footwell, trying to spark some electricity by tampering with the wires.

"You'll electrocute yourself. Stop doing that," You chide from your seat, looking rather skeptically at him. Dean doesn't listen to you, because he never has, so why would he start now. You yank him back by his shoulder, "Dean, stop it. We're stuck, okay? We'll have to...I don't know, wait it out? We'll go looking for help when the snow eases off.”

Reluctantly, he obeys. The wind howls, whipping through the trees with enough force that the car quivers. That's not as bad as the cold, though. It's fucking arctic. You bring your knees up to your chest, flouting Dean's rule about no shoes on Baby's leather.

He slumps in his seat. Defeated. He likes to keep active, stay preoccupied. Dean's never been good at sitting in silence. His fingers reach up to pull absently at the amulet around his neck before he lets out a loud, agonised sigh.

"I'm freezing my balls off here," He whines, shifting to be lounging against the driver's door, arms crossed. Dean rubs his hands together in a bid to generate some warmth, "You're cold too, I can see your nipples."

You self-consciously scramble with your zip until it's tugged all the way up to the top and shoot a glower his way, "You're such a fucking perv."

Dean sniffs, unconcerned, "I was just sayin'. And what's the big deal? You've let me touch 'em, but you draw the line at me looking at 'em? How's that work?"

You wince. You hadn't talked about the Arizona incident. Dean got the hint it was off limits when you'd said as much by hastily leaving the bed once the moment passed and sleeping on the sofa. There wasn't much to say, anyways. It'd been a flash in the pan, a one time thing.

You had no interests in being Dean's hunting partner by day, fleshlight by night. Even with his stupid gorgeous face and rough-hewn hands, he was still Dean. The very same Dean that'd given all your barbies atrocious bowl-cuts when you were ten and ripped them apart limb by limb.

Other, braver women were welcome to him. You weren't even going to touch that basket of snakes. Dean's complicated enough as a tenuous friend, but as a boyfriend? Perish the thought.

Stubbornly, you cast your gaze out the window, staring daggers at something unfocused in the distance. You weren't even going to dignify that with an answer. Plus, your teeth were chattering too much from the cold to speak, and your brain was focused on retaining warmth than formulating a facetious comeback.

"C'mere," Dean's hand loosely wraps around your wrist, trying to coax you towards him over the console. You're more confused than exasperated by his antics now and frown at him. He huffs, as though you're being the difficult one, and pats his thigh, "Come sit. We can, you know, share body heat and all that."

You scoff, but you don't pull your arm away just yet, "Share body heat? Yeah, I can guess what that's code for. I'm not falling for that one."

Dean's lip wobble with a smirk, but he wrestles it down, shaking his head and refusing to drop your wrist, "Usually it would be, but I mean it literally this time."

You remain firmly in the passenger seat. Dean lets your wrist rest across the console, but his fingers remain. He swipes a thumb over your knuckles and even through the thick material of your gloves, it prickles your skin. Dean gives you a surprisingly meek smile. Not a grin, or a smirk. A smile, and it's a rare sight.

"No strings. Just keepin' each other warm, I promise. I'll keep my mucky paws to myself."

Contemplatively, you run your tongue over your teeth. Dean's always ran hotter than you. In torrential downpour, he'll still have one of Baby's windows cracked, insisting the car's too stuffy without it. You know you'll probably regret it once you've warmed up, but you relent.

You carefully manoeuvre yourself over the console with Dean's hands supporting you. They didn't stray, didn't steal a chance to brush your ass. They just kept to your waist, tentative and there for balance. You don't know whether you wanted him to keep his word or not now.

Just because you haven't spoken about the Arizona incident doesn't mean you haven't thought about it. You have. Ceaselessly, shamefully. For as cursory as it was, it was good sex. The best, even. You'd known he was a good lay from his roster of girlfriends, but word of mouth didn't do him justice.

You don't usually bother taking the risk in getting yourself off on the road. Every time your hand snuck its way down your stomach and to the crevice of your thigh, one of the boys would make a noise in their sleep and it would throw the moment. Since Arizona, with the promise of Dean being so close, that ache between your legs became impossible to ignore.

It was flaring up now as you, sheepishly, let Dean position you on his lap. You'd alighted yourself as far from him as you could get at first, but he'd merely tutted and scooted you closer. Til you were chest to chest, stomach to stomach, crotch to crotch. You couldn't think about the last one. It'd make you do something silly.

"Can't keep you warm if you're all the way over there," He grunts, a hand settling at your hip and the other coming to the back of your head to lightly encourage you against his shoulder. You conform with little protest, "There. Comfy, comfy. Warmer already."

You wouldn't go as far as comfy given the fact you were as tense as a coiled spring, but it wasn't awful. The smooth leather of his jacket's collar tickles your cheek. Dean smells like a man, like how you'd expect one to smell. It's not an aftershave either, because he thinks the whole industry's a scam, it's just Dean. Something smoky and sharp. Like vetiver or cedar.

And you're resigning before your pride can stop you. Your arms wind around him, nose finding a home for itself at the slant of his neck. He smells most potent there, and its heady. You can tell he's startled, but Dean's versatile and he quickly takes it in his stride, chin perching on the crown of your head.

Something virulent rears its head as you feel his breathing slow, content in your presence. How many other women have been in your stead like this with him? Sharing body heat - what a line. Bet he read it in some sleazy tabloid somewhere. No way that's an original line, and if it is, that makes it even worse.

You're locking up, preparing to shrink away. Dean's the picture boy for emotional unavailability. You don't need to be getting involved with him anyways, even if it's just sex. People can pretend they won't attach strings, but someone always ends up getting hurt, and you're not letting yourself be that someone at the hands of Dean Winchester.

As you try to pull back, hands on his shoulders for leverage, he only clings tighter. It's like he can sense your train of thought, "S'only weird if we make it weird, right? Nothin' wrong with two friends keeping each other warm. It's just...practical." He clears his throat.

Practical. You turn the word over in your head. You can stomach practical, "Yeah. Yeah, practical. I'd do the same for Sam."

Dean makes a funny noise. You're staring at the seat's headrest, so you can't get a good read on his expression. If the flexing of his fingers at your hips is anything to go off, though, you'd be inclined to believe he wasn't all that fond of the thought of you and Sam like this. Dangerous thought.

"Mhm, just practical." He echoes, hushed.

You don't know whose hands wander first. Whether it's his fingertips ambling underneath the bottom of your coat, up your spine, or yours sailing over the broad plane of his chest. Dean's got a good chest, after all. You're only human. It's warm, and solid, but still with enough give to make him feel safe. Because at the end of the day, you do feel safe with Dean.

Even when you were little. He'd tease you unremittingly, but was always the first to jump in if anyone else had the same idea. He'd kick your shin under the dinner table, but patch up the scuff after. He'd hide your favourite teddy, but come with you to fetch it in the dark. He'd put bugs down your collar, but would apologise wordlessly by sharing his chocolate with you.

You maintain the idea that if you don't kiss him, and don't look him directly in the eye, it doesn't count. It's fallible logic, but it's a loophole you're willing to exploit.

Dean snags your hand that was roaming over his chest, and for a split second, you dread he's got more of a backbone than you and that'll he'll stop this in it's tracks, but he directs your palm to cup the bulge straining in his jeans. He's only half hard, and yet he's still sporting an impressive package already.

With his hand atop yours, you press down, grinding the heel of your palm against his cock. Accompanied by a twitch, he lets out a gravelly moan, "Yeah, shit, just like that."

You withdraw from the crook of his neck, eyes traveling from his lap to his face. You really, really like him like this. Blinking down at you through his lashes, eyes hooded, the fledging of a grin twisting over his pretty, pink, pouty lips. And you want to kiss him. You cover his mouth and hold up a finger.

"I'm only going to kiss you 'cause my lips are cold, okay?" You preface, and while Dean's not given enough time to process it, it covers your back. You kiss him. Hard.

Of course he's a good kisser. He plays tonsil tennis with just about every woman who'll give him the light of day. You don't want to think about that, not when he's requiting with such tender ferocity. Not when his fingers knot in your hair, clutching at it like man does his raft at sea. Not when he's so eager to keep your lips to his, he's barely taking any breathers.

"Whatever you say," Dean murmurs, grin burgeoning against yours. He drags you closer and, even through denim, you can feel the head of his cock notch your inner thigh. His hand migrates from your head to your cheek, angling you to his liking and deepening the kiss, "Anything to let me feel that sweet, lil' pussy of yours again."

He punctuates that with a buck of his hips that, somehow, hits his mark perfectly. It provides some delicious, frustrating friction to your drippy cunt. Whereas before you would've killed for some heat, but as it gathers, syrupy and muggy between your thighs, you're wishing he'd just strip you of your jeans already.

You both surface for air, lips brushing, as though loathing to be apart even for a moment.

"Just for warmth." You clarify. Dean's eyebrows furrow, cynical, but he nods eventually.

"Just for warmth." He reiterates. You're both big, fat fibbers.

His mouth relocates to your jaw, peppering sloppy kisses down the gradient of it. You yelp when his teeth make an appearance to nip the lobe of your ear. While he's absorbed with sucking bruises you'll worry about later into your clavicle, you're pawing at his belt, ripping it open like it's personally offended you.

Right now, it had. It was keeping you from the fuck of your life - which was strictly for warmth. You tear his underwear down far enough to wrap your fist around his length. You feel and see him jerk aimlessly in your grip.

"Fuckin' - gentle, woman," Dean hisses, head flagging against the headrest, eyes fluttering. His hands clumsy as he smooths back the stray hairs that have stuck to your sweaty forehead, "Gotta treat Dean junior gently, alright? Not like a fuckin' matador on a mission. He needs some sweet loving."

You cant your head, amused, "He's gonna get no loving if he's not careful."

His cock pulses underneath your fingertips again. Dean's got a petulant rumple to his lip, but his dick can't lie. He likes you bossy. The steady rivulet of pre-cum can attest to that, "We'll see how fuckin' cocky you still are when I'm balls-deep in that cunt of yours, won't we?"

That reminds you. He jumps to protest when your hand retracts from his cock, but is soon clambering to assist you in peeling off your jeans and underwear. It's a bind in such an enclosed space, and you almost set off the horn, but your jeans are discarded in the backseat soon enough.

You don't have long to worry about the chill nipping at your thighs before Dean's palms splay across them, jaw tensing with the remnants of restraint as his thumbs stroke over the crease of your hips. Crudely, and without so much as a hint to his intention, he prods three fingers to your entrance. Not breaching, not poking, simply gliding over the spongy skin there in a way that has you writhing.

"Dean." You breathe, bracing yourself with a hand to his bicep. His gaze isn't diverted, it's honed in on your cunt like he's transfixed. His fingertips are agonising in their traversal. He's purposeful in the way he avoids bumping over your clit, or past the ring of muscle of your entrance.

Once Dean's satisfied, he draws his fingers away and holds them up, victorious. He's got that shit-eating look on his face, "You're wetter than you were in Arizona," You're glistening all over his skin. You swallow, more than a little embarrassed at his recollection, and a fresh throb of arousal surges down to your pussy. He sedulously coats your slick over the length of him until his pre-cum and your wetness coagulates as one at the rosy head of his cock, "I haven't been able to stop thinkin' about it. Thinkin' about you."

The admission hits you smack bang in the chest. Dean's not finished, and his voice is only getting hoarser and hoarser when slides his tip over your entrance, "And it's annoying. You're such a bitch to me, but even that get's me fuckin' rock hard."

Winded, you edge closer, so his cock is pinned against your clit, "You annoy me too." You add insipidly, torn between watching him feed you the first few inches of him or the strained twinge befalling his features.

Dean exhales, "Yeah? How?"

You can't really think straight while he's skimming the underside of his cock over your cunt, the wet noise a fierce contender over the tumult of the blizzard outside. His free fingers squirrel up your front and jaggedly undo your coat, hand kneading over your breast, undeterred by your shirt in his way. You clench around nothing, much to your dismay.

"C'mon, sweetheart. You were so chatty earlier. Ain't even balls-deep yet and you're already fucked dumb." Dean croons, saccharine sweet. You aren't surprised when he deftly reaches around under your shirt to unclasp your bra. He doesn't even bother lifting your shirt before wrapping his lips around your peaked nipple.

The added layer of fabric scratching against you feels devastating. Your hand shoots to the back of his to keep him tucked close, chest heaving under the attention, "Does this annoy you? Teasin'? You always got so pissy when I flirted with you when we were little."

Your nails scrape over his scalp, "That wasn't flirting. You were just being a dick."

"Duh. How else was I s'posed to get your attention?" You feel a chuckle reverberate against your chest as he lathers spit over your nipple, pinching it between his lips. Shallowly, the head of his cock delves past your entrance, but it's hardly enough to scratch that internal itch. He keeps you there to relish in what little he's giving you, and how you're still dripping around him already, "That's just what little boys do. They tug on little girls' pigtails instead'a saying they like 'em."

Your fingers that were trawling through his hair teeter. Dean cranes his neck, still very much compressed against your breasts, but you can see enough of him. It makes your stomach lurch.

"That's not an excuse." You whisper, bringing a finger to ghost over his damp bottom lip. He cocks his head, much like a dog, and nuzzles into your sternum.

"You don't seem to be complaining now." Dean points out and emphasises his point by driving another inch deeper. He's not wrong, you aren't complaining, but that's mostly because you're stifling whimpers instead. You square your jaw, a clever retort evading you.

He waits until your mouth unhinges to kick up a fuss before filling your cunt entirely. You don't spew the profanities you were intending; a wanton whinge escapes your lungs in its place. He keeps you there, impaled and palpitating around him, while an arm wraps around you.

Dean noses your cheek, which has grown warm to the touch, "That's a cute fuckin' moan. Gonna make it again for me?" The thatch of his neatly trimmed pubic hair chafes your skin he's pushed so close. Dean's abdomen flinches as you try your hand at grinding against him. He's hasty to put a stop to that with a hand to the back of your neck, "Ah, ah, ah. My car, my rules. Moan again and you ride me. Go on."

You hate how he's cooing at you like you're a fucking unruly mutt. You hate it so much that it's come back the wrong way and is making you flutter around his girth.

"Touch me properly, then." You contend. You tried to come off as authoritative, but the wobble undermines you. Dean's teeth are bared as he smiles.

He cradles a cheek, thumb petting over the delicate skin underneath your eye, "Sweetheart, I am touching you. Gotta tell me where else you want me."

You harrumph, aggrieved, "You know where."

He's being more bull-headed than usual on purpose. You abhor the fact that it's working, too. That its lured enough slick from you to form a glossy ring around the base of his cock. Dean sucks his teeth, shaking his head, an aggravating simper brightening his face.

"Hm, alright, I'll bite," His hand travels down your cheek to engulf one of your breasts, giving it a toying knead. You wail and clasp at his wrist, trying to tug him down to your thighs, but he's stronger than you, "Not here? Okay, sweetheart, okay. How about here?" His next stop is not the right one either, but he knows that going off the haughty smirk on his lips. He pinches the muscle of your thigh.

"Wrong spot here too, huh?" Dean muses, savouring the pained and fucked-out veneer covering your eyes. Finally, at long last, he strokes over your clit. You, unwittingly, make that plaintive noise he was fishing for again, "There we go. There she is, there's my girl. Take what you need, baby, you've earned it."

You'd said something tangentially similar in Arizona. Your minds too fuzzy to appreciate it because he's just given you the green light. Graceless and frantic, you wrench his lips to yours. Anything to kiss away that impudent, pompous, handsome grin of his.

Dean's hands are stiff around your hips as he facilities your incoherent undulations. His fingers are liable to leave indentations, but you can't find it within you to care. All you can concentrate on is the thrust of his cock inside of you, catching on every divot and ridge, rousing every nerve, hitting every spot. He's everywhere.

Tongue lapping over yours, noses slitted together, fingers roaming any part of you he can get. Dean's all you can see, feel, hear and taste. From the shine in those striking eyes of yours and bassy groaning bouncing off the compact walls of the car, it's safe to say Dean's feeling the same way.

"You can't, fuck," He struggles as he retreats his cock far enough to kiss the puffed up lips of your pussy. Self-restraint has long since bypassed the two of you, though, because Dean's plunging back in before he can get another word out, "Don't pull an Arizona on me after this. It's a crime to keep this all to yourself."

Your forehead sags to lounge against his, lips parted and breath mingling with his, "...Okay."

You acquiesce so easily Dean narrows his eyes at you, wary, "Just like that?"

Maybe it's the oxycontin talking, maybe it's something subconscious, but you dip your head in affirmation, "Just like that."

His mouth overruns yours in an instant. You're both getting imprecise and lousy, breath staggering in your throats as it all becomes too much. You don't even need to sneak a hand down to your clit bump yourself over the edge. Dean's angle coupled with the deepness of his thrusts has you cumming together almost in synchrony.

If you weren't warm yet, your cunt definitely was now. His cum felt scorching. It was probably your active, concupiscent imagination, but you swore up and down you could feel him smearing over every crevice.

As he, with palpable unwillingness, detaches from your lips, Dean looks at you. Really looks at you.

"You gonna keep your word? Or you gonna go all frosty on me again?" He tangles a hand in your hair to keep you facing him. Good shout, because you were planing on turning, lest your eyes spoke more than you could ever admit to.

You squirm above his softening cock, which elicits a grunt from him. You wouldn't mind hearing it again, every so often, "Sam did tell us to work something out..." Shrugging, you trail off, insinuation clear.

Dean snickers, "I don't think this is quite what he was picturin'. Least, I hope not," He mouths at the hollow of your throat, murmuring onto your skin, "But, hey, if it works, it works. If all it takes to calm you down is a good fucking, I'm game."

And you were game too. You think.

[bitchinwallabyfaves]

Dear author, you said you welcome pestering for updates so consider this my very respectful, loving pestering. ♥︎

I need more of these two, so much more! ♥︎♥︎

[cujja]

I pinkie swear I haven’t abandoned writing 😭😭

Finished all my exams for this semester so I will get my shit out even if it kills me 💞💞💞💞

[velvourne]

Important reminder that my blog is not for minors. Thank you.

I think I've been reading fanfiction for too many years considering I even noticed this. But. A few years ago (I started like? 2016ish? 2014ish? My nose is scrunching up at even the thought of that being a decade ago) smut 🍋 fics were focused on the g-spot when it comes to hetero penetrative sex. A nice spot, truly. And then I think 2023 ? Came around and there was a rather sudden shift from the g-spot, to cervix fucking. (Or cervix touching ?? Cervix thrusting? I shouldn't be writing this at 4am but here we are, vocabulary-less and kinda lost.) I'm assuming it's because kinks have changed and more are being explored especially with the rise of hentai and the ever vast porn sites. But I am still confused! Cervix is painful. Like ugh, ew, not-sexy painful. The kind of painful that makes you squeal, shut your legs, and possibly cry. And sure, it can be pleasurable if you're like super extremely aroused (allegedly) but generally? It hurts so bad. Even the gentle thrusts = pain. It can also cause intense cramping, nausea, bleeding, and even fainting!! It's very serious! The vagina is NOT never ending, it stops, there's a wall, and the cervix is a STOPPING POINT. Not a goal!!

So, the shift? Very concerning to me. From focusing on the pleasure spot to the pain-except-in-rare-circumstances spot? Umm?

It definitely points to the fact that most schools do not provide proper education for our anatomy and how our bodies work. But, the thing that concerns me is the underlying, screaming-so-loud-you-learn-to-live-with-it misogyny of society. In general.

Very bothersome. Very concerning.

And of course, fiction is fiction. You can explore kinks in fics without being a weirdo irl. Is that a sufficient disclaimer? I absolutely suck at speaking about topics like this. Not here to offend anyone.

HOWEVER. I've seen too many women CONVINCED that they have to bend over backwards to make a man stay with them, love them, cherish them. CONVINCED that pain is okay if it's for love. Because love is more valuable if you earn it.

WRONG. DING DING DING. YOU DO NOT WORK FOR LOVE. YOU DO NOT WORK FOR A MAN'S APPROVAL.

Once you meet a man that is genuine and good and loving, then you work WITH the man to uphold the relationship TOGETHER. You do NOT, I repeat, DO NOT work to make HIM stay. He is not "the prize" BECAUSE YOU ARE THE PRIZE. You're both supposed to be the prize! It's a mutual thing!! Girls please please please understand this!!!

I ran into a text post from what I assume is a kink blog the other day and it really made me stop for a second and stare. I need to find it and add it to the post, because it was excellent commentary (even if it wasn't the original poster's intention. Which, maybe it was? Man i gotta find this post).

I am so tired. We persist. So I don't lose my thought.

The post was like, a male saying something like "oh wow, she's letting me do this to her? What a slut" and the female was just happy to be there essentially. The disrespect is loud. Ringing, even. Echoing.

Where am I going with this? How is this related?

The rise of cervix focus in fanfiction (especially written by women) ties back to those expectations and disrespect. Again, totally fine to have certain kinks. (Consent is VITAL regardless). But pain is not a general goal. Pain is not ok. You deserve to be loved without pain. You deserve to receive pleasure without pain. The fact that cervix fucking is so mainstream in fics, without acknowledging ANY of the very painful real-life consequences? Terrifying! It makes readers believe that it's something that they SHOULD enjoy, because it's so normal. Guys, no! It's NATURALLY PAINFUL, not naturally enjoyable!!

Also men CAN control themselves. They understand boundaries (try stealing a man's car keys, they know what 'no' means). They can control their penises to NOT hurt you. They can control the ANGLE, the force, the pace. No, he was not "lost in pleasure", he likes watching you be in pain. He likes watching you cry. That is not a safe man. That is not the man for you. You deserve it all painlessly, and it's the BARE MINIMUM. Actually. Screw that. It's not the bare minimum. It's common decency!! Hell. Even the manly men mister patriarchy males, with their traditions, say that a man should "protect his woman". Keep her safe. THAT INCLUDES SEX AND LOVE.

Going back to the cervix point. I think one point writers are trying to convey with that is that you're "really full". Of cock. Like deep sex. Deepest. Join our bodies and souls type shit. And again I say it can be done painlessly!! You can be super full without someone hammering at your poor cervix!!! Angles, people, angles!

Of course! Different strokes for different folks. Kinks and all that crap. But I am bringing this up because it is suddenly overly common. (I am also not intending to insinuate that anyone is a bad writer, this is merely a social commentary, concern for women, and what we are teaching young girls who inevitably find that fanfiction, like we did. I learned sex and kissing through reading fanfiction. I became curious about anatomy thanks to fanfiction. Yet I only found out where the urethra is a few years ago. TMI!! Venus why not just use a mirror? SHAME. WE ARE OVERRUN WITH SHAME and too many of us are victims of that!!) Oh boy I'm gonna get a reality slap in the face in the morning, or a few days later. I am generally shy when it comes to posting. But we persist.

SEX IS NOT PAINFUL. SEX DOES NOT NEED TO BE PAINFUL. SEX CAN BE LOVING BUT INTENSE. IT CAN BE ROUGH WITHOUT CAUSING CERVIX BRUISING. IT CAN BE FULFILLING WITHOUT MAKING YOU HAVE CRAMPS FOR DAYS AFTERWARDS BECAUSE SOME IDIOT KEPT HAMMERING INTO YOU.

Thanks for reading. Now it's almost 5am and I have a severe urge to insert this gif. It's hardly related. Take it as a token of my affection I suppose

If you like/agree with this in any way, please reblog so we can spread this! I would also love to hear your additions/thoughts on this topic ❤️

[cujja]

Endverse Dean & prone bone coming soon bbs, trust 🙏

[cujja]

Intend to finish it up by tomorrow night, hotties. Here's a sneakity peakity:

"You drive me up the goddamn wall, sometimes." He murmurs. You respond with a faint scoff, "Same here." A pause. Then a long-suffering sigh. He wrests the blanket off him once again and slips past the makeshift barrier of his backpack, stopping short of your sleeping bag, a knee brushing yours. "You - fuck," Dean's scowl returns full frontal, though not directed at you for a change, instead it was more of a self-admonishment. His hand, surprisingly warm and astonishingly tentative, snakes up to perch feather-light over the expanse of your thigh, "This is a bad idea." He's not backing off, and you're not about to be the one to take the high road. Humming, with a touch of haughtiness to your demeanour, you tip-toe your fingertips up his strained forearm, "Probably." "You fucked up today. Big time." You tut, finding his didacticism unbelievable when paired with the sight of his erection, "God, you're like a broken fucking record." "And you're an impulsive fucking madam." Dean retorts, like he had that one locked and loaded for a while now. You'd take offence, but he's the sharper one, and he throws you off by biting the bullet, planting a hand to the back of your head to tug your mouth to his.