debauchery at it's finest ❤️‍🔥

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[osirisarrow-deactivated20241106]

if u voted for trump, I mean this in the most disrespectful way possible, I do not want anything to do with you. Not only did you vote against basic human rights and equality, you decided rascism, homophobia, islamophobia, transphobia & misogynistic behavior wasn't a deal breaker. i do not want your follow or support ! thank you.

[voidsuites]

if it wasn’t clear before! <3

[dammed-to-hell]

Back on my Chandler!Spider-Man bullshit once again! This time with a witch!reader.

Again I headcanon this Spider-Man as college age.

When he found out you were a witch, he was shocked. Moreso at himself for not realizing it sooner. I mean, come on, you've had the vibe since day one.

Learned all types of witchy knowledge just to impress you. Crystals? His favorite is green agate. Need moon water? He has some stored in his hall closet. Need something specific for a ritual or your alter? Peter Parker is on the job!

When you first used your magic in front of him, he had no words. The spell was simple, an illusion spell. You summoned little yellow butterflies from the palm of your hand. One landed on his nose... He sneezed. The illusion vanished and he was kinda bummed.

Started wearing a rose quarts bracelet

Learned how to dry flowers and herbs for you

Gifts you handmade journals (for your spells). They smelled of lavender and roses. Every time you finish writing in one, another would appear. All have your initials embossed on the front cover (his are hidden on the small ribbon bookmark)

If you have a familiar, he would definitely try and befriend it quickly. By all means necessary, from bribing it with food to even belly/head scratches

On the first date he takes you on its not to a fancy restaurant or even a club/bar. He takes you to a rooftop to star gaze. When he drops you home he gives you a handmade necklace made of wire and scavenged glass with a rune of intent carved into it

When he gets bit by the spider, you are the first one he goes to for help. It's not the science he's used to, but it staves off the mutation and endless hunger.

He's able to "fix" himself. He still is mutated but more or less unnoticeable. (My headcanon: he still has multiple eyes, but placed under his original eyes [kinda like muffet from undertale and Angel from Hazbin] and an extra set of arms that he hides with the help of your magic)

Together you are known as the witch and the spider of New York City

Divider:

@hexed-but-cute

[dammed-to-hell]

I currently have an obsession with Chandler Riggs 😅.... So here are some head canons for his spider-man.

Also would like to preface this in advance, I headcanon him around college age, considering I'm younger than the man by like four years.

Peter prefers to go by Ben or Benny when the two of you are dating.

His nicknames for you would include: Baby (obviously, a classic), Angel, and Sunshine

Would be very nervous when you both start dating, but would be an absolute teddy bear once he gets comfortable in the relationship

Like I mean, constant cuddles and showering your face with kisses

Loves and I mean LOVES when you gently cradle his jaw in your palm and tell him you love him

He definitely would be a quiet jealous

Like you're talking to some guy and he just slides up beside you, gently rests his hand on your waist and kisses your cheek all while making eyes contact with the guy your talking to

Would definitely have multiple pictures of you around his room, you're his muse

Talks to Aunt May and Uncle Ben about you, constantly, by the time you meet them officially they basically know everything about you

Keeps your favorite snacks stocked at all times

Walks around central park with you for hours, just to hear you talk about random things

When cooking together, with or without music, he would start dancing in the kitchen with you. Mostly soft slow dancing, other times goofy dances to make you smile.

On that note, his favorite sound you make is your laugh. Could be an ugly chortle or a cute giggle; he loves it.

On your first date he would definitely thin, five minutes in, you were his one and only.

Builds little gadgets for you, small trinkets and what not, just to see you smile

You mentioned liking a specific animal and he makes it out of scrap metal and glass he has recycled.

Will also make a bouquet of your favorite flower out of said materials too

The first thing he thinks of when he wakes up and the last thing he thinks of is you.

Divider by:

@chrisssiren

[wiz4rdkiss3r]

Dating Sam Winchester headcannons (x fem!reader)

You fucking die

[godmadeaterribleerror]

take what you want

✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦

✦summary: you and dean hate each other. there isn't a moment you aren't fighting, just like there isn't a moment you don't wish he'd love you back, and there isn't a single second he doesn't want you more than you can imagine. ✦

✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, implied age gap (20s - 40s), jealous!dean, angst, overprotective dean, pining, idiots in love, as is my way, feral smut (manhandling, praise kink and degradation kink, dry humping, teasing, dean's dirty talk, stripping, thigh riding, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, light nipple play, begging, fingering, face sitting, jerking off, pussy slapping, rough sex, some edging, cockwarming, creampie, big dick dean, mean dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦

✦wc: 11.5k✦

✦author's note: monthly voted fic! he's yearning so hard guys✦

The bar is loud, but you expected that. It’s what you needed. Between that and the drink in you hands, it’s going to quiet your thoughts. They get lost in chatter of the crowd, and the bass drum of the music. It pounds in your chest and dislodges your heart. You let it. You don’t want to feel it right now.

You check your phone, even though you’ve told yourself not to. The case is sticky from the bar counter, and you wrinkle your nose at the screen before you even read the messages.

Five missed calls from – Dean Winchester.

A sixth one comes through, your phone buzzing angrily. You roll your eyes, and for a long second you seriously consider drowning the damn thing in the abandoned beer glass next to you.

He doesn’t get to call you, like you’re some wandering child. He doesn’t get to get angry about you being out, when he’s the reason you’re here in the first place. And you told Sam to tell him that you’d be here. So really, this is Dean’s fault, then Sam’s, then yours.

The call goes to voicemail. You flip the screen back over, and take a long drink. If it’s really that big a deal that you’re out without him, he can put on his pants and come get you himself.

And he won’t. And that’s part of the problem.

Dean’s going to lecture you about safety when you crawl back in the morning, and you’re going to roll your eyes. He’ll ask you if you think something’s funny, sweetheart? You look him dead in his pretty eyes and say I don’t know, is it? He’ll get angrier. You’ll get angrier. Sam will try to mediate, and you’ll throw something at him before stomping off. Dean will chase after you, and wrestle you back into the room while calling you a brat.

When you get tossed down on the mattress, you’ll sink your nails into his shoulder, because you do every time. You want to drag him down with you, to make him feel this the same way you always have.

To big, too much. Too soft in all the wrong places, and too spiked everywhere else. There’s a sharp, angry shell around your heart that’s grown like an exoskeleton. It’s got wires and teeth that snap, whenever Dean gives you a little too much attention. You can never tell if it’s trying to eat him or latch onto him anymore. You don’t think it really matters.

Dean hates you. He thinks you hate him. He’s going to grab your knees and pin them to your chest, and you’re going to be the only woman in the world who he doesn’t notice flush against him. He’ll hiss that you can’t just go running around alone. That it’s not like you, to be reckless. You spit a fuck you, his grip will get tight, and he’ll shove you away to go take one of his long showers.

Sam will tell you to stop testing him. You’ll tell Sam to eat himself, and go back to sulking like a child in the corner.

Only Dean can do that to you. You hate and love him for it.

When you met—on a hunt that didn’t matter, until it did—he made you all giggly and dumb. Years of training and a mind that could never slow down, turned to goo from one roughish, lazy smile.

“You like trouble?” He’d asked you, trying even then to talk you out of a hunt.

“No. No one likes trouble.”

Dean had chuckled. “I don’t know about that, sweetheart. Most girls like you love it.”

You’d snorted. “Girls like me? What’s a girl like me?”

“Gorgeous.” He’d smirked, like he’d been dying for you to ask. “Smart. Mouthy-“

“Mouthy?” You’d cut him off, rolling your eyes. “Are you from the 60s?”

“No. But you’re provin’ my point.”

“You didn’t have a point. You were just trying to sleep with me.”

Dean had raised his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty. But- Is it working-“

“No.”

It had been. If Sam hadn’t come back to the car two seconds later, you would’ve climbed into Dean’s lap like a whore. Which wasn’t what you were. It wasn’t what you did. Sex with a half-stranger, sex in general, you didn’t toss your body around easily. You’d never been able to do the removing emotions part of casual sex. You’d always managed to come up with a million reasons not to, most of them looking something like have a hookup, get pregnant, the father’s already gone, the baby’s born with cancer, you love it anyway and it dies in your arms, if you’d been more responsible the baby would’ve solved climate change, everyone dies in a fiery explosion.

But you’d looked at Dean, and seen no death or path out that didn’t end in light. He’d grabbed your thigh in the dark of the car, and you’d flushed and smiled to yourself like a schoolgirl.

“You wanna know my middle name?” He’d whispered to you, later that night.

“That’s the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard-“

“It’s not a pick up line! I’m askin’ you a question-“

“But it’s going to turn into a pickup line.” You’d said flatly, and Dean had given you a boyish smile that almost made you forget that he was covered in vampire blood.

“You already know me so well,” he’d cooed, and you’d snorted.

“You’re predictable.”

“So you’re never gonna wonder what I’m thinking.”

You’d shoved his face away with a hand, still giggling. This was usually the point in a hunt where you started thinking about what came next. How long you had to get out of town, how much food you’d need to eat now before you got to your next stop—if you eat too much, you’re going to overstuff and get sick, if you don’t eat enough you’re going to be weak and pass out behind the wheel and cause a fifty car pile-up—and if there are any strings you needed to wrap up on the case.

But Dean had been smiling at you. And that had felt like the only thing that mattered.

“C’mon, ask me what my middle name is-“

You’d covered his mouth with a hand, shooting him a stern glare. His eyes had gleamed with affection, and something deeper you try not to think about now. It hurts too much. It makes you mourn for something that was never even yours to have.

“Only so you shut up,” you’d whispered. “What’s your middle name.”

You’d dropped your hand, and Dean had touched his lips like he was in some telenovela. You’d fought a smile. You’d never known someone could be so handsome it made your heart ache, and so cute you thought you’d explode.

He’d puffed out his chest, and grinned at you like he won the lottery.

“It’s Trouble-“

“It’s Adam.” Sam had called from the table. Dean had looked at  him like he’d just murdered a puppy, and you’d laughed so hard you almost fell off the bed.

And you’d thought something was growing. You’d been a foolish girl, who thought the dorky, handsome hero in front of her would give chase, when she turned him down.,

If you could go back, you’d slap yourself in the face and tell you to get it together. Dean Winchester is Dean Winchester. You listen to the what the shadows whisper. You knew his reputation before he smiled at you in the low light of his car. You’re smart. Sam goes to you for research advice, you’ve come up with whole new ways to kill demons and trap angels. You fucking knew better, than to fall in love with Dean.

You should’ve known better.

You didn’t.

So you attached yourself to them like a little, leeching parasite. You followed them around, the Winchester’s shadow, and fell more in love with Dean, and got your heart broken every night when he slipped out of the bar with another woman on his arm.

You’d gotten mean. You’d started getting short with him, and he’d fueled the fire building in the cavity of your chest by being a dick. Suddenly you were too inexperienced for every hunt. Too young to be out alone—you’ve had that fight more times than you can count—or too tense and tightly wound to think clearly.

He’s the one who doesn’t think clearly. He’s the one who drinks himself to death after a hunt and has literally fucked monsters because he can’t be bothered to plan ahead. He drags you and Sam to towns because he’s got a good feeling about them. He tells you to just relax, princess, and you want to punch him in his stupid, pretty face.

But you still love him. You love him so much you think it’s going to kill you. And you keep that locked in the deepest chamber of your heart, because he never needs to know that you still get stupid and soft for him. If he finds out that the first time he tried to leave on a hunt without you, you almost started crying in the middle of the bunker kitchen, he’ll look at you like you’re crazy.

And you are crazy. You know that. You’re a fumbling, wild ball of worries and sneers, and Dean would never want a nagger. He’d never want a younger woman who acts like she knows better—even though you do—and who needs him to be perfectly attentive and affectionate every second of every day.

You’re in love with a man who hates you. And if you had to listen to him fuck that secretary through the wall all night, you were going to kill yourself on their bed.

So now you’re at this loud, disgusting bar, drinking something that you’re praying numbs the pain, and smiling so wide it hurts your face.

The abandoned beer’s owner came back. He’s a broad shouldered, smirking man with a clean cut face, and lighter hair. If you get a little more squint, he looks just like Dean. If you get a little more buzzed, he’ll sound like him too.

You hate causal sex. It doesn’t count if you’re pretending it’s Dean. It doesn’t count if it makes this stop hurting.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ here?” The man drawls, leaning across the bar.

You giggle, and it sounds distant to your ears. “Drinking.”

“Yeah?” The man smirks. “You like drinkin’, doll?”

You shake your head, swinging your feet and spinning in the bar stool. The man raises his brows.

“You sure you don’t? You’re goin’ through that thing fast.”

“It tastes bad.” You wrinkle your nose. “Feels good.”

The man’s smile turns wolfish. Your phone starts to buzz again, and you glare at the screen before shutting it fully off.

“Boyfriend?” The man asks, and you shake your head.

“He wishes.”

No, he doesn’t.

That’s the problem.

And you keep flirting—if it can even be called that, because you mostly babble about hating the drink you got and hating Dean and loving the man’s drink because Dean likes that one too—and the man’s hands find their way to your lower back and thigh.

“Why don’t I help you forget about Dean?” He winks at you, and you shrug.

The world is mostly just blurred colors and lights now. Everything feels awfully light, in a way you’re not sure you like.

But you like forgetting about Dean more. So even though you want to tell this man that it’s impossible to forget about Dean, you’re also just lost enough to want help finding your way out.

“Okay.” You beam at him.

You make it to the parking lot—his arm around your waist, herding you like a lost lamb—before Dean ruins everything. He always ruins everything.

There’s a shout of your name, almost ripping through the hazy fog of your drunken mind. You were feet from the man’s car. Just a few more steps from having fun, which you’re bad at doing, but maybe if you practiced, Dean would like you more.

From the look on his face when you turn around, it might’ve actually made him like you less.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He marches across the lot with a scowl, hands balled into fists and gaze fixed solely on you. “I almost made Sammy file a missing persons report-“

“’M not missing.” You stick your tongue out at him. “’M right here. Stupid.”

You mutter the last word under your breath, and Dean freezes. He blinks slowly, gaze raking over your body. That’s not fair. It makes you feel all warm and puddley. Your core floods with heat, and your knees get weak, and he’s get looking at you.

Dean takes a half-step forward, his voice dropping low and rough. “Are you drunk?”

“No.”

There’s a larger gust of wind. Dean’s eyes gleam in the golden light of the parking lot. He looks a little like an angel. You trip standing up, then giggle when the man pulls you back up. Dean’s jaw drops, his brow knitting tight.

“You’re fuckin’ wasted.” He mutters, shaking his head. “Jesus, sweetheart- C’mon.” He steps forward, reaching out a hand. “Let’s go.”

“Nuh uh.” You pout, shaking you head. “I’m not drunk-“

“You’re standing like we’re on a freakin’ ship. Come on.” He flexes his hand, and you cross your arms over your chest.

He doesn’t get to win. “I’m having fun.”

“We can have fun back at the room-“

“The lady said she’s having fun.” The man next to you pulls you tighter into his side, fingers curling on your hip like a lock. “Screw off, pal. I got here first.”

And Dean recoils, looking at the man like he’s noticing him for the first time. You can’t read his expression in the low light, but it seems angry. Or just annoyed. Or indifferent. His jaw looks sharp and clenched. You want to lick it.

“Listen, bud.” Dean snaps, glaring down at the man. “This ain’t a who got here first thing. My girl’s drunk. I’m takin’ her home, or I’m punching you in the face.”

The man is silent for a moment. He and Dean glower at each other, and you frown between them. There’s something poking at your drink addled brain, but it’s spelling a word you can’t read. All you can really figure out is that they’re being weird.

“You Dean?” The man asks.

Dean’s eyes narrow. His shoulders square, the way they do before he’s about to swing at a demon. “Yeah. And?”

“Nothin’.” The man smirks. “Just… Thought you’d be God, based on how she was talkin’ about you. But,” he chuckles, tipping his chin. “You’re just a little bitch.”

Dean’s jaw ticks. You don’t need the lighting to figure out what he’s thinking now. You can almost feel it, rolling off of him in waves.

He’s pissed.

He looks the man up and down, and if he throws a punch, you know he won’t be the one who goes down. You’re drunk enough not to worry about the violence of it. All your useless thoughts can spin around is the idea of Dean fighting for you. Of his massive arms flexing as he knocks down the other man—who, the longer your Dean stands in front of you, looks less and less appealing—and scoops you into his arms like the princess he mocks you with being. Then he can wrap his arm around your head and fuck you against the hood of his car, until you’re drooling all over his cock.

You giggle at nothing, a unignorable heat pooling between your legs. Dean’s attention snaps back over, and you beam at him.

Something in his gaze shifts. He lets out a slow breath, and stretches out a hand.

“Let’s go, princess.” He beckons with two crooked fingers, and you almost stumble forwards. “We can watch whatever you want, alright? I’ll get you some of that ice cream you like, and- Sammy can watch with you, if you don’t want me around. Just-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “Get over here. Please.”

He sounds so tired. Tired and almost sad. Your feet move without your permission, and you reach to take his hand.

The man yanks you back, and you yelp.

“Remember what you told me, doll.” He drawls in your ear, loud enough for Dean to still hear. “Remember how he treats you.”

Dean scowls. “You stay out of this-“

“He doesn’t care.” The man ignores him. “You told me, he doesn’t love you.”

Dean opens his mouth, something stricken flashing over his features. You feel a little sick.

“C’mon. I got you.” The man rubs your hip, smiling gently. “Show him what he’s missing. He can bitch about it, alone all night while you get fucked real good.”

Dean’s face is a shade of red you’ve never seen before. He has an expression like someone just punched him in the gut.

And it’s not the fucking real good that steels you. It’s the reminder that Dean won’t be alone. He has his secretary. And you’re allowed to have your random bar man, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Dean rasps your name. “Come here-“

“You come here.” You snap, and it’s meant to be a sharp, killing blow that makes him sigh and give up.

If you were a little less drunk, you would’ve known that was never going to work.

Dean’s throat bobs. He exhales like he’s going through the trials of Hercules, rather than arguing in a parking lot. He rubs his jaw, looks up to the sky like he’s praying, and chuckles. It’s dry and flat, but so deep and rough. You shiver at the sound, and almost fall right into him again.

“Alright.” Dean mutters, shaking out his arm. “Fine.”

He marches forward, clocks the man across the jaw, and throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It happens so fast your body is still catching up with it, by the time he’s halfway back to the car. You realize you should be thrashing and shouting when you hear the Impala door unlock. Your body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate though. Dean’s back is warm, and his hand is resting near your ass, and it’s making you putty for him to play with.

He did it so fast. He didn’t even break a sweat or give the man a chance to fight back, before he grabbed you. When he lowers you into shotgun, he does it so gently. Like even after getting on his nervous, you’re precious cargo. He brushes the hair from your face, hunched over as you settle into the bench.

You blink at him, still drunk and confused. Dean still has that strange look in his eyes, his lips parted as you just stare at each other. His hand lingers on your cheek. You lean into the touch, and his nostrils flare.

Across the parking lot, there’s a roar of his name.

Dean sighs, and stands up. He walks around the hood of the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the car. You watch his fingers move like a starved woman. You want him to put them in your mouth, and you almost tell him when there’s a slam on his window.

The man is shouting at him, veins bulging and eyes bugging. He looks nothing like Dean now.

And Dean doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even look at him. He just puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the lot. If the man gives chase, you don’t see. You’re too busy staring at Dean.

The first half of the drive is silent. Low music plays on the radio, and you watch Dean in the moving light of the road. Long shadows and dim streetlamps make him look like he fell out of a dream. Your arms twitch to wrap around him. Your eyes are heavy, your head intoxicated by the rich, amber and smoke smell of his cologne. If you lay your head in his lap, you wonder if he’d shove you away.

“You weren’t actually gonna go with him.” Dean mutters suddenly, and you blink.

“Huh?”

“That douchebag.” His fingers flex on the wheel. “You weren’t gonna fuck him.”

You frown. Useless, exhausted tears prick at your eyes. You don’t even know where they’re coming from. Just that you feel small, and you’re tired, and Dean’s dragging you back to the motel just so he can fuck another woman with peace of mind.

“He’s not even your type-“

“You don’t know what my type is.” You grumble, sinking into your seat.

Dean huffs a laugh. “I’ve seen what kinda guys you find hot on TV. He was ugly.”

“He wasn’t ugly-“

“Yeah, he was.”

“You’re ugly.” You snap, and Dean laughs. You get why. You didn’t even convince yourself.

“Only on the inside, sweetheart.”

Your lips wobbles. For some reason, that pushes the tears out of your eyes. You sink into the bench, wrapping into a tight little ball that Dean won’t be able to pry apart. You can’t stop the tears, but he doesn’t get to have more leverage.

Dean clears his throat. “Are you crying-“

“Shut up.” You sniff, wiping your nose with your sleeve.

He murmurs your name, voice softer than before, and you lean against the window.

“Shut up-“

“You’re fuckin’ crying-“

“Dean!” You glare at him through the blur of the tears. “Just- Leave me alone!”

Dean’s silent for a second. But only a second.

“Did he hurt you?” He grunts, something hot and angry lining his words. “Before I got there, did that son of a bitch-“

“He barely even touched me, you just- You fucking-“

“I what? What the hell did I do-“

“You hate me!” You shout, and Dean goes horribly still. 

“Don’t be insane.” He mutters your name, glaring out at the road. “I don’t hate you.”

You scoff, hugging your knees tight to your chest. “Yes, you do. You hate me, and you- You never let me have any fun-“

“That wasn’t fun, that was a lawsuit.”

You don’t even have a good comeback to that. He’s probably right. It just makes you angrier.

You turn away from him all together, watching the trees blur past in the window. You’re certain you’re going to be sick now. You close your eyes, the tears still flowing, and hide your face behind your hair and in your knees.

Dean sighs. His voice gets softer again.

“Listen, you’re drunk, alright? You’re gonna feel better in the morning-“

“No.” Your words are muffled, but you know he’ll still hear them. “I won’t.”

“Yeah, you will. I get a million of these drunken… feelings.” He says the word in an oddly tight tone. “You just gotta sleep them off.”

You laugh, wet and weak. “Whatever, Dean.”

“I’m trying to help-“

“No, you’re not.” You hug yourself tighter. “You just wanna get back to her.”

He’s silent again. You can hear his fingers drumming on the wheel. Almost hear the frown in his voice when he finally speaks.

“Who the hell are you talking about.”

“Your secretary lady.” You grumble, bitter and tired.

“You mean Katy?”

You grunt. “I hate her.”

“I- Princess, I sent her home like- Two hours ago.” He pauses. The air in the car feels oddly heavy. “Moment Sammy told me you were gone.”

You huff, but don’t respond. You can’t think of anything. You can barely understand what that means.

“You hate her?” Dean’s voice is so quiet you almost miss it.

“Mhm.” 

“You barely even talked to her-“

“I don’t care.” You mutter, rubbing away the tears on your cheeks. “I hate her.”

“Why-“

“’M tired.” You pull your face out of your knees, and find Dean staring at you.

He clears his throat, and looks back to the road. You think you’re going to start sobbing again, when he stretches out an arm around your shoulder.

Neither of you say anything, when he slowly pulls you into his side. You haven’t been this close to him in a while. He’s just as warm as you remember. You’re already half-asleep, just from a few seconds of his fingers tracing circles on your shoulder and your face pressed into his neck.

“I didn’t like him that much either.” Dean mutters suddenly. “Your bar guy.”

You hum, nosing at his jaw. He smells good.

“I wish you’d tell me.” He adds. “When you were goin’ out. I’d come with you-“

“I don’t want you to come with me.”

Dean tenses. He doesn’t pull away. “I’m fun at bars, sweetheart..” His voice is too casual. “We’d have a good time-“

“You’d have a good time.” You grumble. “I’d be alone.”

“I wouldn’t- If we went out, I wouldn’t ditch-“

“Yes, you would.” You yawn, and you’re crying again, but it’s softer.

Even now, Dean makes everything easier.

You wish you could hate him more than you love him. You don’t think you’re ever going to manage.

“You hate me.” You whisper, sleep already pulling on the corners of your brain. “’S not fair.” 

Dean swallows. His fingers still on your arm. “Why not?”

“’Cause I-“

You cut yourself off with a yawn. Dean mutters your name, and you shake your head, burrowing further into his side. You need to be as close as possible. You need to sink something into him that he can never wipe away, the same way he did with you.

“I love you,” you mumble. “And you hate me. And- It’s not fair, Dean.” You tremble, letting out a soft, pained breath. “Not fair.”

And sleep drags you under. But right before the world fades, you could swear you hear Dean’s low voice, and it floats through your dreams.

“I don’t hate you, baby.” He murmurs. “I couldn’t if I tried.”

Dean hasn’t spoken to you since last night.

You get up in the morning with a migraine and shame burning your face. You remember all of it. Every painful, whiny moment. You acted like the lovesick, annoying girl he accuses you of being. You told him the thing you swore you’d never say aloud. Once Sam tried to make you admit it, and you dumped a glass of iced tea over his head. You’d whimpered Dean’s name into your pillows while you touched yourself, and you’ve told yourself to get it together in the bathroom mirror, but you’ve never said it aloud.

And you just told.

You ruined everything.

He gives you meds and a glass of water to help the hangover, but he doesn’t look you in the eyes. You pack up the rooms and hit the road, but he doesn’t look in the rearview mirror to check on you even once. You bite the inside of your cheek and refuse to cry again. That will just make you seem more pathetic than you already are.

“What’s going on with you two.” Sam mutters when you stop at a gas station, hanging over your shoulder in the candy aisle.

“Nothing-“

“Don’t lie.” He gives you a flat look. “You’re not even fighting, which means you’re fighting.”

You peer up at him with a flat expression, and he sighs.

“You know what I mean. What the hell did he say to you.”

“He didn’t say anything.”

Sam mutters your name, and you grab a candy bar, flipping him off over your shoulder.

“Just drop it, okay?”

“No! I can’t drop it! I live with you guys, and- This is so much worse than when you were acting like you hated each other-“

“Sam-“

“You can’t see his face while he’s driving.” Sam hisses, grabbing a pack of almonds. “He’s either going to punch himself or cry, and that’s gonna be a whole freakin’ thing. Just- Talk to him-“

“He can talk to me.” You grab a pack of jerky. You can’t help it. Dean must be hungry too, and despite all your common sense, you still love him so much the world is slipping out from under your feet. 

Sam pleads with your name. You shake your head.

“Please. Drop it.”

He examines you for a moment, then sighs. He agrees to drop it. It doesn’t make anything better at all.

Because Dean’s not even being mean or overbearing or annoying. He’s just silent. And Sam’s right.

It’s so much worse.

Normally by this point in the ride, you’ve been fighting so much that Sam turns up the radio until you can’t hear each other. You’ll poke his neck to annoy him, and he’ll swat you like a fly before cornering you against the car when you stop for food. You’ll shove him and march into the diner. He’ll stomp after you and sit too close in the booth, making you press your thighs together with every mocking word. He’ll flirt with the waitress, and you’ll daydream about throttling her every time she bats her eyes. Dean will keep your knees against each other’s, while he gets her number, and you’ll pour a bunch of salt over his pie when he goes to the bathroom.

You’ll shove at each other, until one of you snaps and stomps away. You’ll cry yourself to sleep that night, because he hates you, he hates you, he hates you.

But you don’t even have any tears left, and Dean doesn’t hate you.

He just can’t stand to look at you, now that he knows you love him.

Sam gives you worried looks, while Dean glares silently at the road. His fingers drum on the wheel, and you hug yourself tight. He might not be looking at you, but you can’t stop looking at him. If he asks you to leave, it will kill you. If he doesn’t ask you, but never speaks to you again, you’ll just wither away into nothing. But you can’t be the one to break the silence. You’ll only make it worse.

You stop at a diner, and the waitress has the biggest boobs you’ve ever seen and the kind of honeyed smile that usually makes Dean smirk.

Today he doesn’t even look at her. You have to order for him, which makes the waitress glare at you, as if you’re responsible for him sulking so much he doesn’t care about boobs—and you are, but she has no way to know that—and you give her a tight smile.

Dean doesn’t thank you for the food, but he looks at you for the first time all day. You blink at him, biting back the pout threatening your lips. You’re not going to break here, in broad daylight, with Sam right there.

Dean lets out a slow exhale through his nose, and looks back to his food. You blink away the useless sting behind your eyes, biting your inner cheek until it’s swollen. Sam gives you a pitying look. You shoot him a glare.

“He still sat next to you.” Sam mutters while Dean checks you into a motel, that night. “Whatever happened, he’s not that mad at you-“

“Sammy!” Dean calls from the desk. “The lady needs our IDs!”

Sam sighs, going through his pockets as he walks over.

Dean’s gaze meets yours, and you flush. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you fucking hate it. You thought you knew all his expression. You thought you knew him. You thought he’d at least have the guts to turn you down like a man.

Instead his tongue flicks over his lips, and he rips his gaze back to the desk attendant. You hate her. You hate him. You love him. Your head hurts, overflowing with too many thoughts that you can’t even pick them apart. You want to scream and cry and run and sink into the floor. It’s not fair of him, to do this to you. You’re going to be sick. You want to drown your sorrows in as many drinks as you can find.

You settle for curling into your bed, hiding your face in the pillows, and crying until your body is limp and your throat is sore. He knows you love him. He hates you. He’s never going to look at  you again, and you’re going to turn into a ghost. An evil, angry ghost. One of the ghosts that he has to kill. Then he’s going to kill you, and you’re going to turn into a demon, then you’re going to start the apocalypse again, and everyone ever is going to die because you told Dean you love him.

You cry until you can barely breathe, then a little while after. It was silent. There was no way Sam and Dean would hear it, even through the door joining your rooms.

But there’s a creak, and you sniff, turning your head just enough that Sam will be able to hear you.

“I’m fine, Sam-“

“Not Sam.” Dean mutters, and you freeze.

You don’t move. You don’t dare. Dean clears his throat, and you hear him shifting on his feet. He’s close enough to be fully through the door. You hear it close behind him, and bunch the sheets in your arms.

“I- Uh- I was hopin’ we could talk?”

You still don’t move. Dean coughs. His voice is even rougher than usual. Normally, if you had the brainpower, you’d be worried about him.

“Can you look at me?”

You scowl at the pillow in your face. “No.”

Dean mutters your name, and you cut him off with short words.

“Go away, Dean.”

“No, we need to- I got some shit to say, alright-“

“I don’t care.”

“Trust me, princess, you’re gonna care about this-“

“Stop calling me that!” The words rip from your throat, sudden and broken.

You flip over, moving to your knees, and Dean stumbles back like you punched him. His face is red, and there are bags under his eyes. He’s still handsome.

Asshole.

“I-“

“Shut up.” You hiss, narrowing your eyes at his slack expression. “Stop- Stop calling me princess and sweetheart and- and acting like you fucking care about me! It’s fucking cruel, Dean, it was a dick move before and now- Now you know.” Your voice cracks. You can’t even say it again. “Now you know, alright? You know what I- How I am! And I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have told you, but I was drunk, and I- I was tired, and you were being nice and you’re never nice to me-“

Dean opens his mouth, and you chuck a pillow right at his chest.

“No.” You spit, pushing up higher on your knees. “No, you don’t get to talk now. I don’t want to hear it, I don’t need- You don’t have to tell me! I get it, I know what you’re going to say!” You thought you were out of tears. You were wrong. “I’m just a stupid little girl, and you see me like a fucking sister or whatever, I don’t know what I’m talking about and I don’t know how I feel and you- You’d never-“ You choke on your own words. “You’d never feel-“

He moves quickly. You don’t even get the chance to throw another pillow.

Dean grabs your face between his hands, pulling right up into his. Dean kisses you, and your sharp words dissolve into a surprised sound, then a tiny moan.

His mouth is demanding. Your lips are already parted, and when the moan pushes its way up from your chest, Dean pushes his tongue over yours with a grunt. It’s a messy and desperate, noses bumping and spit mixing. You try and shove back, but Dean just pushes further over you, and you dissolve into his touch. 

You’re panting, when he pulls away. He keeps his hands firmly planted, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lips and his shoulders heaving. His fingers are tangled in your hair. You feel small under his gaze, but not in the painful, ignored way like before. It’s like you’re being shielded. Like he’s trying to protect you from your own, spiraling thoughts by sucking them out of your face.

It’s working. You stare at him with an open awe you can feel in your chest, bubbling and light.

He kissed you.

His lips were soft and chapped in the best way, and he was even better at kissing than you imagined. He tasted a little sugary from the pie he had with dinner, and something richer that was just Dean. His touch on your is almost reverent, and you want to suck on his thumb to see if it tastes as good as his lips. You want to suck on every part of him. For science. You want, you want, you want. Dean kissed you, and now all you can feel—thundering through your bloodstream—is want.

He murmurs your name, scanning over your slack features. Your eyes flutter. His throat bobs.

“I’m gonna talk now.” He says, and you nod.

You should be shoving or fighting him, but he’s looking at you like you matter. And you’re far too tired to bother with anything but tears or pleas for more kisses right now.

“I thought-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low, dry laugh. “I thought you hated me.”

“I don’t-“

“Yeah, I got that now.” He gives you an amused, tired look. “But- Sweetheart, you called me a seductive manwhore last week.”

Your face burns a little. He’d been flirting with another waitress, at another diner. You’d wanted to slit her throat.

“Seductive is a compliment.” You mumble weakly, dropping your gaze to his chest. Dean chuckles.

“From where I was sittin’, it felt like you wanted to kill me.”

 You shake your head, the movement small between his hands. “You looked like you wanted me to fuck off. You always looked like you wanted me to fuck off-“

“No.” His grip tightens, and your attention shoots back up.

And you think you understand that expression. It’s heavy, and you have seen it before. But it’s always been a dull glint in his eyes, before he looks away.

Longing.

“Dean…” You whisper, and he leans down, pressing his brow to yours.

“I never want you to fuck off.” He mutters. “Never. Please- Don’t.”

His voice breaks. You reach up to grab his wrists, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“I know I ain’t perfect. I know I’m old, and a dick, and I don’t got much to offer-“

“I like what you have to offer.” You whisper. His brow knits tighter. “I always liked it.”

Dean chuckles. “You shot me down. First time I offered it.”

“You wanted a hookup, I- I can’t do that-“

“I couldn’t either.” He looks at you under hooded eyes. “Not with you.”

You press your lips in a thin line, years of anger and sparring fading into a blur of a dull, bruising ache. He was always a wound you refused to heal. If he cuts you open any wider, you don’t think you’re going to have the option anymore.

“You didn’t seem interested.” Dean rasps. “You started- Lookin’ at me all weird and calling me names and-“

“I loved you.” You say it before you can think. Dean lets out a sharp breath, his weight pressing further down.

“But- I- You too.” He winces, like he hates the words. “I didn’t- It was never- Son of a bitch-“

He looks like it’s paining him to try and say it. And you know. You know he can’t, because he doesn’t even say it to Sam. 

But he looks like he’s going to cry. Dean never cries.

He means it. The thing you never let yourself dream of, he means it.

“I- You just- I wanted shit, and you seemed like you wanted nothin’ to do with me, so I-“

You move carefully, tugging that collar of his shirt down into the kiss. Dean goes rigid for a single, horrible second.

Then he almost melts.

His fingers dig into your skin like he can’t bear to let go. His body collapses over yours, his kisses going from the soft ones you started to fast and desperate. He kisses you like he’s trying to leave a mark, and you meet him with every bit off passion.

Dean folds you down, until you’re flat on the mattress. Your legs fly up to wrap around his torso, and he grabs one of your hands, tangling your fingers together. The kisses turn slow. A little more certain and controlled, Dean sucking on your lower lip before kissing the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. You smile into the kiss, and a broken sound rumbles from his chest.

He pins your hands next to your head, squeezing once before he breaks away. He looks wrecked. He stares at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and your head buzzes, nice and clear of what ifs.

All that matters right now is Dean above you, and the electric heat in your body. How his hand fits so perfectly in yours. How your bodies are already molding together, and you’re both still fully clothed.

“You deserve better, baby.” He mutters, and you almost laugh.

There’s nothing better. There’s Dean, glorious and unreachable, and there’s everyone else.

“No.” You whisper, beaming up at him. “I don’t.”

Dean’s throat bobs. He lowers himself down slowly, pressing his lips slowly over yours. Like he’s still not fully sure. You hum happily into the kiss, and he takes the cue easily.

You lose yourself in him quickly. His lazy, passionate kisses and his hands, slowly tracing over your body. He starts with light touches near your hips and waist, every brush of his fingers making you shiver. You arch into it, when his thumb grazes the bare skin of your midriff. Dean groans, testing the waters with another slow graze of his fingers.

“Deeean…” You breathe against his lips, and he grunts.

“You’re so soft.” He mutters, slipping his hand under your shirt. “So fuckin’ reactive and soft.”

You whimper, heels digging into his back as he teases his fingers up your spine. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“Not teasin’.” He nips at the corner of your mouth. “Just sayin’ things that are true, baby. Not my fault they make you all stupid.”

Your breath hitches, your head tipping back as your legs spread slightly. Dean hums, interest flashing in his gaze. He noticed. Of course he did. He notices everything.

“You like that?” He drawls, kissing over your cheek, then down your neck. “You like bein’ called baby? Or called stupid.”

His hand drifts up your side, until his thumb is grazing under your breast. The sensation, combined with his dirty words, makes your hips roll. A dizzy, pleased sigh escapes your lips. Dean chuckles, rubbing his thumb in a tight circle. His lips graze a sensitive spot on your neck, and your hips roll again.

“I think you like both.” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Dirty girl, bet you’re already wet for me.”

You whimper, the sound turning to a sharp gasp when Dean shoves his knee right between your thighs. You buck off the bed at the sudden pressure, eyes glazing and mouth hanging open.

Dean sucks on that sensitive spot, and your whole body shivers. You can’t stand to not move, not with the heat of him all around you. His thumb drags up, brushing over your nipple right as his tongue flicks against your skin. You start to mindlessly grind against his knee, chasing just a little bit more friction. Dean chuckle, biting softly at your neck before bullying his knee further against your clothed cunt.

“That’s it.” He growls in your ear. “Messy fuckin’ girl, already humping my leg. You need it that bad, sweetheart? Can’t even wait for me?”

“I- I’m sorry-“ You whine, trying to stop your body from moving.

It doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Dean slips his hand from under your shirt and grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze onto his, and his attention just fuels the wildfire under your skin. You need him, and form of him you can get. You need him harsh and all over your body, until there’s are marks you won’t be able to wash away in the morning. You need him to claim you so deeply neither of you can back out.

Dean watches you with a gentle, but sharp awe. Like he’s trying to memorize the scene below him, that you’re sure is quiet a sight. You fucking his leg like a dog in heat, your adoration and love finally allowed to pour all over your face.

“Need you,” you breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “Need you so bad, Dean.”

A low rumble leaves his chest, his eyes getting darker with every tiny moan from your lips. His attention is almost too much. You try and turn your face into the sheets, but he tugs it back with barely a flick of his wrist.

“Dean, please-“

“Look at me.” He taps your cheek with one finger, slamming his knee forward.

Your glossy, tear-stained eyes dart to his, and he smirks. It’s soft, but dangerous. He smiles down at you, and another breath of his name escapes your lips.

“What do you want, sweet girl?” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Use your words.”

It takes you a second to remember how. “You,” you breathe out, and Dean’s jaw ticks. “Want you, Dean, always wanted you-“

“I know, baby,” he coos, leaning slowly down. Your noses bump, and you whimper, closing your eyes. “You want me so bad it hurts, don’t you. Bet your little pussy is fuckin’ calling my name, begging me to stuff her up.”

“Yes,” you nod, bobbleheaded and dizzy. “Oh my god, yes-“

“But how.” His voice turns stern, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “Do you want me? Soft? Or,” he pushes your further down onto his knee, and your eyes roll a little back. “Hard?”

Dean drags his thumb over your lips, squeezing your cheeks into a tiny pout. You try to keep fucking his knee, but he’s got you pinned so hard against it that you can’t move. You’re trapped in a cruel kind of heaven, with everything right on the brink of falling, and Dean holding you over the edge by the nape of your neck.

“Hard,” you whisper, dragging your eyes open to meet his. He needs to see it. How bad you want him. “Wanna- Ohh-“ Your lashes flutter, as Dean starts to slowly grind his knee against your core. “Wanna feel you. All of you. Don’t- Don’t hold back.”

His grip on your jaw tightens. His voice drops a full octave. “Baby, are you-“

“Yes.” You smile at him, already a little drunk on his everything. “I trust you.”

And that seems to be what gets him. Dean blinks at you for a second, the façade of pure control slipping. You know it’s a game, and that when you’re done he’s going to coddle you like a princess. But you’re not sure he knew you knew. Not sure he understood that, even when you thought he hated you, you would’ve placed your life in his hands without even a beat of hesitation.

Dean leans down, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. His hand pulls from yours, and he wraps his arm around your lower back. His fingers tickle your sides a little, teasing the side of your breast, and you giggle. Dean grunts, pushing you further into the mattress. It just makes you giggle more.

“Somethin’ funny?” He mutters, and you can hear it again. He’s back in this. It sends a shivering thrill through your body.

You need more. And you shake your head, trying to test just how much it takes him to snap.

“You’re laughin’ like something’s funny.” Dean leans back up, glaring down at your lovedrunk, giddy expression.

There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.

You’re about to be fucked into next week.

“Look at you.” He mutters, palming at your breast through your shirt. You gasp, arching into the touch, and Dean chuckles. “You’d do anything I told you, huh. Just to make me fuck you.”

You shake your head, and Dean chuckles.

“Don’t lie, princess. Good girls don’t lie to me.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs press around Dean’s knee, the grind of your hips short and uncontrolled. He lets you writhe below him, smirking at the pants that escape your lips.

“Does it hurt?” he coos, smearing some spit over your cheek. “Your pussy aching, baby girl? Already can’t take it?”

“N- No.” You choke out. “I can take it-“

“Doesn’t seem like you can.” He mutters, scanning over your limp body. “I’m not even touchin’ you and you’re about to cum. Can’t believe you’re that fucking easy.”

You whimper, shaking your head. “I- I’m not easy-“

“Yeah?” Dean mocks. “How many other guys you fucked?”

“Two. Just two-“

“They make you feel like this?”

“No- Never-“

“Damn right. They don’t.” Dean grunts. “You’re mine, princess. My fuckin’ girl.”

You whimper, heat rushing through you at the possession in his voice. You are his. He has no idea, how completely and totally his you are.

“Say you’re mine.” Dean orders, and you nod.

“Yours. All yours, Dean, I’m- Fuuuck-“

He pinches your nipple rolling it between two fingers. Your hips try to buck off the bed, but he’s pinned you down too well.

“Fuck- Dean- You can’t just-“

You moan, and he chuckles.

“Oh, baby.” He leans back down, brushing a featherlight kiss over your lips. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

Dean nips on your lower lip, then rises back up, patting your cheek.

“Open.”

You do, without a thought. He chuckles, leans down, and spits right into your swollen lips.

“Swallow.” He grunts, and you obey.

You lick your lips for good measure. Just to see how he’ll react. His mouth falls a little open, a deep, possessive sound rumbling chest.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost fully to himself. “So fuckin’ eager. You ready to listen, princess?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, and add for good measure. “Please.”

 Dean’s lips twitch. “Beggin’ and I don’t even have you naked yet. We should fix that.”

“Fix what-“

“Stand up.” Dean drags you upright with steady, but firm hands.

You follow his lead, letting him move you off the mattress and onto shaking legs. He keeps you between his spread knees, smirking up at your confused expression. He’s got one hand, steadily rubbing the back of your thigh.

“Strip.” He orders, and your cheeks burn.

“Dean-“

You cut yourself off, when he just raises his brows. God, if he wasn’t begging you for attention fifteen minutes ago, you’d be putting up more of a fight. Just for the show of it. To prove that you’re perfectly capable of thinking for yourself. That you don’t need him at all.

But you think he knows that. And for once, you don’t want to have to think at all.

You peel off your clothing slowly, burning under Dean’s gaze. He’s tracking every movement, dragging over every bare inch of skin. Your top goes first, and his hands fly right up to palm your breasts. His hand is big and warm, and you bite back a tiny moan.

Dean smirks, leaning slowly forward to trail open, wet kisses over the valley of your breasts. You weave your fingers through his hair, your breath stuttering. You fumble with your bottoms. It’s a little hard to focus, with his tongue swirling around your sensitive, peaked nipple.

“Shit- Dean-“ You take a deep breath, tugging at his soft, short locks. “That’s- Mmmm-“

He sucks lightly, and you lean fully over his chest. He chuckles, flicking his tongue back and forth, and all you can think of is that sinful mouth against your core.

“I- I can’t-“

“Yes, you can.” He kisses your nipple, before switching to the neglected one. “For me.”

You swallow, grabbing at the hem of your bottoms and tugging them down. Dean grabs a handful of your ass, slapping it once before dipping his fingers down between your thighs. You collapse over him with a weak noise, and Dean just laughs. The shame in how quickly he’s unraveling you, how wet you know you are, it just makes you ache for him more. He’s got you, needy and in the palm of his hand. He knows it. And still, he touches you like he’s been waiting to his whole life.

“That’s my girl.” He mutters. “Son of a bitch, you’re so fuckin’ wet. You been walkin’ around like this? Waiting to get bent over and turned into my little cockslut.”

“Ye- Yes.” You press your face into his hair, nails scratching at his neck. “Oh my god, Deean-“

 “Yeah. That’s right.” Dean hums as you grind down onto his fingers, teasing between the lips of your pussy. “Barely even fuckin’ touching you, and you’re soaking my hands. Jesus,” he laughs, the sound vibrating against your chest. “You’re getting wetter every time I talk.”

You keen, when the tip of his forefinger grazes your clit. It’s like being struck by lightning, making your whole body rush with pleasure and your pussy clench around nothing. He flicks it, just that once, then pulls away. You hug his head tighter, begging between your every moan.

Dean doesn’t budge. He rubs over your pussy without touching your clit again, muttering dirty words against your skin.

“Look at you,” he kisses your shoulder. “My pretty fuckin’ girl.”

“Dean-“

“Come on.” He slaps your ass again, and your knees give a little. “Like I couldn’t make you cum just from talkin’ to you.”

You flush, wrapping your arms around his neck as he pulls you fully into his lap. Dean pauses, at the way you shiver, and pulls back. You try to avoid his gaze, but he isn’t having it. He grabs your jaw and forces your gaze back to his, eyes gleaming and playful.

“Oh, I could, couldn’t I.” He smirks. “You’d cum for me just sittin’ here, letting me call you names.”

“No.” Your protest is short. Weak. Dean looks at you like he’s just pulled the sweetest bunny into his trap, and he wants to eat you alive.

He pulls you down for one of those kisses that’s too slow and sweet. It’s almost mocking, with how his cock is straining against his jeans, pressing into your thigh. You dissolve into it, lowering your guard against your better judgement. Dean squeezes your ass, rubbing where he’d spanked before. Your knees are jelly, your core pressed right against his denim-clad bulge.

Jesus, he must be massive. Just the idea makes you shiver, and Dean smiles against your lips.

“You’re bein’ so patient,” he coos, massaging your hips. “You trust me, don’t you? You know I’m gonna fuck you real good.”

You hum an agreement, smiling from the praise. Dean combs his fingers through your hair, sucking on your lower lips before pulling slightly back.

“You’re ready, aren’t you? I could fuck you right now and you’d take me like I was lubed up.”

You whimper, and Dean pushes you further onto his bulge.

“You gonna let me own you, sweet girl? Let me make you the dirty fuckin’ cumslut you wanna be.”

“Deaan-“ You gasp weakly. “Don’t be mean-“

“Why?” He kisses your cheek. “You like it. You’re the one who said you wanted it, baby. And fuckin’ gush,” he runs his hand between your thighs. “Every fuckin’ time I call you my dirty little girl.”

He’s right. Your pussy clenches, arousal dripping down your thighs. Dean laughs, manhandling you to stay upright as moves fully onto the mattress and lies flat on his back. You stare at him for a second, unable to move with his hold on your hips, but unsure what to do with yourself. You’re straddling him, watching with an open mouth as he pulls off his shirt and settles fully into the pillow. His cock is pushed right against your pussy. You grind down, and he hisses.

“Not yet.” He mutters at your pout. “Need to taste that sweet pussy. C’mere.”

He beckons, and your mouth falls open when you realize what he means.

“Dean, I can’t- You’re going to suffocate-“

“Nobel death.” He grins, and you scowl.

“I don’t want you to die the first time we have sex.”

“First time?” He wiggles his brows. “You’re gonna let me come back for seconds?”

“Dean, I’m serious-“

“So am I, can we do an all you can eat kinda situation-“

“Dean Winchester.” You shove his chest, and the idiot just laughs. “I’m not- I’m not doing that. I don’t want to hurt you, that’s- I’m not-“

“Hey.” Dean grabs your hand, squeezing it gently. You meet his gaze, and it’s a million times softer than before. “It’s okay. This ain’t gonna hurt me, I swear, but if you just don’t wanna, I have a lotta other ways to make us both feel good.”

He drags his thumb over your knuckles, and you take a deep breath. You hadn’t realized it. You were about to cry again.

You peer at Dean through your lashes, and he offers you a boyish, gentle smile.

“Promise it won’t hurt you?” You whisper, and he nods.

“Swear on your life.”

You nod, slowly and carefully. Dean opens his mouth—probably about to ask if you’re sure—but you’re already crawling up his chest.  

He smiles, rubbing your thighs as you settle them on either side of his head. You take a deep breath, your hands fidgeting and unsure where to rest. Dean grabs them and guides them into his hair, before kissing the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitches, and you almost collapse straight over him.

He laughs, digging his dull nails into your ass. “Sweetheart, point of this is you sitting on my face.”

“I- I am-“

“You’re hovering. That ain’t sittin’.”

“I don’t want to crush you-“

“You won’t.” He sighs, kissing the opposite thigh. “I got you, right?”

You nod. He trails the kisses upwards, close to where you’re sure you’re dripping on his beard. His eyes never leave yours.

“You trust me?” He rasps, warm breath fanning over your pussy.

“Of- Of course I trust you-“

“Good.” Dean kisses your clit, sloppy and using his tongue to flick the little button back and forth.

You almost shriek, the sensation overwhelming. You squirm, unsure if you’re trying to get closer or wiggle away. Dean makes the choice for you.

“Hold on.” He grunts, right before yanking you right down onto his face.

And oh.

Oh god.

You’ve been eaten out before. Even by people who were good at it. Who enjoyed it. You came before, and walked away with no complaints.

Compared to this, they might as well have just spat on it and walked away.

Dean eats you out like he’s on a personal mission for honor between your legs. Like he lost something in your pussy and he’s trying to shake it loose. His jaw works like he’s devouring the finest food of his life, his tongue dragging and pumping in and out of your sensitive opening. His nose is pressed right against your clit, and he moves it with his full face, rubbing and rubbing and rubbing.

“Fuuck- Fuck!” You cry out, yanking on Dean’s hair. “Dean- Oh- Oh my God-“

He moans, and the vibration makes it better and worse all at once. You’re trembling, no way to escape it, no way to feel it less. Dean massages your ass as he works, keeping you pinned to his face, to the pleasure he’s slowly dragging out of your body.

You pull his hair again, and his time he smacks your ass with his moan. Your back arches. You have to grab the bed frame to stop yourself from collapsing.

“Dean- Deeaaan-“

You chant the word like a prayer. It’s all you can remember. The infernal man below you laughs, and you push down harder into his wet, open mouth. He grunts, and doubles his efforts. His tongue traces around your pussy before shoving back into your tight cunt, and you clench around him with a whimper.

He tightens his grip on your hips, dragging them slowly back and forth. Guiding you into fucking his face. You follow his rhythm, and swear you can feel him everywhere in your body. Your nerves light up, with every stroke of his tongue and bump of his nose on your clit. Your mouth hangs open, and you pant as you try to hold off your orgasm, building up and up and up in your core.

One of his hands disappears from your body. You’re too lost in his mouth below you to notice, until you hear it.

The sound of slapping skin, mixed with Dean’s increasing moans below you. You manage to find enough of a mind to look over your shoulder, and the sight shoots straight to your pussy, gushing on Dean’s face.

He’s fisting his cock, thick and long and a little curved. He beats it into his hand, the head angry and red, coated in a thick layer of pre-cum. You twist back around looking down at his face between your thighs, and find him staring back.

He’s been staring the whole time. Eyes dark and wrecked, fixed on you as you writhed and moaned above him. He’s getting off to it. To having you like this.

Dean moans—fully, totally moans—into your pussy, his eyes never leaving yours.

And you can’t hold it off.

“Dean- I- I’m gonna-“

He squeezes your ass, moaning against your pussy again.

Permission.

You cum with a cry of his name, grinding down onto his face through your orgasm. Your vision goes white, your whole body shaking and seizing up as Dean’s tongue strokes you through it. He doesn’t stop when you’re a trembling, dazed mess above him. He slowly shifts you backwards, cradling your body as sits up, forcing your back into the sheets, between his legs.

He kisses your clit gently, eyes shining on your unfocused, glossy ones.

“Taste better than I imagined.” He murmurs, slowly moving you further up the bed. “And trust me, baby. I lost a whole lotta sleep imagining.”

You swallow, eyes darting to his still hard cock. Dean follows your hungry gaze, then laughs, angling it to rub between the lips of your pussy.

“You’re really that needy, huh.” He teases. “Not enough for just my mouth. Gotta have my cock, too.”

You hum, too lost in the feeling to even protest. You’re flat on your back, legs hiked up in the air and over Dean’s shoulder, fully exposing your poor, swollen pussy to him. He slides his cock right between the slick lips, the tip bumping your clit. You pout up at Dean, spreading your legs wider to try and urge him on. He raises his brows, pausing with his cock pressed over your clit.

“Already too fucked out to talk?”

You nod, and pride and worry mix in his eyes.

“Baby, if you need me to take it easy-“

You shake your head frantically. He promised no holding back. You want to be sore from him in the morning.

Dean sighs, lowering your legs so he can lean over your face. You glare at him, grinding your hips up against him. He pins you back to the bed with a single hand sprawled on your abdomen and a stern look.

“There’s gonna be more time for it to be rough.” He murmurs. “I been plenty mean tonight. And I love it, sweetheart, I do, but I’m gonna love anything-“

“Dean.” You push out, your voice wrecked and hoarse. “Hard. Please.”

“Are you-“

You push up on weak elbows, capturing his mouth against yours. Dean leans down, kissing you with every bit of adoration and softness he’s about to rip away for the sake of pleasure. You smile against the kiss, boneless and happy, and Dean grunts. 

“Alright.” He mutters, the darkness in his voice sending a chill down your spine. “You get what you ask for, baby girl.”

Yes.

You’d say it, if he hadn’t already stolen most of the words from your body. And you thought that it was bad before.

Dean slowly shoves himself into your dripping cunt, and you can’t remember your own fucking name.

He’s big. So big you’re not sure how you’re fitting him. His hand on your abdomen pushes you deeper into the mattress, forcing you to take every thick, veiny inch of him. You whimper, and the sound gets swallowed by Dean’s lips.

“Feel that?” He hisses, tone harsh in the way that sends a thrill to your core. “Feel my cock, filling up your tight little pussy?”

You nod, mouth hanging open. Dean bottoms out with a grunt, pulling your hips roughly up to let him hit a deeper angle. You mewl, eyes rolling back at the burning, perfect stretch of him.

“That’s right.” He mutters, rutting into your wet, hot channel. “This is what you fuckin’ begged for, princess. To be a brainless little cockslut. You can’t even talk right now, can you? Just gonna lay there and look pretty while I do all the work?”

Tears prick at your eyes. You’re so full you almost don’t think you can handle it.

Dean isn’t going to give you much of a choice.

“Damn right you are.” He mutters to himself, dragging almost fully out of you before slamming back in, knocking the air from your lungs.

You sob with pleasure, reaching up to grab at his face. Dean kisses your wrist, repeating the motion with an even harsher thrust than before.

“That’s it.” He grunts, pushing over your as he finds a brutal pace. “That’s my girl. Fit me like a glove, sweetheart. Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever fucked, so good for me, so fuckin’ good-“

Dean groans, crashing his lips over yours. You wrap your arms around him, holding on for dear life as he fucks stars behind your eyes and lightning through your body. If you weren’t ruined for him before, you are now. There isn’t another man in the world, who could reduce you to such a sobbing, wrecked mess while fucking you like a doll, then kiss all over your face like you’re the most important thing in the world.

He’s handling your body like it only exists for him to fuck. Grabbing your hips and breasts like they’re toys, positioning in the best way for him to hit you deeper. So deep he’s finding burning, pleasurable spots in you that you hadn’t known existed before, that make your whole body light up with pleasure. You can feel him in your throat, though every single inch of you, his muscles flexing and chest heaving and cock drilling into you until your pussy is drooling and he’s just sliding in and out.

But he kisses you like he’s a soldier being sent off to war. Rough and desperate, but loving. With all the fervor of a man who’s trying to something both of you have lost the words for. You return his every kiss, and his thrusts get sharper. Deeper.

You make sounds that are supposed to be his name. The room fills with the obscene sound of his cock, pounding into your cunt. You tip your head back and he starts to bite and suck on your throat, like he really can’t find enough of you to worship.

“Shit, baby-“ He presses his nose against your jaw, voice cracking as the bed creaks beneath you both. “Gonna- Gonna fuckin’- Where’d you want it-“

You grab his shoulders, yanking him fully down. Dean groans, doubling over and pressing his mouth back over yours.

“Come with me, sweetheart, c’mon- Milk my fuckin’ cock-“

His thumb slips between your bodies, rubbing your clit in tight, unforgiving circles. You scream silently, as your orgasm hits you like a train. Dean fucks you through it, moaning your name as he chases his own release. White hot cum paints your inner walls, and Dean fucks it back into you with rough grunts and shorter thrusts.

You think you might be floating. You’ve never been this stuffed up, this warm. All the mocking and harshness from Dean is gone, replaced by worshipful hands that caress your face and gentle kisses over every spot he played with. Neither of you seem ready to know. You know you aren’t at all, and Dean’s curled over you like a very heavy blanket.

You rub his back, smiling up at the ceiling. It’s quiet. You’d like to stay here for a while. Maybe forever.

Dean rises over you, still not pulling out. His eyes are glazed, his expression wrecked. You reach up to cup his cheek, and he leans into the touch.

“My girl.” He mutters, and even if he doesn’t say it like one, you know it’s a question.

“Your girl.” You whisper.

You’ve never seen him smile so wide, than before he leans back down to kiss you again.

And if you make him smile like that for the rest of your life, then you know you’ve done something right.

✦End note: the good thing about writing these fics is that it's fun. the bad thing is that i've set my standards WAY too high. ✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

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[maximoffbby]

[padaleckiprincess-deactivated20]

too much ⋆ sam winchester

18+ only ⋆ mdni sorry

pairing: sam winchester x f!reader

warnings: pussy eating, overstimulation

summery: sam eats you out

authors note: it’s what the people want

Sam's hands grip your thighs tightly, spreading you wide on the edge of the bed bed as his mouth devours you with no hesitation. His tongue drags flat and slow over your folds, tasting every inch before targeting your clit directly. He sucks it between his lips harshly, flicking the sensitive nub with precise strokes that make your hips buck upward.

“FUCK SAM!” you moan loudly, and he groans against your pussy causing vibrations through you.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling it hard as you feel your first orgasm burst through you. Your thighs clamp around his head as you ride out your orgasm, but Sam doesn't ease up.

“S-Sam too much” you gasp out, but of course he doesn’t stop he holds you down tighter with his big arms.

He groans against your pussy, the vibration sending vibrations up your spine. His tongue circles your wet entrance, and then pushes inside, fucking you with insistent thrusts while his thumb rubs tight circles on your swollen clit.

He continues to fuck you with his tongue not slowing down his movements. He starts to rub your clit faster, and you squirm under him but his large biceps makes sure you stay down, and don’t go anywhere or close your legs.

The second orgasm builds faster. Your thighs tremble under his strong arms as Sam keeps licking, and sucking harder now. Drawing out every sound from you out. He doesn’t stop not even when you're gasping his name. You don’t even get to calm down from the second orgasm.

He slides two thick fingers into your dripping wet pussy, curling them against that spot inside you that makes you see stars. His mouth never leaves your clit. He pumps his fingers inside you at a harsh pace. Your cum is still flowing out along with your juices, and his tongue Kees lapping at the slick mess you're making.

Your third orgasm hits you like a brick, your back arching off the bed as you cry out his name with tears down your face. Sam holds you down with one strong arm across your hips, not letting you escape the relentless attention. He keeps fucking you with his two fingers through your third orgasm.

He adds a third finger, stretching you open, and making you scream out in pleasure. All while he sucks your clit with a face rhythmic pace. Your juices are coating his chin and drip down onto the white sheets.

"Sam— too much," you cry, but he just growls in response, the sound is muffled against your oversensitive pussy.

He shifts his tongue flattening to grind on your clit as his fingers thrust deeper, and faster if that’s even possible.

It doesn’t take long for your fourth orgasm rips through you, your walls clenching around his fingers so hard it almost hurts you. Your vision blurs, and your body twitches uncontrollably as you ride it out.

Sam pulls back just enough to watch your face, and his lips are covered with your arousal.

"One more," he murmurs, but you know this is a lie.

Not even a second later his tongue is spearing into your pussy while his fingers work your clit quick. He doesn't stop when you come again for the fifth time. He actually laughs because how quick you came. He pushes your legs open when you try to close them. He forces them apart with his strong arms, and burying his face deeper, licking and sucking through your orgasm as you cry out.

Your sixth orgasm leaves you sobbing with pleasure, and now your tears are flowing freely as your body shakes uncontrollably.

Sam keeps going, and his tongue is lapping up every drop you give, fingers never stopping their harsh pace inside you.

By the type your seventh orgasm hits you your complete jelly, voice gone from screaming out. He finally slows, and presses gentle kisses on your inner thighs before returning to your clit with soft licks that still make you cry out.

He gently places two fingers back inside, curling them as he gets out one final release from you that leaves you limp.

Sam lifts his head at last, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes soft with gentleness despite his earlier relentless efforts. He watches you come down, and recover from him. Your pussy is throbbing swollen and slick with your juice and his spit.

He stands up, and stares down at you smiling gently. You weakly smile back, but it quickly drops as he drops his jeans.

“I’m not done”

authors note: too much?

masterlist ⋆ sam masterlist

[very-merry-birthday]

🍓 Say Thank You. 🍓

NSFW NSWF NSWF NSFW NSFW NSFW NSFW NSFW NSFW

Sam's whole body is pressed against you, towering over you as he fucks you from behind, pressing you against the wall until your breath starts to cut and your jaw hangs open in a desperate moan.

"Fuck- needy little thing, aren't y'?" He laughs, pushing his whole length into you, his large hand on your hip the only thing keeping you upright.

He snakes his other hand into your hair, tugs at it hard, until the back of your head hits his chest. At this angle you can see his face, his eyes dark, like he's watching caught prey.

Then he spits, hard, directly in your mouth. You stare up at him as you close your mouth, swallow down the taste of whiskey and menthol.

His jaw tenses, "Say thank you."

He thrusts hard, slamming your body into the wall to accentuate his point. You gasp, blink hard to push away the tears welling in your eyes.

He tugs at your hair again- sharp, "I said- say thank you."

"Thank you-" You whimper out.

He slams into you again, his own expression faltering, only for a moment, before he looks back down at you, "Again."

You choke slightly, giddy pleasure tugging at you, "Thank you- Sam- fuck-"

He smiles, "Good girl."

[spectralgalaxygauntlet]

Hiiii so I’ve actually never requested before and maybe this is weird idk but I’ve been thinking real hard about a Dean fic where he just fully manhandles reader. Like pushing her against the wall, throwing her on the bed, putting her into whatever positions he wants. Super passionate, super slutty and yeah

𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕖, 𝕕𝕠𝕟'𝕥 𝕕𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

CW: 18+ MDNI, rough sex (manhandling, marking, hair pulling, etc.), edging, forced orgasm, overstimulation, dom!Dean, sub!reader, unprotected pinv (don't do that), creampie, cum eating, pet names, wow this went off the rails y'all

WC: 2K

A/n: I love this request and thought angsty season 4 Dean was perfect for this. Title is from Is This Happiness by LDR.

The motel door slamming shut made you jump. Your eyes shot up from your laptop and adjusted to the low light in the room, finally settling on Dean. Just Dean. Yanking open the refrigerator door and grabbing a beer before slamming it closed. Your eyes followed him as he paced, each footstep punctuated by a creak of his boots on cheap linoleum. 

“I’m gonna kill her…fuckin’ Ruby.” 

You released a slow breath through your nose. 

“That answers my question.” You muttered to yourself.

That was why he came back without Sam. The tension between them was unbearable. Sam had promised he was done with Ruby. Done using his ability to exorcise demons. 

Done drinking demon blood.

You slowly closed your laptop with a quiet thud before standing up and padding towards him.

He was sitting at the edge of the bed with his elbows braced on his knees and his jaw clenched tight. 

You might as well have been invisible standing in front of him. His eyes didn’t waver from the amber colored bottle in his hands.

A nervous sigh escaped you as you removed the bottle from his hands and set it on the table before settling in his lap. His brow furrowed like you had grown a second head. 

“—the fuck?” 

He was stunned silent—almost. 

You laced your fingers loosely around his neck and did your best to meet his gaze. The man was intimidatingly pretty. Even when he was furious. His intensely green eyes were dark with rage and made you shiver.  

His rough hands landed on the plush of your hips, and you weren’t sure if he was about to throw you off or pull you closer. You could see the battle raging in his mind.

You’d stopped expecting anything from Sam as he got sicker. It made the disappointment sting less when he let you down. But Dean wouldn’t give up on him and it was easier for him to blame Ruby—as if she had the ability to change. 

“I’m not good for you right now, sweetheart,” he drawled, still not making any attempt to push you away. If anything, the pads of his fingers pressed harder, holding you tighter. 

“I know,” you answered softly. Dean was always gentle with you, afraid of taking more than he deserved. Treating you like you were breakable, which is why he didn’t let you hunt with him. You were always on research duty. Stuck at whatever shitty motel or small down library he left you at. 

His fingers trailed down your thighs, causing goosebumps to rise in their wake. You didn’t flinch, even though he felt anger simmering beneath his skin. He was surprised that you didn’t recoil from the heat that was surely radiating off of him. 

“Last chance to stop me. I won’t be mad.” 

Your hips rolled slightly, enough for him to clock it. You pulled him towards you, fingers applying pressure at his roots, enough to draw a pained hiss from him. Your kiss was molten—full of desire and devotion. Telling him exactly what he needed to know.

If you were breakable, you wanted him to be the one to break you.

His hands squeezed your soft thighs and he stood up with you wrapped tightly around him. You gasped when your back hit the old wood paneling on the wall. His mouth abandoned yours and trailed under your jaw where his teeth pinched and dragged against your skin.  Your neck was surely a mess of spit and small bite marks, but feeling him lose control was worth it. 

Bringing one hand between you, he shoved it past the waistband of your shorts and pressed his fingers against the damp cotton of your panties. His breath came in hot puffs against your neck while he pulled the fabric aside and ran his fingers through your slick. 

“Fuck baby—you’re so wet f’me.” He groaned while his thick fingers teased your tight entrance. 

You bit your lip trying to muffle a cry when he plunged two curled fingers into your spasming cunt. He felt you start to clench after a few rough thrusts, his fingers hit your g-spot perfectly, in a way yours never could.

He pressed you harder against the wall so he could brace himself and finger fuck you harder. The way his palm nudged your sensitive clit was bringing you towards the edge. He withdrew his hand making you whine and pulse around nothing. 

“Dean..” you cried and let your head loll back against the wall. 

Your cheeks flushed when you saw him suck your wetness off his thick fingers. He gave you a cocky smile and wink. He knew exactly what he was doing to you.  

“Sorry sweetheart—you gotta wait.” 

Before you could protest his cruelty, his mouth was on you again. His tongue lapping up the precious little moans he loved so much. 

You yelped when he pulled you away from the wall and dropped you on the mattress. He stopped for a moment and enjoyed the sight of you sprawled out in front of him. Nothing but love in your eyes. All for him. 

Your eyes were glued to him as you watched him shed his layers, drinking in every beautiful ridge and valley, the way he almost seemed to glow in the yellow lamplight. Your cami joined the growing pile on the floor. Just as you were undoing the clasp on your bra, he roughly peeled your shorts and panties off in one pull, dragging you closer to him in the process.

“You were taking too long,” he said before stuffing his thick digits inside you again. His warm mouth latched onto one of your nipples, already hardened by the cool air in the room. You were closer than you thought after your robbed climax and Dean knew it. His tongue worked your sensitive peak with expert precision, his teeth providing enough pressure for you to arch your back off the mattress.

“Please don’t stop.” 

His eyes flicked up towards you. The normally beautiful green was almost completely dark with lust. He released your nipple with a wet pop.

“Not yet.” 

You were wondering what you had gotten yourself into. Normally, Dean would make you come as many times as he could before sinking his cock into you. 

He gripped your hips tightly and flipped you onto your belly and pulled your hips back. He took a moment to admire the view of your perfect ass. Your adorable little dimples. The smooth curve of your waist. Your wetness glistening on your thighs. He gripped the base of his cock and gave it a few slow pumps, drawing a bead of precome out of the tip and working it down his length. 

He finally notched himself at your tight entrance and you whimpered. He felt so thick and heavy against you.

Running a rough hand down your spine, he pressed your face and chest deeper into the mattress. 

When he finally sank into you, the stretch was almost blinding. Your body tried to shift forward, but his grip on your waist kept you firmly in place. Exactly where he needed you. 

The mattress absorbed most of your noises, and Dean wasn’t having it. He gripped a handful of your hair and pulled—not enough to hurt. Just enough for him to hear your little whining mewls.

“Perfect little pussy. Squeezin’ me like a vice.” He growled as he bottomed out, feeling your walls flutter to accommodate him. He pulled out slowly, watching your pink ring clinging to him, before ramming back into you and forcing the air out of your chest.

Between the sound of skin slapping, made obscenely wet from your arousal, and your pornographic noises, there were going to be complaints made to motel management. 

His hand slid underneath you, between your trembling thighs, and petted your clit in time with his thrusts. Your walls started to flutter and he felt you getting wetter. He knew your body well enough to know you were about to fall apart. 

“Getting close?” 

You could hear a smirk in his voice. All you could manage to do was hum. There was definitely a small puddle of drool forming on the fabric below you. 

“I wanna feel you come, sweetheart.”

That was all you needed for your vision to go white and waves of pure euphoria to course through your body. He groaned while your velvety walls pulsed around him. It took every shred of his willpower not to join you—but he wasn’t done with you yet. 

You must have blacked out. Somehow he managed to turn you over and cage you underneath him. Hooking your legs over his arms, he folded you in half into a mating press.

“You’re taking me so well.” He purred as he admired how absolutely ruined you were underneath him. His palms pushed your thighs even wider to allow him impossibly deeper. 

 “m’so fucking full, oh my god.” You couldn’t think straight with the way he stretched your cunt. 

You felt every curve and vein. Every time his swollen head kissed your cervix. The slight curve that pressed on that special spot inside you, more sensitive from your first orgasm, driving you towards your second.

You were so sensitive, clit still swollen, when his calloused pad returned to the sensitive bud. You whimpered and tried uselessly to wiggle away from the overstimulation.

“I know it’s hard, but you’re gonna give me another. Just a little bit more.” His voice was warm and smooth like butter, melting you from the inside.

He was right, and he just kept fucking you through it. He knew your body better than you did. 

Seeing the pretty white ring at the base of his cock, wetness glistening on your thighs, made his thrusts stutter.

“So perfect f’me…my perfect girl…mine” 

He groaned as he bottomed out one last time, painting your womb with thick ropes of his spend before resting his forehead against yours. 

His expression was softer now as he searched for any sign of discomfort—worried that he might have gone too far. You were, in his mind, something else he needed to protect. Something breakable. 

He was relieved to see you meeting his gaze. No pain or fear in your eyes because he had let himself lose control. Still, he slowly eased your legs down, allowing you to take a full breath that you didn’t realize you needed.

You relaxed into his touch while the same hands that had folded you in half were gently massaging your aching hips. His thumbs rubbed soothing circles where his grip had been bruising. 

Once he started to soften inside of you, he watched as he slowly withdrew from you, groaning as his release started to leak. He watched you clench at the loss, causing more to seep out. With two fingers, he quickly pressed it back into you with a cocky grin, seeing how sensitive you were now. 

“fffuck—DEAN!” Your back arched as he curled his fingers slightly. 

“Shit, honey. I wanna feel you again.” He withdrew his fingers, now coated in your combined juices, and rubbed your puffy bud mercilessly. He tightened his grip around your thigh and pulled you closer, angling your hips upward on his lap to keep your cunt full of him. 

Your legs trembled with every pass over your clit while his lubed fingers tickled your g-spot perfectly. You were so fucked out that his name was the only word left in your vocabulary. 

When you came again he was gentler, slowing his fingers to guide you down without overstimulating you. This was all about you now.

Your eyelids were leaden. Nerves overwrought. Body loose and heavy like you could melt into the mattress. 

“Hey—look at me.” 

You managed to open your sleepy eyes a crack and smile weakly, humming in response.

“Was that too much?” He rubbed his neck nervously wondering if he had pushed you too hard.

“Hell yeah it was.”

 His stomach dropped. 

“…but in the best kind of way.” 

He huffed a nervous laugh. “You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.”

Hope you enjoyed! ♥️

[scary-noodlesblog]

Here is your daily reminder that these characters would absolutely despise ICE, Trump, Kirk, and you if you're supporting them:

Jeff the Killer

Eyeless Jack

Ticci Toby

ANY FUCKING CREEPYPASTA (besides Offenderman but i think he was like disowned?)

DARYL FUCKING DIXON

RICK FUCKING GRIMES

Glenn, Maggie, Beth, Sasha, Abraham, etc pretty much all of the main TWD group

Alastor

Charlie Morningstar

Vaggie

Lucifer

Angel Dust

Husk

Niffty

Velvette

Cherri Bomb

Pentious

The Avengers

Bucky Barnes

T'Challa

Stolas

Blitzø

Millie and Moxxie

Loona

Fizzeroli

Asmodeus

Sam Winchester

Dean Winchester

Castiel

Jack Kline

Crowley

Rowena

Gabriel

Basically, if you support anything MAGA related, your favorite character would probably hate you and you need to self reflect. This is 100% targeted at some people btw.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

green light

✦Read on aO3! - Masterlist - Dean Masterlist✦

✦summary: dean kisses you while he's drunk, and then the world keeps spinning. all you want to do is figure out if he remembers, if he meant it, and if he feels what you do in return. but he's not making it easy, until he does.✦

✦warnings/tags: Dean Winchester x female!reader, no use of y/n, no description of reader, age gap (20s - 40s), angst, overprotective dean, older dean, pining, dean being a stupid, lovable dork, some plot to get to the smut (dry humping, dean's dirty talk, car sex, praise kink, soft!dom Dean, fingering, begging, handjobs, nipple play, pussy slapping, fingering, mating press sex, creampie, big dick dean, overstimulation, body worship, dumbification, light dacryphilia, finger sucking, squirting), love confessions, fluff✦

✦wc: 11k✦

✦author's note: every week i overtake myself for 'horniest thing i've ever made'. enjoy!✦

You don’t know what happened. You’re too afraid to ask.

You don’t want to live in a world where it gets taken back.

Dean isn’t acting like anything happened. He’s not draping himself around you or acting like you’re not there at all. There’s no slobbering man at your feet, acting like the ground you walk on turns to gold, but you’re also not curled up on the curb because Dean won’t look at you, and you can’t stand to be in room where he acts like you’re gum under his shoe.

You’ve always understood that as how this would go. How your little infatuation would end. 

Either a miracle would hit like lightning, and Dean would return your feelings. Or he’d reject you, and never look you in the eyes again.

The data was leaning in favor of the former. Which is why you’ve been so very careful not to reveal your feelings under any circumstances. Witches have gaped about your sheer willpower. Sam’s made passing comments about never seeing someone who could fight demonic possession so well. Everyone around you seems to think you’re some kind of mind Titan, able to simply focus and drive off any monster or force that tries to take you over.

They don’t know that there’s always on common factor. One thing that they try to force you to reveal, that makes you pry your mind back from their bare hands.

When you got possessed by a demon, Sam and Dean had you tied to a chair. You’d still been able to see through your own eyes. Still been able to think, even if the demon had been using your internal monologue as a broadcast public radio, sharing every thought you had the mistake of thinking.

“Aw.” She’d used your mouth, you voice, and it had sounded twisted in your brain. “She’s worried about you two. Isn’t that adorable.”

Sam had frowned, shooting Dean a weary look. “Is there something we need to be worried about? Or-“ He’d said your name gently. “If you’re worried we can’t take this demon, we can.”

“She batting out of her league.” Dean had muttered, glaring down at the knife in his hands. “We’ve tangoed with the bosses and come out on top, sweetheart. No one needs to be worried but the bitch inside you.”

Whatever parts of your heart were still yours—most of it, as the demon had been able to sink her claws into everything but the organ that only played one, embarrassingly loud song—had fluttered at his words. He hadn’t been looking at you since they realized you were possessed. Sam had been doing all the talking, asking questions and trying to figure out what the demon wanted, how long she’d been in your brain. Dean had just sat on the edge of the mattress, fists curled on his knees, jaw clenched so tight you were worried about his teeth. If you were in control of yourself you would’ve told him to stop doing that. It made his headaches worse, and you bought him gum specifically so he could chew on something when he got pissed.

He would’ve smile to himself, shaking his head, and given you the look that always made your knees wobble. The one that had a silent affection behind it, that came with his hand grazing your lower back and teasing about how bossy you were.

You’d think I was dying, way you talk about my health.

I’m trying to avoid you dying, Dean-

Why? Happens to everyone eventually, and I’m further down the line than I thought I’d be-

You’re not a dinosaur. Stop talking like I’m putting you in a home, I just told you to drink some water.

If I drink some water, are you gonna stop circling me like a freakin’ shark?

I am not circling you like a shark-

Yeah, you are. You wanna take a bite outta me, sweetheart, I can see it.

You’d always blink at him, your heart in your ears and your jaw slack. He’d grin, drink his water slowly and dramatically, then boop the bottle on your nose and walk away. When you’d tell him to do something later, he’d roll his eyes and give you that look again.

That was how they figured out you were possessed. The demon had asked Dean to grab the artifact you’d been investigating, and when he’d whined that he wanted to go get pie, she’d smiled and said that was fine, as long as Dean told her where the artifact was first.

You would’ve told Dean that he could have his pie after he grabbed the artifact. You would’ve stood in front of him with your arms crossed and glared until he got up with a groan and let you drag him exactly where you needed him to be. That’s what you and Dean did. He pretended to be annoyed by it, but you wouldn’t ask anything of him unless you really needed it. You got him the pie after, and he teased you about being wound up and needing to breathe for a second. He’d feed you some of his pie like you were a baby, and you’d pretend to bite his fingers off.

But the demon had just bent for him. Dean had stared at her. And you’d know he’d seen it. Right through you, and to the ugly thing inside your body.

Ugly in a different way that you were. The demon was just cruel, but you were selfish. 

Dean had told you not to go out alone, but you loved him and he’d been sitting so close. The love inside you had been threatening to pour out of you like a flood, and you’d needed to be anywhere but near him. The demon had found you while you were at the convenience store, buying Dean jerky. You’d been too slow, and now you were a burden to him and Sam again. Dean had been forced to knock you out to tie up the demon, and Sam had to burn you with holy water. You could feel it, the burn and blistering of you skin. You’d never tell them that, because the guilt would eat them alive.

You’d never tell Dean. He was already angry with you for going out as it was. You’re already more trouble than you’re worth, most of the time. Your worry hadn’t been for you.

It’s for him. That this was going to be too much for him to deal with, having to hurt another person he cared about.

The demon had plucked that thought from your head, and curved your lips into a smirk.

“Oh, she’s not worried about herself, Deanie.” It had drawled. “I know you see her as a woman of steel, but our lovely girl is just so sweet on the insides here. It’s like swimming through marshmallows. She’s just so perfectly worried about how this is going to effect you. It’s all she can think about, the pathetic little slut.”

Dean’s eyes had narrowed. “Don’t fuckin’ talk about her like that-“

“I’ll talk about her however I want.” The demon had purred. “She’s my meat toy. But if you want to share with me, Winchester, I’m sure she wouldn’t mind both of us inside of her. She-“

The demon had cut herself off. Dean had shot to his feet, looking ready to throw a punch. Sam had blocked him with an arm, and your body had started to convulse. The demon sputtering and choking on nothing as Dean shouted your name. Sam had let him get to you when it became clear this wasn’t the demon making a play, but you hadn’t needed the help.

She’d made her mistake already. You’d been able to feel her next words, building on your own tongue. She’d been sneering in your brain about how Dean would hate you after she revealed the truth, and you’d grabbed her by the throat.

You’d pushed her out of your body, no exorcism required. Sam and Dean had stared at you in awe for about a month after. Sam had even pulled you aside and lowly asked how you did it. You’d told him you had no idea.

It would’ve been insane, to say well, Samuel. It was the power of my love for your brother.  Don’t tell him, or I’ll fucking kill you.

You would’ve been serious about that threat, too. You never wanted Dean to know. If Sam had ever found out and told him, there would’ve been a double murder suicide.

Which is why you don’t know what to do now.

Because Dean kissed you, and the world didn’t end.

Paradise didn’t come. Hell didn’t split through the Earth, and you didn’t have to go into hiding in Romania—your backup plan if Dean had ever found out and it wasn’t Sam’s fault.

The Earth had just kept spinning. Dean had gotten up the next morning and acted like nothing happened at all. Grumbling about his hangover and running a hand through his mussed hair. The same hand that had held the back of your neck last night, certain and possessive in his grip. Dean licked his lips, and you’d mirrored the motion, only able to think of that same tongue pressing into your mouth. ‘

He’d kissed you like he knew what he wanted. He’d tasted like whiskey and had a glazed expression—as if he was looking at the world through glass—but he’d kissed you. He’d lifted you off the ground with the force of it. He’d looked at you with blown out eyes, and been half-hard in his jeans, and begged you to come back to his room, and-

“You alright?” Dean asks, and you blink at him.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” His lips twitch. “You look like you spent the night getting run over by a truck.”

You frown, and Dean pauses.

“In a good way.”

“I look like I got run over by a truck in a good way?”

“Uh- Yeah?” He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m not sayin’ you look bad. You’re just all spacey and tired, and-“

He waves a hand at you sheepishly, and normally you’d keep pushing him for how exactly you could be run over by a truck in a good way.

But today, you can only look at his dumb, handsome face and think about how his stubble brushed over your skin. How your noses bumped, how he’d help you to his chest like you were a doll and he was a worried child that needed you.

“I didn’t sleep well last night.” You mutter, and Dean chuckles.

“Me neither.”

“You got drunk.” You say, flat and low. “You passed out.”

“Yeah, but I had some dreams, and-“ He cuts himself off, eyes widening and grip on his mug slipping. He catches it with a curse, and looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost.

You raise your brow, not letting any emotion onto your face. Dean clears his throat, eyes dropping for the briefest second to your lips.

“Hey, uh-“ He runs a hand through his hair, shifting nervously on his feet. “If I did anything stupid while I was wasted, you’d tell me. Right?”

And maybe you should tell him. But he looks so worried, and you know, deep down.

He doesn’t really remember.  

“Yeah.” You breathe, offering him a tiny smile. “I would.”

Dean’s silent. He studies you for a second, then shakes his head with a laugh. “Good. ‘Cause I get some, uh- Some crazy dreams.”

You pretend to laugh, but it echoes in the hollow of your chest until you feel sick. You have to excuse yourself to take a shower. To help you wake up, is what you tell Dean.

Really, you just sit on the floor and cry, letting your tears wash down the drain with the water. He doesn’t remember. He kissed you, and he’s chalking it up to a crazy dream.

You have to get over him. It’s a punch in your gut, knocking wind and snot out of you, but it’s what you needed. Dean’s never going to see you like that. He’s older, he’s a hero, he could have anyone he wanted and he’s not going to chose the bossy girl who watches cartoons with him and makes him do bar trivia with her, because he’s better than he thinks he is. He’ll find someone cooler and older. Someone who likes cars as much as he does, who can actually help him with the Impala instead of just sitting on the bench in the garage and bothering him. Someone who can cook as well as he does, and doesn’t make him try all the crazy soda flavors she sees.

Someone just as resolved and perfect as he is.

Not you.

You pick yourself up, and try to set a goal. Get over Dean.

The asshole doesn’t make it easy.

He makes it impossible.

“I’m gonna work on Baby this afternoon.” He says, and you hum. You’re curled up on the couch with your laptop, and he’s been leaning over your shoulder for the past hour, watching whatever you put on the screen. You don’t understand why. He’s got his own TV right in front of him, and he has to put his arm around your shoulders to comfortably be so close.

His fingers keep brushing the bare skin of your collarbone. His warmth is wrapped around you like a blanket, and it’s all impossible to deal with.

“I bought those snacks you like.” He adds, and you hum.

“Okay.”

“They’re gonna be with me. In the garage.”

 “I’ll come get them later.”

Dean’s face twitches. You look over to find him staring at you, nostrils flaring and nose slightly wrinkled.

“I got ice cream.” He mutters, gaze locked onto yours. “’S gonna melt.”

“Put it in the freezer.” You manage to whisper, and he shakes his head.

“Too far. Gotta focus on work.”

“I’m going to distract you from work-“

“That’s different.” He shrugs, and suddenly you’re being pulled to your feet.

“Dean-“

“C’mon.” He moves you in front of  him, and all but herds you out of the Dean Cave. “I’ll even let you pick the music, alright?”

You can’t argue with him. He’s too cute, and always has a command over your body you’ve never been able to fight off. He doesn’t even know that if he asked you to walk over hot coals, you’d do it to reach his side. If he wanted to get away you’d drop everything and go with him. If he needed you to bring him the moon, you’d learn to grow taller enough to grab it in your hands, and shred yourself back down to stay at his side.

There’s no way you can get over him while being his friend. Being his friend alone is a trial that’s slowly wearing you down. Enough that soon, you think, you’ll just be crawling on your hands to lay at his feet. It’s all you’re going to be able to muster. All you’re going to want to do.

You need to get away from him.

You can’t get away from him. Because if he asks you to do something with him—which he always does—there’s no way you’re going to be able to say no.

Which leaves one solution.

Avoid Dean.

Avoid him like he’s the plague.

You wake up in the morning, and touch your lips. Touch them like you can push the feeling of his kiss further into them. Like it’s a sugar that you could gather on your fingers and taste, a tattoo you’re trying to make sure is permanent. You do it every morning now, because it’s the last thing of Dean you’re allowing yourself to have.

If you’re careful, you don’t see him through the day. You’re up before he is, you find a corner of the bunker to hide in, you go out, you stay on the move like you’re prey and Dean’s on a hunt. When you see Sam, he gives you an odd look. If you’re sloppy, and end up in the same room as Dean, you flee before he can say something. If he says something you’re going to crash right back into him. He’s gravity. And you don’t have the strength to pull away twice.

But it’s not working.

You haven’t been alone with Dean for a week, and you just miss him. You feel like you’re trying to carve out a vital artery from your chest. It just hurts. It just makes your love spill all over you, now that there’s nowhere for it to go. You watch something on your computer and hug yourself, because your body seems to think it’s missing a limb without Dean wrapped around you. You sneak out in the middle of the night to get food, and end up just staring at the pie and jerky and beer until you’re sick. You’ve started to hole up in your room with ice cream as if you’re going through a breakup.

It’s pathetic. You look in the mirror and see a husk, with tear stained cheeks and sunken features. You’re wearing one of his fucking shirts, but your skin burns every time you think about taking it off. You’d think you were cursed, if you didn’t know this was just the feeling of love dying.

Not dying.

You’re not strong enough to kill it.

This is the feeling of love being tortured.

Because you’re stupid and tired, you look up how to get over a crush. The internet says to list out all his faults, and logically you know Dean has those, but you can’t remember any right now. His teasing always makes you flush and giggle, his stupid jokes make everything feel lighter, you know he gets angry because he cares. You even miss the loud, sloppy way he chews. You’d always been able to reach over the table and wipe sauce from his cheek, and he’d smile at you after, and you miss his smile. You’d do anything to see it right now.

You scroll to the next step. Think about it logically. If they’d even be a good match. You skip that one. Dean’s always been the one thing you don’t bother to think about logically. Something about him makes all the common sense in your head go down the drain. Which is the same issue the next step—ask yourself why you have a crush on them—fails as well. Of course you have a crush on Dean. You could list out every reason, but they’d all just circle back to he’s Dean. And everything that he is demands that you love him.

Force yourself to move on, is the final step. Go out with someone else. Even if they’re not your soulmate, it will help you realize there are plenty of other fish in the sea.

There are many other fish. The world is filled with men.

That’s part of the problem.

None of them are Dean Winchester.

But this is the most actionable step. The only one you can try to take, even if it doesn’t work. So you get cleaned up, put on a nice dress, and do your makeup a little bit like a slut. The goal of this is to get laid, through, and it’s not like anyone you know is going to see-

“Where the hell are you going?”

You freeze, squeezing your eyes shut. He’s up. Why the fuck is he up. “Nowhere?”

“You’re going nowhere.” Dean drawls. “At eleven. Dressed like… That.”

“Mhm.” You turn slowly, trying to offer a winning smile.

He doesn’t look amused.

You haven’t seen him in person in a month. He kind of looks… awful.

He’s still handsome. You don’t think he’s capable of being anything else but amazing and desirable. But his hair is longer than he usually lets it grow, and there are heavy bags under his eyes. His shoulders are hunched, there’s a stain on his flannel, and when he rubs his jaw you can see grease stains on his hands.   

“Were you in the garage?” You blurt, and he grunts.

“Maybe.”

“But-“ His gaze is lidded, his features pale in a way that only happens when he’s awake for too long. “Have you slept?”

His brow furrows. “Napped.”

“For how long.”

“Long enough.”

“That’s not an answer-“

“Where are you going.” He raises his voice over yours, and you swallow.

“Out.”

“Out where.”

You look down at your heels, fidgeting with the folds of your dress. “To a bar.”

Dean doesn’t respond. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you think you might be leaning forward. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. You haven’t even been able to build up a flimsy wall against your feelings, and now they’re all crashing through you like an asteroid, slamming through your world.

He’s right there, and if you took a step forward you’d be able to touch him. Wipe the grease off his hands, pull off the flannel and order him to change into something clean. He needs a haircut, but you kind of like it longer. You could run your fingers through it, like this. Soothe the spots where it’s sticking out, help him wash it if he’d let you.

But you don’t think he will.

Because when you look up under your lashes, he’s staring at you with a pained, exhausted expression that makes you want to cry.

“You goin’ to meet someone?” He finally says, and you shake your head.

“N- No.”

“We got drinks here-“

“I know.”

He grunts. “It’s not safe for you to be out by yourself.”

“I’m bringing pepper spray.” You mumble. “And my gun.”

Dean’s silent for a long moment, and you think he’s going to give up and walk away. Everything will be easier, if he just leaves for you. It will splatter your heart all over the floor, but at least you won’t have the weight of holding onto it anymore. At least it won’t churn like something rotten, when a stranger who isn’t Dean lays his hands all over you.

But Dean doesn’t leave.

He takes a step forward, and suddenly the air is so hot it’s hard to breathe.

“I’m goin’ with you.”

Your head shoots up, eyes wide. “Dean-“

“You said you’re not meetin’ anyone.” He challenges, glaring down at you. “I need a drink. You come with me, or you don’t go at all.”

A scoff slips from your lips. “And how the fuck would you stop me-“

“I’d toss you over my shoulder and carry you back to your room.”

Oh.

He says it so casually. His voice a deep rumble as he stares at you. An ache demands attention between your thighs, and your cheeks burn as you laugh nervously, looking to the side.

Dean doesn’t even crack a grin.

So there’s nothing you can do, but let him walk with you to the car. You try to get in the backseat, but Dean snaps his fingers and points at shotgun with a scowl.

“I’m not a fuckin’ taxi. You sit up here, or we walk.”

You flush, and silently slide into the front bench. Dean drops behind the wheel, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he starts the engine. You forgot how dangerous being close to him is. He’d grabbed his coat on the way out, tossing his dirty flannel to the side. He smells like leather and pine tree, and even across the bench you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He rolls up his sleeves, and you want to nuzzle close to him and have him put you in a headlock. His hand runs over his inner thigh, and you press your own together.

You’re staring at him. You can’t help it.

Dean must feel it, because he shoots you a look from the corner of his eye. You look away, and hear him let out a heavy breath.

And the game begins. Dean pulls out of the garage, and you’re both perfectly silent, daring the other to break first. You stare out the window, stealing glances whenever you think you can get away with it. Sometimes Dean catches your eye, and you curl further into yourself, twisting away. Once, Dean opens his mouth. He closes it just as fast.

You’ve been driving for thirty minutes, when you realize he’s not taking you to a bar. You’ve passed three bars, and he didn’t even slow down to check them out. You grab all the thin courage you posses, rooted deep in your stomach and sticky with nerves, and drag it to the surface.

“Dean, where are we-“

“You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, blatant and flat. “Past month. Don’t think I haven’t fuckin’ noticed.”

You swallow, pulling your knees to your chest. “I- I don’t-“

“Didn’t even say why.” He mutters, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Thought you were sick at first, but you’ve been talkin’ to Sammy.”

“It’s-“

“And you run outta every room I walk into. Like I got cooties or something.” He’s scowling at the road, and you feel like the smallest thing in the world. “Didn’t even bother to tell me why. Just… Fuckin’ vanished.”

There’s a lump in your throat, and unearned tears stinging at your eyes. He sounds broken, and it’s your fault. You and your stupid, useless love for him. “Dean, it’s not like that-“

“So what’s it like, huh?” His words are harsh. You flinch back. “You start acting like I’m the goddamn devil and I’m supposed to take your word that it’s just not like that? There ain’t anything for it to be like, sweetheart-“

“No, I- I just-“ You lean forward, then curl back. You’d wanted to grab him. You don’t think you’re allowed. “I just needed- I needed-“

“Space?” He spits the word like it’s poison. “Go on. Tell me you just needed space from me.”

“Dean-“

“The hell did I do to you?” He sneers. “I know I ain’t perfect, but I- I thought you- I was so fuckin’ careful, and you promised you’d tell me if I did something stupid.”

You frown, not fully understanding what he means. “Dean, you- You didn’t do anything-“

“Don’t bullshit me!” He shouts, and you don’t think you can breathe anymore. “You promised me, you said you’d tell me, and the goddamn least you coulda done was tell me what the fuck I did-“

“Please- Please stop yelling.” You whisper, not even sure if he’s going to hear you.

But he does.

Dean cuts himself off with that clench of his jaw, and pulls over to the side of the road. You hug yourself tight, trying to shrink back into the seats. This is your fault. He’s angry because of you, and you stupidity. You’re barely a schoolgirl with a crush, and you let it hurt him, and there’s no possible world where he’d ever want you now.

You hide your face in your knees. Tears burn on your cheeks, and when you try to take a deep breath, it’s ragged and aching.

Dean’s silent. The whole car is silent. He’d turned off the radio, and the only sound hanging in the air is your sniffling. You think about climbing out of the car, but he’d just chase after you. It’s started to rain, and you don’t want him to catch a cold.

You wrap your coat tighter around you. Your dress feels too tight on your skin. Feels wrong. You think you’re going to be sick. When you risk a look at Dean, he’s still holding the wheel with white knuckles. Staring at you with a pained expression, eyes even heavier than before.

He leans forward like he’s going to reach for you. Your breath hitches. He pulls back.

For a second, you just watch each other. You wipe your cheeks with your palm, and it feels like a raw, open wound.

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it, and looks back to the road like he’s searching for something.

“I’m- I didn’t mean to yell.” He mutters, voice hoarse. “I just- I’m sorry.”

You nod—you didn’t blame him  in the first place—but when he looks to you for a response, you can’t find one. Everything is lodged in your throat, behind a quiet confession you’ve worked far too hard to shove down.

“I’ll fix it.” Dean rasps, and you blink.

“What?”

“Whatever I did.” He’s staring at you, his voice cracking. “Whatever pissed you off or- Or hurt you. I’ll work on it, alright? You don’t have to do anything, I’ll fix me, and then you can stay.”

“I- I can stay?”

He nods, squeezing his eyes shut. As if the words hurt to stay. “If you can’t, I get it. I do. But you gotta give me a chance to set it right, before you give up. Just one chance, and if I screw it up a second time you can run off, but- One shot, it’s all I need. Don’t- Don’t leave.” His voice cracks, eyes shining in the dark. “Please.”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open. He looks broken. Lone tears stain his cheeks, and he’s not even wiping them away. When you shake your head—just trying to make sense of what he said—he cowers away like a kicked dog, and you split down the middle.

“I wasn’t going to leave, Dean.” Horror leaks through your voice. You couldn’t leave him if you tried. “I’d never leave you.”

He laughs dryly. “Yeah, like I didn’t just fuckin’ catch you-“

“I was going to the bar.”

“Without telling anyone?”

“No, because I knew you’d try to do this!” You wave around you, and Dean’s throat bobs. “No, I didn’t mean-“

“You didn’t wanna see me.” He mutters, looking back to the wheel. “’S alright. I get it.”

He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. And you can see him trying to drag himself back together, still refusing to wipe his tears and breathing through his nose. He’s just sitting there, hollow and angry, and he doesn’t understand.

“You kissed me.”

You say it without thinking, soft and weak. Dean goes rigid. He looks at you with bloodless, horrified features. You wrap your hand around your own throat, trying to hold yourself in one piece.

He shakes his head. You’re going to throw up.

“No, I- I’d remember that-“

“You were drunk.” You breathe. “I- I picked you up from the bar. And you kissed me.”

Dean looks like someone punched him in the face. He’s pallid, looking around the car like there’s a way out, fisting and unfisting his hands.

“That’s- That’s why you’ve been avoiding me.” He rasps, and you nod, fixing your gaze on his chest.

If you have to watch his face while he rejects you, there’s a chance you’ll just die.

Dean says your name, slow and broken, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Bracing for the knife about to be driven into your chest.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

That makes you look up. And it’s not rejection you find in Dean’s eyes.

It’s guilt.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you, and- Being drunk’s no damn excuse.”

“Dean-“

“If you want nothing to do with me, I- I understand.” He’s too lost in himself to hear you. “Hell, I’ll move out so you can stick with Sammy. You won’t have to deal with me anymore, you’re- It’s not your fault-“

“Dean-“

“I shouldn’t have forced you on that, my own- My own shit is mine to deal with, and you never gave me any kinda go and I damn well knew it- I’m so fuckin’ sorry-“

“Dean!” You shout, and he falls silent. Squeezes his jaw shut, gaze mournful and completely shattered.

You’re not entirety sure what’s happening. You say the only thing you can think.

“Stop grinding your teeth.”

Dean blinks, but his jaw loosens. He mutters your name, and you shake your head. You don’t think you can stand another apology.

“I- I’m not mad about you kissing me.” You whisper, and he snorts, empty and humorless.

“It’s not your job to make me feel better about hurting you, sweetheart-“

“You didn’t hurt me.” You snap, and Dean stills completely.

He opens his mouth, but you’re faster. Flushing furiously and too tired to fight the words.

“I- I liked it.” You whisper. “A lot.”

Dean sits a little taller, words low and cautious. “You didn’t tell me in the morning. Why wouldn’t you tell me, if-“

“You were drunk. I- I thought-“ You take a deep breath, face burning with shame. “I thought you didn’t mean it.”

“Ah.” He’s silent for a moment. “But- Why the hell would you avoid me-“

“I kissed you back.”

“Did you mean it?”

His question feels like the barrel of a gun, loaded and pressed to your temple. You nod weakly. Dean lets out a sharp breath, drumming his fingers on the wheel.

“You thought I didn’t mean it.” He finally echoes, and you nod again. “So you just-“

“That hurt.” Tears are falling again. Everything blurring except for Dean. “That’s the part that hurt, Dean, I just- I had to try and move on. And the internet said that’s how you do it.”

“The internet?”

“Yeah.” You mumble, and Dean huffs a low laugh.

“Sweetheart, why the hell would you check the internet for advice-“

“None of my ideas were working.” You hiss. “And I- I didn’t like avoiding you, it felt really bad-“

“You didn’t have to avoid me, you coulda just told me-“

“And you would’ve what, confessed your love and kissed me again-“

“Yeah!” He shouts, throwing his hands in the air. “I would’ve, if you’d just fuckin’ told me!”

Your heart stops, for a full second. You don’t think you heard him right. “What?” You whisper, and Dean sighs.

“I meant it, okay?” He mutters, looking up to the sky. As if he was praying. “Everything I do with you, I mean it.”

“And- And the love-“

“I mean that too.” He gives you a sad, tired smile. “I know I shouldn’t. God knows I tried not to, you’re- You’re young and you got a future and I’m just me-“

“I love you.” You blurt, and Dean’s jaw falls. “I love you just like… you. And-“ You bow your head shyly. He won’t stop staring. “If you- If you feel something too-“

Dean moves before you can think.

One second you’re rambling, trying to figure out how to say it. The next  his lips are pressed against yours, kissing you like he’ll die if he doesn’t. Like you’ll die.

You grab his wrist when he cups your face, he turns you to deepen the kiss, and you’re both moving like you’re trying to breathe the other in. Your nails dig into his skin and he grunts, the sound vibrating against you. You roll onto your knees, moving over him without breaking the kiss, and he grabs you by the waist. Tight enough to bruise. To leave a mark.

It’s just a kiss. A hungry, hot kiss that’s making your head spin. It’s better than anyone else touching you. Better than being fucked, just because it’s Dean.

He picks you up, pulling you into his lap forcing you to straddle. You grab his shoulders for balance, letting out a sharp breath, and Dean chuckles. Sucks your lower lip with a tiny smirk, rubbing your hips as your finger brush the back of his neck. You let out a shuddering breath, sinking fully against his chest. One of his massive hands drags up your spine, callouses and teasing fingers dancing over bare skin and you arch, chasing the fuzzy, addictive sensation of Dean’s hands.

Your core presses against his bulge. He’s hard, twitching inside his jeans. You roll your hips once, unable to stop yourself, and Dean hisses against your lips.

“Careful.” 

You don’t want to be careful. You want to be ruined. You grind down again, kissing him while you move, and he groans.

“Hey- Woah-“ He wraps his arm fully around your waist and pins you down. Forcing the outline of his cock against the thin panties you’d worn to go out.

There’s not a single regret in your head. You can feel him better like this. The thick curve, almost pushed between your pussy lips. Your underwear is bunched up, offering extra pressure, but Dean is holding you down so hard there’s not even space to wiggle. You almost whine, pouting at him under wet, fluttering lashes.

He just stares up at you like a man who’s lived underground his whole life, finally seeing the stars. You drag your nails down his chest, trying to spur him into action, but he just keeps staring. He even laughs under his breath, like something’s fucking funny.

You scowl, but don’t even get to provoke him before he’s rising back up.

Dean brushes hair from your face, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. A confusing, sharp contrast to how his erection is angled right against your heat. Your body doesn’t seem to know what to do with it, and just settles for going limp with overwhelmed, happily dizzy confusion. Dean chuckles again. If your body could listen to any whims but his right now, you’d punch him in the face.

“Stop laughing.” You manage to grumble, but that just makes him laugh again. “Dean-“

“Sorry.” He grins against your lips, rubbing your hips in soothing circles. “You’re just- You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re unbelievable-“

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever fuckin’ seen.” He mutters, dragging his hand up your side. As if he’s marveling in just the shape of you. “Never thought I’d get to have you like this, and- Look at you.” He draws back, whistling with a smug smirk. “They should let people touch the art, baby. You get even prettier.”

There’s nothing coherent you have to respond to that. Your brain is mostly a confusing garble of Dean and touch and more.

He kisses just under your jaw, and you gasp. Your eyes flutter as your head lolls to the side, and Dean chuckles.

“You-“ You bite back a moan as he sucks on a pulse point. “You’re pretty too.”

“Hm.” He nips at the sensitive skin, before flicking his tongue against the hurt. “Pretty, huh.”

You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck until he’s almost in a headlock. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, moving onto another, somehow more sensitive spot. You try to move against his clothed dick, your pussy starting to throb, but he’s holding you too tight. Dean hums against your skin, and you moan, right in his ear. It makes his cock jump, and you almost cry from the fleeting offer of friction.

“Come- Come on-“ You whine, wiggling uselessly in his arms. “You’re being an asshole- Dean-“

He pushes his lips back over yours, right as he grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes. It loosens his grip, letting your hips freely move against him, but you’re so pent up from making out that you can’t even work out what you want to do. You’re grabbing at his shirt and kissing him with spit and teeth, and he’s barely giving you anything in return.

“Dean- Just-“ You claw at his shirt. “Off, get it off-“

“That’s not a very polite way to ask, sweetheart-“

“Fuck you.” You breathe out, moaning when you get the thickest part of him to drag over your clit. “Take your shirt off, Dean, now-“

 A strong hand wraps around your throat, pulling you back down into a mind numbing kiss. You’re still fucking down onto his crotch, but their angle offers less pressure. You might’ve burst into tears, if it wasn’t for the magnitude of Dean’s attention. His hands all over your body, one fisted in your hair while the other started to map every inch of you he can reach.

“De- Dean-“

“Not polite.” He mutters, kissing you between every word. “Not patient. What am I gonna do with you?”

Your heart stumbles, still a little bit bare from the fight and confused from the gentle way he’s suddenly touching you. No more grabbing or marking. Just soft, possessive but careful fingers, tracing your curves like he’s trying to memorize every inch.

“Can I tell you what I’ve wanted to do?” He rasps in your ear. “Since I first fuckin’ saw you?”

“Yes.” You breath, trying to just feel him. His strength all around you, his voice rolling through your chest.

Dean’s words are deep and rough in your ear, and you cling to every one like gospel.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since before you even said your name. Wanted to fuck you when you stood in front of me and threatened to shoot if I didn’t back off and leave you be. Decided I’d marry you when you called me a chicken butt ‘cause I told you to stay behind me. Then I thought I was insane, told myself I just needed to get laid. But I got laid. And you wanna know the only thing I could think about, the whole damn time?”

You nod, and Dean pulls back, dropping his brow tight against yours.

“You.” He rasps. “Closed my eyes and saw you under me. Got kicked outta bed for calling your name, felt sick after ‘cause some stupid thing in my head kept telling me I’d betrayed you. Then Sammy came and told me you’d be coming with us, and I knew I was a goner. If it wasn’t such a selfish freakin’ masochist I would’ve told him that I didn’t want you around.”

Your lip wobbles. “You didn’t want me-“

“I wanted you so much.” He grabs the back of your neck, the words a low growl. “Drove me out of my damn mind, how much I wanted you. Thought I’d need to be put down, like one of those dogs that humps every damn thing it sees.”

“You- You never-“

“What? Thought you’d be into something like me?” He laughs, and you frown.

You plant your hands, flat on his chest, and push up a little taller. Demanding he listen to every word you say.

“I’m into you.” You snap, and Dean’s sarcastic smile falters, slipping back into that awe. “Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”

“No.” He answers without thought. “You’re perfect.”

Dean kisses you, slow and deliberate. Everything is suddenly controlled and delicate, like he’s weaving together a song.

You think you’re supposed to be the instrument. You don’t realize, though, until he’s already playing you as if you’re a toy.

Dean’s mouth trails down, leaving wet, open kisses over your neck and collarbone. The beard scrapes and tickles against you. You decide you like it. He’s not allowed to shave later.

You shiver, moving your hands to rest on his stomach. His abdomen flexes under your fingers, and you start to grind back down onto his crotch. When you press further forward, you can get that perfect friction from before. The one you needed so bad you almost screamed. Dean nips at your throat and you pick up your pace.

He grunts, and lifts you up like you weigh nothing. You squirm like animal, even as he handles you well. You’re moved backwards, your knees still knocked apart as Dean’s spreads his own legs. He pushes you back until your elbows are resting on the horn, and heat prickles over your skin when you realize the position he’s put you in.

Your barely clothed pussy, wet and on full display to Dean’s lust-blown expression. He traces over your inner thigh, teasing and teasing until you’re almost thrusting up to meet him.

“Remember what I said about patience?” He drawls, eyes sparkling on yours.

You just pant, making to grab his wrist and move it where you want. But he’s too strong, and you don’t even get a budge.

“I- I’ve been patient-“

 “Nah. Not enough. But,” he lifts up your skirt, exposing you further. “Look at her. Just begging for some attention.”

Dean presses a single knuckle against your pussy, running it up until it hits your clit, and your elbow slips. Baby’s horn startles you, making you almost scramble back over Dean, and he just laughs. Kisses you sweetly while you pant in his ear, even nipping under the lobe as you try to control your heartbeat.

“Fuck- Fuck-“ Your eyes roll back as you realize what happened.

You’d trapped Dean’s hand between your bodies, and he’s taken full advantage of the situation. For every honeyed and light kiss he presses over your cheeks and lips, he rubs your pussy with light, deft touches. A graze of your clit, then his thumb teasing over your entrance. It’s torture, the touches too light to do anything but make you feel insane, but you’re certain if you move away he’s just going to remove his hand altogether. Leaving you no other choice but to whimper, take it, and plead for mercy.

“More- There-” You bury your face in Dean’s neck, when he rubs your clit back and forth in a frenzy, then simply moves away. “Dean- I- I need to come, please, just, up- No-“

You tremble when he moves away again, humping against his hand. It doesn’t do anything—he’s too good at this—but you don’t think you could stop if you wanted to.

“Please, please, please-”

“You’re real good at begging, sweetheart.” Dean kisses the side of your head, and you nod weakly. “You think I’m not give you what you need?”

“I- I don’t think you’re showing any signs of it.” You breathe, and he laughs.

“Can’t argue with that. But you’re kinda restricting my movements.” He splits his two fingers, placing them around your pussy lips and rubbing slowly up down. “And trust, I’d love to play with your wet little pussy until you were coming all over my hand, but you started something on my pants. Think you should finish it.”

You lean back in slow confusion, and Dean nods between your bodies. You flush when you see it.

The faint dark spot, on his still hard crotch. You can’t look away from it.

Dean pulls your panties forward, then snaps them back against your pussy. Your hips jerk, wild eyes flying up to his, and he grins.

“Keep them on.” He smirks, dragging you back to sit on his crotch. “And take what you want.”

You nod breathlessly, grabbing the bench behind his head and starting to fuck down against Dean’s bulge. You’re more deliberate than before, gaze locked onto Dean’s, knowing exactly where to move to get the best friction. Dean watches you as if you’re sent from Heaven, licking his lips and rubbing your ass. He’s hiked up your skirt, giving him full access to whatever he wants. You expect handprints, maybe more teasing touches to keep you on the edge.

Instead, he grabs the back of your neck, and just watches you move on him. His mouth falls open, and when you lean a little down, he doesn’t hesitate to close the space.

Your speed picks up. The ruined fabric of your panties only adds to the friction, almost completely letting you feel the rough, tantalizing sensation of the denim. When you get your clit, it’s like being rolled between two pinched fingers, and you start to hump that one spot.

Dean groans, and when you catch against something, you realize you’re hitting the head of his cock.

You reach between your bodies, grabbing for something of him to hold onto, and find what has to be his balls. They’re big, heavy even when you’re not really holding them, and when you squeeze softly Dean’s whole body jerks.

“Fuck- Son of a bitch, you can’t just-“ Dean’s words turn into a long moan of your name, when you squeeze again.

You smile to yourself, riding him faster and faster. Dean’s eyes flutter, his fingers weaving into your hair. You throw your head back, and he chases. Starts to bite and suck on your neck again, pushing further and further up until you can no longer get a grip on his balls.

For a second, you try to push back, but Dean’s a solid wall of muscle. You’re using all your energy to keep yourself moving against him, and every thought empties from your head as his lips travel down.

Dean rips the top of your dress open. You hadn’t been wearing a bra. It would’ve ruined the outfit.

He has a clear, direct line to wrap his lips around your peeked nipple, and start to suck.

A loud, uncontrollable sound escapes your lips. You don’t know how he can be so good at that. His tongue flicks and swirls, teeth grazing against the bud, and all you can think of is what he’d do between your legs.

You movements are becoming shorter. More desperate. You press your breasts up, trying to demand more attention. Dean obliges, giving a harshsuckle before a series of kitten licks. He lazily kisses over the valley of your breasts, taking the neglected bud between his lips and sucking even harder than before.

“Oh- Oh my god.” You pull at the short, soft hair on the nape of his neck. He moans, mouth wet and warm wrapped around you. “Yes, Dean- Oh- Oh fuck-“

Your eyes roll back in your head, the pressure in your lower tummy just needing a little more to snap. You’re barely even humping him anymore, just thrashing around and trying to find the right position to get you there.

“I- I can’t-“ You scratch Dean’s back, pressing your cheek to the side of his head as you almost sob. “Dean, I need to cum, need to cum so fucking bad, Deeaan-“

His hand shoves between you, shoving one finger into your dripping pussy. Even with how wet you are there’s a slight stretch, and it’s just the one finger. You slam down onto him, your clit getting plenty of attention against his jeans, and you’re getting lightheaded with the need to find release.

Dean finger crooks inside you. Right against your g-spot. He wiggles it, rubbing fast and firm. His tongue presses flat against your nipple, swirling as he moans, and your shriek with delight.

You cum, shaking and moaning right into Dean’s ear. His finger slowly fucks you through it, but the moment you make a broken sound of his name, his lips are back over yours to swallow it. You don’t think you’ve ever cum that hard before. You can feel it all the way to the tips of your fingers, electric on your tongue as Dean kisses you.

Your pussy is clenching around his finger, and he grunts, angling his head to kiss you deeper. He pulls out slowly, rubbing your cunt until your wetness is smeared all over your thighs.

“The back.” He grunts, words thick and strained. “Get in the back.”

You feel bubbly. You’ve never felt bubbly before. There’s a rough command in Dean’s words that’s probably going to make you melt in a matter of minutes. But right now, you just giggle.

Dean leans back, looking at you like you’re insane.

“Sweetheart.” He wipes the hair stuck to your brow, and you can feel the tension in his voice. He’s trying to be patient. “What’re you laughing at?”

You shake your head, beaming as you press back over him. Dean grunts when you kiss him, but kisses back immediately.

“I just came on your pants.” You breathe.

He hums, leaning back to give you an exasperated look. “And that’s funny?”

“Last week I was crying about how I was never going to hold your hand.”

“Ah.” That makes him smile. He kisses your cheek, squeezing his hold on you. “We can do that later.” He mutters. “After we get in the back.”

You hum, going back in to kiss him again. Dean gives you five seconds, before you’re being picked up like a sack of potatoes and tosses over the bench. You land with a squeal, scrambling up to your palms, and Dean laughs.

“What the fuck-“

“Told you.” He shrugs, pulling his shirt over his head. “But don’t worry. Was counting on you not giving a damn what I told you to do.”

You gape at him. “I- I do what you tell me-“

“No, you don’t.”

“What about when you told me to go grocery shopping, I did that-“

“You got everything wrong.” He gives you an amused look, and you scowl, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Your list was confusing. And when I tried to call, you didn’t pick up.”

“List works for Sammy.”

“I’m not Sam, I need you to make a list for me-“

“I did make a list for you.” Dean crawls over the bench, grinning down at you. “And you still bought that fuckin’ turkey meat.”

You swallow, unable to stop yourself from drinking him in. You’ve seen him shirtless before, but it’s always been quick glimpses you forced yourself to look away from, or in the context of a wound. But this, here, the car is filled with steam from your fun before, there’s only to golden halo of the streetlamp, and Dean is all yours to stare at, as much as you want.

His chest is broad, softer in some places than he’s probably been in his youth, but perfect. You’re going to be completely smothered in him, you could shove your face between his pecs, feel his thick biceps wrap tight around you as he fucks you like you’ve always dreamed. He’s covered in jagged scars and freckles. You want to touch every single one.

“Sam gave me twenty dollars not to get red meat.” You breathe.

Dean chuckles, pulling at his belt. “And you chose him over me?”

You meet his gaze again, sure you must look like a lost doe under all of him. You’re not sure what to do with yourself at all. “You didn’t give  me twenty dollars.”

“And if I gave you twenty bucks?” He grins, pulling down his pants.

That’s your queue to say something smart. You can’t think anything smart.

Dean’s cock stands proud above you, and it’s pretty. Prettier than a porn cock, and those things look like they’re plastic. Dean’s thick and veiny. He’s well groomed, his balls heavier than they felt before—they could fit in your mouth, and you might choke, but would that really be so bad—and the tip of him nice and curved. Just the sight of him makes your pussy clench around nothing. Your legs spread wider.

Dean’s throat bobs, as he follows the movement. He’s slowly stroking himself, and you watch his grip get white knuckled as you spread your legs wider.

You need to touch him. He touched you. It’s only fair.

But you reach for him, and Dean catches your wrist. Pins your arm over your head, forcing him to lower down. He settles between your legs, giving you a stern look that makes your breath hitch.

“No.” He chastises, and you pout.

“I wanna put you in my mouth.”

“You- Jesus, woman.” He lets out a sharp breath, closing his eyes. “You can’t freakin’ say that-“

“Why not-“

“I ain’t as young as I used to be, alright?”

You frown. “I know that.”

He shakes his head. “No, I mean-“ He sighs, dropping his brow against yours.

You pull your hand carefully out of his hold, running your fingers through his hair. He lets out a low rumbling sound, almost like a purr, so you keep going. He makes nice sounds. You’d like to collect all of them, and keep them in little jars on your shelf you can listen to whenever you want.

“I like the hair.” You say, soft and casual. Like his cock isn’t pressed right against your cunt. “And the beard?”

Dean huffs a low laugh. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Makes you look your age.”

“I am my age-“

“In a sexy way.” You blurt, and he sits up, brows raised.

“A sexy way?”

“Yeah.” You nod, suddenly wanting to hide your face. “I mean, you’re- You’re always sexy- I’ve always wanted to have sex with you, but- But I also think, if it’s- If you’re going to be kissing me all the time- I’d like this-“

Dean shuts you up with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. You hum, thankful for the mercy, and shiver when you feel him peeling away the scraps of your underwear and dress. You don’t think you’re going to haver anything to ride home in.

Something to worry about later. When Dean’s not rubbing his dick against your pussy. The large head of his presses against your clit, Dean’s beard tickling your neck as he kisses everywhere his mouth can find, and you feel the pressure starting to build again.

“Dean…” You mumble. “Oh- Oh-“

He sucks on a hickey from before, and the previous orgasm had already made you more sensitive. Your back arches, forcing your swollen button to rub against his shaft, and your mouth falls open in a loud, lewd moan.

“Easy,” he mutters, dropping his weight. Forcing you back down. “Tryin’ to tell you, sweetheart. I’m barely fuckin’ holding it together, and if I blow before I get inside of you, I’m gonna drive myself off a cliff.”

You giggle despite yourself, letting your body relax into his touch. You trust him, and the idea of him just having you is enough to make your pussy ache. “Aw.” You turn, smiling at him. “You care.”

He snorts. “You always a brat? Or just when I’m fuckin’ you.”

“Do you want the real answer to that?”

“Hm.” Dean tilts his head, gaze raking over your body. Over every mark he’s left, to the point that you’re mostly a map of his hands and lips.

A smirk curve on his lips, and you feel one strong hand grab under your knee, moving it up to your chest. Putting you on full, naked display.

“Nah.” He drawls. “I think I’m good.”

The air is knocked from your lungs, as he presses forward. His cock slides slowly into you, filling the car with the hottest, wettest sound you’ve ever heard. You grab his forearm, just trying to ground yourself, and he goes for your other knee.

Dean bends you in half under him, folding you into a pressed little ball. You can see yourself swallowing his cock. See every inch disappear into your pussy, every vein right before it bumps inside your gooey walls. Dean’s chest is heaving, his features open and slack.

“Fuck.” He grunts. Reverent and as wrecked as you feel. “Son of a bitch, you fit me like a goddamn glove. Takin’ me like a champ, sweetheart, c’mon- Just a little more-“

He spits on where you’re meeting, on your clit, and you try to arch up. He grunts, pushing the last few inches fully in.

You throw your head back, trying to adjust to the feeling of being so full. He feels even bigger than he looked, and you’d forget to breathe if he didn’t wrap his hand around your ribcage, and squeeze gently.

“Good?” Dean’s voice cracks, and you can almost see his chest rippling with the restraint to hold still.

You nod, opening your mouth, then closing it when words fail you. He’s just- He’s so big and everywhere. He’s pushed over your g-spot, and it’s making you feel like you’re being dragged through a pool of pleasure. There’s nothing else to think about.

Dean’s brow furrows. “Baby, I need you to talk to me-“

“Good.” You breathe out. “So- So good, Deaaaan-“

You tug on his wrist, trying to bring him down to your level. He immediately understands, bending over for a kiss. You relax as his lips move against yours, pushing your hips a little up to take in more of him. You might be able to cum just like this. Impaled on Dean’s cock. Usually you’d need something more, but you’re hypersensitive, and it’s like he was made to be inside you.

You smile at him, when he pulls back up. He swallows, slowly reaching up to grab your jaw.

“I’m gonna move, alright?”

You hum, still smiling, and Dean takes in a slow breath.

“Can you keep lookin’ at me?”

You nod, and his lips twitch.

“You really can’t talk right now, huh?”

Head shake. Dean’s eyes glint, and your mouth falls open as he thrusts. Once, harsh and short against your g-spot.

“So fuckin’ cockdrunk you can’t speak.” He drawls, grinding slowly into your pussy. Still too shallow to be anything. Just working your g-spot until tears prick at your eyes. “You think you can at least say my name, baby?”

“Deeean-“ You mewl out, gasping as he finally gives a full, deep thrust. “Dean- Dean-“

“That’s it.” He grunts, pulling almost fully out before slamming back in. “That’s my girl. Nice and dumb on this cock. Just letting it happen, aren’t you sweetheart.”

“Mmmm.” Is all you can manage, but it’s Dean’s fault.

He’s fucking you like a man possessed. Cock slipping in and out of your channel, drilling into your g-spot and cervix. You can see it, see the vein in his brow as he moans your name, see the mess forming around your pussy as you soak his dick.

“Dean.” You babble, a strange, tight heat forming deep inside you. “Deaan, ‘s- ‘s big-“

“I know.” He coos. “I know, baby, but- Shit- You’re takin’ it so well. Best thing I’ve ever fuckin’ felt-“

He grunts, balls slapping against your ass. His body is sticky and shining with sweat, and you can’t stop yourself from staring at how he moves as he fucks you. Each motion is so powerful, and there’s an impossibly good, perverted feeling you get from watching where you meet, and-

“Look.” He grunts, tapping your chin with his thumb. “Look at me, sweetheart, come on-“

You blink up at him, and he groans, bending over as he slams inside.

You don’t think. Your mouth opens, and you take his thumb between your lips, sucking softly. It’s nice to have something to do, when you’re too fucked out to even remember your own name.

And it does something to Dean. His thrusts stutter, and a deep, growling sound comes from his chest. You hum, blinking up at him from glossy eyes. He groans, chest heaving, and something snaps in his expression.

Dean fucks you so hard you could swear the car was shaking. His thumb pushes further between your lips, and you take it happily. You can feel the sensation between your legs building, a little different than your usual orgasm, but it’s good. Tingly and hot, almost like you’re being shot up with direct euphoria. Your lashes flutter, and you moan around Dean’s thumb as he starts to give sharp, abusing thrusts to your g-spot.

He bends like he’s trying to get his mouth on your pussy, only just remembering his body can’t move like that and pulling his hand away from your mouth. You’re about to whine in frustration, but then Dean finds your clit.

He gives it tight, back and forth rubs that make your hips buck up. He uses his cock to bully them back down, rubbing even harder, and the sensation explodes like fireworks. 

 It’s wet and messy, spilling out of your pussy with Dean still seated deep inside you. He moans, dropping over you as you milk his cock, dragging him into orgasm with you. You’re shaking, cumming and cumming harder than you can keep up with. You can feel the release—yours or Dean’s, doesn’t really matter—sticking inside of you and dribbling down your ass.

Dean kisses you, and you barely manage to kiss him back. You’re boneless and floaty again, your body so washed with pleasure you might be shaking from it. Like he’d struck you with lightning.

“You did so good.” Dean murmurs, pulling slowly out. “That was- Fuck, that was awesome.”

You smile in a dazed agreement, beaming up at him, and everything in Dean seems to soften. He presses a gentle kiss to your brow and pulls you upright, helping you settle in the bench before getting himself to work.

He tries to clean up the seats, but gives up fast and mumbles something about doing it back home. You were right in assuming your clothing was ruined, so Dean just gives you his shirt and wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you against him for the drive home.

When you pull in to the garage, he doesn’t give you a chance to try and walk. You’re hauled into his arms like a princess and marched inside, Dean only pausing to wipe the back bench and stop a smell.

First stop is the bathroom. Then Dean offers to bring you to your bed—the words weighted and reluctant—but you shove your face into his neck and shake you head.

Dean. You need to be near Dean.

He carries you to his bed with a tall pride, and somehow manages to keep a hand on you as he changes into his own sweats. You cuddle into him, smiling when he presses a kiss to your brow.

“If I forget this,” he murmurs. “Remind me in the morning.”

You laugh softly, voice quiet but returned. “If you forget, I’m going to kill you.”

“And I woulda earned that.”

“Mh.” You curl further into his arms, and—unable to help it—whisper. “Don’t forget.”

Dean kisses the top of your head, words a lullaby as you drift off to slip.

“Never. I’m yours now, sweetheart. Like it or not.”

You like it.

You don’t think you could like it more if you tried.  

✦End note: deeply unfair that he isn't real. we gotta talk to someone about that.✦

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[vunblr]

Brown Sugar and Gunmetal

Pairing: Alpha! Winter Soldier x Omega! Female Reader

Tags: A/B/O AU. True mates. Smut. Porn. Debauchery.

Warnings: A/B/O dynamics. Knot. Breeding. Rough Sex. Scent Kink. Dub-con elements: breaking and entering, but all sex is enthusiastically consented. Non-traditional alpha purring. Size Kink. Premature Ejaculation. Feral/Possessive Behaviour.

Summary: Who would have thought that an inconspicuous vent in a bakery alley would be what brought them together: the omega who never felt right with any alpha, and the asset who wasn't supposed to want at all.

Word Count: 12.7k

note: I have been toying with this concept for a while, and wrote these character premises as a background: Alpha!Soldat - Omega!Reader

5:07 AM.

The sky hasn't decided yet whether it's going to dawn or surrender back to night. It’s that liminal hour when the city just stops, too late for the night crowd, and too early for the commuters. Just the street cleaners, the delivery trucks, and the bakers finishing their shifts.

She pulls her jacket tighter against the October chill and starts walking.

Twelve blocks, it’s not far. Close enough that she doesn't need the subway, but far enough that her legs feel it after eight hours on her feet, kneading dough. Her shoulders ache. Her lower back protests. She smells like the industrial-strength flour that gets into everything, no matter how many times she washes her hands.

She doesn't see him.

But he's there.

----

Three rooftops back, tracking her with the concentration it would use on a target: eyes cataloging her gait, her route, the way she favors her right leg slightly after a long shift. But this isn't a mission. There’s no handler voice in its ear telling it where to go, what to do, or who to eliminate.

Just her scent in the air.

Brown sugar and yeast, yes, but underneath that… omega. Warm and sweet and something that makes Soldat's chest constrict in a way that has no name, no designation, no mission-relevant purpose.

It doesn't understand why it's following her.

Can't articulate the drive that pulled it off its assigned route many nights ago, and keeps pulling it back to the alley behind the bakery, to the vent that breathes her scent into the dark.

It still has things to do that don't include stalking an omega through pre-dawn streets like something hungry.

But it can't stop.

Has tried. Twice. Completed the mission and returned to wait for new orders. And both times, it found itself an excuse to be back in that alley at 3:47 AM when the oven is hot, and her scent filters through the vent.

Omega. Mine.

The thought comes from somewhere deep. Some base-level recognition that bypasses protocol and conditioning, and makes Soldat's hands shake.

She turns the corner onto a quieter street.

Residential. Old brownstones with iron railings and window boxes that haven't been tended in years. It drops from the rooftop to a fire escape -silent, controlled- and continues tracking her from the shadows.

It shouldn't be doing this.

Knows it shouldn't.

Handlers aren’t here. It chastises itself.

There's no debrief scheduled for today. No extraction team waiting.

Only her scent on the wind.

----

Her building is old. Pre-war, maybe. Brick facade with a fire escape that's seen better decades. She lets herself in through the front door -no doorman, it notes, filing it away in the part of its brain that still calculates threat assessments- and disappears into the stairwell.

It waits sixty seconds.

Counts them, precisely. Giving her time to reach her floor, -the one that smells like her- to unlock her door, to be safely inside before-

Before what?

Soldat doesn't know.

Doesn't have a plan. Just the pull in its body that screams closer and the scent memory that's been driving it slowly insane for days.

It should leave, but it's already moving. Not toward the front door, but toward the fire escape.

Metal fingers find purchase first on iron rungs worn smooth by decades of weather. It climbs silently, the thing barely creaks under its weight because it knows exactly where to place its feet, how to distribute the load.

It moves up the side of the building like water flowing upward. Silent and inevitable to the second floor.

Her window faces the alley, so it crouches on the fire escape landing, perfectly still, and watches her shrugging off her jacket and draping it over the back of a chair, toeing off her shoes, and leaving them by the door.

It’s a small apartment, a studio layout, its mind automatically catalogs. Kitchen area, living space, bathroom door, and a bed in the corner.

She moves through the space and opens the fridge -light spills out, illuminating her for three seconds- grabs a bottle of juice. Drinks. Sets it down.

And pulls her shirt over her head.

Soldat's breath stops.

It can see skin it has no right to look at, and it can't make itself turn away. Can't make itself leave, like every remaining protocol says it should.

Because she's just there. Right there, separated from it by a pane of glass and ten feet of air, and the seventy years of conditioning that says don't want, don't need, don't feel.

But Soldat is feeling.

Chest tight, breathing uneven. Cock still hard. Has been hard since it caught her slick-scent through the bakery vent two hours ago, an ache it doesn't remember ever experiencing before.

And it wants.

She disappears further into the apartment.

A door closes. The bathroom, its mind supplies automatically. It hears water running through the pipes. Shower.

Every instruction it has left says to disengage now. Report the issue, because that's what this is, isn't it? An issue.

It isn't supposed to follow civilians home. Isn't supposed to be crouched on a fire escape at 5 AM watching an omega through her window like something feral.

Its hand moves to the window ledge.

Testing.

The old wood is swollen with moisture. The latch is visible through the gap in the curtains, a simple mechanism, not designed to keep out anyone who actually wants in.

Don't.

Its other hand goes to the knife at its thigh.

Leave. Disengage. Return to base.

But it's already moving.

The blade slides between the window and the frame. Simple leverage. The latch gives with barely a click, the wood is too old, and the mechanism is too worn to provide real resistance.

The window slides up smoothly, and the scent-

Fuck.

It escapes out of the open window like a physical thing. Concentrated. Undiluted. Brown sugar, yeast, and omega, coating the inside of its mouth, taking root inside its lungs.

Soldat is inside before really processing it.

The window slides shut behind it, and he just stands there, surrounded by her scent.

The shower is still running. It can hear it through the bathroom door. Can picture her under the spray, water running over skin it saw for three seconds and can't stop thinking about.

Its cock throbs.

Insistent. Painful. It looks down at the bulge behind its pants like it belongs to someone else, like it's a malfunction rather than proof that the drugs are failing, have been failing, because the body knows she's its.

It is biological, absolute, and completely outside of its control.

It crosses to the other window -the one that faces the living area, opposite the bathroom- and sits down on the sill.

It doesn't hide. Doesn't try to blend into shadows or position itself tactically, just waits.

Because she needs to see it. Some part of it that isn't entirely a weapon understands that surprising her, cornering her in the bathroom, or grabbing her when she's vulnerable, would be wrong.

Would make her afraid.

And it doesn't want her afraid.

Wants-

It doesn't know what it wants. Just knows it's going to wait right here until she comes out.

The water cuts off.

Its breathing goes shallow as it hears her moving around in the bathroom. A towel. The medicine cabinet opening and closing. Footsteps. The door handle turning, and finally, the door opening.

----

She steps out of the bathroom barefoot, wrapped in a towel, hair damp and dripping down her back.

And freezes.

Because a man is sitting in her window.

No, not a man. Something else. Something that makes every rational thought in her head go quiet, replaced by a single, primal recognition that bypasses her brain entirely and speaks directly to that omega part of her that had seemed dormant almost all her life.

Alpha.

He's engulfed in black. Tactical gear that looks military, maybe a mercenary, she doesn't know enough to tell the difference, just knows it's meant for violence. A polymer mask covers the lower half of his face as some kind of muzzle, and it should look wrong, should look like something out of a nightmare, but doesn't.

Above it, his eyes.

Blue. Pale, pale blue. The color of ice over deep water.

And they're locked on her.

Not looking. Locked. Fixed in a way that makes her instinct whisper predator even as her omega biology sings yes.

Black paint is smeared across the upper half of his face, crude, deliberately, the kind of thing meant to swallow the light and turn a man into a shadow. His hair hangs lank, brushing his shoulders, dark and tangled like it hasn't seen a brush in weeks. Maybe months.

And his left arm-

Metal.

Plates and articulated joints that catch the yellow light from her bedside lamp, silver and unmistakably not human. It rests on his thigh, fingers splayed, and she can see the micro-movements, the tiny recalibrations of servos and mechanisms that keep it alive.

She should scream.

She should run, lock herself back in the bathroom, call 911, something, anything other than just standing here dripping onto her floor in nothing but a towel that suddenly feels thinner than paper.

But her body doesn't respond with fight or flight.

It still responds with yes.

Because that scent, oh god, that scent.

It hits her fully now that she's out of the steam-thick bathroom. Leather worn soft with age. Gunmetal, cordite. And underneath it all, something alive and warm. Clean sweat, musk, cedar smoke, and a bass note she doesn't have a name for, but her body knows.

It's him.

The ghost she's been smelling through the bakery vent for days. The phantom that made her slick in the middle of a shift, made her hands shake while she shaped croissants, made her lie awake at night with her fingers between her legs chasing a release that never quite came because it wasn't him.

He's real.

He's in her apartment.

And some twisted, fucked-up part of her -the part that's never felt right with any alpha she's tried to want, the part that's been waiting for something she couldn't name- feels like he belongs here.

Her pulse hammers in her throat. She can feel it, hot and frantic, thudding against her scent gland. Her skin prickles with hyperawareness, the towel too rough against her nipples, and-

Oh no.

Oh no.

Warmth between her thighs. The telltale slick slide that means her body is already reacting, already preparing, already wanting in a way she's never felt with flesh-and-blood alphas who bought her drinks and asked politely and did everything right.

She's getting wet for a stranger sitting in her window like a bird of prey.

The shame of it burns, but not enough to stop it. Not enough to make her body listen to her brain's increasingly frantic commands to move, run, do something.

She hears him inhale and sees the way his entire body goes rigid.

Oh fuck.

He smells it.

----

It watches her freeze.

Sees the way her pupils blow wide, black swallowing the color until there's barely any left. Perceives the flutter of her pulse, rabbit-quick, omega-fragile. Sees the water droplets sliding down her collarbone, disappearing into the edge of the towel.

She hasn't screamed.

That's… weird. Civilians scream when it appears in their private rooms. They run. They freeze and shake, and sometimes they cry, but they don't just stand there staring at it like-

Her scent changes, and it takes it half a second to place it, and when it does, something in its brain fractures.

Slick.

It tenses.

That's not- omegas don't smell like that for it. Warm and sweet and wanting, with pheromones that pull at something on it, that the handlers said was fixed.

But it's surfacing now.

Clawing up from whatever dark place they tried to bury it, and it doesn't know what to do with it. It doesn't have a protocol for this. Just the overwhelming need to get closer, to bury its face in her throat and breathe.

Its cock throbs. Heavy, aching, trapped behind tactical fabric that suddenly feels painfully constricting.

It shifts slightly on the windowsill, trying to relieve the pressure, and the movement is clumsy. It doesn't know how to do this. Doesn't remember ever needing to.

Her eyes drop.

She's looking at the obvious bulge straining against black fabric, at the evidence of something it thought was dead.

She should be running.

Why isn't she running?

"How did you get in?" Her voice comes out steady. Not scared, or angry.

Like this is a normal question to ask a heavily-armed stranger sitting in her window at five in the morning.

It doesn't answer.

Doesn't know how to answer.

So it stands.

The movement is fluid and controlled because the body knows how to move smoothly even when the mind is fracturing.

She's still just standing there, still looking at it with those wide eyes, pupils blown. The towel is slipping slightly on one side, and it can see a droplet of water sliding down between her breasts, and its mouth goes dry.

It takes a step toward her.

Then another.

Her scent gets stronger with each foot of distance it closes. Thicker. Sweeter. The slick-smell underneath makes something in Soldat's alpha core growl with satisfaction because yes, omega wants, omega is ready-

No.

It doesn't think like that. Isn't supposed to think like that. Omegas are targets or obstacles or irrelevant sources of pain, not-

Another step.

She hasn't moved.

Hasn't backed up, hasn't reached for a makeshift weapon, hasn't done any of the things a smart person should do when a strange man invades her home.

Three more steps and it's close enough to feel the residual heat from her shower radiating off her damp skin. Close enough to see the way her chest is rising and falling too fast, shallow breaths that make the towel shift with each inhale.

Close enough to hear the slight hitch when it stops less than a foot away.

----

He is close enough that she can see the black paint smudged at his temple, the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow, the way his pupils have blown so wide the blue is almost gone.

Close enough to drown in his scent.

It's overwhelming this close, and her body responds like he's touching her even though there are still inches of space between them.

More slick. Warm and mortifying, sliding down her inner thighs beneath the towel.

She watches him scent the air, watches his pupils dilate even further -if that's even possible- watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

He knows exactly what her body is doing.

And some absolutely insane part of her is glad.

His metal hand comes up slowly, like he's giving her every chance to bolt, to scream, to do literally anything other than stand here and let him.

The hand hovers near her face.

Not touching. Just so close that she can see her reflection dancing in the fingers plates, warped and strange, and hear the whisper-quiet whir of mechanisms, as he holds it perfectly still.

Her heart is hammering so hard she's sure he can hear it, but she doesn't flinch.

Doesn't do any of the rational things a person should do when a stranger breaks into their home and reaches for their face with a metal hand that could probably crush her throat without effort.

Just stands there, meeting those burning blue eyes, her heart a war drum in her chest, and waits.

Because this feels…

Right.

Every alpha she's ever tried to force herself to want was just wrong. Wrong scent, wrong touch, wrong everything. Going through the correct actions because that's what omegas are supposed to do, supposed to crave, but her body never responded. Never wanted.

Until now.

A stranger in tactical gear with a metal arm and war paint, and her body is screaming yes louder than it's ever screamed anything in her life.

She watches his hand hover, and in defiance of every rational instinct, she takes a step forward. Closes those last six inches of space until the towel brushes against his thigh, and his scent completely surrounds her, drowns her, ruins her.

And reaches up.

Her fingers wrap around his metal wrist -still hovering, still waiting- and she guides it down, pressing that cold palm against her cheek.

----

She touches it, and Soldat furrows his brows.

Because no one touches the arm unless they have to. Handlers avoid it. Technicians maintain it with detachment. Targets flinch from it. Witnesses scream when they see it.

But she-

A sound is ripped out of it, low, subvocal, resonating in the hollow of its ribcage. It doesn't recognize it at first. Doesn't have a reference for the frequency, the pattern, or the way it seems to vibrate through its entire body.

Not a growl, not a snarl.

Something else.

Something the handlers never trained it for because alphas don't… alphas aren't supposed to-

Purr.

Soldat is purring.

It doesn't know how to stop.

Doesn't know if it wants to stop.

Because she's still touching the arm, still holding its wrist, and her eyes are closed now, her face tipped into the metal palm like she's seeking comfort from it.

From it.

The purr intensifies.

Its thumb moves -carefully, because the arm could hurt her so easily, and that thought makes something violent twist in its gut- and brushes along her cheekbone.

Her breath catches, and Soldat hears it, and wants to touch more.

Wants to map every inch of her body with both hands, with its mouth. Wants to bury its face in her throat and learn the exact composition of her scent. Wants to know what she tastes like. Wants to-

It hands grip her shoulders and pulls her closer, using the momentum to bend down and bury its face in the curve of her neck where the scent gland sits and inhales, or tries to.

Because the mask creates a barrier between its face and her skin. Only millimeters of separation, but it might as well be miles.

It’s not enough.

It presses closer, trying to get its nose flush against her throat, trying to eliminate even those few millimeters of distance.

But the rigid edge of the muzzle won't let it, and the frustration is maddening.

The sound that rips out of its throat is not a growl. Smaller than that. Sharper. Almost a whine, high and thwarted, vibrating through its chest in a way that makes it freeze because…

Because it doesn't make sounds like that.

It pulls back from her throat, hands still on her shoulders, and it stares down at the space between them like it's a tactical problem requiring assessment.

Remove it.

The thought surfaces clean and logical. A simple solution to a simple problem.

Its flesh hand releases her shoulder and lifts toward its own head. Fingers reaching for the straps at the back, close enough that it would only take a second, just release the catch, pull the strap free…

Then the hand stops, freezing mid-motion, and Soldat's jaw clenches beneath the muzzle.

The conditioning surfaces automatically and absolutely. Operational equipment stays on until a handler authorizes removal. The Soldat doesn't touch the gear. Doesn't adjust it. Doesn't remove it.

Waits for orders. Always waits for orders.

But there are no orders here.

No handler voice in its ear telling it what to do, what's permitted, what comes next.

Just the omega standing in front of it and the scent it can't reach, and the need clawing inside it like something trying to break out.

Its hand trembles. Actually trembles. Seventy years of conditioning screaming don't touch the equipment warring with the biological imperative howling get closer to omega.

She makes a sound.

Soft. Questioning. Her eyes watch the internal struggle in real time.

And it realizes, she can see it. The conflict, the frozen hand.

The Soldat's hand drops back onto her shoulder. It can't do this.

The frustration is physical. A tightness in its throat, a pressure behind its eyes, and the whine tries to surface again, but it swallows it down because it doesn’t want to show weakness to her, besides its uselessness.

The word surfaces bitter and cold.

Can't even take off its own gear. Can't function like anything other than a weapon waiting for orders that aren't coming.

----

She can see it in his eyes.

He wants the mask off. The way he's looking at the space between them with something that's not quite frustration, or confusion, but somewhere in between.

Trapped.

He's trapped by something she can't see. Some kind of rule he can't break, even though every line of his body is screaming that he wants to.

He's not going to take it off himself.

Can't, or won't, or has been trained so thoroughly not to that his hand literally won't complete the motion even though he's desperate for it.

And that… that's wrong. Whatever they did to him, whoever they are, it's wrong.

Her hands come up slowly, carefully, so he can see it coming.

She reaches past his shoulders, past his neck, finding the straps at the back of his head. Her fingers brush through his tangled hair, searching for the buckles hidden beneath.

"Can I?"

Her voice is barely a whisper. Rough with want and the absolute insanity of what she's doing, asking permission to unmask a stranger who broke into her apartment, like that's the wildest part of this situation.

But nothing about this makes sense, so why should this?

He nods, almost military in its precision.

And something in her chest aches at how strange that is, that he needs her help to remove something that's clearly bothering him. That he can't just do it himself.

She reaches up and carefully -so carefully- lifts it away.

The straps pull free from his hair. The contraption comes away from his face, and she can see the slight indentations it left on his skin, red marks where it pressed too tightly for too long.

How long has he been wearing this?

She doesn't ask.

Just holds the mask for a second, then drops it, and it hits the floor with a dull plastic thud that seems too loud in the quiet of her apartment.

For the first time, she sees his whole face.

Sharp jaw. Dry lips parted slightly as he drags in air like he's been holding his breath. A mouth that looks like it was made for smiling, except she doesn't think he remembers how. The black paint extends down past where the mask sat, smudged across his cheeks making his eyes look even more intense.

He's… beautiful. Devastatingly so.

Not pretty, not soft, but beautiful. All sharp edges and hard lines, and a vulnerability in his eyes that doesn't match the rest of him.

And he's staring at her like she's the only thing in the world that matters, like she just gave him something he didn't know he needed.

The moment the mask leaves his face, he moves.

Fast, faster than she can track, his face buries into the curve of her throat, and the sound he makes is wrecked.

A shuddering inhale that she feels all the way down between her thighs. His nose is pressed directly against her scent gland now, nothing between them, and his whole body goes rigid against hers.

Then he breathes her in again, deep and desperate, and the groan he makes is so raw it makes her knees weak.

She feels his lips part, and the wet heat of his tongue dragging directly over her scent gland, tasting her, and her vision goes white for a second.

Her head tips back.

Automatic. Instinctive. Omega nature taking over and offering her throat to an alpha she doesn't even know, and she should be terrified of how right this feels.

But she's not.

He licks her again, slower this time, deliberately, learning her taste. Then his mouth seals over the gland, and he sucks.

The sound she makes is high and breathy and omega, and she feels it, feels her knees give out, feels her body go liquid and pliant.

He catches her.

The metal arm bands around her waist instantly, hauling her up and pinning her against him so her feet barely touch the floor. She's pressed against tactical gear and body armor and all that heat radiating off his body, and the towel-

The towel is gone.

She doesn't know when it fell. Doesn't care. Can't think past the way his mouth is working her throat, licking, sucking, the scrape of teeth that makes her gasp and arch into him.

He's hard.

She can feel it against her hip, thick and insistent even through the clothing, and he's grinding into her like he can't help himself. Like his hips are moving on pure instinct, chasing friction and relief and something he doesn't have words for.

The purr is still going.

That deep, subvocal vibration she can feel everywhere they're touching: his chest against hers, his arm around her waist, his face in her throat.

Wrong, some distant part of her brain whispers. Alphas don't purr.

But he is.

And it's the most beautiful thing she's ever felt.

She tilts her head back further, giving him more access, and the noise he makes in response is purely animal. Grateful and starving and so far gone she knows -knows- that something is deeply wrong with him.

Not wrong like dangerous.

Wrong like broken.

The way he touches her is frantic but not cruel, demanding but not bruising, desperate but not violent. Like he's running on instinct with no learned behavior, no finesse. Just need, confusion, and the desperate drive to get closer.

His flesh hand grips her thigh and lifts, hitching her leg up around his hip and pressing in hard, grinding his erection against where she's slick and open and aching, and the pressure makes her whimper.

He pulls back just enough to look at her.

His eyes are wild. Just thin rings of ice around bottomless black. His lips are wet, the black paint smudged where his face was pressed into her throat. He's panting like he just ran miles, and she can see it-

The confusion.

The need.

The absolute terror of not understanding what's happening to him. He doesn't know what he's doing, what he seeks.

But she wants to pull him down to her bed and let him figure it out. Wants to guide those shaking hands, wants to teach him what touch can feel like. Wants to watch him come apart with her name on his lips, except she doesn't even know his name and-

"Please."

The word falls out of her mouth. Barely a whisper. Rough and desperate, and she doesn't even know what she's asking for.

But he seems to understand.

----

Please.

The omega says it like a prayer, and something in Soldat's mind just shatters. Because she's asking. Begging. Not for it to stop, not for it to leave her alone, but for more.

Her scent is everywhere. On its tongue, in its nose, soaking into its skin through the tactical gear. Brown sugar and yeast, and that salt undertone that makes its alpha instinct groan mine, omega, MINE.

Her leg is wrapped around its hip. Her body is bare and warm and pressed against it, and it can smell how wet she is, and its cock is so hard it hurts.

It feels pain. Real, physical pain, because it hasn't been hard in… it doesn't know how long. Doesn't remember what this feels like, this ache low in its belly, this pressure behind the zipper of its pants that won't go away no matter how it grinds against her.

And she's letting it.

Not just letting, she's arching into it, making those high breathy sounds that spike straight down Soldat's spine, and it doesn't know what to do.

It knows how to kill. Knows ten ways to incapacitate from this position. Knows where to put the knife, the bullet.

Doesn't know how to touch her without breaking her.

Its flesh hand is gripping her thigh too tightly. It can see its knuckles white with pressure, can calculate the exact force needed to bruise, and it tries to ease up, but can't make its fingers let go.

Because if it lets go, she might-

Soldat doesn't know what it's afraid of. That she'll run. That she'll stay. That this will end. That it won't.

Her hands come up.

Slide into its hair, tangling in the unwashed strands, and she pulls.

Not hard. Just enough to guide its face back to her throat, and it complies because it can't do anything else. Can't think past the need to have its mouth on her skin, to taste the scent gland again, to feel her pulse against its tongue.

It licks a stripe up her throat, tasting her, and the purr intensifies until its entire chest is vibrating with it.

She whimpers, and the sound goes straight to its leaking cock.

It doesn't know what it's doing. Just knows it needs to move, needs friction, needs something.

Its hips jerk forward, grinding the thick length behind its pants against her, and the heat there -wet and slick and ready- makes its vision blur.

Omega.

Wants.

Needs.

The thoughts don't form in words. Just primal drive, instinct clawing up from wherever they buried it. Its free hand -the metal one, careful, so careful- slides down her side. Traces her waist, her hip, until it reaches her thigh, the one not wrapped around him, and it grips, gentle as it knows how, which might not be gentle enough, and lifts.

Both her legs are now wrapped around its waist, her back against the wall, its both hands holding her up by her ass, and she's completely open against it now.

Nothing but its tactical pants between them. It can feel the slick soaking through, can smell it so thick in the air it's drowning everything else out.

It grinds forward.

The pressure makes her gasp -loud and sharp- and her nails dig into its shoulders through the vest.

Yes.

It does it again. Harder. Chasing the friction, the heat, the sounds she's making. Its hips move in a rhythm it doesn't remember learning, rutting against her like something feral.

She's saying something, but it can't process the words. Just the tone, breathy, desperate, wanting, and it's enough.

More than enough.

Its mouth finds her throat again. Finds the scent gland and bites. Not hard. Not breaking skin, just enough pressure to make her feel it, to hold her, to-

Mark?

The thought surfaces sharp and alien. Soldat doesn't mark. Doesn't claim. It's not supposed to-

But its teeth are on her gland, and she's keening, high and sweet and surrendering, and its primal alpha nature is screaming YES, MINE, OMEGA, CLAIM-

No.

Can't.

Not allowed.

It doesn't know who decided that or why, just knows it's true. It can't bond her. Can't keep her.

But it can't let go either.

Can't stop grinding against her, can't stop purring, can't stop holding her against the wall like she's the only thing that matters in the world.

She pulls its hair again, forcing Soldat's face up, making it meet her eyes. And what it sees there is want, need. But also something else.

Understanding, maybe.

Like she can see the fracture and the confusion inside its head.

Her thumb brushes its cheekbone, smearing the black paint. Gentle in a way nothing has been with it in years.

"It's okay," she whispers.

And Soldat doesn't know what she means.

Doesn't know what's okay. This isn't okay, none of this is okay. It had broken into her home and put its hands on her, and she should be screaming and squirming but instead she's-

"It's okay," she says again, and her lips brush against it like she's afraid it might break.

Soldat freezes.

Her lips are warm. Soft. Moving gently against its mouth like she's asking a question, but it doesn't know how to answer, doesn't know what to do with its mouth except keep it closed, rigid, and unresponsive while she kisses it with a tenderness that disarms it.

She pulls back.

Just a fraction. Just enough to look at it, and Soldat can see the question in her eyes even though she doesn't ask it out loud.

Is this okay?

It doesn't know.

She kisses it again, slower this time. A soft press of lips, then another, feather-light brushes that make its breath hitch.

Her hands slide from its hair to cup its face -cradling it between her palms like it's something precious- and she kisses the corner of its mouth. Its jaw. The edge of its lips again.

Patiently, like she has all the time in the world.

Like she's not pinned against a wall, held up by its hands under her ass, legs wrapped around its waist while completely naked.

Soldat's brain tries to process this, but her tongue flicks out. Just barely. A soft, wet touch against its bottom lip that sends electricity straight down its spine.

The sensation is-

Soldat doesn't have a reference for it.

Its breath catches. Actually stutters in its chest because no one has ever done that to him.

The tongue traces its bottom lip again, a little bolder this time, and something in Soldat's chest constricts. It's compelling, her mouth on its mouth. The promise of more if it just-

If it just takes it.

And something inside it just… snaps.

It surges forward, crushing its mouth against hers and takes.

Because it doesn't know how to do this softly. Doesn't know how to kiss like she was kissing it, all tenderness and patience. Just knows want and need and more, and its mouth opens against hers, demanding, claiming.

She gasps against its lips.

It swallows the sound. Licks into her mouth, tasting her -omega, sweet, mine- and her flavor explodes across its tongue like nothing it's ever experienced.

Its flesh hand comes up from her ass and grips the back of her head, fisting her damp hair and holds her still while it kisses her like it's starving.

She makes a sound, high and breathy, and Soldat growls.

Can't help it. The sound rumbles up from its chest, vibrating through the kiss, possessive and feral and alpha in a way it didn't know it still could be.

The metal arm under her ass flexes. Lifts her higher against the wall, adjusting the angle so it can kiss her harder, deeper, can tilt her head back with the hand in her hair and devour her mouth.

She whimpers into the kiss and her hips roll, grinding down against where Soldat's cock is straining behind its zipper, and the friction -fuck, the friction-makes its hips jerk forward on instinct.

It's still kissing her. Can't stop kissing her. Can't pull away even to breathe because breathing means not kissing, and that's unacceptable.

Its hips grind up. Her hips roll down. The rhythm builds between them, clumsy, desperate, uncoordinated, and it can feel her heat even through the tactical pants.

Slick. So much of it, soaking through the fabric.

For it.

It tears its mouth away from hers just long enough to breathe -one harsh gasp-and then it's dragging its lips down her jaw, her throat. Back to the scent gland that's calling to every broken alpha instinct it has left.

It bites down.

Harder than before. Still not breaking skin, but claiming the space, holding her throat between its teeth while she keens above it.

Her hands fist in its hair. Pull hard enough to hurt, but the pain is good. Grounds it. Keeps it tethered to this moment, this omega, this impossible thing that's happening.

Its metal arm shifts, adjusting its grip on her ass, fingers spreading wider, and it can smell everything. The heat. The slickness. How ready she is.

How much she wants.

Its hips are still grinding up against her in a rhythm that feels right, even though Soldat doesn't know why. Chasing pressure and friction, and the heat radiating from between her legs.

She's panting now. Harsh little gasps every time its hips thrust up, every time the thick length behind its pants grinds against where she's open and slick and wanting.

"Please-"

She says it again. Broken and desperate, and Soldat doesn't know what she's asking for, but it wants to give it to her.

Wants to give her everything.

Its mouth releases her throat. Licks over the mark its teeth left behind -soothing, claiming- and then finds her mouth again.

Kisses her hard. Deep. Swallowing her gasps and her whimpers while its hips grind up harder, faster, chasing something its body knows even if its mind doesn't.

The pressure is building, low in Soldat's belly, behind its cock. Something coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust, every slide of slick-heat against fabric, every sound she makes into its mouth.

It doesn't know what it is.

Just knows it's coming.

And it can't stop.

Can't stop moving, can't stop kissing her, can't stop needing-

Her teeth catch its bottom lip. Bite down just enough to sting, it snarls into her mouth.

Its metal hand grips.

Pulls her down harder against its shaft while its hips snap up, and the angle -fuck- the angle grinds the ridge of its cock directly against where she's hottest.

She cries out.

Breaks the kiss, head thrown back against the wall, and it can see the pleasure breaking across her face, can see her eyes roll back, can feel her thighs shaking around its waist.

Beautiful.

She's beautiful.

And Soldat is-

It's-

The pressure peaks.

Crests like a wave, and Soldat doesn't know what's happening, but it can't stop, can't do anything but grind up into her one more time, hard and desperate and-

Everything goes white.

----

She feels him go rigid against her, and then-

He makes a sound.

Low and guttural and broken, muffled against her throat where his face is buried now, and she feels it, feels him shuddering against her, feels the rhythmic pulse against her hip even through his pants.

Oh.

He just-

Her brain catches up a second too late, pleasure still sparking through her nerve endings from the way he was grinding against her, the perfect pressure against her clit, the desperate rhythm that had her right on the edge-

But he got there first.

And something in her breaks with something tender and possessive and achingly sad all at once.

Because this -this desperate, uncontrolled response- tells her everything she needs to know about how touch-starved he is, coming from friction alone.

Her alpha came untouched, shaking against her, and the intimacy of that moment makes her throat tight. And somehow she is glad her body, her scent, was enough to make him lose control so completely, that could give him this.

Even if she's still aching. Still empty. Still wet and wanting and so close to the edge she could cry.

The purr has stuttered into something irregular, broken, almost pained. And her omega instincts surge.

Protect. Soothe. Comfort.

Her hands move on instinct, one sliding into his hair, the other pressing flat against his chest, where she can feel his heart racing like a war drum.

His grip on her hasn't loosened.

Still holding her up, metal arm banded under her ass, flesh hand fisted in her hair at the nape of her neck. Still pressing her into the wall like she's the only solid thing in his world.

He's not moving.

He’s just frozen there, face buried in her throat, breathing hard and ragged against her skin. She can feel the wetness between them, his release soaking through his pants, merging with her slick, warm where their hips are still pressed together.

And he hasn't let go.

Won't let go.

She can feel it in the tension of his body, the way his fingers are still fisted in her hair, the trembling in his flesh hand that suggests he's fighting every instinct to squeeze tighter, hold harder, never release.

Like he's terrified she'll disappear if he loosens his grip even a fraction.

"Hey," she whispers, and her voice comes out… wrecked.

"Hey, it's okay."

She doesn't know if she's talking to him or herself.

Doesn't know what she's reassuring him of. That coming like this is okay? That she's not disgusted? That she's not going anywhere?

All of it, maybe.

She feels his face shift against her throat. A tiny movement, his nose dragging along her scent gland like he's seeking reassurance in her smell.

And her heart just-

Breaks.

Breaks for this broken alpha who doesn't even know how to accept comfort without making it into something instinctive and biological.

His breathing doesn't even out. If anything, it gets worse. Harsher. Like he's trying to pull himself together and failing.

And she notices it, the alpha shame. Of losing control. Of being weak. Of needing.

"Alpha," she says, and she's surprised by how steady her voice comes out. How sure. "It's okay. You're okay."

She doesn't know if he understands words right now -doesn't know how much of him is even there behind those pale eyes- but shesays it anyway.

Like she can make it true just by believing it hard enough.

The purr is starting to even out now. Still irregular, but less jagged. And she can feel the exact moment something changes in him, when the shame starts to give way to something else.

His grip tightens fractionally. The hand in her hair flexes, and his face presses harder into her throat, and the sound he makes is low and rough and utterly possessive.

Mine, it says without words.

Omega. Mine. Not letting go.

And fuck, she wants to be his.

Her thighs are starting to shake from the position. Legs wrapped around his waist, all her weight held up by his arm, and she's not sure how long they've been like this, but her muscles are beginning to protest.

"Hey," she says softly. "You can… you can put me down if you want. I can grab a towel, clean up a bit-"

No.

He doesn't say it, just makes a sound -low, immediate, almost a growl- and his grip tightens on her.

Metal and flesh both, holding her closer instead of letting go, and his face presses harder into her throat like the suggestion of separation is physically painful.

She feels him shake his head.

Just once. Sharp and definitive.

Not letting go. Not putting her down. Not giving her space to clean up or think or do anything except stay right here, wrapped around him, her scent in his lungs.

"Okay," she whispers, and she doesn't know why she's surrendering so easily. Doesn't know why the word falls from her lips like a vow. "Okay, alpha. I'm not going anywhere."

And she… should probably be concerned about that reaction.

Should insist on disengaging, because they're both a mess, his release soaking through his pants, her slick coating her thighs and the fabric, the obscene mix of it smeared between them where their bodies are pressed together.

But the way he's holding her, the way his breathing is starting to change again. Getting heavier. Rougher. Not the ragged gasps from before but something else. Something deeper.

His scent shifts.

Sharpens.

She smells it even through her own arousal, through the mess between them, leather and gunmetal going darker, muskier, edged with something that makes her inner omega sit up and pay attention.

Alpha.

Not just alpha.

Rutting alpha.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

He's-

Before she can finish the thought, he moves.

Turns from the wall, carrying her like she weighs nothing, and crosses her small apartment in a couple of long strides. Her bed is right there -unmade, sheets still tangled from when she left for work yesterday- and he doesn't hesitate.

Just leans forward and deposits her on it. Not rough, but not gentle either. Without ceremony, she's suddenly on her back on the mattress, legs falling open, and he's standing over her, looking down with those pale blue eyes engulfed in blown pupils.

Somehow, she feels more naked now, exposed. Sprawled on the bed, thighs still shaking, slick coating her inner thighs and probably the sheets beneath her.

He can see all of it, and he's staring where she's open. Wet. Swollen. Still aching from how close she was before he came, before everything stopped.

His nostrils flare.

And the sound he makes is-

Feral.

----

The scent is everywhere.

Brown sugar and yeast and the slick of her arousal, but now it's mixed with the smell of Soldat's own release, and it's-

Obscene.

The word pops into its mind, and it's correct. The mix of their scents shouldn't blend like this, but it does, and it makes its inner alpha go absolutely feral with possessive satisfaction.

Soldat's cock is stirring again.

Shouldn't be possible. It just came, hard enough that it's still feeling the aftershocks, still wet and sensitive under its pants, but it doesn't matter.

Because she's there.

Spread out on the bed, and it can see it now. Can see the slick coating her inner thighs, can see how ready she is, can smell it thick and sweet and calling to every broken instinct it has.

It doesn't think.

Just drops to its knees beside the bed gracelessly, metal hand bracing on the mattress, flesh hand going straight to her thigh.

Gripping, spreading her wider.

She makes a sound -surprise, maybe, or arousal- but it barely registers. Can't hear anything past the rush of blood in its ears.

It needs to taste her.

Not the scent gland this time. Not her throat or her mouth or any of the places it's already learned.

Here.

Where her scent is strongest, purest, where she's slick and open and-

It buries its face between her thighs.

Fuck.

The word detonates in its head, sharp and visceral, because she tastes sweet, and salt. Omega.

Its tongue drags through her folds -clumsy, unpracticed, chasing the flavor- and she gasps under it. Her thighs try to close on reflex, but its hands are there, metal and flesh both, holding her open.

Keeping her spread while it licks.

Learning her. The texture, the taste, the way she's so wet the slick coats its tongue, slides down its throat.

It growls against her.

Can't help it. The sound vibrates through her core, possessive and hungry, and she whimpers. Soldat does it again.

Licks slower this time, more deliberate. Dragging its tongue from her entrance up to-

She jerks.

Hips bucking up, a sharp inhale, Soldat freezes.

There.

That spot. Small and swollen, and when its tongue brushes it again, she makes the sound again, high and broken.

Clit.

The word surfaces from somewhere. Detached. But Soldat doesn't need the terminology. Just needs to know that touching there makes her react like that.

Makes her want.

It seals its lips around it and sucks.

----

She screams.

Can't help it. Can't muffle it. The sensation rips through her body like lightning, his mouth on her clit, sucking hard and wet and perfect, and her back arches off the bed.

Her hands fly to his hair, fisting in the tangled strands, and she doesn't know if she's pulling him closer or trying to push him away because it's too much, too intense, she's already been on edge for-

His tongue circles her clit. Flicks over it. Then sucks again, and she can't breathe.

He's-

He's devouring her.

Face buried between her thighs like he's starving, like this is the only thing he wants in the world. His hands are holding her open, and she can feel his nose pressed against her mound, can feel the vibration of the sounds he's making.

Growls. Deep and continuous, rumbling through her core every time he licks, every time he tastes her.

He doesn't know what he's doing.

She can tell. The movements are enthusiastic but uncoordinated, chasing reactions without technique. Licking everywhere, tasting everything, like he's trying to map her by flavor alone.

But it works.

Because he's paying attention. Learning what makes her gasp, what makes her hips buck, what makes her pull his hair and whimper his-

She doesn't even know his name.

The thought penetrates through her pleasure-drunk brain and dissolves immediately because his tongue just found her entrance and pushes inside.

"Oh fuck!"

The curse rips out of her. His tongue is inside her, licking, and the sensation is so foreign and good and wet that her thighs start shaking again.

He groans against her.

The vibration travels straight through her core, and she can feel it, feel him tasting her from the inside, feel the way his tongue curls and explores like he's trying to drink every drop of slick.

And there's so much.

She's never been this wet in her life. Can feel it coating her thighs, soaking into the sheets, and he's lapping at it like it's the best thing he's ever tasted.

His metal hand shifts on her thigh.

Adjusts its grip, and then-

She feels it.

The cool press of metal against her entrance. One finger, articulated and precise, pressing in and stretching alongside his tongue.

"Alpha-"

The word escapes her lips. Desperate. Pleading. She doesn't even know what she's asking for.

But he seems to understand.

His tongue pulls out. The metal finger becomes two, and he pushes them in -slowly, carefully, letting her feel the drag- and she loses it.

----

Soldat can't stop.

Can't pull away from her taste, the slick coating its tongue, the way she's whimpering and pulling its hair and making sounds that go straight to its cock.

Which is impossibly hard again. Aching, still wet from before, and it starts grinding against the mattress without conscious thought. Seeking friction, seeking relief, but it's not enough.

The pants are too restrictive. The fabric cuts into its cock every time it thrusts forward, and it's wrong.

They’re in the way.

It pulls back from between her thighs -just for a second, just enough- and its hands go to its belt, ripping it open.

The buckle clatters, the tactical webbing falling away, and then it is yanking at the fly. Buttons, zipper, whatever, it doesn't care. Just needs them off, needs the pressure gone.

The pants and undergarment peel down over its hips, shoved down to mid-thigh, and-

It looks down.

Its cock is twitching, flushed, and still wet from its release, cum smeared along the length, sticky and cooling against overheated skin. The smell hits immediately: the musk of spent alpha mixed with her slick-sweet omega scent in the air.

Its lip curls.

Not in disgust. In something else. Something possessive and satisfied because that's their scent. Mixed. Merged.

But it's also… messy.

Soldat doesn't do messy. Doesn't-

A sound interrupts its thoughts.

Her.

Whimpering.

Its head snaps up.

----

She's staring.

Can't help it.

He's... fuck. He's big.

Still wet from coming in his pants, she can see it, the streaks of his release coating it, glistening with the light from her bedside lamp.

And the smell.

It makes fresh slick slide down her thighs, makes her body ache with want so visceral she can barely think past it. She needs-

But he's already moving.

Already turning back toward the bed, dropping his gaze to where she's sprawled on the mattress, legs still spread, and she can see the intent written clearly on his face.

He's going back down. Going to bury his face between her thighs again, taste her again, and-

Yes, his mouth felt incredible. The enthusiastic, uncoordinated desperation of it, the way he licked and sucked like he was starving.

But that's not what she needs right now. Not when he's right there, hard and ready, and she can smell how much he wants her.

"Wait-"

The word tumbles out before she can stop it. Desperate. Pleading.

"Alpha, wait-"

He freezes.

Mid-motion. One knee on the bed, hands reaching for her thighs, and those pale eyes snap up to meet hers.

She sees the confusion dance across his face.

And then-

His expression shutters.

Goes from open and needy to closed and determined in the space of a heartbeat, and his hands land on her thighs, metal and flesh both.

And the grip is different now.

Firmer. Restraining.

His fingers dig in -not painful, but unmistakably harder- and he pushes. Spreading her thighs wider, pinning them to the mattress, and the look in his eyes-

Oh no.

He thinks she's telling him to stop.

Thinks she's refusing, resisting, and his entire body language has changed into something that makes her inner omega sit up and take notice.

Dominant. Controlling. Alpha.

"No, I just-" she tries again, voice coming out shakier than she wants. "I want-"

But he's not listening.

His gaze drops back between her legs. Fixed. Focused. And his hands press down harder, holding her flat against the mattress.

The message is crystal clear:

Stay still. Let me.

And-

Fuck.

She whimpers.

Can't help it. Can't stop the sound that escapes her throat because the dominance in the gesture, the way he's pinning her open, the raw alpha energy radiating off him…

It should scare her.

Should send up every red flag about consent, control, and danger.

But it doesn't. It just makes her wetter.

Makes her body respond with a fresh gush of slick because, apparently, her omega brain thinks being held down by this strange alpha is the hottest thing that's ever happened to her.

But that's not what she wants, not right now.

She needs him inside her. Needs to feel that thick cock splitting her open, needs to be filled and claimed and bred, and if she doesn't get it soon, she's going to lose her mind.

She writhes.

Twisting in his grip. Not trying to escape, just trying to move, to shift position, to show him what she wants.

But his hands just tighten, holding her down more firmly, his shoulders settling into a posture that says he's not going to let her move until he's done with her.

Okay.

New strategy.

She stops fighting the pressure pushing her thighs down, and instead, she uses it. Let him think he's won, let her legs go slack in his grip for just a second-

And then she twists.

Hard. Fast. Using the slickness of her sweat and the slick coating on her thighs to slip out of his grip, throwing her weight sideways.

It catches him off guard.

His hands lose purchase for half a second -just half a second- but it's enough.

She rolls onto her stomach.

Scrambling. Hands planting on the mattress, knees pulling up under her, and-

His metal hand lands on her hip immediately.

Firm grip. Already trying to maneuver her, and she can feel his intent: he's going to flip her back over, get her on her back again so he can put his face between her legs and-

She doesn't let him.

Plants her knees wide. Braces her weight forward on her elbows. And arches her back, hard. Pushing her ass up and out, spine curving in a deep arch that puts everything on display.

Presenting herself.

The effect is immediate. His hands go still on her hips, and the pressure trying to flip her over just… stops.

She can feel him freeze behind her. Can feel his gaze locked on her body, on the position she's in.

And she knows what he's seeing.

Her on her knees. Back arched so deep it almost hurts. Ass high in the air, thighs spread wide.

Completely open. Completely vulnerable. Offering.

"Please," she gasps into the mattress.

Her voice is wrecked. Desperate. Shaking with need.

"Please, alpha-"

She reaches back, both hands sliding over her ass, down between her thighs, and-

She spreads herself open for him.

Fingers pulling her folds apart. Exposing her entrance, slick and clenching and empty. Exposing her clit, swollen and oversensitive. Exposing everything.

Desperate.

Obscene.

Begging.

"Please- I need- please-"

----

Soldat's brain shutdowns. Every thought fragments into white noise because she's-

Presenting?

The visual input hits its alpha instincts like a tactical nuke:

Omega. On her knees. Back arched. Ass up, and thighs spread wide, holding herself open.

Showing Soldat exactly where she wants it. Where she needs it.

Begging for it.

Omega wants.

Omega needs to be bred.

Again, the thoughts don't form in words. Just primal recognition slamming through its neural pathways with brutal, devastating clarity.

This is what the body was built for. This moment. This position.

And they tried to kill it.

Tried to suppress, chemically neuter, erase this entire drive from its system. Seventy years of injections and conditioning stomping down every breeding instinct, every mating urge, every biological imperative that makes an alpha alpha.

And it's all coming back now, roaring back to life with devastating, unstoppable force. The Soldat's cock throbs again. Hard. Aching.

And it can feel it, the need building like pressure behind a dam about to break.

Need to mount her.

Need to breed her.

Need to fill her and knot her and make her MINE.

It moves before processing the thought, crawling onto the bed. Knees hitting the mattress on either side of her thighs, bracketing her, caging her in.

One hand -metal- grips her hip. Servos engaging to hold her steady, hold her exactly in position. The other hand drops to its cock, wrapping around the base. The skin is oversensitive, still tender from coming so hard before, but it doesn't matter.

Nothing matters except getting inside her.

It lines up, dragging the head of its cock through her folds -so wet, so slick, coating the tip- and finding her entrance.

There.

The head presses against her opening, and it can feel the resistance, feel her body starting to yield, and-

She makes a begging sound.

Desperate. Pleading.

And something in the Soldat's chest snarls.

Possessive. Feral. Every remaining shred of control burned away under the weight of pure instinct.

Mine.

Omega is MINE.

Soldat's hips push forward. Not slow, or carefully. And the heat-

Fuck.

The word detonates somewhere in its fractured consciousness because the sensation is-

Overwhelming.

Tight. Hot. Perfect.

It can feel her body struggling to adjust. Feel the flutter of her walls around just the tip, trying to accommodate the intrusion.

And Soldat-

Soldat doesn't stop.

Can't stop.

Just pulls back half an inch and drives forward harder, forcing deeper. Splitting her open. Burying itself halfway with one brutal thrust and-

The sound she makes.

High. Broken. Somewhere between a scream and a sob.

----

She can't breathe.

The sensation of being split open, stretched in ways she's never experienced, is so overwhelming that her mind goes completely blank.

Her body is struggling to accommodate the thick intrusion forcing its way inside, and god, there's so much slick, she can feel it coating her thighs, easing the way, her omega body preparing itself to be mounted.

The pressure of being filled too fast, too much, has her walls relaxing and clenching around him, trying to adjust, trying to make room, and it's so much more than any toy she's ever used, more than any alpha she's been with.

Just those first few inches, and she already feels impossibly full.

Her hands fist in the sheets as a high, shocked sound rips from her throat. Not pain or discomfort, but raw, filthy pleasure because she didn't know it could feel like this.

Didn't know her body could stretch like this, yield like this, open like this for an alpha's cock. Didn't know being filled could feel so right that her inner omega is practically screaming yes, this, MORE.

He pulls back half an inch -barely anything- and she feels the drag of every ridge and vein, feels the way her body is gripping him desperately like it doesn't want to let go, trying to keep him inside where he belongs.

And then he slams forward, harder and deeper, burying himself halfway in one brutal thrust.

The cry that tears from her is ragged and wrecked because oh fuck, YES, the stretch is perfect. She can feel her body yielding and surrendering even as it struggles to accommodate the impossible slide of his thick cock forcing deeper, filling her in ways that make her inner omega purr with savage satisfaction.

Because this, this is what she's built for. This is what her body has been screaming for every time she's gone into heat alone, every time she's fucked herself on toys that were never enough, every time an alpha touched her and it felt wrong because they weren't him.

This fullness, this alpha mounting her and forcing her body to yield and open and take him, this is what she's been waiting for her entire life without knowing it.

And it feels so fucking good.

"Alpha-" The word spills from her lips, broken and desperate and drenched in need. Not a protest but pure, filthy appreciation because he's so deep already and she can feel him shuddering above her, can feel the trembling restraint in his grip, and she wants him to lose it. Wants him to stop holding back and just fuck her the way his instincts are demanding.

His grip on her hips tightens -metal fingers digging in, flesh hand trembling- and she knows he heard it, knows what that word does to him.

He makes a sound, low and possessive and feral, and then he moves.

Pulls back so she feels every devastating inch of the drag, that delicious friction against her inner walls that makes her gasp and clench around him, and then he slams back in harder, deeper, forcing the rest of the way in with one brutal thrust until she feels his hips flush against her ass.

And the feeling is-

Fuck.

It's everything.

He's everywhere -inside her, around her, the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress, the heat of his skin against her back, his cock buried so deep she swears she can feel him in her throat- and the sensation of being stretched around him, stuffed full of alpha cock, mounted and claimed is so intense and perfect and right that her vision goes almost white.

Her body clenches around him reflexively, her inner walls rippling and squeezing his length, trying to pull him impossibly deeper even though there's no more room for it to go, and she feels her arms give out , her back arching deeper, presenting herself even more, and she can't do anything except feel him filling her.

She needs more.

Needs him to move, to fuck her, to use her body exactly like his instincts are screaming at him to do. Needs to feel him pounding into her, rutting into her, like the desperate omega she apparently is.

"Please-" she gasps into the mattress, and her voice is absolutely wrecked. Desperate. Filthy. Her hand reaches back blindly, finds his wrist, and squeezes hard. "Move. Alpha, please-”

Because if he doesn't start moving soon, if he doesn't give her what her body is screaming for, she's going to lose her fucking mind.

----

Soldat snarls in response.

Move?

Her begging comes from somewhere deep, somewhere primal. And it wants to give it to her. Whatever she asks.

Wants to fuck her. Breed her. Claim her.

Now.

Its hips pull back slowly, dragging its cock almost all the way out, feeling every inch of tight omega heat clinging to it, trying to keep it inside.

And then it slams back in.

Hard.

The omega screams and moans, high and sharp, and the sound goes straight to its heavy balls, flipping every remaining switch from control to breed.

It doesn't know how to do this gently.

Doesn't have the reference. Doesn't have the capacity right now with her scent flooding its system, with the feel of her wrapped around its cock, with seventy years of chemical castration breaking apart under the weight of pure biological drive.

So it just fucks.

Pulls out and slams back in, setting a brutal rhythm immediately. Hips snapping forward, the slap of skin on skin is obscenely loud in the small apartment, and she's taking it.

Taking every thrust. Her body yielding even as it struggles to adjust, slick easing the way, and Soldat can feel it, feel her getting wetter, feel the way her walls are clenching around its cock.

Its metal hand tightens on her hip.

Servos whirring as it grips harder, using the leverage to pull her back into each thrust. Making the penetration deeper, harder, and-

The omega makes another sound. A different moan, long and low and completely debauched, and her forearms lower completely, as she presses her face into the mattress.

Surrendering.

Letting it use her.

Soldat snarls again.

Possessive. Feral. Its flesh hand releases her hip and moves to the back of her neck instead, gripping. Holding her down while its hips thrust faster, chasing something its body knows even if its mind doesn't.

She's whimpering into the mattress.

High, continuous sounds with each thrust, and Soldat can smell it, can smell her arousal spiking, can smell the way their scents are mixing where they're joined.

Omega slick and alpha musk and the wet, obscene sound of the fucking as it drives into her over and over and over.

Its cock is still sensitive. Every thrust sends sparks of almost-too-much up its spine, pleasure edging toward pain, but it doesn't matter. Can't stop. Won't stop.

Because she needs this.

It can tell. Can read it in the way she's pushing back into each thrust now, can hear it in the sounds she's making, can smell it in the way her scent keeps getting sweeter.

Omega needs to be fucked.

Needs to be bred.

And the Soldat is-

Soldat is going to-

No.

The thought surfaces sharp and cold. The Soldat can't. Isn't allowed to breed. The handlers said-

But there are no handlers.

Just instinct. Pure and brutal and clawing through its system, demanding it claim this omega, fill her, knot her-

Knot.

Soldat can feel it. The base of its cock starts to swell, pressure building with each thrust. It's going to lock inside her and-

And she's going to take it.

Its rhythm falters.

Just for a second. Uncertainty flickering through the haze of need because this is- this is too much. Once it knots her there's no taking it back, no undoing it, and-

She pushes back hard.

Takes its cock to the hilt and grinds, pressing her ass flush against its hips, and the whimper she makes is so desperate, so needy, that its brain just-

Breaks.

Fuck the handlers.

Fuck seventy years of suppression.

Soldat is going to knot his omega.

Its hand leaves her neck. Both hands go to her forearms, and it lifts her, pulling her up until her back is arched almost vertically, until she's on her knees with Soldat pressed against her back.

Changing the angle completely.

And then it drives in.

Deeper than before. So deep the omega sobs, and it can feel it, can feel the head of its cock hitting something that makes her whole body shake.

There.

The Soldat does it again.

Pulls almost all the way out and slams back in at that angle, and she cries out. Loud, uncontrolled, her thighs shaking, and it can smell the spike in her arousal.

Close.

She's close.

It can tell. Can read it in her body language, in her scent, in the way her walls are starting to tighten around its cock.

Soldat's rhythm turns brutal.

Fast and hard and deep, hitting that spot, chasing her orgasm because it needs -needs- to feel her come on its cock. Needs to feel her clench and shake and break while it fills her.

Its metal arm bands across her chest, holding her upright, holding her in place, while its flesh hand drops between her legs and finds her swollen clit.

The omega shrieks.

Hips bucking, body jerking in Soldat's hold, but it doesn't let go. Just keeps fucking into her, keeps its fingers on her clit -circling, pressing, rubbing- and she's sobbing now.

Incoherent. Desperate. Completely overwhelmed.

"Please- please- alpha, I'm-"

She doesn't finish the sentence.

Just shatters.

Soldat feels it. Feels her walls clamp down around its cock like a silken fist, feels her whole body go rigid and then shake, feels the gush of fresh slick as she comes hard.

And it-

It roars.

Can't stop it. Can't control the sound ripping out of its throat as its knot swells, expanding rapidly, locking them together as the orgasm hits it like a freight train.

White-hot. Devastating.

Its hips jerk forward one last time, burying its cock and knot as deep as physically possible, and then it's coming.

Spilling inside her. Filling her. Breeding her the way every broken instinct is screaming at it to do.

The omega is still shaking.

Still coming, her walls rippling around the knot, milking it, and Soldat can't think past the pleasure, past the overwhelming rightness of being locked inside her.

Mine.

Omega.

MINE.

The knot pulses. Once. Twice. Pumping more into her with each throb, and she's-

She's taking all of it.

It can feel it. Feel her body accepting everything it's giving, can smell the way their scents are completely merged now.

Inseparable.

Her legs are shaking. The only thing keeping it upright is the metal arm still banded across her chest, holding her against it. The flesh hand has fallen away from her clit, braced on the mattress instead, because Soldat's coordination is gone.

Just-

Gone.

Pleasure still rolling through it in waves, aftershocks making its cock pulse inside her, and she's-

She's making sounds. Small, whimpering. Not in distress. Something else.

Its face drops to her shoulder, nose finding her scent gland on instinct, and it breathes her in. Brown sugar and yeast and satisfied omega, and the purr starts again.

Deep. Subvocal. Vibrating through both their chests where they're pressed together.

The knot is still locked. Not going down anytime soon.

She's not fighting it or trying to pull away. She’s just leaning her weight against its chest, trusting it to hold her up.

And Soldat does.

Metal arm secured under her breasts, flesh hand moving from the mattress to her hip. Holding her. Supporting her. Keeping her upright while they're locked together.

It doesn't know how long this lasts, doesn't have a reference for how long a knot holds. Just knows it can't pull out even if it wanted to, which it doesn't.

Can't imagine wanting to leave the tight heat of her body. Can't imagine letting go.

The purr continues, steady now. Soothing. It doesn't know if it's trying to soothe her or itself. Maybe both.

Her head tilts.

Just slightly. Turning toward Soldat's face still pressed against her shoulder, and it can see her profile. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Face heated and damp with sweat.

Beautiful.

The word surfaces unbidden.

It has never called anything beautiful before, because it doesn't have the framework for aesthetic appreciation. But she's-

She is.

Especially like this. Fucked out and knotted and completely trusting it to hold her.

Its nose drags along her scent gland, taking her in, and she makes a soft sound -pleased, satisfied- tilting her head, giving it more access, and Soldat's purr deepens.

----

She can't feel her legs.

Can't feel much of anything except him. Inside her. Around her. The metal arm holding her upright. The purr vibrating through her chest. The knot stretching her so full that she can barely breathe.

And it's-

God, it's perfect.

She's never felt like this before.

Never felt so completely claimed. So utterly taken. Every alpha she's ever been with was… adequate.

But this-

This is different.

This is feral and desperate and completely uncontrolled, and somehow it's exactly what she needed without ever knowing she needed it.

She can feel his nose dragging along her scent gland, can feel the rumble of that impossible purr, and her inner omega is just-

Singing.

Satisfied in a way she's never experienced. Sated. Content.

Because he, her alpha-

She doesn't even know his name, and she's already thinking of him as hers.

The thought should probably scare her. Should send up red flags about bonding too fast with a stranger. But it doesn't.

Because this isn't fast.

This is inevitable.

Like every decision she's ever made led her here, to this moment, knotted and claimed by an alpha who broke into her apartment and looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth having.

His knot pulses inside her.

She feels it. The throb, the gush of warmth, and her body clenches around it automatically. Milking him. Taking everything he's giving, even though she's already so full it's almost too much.

Almost.

But not quite.

Because her body wants this. Wants to be filled. Wants to be bred. Every dormant omega instinct she had is purring in satisfaction.

Yes. This. Him. Finally.

She feels him shift behind her.

The metal arm around her tightens slightly, and then he's pulling her more upright, bringing her back flush against his chest. She's properly kneeling now, her back supported entirely by his body, and the angle change makes her gasp because the knot-

Fuck.

The knot feels even bigger like this. Deeper.

And his flesh hand-

It slides down.

Over her hip, her thigh, and then between her legs and cups her mound, covering where they're joined. Where his knot is stretching her, where the mess of their combined release is slick and obscene between her thighs.

His palm presses gently as his fingers spread to cover all of it, her, him, the evidence of what just happened.

The sound he makes against her shoulder is possessive. Satisfied. A low rumble that's half-purr, half-growl.

Mine, the gesture says.

Bred. Claimed. Marked. MINE.

And she whimpers.

Because yes.

Yes.

His.

Completely and utterly his.

His purring deepens.

Smug. Like he knows exactly what that sound means. Like he's pleased she's responding to his possessiveness instead of fighting it.

His face shifts against her shoulder, nuzzling deeper. His nose drags along the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, breathing her in like he can't get enough.

And then she feels his lips.

A kiss.

Soft. Tender. Pressed against her sweat-damp skin.

Then another. Along her shoulder. Gentle and reverent and completely at odds with the brutal way he just fucked her.

His teeth scrape. The edge of a nip that doesn't break skin, doesn't hurt, just makes her shiver.

Her hand comes up and reaches back -awkward angle, but she manages- and threads into his hair, combing through the tangled strands while he continues his exploration of her shoulder, her neck, every inch of skin he can reach from this position.

He makes a sound against her skin, and she can feel him settling.

The frantic energy bleeding out, the feral drive giving way to something gentler. Still possessive. Still intensely alpha, but softer.

His forehead comes to rest against the back of her neck.

The hand between her legs stays there, rubbing slowly, smearing their mess on her knotted entrance. A constant reminder of what they just did, what they are now.

The knot still pulses occasionally. She doesn't know how long this lasts -thirty minutes, an hour?- but she's not in a hurry, can't bring herself to care, not when he's holding her like this.

Not when every instinct she has is screaming mate.

True mate.

Hers.

She lets her eyes close.

Leans her head back against his shoulder and lets the metal arm support her weight, lets the purr lull her into a haze of satisfaction and safety.

And for the first time in her life, she feels complete.

[biteofcherry]

Equinox

god!Ari Levinson x god!Curtis Everett x female reader x god!Steve Rogers

summary: Perhaps it's pitiful to pray for the gods' mercy when they've been deaf to all the sacrifices made for them by the anointed zhrets, but you wanted to try.

warnings: Consensual. Gangbang (but a soft one). Inexperienced Reader. Loss of virginity. Oral (both m and f receiving). Unprotected sex. Spitroast. Multiple creampies. Praise kink. A bit of coercion. Very light D/s undertones. Feels and softness are here too.

word count: 7k

Author's Note: The gods in this story are the result of these three polls (1, 2, 3), so you can only blame yourself and other voters. But I believe you will like them and their hoe ways anyway 😆 Honestly, I'm surprised how soft this story turned out, despite being also kinda filthy. It's been a while since you got from me something that's not dark. Happy spring, I guess! 😂

It's very vaguely inspired by Slavic paganism and folklore, but it serves only as the background.

*zhrets is a pagan high priest

Main Masterlist

It wasn’t unusual for the weather in March to sway like a tide - flowing with waves of sunshine warmth only to pull back and leave freezing cold instead. Sometimes the frost and harsh rains dominated the whole span of the month, not the least bothered by the supposed burst of spring. 

However, unusual was the year-long devastation that tore your region. 

Seasons seemed to warp, folding in on themselves and changing into unexpected harshness. Droughts that burnt the soil and crops, leading to some fires as well. Hail that roughened softer plants. Then blessed rain turned into floods, which ruined more fields and preserves. 

People starved. Animals fled the woods for more suitable areas. Prayers to the gods brought nothing, no matter how much blood was spilled to appease the deities. 

Just last week the zhrets killed one of the last lambs at the altar, so the gods would see devotion in giving up what’s most precious. 

But not even the slightest change came. The earth remained frozen cold, hard and unyielding. No seed would take root in it. The sun stayed hidden behind the gray heaviness of clouds that seemed endless in the sky. Not a single plant in the gardens and woods blushed with the first bud. 

A full year without fresh crops, without safety and balance. A few families already left the villages, taking a risk in wandering far away in search of better conditions. If change didn’t come this spring, it would be the end for most of you. 

So you wrapped the worn-out pelt around yourself and shuffled across the frost-covered fields and up the hill. At this time of year it used to be already covered in patches of crocuses and snowdrops. It remained a dark, lifeless peak. 

The basket in your hand wasn’t heavy, since you didn’t have much to give. You didn’t fool yourself thinking that your pitiful begging would be any better than that of the anointed zhrets, but you felt desperate. 

Maybe if the sacrifices and prayers came not only from the delegate of the village, but from every person separately, the number of voices calling out to the gods would catch their attention. 

At the top of the hill a circle of stones, with runes painted on them, wrapped around three vertical slates of stone. 

Pristine white, with a single crack that shimmered gold - for the god of sun and fire. 

A grey one, with strokes of blueish and white - for the god of air and rain. 

Reddish overgrown with moss - for the god of earth and fertility. 

Dark spots still marred the bottom of the stones from where the blood sacrifice was spilled. No other marks of worship were left, though in the past it wasn’t uncommon to find bouquets, sweet buns, or nuts placed at the gods’ altars. 

Especially on the spring equinox.

It was the moment when winter was supposed to recede, so the new life could begin. Celebrated with happiness, food and laughter. But people were too hungry, too angry, to bother with customs. They didn’t even have the plants to make bouquets with. Last of the nuts were saved for the kids to munch on. 

With hands trembling from the cold, you placed the basket on the ground and knelt down. Slowly, you took out your modest offerings. Since your garden was barren, you weaved bouquets of what you could gather. 

Anise stars tied to thin twigs with a thread and clumsily painted yellow to resemble marigolds. All tied together with a red ribbon, which you ripped off the hemline of your best dress. For the god of sun and fire. 

For the god of air and rain: bird feathers stuck in a chipped, glass vial in which, once upon a time, your mother had perfumed water that your father bought from a southern merchant as a gift for giving birth to you.  

Last living sprigs of raspberry bush that grew in your garden and a handful of mistletoe. A drop of your blood sank into the strap of linen with which you tied them, from prickling yourself on the raspberry’s thorn. For the god of earth and fertility. 

Perhaps they looked laughable. Perhaps, as some of the people whispered in bitterness, the gods didn’t care for offerings like that and were laughing at your misery. If they even paid attention to the region they decided to decimate. But it was all you got. Along with your determination to try. 

You placed each bouquet on the ground, holding each for a few seconds in place in case the wind decided to swipe them right away. 

“But wouldn’t that be the sign from the god of air that he finds the offerings disrespectful?” You muttered to yourself as your fingertips sank in the harsh frost coating the ground.

The wind didn’t strengthen. In fact, the air felt warmer and lighter as you knelt there at the altar. Considering it was the top of the hill, with no trees surrounding the clearing to form a shield, the gods had to keep the place in some protection. 

A swipe of warmth enveloped your fingers and for a fleeting moment you considered staying there on your knees, prostrated on the ground, just to soak up the warmth and lack of wind; and less to pray to the gods. 

“Nah, Curtis can be a cold bastard, but he wouldn’t diminish such a cute offering.”

An unexpected voice made your head snap up. It was masculine, low, but somehow light and pleasant. And as your gaze settled on its source you found yourself blinking away what had to surely be a mesmer. 

It was a man. Unlike any you ever saw. Tall and broad. All golden skin that seemed to shine from within. He was bare-chested, his lower half clad in pristine white, linen pants. Across his pectorals, as well trailing down from his navel, thick thatch of dark blonde hair curled in soft temptation. His beard had all shades of gold. His eyes were a sparkling blue, vibrant and enticing like a summer sky. 

Even if you convinced yourself a human male could be as reckless as walking around half-naked when it was freezing cold, the tendrils of flames licking his skin betrayed him as something beyond human. 

Your eyes widened, mouth parting in silent astonishment. 

Were you so starved and cold that your mind created illusions? Was it an edge of death when you witnessed a god take you over to the fields of the underworld?

But wouldn’t that be a god of night and death then, who comes for you? You didn’t think he’d look so radiant and carefree, so much like the sun and fire personified. 

“It’s a genuine offering, I never scoff at those.” Sounded another voice, somewhere from behind you. “It’s the reckless spill of resources that annoys me.” 

Still on your knees, you turned. So fast you lost balance and landed on your butt. Your gaze traveled up from his bare feet, up long legs and thick thighs that strained the dark fabric of his pants, and over the wide chest marred with scars. 

His skin was paler, appearing colder, yet had something refreshing to it that called out to lick and taste if it would provide a fresh sip of a spring rain. His beard was trimmed; dark, with spots of grey. His hair was cropped short, close to the scalp. The blue of his eyes was an ongoing storm - changing from light blue to inky darkness, flashes of lightning cutting the irises. 

Everything in you screamed in terrified recognition. No one ever saw the gods. Not even zhrets who was the direct line to them, though he claimed that sometimes they came to him in his dreams. But with every fiber of your being you felt the crushing power surrounding you, as well fascination stronger than any desire you experienced before, and you knew who they were. 

As quickly as you could, you rolled onto your front and pressed your hands and face to the ground.

“My gods! I apologize for daring to look at you!” You expressed. 

“If we didn’t want you seeing us, we wouldn’t show ourselves to you.” A third voice resounded somewhere to your left. Deep and soft. 

“Sit up and look at us, Swallow.”

Comparing you to a small, nimble bird associated with incoming spring evoked a flash of heated shyness. It was almost sweet. A pet name. No man has ever referred to you using one. 

Gulping nervously, you slowly lifted your upper body. Your gaze traced the ground which was covered in frost when you first stepped onto the hill, but now bared the inner softness of soil readying itself for first seeding. It landed at the feet of the third god, and cautiously moved upward.

He wore pelts, like hunters often did. Sculpted hip lines low on his abdomen disappeared beneath the fabric in a shape of V, arrowing your attention to the bulging curve beneath tight leather. His waist was narrow, especially compared to how wide his shoulders were. Each muscle of his abdomen and biceps appeared carved by a sculptor. He could carry the whole world on his shoulders, you thought. 

He was sitting atop the stone altar in his name, so his face was closer to your line of vision. You noticed speckles of green in the blue of his eyes. His curved eyelashes seemed tipped with green, as well. 

“It’s been a while since anyone gave us thoughtful, sweet offerings.” He smiled at you and something bloomed within your chest; like the joy at the sight of the first flowers in your garden. 

“They’re nothing,” you whispered, feeling embarrassed that the gods themselves looked at the pitiful bouquets you made. 

“Most certainly not.” The god of sun stepped closer to your right. 

Warm fingers curled beneath your chin, turning your face to him. When you looked up at him it felt as if the sun was caressing your cheeks, even though you didn’t have to squint your eyes to stand it. 

Gently, he urged you to stand up. A big hand slid beneath the pelts wrapped around you, resting on your waist. Where he touched you, your skin tingled with sunkissed heat that chased away all the cold you suffered for months. 

If only for that comforting, warm feeling, you were ready to die at the hands of the gods.

“You’re most honest and precious,” he said softly, tracing his fingers up from your chin and over your cheek, “a most valuable offering.” 

“I-” your eyes couldn’t shift away from the brilliant blue of his eyes, even as a gasp ripped from your chest when another set of hands slithered beneath your cloak and pulled it off of you in an unrushed but swift move. 

A tickle of air teased the shell of your ear. Both ears. At the same time. The same ghost of breath evoked goosebumps across your chest. 

“We’ll be good to you, Swallow.” Curtis rumbled softly, his hands squeezing your hips as he pressed his chest to your back. 

When his lips pressed to the hollow where neck curved into shoulder, it felt like a splash of summer drizzle. Slightly cool, but refreshing rather than freezing. Paired with the sunlit warmth wrapping around you, it brought the sense of awakening after a year of hanging in dark limbo.

“We promise, don’t we Ari?” A chuckle tickled your skin, rushing your pulse into a wicked response. 

“So good.” The god of sun and fire - Ari - confirmed with a wicked grin. “Over and over and over again.” 

He dipped his head, lips nearing yours. His body inched closer, too. His heat at your front combined with the excitingly thunderous presence of the other god at your back made your head spin. 

You weren’t naive to not realize what they wanted. They didn’t just imply, they acted on it right away. Honest and direct in their approach. A grip of fear clenched around your heart. Partly of them, because you had no idea if a mortal woman could survive being taken by a god. By three! But also because - just like your material offerings - you weren’t sure if you’d be a satisfying lover. What if you disappointed them and thus angered them further? 

“I just- I have never-” you blurted out, eyes closing at the shiver of pleasure as a warm hand brushed under the swell of your breast.

Ari paused, sunlit sky encapsulated in his eyes staring back at you. Then he bowed his head with a groan, as if in defeat. 

Curtis’ chuckle seeped beneath the collar of your shift. He didn’t pause in his ministrations, working his hands at your sides to release the bindings of your outer layer.  

“I’m sorry. Is it bad that I’m, um, inexperienced?” Regret that you felt had less to do with potential repercussions for the crops and more with the prospect of not being touched by them anymore. 

“No, Swallow.” From the side, the god of earth sounded amused. “Ari’s just disappointed that he has to wait his turn. You’re a virgin. That means your first breaking belongs to me.” 

“Oh!” You turned your head to the side, eyes wide in surprise at the revelation. 

The god of earth and fertility was sitting there calmly, watching you caged between the other gods. He didn’t rush to rip your clothes off and ravage you, to take what was supposedly his by some incomprehensible laws. Yet the hunger in his eyes was prominent. 

A dark glint of a predator that has already picked his prey and knew it wouldn’t stand a chance fleeing from him. 

The swirl of heat low in your abdomen suggested you wouldn’t want to run away from his claim.

A hand gripped your chin, turning you to face the god of sun again. 

“Steve’s a lucky bastard like that, but I get to have the first taste.” Ari grinned. Then surged forward. 

Heat erupted in your veins as his mouth took yours. He didn’t kiss you like a first time lover might their shy partner, but a man who owned you. You had no doubt that was exactly the passion you occasionally dreamed about. Better even. 

There was no particular taste to Ari’s lips, but still it reminded you of ripest strawberries, sunkissed earth, honey, and burning wood. 

Ari licked between your lips, opening your mouth to plunge deeper. One hand on your cheek moved to grip the back of your head, while the other tugged your loosened dress down. Curtis’ hands were helping along, or rather leading the undressing part in which Ari marginally helped. 

Then all of your clothes were gone. Instead of cold biting into your skin, you were surrounded by warmth and the softest breeze. Two pairs of hands moved over your naked body, exploring and memorising. Unfamiliar touch that roused your body, yet made it shiver with thrill of unknown and anticipation. 

A strong hand gripped your thigh and pulled it to the side, making you spread your legs wider. Soft, tickling blow of wind brushed your inner thighs then licked along the juncture of your thighs. A gasp escaped your lips, your hips rocking against the invisible touch. 

At the same time, strokes of heat swiped down your chest and kissed the swell of your breasts. Right after that sensation, Ari’s mouth trailed down your neck and lower, toward one of puckered nipples. 

“Such a pretty, delicious offering.” Steve hummed in appreciation. 

Somehow, the fact he was watching you being ravaged - being prepared for him - made you moan louder. Your core fluttered, wetness pearling between your thighs. 

“You’re going to be so good to us, won’t you?” 

Though hands and mouths were distracting, you still felt the very soft tickling beneath and around your feet. With your eyes half-closed and head thrown back, resting on Curtis’ shoulder, you didn’t see the grass sprouting nor the bloom of tiny flowers around you. A soft cushion on which you were going to be splayed. 

“Yesss,” you gasped as Ari sucked harder on your nipple.

“Good girl.” Steve’s praise washed over you in a ripple that dripped more welcome where Curtis’ fingers were inching closer. 

Suddenly you were falling backwards. Steady hands eased you onto the green carpet of grass these lands haven’t seen for years. Your back barely met the ground when Curtis’ lips were stealing your breath. Your little cry of surprise at the brush of Ari’s breath on your pussy  was swallowed by Curtis. 

Your toes curled, calves tensing, yet your legs eagerly spread wider for the god that settled between them. Your fingers clawed at the fresh grass before you couldn’t stop yourself anymore and reached your arms to touch Curtis. 

His tongue teased yours just as Ari’s made the first lick between your folds. 

It was overwhelming, and scary in a way, and you wanted more more more of it. 

Ari’s fingers were digging into your thighs as he feasted on your pussy, Curtis kept cupping and kneading your breast, all the while kissing your breath away. 

You let out a whimper when Curtis pulled away for a moment. Then the air was truly constricting in your chest, your heart pounding with a new kind of fear, as you saw him undo his pants and take out his cock. 

He knelt beside you, fingers gently combing through your hair but taking a firm grip at the roots. With his other hand, he stroked his dick. It wasn’t his own fist over it, but the sight of your widened eyes and sweet, glistening mouth that made him so hard. 

Then Ari sucked on your clit and thrust a single finger into your tight hole, and your face reflected an even more beautiful ruin. 

Your lips parted wide to let out a cry and Curtis surged forward.

He pushed his cock between your lips, pressing its velvety weight down on your tongue. He groaned in pleasure when your muffled sounds vibrated along his length and your tongue desperately wiggled beneath it. 

“You can take it, Swallow,” he looked down at you. “Breathe through your nose and suck on me. Hollow your cheeks. That’s it, you’re doing so good.”

You tried to follow instinct and Curtis instructions, even if your throat constricted and saliva pooled into your mouth when he pushed forward. He fucked your mouth in a steady, merciful rhythm, watching you the whole time as if it brought him more pleasure than your mouth enveloping his cock. 

But it became harder to focus on that when your body was tensing and shivering from the sensations stirred by Ari’s mouth. He switched from sucking to licking again, then back to sucking. One, thick finger inside of you pumping faster and faster. 

You’ve never- 

The thought didn’t manage to form fully before your brain switched off. 

Eyes rolled to the back of your head, your whole body cinched in pleasure so hard it was almost painful. 

Your moans reverberated along Curtis’ cock, and he pushed in deeper to feel your throat constrict. More wetness spilled out with each spasm of your pussy, coating Ari’s finger and beard as he kept slowly pumping into you. 

“Pull out of her for the next one,” Ari grunted, lifting his head from between your legs, “I want to hear her screams.” 

You didn’t register there was mention of another orgasm, you were too floaty. A state all too soon pierced by intensity as a second finger was added to the one already stretching you and the cock in your mouth forced to the back of your throat.

They sped up; your untried body unable to catch up with the ferociousness. Curtis held your head in place as he fucked your face, drool seeping past the corners of your mouth and trickling down your chin. Ari’s fingers crooked, pressing against a spot that burst the heart of the sun beneath your eyelids. 

Strings of saliva stuck in pearly strings between your chin and Curtis’ balls which hit your chin with each thrust. Then, suddenly, he was pushing deep and stilling with a loud grunt. Salty warmth filled your mouth, your throat barely able to swallow all of it. 

A god has cum down your throat. The thought was so surreal, the taste of him somehow sating and refreshing, that your body ignited into another climax. 

Curtis pulled out, dragging his cock along your sticky chin. Your shiny lips remained open, the tip of your tongue flicking out to chase him. It took a heartbeat for your vocal chords to reclaim their ability, and a string of cries growing in volume followed. 

Ari was mercilessly pressing on that spot, his tongue lashed your sensitive nub and you felt your walls tightening. Then his lips closed around your clit, sucking hard. You gave him the scream he wished to hear. Along with a flood of wetness staining his beard. 

“Just like I thought,” his raspy voice rumbled through the cloudy buzzing in your head, “delicious.” 

“I want a taste.” Curtis grumbled. 

Your body laid boneless, tingling and heavy in the most pleasant way. Not fully controlling your movements, your head rolled to the side and you blinked away the blurry lightness. Steve’s eyes were burning into you, so bright with vibrancy yet dark with primal intent. 

The sight of him got obscured when Ari straddled your chest. His massive thighs bracketed your shoulders, but he kept most of his weight off your ribcage. The girth of his cock right in front of your face made you gulp. Just as he tapped the crown against your wet chin, Curtis’ groan vibrated right against your drippy pussy. 

He was harsher than Ari, but not brutal. The way he mouthed on you made it feel as if he was thirsty for your flavor as the source of his pleasure, rather than turning into a sexual torment for you. Curtis didn’t shy from licking and nibbling all over, chasing every creamy drop - even if it slithered down to your asshole. 

Above you, Ari fisted his cock and tapped it against your lips. He put it between them for a moment then withdrew again. Until your own tongue started peeking out and eagerly chasing his cock. 

“Ask him for it.” Steve’s voice lowered to a growl. And it sounded much nearer than before. 

But you didn’t twist to seek his presence, your focus on the god of sun and the beautiful dick he was keeping away from you.

“Please,” you obeyed instantly. “Please, Ari, feed me your cock. Let me suck it.” 

“Fuck, you beg so prettily.” Ari groaned. “So prettily I don’t even care if it’s because you’re so hungry for my cock, or because you’re such an obedient, good girl for Steve.” 

“Nghh- both!” You whined, stretching your neck to bring your lips closer to Ari’s length.

He chuckled, his gorgeous face turning more radiant and glowy as a grin stretched his mouth. Finally, he eased the tip into your mouth. Eyes fluttering close as you hollowed your cheeks and sucked. His hips rocked forward, helping you swallow more of him where you couldn’t bob your head further. 

He let it slip out when another orgasm shook your body; your wet moans tickling his throbbing cock. Curtis’ tongue drove into your clenching hole, lapping and prolonging the aftershocks in the gentlest way he was capable of. 

Ari wrapped his fingers around his dick. He nudged the head against your bottom lip. You opened wider, tongue out and flat. He stroked himself faster. When he spilled, you tried swallowing without closing your mouth, so he saw it go down your throat. 

“So innocent, yet knows how to please a god,” Ari hummed softly. “You know why you’re so good for us and why your offering lured us?” He touched your cheek tenderly. “Because it’s not about performance but about eagerness and trust.”

When Ari stood up, your gaze fell to Curtis who was kneeling between your spread thighs. He wore the shine of your click on his beard like a warrior might the symbols of victory. 

“He speaks the truth.” Curtis squeezed your thighs. “Despite what your lands went through, you still came here with trust and thoughtful gifts.”

Your chest seemed to expand with exquisite lightness. For the first time since your parents death, you felt seen and appreciated for who you were. 

“Let us reward you, Swallow.” Steve stepped into your line of vision, towering over your splayed form. 

Curtis stood up and moved to the side as the god of earth filled the space between your legs. Holding your gaze, he undressed. It was both a signal for what was about to happen and a show just for you. A god disrobing for a mere human. 

Your pussy was already oversensitive and pulsing from the previous orgasms, yet it clenched in anticipation when Steve’s cock sprung free against his belly. 

When he knelt down between your thighs you wanted to close them out of instinct, but without a single word from Steve you kept yourself open. Heat scorched your face in shyness and embarrassment as his gaze slowly traveled the whole length of your soft body, down to your puffy, glistening folds. 

“So pretty,” he cooed, placing both palms on the junctures of your thighs and spreading your folds with his thumbs. “So wet and ready.”

Your hips bucked up, a tiny moan bubbling on your lips as he circled your clit. 

“So ready for the taking,” Steve chuckled at your body’s eager response. 

He gripped your hips tighter and yanked you toward him. Your legs went over his thighs, your butt resting right against him, and his cock slid between your pussy lips. 

“Do you want to watch, Swallow?” Steve’s voice held an undertone of teasing, but there was undeniable need in it, too. “Do you want to watch your virgin cunt take a cock for the very first time? Want to watch it disappear inside you?” 

Your pupils were blown so wide that black seemed to swallow all the color of your irises. Your breath quickened as you stared at the beautiful god and his dirty words sank into your consciousness. 

“Or-” he used a hand to guide the head of his cock right against your entrance- “do you want to just feel how your pussy stretches around a god’s dick?” 

You couldn’t decide. You couldn’t make a single coherent thought. Your gaze was trapped in those blue eyes, in the green and gold speckles in them. All awareness narrowed down to the burning pleasure that stung as he slowly filled you. 

It was a stretch. Gods, it was a stretch! 

Not hurtful beyond what you could take, but more than the two fingers Ari had inside you. You panted, clawing at the grass, as the arousal grew with every breaching inch. It was too much, yet you didn’t want it to stop. Didn’t want it to pause before you felt full right to your womb. 

Steve’s gaze remained on your face, but yours finally snapped away to stare at where his pelvis pressed between your splayed thighs. Where his big cock was disappearing between your puffy folds. 

“Oh!” Your brain suddenly connected all the sensations, immediately seizing from the overwhelming intensity of it. 

You dropped down, head thrown back as you let out a string of cries at the fulness. It wasn’t pain. You didn’t even think there was any virginal blood some said to appear during the first coupling. It was pleasure and pure insanity. 

“That’s it, Swallow. You’re taking me so well.” Steve praised. “You’re going to take all of it so well.” 

When it felt as if you would burst at the seams, he stilled. Bottomed out. He held you there, rubbing his thumbs up and down the creases where your abdomen met your thigh. When he withdrew a little, you mewled an objection. Only to welcome his surge forward with a lewd moan. 

“Fuck! It’s like she was made to take it.” You weren’t sure which god said that, but you wanted to nod along - yes, yes you were and you wanted more, now, please, more more.

You didn’t voice it out loud, yet it seemed Steve had heard you. Or maybe he read your mind, because a heartbeat later he snapped his hips forward. Wet readiness welcomed each thrust, accompanied by your moans and gasps. 

At some point it stopped being enough for both of you, the deep gentleness and a stretched-out display of conquest. Steve’s grip tightened. He yanked your body harder, fucking into you faster. Rougher. 

When your body arched in a shot of abrupt climax, your walls clenching around him in eager worship, Steve cursed aloud. Then he dropped forward, crushing your body to the ground with his weight. But it felt so good, hot and safe and dominating. He fucked you more savagely now, kissing you as hungrily and groaning his pleasure against your lips. 

You had your legs wrapped tightly around his hips, desperate to keep him inside of you as long as possible. Your sweaty palms mapped the wide span of Steve’s back, ecstatic at every ripple of muscle as he moved above you. 

The constant pleasure was addictive, sating in a way that you didn’t need another spike of climax to feel blissed out. 

But it came. A second after Steve drove into you with a rough thrust and stilled with a deep groan. His cum flooded your belly, bringing with it a new kind of heat. Your toes curled, your core throbbed, and you succumbed to waves of ecstasy. 

“Breathe, Swallow.” Steve’s eyes twinkled as he pushed up a while later. “Can’t have you falling unconscious when we’ve barely begun.” 

He chuckled at you when you just stared back, still panting and a little out of it. His fingers drummed down your body, until settling right atop your tingling clit. Then he pressed, starting slow, tight circles. 

Your pussy clenched in response. A trickle of white cum slipping out and down the curve of your ass. 

“Spring equinox lasts until night takes over. Besides, you take cock and cum so well, it would be rude to not give more of it to you.” He gripped one of your knees when your legs moved to close. “Ari and Curtis await their turn. It’s only fair. And I want you again already, too.” 

It’s not that you didn’t want it. You felt drunk on the new world of sensations they showed you. But it felt too much. You didn’t think you’d be able to take it. 

Soft coos, praises, and seductive coercion kept you compliant. 

With just a little whimper you let Ari rest your calves on his shoulders and push his thick cock into your sore cunt. He folded you almost in half, surging deep with each thrust. 

Curtis rolled you onto your front. Then helped you up onto your hands and knees. When he filled you from behind, your elbows nearly gave out and toppled you face first into the ground. But a hand gripping a fistful of your hair held you up. 

Your mouth was in the perfect position to fill it with cock, an opportunity Steve didn’t miss. 

From then it turned into a dizzying blur of wicked, filthy pleasure. Your body felt exhausted, yet responded to every touch, every kiss, every bite. Your muscles turned into cotton, but the gods didn’t need them functioning to manhandle you into any position they wanted. 

Their cum was dripping out of you. Your thighs were sticky with your own juices and their spend. When one was done filling you, another cock slid inside right after. Your mouth and hands were used in intervals. Sometimes a thumb was pressed into your tightest hole. A shower of praises and dirty words messed with your mind and enchanted your body, keeping your arousal at boiling point. 

They were still taking you when the dusk settled in. Your was voice raspy and choked from all the sounds they ripped from you, but you still made those tiny whimpers as Steve fucked you prone bone, with your cheek pressed to the grass. 

It was the feeling of his cock throbbing inside you, warm cum adding to the mess filling your belly, that your eyes closed and consciousness left you. 

When you stirred from deep sleep your body was sore and tired all over, but a sense of rest and comfort made it into a satisfying kind of exhaustion. You turned and stretched, suddenly freezing as an unusual sense of toasty warmth and softness registered. You blinked your eyes open. 

You were back in your small cottage. But the pillows you rested on weren’t filled with hay. No, they were fluffier, softer. As you groped the one right under your head, you felt the lightness of feathers filling the cotton pillowcase. On top of you, two new layers of pelts provided warmth. Buttery soft and trimmed with fur. 

A crackling sound from the side shifted your attention to the hearth. Where fire was dancing contained, spreading warmth through the house. 

Shock boosted your movements as you sat up right away, throwing away the covers and planting your bare feet on the wooden floor. The boards creaked as you stood up. Your muscles protested, still carrying exhaustion from what clearly wasn’t a fever dream.

It couldn’t be. Not when you still felt them.  

Slight throbbing in your sore core reminded you of the debauchery. A thought that you should look more of a sticky ruin came to you. But your body was clean. Not only void of any remnants of cum, but freshened up in a luxurious way. 

The gods had to clean you, you realized. It stirred warmth and joy in your chest. 

They could’ve just fucked you and leave you there on the hill, not care for what happened with you after they were done. Instead, they cared for you; washed you and brought you home. 

Moreover, they started the fire in the hearth. Well, considering one of them was a god of fire it probably wasn’t a hardship. 

You plopped down on the bed. As you did, your eyes fell onto a stool placed next to your bed. It didn’t stand here before, someone had to move it from the other side of the room. On it was a tin cup filled with fresh water, and a jar in which a bouquet of brightly colored wildflowers bloomed proudly. 

A smile curved your lips, your heart fluttering like a swallow swaying in the sky. It’s been so long since you felt happiness. The gods may have used you, but they gave you back the sense of joy and safety. 

In weeks after the equinox nature returned to the right course. Frost receded, allowing the soil to soften and accept seeds. Plants sprouted buds and flowers bloomed. Rain clouds disappeared from the sky. The sun caressed the earth and people turned their faces toward the sky to soak up the warmth they’ve been deprived of. 

You looked up at it, too. Always with a smile in the corners of your lips. 

That smile was present when you worked in your garden, digging your fingers into the soil and touching the plants. 

If it rained, you would slip outside to let the drops cascade over your face and hands, smiling at the sensation, as well. 

You never spoke of the equinox and your encounter with the three gods to anyone. Not even when people patted the sheets and thanked him for the sacrificial ceremony he performed, which in their eyes bought the gods’ mercy and brought back spring. 

No one knew that the fire in your hearth never died out. You brought logs just to appear you needed it, but the fire simply continued without using up wood. Warmth never ceased. The flowers in the vase remained alive and you doubted it was because you changed water frequently. 

Plants in your garden grew a little faster. When it rained, soil soaked it up, but didn’t form heavy mud in which you’d get stuck and dirty. 

You would never reveal your secret. Not only in fear of people’s reaction. You just wanted to keep it as your private treasure. Your own source of happiness to remember and smile about as you settled into bed in the evening.

But you would have to come up with something. Soon. 

Because your monthly blood has been gone for three cycles now.

Placing your hand on the slight curve of your belly became a habit as you cooked something over the hearth, or looked at the flowers. You tried controlling yourself when you were outside, to not draw the curious attention of a few gossipy hens in the settlement. 

You were stirring soup, thinking up some ridiculous story about a hunter you passed in the woods when looking for nuts, who made you swoon but then left you - that bastard! - when you sensed a particular change in the air.

Somehow, you knew one of the gods was here. 

You licked your lips before slowly turning around. By the open window that looked right onto your thriving garden stood Steve. Relaxed in his posture, he watched you with easy affection. 

“Hi.” You squeaked out.

Your face heated up with embarrassment, but you had no idea how you were supposed to greet a god. A god who took your virginity and participated in a carnal ruin of your body. Who also showed you care and protection. 

“Hello, Swallow.” Steve smiled, his blue eyes twinkling. 

He moved towards you, taking steady, unrushed steps. Nothing changed about him. He was still tall and impressively built. Solid comfort and lively energy pulsed from him, tempting you to simply lean against him and feel like you belonged. 

Steve traced your cheek with the back of his hand, which then slid down your side. When he splayed it over your belly your breath hitched in your chest.

“Hello, tiny chick.” His gaze flicked down for a moment, before returning to your face. 

“How do you know?” You asked.

Steve tilted his head to the side slightly, giving you a pointed look. Right. God of fertility.

“Is it a general godly power, or is it because you’re the god of fertility?” You weren’t certain yet if your nervousness increased because of his presence, or because you feared what he might make of your state. 

“It’s mine.” He replied, moving both of his hands to hold your waist and pull you a little closer to him. 

Heart paused in your chest then restarted with a wild flutter. Your own hands rested on Steve’s chest, and the god made no indication of displeasure at the contact. 

“You mean the power is yours, or-”

“Both.” He said with certainty, pulling you so close that your belly touched his. 

You were about to ask how he could be sure of that - after all, two other gods filled you aplenty that day - but you remembered who Steve was. Though it made you a little curious if he would have to not fuck you at all to give the other gods a chance to breed you.

“Are you going to take away my baby?” Your gaze dropped down as you asked him, fear clutching at your throat. 

While you were anxious how the community would take your pregnancy out of wedlock (out of any relationship), you didn’t even consider not having that baby. Maybe it wasn't the creation of love, but still came from a day full of intimacy and happiness. It wasn’t a regret. 

A frown marred Steve’s forehead, eyes narrowing as he looked at you in confusion. After a moment his face cleared into understanding. Your heart would call it affection, even. 

“No, pretty Swallow.” He smiled. “I’m taking you both home.” 

“What?” You stared up at him, not sure if you heard him right.  

“You’re growing a little god. Even the most supportive community won’t be able to care for you, or help you enough when he grows into his powers.” Steve explained calmly. 

“Besides-” corner of his mouth curved in a cheeky smirk- “I wouldn’t miss the opportunity of watching you grow with my child. Or filling you more.”

Somehow you knew Steve wouldn’t hurt or punish you in any way if you protested, though you weren’t certain he would honor your refusal. He was a god, he got what he wanted at all times. However, his words pulled on a string of longing that stretched from your ribcage ever since you lost your parents. 

Steve said he wanted to take you home. Not to his domain, but a place where you could belong and build a connection with someone who would care for you and for your child. 

The prospect of spending nights in the arms of the god wasn’t repulsive either. 

“Will I survive it?” You asked quietly. 

The question was loaded with layers of worries; from the basic wariness about human carrying a god in her womb, to potential heartbreak if Steve discarded you after a while. 

“No harm, no sadness, no cold will ever reach you again.” He vowed. “You will grow children and gardens. And mercy in gods’ cynical hearts.” 

Tears stung beneath your eyelids. You curled into his embrace, wrapping your arms around him and pressing your face into his chest. A single tear slid down your cheek as you felt Steve press a kiss to the crown of your head. 

A smell of moss and sun-warmed earth filled the air. Beneath you the floorboards creaked and dissolved. On your next blink your surroundings were completely different. No longer the walls of your cottage, no view at the small garden, no sounds of the chickens clucking. 

You were in your new home. With someone to build an infinity with. 

[verytyphoonfun]

Sheltered farmboy Clark hates doggy with a passion. He thinks it’s degrading to women, and he hates it because he can’t see your pretty face. He wants to see your hazy eyes after a good fuck, wants to kiss you when he cums.

But you beg and plead and even cry. He trusted you for everything else, why not this?! You even give him the silent treatment for exactly 18 minutes. That’s enough to break him.

So Clark bends you over on your bed, apologizing profusely. His mama would smack him over the head for treating his girl like this. But he can’t deny how good you look, ass perked up in the air. You wiggle impatiently too.

Clark can see everything as he nudges your lips apart with the tip, how it glistens with each pass. He can watch as he slowly presses in, your puffy pussy struggling to take every thick inch. Your cute hole back there winks back at him too.

Clark settles his hands on your waist, slowly pushing into you. You gasp at the feeling; he’s so thick and long, and this position has him in your lungs. But when you nod weakly and tell him to move, all that blurs along with your vision.

It’s perfect, the angle hitting the right spots just enough to have you keening. You push back against his every thrust, your pussy soaking everything. There’s soft little plaps as his balls smack against your clit, and each one has your breath catching. Clark shifts his angle, just to get a better seat on his knees.

“Right there!” You cry out in a strangled whimper. You can feel his tip pressing on a new spot, right against the back. You go boneless and collapse face first. “There, Clarkie!”

Your desperate whimper has Clark whimpering too,. You can feel his hands tight on your waist, bringing you back. Clark’s staring at that little frothy ring around the base of his cock, and something snaps. He goes harder, knocking each whimper out of you with a groan of his own. Clark’s hand drifts to your clit, rubbing soft circles and sending you flying into your orgasm. Usually this is when Clark would stop .

But Clark’s too entranced with how your pussy nearly refuses to let go as he pulls back. He’ll even brush a thumb over your spread folds, and come at the sight of your pussy fluttering.

Later, when you’re spent with his seed dripping outof you, Clark will fuss over you. He’ll apologize for going too hard and too long.

“Next time, pull my hair,” You mumble .

Clark turns bright red at that, and protests amidst gasps and sputters. But the twitch of his cock against his thigh means you’ll get your way once again.

[gremlin-girly]

The Gladiator

Gladiator!Curtis Everett x f!wealthy!reader

Part 1 | Part 2 -> | When In Rome AU | Navigation

Not beta'd. I do not give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI machine. all my work is 18+. Header made in Canva with pics from Pinterest (credit to OG creators). Dividers and reblog banners by @/saradika-graphics

Tags/warnings: Historic AU, mentions of slaves/servants, derogatory views of women, animal abuse (not by Curtis or reader), abuse, death, injury, violence, gore (as a precaution), 3rd person POV (for Curtis' chapter)

Summary: Famed Gladiator Curtis fights for his freedom in the coloseum, against friends and foes alike. After his fifth fight in the crowd, he is approached by a shadowy stranger who tells him they know someone who could help buy him from his slaver.

Word count: 1.2ish k

Author's note: I've tried to keep all fics in this AU as historically accurate as possible - hence the vast warnings. But I may also get things wrong! More notes are at the end of the chapter.

The thud of his own blood pumping buried fury through his veins drowned out the screams of the crowd. A sword collided with his shield with a loud bang that echoed in Curtis' ears as he ducked and jabbed at his assailant with reckoning force. His short sword missed on the first and second blows, attempting to get his opponent on the backfoot - and it worked. On his third blow, his short sword slid between the armour plates and Curtis lunged forward, driving the blade home into the flesh of the gladiator before him.

The gladiator seemed shocked he had been bested and Curtis' eyes softened. The gladiator had fought well - Curtis had a few nasty cuts that were sure to scar - but he was young. He couldn't have had more than two fights, three at best, but he was still no match for Curtis. Curtis had been fighting for what felt like a lifetime before being brought into the colosseum. Experience and sheer size made Curtis formidable - odds forever in his favour; although his master never gave him much of the cut.

The gladiator sputters, bright red blood hiccupping from his lips as the light in his eyes dims slowly. As his soul fades Curtis bows his head and closes his eyes in silent respect before unsheathing his sword and raising it above his head. He turns as the body collapses at his feet letting the roar of the crowd wash over him, his ruby red sword glistening viciously in the bright light of day.

It was dark when Curtis was escorted back to his quarters. The dogs barked and growled as he and two of his master's guards walked in. The dogs were covered in filth and grime - aggravated for another fight that his master would undoubtedly set up - and one earned a sharp kick from the bigger of the passing guards when it snapped at his ankle. Curtis looked into the wide, frightened eyes of the dog as it whined and shrank away from the bars of the cage and saw himself reflected back in its pupils. He remained silent as his own cage was opened and he stepped inside dutifully.

The door to his quarters was barred. He had little privacy and few belongings, whatever he did earn his master took the majority, leaving him with very little to his name. Purposefully done to ensure he remained on top form and unable to escape the deal he had secured for himself. Away from the other gladiators, imprisoned near the colosseum; sealed from camaraderie and brothels - alone with no friend nor lover to save him from himself, only the wild dogs and animals to serve as a reminder that he was less than human.

To become a free man he would need to win ten fights in the coloseum - that was his deal with Wilford. A deal that Curtis knew Wilford only took because he knew he could make more of a profit from Curtis regardless of whether he lived or died. On top of colosseum fights, Curtis was enlisted in backstreet brawls that would turn extra profit - some injuries lasting until his fights in the colosseum, putting him at a disadvantage against his opponents. However, Curtis just so happened to be set on living. Becoming a free man would destroy Wilford's ego; a slave that became his equal. And an equal that would fell him in a fair fight.

Curtis was silent as his door screeched shut and the light from his guards' lanterns swayed and dimmed as they left him in darkness. He sighed as the lock turned in the entrance to Wilford's colosseum cellar, trapping him in darkness with the pitiful howls of the dogs.

Soon, he'd be free. Only five more fights to go and he'd be free.

And his first act of freedom would be to slit Wilford's throat.

The creak of the door opening had Curtis awake in seconds. Years of torment and abuse had trained his body and mind to be awake at any foreign movement. Yet, he lay still. He had learned, with what little light peeked through the cracks of the cellar, to be able to discern the time of day. His brain was still foggy and no warmth from the sun entered from the door above; so it stood to reason he may have only had a few hours worth of sleep.

The footsteps that descended the stairs were barely audible - not like the heavy boots of the guards and their armour that clanked obnoxiously. Nor were they the confident strides of Wilford himself. This was a new person, one that Curtis did not know and one that had snuck into his keep. The sound of paws scraped along the ground as the dogs stood to attention, silent as they watched the stranger approach. Curtis still couldn't see but when the stranger walked too close to a caged dog that snapped at their ankles there was a squeak of shock and then a nashing of teeth as something was thrown to the dog to placate it.

"A woman shouldn't be down here alone." Curtis said unto the darkness.

There was a pause. Then a sigh.

"If you could see me, you would know that I am not what you would call a woman." There was a shuffle of feet as the person moved closer to the bars of Curtis' cell. "You fought well today."

"Who are you?" Curtis sits up and assesses the vague shadow that stands near his cell. From the voice and figure alone, he knew it was a woman but was still confused by her answer.

"Nobody." Says the woman curtly. "And when a woman pays you a compliment, you ought to pay her back in kind."

"You said you weren't a woman." Curtis replies. "Nor can I see you. What compliment should I pay a shadow that has woken me after a fight?"

A snort echoes throughout the cellar. "Quick-witted. I'm sure my friend will greatly appreciate a slave so intelligent as you."

Curtis stands slowly, for once blessing the fact that he had no bed that creaked as he rose. He took no pleasure in thinking of snapping the woman's neck but the insult of his freedom, and this potentially being another cruel trick orchestrated by Wilford, left him no choice. He creeped forward until he stood before the shadow woman before speaking again.

"Watch your tongue before you lose it."

The shadow didn't shrink away or yelp as he thought it would. "Oh dear, did I hit a nerve?" Comes an airy reply. "Darling gladiator don't be naieve to think you're the first man to threaten me. Nor the last."

There's an impatient sigh before the shadow woman continues. "Forgive my rudeness, gladiator. I am merely a messenger for a friend."

Curtis huffs. "A friend of Wilford, I assume?"

"Heh." Comes the bitter bark from the shadows. "More like common enemy."

Curtis' eyebrows raise but he remains guarded. From the demeanour of the shadow woman, it seems like what she says is true.

"I hope you don't take offense," the shadow woman says cautiously, though her voice betrays a hint of sarcasm. "But my friend wishes to buy you from Wilford."

"Oh really?"

"For what it's worth, I told her it was a rather stupid idea to free a brute." The shadow woman says, a waft of perfume cuts through the stale air of the cellar, as she waves a hand dismissively. "I have been told your demeanour is cold and unpleasant and I do not find it the least bit untrue. You are a perfect gladiator but unfit for the life of a servant or exoletus."

Curtis' hand rushes forward in an attempt to grab the shadow woman's neck but his wrist is yanked hard. Caught off guard, Curtis' head smacks the iron bar and he can feel the cold edge of a blade at his throat.

"Temper, temper, little gladiator." The shadow woman tuts. "You would really allow for your pride to get in the way of your chance at freedom?"

Curtis grins. "You're definitely no woman."

"No. I did say as much." His hand is released but the blade stays at his neck. "You're not the only one who hates Wilford. If you want revenge, consider the offer. My friend will stop by in two nights' time to hear your answer."

The knife is removed and the shadow takes a step back further into the darkness. "I'll also suggest she bring an oil lamp to better glare at you in your cage."

"Oh ho," Curtis sneers. "A she?"

"And I would hope you would be a little more polite to her." The darkness chuckles, footsteps ascending the stairs.

"What makes you think I'll accept?" Curtis calls out.

"Because you have no other choice."

And with that, the door opens and closes again so quietly Curtis believes the whole interaction may have been a dream. Yet he still lay awake for the rest of the night trying to think of who could hate Wilford more than him? And who had that much money to spare to purchase Wilford's top gladiator?

Part 1 END

A/N: exoletus = male prostitute

Shadow Lady is not our dear reader - we will meet her in the next part ;)

I've been sat on this for a while and I know I haven't posted in a while so I thought it would be a nice fresh start :)

For reblogs of my fics follow @grems-library or join my taglist here

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[stargazingfangirl18]

This thot made me think of you.

Curtis, all scary and a growly, comes up to tell us we're in his seat. We apologise nervously and get up. He sits but catches us before we go and forces us into his lap.

I love that this thot made you think of me. You know I’m such a hoe for Curtis 🤭

You didn’t realize that you had gone to the wrong bar until it was too late.

You were “too introverted.” Everyone always nagged you about it, encouraged you to be more social, more spontaneous.

So after talking through what felt like some only mildly intimidating ways to get outside of your comfort zone with your therapist, you focused on the first adventure on your list.

Going to see your favorite local band live by yourself.

You decided to make a solo date night out of it. Got all dolled up, felt cute and, while not quite confident, you felt ready to step outside of your comfort zone in this way.

Only, when you arrived at the bar, it seemed so much darker and dingier than the photos on Instagram.

Your nerves, which were already swirling inside of you like an anxiety tsunami, ratcheted up to an 11 as you got a glimpse of a few rough looking characters before scurrying over to the empty table at the center of the room.

You figured it would be the best seat in the house for the show.

Only the longer you sat there waiting, the more you began to doubt you were in the right place.

A jukebox was playing loudly from the corner of the room—a nonstop soundtrack of punk rock and metal.

And despite the fact that the show was set to start in half an hour’s time, you didn’t see any sort of makeshift stage or area for the band to set up.

Brow furrowed, you pulled your phone from your bag and pulled up the bar’s Instagram, your stomach sinking and your face flooding with the heat of humiliation when you realized you were at the wrong place.

You couldn’t even do one thing right, could you?

This is why you preferred to stay at home. It was easier. Safer. You knew what to expect, you had a routine, it kept you calm and quiet and—

“You’re in my seat,” a deep voice growled.

You startled so badly that you dropped your phone on the small wood table at which you sat. Your wide gaze lifted up and up to find a tall, broad stranger looming over you.

His hair was dark and shorn close to his head, his features handsome but surly. He had bright blue eyes that were narrowed on you and a silver lip ring that made your gaze linger. He wore dark skinny jeans, scuffed combat boots, and a sleeveless tshirt that put his tattoo-covered arms on full display.

You watched as his arm muscles flexed, his long fingers twitching at his sides the longer you stared at him—still startled and frozen in your seat.

Well, his seat, apparently.

Feeling another wash of shame flood your cheeks, you timidly glanced around the bar, noting a few mean grins and eager gazes aimed your way.

You got the sense that this was this man’s regular seat, and everyone knew it.

Everyone except you.

“Can’t you read?” He gristled at you, regaining your attention.

You blinked, quavering a quiet, “Yes?”

He leaned down, jabbing his finger at the worn wood table top. You squinted in the dim light of the bar before you realized the carving etched into the surface of the wood wasn’t random, it spelled a name in jagged, artsy scrawl.

Curtis.

“I’m…I’m so sorry,” you stammered, quickly rising to your feet. “I didn’t realize…”

You fumbled with your bag, meaning to step out of the way, but Curtis’ imposing figure blocked your path.

This time, it was his gaze taking inventory of you. His eyes were slow to inch over your body, taking their time as they drank in your cute little dress and denim jacket combo, and all of your colorful accessories.

You looked so out of place, Curtis’ lips tilted at the corners, his silver lip ring glinting as it caught the light and his gaze—darker than before—lifted to meet yours.

Something about the way he watched you now made your belly somersault and roil all at once. You felt suddenly scared, eager to leave, desperate to, and inched around him cautiously, wincing as your front brushed his.

You barely made it a step away before Curtis heavily dropped into the seat you just vacated. His big hand shot out, grasping your wrist like a vice and making you squeak.

His eyes flashed feral—predatory—at that sweet sound before he roughly yanked you back toward him, until you were sprawled in his lap and gasping as some of the other patrons laughed and hooted.

“What are you—“ you started, trying to shove away from Curtis, but your words cut off into a frightened whimper as his hand harshly collared the nape of your neck and tilted your scared gaze up to his.

“You keep squirming like that, I’m gonna take it as an invitation to fill you with my cock right here, while everyone watches.”

You released a shaky exhale, going still as you stared into his dark blue gaze.

Curtis leaned closer, eyes glittering as he whispered, “Good girl,” before sitting back as a waitress appeared beside the table and set down a beer before him.

She didn’t even look at you, in fact, few people did now as your frantic gaze darted around the room, desperate for someone, anyone, to step in and help you.

“They won’t help you,” Curtis murmured, as if he could read your mind. “Cause they know who’s in charge around here. Which seems like a lesson you still need to learn.”

He arranged you in his lap so you sat back against him, trembling hard as Curtis’ hand leisurely smoothed down your side, then over your thigh before shoving between your legs to cup your cunt.

You could feel Curtis grin against the side of your throat as you whined and snapped your legs shut around his hand.

“Be good and quiet while I finish my drink,” he rumbled, reaching for his beer. “Then I’ll take you to the back room and claim your sweet good girl pussy just like I claimed this seat.”

—

Shoutout to @krirebr for helping me come up with a scenario that worked for this!!! ❤️The very first thot that torpedoed into my brain when I read this ask was Curtis with a lip ring 🥴 Then I started imagining him a little punk but also really scary, and didn’t want to go the usual mobster or biker route. So, here we are 🤭

[thezombieprostitute]

Kept Man

Summary: The life of a Kept Man ain't all it's cracked up to be.

A/N: Reader is female. No other physical descriptors used.

Warnings: Dub/non con, Emotional abuse, Implied violence, Manipulation, Smut. Please let me know if I missed any!

"Oh Cuuuuurtiiiis!"

Curtis winces as he hears the call of his Wife. That's the tone she uses right before telling him she's doing him a favor. A favor that always ends up being something he despises. He swears she picks his least favorite things on purpose, a regular reminder of the power she has over him.

Sure, legally he has the option of quitting as her Kept Man, a part of her harem. But the reality wasn't so easy. She would be called by any future employers or Wives and she, undoubtedly, would tell them the worst things, lies or truth. He'd be hopeless in terms of prospects.

She bounds down the hallway into his compartment in the harem space. She's wearing an incredibly short, sleeveless dress and he already knows what she wants. She's going to take him to a crowded bar where she'll entice some jackass and he'll have to step in and punch the guy's lights out. Then she'll drag him back to her bed for the kind of rough sex that leaves bruises on her neck that she'll show off. She'll claim she's helping him burn off steam. But she's actually making it worse.

"Now don't look so pouty, you big grump," she mocks. "We're going out on the town! That's fun!"

Maybe if I was allowed to get drunk, he thinks. "How do you want me to dress?"

"Hmm," she puts a finger on her lips, pretending as if she doesn't already know. "How about a polo shirt, with all the little buttons undone so I can see your chest hair. Those dark jeans that make your ass look so smackable. Oh! And the leather jacket!"

"Any cologne preferences?"

"Whatever that one I got you for your birthday is. I can never remember the name for it, I just know I like it."

"I'll get to it," Curtis grunts as he stands.

She screams in pleasure as Curtis slams his cock into her. The night went as he predicted and now he's pretending to give her the angry, feral sex she's been craving.

"You're such a slut, dressing like that," he growls, following the script. "You want to get fucked like you're just a set of holes for men to use."

He has to growl these things because he's lost the anger he once had. Growling appeases her, makes him sound like he's actually angry. In truth, he can't be angry where he feels numb. But he has to keep pretending, for her pleasure and his sake. She controls his future. If he plays along, maybe she'll grow tired of him and let him leave on good terms.

It's his only real hope right now.

Curtis has some time for himself. His Wife went on a week long vacation with Colin, another of her harem. The one who actually gets to have fun.

He gets his allowance from the Husband and takes himself out for a walk. He's not sure where he's going, but he knows he needs to get out of the building. Maybe even outside of the city, at least for a little bit. Curtis gets on the first bus that he sees and decides to ride until either the end of the route or until he sees something that catches his eye.

Putting his forehead against the bus window, he tries to let himself just breathe. Ignore the living situation, that doesn't have to be his whole life. He really should try some hobbies other than the gym the Husband has invested in. But everything he thinks of, even just knitting, his brain goes to all the ways the Wife will twist it to her own purposes. There are no secrets from her in that place. And she makes sure everyone knows it all belongs to her. Including the men.

It shouldn't be like this, he knows. A lot of people probably know. But that's just how it is. If a man wants to not starve to death, he has to make a woman happy. Or at least give her pleasure. During his required military service he worked in the masonry & carpentry occupational services division and found he'd liked the work. He'd even hoped he could find a job to support himself with it. But, according to every construction company he applied to, guys like him were a dime-a-dozen. There were too many men applying for too few jobs.

When she came along, he thought she was the answer to his prayers. A relatively easy life, regular money. But now he knows she was actually a demon, manipulating him, twisting his desires and needs to her pleasure. He's tried to complain to what little family he has but they tell him that he should be grateful he's not on the street. That she's not beating him. That it's his own fault for not double checking the contract, even though he couldn't afford a lawyer.

It could never be the woman's fault. Ever.

Ducking your security detail was getting easier these days. You're fairly certain Mother stopped caring so much about your well-being. Then again, did she ever actually care or was it all just theater for her adoring public?

Such is the life of a second daughter, you suppose. Especially the second daughter of a noble. Mandy, your older sister, will inherit everything. You're supposed to get along well enough with her that she'll hire you for some cushy job, but fuck that. If that was how things were supposed to be, Mandy would be less of a bitch to you.

Besides, you kinda like seeing how "the common folk" live. Maybe you can find a Husband out in the wild and really shake up the courts.

Tagging: @agustdboyoongie; @alicedopey; @alphabetically-deranged; @blobfishlol; @delicatebarness; @icefrozendeadlyqueen; @irishhappiness; @iwudbutnah; @kmc1989; @lokislady82; @peaches1958; @ronearoundblindly; @stellar-solar-flare; @thiquefunlover63