summary. you get too drunk out with jared. when he finally manages to get you back to your apartment, you're a needy mess, ready to use your best friend.
wordcount. 1115
warnings. explicit sexual content, dry humping, manhandling, size kink, thigh riding, alcohol intoxication (reader drunk, consensual but impaired), blurred friends-with-benefits boundaries, dirty talk, praise kink, passing out from exhaustion/intoxication, no penetrative sex, early 2000s setting.
the bar lights are hazy, spinning slow like the room when you stand up too fast. it’s been a shit day—boss yelling, traffic jam from hell, spilled coffee on your favorite shirt—and the tequila shots you’ve been slamming with jared haven’t helped. or maybe they have. everything’s blurry around the edges now, warm and loose.
jared’s laughing at something you said—big, booming sound that cuts through the noise. he’s huge next to you, always has been—six-foot-four of texas boy, broad shoulders straining his faded gilmore girls crew t-shirt, long legs in worn jeans. early 2000s vancouver is cold outside, but in here it’s stuffy, and his arm around your shoulders feels like safety.
“time to go, lightweight,” he teases, voice low and fond. “before you faceplant on the bar.”
you whine, lean into him heavier. “one more shot?”
“nope.” he hauls you up—easy, like you weigh nothing—and you’re draped over his side, feet stumbling. the bartender waves; jared tosses cash on the counter with his free hand.
outside, the air hits cold—february wind whipping off the water. you shiver; jared shrugs off his jacket without a word, wraps it around you. it swallows you whole—sleeves dangling past your hands.
“my hero,” you slur, giggling.
he rolls his eyes. “c’mon. three blocks to your place.”
you make it two steps before your heel catches on a crack. jared catches you—big hands on your waist, steadying. “jesus. alright, up you go.”
before you can protest, he bends, scoops you up like a sack of potatoes—over his shoulder, ass in the air, head dangling down his back. you squeal, fists thumping his spine weakly.
“jared! put me down!”
“nope.” his voice rumbles through his chest. one arm locks around your thighs, holding you secure; the other hand pats your ass casually. “you’ll break an ankle. or puke on my shoes.”
you laugh—dizzy, upside-down world blurring. his strides are long, eating up sidewalk. “you’re so tall. everything looks funny from up here.”
“enjoy the view.”
three flights of stairs. no elevator in your shitty walk-up. jared doesn’t even breathe hard—carries you like luggage, big hand splayed warm on your thigh, fingers digging in just enough to make you squirm.
by the time he fishes your keys from your pocket—awkward angle, hand brushing places that make you gasp—he’s got you inside, door kicked shut behind. he flips you down onto the couch—gentle, but firm. you bounce once, head spinning.
“water,” he says, already heading to the kitchen. “and advil. you’re gonna hate tomorrow.”
you whine, flop back against the cushions. “don’t wanna sleep yet. too needy.”
he freezes in the doorway. “what?”
you sit up—wobbly—jared’s jacket slipping off one shoulder. “needy. horny. whatever. shit day. wanna feel good.”
jared’s eyes darken. he sets the glass down hard on the counter. “you’re drunk.”
“so?” you stand—unsteady—pad toward him. “you’re my best friend. help a girl out.”
he towers over you—chest broad, arms crossed like he’s trying to hold himself back. “not like this. not when you’re sloshed.”
“please?” you press against him, hands on his chest, feeling the heat through cotton. “just—let me use you a little. no big deal.”
his jaw ticks. hands come to your hips—big, engulfing—holding you steady. “you’re gonna regret this in the morning.”
“won’t.” you grind against his thigh once—experimental—and gasp at the friction. “fuck. you’re so big everywhere.”
jared groans—low, defeated. “jesus. fine. but we’re keepin’ clothes on. and if you say stop, we stop.”
“deal.”
he maneuvers you easy—turns, sits on the couch, pulls you onto his lap in one fluid motion. you straddle one massive thigh—jeans rough against your panties under the skirt. his hands span your waist, thumbs brushing ribs.
“like this?” he murmurs. voice rougher now. “gonna hump my leg like a needy little thing?”
you nod—frantic—already rolling your hips. the pressure is perfect—his thigh hard, muscled, so much bigger than yours. friction drags right over your clit through thin cotton.
“fuck—yeah. look at you. ridin’ my thigh like it’s your job.”
his hands guide you—big palms on your ass, squeezing, urging you faster. you whine, head falling forward against his shoulder. alcohol buzzes in your veins, makes everything hotter, looser.
“so wet already,” he growls. “can feel you soakin’ through my jeans. makin’ a mess on me.”
“jared—”
“that’s it. say my name. tell me how good it feels.”
“so good—fuck—you’re huge. thigh’s bigger than my whole leg.”
he laughs—dark, breathy. one hand slides up your back, tangles in your hair, tugs your head back so he can see your face. “size kink much?”
“your fault. be less giant.”
he flexes his thigh—muscle bunching under you—and you jolt, grinding harder. “like that? like feelin’ how big i am? how i could break you if i wanted?”
“yes—god—don’t stop—”
he doesn’t. keeps flexing, bouncing his leg just enough to add extra friction. his other hand slips under your skirt, fingers brushing the edge of your panties. “these are ruined. should just rip ‘em off.”
“do it.”
he does—one sharp tug and they snap. cool air hits your slick folds; you grind down bare now, wet heat dragging over denim.
“fuck—yeah. now it’s all over me. your pussy juice soakin’ my jeans. gonna smell like you for days.”
dirty talk pours out of him—filthy, possessive. “gonna come like this? humpin’ my thigh like a desperate slut? my best friend, usin’ me to get off ‘cause she had a bad day?”
“yes—close—jared—”
“do it. come on my leg. shake for me. wanna feel you fall apart.”
his hands manhandle you harder—lifting you slightly, slamming you back down on his thigh in rhythm with your rolls. the impact jolts through you— clit catching perfect every time.
you shatter—back arching, nails digging into his shoulders, a broken cry muffled against his neck. thighs quake around his; wetness floods, soaking his jeans darker.
“that’s my girl,” he murmurs. “good girl. keep goin’. ride it out.”
you do—shaking, whimpering, grinding through aftershocks until everything spins. alcohol and orgasm crash together—head fuzzy, body limp.
jared lifts you easy—cradles you against his chest like a child. “alright, princess. time for bed.”
you mumble something incoherent. he carries you to the bedroom—three long strides—lays you down gentle. tucks you in, presses a kiss to your forehead.
“sleep it off. we’ll talk tomorrow.”
you’re out before the door clicks shut.
morning comes with a headache and hazy memories.
jared’s in the kitchen—making coffee, jeans from last night hanging low on his hips. dark stain on the thigh.
he catches you staring. grins slow.
“mornin’. feel better?”
you blush. “about last night—”
“don’t.” he hands you a mug. “no regrets. but next time? sober. and i get to do more than watch.”
summary. sam loves to fuck you when you're on your period.
wordcount. 1090
warnings. explicit sexual content, period sex, p in v, messy/bloody elements (very realistic period mess, kinda gross), fingering, dirty talk with heavy emphasis on wetness/mess, motel bed destruction, sam being feral & obsessive about the mess.
i wrote this last week when i was on my period, so you can blame the hormones. theo posting this is very reticent but also proud at the same time
you’re sprawled on your back in the middle of the sagging queen bed, legs spread, knees bent, one foot planted on the mattress while the other dangles off the edge.
the towel you shoved under your hips is already soaked through—dark red blooming in uneven patches. you’re on day two. heavy flow. the kind that makes you feel swollen, sensitive, a little feral yourself.
sam doesn’t care.
he’s kneeling between your thighs, shirt gone, jeans still on but unzipped, cock thick and flushed in his fist. his eyes are locked on the mess between your legs—your swollen folds glistening with blood and slick, clit peeking out, begging. he drags two long fingers through the wetness, coating them red with a low, obscene groan.
“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re so wet. look at this.”
his voice is wrecked—deeper than usual, gravel-rough. he spreads you open with both thumbs, exposing everything. another slow drag of his fingers, gathering more of the crimson slick, smearing it up over your clit in lazy circles. you jolt, hips twitching.
“sam—”
“shh.” he leans down, breath hot against your cunt. “let me look. been thinking about this all day. how fuckin’ slippery you get. how you drip everywhere. how you stain everything.”
he presses the pad of his thumb flat against your entrance—slow pressure, no penetration yet—just feeling the way your body yields, the way more blood-tinged slick wells up and coats his skin. he groans again, louder this time.
“goddamn. you’re making such a mess already and i haven’t even fucked you yet.”
you whimper. the combination of cramps, hormones, and his filthy mouth has you throbbing. “then do it.”
sam’s grin is feral. “oh i will. but first—”
he slides two fingers inside you—easy, deep, no resistance at all. your walls flutter around him instantly. he curls them, strokes that spot that makes your toes curl, and more wetness gushes out—red-streaked, obscene. it drips down his wrist, soaks the already-ruined towel, starts seeping into the sheets beneath.
“there it is,” he mutters. “fuckin’ soaked. dripping all over my hand. you love this, don’t you? love how nasty it gets.”
“yes—sam—please—”
he pulls his fingers out slow—strings of slick and blood connecting them to your entrance—then shoves them back in harder. once. twice. three times. the wet squelch is loud in the quiet room. your hips buck. he pins you down with his free forearm across your lower belly, keeping you still while he finger-fucks you through the mess.
“look at the bed,” he growls. “look what you’re doing to it. ruining it. red everywhere. gonna have to pay extra when we check out ‘cause my girl can’t stop leaking for me.”
you moan—high, broken. the pressure builds fast, different on your period—sharper, fuller. he adds a third finger, stretching you wide, and you cry out.
“that’s it. take it. take my fingers like you’re gonna take my cock. gonna fill you up so deep you’ll feel me for days. gonna mix everything—your blood, your come, my come. gonna make the biggest fuckin’ mess this bed’s ever seen.”
he pulls his hand free—fingers glistening dark red—and smears the mess across your inner thighs, painting stripes like war paint. then he’s shoving his jeans down, kicking them off, cock springing free—thick, veined, leaking at the tip.
he notches himself at your entrance. rubs the head through your folds—coating himself in red and slick—then pushes in slow.
the stretch is intense. fuller than usual. you gasp, back arching. sam’s eyes roll back for a second.
“fuck—fuck—tight. so tight. and so wet. jesus christ, baby. feel that? feel how easy you take me? like your pussy was made for this.”
he bottoms out—hips flush to yours—and stays there, grinding slow circles, letting you feel every inch buried deep. blood and slick smear between you, dripping down his balls, staining the sheets darker.
“look at us,” he rasps. “look how messy we are. my cock’s covered in you. your thighs are red. the bed’s fucked. and i’m not even close to done.”
he starts moving—long, deep strokes that drag against every sensitive spot. the wet sounds are filthy—sloppy, rhythmic, unmistakable. every thrust pushes more mess out around his cock, dripping onto the towel, soaking through to the mattress.
“gonna come inside you,” he pants. “gonna fill you up. gonna mix it all together. you want that? want me to come in your bloody pussy?”
“yes—god—yes—”
his pace turns brutal. hips snapping hard. one big hand wraps around your throat—not squeezing, just holding—while the other grips your hip, yanking you into every thrust. the headboard bangs the wall. the bed creaks dangerously.
“fuck—look at you. takin’ it so good. makin’ such a pretty mess. gonna come like this? gonna soak my cock while i’m buried in you?”
you’re close—dangerously close. the pressure is overwhelming—cramps and pleasure twisting together until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. your nails rake down his back. he hisses, fucks you harder.
“come on,” he growls. “come for me. make it messier. wanna feel you gush around me. wanna see it drip out when i pull out.”
that does it.
you shatter—back bowing, thighs shaking, a broken cry tearing from your throat. your walls clamp down hard around him, pulsing, more slick and blood flooding out around his cock. sam swears—loud, wrecked—and slams in deep one last time.
he comes with a guttural groan—hot, thick pulses filling you. his hips jerk through it, grinding against your clit, drawing out your orgasm until you’re both trembling, oversensitive, panting.
he doesn’t pull out right away.
stays buried, softening slowly, letting everything leak out around him—red-tinged come and slick dripping down your ass, pooling on the towel, soaking the sheets beneath.
sam finally leans down, kisses you slow and filthy.
“look what we did,” he murmurs against your lips. “fucked the bed to hell. gonna have to flip the mattress before housekeeping comes.”
you laugh—breathless, shaky. “worth it.”
he grins—lazy, satisfied—then glances down at the disaster between your legs.
“yeah.” he drags two fingers through the mess again, brings them to his mouth, sucks them clean. “definitely worth it.”
he collapses beside you, pulling you against his chest. one arm wraps around your waist, the other hand resting possessively over your lower belly.
“gonna clean you up in a minute,” he mumbles into your hair. “but right now… just stay like this. let me feel how messy we are.”
Heyyy I dont know if you are doing requests but I got referred to here by one of my fav writers, wendichester. So, Could you write a Dean X Reader, who loves sucking on cherry lollipops. And one day she gets an idea. She straddles him and swipes the lollipop on his lips, making them red and glossy. And asks him to kiss her so she can eat it off his lips. Thank you in advance ;)
summary. you love to tease dean any chance you get. and lollipops just became his favorite sweet.
wordcount. 956
warnings. suggestive/teasing content including light grinding, heavy making out, food play (lollipop), explicit language.
the impala is parked behind some nowhere gas station just off i-70, engine ticking cool in the late-afternoon heat. sam’s inside paying and probably grabbing another energy drink he doesn’t need. you and dean have maybe seven minutes alone.
you’re in the backseat—legs tucked under you, cherry lollipop between your lips, red tongue flicking against the candy every few seconds. dean’s twisted around in the driver’s seat, one arm slung over the backrest, green eyes locked on your mouth like it’s personally offending him.
“you gonna keep suckin’ on that thing or are you tryin’ to kill me?” he mutters, voice already rough.
you pull the lollipop out with a slow, wet pop. “jealous of candy now, winchester?”
“jealous of anything that gets to be in your mouth that isn’t me.”
you laugh—soft, low—and crawl forward over the seat. dean doesn’t move, just watches, throat working when you swing one leg over his lap and settle straddling him. the bench seat creaks under the shift. your knees bracket his hips. the lollipop hovers between you, glossy and bright.
“hold still,” you whisper.
he doesn’t.
his hands immediately find your thighs, squeezing once, hard, like he’s anchoring himself.
you drag the sticky cherry tip across his bottom lip. red smears in a glossy line. dean’s breath catches. you trace the curve of his upper lip next, painting him careful and obscene. his mouth parts on instinct; you swipe the candy over the seam, letting him taste the sweetness.
“fuck,” he breathes. “what’re you doin’ to me?”
“makin’ you pretty.” you lean in, nose brushing his. “now kiss me so i can eat it off you.”
dean groans—low, wrecked—and surges up to meet you.
his mouth crashes into yours, hungry. lips slick with cherry and spit. you open for him immediately; he licks inside like he’s starving, chasing the artificial sweetness you’ve painted on him. tongues slide messy, wet—cherry flavor mixing with the faint salt of his skin and the coffee he drank earlier.
you rock down against him once—slow grind—and he jerks, hips lifting to meet you. the hard line of him presses right where you want it. you do it again, dragging your clothed heat over the bulge in his jeans.
“shit—baby—” he gasps into your mouth. “you’re killin’ me.”
“good.” you nip his bottom lip, suck the last of the cherry glaze off it.
his hands slide up your thighs, under the hem of your skirt, gripping your ass hard enough to bruise. he pulls you down tighter against him, rocking you both now—slow, filthy rhythm that has the car rocking faintly on its springs.
“keep movin’ like that and i’m gonna come in my jeans like a goddamn teenager,” he pants against your throat. teeth graze your pulse point. “want that? want me to lose it just from you grindin’ on me?”
you moan—quiet, needy—fingers tangling in his hair, tugging his head back so you can lick another stripe across his swollen lips. they’re redder now, glossy with spit and melted sugar.
“maybe,” you tease. “or maybe i just like watching you fall apart.”
dean’s eyes flash—dark, desperate. “you’re evil.”
“you love it.”
“fuck yeah i do.”
he dives back in, kissing you deeper, dirtier. one hand leaves your ass to cup the back of your neck, holding you exactly where he wants you so he can devour your mouth. the other stays clamped on your hip, guiding your movements—faster now, harder. the friction is perfect; heat coils tight low in your belly.
you break the kiss just long enough to whisper against his lips. “still taste me?”
“everywhere,” he growls. “gonna taste cherry on my tongue for days.”
you grind down particularly hard—right over the head of him—and he chokes on a moan, head falling back against the seat.
“jesus—do that again—”
you do. again. and again. slow, punishing rolls that have him swearing under his breath, hips stuttering up to chase the pressure.
his hands grab yours suddenly—rough, desperate—fingers lacing tight. he brings them to his mouth, kisses your knuckles once, then pins them to the seat behind his head so you’re arched over him, chest brushing his.
“don’t stop,” he pleads—actual pleading in his voice. “don’t you fuckin’ stop.”
you don’t.
you rock faster, harder, mouths crashing together between gasps. cherry flavor fading now, replaced by salt and heat and him. his tongue licks into your mouth like he’s trying to crawl inside you. you swallow every broken sound he makes—whimpers, curses, your name over and over like a prayer.
the car windows are starting to fog.
somewhere outside, a bell jingles—gas station door.
sam’s coming back.
dean doesn’t care. neither do you.
you grind down one last time—slow, deliberate—and he shudders hard beneath you, hips jerking, a strangled groan muffled against your neck.
“fuck—baby—i’m—”
you kiss him quiet. swallow the rest of his curse. let him ride it out against you, shaking, panting, hands squeezing yours so tight your fingers ache.
when he finally stills, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged, he laughs—soft, wrecked.
“you’re dangerous,” he mutters.
you smile, kiss the corner of his sticky mouth one last time.
“you started it.”
the back door opens.
sam freezes halfway in, shop bag in one hand, eyes wide.
dean doesn’t even flinch. just grins—lazy, satisfied—lips still red and glossy.
“took you long enough, sammy.”
you laugh against dean’s throat.
sam mutters something about “gross” and slams the door shut again, climbing into the front seat without looking back.
dean squeezes your hands once more after you return to the backseat—gentle this time—before letting go.
“next gas station,” he murmurs, just for you, “i’m buyin’ a whole bag of those lollipops.”
hello!! i love ur fics and im SO GLAD i found ur acc cause ur writing is just so perfect. i cant stop thinking about dean being so drunk and begging the reader to eat her out, and almost passing out while doing so, and was thinking if i could request it by any chance?? thank u 🩷
͙͘͡★ ┊ whiskey tongue
dean winchester ٠ ࣪⭑ female reader ٠ ࣪⭑ smut
summary. dean's favorite place is between your legs. that's where he's the happiest. good for everything. even sleeping.
wordcount. 1194
warnings. explicit sexual content, oral sex (f!receiving), intoxication/alcohol use (dean heavily drunk), consensual but sloppy/enthusiastic drunk sex, begging & whining, risk of passing out mid-act, messy/desperate.
it’s past 2 a.m.
the overhead lights are too bright, buzzing like angry bees. dean’s slumped in one of the metal chairs, legs sprawled, empty bottle dangling from loose fingers. his flannel is half-unbuttoned, sleeves shoved up, hair a wreck from running his hands through it all night. his cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy and heavy-lidded, that crooked grin permanently stuck on his face.
you’re leaning against the counter in just panties and one of his old band tees, arms crossed, trying not to laugh at how pathetically adorable he is when he’s this far gone.
“c’mere,” he slurs, voice thick and wrecked. he pats his thigh like you’re a cat he’s calling over. “c’mere, baby. please.”
“you’re hammered, winchester.”
“yeah,” he nods too fast, almost tips the chair. “and i’m dyin’. swear to god i’m dyin’ if i don’t get my mouth on you right now.”
you raise an eyebrow. “you can barely stand.”
“don’t need to stand.” he licks his lips, a tease even through the haze. “just need to lie down. or sit. or—fuck—crawl. whatever. just lemme taste you. been thinkin’ about it since the bar. your pussy on my tongue. please.”
the please is so whiny it almost makes you laugh. almost. because the way he’s looking at you—pupils blown, mouth slack, cheeks pink—is doing dangerous things between your legs.
you step closer. he immediately reaches for your hips, big hands clumsy but eager, tugging you between his spread thighs.
“baby,” he groans, pressing his face to your stomach through the shirt. inhales deep like he’s trying to memorize the scent. “smell so fuckin’ good. always do. lemme—c’mon, lemme eat you out. i’ll be good. promise i’ll be so good.”
“dean—”
“please.” he tips his head back, looks up at you with those wrecked green eyes. “i’ll beg. i’ll fuckin’ beg on my knees if you want. just—need it. need you. been hard since you walked out in those little shorts earlier. hurts. hurts so bad, sweetheart.”
his hands slide under the hem of the tee, palms rough and warm on your bare skin. he’s trembling—tiny, drunk shivers.
you sigh, half fond, half already soaked.
“fine. but if you pass out mid-lick i’m leaving you on the floor.”
his face lights up like you just handed him the holy grail.
“deal. fuck yes. thank you. thank you, baby—”
you push him back gently so the chair scoots. he almost topples, catches himself on the table with a sloppy laugh. you hop up onto the edge of the heavy oak table, spread your legs. the surface is cold against your ass. you hook your thumbs in your panties, start to slide them down.
dean’s on his knees before they even hit the floor.
he’s wobbly—has to brace both hands on your thighs to stay upright—but the second his eyes land between your legs he makes this broken, starving sound.
“jesus christ,” he breathes. “look at you. so fuckin’ pretty. so wet already. all for me?”
“you’re the one who begged,” you remind him, voice breathy.
“yeah. yeah i did. and i’d do it again.” he leans in, nose brushing your inner thigh. inhales again—loud, shameless. “fuck. smell like heaven. taste even better.”
he doesn’t tease. doesn’t have the patience or coordination for it tonight.
his tongue drags up your slit in one long, messy stripe—flat and greedy. you gasp. he groans like he’s the one being touched.
“fuck—yes—” muffled against you. “so sweet. always so sweet.”
he dives in like a man starved. tongue pushing inside you, curling, thrusting sloppy and desperate. his nose bumps your clit with every forward motion. hands grip your thighs hard—fingers digging in, spreading you wider so he can get deeper.
you thread your fingers through his hair, hold on. “dean—slow down a little—”
he shakes his head—no. frantic little side-to-side. “can’t. need it. need more. please—”
he’s whining into your cunt now. actual high, needy whimpers vibrating against your clit every time he sucks it into his mouth. drool slips down his chin, mixes with your slick. the sounds are obscene—wet, loud, filthy. gluck-gluck-gluck every time he buries his face deeper.
“taste so good,” he mumbles, barely coherent. “wanna live here. just—fuck—stay here forever. tongue in your pussy. your thighs around my head. best place in the world.”
you laugh—breathless, shaky. “you’re gonna pass out, baby.”
“don’t care,” he slurs. “worth it. so fuckin’ worth it.”
he doubles down. tongue flicking fast over your clit now—messy circles, then long drags, then sucking hard enough your hips jerk off the table. one hand leaves your thigh, two thick fingers sliding inside you without warning. he curls them immediately, stroking that spot that makes your vision white out.
“dean—oh god—”
“that’s it,” he pants against you. “come on my face. wanna feel it. wanna taste it when you come. please—please come for me, baby. need it. need you to soak me.”
he’s shaking. whole body trembling—partly from the alcohol, partly from how hard he’s trying to please you. his breathing is ragged, uneven. every few seconds he has to pull back to gasp for air, lips and chin shining, eyes glassy and unfocused.
“look so pretty when you’re close,” he mumbles. “eyes all big. mouth open. fuck—gonna come just from this. just from you—”
you clench around his fingers. the pressure coils tight, fast.
“dean—i’m—”
“yes—yes—give it to me—”
he latches onto your clit again—sucking hard, tongue flicking relentlessly. fingers pumping fast. the wet sounds are deafening in the quiet kitchen.
you come hard—back arching, thighs clamping around his head, a broken cry tearing from your throat. slick floods his mouth; he groans like he’s dying, swallows greedily, keeps licking through every pulse until you’re shaking, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his forehead.
he doesn’t stop right away.
keeps lapping—slow, gentle now, cleaning you up like he’s savoring the last drops. soft little moans still slipping out. his movements are getting slower. clumsier. his grip on your thighs loosens.
“dean?”
no answer. just a muffled hum against your skin.
you look down.
his eyes are closed. lashes dark against flushed cheeks. breathing shallow, uneven. head heavy between your legs.
he’s literally falling asleep with his face still buried in your pussy.
you laugh—quiet, fond, a little breathless.
“dean.”
nothing.
you card your fingers through his hair, gentle. “baby, you’re gonna fall on your face.”
a sleepy mumble—something that might be your name, might be “so good”—then silence.
you carefully slide off the table. his head lolls forward; you catch him under the arms before he can slide to the floor. he’s heavy—dead weight—but you manage to maneuver him so his cheek rests on your thigh instead.
he sighs—content, blissed-out—even in his half-passed-out state.
you stroke his hair, smiling despite yourself.
“you’re a mess, winchester.”
no response. just soft, even breathing against your skin.
you lean down, press a kiss to the top of his head.
“sleep it off, drunk boy. we’ll talk about your begging skills in the morning.”
the kitchen light keeps buzzing overhead.
the bourbon bottle rolls lazily across the floor.
and dean—face still shiny with you—sleeps like the happiest, most pathetic, most perfect man alive.
hi! i don't know if this might sound like a bit of a strange request, but with the new season of bridgerton coming out soon, i can't get the idea of dean winchester X bridgerton out of my head. in this version, dean is a lord belonging to one of the most influential hunter families in his majesty's kingdom, and he is looking for a wife, obviously a worthy huntress like himself.
★﹐theo is typing ．﹗﹑
𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒐 .ᐟ thank you for requesting this, but i'm not really into writing royal aus.
but you might want to check @wendichester because she's putting out a new fic with the winchester brothers in the bridgerton universe.
Heyyyo, love your work, just wondering how you come up with ideas/prompts. I’m trying to work on my blog 🙃
★﹐theo is typing ．﹗﹑
𝒉𝒐𝒘𝒅𝒚 .ᐟ well... shamelessly so, i am horny all the time and i use this blog and my writing to make them come to life/paper.
if you're unsure what to write, you can always ask your followers for suggestions :)
dean winchester ٠ ࣪⭑ gender-neutral reader ٠ ࣪⭑ smut
summary. dean loves to fuck your throat. you take him so well. he cannot resist going deep.
wordcount. 1475
warnings. explicit sexual content, oral sex (m!receiving), deepthroating, gagging/choking, hair pulling, drool, tears (from gagging), swallowing, dirty talk.
also, happy birthday, dean.
the bunker’s library is dead quiet except for the low crackle of the old radiator and the wet, filthy sounds coming from under the table.
you’re on your knees between dean’s spread thighs, his chair pushed back just enough for you to fit. his flannel is open, belt undone, jeans shoved down to mid-thigh. one hand is braced on the table edge, the other tangled in your hair—not guiding yet, just holding, fingers flexing every time your tongue does something particularly cruel.
he’s been half-hard since dinner. you’d caught him staring across the table while you licked sauce off your thumb. sam had been talking about some ancient sumerian binding spell. dean hadn’t heard a word.
now sam’s gone to bed. the clock says 1:47 a.m. and dean’s cock is fully down your throat.
“fuck—there it is,” he groans, voice wrecked and quiet. “right there, baby. feel that?”
you do. the head nudges the back of your throat on every careful push forward. your eyes are already watering, lashes clumped. you blink up at him through the blur, and the way his pupils blow wide when your gazes lock makes heat coil tight in your belly.
“look at those pretty eyes,” he mutters, thumb brushing a tear off your cheek. “cryin’ for my dick. so fuckin’ good for me.”
you moan around him—low, vibrating—and his hips jerk involuntarily. more tears spill. drool leaks from the corners of your mouth, slicking down your chin in messy strings. dean watches every drop like it’s art.
“goddamn, listen to you,” he rasps. “chokin’ on it. makin’ those little whiny sounds. you love this, don’t you? love bein’ my perfect little cocksucker.”
you nod as much as his grip allows. try to hum yes. it comes out garbled, wet. another thick rope of spit drips onto his balls. he groans like he’s been punched.
“shit—do that again. make a mess. i wanna see it.”
you pull off just enough to breathe—gasping, ragged—then dive back down, taking him deeper. your nose brushes his pubic hair. throat spasms around the intrusion. you gag hard, body jerking, but you don’t pull away.
dean’s hand tightens in your hair.
the bunker is quiet tonight. no emergencies. no research marathons. just the low hum of the old vents and the faint crackle of the record player in the corner dean refuses to let anyone touch. you’re on your knees between his spread thighs, the war room chair pushed back just far enough to give you room.
dean’s jeans are open, shoved down his hips. his cock stands thick and flushed against his stomach, already slick at the tip from the way you’ve been teasing him with slow licks for the last ten minutes. he’s been patient—mostly. one hand rests heavy on the back of your head, fingers threaded loosely through your hair. the other grips the armrest so hard the leather creaks.
“c’mon, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice gravel-low. “you’ve been playin’ with it long enough. open that pretty mouth and take me like you mean it.”
you look up at him through your lashes—exactly the way you know drives him insane. his pupils blow wide. a muscle jumps in his jaw.
“there it is,” he mutters. “fuckin’ love that look. like you’re beggin’ for it without sayin’ a word.”
you part your lips. he doesn’t wait. he guides you forward—slow at first, letting you take the head, letting you swirl your tongue around it until he hisses through his teeth.
then he pushes deeper.
the stretch is immediate. your jaw aches in the best way. he fills your mouth, heavy and hot, sliding over your tongue until he bumps the back of your throat. your eyes water instantly. you gag—soft, involuntary—and dean groans like it’s the best sound he’s ever heard.
“shit—yeah, that’s it.” his fingers tighten in your hair, not yanking yet, just holding you steady. “love when you choke on me. love how your throat flutters tryin’ to take more.”
you moan around him—muffled, desperate. the vibration makes his hips jerk. more precome leaks onto your tongue; you swallow reflexively and he curses under his breath.
“fuck, baby. do that again.”
you do. swallow. hum. let the drool pool at the corners of your mouth and drip down your chin in slow, shiny strings. dean watches every second of it, eyes dark and reverent.
“look at that mess,” he growls. “droolin’ all over my cock like you can’t get enough. so fuckin’ pretty when you’re sloppy for me.”
he starts moving—slow, shallow thrusts at first, letting you adjust, letting you breathe through your nose. but he can’t hold back long. never can when you look up at him like this—eyes glassy with tears, lashes wet, cheeks flushed.
“gonna fuck your throat now,” he warns, voice rough. “gonna go deep. you ready?”
you nod as much as his grip allows. a tear slips free, tracks down your cheek. dean swipes it away with his thumb—almost tender—then pushes forward again.
deeper this time.
your throat opens on instinct. he slides past the resistance, buries himself until your nose presses against his pubic hair. you gag hard—chest heaving, throat convulsing around him. tears stream freely now. drool spills over your bottom lip, drips onto his balls.
dean’s head falls back against the chair. a long, broken moan rips out of him.
“holy fuck—yes. just like that. choke on it, baby. let me feel that tight little throat squeezin’ me.”
he holds you there—deep, immobile—for a long second. your lungs burn. your eyes water so badly your vision blurs. but you don’t pull away. you moan around him instead—high, needy, vibrating down his length.
he shudders. “goddamn. you love this, don’t you? love bein’ my perfect little cocksucker. love how full your mouth gets.”
he starts thrusting—slow, controlled, but deep. every time he bottoms out you gag again. every time you gag he groans louder. the wet, filthy sounds fill the room—gluck-gluck-gluck mixed with his ragged breathing and your muffled whimpers.
“look at me,” he orders.
you force your eyes open. tears cling to your lashes. you blink up at him—helpless, wrecked, devoted.
dean’s expression cracks. something raw flashes across his face—lust, adoration, possession.
“fuck, that’s it. those big, teary eyes. lookin’ up at me while i use your throat. you’re so goddamn beautiful like this.”
he speeds up. hips snapping forward. hand tightening in your hair until it stings. you whine around him—high and desperate. the sound makes him curse.
“shit—gonna come soon. you gonna take it all? gonna swallow every drop like a good fuckin’ baby?”
you nod frantically. moan louder. let more drool spill. your chin is soaked, shirt collar damp. your throat is raw, aching, but you don’t care. you want this. want him to lose it because of you.
dean’s rhythm falters. his thighs tense under your palms. abs clench. breath comes in short, punched-out pants.
“fuck—fuck—here it comes—”
he slams deep one last time. holds you there. cock pulsing against your tongue.
then he comes.
hot, thick ropes flood your mouth—pulse after pulse. you swallow greedily, throat working around him, milking every drop. he groans long and low, hips jerking through the aftershocks. his hand trembles in your hair.
“take it—fuck—take it all—”
you do. swallow until there’s nothing left. until he’s shuddering, oversensitive, whimpering softly at the back of his throat.
only then does he ease his grip. pull out slow. his cock slips free with a wet pop. strings of spit and come connect your lips to the tip for a second before they break.
dean stares down at you—chest heaving, eyes blown black.
you’re a mess. tears streaked down your cheeks. lips swollen and shiny. chin dripping. hair wild from his fingers.
he reaches down, cups your face with both hands. thumbs swipe under your eyes, smearing the tears.
“jesus christ,” he breathes. “look at you.”
you try to speak. voice is wrecked—hoarse, barely there. “did i do good?”
dean laughs—soft, disbelieving. leans down and kisses you deep. tastes himself on your tongue and groans into your mouth like he’s starving all over again.
“good?” he mutters against your lips. “baby, you just ruined me.”
he pulls you up—gentle now—settles you in his lap. your knees bracket his hips. his arms wrap around you tight. face buried in your neck.
“gonna need a minute before i can even think about returnin’ the favor,” he mumbles. “you just fucked my soul out through my dick.”
you laugh—raspy, wrecked—and rest your forehead against his.
the record player clicks to the next song. something slow. bluesy.
dean presses a kiss to your temple.
“love you,” he whispers. so quiet you almost miss it.
NOT Dean X Sam, but Dean X Sister OR Sam X Sister OR
Dean X Sister X Sam?
If this IS a NO for you, my most sincere apologies!
★﹐theo is typing ．﹗﹑
𝒊 𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕. that's the short answer.
winchester x sister reader in an angst or fluff setting? i'm in. smut...? it's not really my cup of tea. and since i love to write smut, i tend to stick to scenarios that do it for me. that's not one of them. but thank you for being so kind asking it.
What are your rules? Your Do not writes specificly?
★﹐theo is typing ．﹗﹑
𝒖𝒉𝒎... truth be told, i haven't given this topic that much thought. if you have something you want me to write, just send it through and i'll be open and honest if it makes me uncomfortable.
thank you for asking, though. that's very considerate of you 𖹭
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