could I request convincing sub!dean to let reader play with his nipples and he’ll deny he even feels anything cuz “guy’s chests aren’t sensitive like that” as he’s bucking his hips cuz fuck it really does feel that good for him 🤤 idc if it’s not realistic nipple stimulation with Dean hnggghh
x fem reader ୨୧ ִ ࣪ ⋆ dean winchester on the issue of nipple play
character featured. dean winchester.ᐟ + sub.ᐟ dean
rating: mature.ᐟ
deny and deny and then deny again, but if someone has proof against your statement: then the previous is to no use. that's what Dean is learning tonight.
requesting rules. masterlist.
You’ve got him right where you want him.
It wasn’t easy. Dean Winchester is a lot of things—charming, reckless, annoyingly heroic—but pliable has never been one of them. Usually, he’s the one pinning you to a motel mattress with that stupid crooked grin, all heat and hands and low, teasing growls. The guy drives like he fucks: fast, a little reckless, and completely in control.
Not tonight.
Tonight, he’s flat on his back on the threadbare floral comforter of some roadside dive off I-70, jeans still on (unfairly good ones, the dark wash that hugs his thighs just right), green eyes flickering between smug and something a lot more unsure. His arms are still crossed behind his head like he’s posing for a Girls of the Midwest calendar, but there’s a flush creeping up his neck that wasn’t there two minutes ago.
You’re knelt between his spread thighs, your hips pressed flush against the zipper of his jeans. You can feel him. Not fully hard yet, but interested. A warm, heavy line of potential pressing against your lower belly through the worn denim.
“You sure about this, sweetheart?” he asks, voice a low drawl. One eyebrow arches. Classic Dean. “’Cause I gotta warn you, chest stuff? Kind of a waste of time on a guy.” He shrugs one broad shoulder against the pillows. “Not sensitive like that. It’s not gonna do anything.”
You just smile. Slow. Sweet. The kind of smile that’s already two steps ahead of him.
“We’ll see..” you murmur, and lean down.
Your palms slide up his ribcage, feeling the lean, corded muscle earned from a thousand salt-and-burns. His skin is warm, scattered with old scars and a light dusting of freckles across his chest that he’d deny to his grave. You don’t go for his nipples yet. You just drag your fingernails lightly down his sides, watching his abs twitch involuntarily.
“Tickles.” he mutters, jaw tight.
“Does it?” You dip your head, pressing a soft, closed-mouth kiss to the center of his sternum. Then another, a little lower. Your thumbs find his nipples—flat, dusky pink against the freckles—and you just rest the pads of your thumbs on them. Light as a breath.
Dean scoffs. “See? Nothin’.”
You press down. Just a little. A slow, deliberate grind of your thumbs in tiny circles.
His hips jerk.
It’s involuntary, that’s the thing. One second he’s lounging like a king granting a favor, the next his pelvis bucks up into yours like a live wire got tapped to his spine. The thick ridge of his cock (now definitely, definitely interested) slides hard against your stomach through both your clothes.
He freezes.
“The hell..?” he breathes, more confused than angry.
You don’t stop. You lean closer, letting your breasts press against his chest as you circle your thumbs harder, wetting the tips with a little spit. The friction changes. Gets slicker. Sharper.
“You were saying?” you coo, right into his ear.
“That’s- that’s not—” He swallows. His throat bobs. “It’s just reflex. Guy’s chests aren’t wired like chicks’. Doesn’t mean anythin’.”
But his hips are moving again. A small, aborted little grind upward, chasing the pressure of your pelvis against his. He can’t help it. You can see the war happening behind his eyes. He's currently turning to hot, confused jelly under your thumbs.
You take mercy on him.
Not really.
You pinch.
Not hard. Just a firm, deliberate twist between thumb and forefinger, rolling the little nubs like you’re tuning a radio. Dean’s lips part to let out a sharp, bitten-off sound out, half groan, half what the fuck. His hands come off the headboard for the first time, grabbing at your hips like he’s trying to either push you away or pull you down onto him harder. Even he doesn’t seem to know which.
“You were saying, Deanie?” you repeat, sweeter this time. Mocking. Gentle.
“Shut up,” he grits out, but there’s no heat in it. His eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide. The flush has spread from his neck to his cheekbones, those stupid pretty freckles standing out like constellations. “It’s- it’s just- you’re right there, okay? Your hips. It's because of your hips. Doesn’t have anything to do with your—your fingers.”
You hum, unconvinced, and lower your mouth.
The first touch of your tongue, flat and hot and wet, against his left nipple makes him seize like you’ve tased him. His whole body locks up, then shudders, and then he’s bucking. Actually grinding up into you in a slow, desperate roll that drags his clothed cock against the soft give of your belly. A wet spot is starting to spread on the front of his jeans. You can feel the heat of him through the denim.
“Jesus-” he whispers, not praying. Just… lost.
You suck the nipple into your mouth. Gently at first, then with more pressure, swirling your tongue over the tight peak while your fingers go back to work on the other side. Twist, pull, roll. Wet sounds fill the tiny motel room. Dean’s making sounds now too: low, wrecked little groans that he’s trying to swallow and failing.
“Still not sensitive?” you murmur against his wet skin, then give a sharp little tug with your teeth.
His hips snap up so hard you have to brace a hand on his stomach to keep from toppling. The muscle under your palm is iron-tight, trembling.
“Shut up-” he manages again, but his voice cracks on the second word. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips, guiding you to grind down against him. He’s so hard now it looks almost painful, the thick line of his cock straining against the button of his jeans. “That’s- that’s just biology, okay? You’re- your mouth is- it’s warm and-”
You laugh softly. The sound vibrates right through his nipple.
Dean makes a noise like a wounded animal.
“Oh, baby..” you coo, pulling back just to look at him. And it’s devastating. He’s a mess. Those green eyes are glassy, his lips parted and pink, chest heaving with every shallow breath. His nipples are wet and peaked, flushed dark pink, standing out like little targets. “You were saying guys’ chests aren’t sensitive?”
He glares at you. It would be threatening if his voice didn’t come out as a breathless whine. “They’re not.”
“Then why are you humping my stomach like a teenager, hmn?”
That lands. His cheeks go scarlet. His hips stutter like he only just realized he’s been grinding against you this whole time, a steady, mindless rhythm that’s left a visible smear of precome on the inside of his jeans. He tries to stop. Really tries. But when you lean back down and flick your tongue over the tip of his right nipple in fast, wet little licks, his pelvis rocks upward again all on its own.
“Fuck.” he breathes, and it sounds like surrender.
You take pity on him. Or maybe you don’t, maybe you just want to see how far this goes. You switch tactics, sucking his left nipple deep into your mouth while your hand slides down to palm him through his jeans where he's pressed against you. He’s leaking. Soaked through. You can feel every twitch and pulse.
“You like that,” you say, not a question. “You really like that. Deny it again. I dare you.”
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. His hips keep moving, shallow little thrusts into your hand like he can’t help himself. His head falls back against the pillow, exposing the long line of his throat.
“I hate you.” he whispers, but his thighs are trembling on either side of you, and his hands have moved from your hips to tangle in your hair, holding you down against his chest, not pushing you away.
“No you don’t.” you murmur, and bite down gently.
He comes undone.
Not all the way—not the grand finale—but something in him snaps. His whole body goes loose and pliant under you, that stubborn jaw finally unclenching. When you look up, his eyes are hazy, dark, needy in a way Dean Winchester would never, ever admit to.
“Do it again.” he says, so quiet you almost miss it. Then, louder, rougher: “Please... Just—just do that again. The—the thing with your- your mouth.”
You smile against his skin. “The thing I’m doing right now?”
“Yeah.” he breathes. “Yeah, that. Don’t stop.”
And when you take him apart: slowly, thoroughly, licking and sucking and twisting until he’s nothing but a shuddering mess of oversensitive nerve endings and bitten-off curses, he never once tells you that guys’ chests aren’t sensitive again.
His hips, still grinding against you in that helpless, hungry rhythm, tell a much better story.
hii, i was wondering if i could possibly base a fic off an au that i believe you came up with (the outsiders band member au) & give you credits since i saw you don’t write for the outsiders anymore. if not, i just wanted to make sure
have a pleasant day/night !! 🫶🏻
oh, of course! yeah, I'd love that, actually, could you tag me? i would love to read it! i am not sure if i am the one that came up with the au first, but i think no one has written for it apart from what little i have so totes go ahead angel !!! <333
Ik you're a big Sam fan and I am too, but MAN does he lose any interesting qualities in the late, late seasons.
UGHHHHHH I KNOWWWWW, i'm still only like on season one but really that's to expect with a show that has sooo many seasons (15) because it reaches a point when if only TWO people are the distinct main characters they will peak at one point at their full potential and then.. stop evolving UGH ILL JUST HAVE TO ENJOY MY BABYGIRL SAM AND BOYLOSER DEAN UGHHHHH
x fem reader ୨୧ ִ ࣪ ⋆ dean winchester taking the strap like a good boy
character featured. dean winchester.ᐟ + sub.ᐟ dean
rating: mature.ᐟ
The smirk, the swagger, the leather jacket, the “I’m fine” that means absolutely nothing. He’s spent his whole life being the strong one, the protector, the one who takes care of everyone else. So when you take charge? When you put him down?
He short-circuits. Immediately.
requesting rules. masterlist.
Dean doesn’t do vulnerable. Dean does jokes and deflection and sex as a weapon. But with you.. the second you say “tonight, you’re going to let me fuck you,” his whole facade cracks. He laughs first. Nervous. A little too loud. “Yeah, right. That’s funny.”
Then he sees your face. Sees that you’re not joking.
His throat works. Adam’s apple bobbing. His hands find his own thighs, gripping hard. “You- wait. For real?”
You don’t answer. You just start unbuckling his belt.
And Dean lets you. That’s the thing. He could stop this. He’s stronger than you. But he doesn’t. His hips lift off the bed so you can pull his jeans down. His arms go over his head without being told. He’s already panting.
“This is so fucked up..” he whispers, but he’s half-hard. “You’re gonna make me into a- a bitch or sumthin'...”
“That's kind of the plan.” you say. “Now shut up and turn over.”
He does. God, he does. Dean Winchester, on his hands and knees, ass in the air, face burning red. He can’t look at you. He buries his forehead in his crossed arms and mumbles, “I hate you. I hate this.”
But his hips are already rocking. Small, involuntary circles. Seeking.
“sure you do, Deanie.”
When you grab his hips hard enough to leave fingerprints, he groans. Deep. Guttural. “Fuck. Yeah. Hold m'down. Don’ let me move. I’ll be bad. I’ll be so fucking bad. You have to make me.”
He talks constantly. Dean cannot shut up when he’s turned inside out like this. Sam whines and begs and cries. Dean runs his mouth like a fucking porn star, and it’s the hottest, stupidest thing you’ve ever heard.
You lube him up—two fingers, then three—and he chokes on a groan. His hips push back onto your fingers like a starving thing. “More. More, more, more. Give me another. I can take four. I want four. Stretch me open. Make me a mess.”
He’s dripping precum onto the sheets in thick, sticky strings. He reaches back with one hand and tries to help you finger himself. You slap his hand away.
He whines. Dean Winchester whines. “fuuuuckkk, jus' gimme anotherrrr.”
When you finally line up the toy he pushes back onto it before you can even thrust. Impales himself in one desperate, reckless movement.
“Oh fuck-”
His voice cracks, his arms give out. He collapses to his elbows, face in the sheets, ass still up, and he’s grinding back onto you. You grab a fistful of his short hair and yank his head back. He moans like a whore. His back arches harder, presenting himself to you like it’s the only thing he knows how to do. You set a brutal pace: hard, fast and mean, and Dean meets every thrust with a slap of his hips, no shame, no hesitation. He’s fucking himself back on you so hard the headboard is banging against the wall.
“Harder-” he gasps. “Fucking destroy me. I want to limp tomorrow. I want everyone to know.”
He’s just a man. Loud, wrecked, and greedy.
“Oh fuck- oh fuck- yeah, yeah, yeah, just like that, don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop, holy shit-”
His mouth is running nonstop. Dirty, broken, desperate nonsense. “You like that? You like fucking your boyfriend’s tight little ass? God, you’re so deep, you’re so deep- faster, come on, fuck me faster, I can take it, I’m not fucking made of glass-”
You, suprisingly, listen to his demands and speed up the pace to his heart's content.
“That’s my girl,” he pants, grinning through the sweat and the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “That’s my fucking girl. Look at you. Look at what you do to me. I’m such a mess. I’m such a fucking mess for you—”
He reaches back with one hand and spreads his own cheek wider. Wider. For you. Just to give you a better angle. Because Dean Winchester in doggy style isn’t just submissive—he’s an exhibitionist about it. He wants you to see every inch of how pathetic he is. He wants you to know that he’s yours.
“Harder,” he gasps. “Harder, harder, fuck- break me, I don’t care, I want to feel this tomorrow, I want to sit in the Impala and wince every time I hit a bump and remember-”
His cock is leaking onto the sheets, untouched, and he’s so close you can see it in the way his thighs shake. But he doesn’t ask to come. He doesn’t even think about it. All he wants is more. More thrusts. More depth. More of you.
“Tell me I’m yours-" he moans, and for the first time, his voice cracks. “Tell me I’m your good little slut. Tell me or I’m gonna fucking lose it-”
You lean down, lips to his ear, and you whisper exactly what he needs to hear. It makes him choke on a breath that turns into a sob once and then come so hard his vision whites out. His mouth falls open, eyes wide, as he spills all over the comforter in thick, pulsing ropes.
And when he comes back to himself, ten seconds later, he just laughs. A breathless, wrecked, happy laugh. He doesn’t move from his position. He just looks over his shoulder at you with those fucked-out green eyes and grins.
“So,” he says, voice hoarse. “Same time tomorrow?”
x fem reader ୨୧ ִ ࣪ ⋆ sam winchester taking the strap like a good boy
character featured. sam winchester.ᐟ + sub.ᐟsam
rating: mature.ᐟ
He’s the one with the plan. He holds himself like a man who has spent his entire life trying to be good—trying to suppress the “freakish” parts of himself. And that is precisely why, when you finally get him alone, face-down on a motel bed with his long, trembling thighs spread for you, he's totally gone.
requesting rules. masterlist.
He’s already half-gone before you even touch the harness. You’ve barely told him to get on his knees. Voice low, casual, like you’re ordering a coffee, and his spine melts. That broad, 6'1” frame, suddenly seems too big for his own skin. He fumbles. His elbows are shaking as he lowers his chest to the mattress, his forehead pressed into the cheap polyester comforter. He can't even say a word. He just pushes back.
When you line up the toy he goes absolutely still. Holding his breath. You slap one ass cheek lightly. “Breathe, Sam.”
He exhales like a broken whistle and then whines.
Sam Winchester whines.
Not a grunt. Not a manly groan. A high, thin, breathy whine that gets caught in his throat the first time the silicone head presses against his rim. He’s already loose from your fingers—you made him beg for each one, and he did, face hidden, voice cracking on “please, please, please”—but the stretch of the toy is something else entirely. His fingers curl into the sheets, knuckles white. His whole body goes rigid for half a second, a taut bow of muscle and desperation.
And then you push in.
And Sam loses his goddamn mind.
His mouth falls open. His breath punches out of him in a wet, ragged gasp.
“Oh- fuck.”
It’s not a curse. It’s a prayer. His hips stutter backward, trying to take more before you’ve even given him half, and that’s when you know you’ve won. You set a slow, cruel rhythm: drag out, push in, drag out, push in. Your hand presses flat between his shoulder blades, shoving his pretty face into the mattress.
And Sam, the golden boy, the righteous man, the one who always has to be in control? He grinds back like a bitch in heat.
“More-” he chokes out. It’s already slurred. His voice is shot. “c'mon, more, I can take it, I can- ah, I can take it, please, please—”
He’s begging. Openly, shamelessly begging. His long hair is plastered to his forehead. A string of drool connects his lips to the pillow. Every time you bottom out, his whole body shudders, and he lets out this broken little “yes” that sounds less like agreement and more like relief. He’s so deep in it that he’s lost the ability to form complete sentences. He just babbles.
His cock is red and leaking untouched between his legs, and every time you move even an inch, his whole body jerks like he’s been shocked. Whimpers and moans and punched-out “uh-uh-uh”s that match your rhythm.
When you slow down on purpose, just to hear him squirm, Sam Winchester starts to cry. Not sad tears. Frustrated, desperate, needy tears that leak from his clenched-shut eyes. He pushes his hips back harder, trying to fuck himself on you, but you hold him still by the nape of his neck. He makes a sound like a wounded animal—a high, keening nnngh—and his voice drops into a raw, wrecked whimper.
“Pleaseee. I’ll do anything, Ah-nything. Just don’ stop. Y'can do whatever y'want to me, c'mon. M'yours—”
In this moment, the great Sam Winchester, hunter of ghouls and ghosts and everything that goes bump in the night, is nothing but a trembling, drooling, weeping mess with his ass in the air, completely undone by the simple fact that you are the one fucking him. And the weight of that makes him stupid. Makes him pathetic. Makes him perfect.
i will be back soon, guys. i finally broke free from a ridiculously toxic friendship with the girl that has made my days both the best and the worst ones (interchangeably) of my existence. i will miss our good days, but they aren't worth the bad ones.
i am starting to watch Supernatural (currently on s1 ep4) and will start writing for the s1!winchesters soon enough. i'll also take up and continue with the PHM fic, stop crying your heart out, so yeah, stay tuned!
thank you ALL for your immense patience, love yall<333
gyys i am so sorry, i will be going into a hiatus for an indefined period of time. my life just got destroyed and turned upside down by someone i thought was my friend and i could trust.
so im leaving yall for a while to recover from ts she just put me thru, focus on myself and mmy recovery, and also on my just blooming love liufe and my exams becuase i have literally just butchered my whole final note on a subject becaus ei could not stufy for this subject thanks to this person.
this is sooooo specific i’m sorry …. soft dom tyler durden x puppydog boyfriend (afab nonbinary) fluff -> smut 😛😛 perhaps puppy boyfriend wants tyler to wrestle/playfight with him but tyler’s scared of being too rough or something I don’t know i just like this guy so much and LLLOVE the idea of him being a big softie 4 his partner but still letting them be in on the fighting thing uahaha ….. if you need more details lmk i will 100% dm you LOLL
im sorrryyyyy:(((( i only write for fem reader, i'm sure there are other writers out there who can carry this out perfectly tho!<3
BESTIE ARE YOU STILL IN NEED OF SIMON IRON LUNG REQUESTS.... asking for a friend....
YESSSSS. YESYES YES!!!! ALL THE ASKS I'VE GOTTEN ARE FOR BLOODYMARY/IRONMARY AND NOT THAT I'M COMPLAINING BUT PLEASE SEND IN SOME JUST FOR SIMON!!!🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻
hii^^ I totally get if not but could you write a platonic ryland grace x teen reader where she was brought on the ship with him?? she wakes up after him and is like panicking at first. have a great day, take care of yourself and stay hydrated<3
haihai! if you want something like this i would reccomend checking in my Ryland Grace x reader tags because I've got a fic with three parts (and more in the works) that is this exact same plot and the third part is basically this request!!<3333
