A place to reblog fics I enjoy
Primarily SFW, very occasional NSFW
(please heed any warnings on posts, recommended 16+ for NSFW content for your own wellbeing but ultimately, it's your desicion)
She/Her/They/Them
Check out my main @reginaphalangelobster where I write when I can!
Hi I'm Lobster and this side blog is a way for me to reblog all of the fics I enjoy!
My rules are pretty simple, most of what I reblog here will be SFW (very occasional NSFW) and completely incest free (it's a shame have to say that but I watch Supernatural, so yeah)
I will mainly reblog works for;
Supernatural
The Boys
MCU & X-Men
Criminal Minds
Doctor Who
Buffy The Vampire Slayer & Angel
I'm a fan of many other shows so you may see some things for 911: Nashville, Law and Order: Special Victims Unit, House MD and whatever else I read and like.
As stated above, this is a side blog.
My main blog is @reginaphalangelobster and I mainly just write there, various things but check it out if you're interested!
My graphics side blog is @lobster-graphics and all of the graphics on this blog were made by me!
I take requests on both of these blogs so if you're looking for a fic or some cool dividers, have a look!
Dean Winchester lay sprawled on the cheap motel sheets, legs hooked high over your shoulders, the blinds shut tight and the "Do Not Disturb" sign keeping the world out. Your thick cock drove into him in long, deliberate strokes, grinding straight against his prostate with every slow roll of your hips.
"Shit… you’re gonna break me," Dean groaned, voice hoarse and shaky. His freckled chest rose and fell fast, cock flushed dark and drooling steadily onto his stomach.
You had been teasing him for hours. Every time his breathing hitched and his thighs started to shake, you eased off the stroke on his cock, leaving him clenching and empty, orgasm slipping away. He whined, hips jerking, trying to fuck himself back onto you.
"You’re such a bastard," he panted, hole fluttering around your shaft.
You answered by circling your hips, pressing right on that swollen spot inside him while your fist stayed motionless around his leaking cock. "You love every second of it," you murmured against his throat, biting down just hard enough to make him shudder.
Dean’s moan cracked. His rim squeezed you tight. You started stroking him again—slow, focused on the slick head—while your cock hammered his prostate in short, brutal thrusts. The pressure built fast this time, different, deeper, almost too much.
His eyes rolled, thighs trembling hard against your shoulders. His cock jerked in your grip, and you didn’t stop. You kept fucking him through it, nailing that spot over and over.
Dean’s whole body locked up. A sudden, powerful jet of clear fluid erupted from his cock, splashing hot across his chest and abs. His hole clamped down hard, spasming as thick white ropes of cum followed, mixing with the clear squirt and painting his torso in messy streaks. He kept pulsing, hole milking your cock in rhythmic squeezes while you fucked him straight through every wave.
When it finally ebbed, Dean went limp, legs sliding off your shoulders, chest heaving, eyes glassy. His skin glistened on with the mix. You stayed buried inside his twitching hole and leaned down to kiss him slow and deep, tasting the wrecked little sounds he made against your tongue.
sleepyhead
dyin' on your front porch
take your time
in every lifetime
rangifer
settle | part 2
fireworks
relax
scrapbook
soft heart, soft arms
pretty
be my valentine ?
care for you
graphite
touch
rainy season
safe place
song without words
lifeboat
your day
roadhouse siren
just a child
24 across
๋࣭⭑ angst !
we all break a little
one final death
chasing cars | roadkill
means to me
love, left behind
๋࣭⭑ smut (mdni) !
i trusted you | i trust you (mdni)
long road home | part 2 (mdni)
chapstick (mdni)
first (mdni)
control (mdni)
sweet dreams (mdni)
imma start making a tally of which fics I have read and which are next on the list bc going to bed just after reading your work is the absolute best. Expect me to slowly make my way through all of the fluff you have to offer
summary: in every lifetime, sam winchester will find his way back to you
pairing: sam x reader (gn) | genre: fluff, big soft hours | word count: 841
warnings: a couple mentions of guns, sam is so in love it hurts
dean's version
In this lifetime, you’re nothing special. Just you, with your nose buried in a book, feet up on the dash of the car, reading as Sam drives. Just you, with your seemingly endless knowledge of spells and counterspells, and a will strong enough to hold up even the most draining of wards. Just you, who’s nothing special. Right? Wrong. You’re the most special thing in Sam’s life, because you think you’re nothing noteworthy. There’s not a conversation that passes him by when he’s out and about in which he doesn’t manage to work in a compliment or two about your skills. He’s completely, utterly, head over heels for you, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world. He feels it when you’re sitting in the bunker, leafing through lore. He sees it when you hit target after target in the bunker’s shooting range, hitting a bullseye every single shot. He sees it when you’re tucked against his side, fast asleep, the warmth flooding his chest nearly drawing tears to his eyes. You’re his everything; his second half, his missing piece. And you will always be that, because you are forever his, no matter what.
In this lifetime, you’re two seashells at the beach, feeling the cool waves wash over your ridges. Sam is a delicate cream shell, flecks of pink and gold making their way into the colour, pale against the sand. You’re a pale purple, a twisting ridge dancing across your shell. You lay side by side; two natural treasures of the world open to the sun and sky. The warmth of the sand warms you, and the coolness of the nighttime waves drown you in pleasure. Someday, a kid will come along and pick you up, turning you over in their grimy fingers before pocketing you. That same kid will inevitably turn towards Sam, tucking him in the pocket alongside you. Because where one of you goes, the other follows. Even if that happens to be the salty pocket of some kid’s swimsuit.
In this lifetime, you’re freer than you’ve ever been before. You’re light as a feather, floating in the breeze. But you’re not a feather, and neither is Sam. You both came from the same place; the soft head of a pure white dandelion. You will both end up in the same place too; a field miles away, coming to rest gently in the tall grass of the untouched plain. You will take root and grow and change in that field, and Sam will be right there with you through it all. You will sit together and watch birds wheel overhead, point out the shapes of the clouds as they move above, unconsciously lean into each other when the nights get too cold. Sam’s warmth will flood into you even in this state, and it’ll feel just right. Because this is how it’s meant to be, just you and him, together in a field of your own, completely free.
In this lifetime, you have what you can only imagine to be perhaps one of the most intimate, perfect outcomes. You are two books, sitting together on a shelf. Not just any two books, no. Two books in a duology. The beginning and end and everything in between. The only compliment you need is each other, because where one’s tale has gaps, the other can fill them in. Where one’s story has plot holes, the other has the solutions. Cover to cover you sit on the shelf, pages well-loved and full of annotations. Highlighted words, dog-eared pages, suspicious stains that are likely coffee spilled in a careless moment. The domesticity of it all is what makes the moment, because you are loved. Your story has been read back to front and back again a million times, and someone has bothered to go through and highlight every shared moment, every touch, every breath.
No matter what happens to you two, you will always be with Sam. Because Sam doesn’t do anything halfway. He goes to the end, and you will happily follow him, wherever the story takes you. Heaven couldn’t tear you apart if they tried, because Sam’s grip on your essence is so tight that it would pull him apart to have you part from him. His footsteps will go first, making a path through heavy snow and tall weeds, and your footsteps will follow, mirroring his perfectly. Your hand will be in his, fingers intertwined, thumbs rubbing over knuckles with a tenderness found nowhere else. When you step into a bar with Sam, the hunters know who you are. Because you are Sam’s other half, the only person they can think of who knows more about the obscure and occult than him. The one who he will toss the shotgun to with no second thought, because he trusts you just that much. The only one other than Dean who can call him Sammy and get away with it (many have tried, and all have failed. Sam plays favourites). The perfect love story. The perfect couple. In every universe.
summary: after everything he's been through, sam's health isn't what it used to be. even now after it's all over, he still gets nasty migraines on occasion; you're always there to help him through them
pairing: sam x reader (gn) | genre: fluff n comfort | word count: 3.0k
warnings: migraines, non-sexual nudity (bath), sam being a clingy, sleepy giant when he's hurting, just comforting fluff
notes: this was an idea i had in my drafts that @andmeiamherdagger then completely soul-read me about and so now i am posting it yippee !!
taglist | k's AMA - Feb 21st to 28th
Sam’s holed up in the library when it hits. It’s early afternoon, the soft sunlight filtering in through the windows and the thin layer of frost that covers the panes. It drifts over the pages of his book as he turns them, kicking up dust with each page. The words start to blur across the pages, but he pays it no mind; he hasn’t been sleeping well lately, after all. It’s only when the hot flashes start that he gets concerned. Ropes of heat cycling through his body like a rising wave that consumes him. It makes him shiver when it settles in his bones, and the chills that set in shortly after make him exhale a shaky sigh.
He debates going to search for you, ultimately tossing the idea when he remembers you’re out on a grocery run right now. You’re the only person he trusts when he’s this vulnerable; not even Dean gets to see him at his lowest like this. When it’s only him and Dean at the bunker, he’ll stay locked in his room when the migraines hit, only coming out to search for water or some scraps of whatever Dean cooked for them. But when you’re here, he’s much more willing to seek out your comfort. As awful as the headaches are, you always seem to know exactly what he needs to forget about the worst of his pains.
Eyes returning to the page, he’s halfway through the paragraph when the pain starts. It’s deep in his muscles, laying dormant until moments like these. It rears its head, first in his back, the scar from a stabbing years ago making him feel like he’s reliving it. The burning pain only spreads from there, radiating up into his neck and the back of his head, while another tendril spreads down into his right hip and knee, settling in them with teeth like hellhounds. Sam shakes out his hand trying to rid himself of the tingles, to no avail. They bite back stronger and harsher, playing with him like a puppy might play with a chew toy.
He manages to get through one more paragraph before the faint sunlight pricks at his eyes, tunneling deep into his brain and playing tennis with it. His ears start to ring faintly, an echo of the pain that pierces his skull. The next word Sam tries to read devolves into black pinpricks as the pain shoots into his eye, pulsing in the socket with a vengeance unlike anything he’s felt. This one, he already knows, is the worst one he’s had in years; not since he was plagued with visions nearly 20 years ago.
Pushing his palms against his eyes does nothing, and when a particularly violent pain brews beneath his skin, his head tips forward to the table with a harsh thud. Sam winces minutely, not finding the energy in him to care. The pain from the table is nothing compared to the pain in his head, but at least that one will go away soon. The hurt in his brain will bury its vines in him for longer, roping him back until he’s tied to his own body, subject to its whims.
There’s a knock from the doorframe and Dean’s rough voice carrying loud across the room.
“Sammy?” Dean says. “Y’alright?”
Sam makes a dismissive sound low in his throat, slowly picking his head up as if it’s full of rocks. It might as well be for how strong his ears are ringing now, like pebbles floating around and knocking off each other at every turn. Dean’s voice is too loud, the light from the windows too bright, and he can feel everything a hundred times more vividly than usual. Even the sliding of his socked feet on the floor makes him groan in discomfort.
“Woah, hey, look at me, Sammy,” Dean says, grabbing Sam’s shoulders and hauling him up.
Sam’s head lolls uselessly, but he’s still conscious, fighting the fire in his head. His big hands scrape uselessly at his face, trying to brush the long strands of his hair back from his half-lidded eyes.
“What do you need, Sam?” Dean asks.
He gestures uselessly around, whining softly when another wave hits. Sam’s phone rings on the table, your contact name flashing on the screen. Dean picks it up, unlocking it. Sam knows he should feel some sort of his usual shame with the way he’s burdening Dean with his problems and his pain. Dean never complains, but Sam can’t help but feel guilty.
“Hey,” Dean says, answering your phone. “Where are you?”
“I was just about to tell you I’m on my way back. Dean, is everything- why are you answering?”
“Uh.” Dean points to Sam before remembering you can’t see him. “It’s Sam.”
Your breath hitches. “What about Sam? Is he alright?”
“I’m fi-.” Sam’s voice is weak and raspy, and Dean cuts him off.
“He’s not, don’t listen to him.”
You hum. “Sam? ‘S it your head again?”
“Again? Whatddya mean, again?” Dean asks.
“Yeah, he gets migraines every so often. Did he- did he never tell you?” you ask.
“Nope,” Dean replies.
“’S- ow. Dizzy.” Sam’s voice is barely more than a whisper, but you hear it all with those instincts that are tuned in to everything Sam.
“Okay, okay. I’m coming home, give me ten minutes.”
You can’t see, but Sam smiles gratefully behind the phone, already resting his head on his arms at the table and stretching out his long legs, hoping to stretch out the aches from his joints. He sighs softly when his eyes flutter shut, although he knows sleep won’t come; he’s in too much pain to get any meaningful rest.
“Thanks,” Sam whispers.
“’Course. Dean, make sure he gets his ass in bed please,” you say, no room for argument in his tone.
“Yep.”
Dean hangs up, tossing Sam’s phone back on the table. He slides the book out from under Sam’s head, ignoring his brother’s muttered complaints.
“Alright, up you get Sasquatch.”
Dean hoists his brother up by the armpits, wrapping one of Sam’s arms around his shoulders as they half-walk half-stumble down the hallway. Sam’s long legs get tangled around each other in his lack of coordination, and he all but completely collapses into the bed, flat on his back and arm flung over his eyes.
“You want…somethin’?” Dean asks, wildly unsure of how to deal with the situation.
“No,” Sam mumbles. “Just-.”
“Just waitin’ till the grocery runner comes back.”
Sam huffs a pained sigh.
“Alright. Won’t even make fun ‘f you this time.” Dean steps out, closing the door just a little too loudly.
The position Sam’s in is uncomfortable, but he can’t bring himself to turn. Too much energy he doesn’t have. It wraps around him like a shroud, the exhaustion, covering him until he can barely breathe or think coherently, or much at all. Time dilates until the seconds feel like TV static, and then your footsteps echo softly down the hallway. While Dean’s steps echo loud, yours tread soft, already starting to soothe Sam despite the distance.
You creak the door open slow, knowing the exact speed to prevent the hinges from squeaking. Sam groans when he feels you approach the bedside, feeling the way the mattress dips with your weight as you sit by his shoulder.
“How’re you feeling, Sammy?” you whisper, hand stroking his hair back from his forehead.
“Bad,” he says weakly. “Hurts.”
“I know,” you soothe. “Did you take your meds yet?”
Sam shakes his head, recoiling when it only makes the ache worse.
“Where do you hurt?” you ask, already knowing the answer.
“E’erywhere. ‘S worst ‘n m’head ‘nd my leg.”
He’s slurring the words, too tired and hurting too much to bother with making intelligent conversation. You already know which leg he means; the right one, same one that’s been giving him trouble for years. You rub gently at his hip, earning yourself a slight untensing from the muscles there and a tentative exhale from Sam.
“I’ll get your meds, okay? I’ll be right back, love.”
“M’kay.”
Sam waits not-so-patiently for you to come back, arm pressed over his eyes ever stronger, like he can physically hold back the pain through brute force alone. Relief courses through him when you come back with his meds and a glass of water, and he eagerly gulps them down. They taste sour going down, but the relief they bring is more than enough to convince him to take them without complaint.
“Stay,” Sam begs, hand gripping into your shirt.
“Okay. I can stay.”
You kiss his forehead, tugging the blanket up around his body. He’s already in a hoodie from earlier, and although he’s uncomfortable sleeping in his jeans, neither of you make any move to change them out for something better. Sam’s arms wrap around you before you can settle yourself under the sheets, tugging you close until he can bury his face in your stomach and block out the world.
“Feeling tired yet, love?” you ask.
Sam hums low and raspy into your shirt, arms tightening momentarily around you. You smile, kissing the top of his head and running your fingers through his hair. The meds he takes for these migraines always take it right out of him, numbing the pain until he forgets about it and making him so drowsy he has no choice but to succumb to sleep. Dean tried them once for a one-off headache he had, and while it solved the pain, he was up and wandering around right until they wore off. Another little quirk of Sam’s, most likely.
Already he feels heavy and warm with sleep against you, arms and one leg wrapped up in you like he’s afraid to let you go. Sam knows he’s usually a physical touch kind of guy, but when he’s hurting, he has no shame in admitting all he needs is to cuddle you until he feels better. He’s drifting off mere minutes after taking his pills, his grip around you loosening until he drops into a deep sleep. The last thing he registers before darkness surrounds him is your heartbeat in his ear and your fingers teasing through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp.
The clock on the bedroom wall ticks softly as it brings Sam back into wakefulness, the gentle rhythmic movement of the hands a symphony to his drowsy ears. He blinks once, eyes squinting shut against the light darkness of the room. One hand wanders for where your body’s supposed to be, coming up with nothing but air. He realizes then that his head is on a pillow instead of your chest; you must have swapped it while he was out.
He’s wildly disoriented, not entirely sure what day it is anymore, much less what’s going on. Last thing he remembers is sitting at the library table flipping through a book, and now, he’s twisted in blankets, face down in a pillow, hood flipped up over his head. A soft groan slips through his sleep-swollen lips, and he rubs a hand over his eyes. Sam can feel the pillow creases across his face, one long one going from the corner of his mouth all the way up to near his eyebrow. Hair flopping in his eyes, clothes rumpled and bunched up at the hems, he looks like he’s been hibernating for years, not napping for a few hours.
Your voice floats in from the doorway, and Sam rubs his bleary eyes, turning halfway over on his forearms to look at you.
“Hey there sleepyhead,” you coo. “Feeling better?”
“Yeah.” Sam’s voice is rough, deeper than it usually gets even when he's tired, worn raspy by the sheer weight of his exhaustion.
You smile lightly, stepping into the room, the door still slightly ajar.
“How lo-.” Sam’s cut off by a wide yawn that stretches the tenseness from his jaw. He scrapes a hand down his face in an attempt to clear the residual sleep from his features.
“It’s been, uh…three…almost four hours,” you say, poorly concealing a laugh. “You alive over there?”
“Hm,” Sam hums lowly. Another smaller yawn breaks his features, and he burrows further into the blanket nest.
You drop onto the mattress beside him, rubbing your hands up and down his back through the blankets and fabric of his hoodie. There's more blanket lines on his arms where the sleeves are rolled up, Sam notices, but all he can focus on is the way your hands feel. The rhythmic passage of them across his broad shoulders stays for several minutes, massaging out some of the tension in his neck. He's about to drop off into sleep again when your voice cuts through the fog.
“C’mon, let’s get you up. I made dinner, if you’re hungry.”
Sam extracts himself from the blankets, swaying slightly on his feet when a bout of dizziness hits. Slowly, balancing himself on you, he walks to the kitchen where Dean’s already waiting, bowl of soup on the table before him.
“Heya Sa-,” Dean starts, frowning when he sees his brother’s frazzled state. “Y’alright? You look awful.”
“Shut up,” Sam mumbles, plunking into a chair.
Dean laughs, but there’s no real humour. “’M serious, you look terrible. Did- Your head doin’ any better?”
Sam nods, scrubbing his eyes again.
Dean’s lips purse as he nods. “So how come you didn’t wanna tell me ‘bout this?”
A touch of guilt returns to Sam’s body, but he’s too spent to argue with Dean about it.
“Didn’t want you to worry, Dean. You’ve worried about me for, hell, forty years. You don’t have to keep doing that now.”
“Sammy, I’m never not gonna worry ‘bout you.”
Sam smiles softly, accepting the bowl from your warm hands. You peck his cheek, and he savours the way he melts into your touch. Finishing dinner takes him a while, but each bite gives him more strength than he had before. It’s only after he almost falls back asleep at the table that you haul him back to the bedroom, dragging him into the bathroom with you.
“What- what’s happening?” Sam asks as your fingers start to slide his hoodie over his head.
“You, Sammy, are taking a bath. I, am going to make sure the bed’s comfy.”
“Why?”
You chuckle. “What, you want me to stay? I can stay.”
“Want you to wash my hair. Please.”
How could you say no when he says it so gently? “Okay. Get in the tub then, giant.”
Stripped of his clothes and the bath adjusted to his tastes, he slides into the water, feeling the heat already work away at his tensed muscles. A weighty sigh slips past his lips as he tips his head back against the wall, sinking as far in as his legs will allow. If he bends at the knees, his chest mostly slides under the water, and he tips one leg down to make sure his sore knee gets attention.
Your soapy hands through his hair feel like a miracle of the highest order bestowed to him. Sam loses himself in the way you handle him so gently, despite knowing he won’t break. It’s the thought that you care about him enough to treat him like he’s fragile that means the most to him. His thoughts drift together into one ribbon weaving through his head, then dissipate into blissful nothing, surrounded by warmth and your steady, loving hands.
“Sam, love?” you say, shaking his shoulder.
It only feels like mere seconds, and he frowns. He blinks his eyes open, finding your kind, smiling face looking down at him, cheeks softened by the heat of the water and the room. He examines himself, finding the patch of dirt on his elbow from earlier completely gone.
“Did I fall asleep again?” he mumbles.
“Mhm. You’re good to come out now, if you want.”
With a heave that makes him feel a hundred years older than he really is, he picks himself out of the tub, wrapping the towel you hold out to him around his hips. He stands there uselessly as you drain the tub, only moving when you take a second towel and start drying off his hair. You squeeze the water from the ends in a way that never pulls, but still gets all the moisture out, and Sam sighs at your attentiveness.
When he’s dried off and walked back into the bedroom, you help him dress in the worn sweatpants you’d intended to put him in earlier. He protests you putting a hoodie or a shirt on, saying he’ll get too hot with it, but you know what he really wants; the contact, the proof that the migraine didn’t sweep him up and away. He still feels the residual traces of it gnawing at his bones and muscles, but a bone-deep exhaustion that a solid full night of sleep will fix resides there too.
Sam takes only one of his meds this time, hoping it’ll wash away the final traces of pain. Just like before, just like every time this happens, Sam settles in first, tugging you close and sprawling across you as best he can until he’s blissfully comfortable. You tug your arm from under him, wrapping it over his back and resting your palm somewhere between his shoulder blades. You press one light kiss to his lips, then a second to the side of his head before settling back, turning out the lamp, and letting yourself drift off with him. The door’s still open at Sam’s request, the cool air rushing over his bare back doing wonders for his temperature regulation. Dean will surely come by at some point and close it, but not before peeking in and grinning softly at the two of you tangled together.
You both know that Sam will wake up beyond disoriented tomorrow, and he’ll probably sleep in way later than he normally would, but that’s just what these awful headaches do to him. They take him right out, leaving him floundering on the battlefield like a soldier until you come to drag him home again, pulling the arrows from his brain and soothing his aching joints with your tender touches. You both know that Sam’s going to wake up with lines from your shirt all across his chest, and you both know he’ll be sluggish all day tomorrow, but you’ll gladly navigate through the consequences with him if it means he’s not alone. Because your favourite part about loving Sam Winchester is how easily you can care for him.
Once again, k crushes it with my happy bedtime story.
OKAY BUT Sammy IS fragile, and precious, and the most deserving of pampering and affection and gentle care in the world!!! And washing his hair ughhhhh I need to do that immediately. No joke. Lemme do it.
And, in honour of you, you fantastic author, I listened to Gregory Alan Isakov while reading this in my cozy lil spot (I've been meaning to for so long) and it made it so much better. I felt sleepy along with Sam and also UGH the meds only making Sam sleepy kills me. My sweet boy <3
So, yet again, ty for the sweet lil fic and never stop writing comfort for Sam this healed the moose-shaped hole in my heart just a little bit more, thank you 🧡
dean winchester as the filling in an angel sandwich !!
The air in the crawlspace was thick with dust, ancient magic, and the oppressive, metallic tang of old copper piping. It was a maintenance shaft, barely wider than a man’s shoulders, that ran behind the walls of the old warehouse. It was also the only place to hide when a dozen demons had swarmed the main floor, their arrival a nasty surprise for what was supposed to be a simple reconnaissance mission.
You were pressed against the cold, corrugated metal of the far wall, your vessel’s form humming with a barely contained energy that was the equivalent of a human’s anxiety. It wasn't fear for yourself; it was the acute, sharp-edged concern for the two beings you shared this cramped space with. Your partner, Castiel, had his back to the opposite wall, his worn trench coat brushing against the grime. And between you, trapped in the most literal sense imaginable, was Dean Winchester.
Dean was the filling. The very unwilling, very overheated, very mortified filling of the most impossible sandwich in the history of the universe.
He was pressed between you and Cas with an intimacy that would have made a lesser man pass out. His shoulder blades were flush against Castiel’s chest, and he could feel the hard, unyielding plane of the angel’s body through his own flannel shirt. Lower down, the pressure was even more distinct: the unmistakable, solid warmth of Castiel’s hips and groin was firmly, unshakeably nestled against the curve of his ass. He was trying, with every fiber of his being, not to think about the fact that an angel of the Lord was essentially spooning him against his will.
And then there was you. You were his front. He was face-to-boobs with you, his nose practically brushing the fabric of your shirt. His hands, at his sides, were trapped uselessly. His hips, however, were not. They were pressed directly against you, the hard line of his arousal (and yes, he was trying to will it away, trying to think about Sam’s dirty socks, taxidermy, reruns of Dr. Sexy, M.D., Castiel dressed as a nun- wow, rewind, he'd definetely have to explore that thought later in the shower- anything) making a desperate, unwanted connection with the soft strength of your thighs and the tempting apex of your legs.
His face was the color of a ripe tomato. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he could feel the heat radiating off of him in waves. He was a furnace.
And you and Cas were completely oblivious to his state.
“The primary threat has been neutralized,” Castiel stated, his voice a low, rumbling hum that vibrated through Dean’s back. He was utterly, infuriatingly calm. His posture was relaxed against the wall. He might as well have been standing in a park. “However, the secondary wave is sweeping the eastern perimeter. We are, for the moment, undetectable. We should remain in situ.”
“Agreed,” you replied, your voice a melodic whisper that was just as level. Dean could feel your breath puff against his hair. “The residual energy from the sigils on the outer walls are masking our presence. To move now would be to risk alerting them. They’re hunting, not just guarding. They’ll be thorough.”
Cas gave a curt nod, the movement of his head brushing against the short hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck. “Then we wait. It is the most logical course of action.”
Dean clenched his jaw. He was going to have a stroke. He was going to die of a heart attack at the ripe old age of 20-something between two beings that were literally the definition of divine, and his ghost was going to haunt Sam forever, he'd make damn sure of it.
“Hey, uh, guys?” Dean interjected, his voice coming out a little higher than he’d like, strangled and croaky. “Not to interrupt your book club, but any chance we can figure this out before I spontaneously combust?”
You looked at him, your brow furrowing in that charmingly perplexed way of yours. “Spontaneous combustion in humans is a result of internal, not external, factors, Dean. You are not in danger of catching fire.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” he muttered, trying to subtly shift his hips to relieve the pressure against his own. It was a terrible idea. The minute he moved, the fabric of his jeans dragged against you, and he felt his own body betray him with an immediate, traitorous twitch. He froze, his face flushing a deep, mortifying red.
“You are agitated,” Castiel himmed in, his voice holding a note of clinical observation. “Your heart rate is elevated and your temperature is increasing.”
“Gee, ya think?” Dean gritted out, his voice strangled.
"I am certain, these are facts."
"Can't we just make a run for i-"
He was cut off. Not by a word, but by a gesture so casual, so utterly dismissive, it sent a jolt of pure, electrified shock straight to his core. Castiel, without a single break in his composure, lifted a hand and placed it on the back of Dean’s head. With a gentle, but inexorable, shove, he pushed.
Dean’s face was unceremoniously smushed into your chest.
"Dean, you must cease speaking and let us discuss the course of action."
It was soft. It was warm. And it smelled like ozone, clean linen, and something uniquely you. His mouth was parted in surprise, and his lips were pressed directly against the swell of your breast, his nose buried in the fabric at your sternum. The scent was dizzying, an angelic perfume that was both calming and wildly, terrifyingly arousing.
A strangled, choked-off sound escaped his throat. He jerked, a purely instinctual reaction. His hips bucked forward into the cradle of your thighs, his now-hard cock grinding against you. The contact was electrifying, a shocking jolt of pleasure that shot straight to his core. Then, as if on a rebound, he jerked back, his ass pressing firmly against Castiel’s crotch, and he could feel the angel’s answering hardness there too. It was a full-circle moment of absolute, dizzying mortification.
He felt like a bug pinned to a board.
Castiel continued his statement, his voice not so much as wavering. “As the structural integrity of these older edifices is often compromised. A move would be ill-advised.”
You, meanwhile, were looking down at the mop of short, sandy-brown hair now pressed against your chest. Your eyes, which were your most expressive feature, flickered with a complex mix of amusement, fondness, and a spark of something deeper, something that bordered on hunger. You didn’t move him. You simply let him stay there, his face buried in your cleavage, his body trembling between you and Cas.
He let out a muffled, desperate sound against your chest, a sound that was part protest and part plea, his hands finally coming to grasp at your hips in search of stability.
“Dean,” you said softly, your voice a gentle murmur. “The pressure of your discomfort is… loud. It’s creating a distress signal. If you could perhaps… calm yourself? It will help maintain our cover.”
It was the kindest, most condescending thing anyone had ever said to him while he was using their chest as a pillow.
Dean tried to mumble a protest, but it was muffled by fabric. He could feel your heartbeat, steady and slow, like a drumbeat beneath his ear. He could feel the faint, ethereal warmth of your vessel’s skin. And behind him, he could feel Castiel, stoic and unmoving as a statue, a solid, unshakeable presence that was too close and not close enough.
He felt insignificant. He felt small. He felt human, fragile, mortal, caught between two cosmic forces that had decided, for some inexplicable reason, that he was interesting. He was a butterfly pinned in a box. An object of reverence and curiosity.
And it was the most insane, humiliating, and utterly amazing thing he’d ever felt.
He barely caught what Castiel said, too focused on keeping the grip of his fingers on your hips not too tight but not too loose either. He only caught onto your response.
“I know. But it is the most efficient solution. We are in a confined space, and our primary objective is to remain undetected until we can complete our mission.”
“Yes,” Cas agreed. “Dean is a variable we must account for.”
Dean, for his part, had never felt less like a variable in his entire life. He felt more like a human-shaped, easily-breakable, and incredibly horny chess piece in a game played by beings far beyond his comprehension. He felt small, insignificant, and utterly at the mercy of the two celestial beings who were currently discussing him like he was a mildly disruptive cargo they were transporting.
It was, he realized with a shudder that was definitely not entirely from the cold, also a major turn-on.
He swallowed, his throat dry. He was so utterly, completely screwed.
The next thing he knew, Castiel’s voice was soft in his ear. “The way is clear. We can go now, Dean.”
Dean was unceremoniously shoved from the confines of the small space. He stumbled into the dimly lit corridor, his legs weak, his face a flaming beacon of mortification. He felt like a man who had gone straight to heaven and been summarily kicked back down to earth, all in the span of twenty minutes. He stood there, blinking, trying to remember how to walk.
Sam was waiting standing by the Impala, a few blocks away, his face a mask of concern that quickly morphed into a baffled frown as Dean entered his visual camp, a little breathless, his face still glowing with a tell-tale flush.
Dean clapped him on the shoulder with a little too much force. His eyes were wide, his pupils blown wide, he looked like he’d just stared straight into god's eyes.
“Dean?” Sam asked, following his brother as they took their seats inside the car, his face creasing with confusion. “You okay? You look… weird. Did you hit your head?”
You and Cas slipped into the backseat as if you hadn’t just provided the most intense sexual experience of Dean’s life without even touching him below the waist.
He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His mind was still back in that closet.
He glanced in the rearview mirror. You were looking out the window, your face placid. Cas was looking at Dean, his head tilted in that familiar, bird-like way. There was a hint of something in the angel’s gaze, something that looked a lot like amusement.
Dean swallowed, his voice croaking out a single word. “Beer. I need beer.”
He needed a lot of it. And maybe a cold shower. And another one of these hunts. Anything to get back in that closet. This time, he thought, a wild, reckless thought, maybe they wouldn’t be in such a hurry to leave.
Sam Winchester was a mess on the couch.You had him pressed back against the cushions, one hand down the front of his jeans, stroking his thick, leaking cock while your mouth devoured his. Sam moaned into the kiss, tongue sliding desperately against yours as his hips twitched up into your fist.
The kiss was messy and hungry — all tongue and teeth and soft, desperate sounds. Sam’s large hands gripped your shoulders, fingers digging in as you worked him over inside his pants.You stroked him slow and firm, thumb swiping over the slick head every time you pulled back. He was so wet already, precum soaking into his boxers and making the slide filthy and perfect.“Fuck— don’t stop,”
Sam gasped against your mouth, breath hot and ragged. His cock throbbed hard in your hand, twitching as you kept jerking him off.You kissed him deeper, tongue fucking into his mouth as your hand moved faster. Sam whimpered, hips jerking up into your fist, chasing the pleasure.You could tell he was close. His thighs were trembling, breathing turning into short, desperate pants between kisses.
His cock swelled even thicker in your hand, leaking steadily.Sam moaned loudly into your mouth as he came hard, thick ropes of cum spilling into his boxers and soaking through his jeans.
His cock pulsed and jerked in your grip with every spurt, his body shuddering against yours as the orgasm ripped through him.He kept kissing you through it, soft and sloppy, like he couldn’t bear to pull away even while he was falling apart.
When he finally calmed down, Sam buried his face in your neck, breathing hard, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and lingering pleasure.
The car was already rocking hard on the deserted back road, headlights off, stars sharp overhead. You had Ben bent over the warm hood, his jeans and boxers shoved down around his ankles, thick thighs spread wide as you fucked him deep and raw. Your hips snapped forward with every thrust, driving your cock into his tight, scorching heat while the metal creaked and dented under his gripping hands.
Ben’s back arched, a guttural groan tearing from his throat each time you bottomed out and ground against his prostate. You had one hand pinning his wrists together behind his back, keeping him locked in place, while your other hand stroked his thick, leaking cock in perfect rhythm with your thrusts—firm, fast pulls that had him leaking steadily onto the glossy black paint.
“Fuck—harder,” Ben growled, voice rough and broken, pushing back against you even as his super-strength warped the hood. “Don’t you fucking slow down.”
You tightened your grip on his pinned wrists and drove in deeper, voice low and rough against his ear. “That’s it. Take every inch.”
You gave him exactly what he wanted, slamming into him harder, the wet slap of skin on skin loud in the quiet night. Every thrust nailed his prostate dead-on, making his powerful legs tremble and his cock throb in your fist. You kept railing him without mercy, angling your hips just right.
“Shit—right there—fuck, you’re deep,” he snarled, forehead pressed to the dented metal. His body rocked with every powerful snap of your hips, ass clenching greedily around your cock. “Keep hitting it—ah, fuck—”
You pounded into his prostate relentlessly, stroking his cock faster, thumb swiping over the slick head on every upstroke and smearing precum across the warm hood. The car rocked harder with each thrust, metal groaning under his grip as his super-strength flared. Ben’s moans grew more broken, his hips jerking back to meet you.
You leaned in closer, breath hot against his neck. “Look at you. Taking it so well for me.”
“Goddamn—gonna come—don’t you fucking pull out,” he gasped, voice cracking. “Stroke me faster—shit, I’m close—”
You gave him everything, hips snapping brutally, hand flying over his leaking length. “Come on, Benny. Let go.”
Until his whole body seized. Ben came with a loud, wrecked shout, thick ropes of cum shooting across the hood, painting the black paint white and messy. His ass clenched tight around your cock, pulsing rhythmically as he trembled through the orgasm, still pushing back against you like he couldn’t get enough.
The feeling pushed you over the edge. You buried yourself deep one last time and came hard, groaning low as you filled his twitching hole with pulse after pulse of hot cum. You kept thrusting through it, slow and deep, pushing your load further inside him while he panted and twitched beneath you, cum still dripping from his cock onto the dented hood.
When the last spasms faded, you stayed buried inside him for a long moment, both of you breathing hard under the stars, the car hood warm and marked with the evidence of how long you’d been doing this.
It was suffocating, arousingly suffocating. Your nails digging into the sides of his neck as you squeezed a smidge harder. It made him feel alive, in a fucked up way. Knowing you held his life in your hands, knowing you could just take it at any moment, it got him going.
You were hesitant but not overly opposed. You knew he liked it when you were rough, always paying extra attention when you were in a fight he knew you would win. The way you'd punch, the way you'd kick. He wished it was him. It was odd.
He didn't know why he liked it, he shouldve felt numb to it at this point. All the pain. Hes been living through it all his life, so why now. Why with you does he want it, want the suffering to come from your hands only.
Maybe that was love, he knew you wouldn't hurt him, knew that you did it all with love. Not the harsh hatred he was used to.
"It is to much?" You asked and he immediately shook his head, "h-harder, I-I can take it" he gasped out just barley before a soft groan followed. All thoughts going straight out the window, he could understand one aspect he liked about it. The feeling, the emptiness that always came with being on the verge of passing out.
No overthinking, no remembering. Just being. Being with you, his angel, his God given solace. Something that he thought he would never get.
This is just a small drabble but I read one of my moots drabbles here abt dean and pain and HAD to write smth with choking (also if you know where that quote i used is from you get a prize :3)
cw pressing on bruises, pet names. established relationship!
dean likes when you press on his bruises. a blushing purple fans the curve of his bicep and bleeds into pink, then to skin, freckled and kissed a subtle tan from earlier sun. he sighs against the mattress and stares up at your pretty face.
hurt makes him feel alive. abrasions remind him that he's man and skin and blood and give him something like an adrenaline rush. he strangely finds that his lips want to curl when his stomach is beaten and his back is scraping into dirt ground. ache is nice, the pummeling indescribably easy to take.
it's best here, with you. he doesn't have to worry about fighting back or being sore all over when tomorrow comes. you just touch over the rotten spots already there with such soft, soothing fingers and palms.
his hands trace around your waist, almost shaking, needing badly though he isn't sure what. cheeks figgy, lashes crowning his eyes heavy. you're an angel and he wants you to smother him forever.
"baby," he breathes. you knead the bruise, his lungs hiccup.
thighs warm to both sides of his lap, you hum and pause.
"does it hurt too bad?"
"no, s'good. it's nice. please don't stop."
so nothingburger and i am so tired but had this thought and wanted to give it life
Okay but yes, just YES. My masochistic baby needs someone to make it hurt so good (badumtss) and not go too far, never bad, just the nice little sting, ughhh your writing always gets me omg
Hello what if you did ditzy Castiel but made a version where he’s a dumb sex obsessed frat boy I’m sorry if that doesn’t make sense 💙💙
Omg I think Himbo Frat Boy!Castiel is my new fave…
I think Himbo!Cas would have to be approached with nuance because he’s not a traditional ‘party boy’, but definitely chases the adrenaline kick you get at a crazy party.
During the day he goes by Jimmy. Jimmy looks like the most respectable member of the frat— he’s clean, softspoken, and well educated that strangers wonder why he even decided a frat would be fit for him. If the sun is up, he’s focusing on studying for the next A+ and mostly keeping to himself. But at night? He’s Castiel. Stoner, drinking himself silly, letting any and all willing hands play with him like a free toy and god does he love it. He’s never picky when he’s Castiel, so anyone who wants him can have him. The only condition is that he needs it so rough and sooo messy that he’ll wake up bruised and sticky…He’s not shy. It makes him very popular with horny partygoers. It’s actually disgusting, but he’s good with his mouth and better with his dick, so what’s the problem with him letting the room get him off a few too many times?
He’s so notorious for being the college bimbo that It’s become a tradition for students to hook up with him and steal his tie. Guys wear them to events, girls tie it around their belt loops, some even use it to hang on their doorknob as a warning for a particularly passionate night with someone (or some people)! Having that signature blue tie is its own depraved badge of honor. It’s enough of a service for Cas to sometimes wake up to a few dollar bills next to him.
Hello what if you did ditzy Castiel but made a version where he’s a dumb sex obsessed frat boy I’m sorry if that doesn’t make sense 💙💙
Omg I think Himbo Frat Boy!Castiel is my new fave…
I think Himbo!Cas would have to be approached with nuance because he’s not a traditional ‘party boy’, but definitely chases the adrenaline kick you get at a crazy party.
During the day he goes by Jimmy. Jimmy looks like the most respectable member of the frat— he’s clean, softspoken, and well educated that strangers wonder why he even decided a frat would be fit for him. If the sun is up, he’s focusing on studying for the next A+ and mostly keeping to himself. But at night? He’s Castiel. Stoner, drinking himself silly, letting any and all willing hands play with him like a free toy and god does he love it. He’s never picky when he’s Castiel, so anyone who wants him can have him. The only condition is that he needs it so rough and sooo messy that he’ll wake up bruised and sticky…He’s not shy. It makes him very popular with horny partygoers. It’s actually disgusting, but he’s good with his mouth and better with his dick, so what’s the problem with him letting the room get him off a few too many times?
He’s so notorious for being the college bimbo that It’s become a tradition for students to hook up with him and steal his tie. Guys wear them to events, girls tie it around their belt loops, some even use it to hang on their doorknob as a warning for a particularly passionate night with someone (or some people)! Having that signature blue tie is its own depraved badge of honor. It’s enough of a service for Cas to sometimes wake up to a few dollar bills next to him.
The Gabe one was so good, I fear I may have to ask for “Close your eyes, love. I'll be right here when you wake up.” with Cas....
np ofc and I hope you're doing well!!
Castiel couldn’t be to sure how long you had these nightmares for, but the problem is that you never mentioned them. It was becoming obvious pretty quickly.
The late nights, the bags beneath your eyes, and the willingness to always stay up to do the research for the boys so they could get some sleep in. Although tonight had been different, you had fallen asleep while reading in bed.
The nightmares slowly crept up into your mind, the darkness, losing everything. Dean. Sam. Castiel. The very angel who had managed to break down so many walls and called you his. Tonight was particularly awful.
But when you woke up in a cold sweat of fear and desperation, their was something different about it. Two large black wings had curled themselves around you, like a comforting blanket. Castiel was laid beside you. “You needed sleep.” His voice came from behind you, flat but containing the slight hint of worry and concern he only had for things he truly loved.
“Cass…” His name falls like a prayer from your lips.
“Shh. It’s okay, I understand.” His palm placed over your shoulder, the other tucked beneath you. “You just close your eyes.” The warmth of his grace slowly overtakes you as he shifts the positions to hold you to his chest. “I will be here when you wake up, love.” He presses a kiss to your temple and you fall into a nightmare free bliss.
Because he was there holding you, like he always would be.
I yearn for more aggressive sex from Castiel 👀👀👀 sorry I just love your writing sm
More Cas?!??? I did not think my Cas smut would get as many requests as it did— never say sorry I love this as much as you do anon…you’re so sweet! I’ll take Cas reqs anytime<3
What if Reader called herself an angel in front of Cas and it made him want to break her spirit?
May I also interest you in my banned nsft fic? （˶•̀ ᎑-˶)
Let’s think about Cas playing up that innocent facade. He’s an angel. Girls love angels. They’re always calling themselves one, talking about how such sweet creatures can’t do any wrong. But angels hate when girls think they’re something special.
It’s what he makes you think about even when he’s prying your mouth open and pushing you down to his feet. One hand keeps your mouth gaping and the other jams two fingers into your throat. You reach up to grab his wrists and brace yourself, legs straddling his shoe, trying to hide the motion of you grinding against the laces.
“That’s enough.” He commands. “You have the confidence to call yourself my kind? You can’t handle a fraction of what real angels deal with.”
He pulls his hand out of your mouth and wipes it across your face twice: once with his palm, the other with the back of his hand. You push your hair out of your eyes but by the time you can, he’s teleported behind you. The back of his shoe finds a place on your back and pushes you to the floor. Thank god Sammy recently cleaned the bunker floor. The wood tastes like cleaning products…a bit chemical and linen scented, it tastes sterile like Castiel’s—
—His wings flap forward, caging you beneath him.
“Cas…” you cough.
“I don’t know what I’m doing….” He tilts his head to the side so he can see your reaction. He puts on a fake look of remorse, eyes glazed over, brows scrunched tightly together. His voice softens like he’s trying to comfort you. “Angels don’t know any better. It’s our first time on earth too.”
He watches you scramble to your knees but not bother to get up.
“Didn’t you want this?” He asks it like a statement, because he already knows the answer.
“Yes Cas.”
“Castiel.”
“Yes Castiel.”
It’s like you’re the real pervert instead of him. He’s disgusted that he’s even touching you, like you’re diseased in comparison to something as divine as he is. You try to win him back, hugging his leg and crying for his forgiveness.
“I’m sorry Castiel,” you grab his pant leg tight and move to straddle his foot again. “I shouldn’t have said that!—”
He kicks you off of his foot and steps right on your pussy, grinding down simultaneously with your own pathetic thrusts. One hand grabs your hair and the other unbuckles his belt.
“I think you mistook being an angel for being a disgusting monster fucker.”
His cock could wash the filth from anyone’s mouth. You gag on him, and he only grinds his foot against you harder. He leaves no room for hesitation and your nose hits hard against his happy trail.
“Fight back.” He dares. “You’re an ‘angel’, where’s your blade? I want to convince myself you’re worth being touched.” It’s like you’re barely entertaining him, like the mouth he’s fucking isn’t even there. You swirl your tongue around him, bobbing your head, trying to please him in any way possible, but your presence is a chore.
You cum before he does, whimpering through the orgasm and clutching his leg harder. He scoffs and pulls out of your throat roughly. He retracts his foot from under you and looks at the shiny residue with a scowl.
“I’ll try harder, I’m not done yet-!”
Castiel pushes you back down and stands over you, taking his cock in his hand. You squeeze your thighs together to conceal the need throbbing through your body. He starts panting like an animal, wings spread wide and as stiff as his own dick as he pumps fast and hard. He clearly gets off on his own pain, hand gripping himself so tight you wonder if there’s even blood flow. You were too gentle. Too needy. This is what angels do to themselves.
A powerful orgasm washes over him and he finishes on you. He stands there panting, jaw slack and chest heaving.
“I should’ve known better than to waste my time with you. But as you’ve said: angels don’t know anything, right?”
Imagine Ryland with someone who is his total opposite. I mean you're LOUD, you're energetic, you're EXCITED to be in space on a death trip just because it's cool (let's say you had nothing left on Earth or you're like really brave or smth). You're so like enthusiastic and bubbly and just EAGER. For EVERYTHING.
Imagine the whole scene with Rocky sending out those cannisters. The ship asks "Would you like to go on a space walk, Dr. Grace?" And he hesitates, because of course he does. He's not an astronaut. He doesn't want to be here. But he knows how to use the EVA suits. He's super reluctant. Then there's you. All smiles from ear to ear. "Grace. Grace I can. I can DEFINITELY go on that space walk if you don't want to."
But then he doesn't want you getting hurt and ends up going anyway with you. He pokes his head out of the airlock and, "Nope." He ducks his head right back in. You lean out, secured to the Hail Mary by your tether, and start to free float, knowing the tether will hold you. "GRACE WE'RE IN SPACE OMGOMG"
Imagine when Rocky comes aboard. The insurmountable chaos.
"WHERE MY BEDROOM, question?!"
"Bedroom?!"
And before he can say anything else, aghast at the alien's audacity, you're taking off after Rocky. "I'LL HELP YOU GET SET UP ROCKY!!!" :D
It's chaotic. It's hectic. But at long as he has someone so full of life and wonder even in this most dire of situations, he feels like he can do anything.
𓏲 ⛪︎ ˖ — Ditzy!Castiel who just adores being around you. You’re his comfort person, and he has no clue what he’d do without you. He’s perfectly capable of doing things by himself…kind of. That is until it’s late at night and there’s down time to be ridiculous. It’s a little game that the two of you like to play: Cas will patiently wait around like a ‘guard dog’, anticipating the moment he’ll get called off of protective duties to get coddled with your kind words.
“Are you okay Cas? Protecting is hard work…”
“Such a strong angel! You did so good…”
“Don’t worry about me anymore, we’re safe.”
Yes it’s a little stupid…but so is Cas, and he’s not hurting anyone. You let his puppy love roam free.
𓏲 ⛪︎ ˖ — Ditzy!Castiel has a lot to learn after touching down on Earth: from discovering naps to understanding people can’t teleport at the blink of an eye. It’s so amazing how humans have big wooden boxes dedicated to all of the clothes they’ve collected! You both love learning new things with the company of one another, and It’s not unusual to spend a whole day on one activity. The best afternoons have Cas stumped on the kind of facial expression he should be making, overwhelmed with how fascinating it is to be living like a regular person.
𓏲 ⛪︎ ˖ — Ditzy!Castiel loves to follow your lead, and the irony is beyond adorable. An angel of the lord, a creature that kills demons and wards off monsters, holding your hand to cross the street because it ‘feels better that way’ and it’s “much safer when crossing traffic’. Definitely not making excuses to hold hands with you.
𓏲 ⛪︎ ˖ — Ditzy!Castiel loves being lazy. Does he already spend time standing around for you? Yes. But does that truly count? Lazy brings you to the roof of a building, staring up at stars while Cas names them like he’s known them forever.
“Hm…I’ve been to that one.”
“I would not visit that star. It was too warm to be around.”
“That one was a pleasant visit. I can take you sometime.”
He forgets that humans can’t travel that far, maybe all of that teleporting is what rattles his brain, but it’s nice to know he’s thinking about you no matter the circumstance.
*Note: I had this idea swirling around in my brain all day, but for some reason I had such a hard time articulating it! Maybe it’s bc I wrote this at work lol >_<
The Vought Tower gala was, as always, a spectacular display of corporate excess dressed in designer gowns and thousand-dollar suits. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across the marble floors, where the elite of the supe world mingled with the kind of practiced ease that came from years of performing for cameras that were no longer pointed in their direction. The champagne flowed freely, as did the cocaine in the bathrooms, and somewhere in the corner, a former member of Payback was trying to convince a young influencer that he'd totally been the one to take down that terrorist cell in Mogadishu.
You sipped your champagne and watched the theater of it all with the bored amusement of someone who had seen it all before. Twice. Maybe three times if you counted the late 70s, when the parties had been actually wild and there hadn't been a single PR consultant in sight to tell you that doing lines off a table was "problematic for the brand."
At sixty-three, you looked thirty-five. That was the gift of Compound V, along with the enhanced strength, the healing factor, and the slight shimmer that seemed to follow you like a personal lighting crew. You'd been one of the first, one of the beautiful ones, selected not for any useful power but because you were the kind of gorgeous that sold magazines. And God, had you sold them. Your face had been on more covers than you could count, your body had graced the pages of Playboy three times in the 80s alone, and your reputation had been the stuff of legend.
But that was then. Now, you were more than a pretty face. You were a survivor, and that was something that couldn't be bought or sold.
The snap of fingers cut through the ambient noise of the gala, and you watched with a curl of satisfaction as Mr. Marathon's head whipped around so fast you heard his neck crack.
"Ma'am?" He was already moving toward you, his long legs eating up the distance between you in three quick strides. His eyes were wide, eager, practically begging for you to give him something to do. "Yes, ma'am? What'd you need? What'd you want? Anything, I can get you anything—"
You let him ramble for a moment, watching the way his chest rose and fell with quickened breath, the way his hands twitched at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from touching you. He was so pretty like this, all desperate attention and puppy-dog eyes, his boyish charm still intact despite the fact that he was pushing fifty and had been washed up for the better part of a decade.
"Collar's crooked," you said, reaching out to straighten it. Your fingers brushed against his throat, and you felt him shiver. "Can't have you looking sloppy, baby boy. What would people think?"
"Right, yes, ma'am—I mean, yes, ma'am, thank you, I'm sorry, I should have checked before we left, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you-"
"Shh." You pressed a finger to his lips, and he fell silent immediately, his breath warm against your skin. His eyes had gone glassy, that familiar glaze settling over them. "You're not embarrassing me, pretty boy. You're perfect. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes, ma'am." The words came out muffled against your finger, and you could feel the slight tremble in his lower lip. "Always perfect for you. I try to be. I try so hard, you know I do-"
"I know, baby." You removed your finger and cupped his cheek instead, feeling the slight stubble that had grown in over the course of two days. "I know you do. That's why I keep you around."
The way his face lit up at that was almost pathetic. Almost. There was something endearing about it, too, the way he practically glowed under your praise, his entire body relaxing as if you'd just told him he'd won the lottery. He leaned into your touch like a cat seeking affection, his eyes fluttering half-closed as his hands reached out for your waist, landing waaaayy too low.
"Marathon." You called him out gently, and his gaze snapped up to yours. "Behave. There are cameras."
His eyes widened in panic, and you watched him struggle to pull himself together. It was cute, the way he tried to compose himself, straightening his jacket and running a hand through his hair in a gesture that was supposed to be casual but came off as frantic.
"Right, yes, of course, cameras, I know, I'm sorry, I'll—I'll be good, I promise, I can be good-"
"I know you can, honey." You patted his cheek and turned back to your champagne, leaving him to hover at your side like the devoted accessory he was. "Now stand there and look pretty. I have to talk to some people."
"Yes, ma'am."
An hour later, you were deep in conversation with a producer from Vought's entertainment division when you felt familiar arms wrap around your waist from behind. Mr. Marathon pressed himself against your back, his body a warm line of heat against your spine, and you could feel exactly how excited he was to be touching you.
"Hi," he murmured against your ear, his breath ghosting over your neck. "Missed you. You were gone for so long. I thought you forgot about me."
You made a mental note that he'd lasted nearly forty-five minutes before the need for contact had become unbearable. That was a new record. Usually he was crawling back within twenty.
"I was talking to Mr. Harrison," you said, keeping your voice even despite the way his hands were fisting the fabric of your dress at your hips. "About a potential project. Very important."
"Oh." He sounded petulant, almost childish. "Well, I'm more important. I'm your boyfriend. That means I should be the most important thing. Right? Right?"
You turned slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of his face. He was pouting, his lower lip jutting out in a way that made you want to kiss him until he couldn't breathe. Or maybe spank him until he couldn't sit. Both options had their appeal.
"My project could make us a lot of money," you said mildly. "Money that pays for the penthouse. The car. The designer clothes you like to rip off me."
His eyes darkened at that, and you felt his hips press forward, grinding his obvious erection against your back. "I can make you money. I can do things. I'm not useless, you know."
"Of course you are not, baby." You reached back and patted his thigh, and he immediately fell silent. "You're very useful. You keep my bed warm, you fetch things when I need them, and you look good on my arm."
He preened at that, straightening his posture and puffing out his chest slightly. "I do look good, don't I? I mean, people are always looking at us, and I know they're looking at you, but they're looking at me too. They're wondering what I did to deserve you."
"Nothing," you said bluntly. "You did nothing. I just happened to like the way you begged."
His cheeks flushed, and he dropped his forehead against your shoulder with a soft groan. "That's so mean. You're so mean to me. I love it."
"Of course you do."
You turned back to Mr. Harrison, who was watching the exchange with thinly veiled fascination. He was a balding man in his late fifties, the kind who had seen enough of the supe world to not be surprised by anything, but even he seemed taken aback by the dynamic unfolding before him.
"Your... companion is very dedicated," he said diplomatically.
"He's house-trained," you replied, and felt Mr. Marathon's teeth sink into the curve of your shoulder in a small, possessive bite. "Mostly.” You upon feeling the slight attack. “He still has accidents when he gets too excited."
"That's not-" Mr. Marathon started to protest, then seemed to think better of it and letting out a huff, turning his head away.
"Marathon." You snapped your fingers, and his head whipped around to look at you, his eyes wide and glassy. "Control yourself."
"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am. Won't say another word. Not a single one. You won't even hear a peep from me. I'll be so quiet, you'll forget I'm even here."
"You're too anything to forget," you said, patting his cheek. "But I appreciate the effort."
Mr. Harrison coughed delicately. "Perhaps we can continue this discussion another time. It seems you have your hands full."
"Always," you agreed, smiling. "Good night, Mr. Harrison."
"Good night, Miss..." He trailed off, clearly unsure of your actual name. Most people were these days. You'd gone through so many stage names, so many personas, that even you lost track sometimes.
"Just the Missus will do," you said, and watched his eyes widen. "Or ma'am, if you prefer."
"Ma'am." Mr. Harrison repeated, and you heard Mr. Marathon whimper softly behind you. "Of course. Good night."
He scurried away, and you were left alone with your needy boyfriend, who was practically vibrating against your back.
"Did you see that?" Mr. Marathon asked, his voice high and excited. "He called you ma'am. He saw me do it and now he's doing it too. You're so powerful. Everyone wants to do what you say. But no one does it like me, right? I do it best? I'm the best at being yours, right?"
"You're the best at being mine," you agreed, because it was true. No one could match his level of desperation, his complete and total devotion to the cause of pleasing you. "Now come on. I'm bored. Let's go home."
"Home?" His voice cracked slightly. "Really? We're going home? Together? Just us?"
"Unless you'd rather stay here."
"No, no, no, I want to go home, I want to go home with you, I want to—" He took a breath, visibly trying to calm himself. "I mean, yes, ma'am. Whatever you want. Let's go home."
The car ride was a study in restraint. Mr. Marathon had never been good at keeping his hands to himself, and the privacy of the backseat was far too tempting for him. Within minutes of pulling away from the gala, his hands were roaming, fingers tracing patterns on your thigh, then your hip, then your stomach, always moving, always seeking more contact.
"Stop fidgeting, honey." you said, without even meeting his eyes.
"Can't help it." His voice was strained, desperate. "You're so close.”
He made a small, frustrated sound.
"Marathon."
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Behave."
The whimper he let out was almost comical. "But I can't. I can't behave around you, you know this—"
"One more word and I'm moving you to the guest room tonight."
He went silent immediately, his hands freezing in place. The threat of being separated from you was the only thing that could truly make him behave, and you used it ruthlessly when necessary.
For the rest of the drive, he was a perfect statue, barely breathing, barely moving, his eyes fixed on you like you were the only source of light in the world. It was almost sweet, in a deeply pathetic way.
The penthouse was dark when you arrived, but you didn't bother with the lights. The city glow filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in shades of blue and gold. Mr. Marathon followed you like a shadow, his footsteps silent on the marble floors.
"Bedroom," you said, and he was there instantly, making a beeline for the master suite without needing further instruction.
You took your time, removing your jewelry piece by piece, setting each item carefully on the vanity. You could hear him moving around in the bedroom, probably pacing, probably trying to contain his excitement. He was never good at waiting, but he was learning.
When you finally entered the bedroom, you found him standing at the foot of the bed, naked and already hard, his hands clasped behind his back like a soldier awaiting inspection. The sight of him like this never failed to send a thrill through you.
"Look at you," you said, circling him slowly. "So eager. So ready. You couldn't even wait for me to tell you to undress."
"Wanted to be ready for you," he said, his voice husky. "Wanted to show you that I'm good. That I listen. That I—"
"Shh." You pressed a finger to his lips again, and he fell silent. "I know what you want. But first, I want to look at you. Stand still."
He stood still. He was very good at standing still when you told him to.
You took your time, trailing your fingers over his chest, his stomach, his hips. He was built like a runner, lean and muscular, with long legs and a narrow waist. The years had been kind to him, leaving him with silver at his temples and laugh lines around his eyes that made him look distinguished rather than old. He'd been a hero once, a real one, with actual powers that made him more than just a pretty face.
"Turn around," you said, and he obeyed immediately, his back to you now. You ran your hand down his spine, feeling the slight tremor that ran through him. "You're shaking."
"Can't help it." His voice was strained. "You just—you make me feel so much. All the time. It's like I'm going to explode from it."
"Don't explode yet," you said, stepping closer so your front was pressed against his back. "I haven't gotten to play with you."
He made a sound that was almost a sob, and you knew he was close to breaking. Good. You wanted him broken. That was when he was most beautiful.
"On the bed," you said, and he scrambled to obey, crawling onto the massive bed and settling in the center with his arms spread wide. Presenting himself to you. Offering himself up.
"Please," he said, and the word was almost a prayer. "Please, ma'am, please, I need you, I need—"
"Shh." You climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips without letting any part of you touch him. He whimpered at the nearness, his hips bucking up instinctively before he caught himself.
You leaned down, letting your lips brush against his, feather-light, barely a whisper of contact. He moaned, his hands coming up to grab you before stopping themselves mid-air.
"Can I touch you?" he asked, his voice breaking. "Please, ma'am, can I please touch you?"
"Not yet," you said, pulling back. "I want to look at you first."
He was beautiful like this, laid out beneath you, his chest heaving, his eyes dark with need. The city light played across his skin, highlighting the definition of his muscles, the trail of hair that led down his stomach. His cock was hard and leaking, pressed against his stomach, and you watched a bead of pre-cum slide down to pool in his navel.
"So desperate," you murmured, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertip. "So needy. You'd do anything for me, wouldn't you?"
"Anything," he agreed immediately. "Anything you want. Anything at all. I'd—I'd do it. I'd do everything. I'd—"
"You'd kill for me?"
"Yes."
"You'd die for me?"
"Without hesitation."
He meant it. That was the most beautiful part. He meant every word.
"Good boy," you said, and watched his eyes flutter closed at the praise. "My good, pretty boy. My perfect boy."
"I'm yours," he breathed. "All yours. Everything I am, everything I have, it's all yours."
"I know it is." You leaned down and kissed him, properly this time, and he groaned into your mouth like he was dying. His hands came up to cup your face, trembling, reverent, and you let him have this small contact. He'd earned it.
"Please," he said against your lips. "Please, ma'am, I can't—I can't wait anymore, I need you, I need—"
"Need what, baby boy?"
"Everything." The word was broken, desperate. "I need everything you'll give me. I need to feel you. I need to be inside you. I need to—"
"Not tonight," you said, and watched his face crumble. "Tonight, you're going to use your mouth. You're going to show me how much you love me with that talented tongue of yours."
"Yes." The word was immediate, eager. "Yes, yes, yes, I can do that, I can show you, I'll show you how much I love you, how much I worship you, I'll—"
"Then get to it, pretty boy."
He didn't need to be told twice. He moved with a speed that was almost superhuman, positioning himself between your legs and pushing up your skirt with frantic hands. When he saw what you were wearing, or rather, what you weren't wearing, he let out a sound that was almost a sob.
"No underwear," he breathed. "You—you knew. You knew this was going to happen."
"I always know," you said, settling back against the pillows. "Now are you going to use that mouth, or are you going to stare all night?"
He dove in like a man drowning, his mouth finding you with desperate accuracy. The first stroke of his tongue against your clit made you gasp, and he moaned against you like the sound was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard.
You carded your fingers through his hair, and he whimpered, pressing closer, his hands gripping your thighs like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
"That's it," you said, your voice breathy. "That's my good boy. My pretty, perfect boy."
He hummed against you, sending vibrations through your entire body, and you felt yourself getting closer. He was good at this, so good at this, like everything else he did for you. He was desperate to please, and that desperation made him talented.
"Fingers," you said, and he immediately brought his hand up, pressing two fingers inside you without hesitation. "Good boy. So good for me. So eager to make me feel good."
He worked you with his mouth and fingers, building you up with practiced ease. He knew your body like he knew his own, maybe better, and he used that knowledge ruthlessly.
"Please," he said, pulling back just long enough to speak. "Please come for me, please, I need it, I need to taste you, I need—"
"Shh." You tugged his hair, and he moaned. "Keep going. Don't stop until I tell you to."
He dove back in, his tongue working circles around your clit while his fingers curled inside you. You were close, so close, and he knew it, could probably taste it on you.
"That's it," you said, your voice strained. "Right there, don't stop, don't you fucking stop—"
You came with a cry, your hips bucking against his face, and he drank it down like a man dying of thirst. He didn't stop, even as you shuddered through the aftershocks, lapping at you until you were oversensitive and pushing his head away.
"Good boy," you breathed, and he looked up at you with glazed eyes, his chin wet with your arousal. "So good for me. My perfect, beautiful boy."
He crawled up your body, positioning himself above you, his cock pressing against your thigh. "Please," he said, and his voice was wrecked. "Please, ma'am, please let me- I need-"
"You need to come?"
"Yes, yes, yes, please, I need it so bad, I've been so good, I've been so patient, please-"
You considered him for a moment, watching him tremble with need. He was so beautiful like this, so broken open, so desperate for the smallest scrap of your attention.
"Touch yourself," you said. "Show me how much you need it."
He didn't hesitate, his hand wrapping around his cock and pumping frantically. His eyes were fixed on you, watching you watch him, and you could see the way your attention pushed him closer to the edge.
"That's it," you said, reaching out to cup his face. "My pretty boy. My desperate, needy, perfect boy. So good for me. So beautiful when you're like this."
"Ma'am-" The word was broken, almost a sob. "Please, I'm going to-I need—"
"Come for me, then." you said. "Come for me, baby boy."
He did, with a cry that was almost a scream, his body arching as he spilled over his hand and onto your stomach. He collapsed against you, his face buried in your neck, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you, thank you, thank you-"
You shushed him gently, running your fingers through his hair. "Shh. You did so well. I'm so proud of you."
"I love you," he said, and you could feel the tears on his cheeks. "I love you so much, I can't help it, I love you."
"I know you do, baby." You pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I love you too."
He stiffened slightly, then pulled back to look at you. "You do?"
"Of course I do." You cupped his face, wiping away his tears with your thumbs. "Who else would put up with your nonsense? Who else would keep you around?"
"Only you," he said, and there was awe in his voice. "Only ever you."
"That's right." You kissed him softly. "Now clean me up. There's a mess on my stomach."
He scrambled to obey, grabbing a cloth from the nightstand and carefully, reverently, wiping the evidence of his release from your skin. When he was done, he pressed a kiss to your stomach, then your chest, then your lips.
You pulled him close, wrapping your arms around him. "Sleep, baby boy. We have another event tomorrow, and you need to look pretty."
"Yes, ma'am." He nestled against you, his head on your chest, his arms wrapped around your waist. "I'll be so pretty. The prettiest. Just for you."
"I know you will."
( BONUS W MALCHEMICAL !!!!! )
The next day's afternoon, you had lunch with Malchemical, one of the few friends you'd maintained from the old days. He was a shapeshifter, currently in the form of a nondescript businessman, and he watched with barely concealed amusement as Mr. Marathon hovered at your side, fetching your water, adjusting your chair, offering you bites of his own food.
"He's like a puppy," Malchemical observed. "A very needy, very obsessed puppy."
"He's house-trained," you said, patting Mr. Marathon's hand as he set down a fresh glass of water. "Mostly."
"You're just jealous because you don't have anyone who looks at you like that," Mr. Marathon said, and there was a bit of a snap in his voice. "No one's ever looked at you the way I look at her. No one's ever loved anyone the way I love her."
"Marathon." You snapped your fingers, and his head whipped around, his expression instantly softening. "Be nice."
"Yes, ma'am." He ducked his head, chastened. "Sorry, ma'am. I'll be good."
Malchemical's eyebrows had nearly reached his hairline. "He just... that's all it takes? A snap of your fingers and he's putty?"
"He's conditioned," you said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "It's all about positive reinforcement. He gets rewards for good behavior."
"And punishments for bad?"
You smiled, and it wasn't a nice smile. "He loves those too."
YOU BET YOUR ASS I AM! I AM ACTUALLY WORKING ON SOMETHING REGARDING BOTH OF THEM GRHGRHGAGRHRGHARGH PROBABLY SOON WITH THE TRIO (mal, marathon and sb) TEHEEEEE
