⊹₊ ⋆ 〔ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ part of my dean winchester, who… series. 〕
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dean was an absolute god at sex. you knew that. everyone on the planet probably knew that.
every single girl that’s ever left his motel room that you’ve seen has had a smile on their face that could light up a small country—and obviously, that didn’t come from not doing a good job of dicking down a woman.
you should’ve known he’d be just as good at the aftercare, too. you really should've.
and sure, you wondered what it would be like, to be with him. of course you did. and you let yourself ponder and fantasize, but never acted on your urges. sure, you flirted back with dean when he flirted with you, because it was just make-believe. it was funny. it was a joke, and it was easy.
and it was a joke between you for a long time. yet somewhere along the way, that changed.
that’s how you got yourself to right now: laying in dean’s bed. on dean’s sheets.
in dean’s arms.
he’s never brought a girl back to the bunker—so that’s gotta count for something, you think as you lay in his bed. you’ve never seen a girl walking out of dean’s room in the bunker like you see when you stay at motels, so maybe you did matter more to him like he said you did. you let yourself believe it, even if it really wasn’t exactly true. let yourself believe that maybe this wouldn't end tonight, maybe you’d have something more with dean.
but you can’t really even think about that—or anything else, for that matter, because in your time together, dean made you come 4 times. you’d never been able to do that in one sitting—by yourself or otherwise, at least not without breaks in between—but dean was wringing you out for all you were.
and you gave it to him. willingly. truly.
you were barely making coherent noises by the end, on your last orgasm. and you were loud. and it sounded like you were in pain—thank god sam was gone, because you felt embarrassed, so goddamn embarrassed to be making such noises. but dean quite literally fucked the self-consciousness right out of you. he pressed his nose to your cheek like the tip of his dick pressed deep inside you—and when you poorly stifiled a moan that was coming out of you, he just shook his head against yours and said to let him hear it.
dean told you that he could hear your thoughts from here. he told you to just enjoy it. told you that you could say stop if you felt too overwhelmed, and he would. he said most of that while he pounded into you, so it was hard to focus on his words.
but you still heard him.
yet you didn’t tell him to stop.
he also shushed you when you tried to apologize for essentially being a ragdoll instead of an engaging member of sex with him after the third time you came. he didn't mind, he said. said he got off on it, watching you come undone, over and over, getting drunk on him. and you should've expected this kind of reassurance from him, you really should've. he provides in every other possible way, in every sense—so how could sex be any different?
you’re close to dozing off now, though. you can distinctly feel dean’s body still on top of yours—he’d also gone full ragdoll after holding off his own orgasm for so long—but that’s about all you can feel, besides the throbbing from your lower region, which is still wrapped around dean.
you're wet in every sense—sweat, fluids, basically a puddle of yourself. you’re starting to feel sticky from yours and dean’s fluids mixed together as your senses come back, but you don’t move. you’re too tired. your eyes are just so heavy, so you just close them. allow the aftermath of the experience you just had to wash over you completely, leaving you all floaty-like and celestial. your hands are still resting on dean’s back, somewhere by his shoulder blades, no longer hanging on for dear life, now just holding him. you still don't move, save for breathing.
then, it could've been seconds, it could've been hours—but dean finally stirs enough to look up at you from where he lay on top of you, rests his chin on your chest right bewteen your boobs. the movement makes you look down at him, too—but don't get it twisted, you just open your eyes enough to look at dean. you’re still wiped.
and dean just looks at you, doesn't say anything right away. he blinks a few times, then reaches up to your face, brushes his fingers against your cheek. the corner of his mouth twitches up a little, and if you were the tinest bit more coherent, you’d probably feel embarrassed—but you aren’t coherent.
now, you're too tired to care if he thinks you’ve lost all your appeal, now that the sex is over. now that there’s nothing new to discover, now that he’s scratched the itch. too tired to care if he’s gonna kick you out back to your room, because now you’re all sweaty and gross and sticky, no longer a shining star, no longer something to be conquered.
but he doesn't do that.
instead, his fingers continue to gently caress the side of your face, over and over. like he was trying to memorize it. then he lifts his chin and places a kiss on your chest. then another kiss before he lifts himself up off and completely out of you with a small grunt—and for a split second you think he’s gonna leave you here, but then his face comes completely into view above you, his nose brushing yours again.
“y’got any idea how perfect y’are?”
the slurred words catch you off-guard—but that’s a severe understatement. you don't hear the word ‘perfect’ from dean often, and certainly not after he was just balls-deep inside of you, moaning your name over and over again. touching you. wanting you. needing you.
dean doesn’t let you answer his question, though. he just kisses the side of one of your cheeks, murmuring a ‘b’right back’ against your face, inking the reassurance in your skin before you can even attempt to say anything or reach for him. then he moves, and you hear a squeak of the sink in the corner of his room, hear his footsteps padding back over to you against the concrete a few beats later.
dean’s hand touches you first—sliding up your leg gently, and you’re certain he’s making sure he doesn’t scare you, since you’re laying there deader than a sack of potatoes. you hum when he does, moving a little—or at least trying to, but he shakes his head at you, his other hand pressing you down on his bed.
his bed.
jesus. his bed. the pillow smells like him, everything fucking smells like him. it’s invading every pore of your body. your heart’s still pounding, but it’s slowing down when dean moves away from your face again. you feel warmth between your thighs, and look down, squinting in the dim light to see what dean was wiping you with.
it’s his shirt he was wearing, the one you yanked off of him earlier. he’d gotten it wet in his sink with warm water, and was currently wiping at the creases of your thighs, slick and sticky with dampess up with his shirt.
you don’t know why he was doing this. did he do this with everyone he hooked up with? you tried not to think about it, but now that the fog was finally starting to clear in your mind, it was hard not to. the gesture, the view of him in front of you on his bed? it puts a lump in your throat.
you’re in love with him.
you’ve been in love with him for a long time.
and you know he’s probably just as tired as you—he’d done pretty much all the work sex-wise, but you noticed and knew he liked it, being the giver. always giving, never asking for anything. taking care of you.
and you let him.
four times.
but you also noticed he was getting tired at the end. he almost tuckered out, tossed in the towel, and didn’t come at all. he was panting as hard as you were on the last round, and he was just as sweaty. held it off until it almost hurt, like he didn't want it to end. he was speaking all sorts of rambles too, his words stringing together.
you can still see, even in just the dim, barely-there golden light of his room that his face is red. not pink. not blushing. beet fucking red. you can see his shoulders rising and falling quickly with each breath, and you want to reach up to touch him. but you’re not sure about doing it, so you resort to blindly grabbing at him until your hand makes contact with him.
your hand ends up somewhere on his arm—and he looks at your hand on his skin, then looks up at you with those green eyes.
“come up here,” you murmur, tugging his arm—and he moves like there’s an anvil attached him that you pulled on, rising over you just enough to not squish you with his body weight.
your hand on dean’s arm finds purchase on his face as you rise and turn—and dean molds to you like a slab of clay, letting you do what you want. he lets himself lay down next to you instead of over you, like before. your body’s moving him mindlessly without barely touching him—and you just look at him when his head hits his pillow, both your chests rising and falling slower now.
you wish you could tell him he doesn’t have to take care of you. tell him that he’s allowed to rest here with you, allowed to not be… dean winchester. the sex god, the caretaker, always having to be on. you wish you could say that he’s allowed to just be dean instead. you don’t know how to tell him that.
but the thing is: dean already knows.
he knows that he’s allowed to shell out his own little part of you to hide out inside when things get too bad. he knows that you’ll always be there for him—for every nightmare, every apocalypse, every angel and demon that has a hitlist. he knows you’ll hug him without him having to ask, and even patch him up if you come across him drinking by himself in the bunker instead of getting the first aid kit. you’ll gently coax him awake when he falls asleep at the library’s table and quite literally drag him to his own bed, muttering about how this is why his back hurts all the time and other righteous, nice things—because you care about him.
and he cares about you.
he’s been a goner for you.
he’s in love with you, too.
that’s why he’ll take everything you have to offer him, over and over. he’ll let you hold him until the sun inevitably comes up again after a nightmare, let your hands touch him when he fall asleep with his laptop and a bunch of books open—and why he barely flinches when he hears your voice in his ears, waking him up, and he’ll let you tow him to his bedroom.
your hands move, reaching for something—dean looks up out of his thoughts to see what it is.
it’s his shirt.
you sit up more, hair sticking up, bunched and messy from dean’s hands running through it—and he’s never seen anything more beautiful. anything more perfect. he’s distracted by your face, your body, so he doesn't really register what you’re doing until he feels his wet shirt on his skin. you’re wiping him off, like he did for you. that’s when it hits him.
you’re trying to take care of him, too.
he looks down at his shirt that’s wiping his own skin, wiping away his own fluids mixed with yours. he’s unable to move or look away from the sight. unable to breathe. in all his years, no one’s done this for him: taken the time to take care of him. to let him be the one taking a break.
your other hand’s gently brushing his skin at his hipbone, almost as softly as his shirt. he blinks, blearily. it’s hard to keep his eyes open, and he can feel his body slowly starting to succumb to sleep under your touch, your care, just laying here in the warmth of you laying by his side—albeit propped up next to him.
he wants to tell you that you don’t have to do this. that he’s perfectly okay with being the caretaker, the one who carries it all. he’s been cast aside like a used tissue after sex—and he’s done the same too, so really, he shouldn’t feel so empty about that when it happens to him, but he does. he’ll take it. take it and bury it deep instead of letting himself feel it. that’s all he knows, all he can do. because he can’t try to unpack everything, not now.
truly, he doesn’t mind if no one ever took care of him—because he’s not allowed to mind. he’s not allowed to feel any sort of way about taking care of others, he just has to do it. no questions, no talkback, no lip. because that’s his job. most of the time, he just ends up pushing people away. he’s not good at showing anything other than anger. but he has everyone taken care of, in the end. at least he has that.
dean doesn’t tell you to stop doesn’t tell you to get off him, or make a joke as you wipe at him. he doesn’t do anything, actually. not a damn thing. he’s not sure why, either. he’s pretty sure he blacked out, instead of being present in the moment. he’s been doing that a lot recently—not knowing what he’s doing, lost in his own thoughts, brain on autopilot. he almost walked into a sign in front of a restaurant in the middle of the sidewalk the other day. a goddamn sign. what the hell was wrong with him lately?
dean finally snaps back into the moment, slowly blinking his eyes at you like an owl. he swallows the words that never came, that never even formed into a thought as looks at you. you're still naked—and that is a sight dean could get used to, that’s for damn sure.
you turn and lean over the edge of his bed a little, and dean immediatley siezes up, a sinking, deveastating feeling weighing on his chest like a dumbell, because this is it. you’re leaving. you got what you wanted, just his body, just to get off, and now you’re leaving. he’s given you everything and more and you’re leaving, leaving him like a toy you don’t want to play with anymore, leaving him like everything and everyone in his life. you’ve already grown bored of him, and now this thing between you is over before it even began.
but then you turn back to face him, your entire expression soft.
you were just putting his shirt you were using on the floor.
oh.
dean tries to look like he didn’t just get scared, but he knows some part of you noticed. he’s vulnrable right now, a easy target. you could walk out his bedroom door right now and he’d probably just cry instead of going after you. he actually feels like he could cry on the spot right now. he hopes you won’t say anything. you usually don’t—just hold him, hug him, touch him without a word.
and oh, how dean loved to be touched by you.
he’d take 40 more years in hell if it meant your hand could brush his face one last time. he’d take an eternity of torture, or he himself doing the torturing in the pit for your arms around him again. he’d kill anyone, steal anything, do whatever it took if it meant being near you.
but he has to act like he wouldn’t do that for you. he’d burn down anything for you to even look in his direction, for your touch on his flannel-clad shoulder, for your kiss on his cheek, an embrace from your arms. yet he had to act normal about it. but you were the only one who knew how to hug him correctly. sam, knew too, by default. but that was different—that’s his brother. his blood.
but you touched him like you’d spent your whole life learning to.
and you even hugged him like second nature, but still molded to the moment, still exactly what he needed. because you always knew where to squeeze, where to rest your head on him, no matter the situation. no matter if you won a hunt, a fight, an apocolaypse, or if you lost, you fit his body like a puzzle piece. like a lock and key. he’d known that—but it was carved into him forever after tonight, and he’d never forget.
because earlier, when he first slid inside you, it’s like the whole world had been off-kilter until he found his way inside you, the way he’s wanted to be inside you for so long. once he’d bottomed out, it’s like the world was right, for once in his life. like everything made sense after so long of it being chaos.
dean knows it’s ridiculous to feel such a thing, especially during sex, but in that moment, he did. he fit so snug, so perfect inside you that it felt like he’d gotten chucked into one of his dreams again, where he was watching you below him, you touching him the way he’s wanted you to touch him for so long. moaning his name, bringing him closer to you with your hands. just for the sake of being close, touching.
he’s been waiting for it. since forever, it feels like. since the moment he laid eyes on you. since the moment he had even an idea of what love was.
he must’ve been staring pretty hard, because one of your hands had made its way up to the side of his face, your eyes searching his expression. you’re looking to see what he’s thinking about. dean hopes it’s not written all over his face, but you seem to know what he’s thinking regardless if his expression shows it or not.
your thumbs brush his cheeks once, twice—still searching. still wanting him. he honestly still can't believe it. he’s not sure he ever will. you being here with him, he’s sure to wake up from this dream at any moment.
but he doesn't. you’re still in front of him. touching him.
and you want him there.
that’s why he lays down and rests his head on your chest with no complaints, no pushback when you tug him towards you after you lay down yourself. he doesn't protest partly because he actually really was fucking tired, but mostly because eventually, you’ll leave him—and dean will have nothing but the memoty of you, of your touch. maybe that’ll be changed, now that you’ve crossed the line he’s wanted to cross for so long now.
your hand finds his way into his hair, gently running your fingers through it and tugging dean out of his thoughts—and he has to bite back a noise from how good it feels. he sighs softly instead, relaxing more on top of you. he wonders if he’s making it hard for you to breathe. it’s happened before.
but you don’t move.
and now he can die happy.
dean would die for anything. it was damn near inevitable in this line of work—and shit, it already happened. he’d die for you, for his brother, his father, or some random person he doesn’t even know. he’ll lay it all down, if it meant saving the world, or even just saving one life. he’d do it. he has done it, over and over.
but you don’t say anything. you just hold him. dean can feel your heartbeat, feel your chest rising and falling. and in that piece of sunlight and everything warm and good, dean knows. he’s always known the terrifying truth about you.
I KNOW soldier boy loves a messy blowjob, spit running down your chin, gagging noises, tears down your cheeks, and if you're not sucking his balls you're only doing half a job
i’m nodding my head so hard right now. he doesn’t even consider it a blowjob if you don’t give any love to his sack. he’s so revolting about it, yanking his cock straight outta your mouth and tapping your cheek with the wet tip, tutting down at you with, “c’mon, babydoll, gotta show the stones some love too. go on, feel how full they are. you’re gonna let me fill your cunt with all that baby makin’ juice later, aren’t ya? m’gonna leave my pretty girl so fuckin’ stuffed.”
I’m almost finished with Attack on Titan. I’m going to sob. I wish I could be normal about something for once in my life but it’s not possible. I have one more episode left 😭
Synopsis sub!reiner headcanons (˶˃𐃷˂˶) || art cred ; thisuserisalive
“Hey, baby, won’t you open up? Split you open like a coconut.”
Tags ʚɞ SMUT, fem!reader, p in v, sub!reiner, dom!reader, etc.
a/n ʚɞ pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. he’s pathetic and a sub. he is not dominant becuz i said so (prob a switch tbh). i NEED this man neow. anyways i hope you guys like it @_@
sub!reiner who does everything and anything for you.
sub!reiner who thinks you dominating him is the hottest thing ever. his sweet, puppy hazel eyes pricking with tears looking up at you as you bounce on his fat, girthy cock just babbling how good you feel.
“S’good—fuck!”
“Feels s’good.”
sub!reiner who let’s out the most pathetic whines and groans, chest heaving as he lets you have your way with him.
sub!reiner with a size kink, degradation, praise, mommy, and breeding kink all together. he likes the fact that someone smaller than him can overpower him, having him beg for more, calling you ‘mommy’ as he gets degraded. every round, filling you up with hot thick ropes of cum, getting harder every time as it spills out of your wet cunt.
“yes—m’your little bitch.”
“m’all yours mommy.”
“wanna fill you up, please. I’ll be good for you.”
“did I do good? fuck—please, tell me I did good.”
sub!reiner who’s an absolute slut for dry humping. laying on your stomach, reading your book as he lays on top of you. his broad chest pressed against your back, his weight engulfing you as he desperately ruts his hips to gather friction between his bulge and that soft flesh of your ass. whining in your ear as fat tears roll down his cheeks.
sub!reiner who does everything to make you happy. poor baby grew up seeking validation from others, pleasing them, and dwelling in his own insecurities. he just wants to please you and make you happy, so you give him what he wants most of the time.
sub!reiner who is ABSOLUTELY pussy drunk. loves eating you out, switching from kitty licks to soft suckles that has you cumming within seconds.
“taste s’good.”
“…please, let me have one taste.”
sub!reiner who loves hearing your sounds.
sub!reiner who loves overstimulation. he likes the feeling of himself trembling with his dick sensitive and throbbing as his muscles tense and burn, beads of sweat clinging onto his skin.
sub!reiner with big impact play. he loves getting slapped and spanked, this big boy is a whore for it.
sub!reiner who sometimes put you in a headlock when fucking you from behind but he’s so gentle with you.
sub!reiner who whines, groans, moans, overall just a very vocal man.
sub!reiner who just wants to touch you—always so clingy.
sub!reiner who eagerly bucks his hips every time you suck his thick cock, making you gag every so often which he apologizes for but you know he loves it. he loves seeing the way tears cling onto your long lashes, eyelids fluttering as your eyes peek through those lashes. spit trickling down to your neck, hair disheveled, just deep throating him just the way he likes.
sub!reiner who completely crumbles when he’s jealous. eyes averted elsewhere besides yours, fists clenched, his bottom lip quivering as his insecurities flood his mind. he slowly shifts towards you in hopes you’d catch onto his hint that he wants to be near you and have you reassure him.
sub!reiner who absolutely worships your body and the ground you walk on.
sub!reiner who loves getting stepped on, especially with heels.
sub!reiner who absolutely loves it when you force him to look at you as you ride him. grabbing his jaw, squishing his cheeks together. (bonus if you choke him.)
“Ah, ah—look at me, Rei.”
“M’sorry.”
“Does it feel that good that you can’t even look at me? So pathetic.”
sub!reiner who’s so gentle and truly values aftercare. taking a shower or bath together, pampering each other with kisses, him either being the little spoon or big spoon—it doesn’t matter. as long as he’s skin-to-skin with you, that’s all what matters.
Somewhere along the line Pattinson figured out the celebrity interview was 95% bullshit social contract with zero penalty associated with breaking it and ever since then he's turned them into his own personal postmodern entertainment project. I appreciate him for it.
── .✦ note; pairs well with edgar!reader. cw for forced intoxication, slight cnc.
it’s always been easy for ben to make.. strong drinks. and it’s always been even easier to get your completely wasted.
he buys a new whiskey– not something you’d typically drink, but he’s oh-so nice to you, not to mention a supe, so how are you meant to say no? he offers it to you, encourages you to drink more than you should. persuades you into staying the night with him; after all, you deserve a night off for all the work you do. hell, maybe you should be running vought.
and when your glass gets a little empty, he simply pours you more!
it’s fun; you’re fun. getting closer and closer to him as the night goes on, feeling yourself grow warm (and wet) as he grins at you when your words start to slur. ben merely spurs you on, keeps pouring that amber liquor down your throat.
but only when his rough hands start groping at you does something break within you.
“‘m– what’re you doing?” your words slur as you pull away from him. however, he pulls you back to him just as quick– as harsh. “ben, ‘m not–”
“shut the fuck up. now.”
you don’t pick up on it in your drunken state, but simply put, ben’s had enough; there’s been too much attitude from you, and he can’t handle it anymore. “gonna fuckin’ put you right,” is all he tells you. someone needs to put you in your place, that “someone” being him, and it all starts with alcohol. and a healthy slap to your face.
through your blurring, drunk vision, he grabs your face between his hand, your cheeks squishing. he makes forces you to look right at him as he begins his.. teachings.
“been gettin’ on my nerves lately.. y’think that’s any way to talk to me?” ben growls. his eyes bore into you with such a biting intensity that it sours your stomach. he’s never, never, been like this with you, and you can tell this is something he’s not joking around about.
and now, his fat cock’s been stuffed into your stretched cunt for.. well, you don’t know. his thrusts are mean, erratic, even if his words of “don’t mean any of it, sweetheart” and “love you; just gotta help you” are meant to make you feel better about all of this. he clearly doesn’t care about how his cock bruises your cervix again and again. he’s mad, and you need to know it.
“y’mean the world to me,” ben mutters against your neck, even as he forces your legs further open. clamps his hand over your mouth when your protests get too much. “but y’need to stop with the bitchin’– ‘m just teachin’ you a lesson, yeah?”
his large hand keeps you spread open for him, coinciding with your drunken state that makes it simply too easy to get deeper, harder with you. you’ve never known him to use this much force, it almost scares you– but deep down? you like it.
he doesn’t need you to tell him.
“my sweet girl.. imagine if your darling daddy edgar could see you like this,” ben’s panting as he berates you, his hand resting at the base of your throat. you shudder at the mention of your dad– the one thing he’s never meant to bring up, given his relationship with the man– and you squeeze your eyes shut. but the second you do so, his hand comes harshly into contact with your cheek. “eyes open, sweetheart– y’ain’t gonna learn anythin’ with your eyes closed.”
and along with yanking on your pretty hair, spitting on your angelic face that ben loves so much– and all because, well, he can– his threats get more prominent, a threat to not only you but anyone in your life.“and if you go runnin’ your mouth.. dear old daddy is gonna be lookin’ at somethin’ other than the unemployment line.”
( 18+ ) ── Thinking about 𝓙ensen 𝓐ckles impatiently waiting for his press/con interviews to be over, desperate to get back to you in the green room. His phone buzzes incessantly in his pocket from all the vulgar texts you keep sending him, taunting him while he’s busy, trying to break his trained facade of being a good respectable man.
Meanwhile below the table, his cock strains against the confines of his jeans, his tip leaking and swollen, begging for that smart little mouth of yours to wrap around it and lick his weeping slit clean. He’s so beyond fucked, and he knows it, biting into his bottom lip until there’s teeth marks, attempting to seem sane while his neglected cock throbs. His mind races with obscene images of your body, along with the heavenly sound of your moans, the way you taste, and how utterly perfect your greedy cunt feels around him. Part of him thinks this would be kinda funny if he wasn’t at work, in front of a crowd of people and dozens of cameras.
He knows he’ll ultimately get the last laugh, though. You won’t be finding it so amusing once he’s got you bent over the arm of the green room couch, delivering tauntingly weak strokes to your dripping cunt, too slow for any real stimulation. You can beg for more all you like, for a hand to rub your clit, for faster thrusts and a better angle, but you did this. You played dirty first. It’s only fair he gets you back.
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