Okay so guys I'm so sorry for that living up to my promise but I swear it's not me 😭😭😭 my laptop's having some issues so I have no choice but to buy a new one and that wont be until next month 🥲
Ghost who doesn’t know how to flirt like a normal person, instead asks “How much d’you weigh?”
Shadow falling over you, broad enough to swallow the reflection in the mirror behind the machine you were just using at the gym. You look up and find Ghost standing there in a black compression shirt stretched tight across his chest, mask in place even here, eyes flat and unreadable above the fabric. One gloved hand resting on the frame of your machine.
The question lands blunt, no lead up, no softening. Like he’s asking for the time or the weather. Your mouth goes dry. He’s too close, too big, the sheer width of him making the space between you feel airless.
You could tell him to fuck off. Should. But the words stick somewhere behind your teeth, and what comes out instead is a mumbled number, barely loud enough to carry, your eyes dropping to the seam where the mat meets the floor.
He doesn’t react at first. Just tilts his head a fraction, that slow, assessing cock of it Then, low and rough through the mask: “Lighter than I’m used to.”
Confusion flickers across your face but he’s already moving, already loading the bar next to you with plates that match the number you gave him exactly, no hesitation, no adjustment. The barbell settles across the padded support with a dull clank.
You should look away. You don’t.
He lies back on the bench, plants his feet wide, and rolls the bar into place across the jut of his hips. One smooth motion and he drives up, hips snapping high, the loaded bar rising clean with the power of it, his body locking into a straight line from shoulders to knees. The muscles in his thighs flex hard under the fabric of his shorts. Up, hold, lower. Up again. The bar doesn’t even tremble under the weight.
It takes a beat for the meaning to sink in. Heat crawls up your neck, tightens in your chest, but it doesn’t stop there. It drops lower, coils hot and insistent right behind your navel and settles between your legs with a heavy, liquid pulse, cunt clenching around nothing. The reaction is immediate and traitorous, slick gathering hot and fast, soaking into the seam of your leggings, clit throbbing in time with every snap of his hips.
Oh.
(Ghost who doesn’t know how to flirt but somehow it works every time.)
you’re laying on your stomach, head tilted across folded arms. your eyes long since fluttered closed as he runs his big warm palms across the bare skin of your back.
his thumbs roll in steady circles over your aching shoulders, expertly working out all the knots of tension from your heated skin, pressing trailing kisses in the wake of the slide of his hands. his eyes are soft, downturned, focussed entirely on you nestled beneath him, comfortable and safe in the warm nest of sheets.
you’re so relaxed, body utterly limp and boneless under him. your mind finally quieted, void of any thoughts, vacant and lost in the roll of his palms, his treatment melting you into the mattress. his eyes are filled with adoration, gazing down the angle of your spine, greedily soaking in all the little curves and dimples pressed into your skin.
when you part your legs, wiggle your hips and whine for him, he doesn’t have the heart to move you, doesn’t have the strength to disrupt your quiet peace. so he just slides a pillow under your hips, props you up nice and easy, and takes you just like that.
his broad chest is a blanket, warm and weighted, pressed taut against your spine as he grinds you into the mattress, working you open slow and deep. you try to arch your back, try to push your hips up to meet his thrusts, but your limbs are an ignorant dead weight, buzzing numb and useless against the steady waves of pleasure burning hot in your belly.
his head dips down, face angled to press his lips along the back of your neck, brushing teasing kisses where your baby hairs curl, and you shiver and mewl beneath him despite the warmth.
“i’ve got you sweetheart, just relax for me.”
his voice is honey, a sweet and soothing balm murmured low into your ear. and his eyes drop to watch your pretty pink lips part around soft moans and whines, lashes fanned over your blushed cheeks, pressed up against the pillow as you come undone beneath him.
Synopsis: Y/N asks Dean to do the dishes. Dean says he'll do them later. Dean makes a terrible mistake.
Warnings: Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Bunker Shenanigans, Dean Being Dean , Chore Wars, Teasing, Suggestive Humor, Implied Sexual Reference, Sam Suffers, Mild Nudity
The bunker was usually a place of quiet study and ancient lore, but today, the tension in the kitchen was thick enough to cut with a silver blade. You stood with your hands on your curving hips, your skin glowing under the fluorescent lights. You were wearing a simple oversized t-shirt that clung to the generous swell of your breasts and the soft, ample curve of your stomach, paired with some comfortable leggings that hugged your thick thighs and your hair slicked back in a puff.
You glared at Dean, who was leaning against the counter with that signature smirk, looking entirely too comfortable for a man who hadn't touched a sponge in seventy-two hours.
"I am not joking, Dean," you said, your voice firm but laced with a hint of exhaustion. "Sam and I have been the only ones touching the dishes for the last three days. I’ve scrubbed every pot, pan, and grease-stained plate in this house. It is officially your turn."
Dean blinked, his green eyes dancing with mischief. He loved it when you got fired up, the way your chest heaved and the authoritative tone in your voice always did something to him. "Aw, come on, baby. I’ve been busy. I had to... uh... check the perimeter. And the Impala needed a wax."
"The Impala is always waxed, you lazy ass," you retorted, stepping closer. The scent of your vanilla lotion drifted toward him, making his head swim. "Dishes. Now. Or so help me, I will hide your stash of beer."
Dean put his hands up in a gesture of surrender, though the smirk never left his face. "Alright, alright! Chill. I got it. I’ll get to 'em in a bit. I’m on it, boss."
You sighed, though a small smile tugged at your lips. You stepped into his space, your soft, plush body pressing briefly against his lean frame. You reached up, grabbing the collar of his flannel and pulling him down for a deep, lingering kiss. Dean groaned into your mouth, his hands instinctively finding the curve of your backside, squeezing the flesh there with a low growl of approval.
You pulled away, breathless, and gave him a pointed look. "I'm going to the store to get groceries. When I get back, I expect that sink to be empty. Got it?"
"Crystal," Dean murmured, still dazed from the kiss.
You grabbed your keys and headed out, the sway of your hips a rhythmic invitation that Dean watched until the heavy bunker door clicked shut.
An hour later, the door opened again. You walked back in, carrying two heavy bags of groceries. You walked straight to the kitchen, your hopes high, only to stop dead in your tracks.
The sink was still full. In fact, there was a new crusty bowl added to the pile.
Your eyes narrowed. You set the groceries down on the table with a loud thud and followed the sound of the television into the living room. There sat Dean, sprawled out across the leather sofa, feet up on the coffee table. He was lazily chewing on a slice of cherry pie, his eyes glued to some rerun of a classic car show, looking like he hadn't moved a muscle since you left.
"You have got to be kidding me," you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of amusement and genuine irritation.
Dean didn't even look up. "Hey, babe. You get the good pie?"
You marched over to him, your presence filling the room. "Dean Winchester! You lied to my face! I specifically told you the dishes were your responsibility today!"
Dean finally looked up, seeing the fire in your eyes. He actually shifted back a bit, a flicker of genuine nervousness crossing his face. He knew that look. When you reached your limit, things got interesting, but they also got dangerous.
"Now, look, I was just... I was getting into a rhythm with the show, and I figured I'd do them all at once—"
"A rhythm with the show?" you shouted, gesturing wildly. "I am tired of being the maid in this bunker! You are a grown man, and you can't handle a few plates? You're pathetic!"
"I'm not pathetic!" Dean defended, though he was practically shaking in his boots as you loomed over him. "I just... I prioritize differently!"
"You prioritize your ass on that couch!"
The shouting match escalated, your voices echoing through the halls of the bunker. Just as the argument reached a fever pitch, the door to the hallway opened and Sam stepped out, looking confused and slightly exhausted.
"What is going on?" Sam asked, rubbing his eyes. "I can hear you guys from the library. Why is there screaming?"
You stopped mid-sentence. You looked at Sam, then looked back at Dean, who was looking up at you with a mixture of fear and longing. A wicked idea formed in your mind.
"Oh, you want to know why we're screaming, Sam?" you asked, your voice suddenly dropping to a teasing, sultry honey.
Before Dean could ask what you meant, you reached down and grabbed the hem of your t-shirt. In one swift, fluid motion, you lifted the fabric high, exposing your breasts to the room.
They were magnificent, heavy, full, and soft, with deep brown areolas and nipples that peaked instantly in the cool air of the bunker. The weight of them settled beautifully, your curves creating a lush, inviting silhouette that left Dean completely breathless.
Dean’s jaw literally dropped. He stopped breathing, his eyes widening as he stared at the sight of your breasts swaying slightly. He looked like he had just seen a miracle, his pupils dilating as he forgot how to speak.
Sam, on the other hand, made a sound like a dying bird. He froze, his eyes widening in pure horror. He didn't even look away fast enough before the image was seared into his brain.
"Oh my god!" Sam yelled, spinning around instantly and practically sprinting back toward his room. "I'm going! I'm leaving! I'm staying in my room for the rest of the decade!"
The sound of Sam’s door slamming shut echoed through the bunker.
You slowly lowered your shirt, a triumphant smirk on your face. You leaned down, your face inches from Dean’s, who was still staring at your chest as if he were hypnotized.
"Listen closely, Dean," you whispered, your voice dripping with a teasing threat. "If you don't get your ass up and start doing those dishes and I mean everything in that kitchen right now, you can say goodbye to sucking on these beautiful girls for a long, long time."
Dean swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Babe..."
"I'm not finished," you continued, your eyes glinting. "And since I know how much you love your 'stress relief' after a long hunt... you can say goodbye to your handjobs for the next two months. No touching. No relief. Just you and your frustration."
The color drained from Dean’s face. The thought of two months without your soft, warm hand wrapped around his cock was a torture worse than anything the Pit could offer.
"Two months?!" he gasped.
"Two months," you confirmed, stepping back and crossing your arms. "Now. Move."
Dean didn't just move; he launched himself off the couch with a speed that would have impressed a professional athlete. He scrambled toward the kitchen, nearly tripping over the coffee table in his haste.
"I'm doing them! I'm doing them right now! I'll do the floors too! I'll scrub the baseboards!" he yelled over his shoulder.
You leaned back against the sofa, laughing softly to yourself.
For the next hour, the bunker was filled with the sounds of frantic scrubbing. Dean wasn't just doing the dishes, he was on a mission. He scrubbed the pots until they shone like mirrors. He wiped down every inch of the countertops. He vacuumed the living room, mopped the kitchen, and even dusted the shelves that Sam usually ignored. He was sweating, his muscles straining, but the motivation of avoiding a two-month drought kept him going.
By the time he finished, the bunker looked like a five-star hotel.
"I'm done!" Dean shouted, sounding breathless. "Everything is clean! Look at the sink! It's sparkling!"
You walked into the kitchen and surveyed the scene. It was immaculate. You smiled, patting his cheek. "Good boy. Now go take a shower. You smell like lemon pledge and desperation."
Dean didn't need to be told twice. He practically ran to the bathroom, stripping off his clothes as he went.
About twenty minutes later, the sound of the shower running filled the silence. You walked back into the living room and sank into the freshly vacuumed couch. A moment later, Sam cautiously emerged from his room, looking like he had just survived a traumatic event.
He sat down on the opposite end of the couch, glancing at you with a mixture of respect and disbelief.
"Is he... is he still in the shower?" Sam asked quietly.
"Yep," you replied, leaning back and stretching your legs out. "He's scrubbing himself as hard as he scrubbed those pans."
Sam let out a short, dry laugh. "I can't believe that actually worked. I've lived with that man my entire life, and I've never seen him clean a room that fast."
You chuckled, the sound rich and warm. "He has a very specific set of motivations, Sam."
Sam shook his head, a small smile appearing on his face. "Honestly? I'm not even mad. The place looks great. I didn't even know we had white tiles in the kitchen."
You looked over at the hallway leading to the bathroom, your eyes twinkling. "You know, Sam... I think I should do that more often."
Sam paused, looking at you. "Do what?"
"Flash him," you teased. "If a little skin can get him to deep-clean the entire house in an hour, maybe I can convince him to handle all the chores for the next month. We could actually spend our free time reading or watching movies instead of arguing over who left the grease trap full."
Sam laughed, leaning back into the cushions. "I am one hundred percent on board with that plan. Just... please, for the love of god, give me a warning next time so I can be in the other room."
"Deal," you laughed, feeling the satisfaction of a clean house and a well-trained boyfriend.
So guys big question if I were to write for Dean Winchester (from Supernatural) would you guys actually be interested in reading it ?? 👀👀
Cause I've recently started watching the series and that man is so finnee 😫😫. It's literally ashamed that I'm not seeing enough black reader stories with my manz😔😔
Who knew all it took was one look at Simon Riley covered in blood to make you fail miserably at your job.
Price, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost stand behind your pilot’s chair, chests heaving from the effort of throwing themselves through the plane doors, fresh off the op you’re supposed to be flying them out of.
But you just sit there, jaw stupidly slack as you take in Simon’s already dark clothes, absolutely drenched in the proof of what a powerful predator he is. Deep red dots splatter his mask, too, and streak down his forearm, his fingers curled lazily around the handle of a knife.
Then he turns sharply, like he’s just noticed that the plane isn’t moving.
“The fuck are we waiting for?” Simon snaps.
Soap looks from him to you, then lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Don’t look at me. Seems the pretty pilot’s got a thing for blood.”
Simon’s head whips towards you.
Heat rushes to your cheeks, and your hand flies to the throttle. But then his gaze catches yours and he chuckles darkly.
“ 'S that right?”
The rich brown of his eyes grow molten beneath the smudges of red across his mask as he takes in your expression, and for one incredibly embarrassing moment, you almost forget how to actually fly this fucking thing.
Without breaking eye contact, Simon steps forward and crouches down to your level.
Your breath catches as his gloved hand closes over yours, gently pulling back the acceleration lever. The plane lurches forward hard enough to send the boys tumbling into a pile of grunts and curses.
Your stomach dips and you snap back into gear instinctively, flipping the switch on the dash to pull the wheels up, hands flying to the control stick as you build in altitude.
“Don’t worry, Bird,” Simon says gruffly, raising that knife and dragging one finger down the bloody blade. “It’s not mine.”
This has been sitting on my chest for a while now, but lemme tell y’all pusillanimous tragedy-ass bitches something, when I say nobody can run me off this mf app, I MEANT THAT SHIT WITH MY WHOLE ASS CHEST. And the day a bitch tries me is the same motherfucking day you’re gonna wish you didn’t live on this goddamn earth.
Because I really wanna know how you ignoramus, unemployed dickheads find the time and audacity to come on here thinking it’s okay to not only bully creative writers (especially my beautiful Black queens), but also send death threats all because they don’t share the same opinions as you, or just because the genre they write doesn’t suit your taste. Which, by the way, you could’ve just ignored or blocked them for.
Y’all do all this shit to the point where people deactivate or even archive their accounts.
LIKE BRO GUH SUCK UNUH MADDA AND LEAVE WRITERS ON THE APP ALONE CUZ I CAN GUARANTEE YOU Y’ALL GONNA BE THE SAME ONES COMPLAINING ABOUT HOW THE FANDOM HAS BECOME SO DULL OR WHATEVER THE FUCK Y’ALL ALWAYS WHINING ABOUT.
AND IF YOU READ THIS AND STILL FEEL THE NEED TO CONTINUE THIS SPINELESS BEHAVIOR, I FUCKING HOPE YOUR MF SIGNIFICANT OTHER GIVES YOU MF STDS
But anyways here are my favorite lovely writers on this app and you guys definitely need to check out if you haven't already 🤭✨️✨️💫❤️🙂↔️:
@chrollohearttags
@merakidoll
@slushycoookie
@blkkizzat
@jazzthatonewriterchick
@madamechrissy
@tonycries
@shawtuzi
@reignpage
@yenayaps
@sanjisblackasswife
@creampiedby
@slvttyplum
I just wanna let you guys that I support and love each and every one of you and don't you ever let these hating ass idiots deem your light or ruin your joy in what you love 💞💞🗣🗣
