[novitiiate]

❛ 𓉘 sideblog² for @bleachedduck. 𓉝 ❜

[novitiiate]

please how do i layer a still image over a gif and vice versa on photopea?! the tutorials on yt sound like a language i've never heard being spoken before.

[violained]

⌖ somewhere, tonight.

summary dean stops by late at night, bloodied and in love.

content gn!reader, mentions of blood, unestablished relationship though dean and reader are very in love, gentle almost-domesticity, use of baby and angel as per usual.

Dean pulls a hissing breath into shiny teeth and feels a swirling in his gut as you guide him to sit on the faded edge of your mattress. Through his bloodied, bleary gaze, you look warm and dim and velvet. Fuzzy, bending over yourself to press a kiss to the bridge of his nose.

"You're a mess," you murmur.

He is a mess. Incarnadine crimson slathers in an opaque scraping along his brow and cheek, beads of it decorate the curving line of his jaw and tighten dry when he bites his teeth. Nothing hurts, not anymore. His hand reaches for your waist; too slow, you pull back to find a rag.

"Yeah," he breathes. "Sorry."

One harsh blink and he can make you out better. You're in worn sleep clothes that drape thin and make him consider looking away, purely for how intimate this seems. Dean has rarely seen you like this, mussed with exhaustion and adorned by the dim, amber light of your own room.

He thinks he may be undeserving. Grime and dark rain have sloughed from the sleeves of his jacket and onto cream pointelle, a mess made of your bed that smells so much like you, linen and a faint sweet and good, he wants to slump down and be cooed at.

Your elbow bends to grab an old stretch of cloth atop your dresser. Pretty arms, pretty wrists, pretty hands, pretty fingers; he decides. His eyes are glitzy just from taking you in.

"Don't be sorry, please," you reply and come close.

"Okay," he answers obediently. "Were you sleeping?"

At your complete mercy, he is irrevocably pliant when you tilt his head back to dab gentle above his cupid's bow with a heated, damp fold of cloth. Plain, chalky ceiling is such a terrible contrast to watching you. A wet splotch plumes towards a circling gather of stale water.

Your thumb petals his chin and brings his face down again. He's flushed and gone.

"I was reading," you whisper. "You didn't wake me."

"Oh, cool. Good."

You hum. His heart pulses and aches incessantly. You drag a final layer of filth away from his forehead and his knee bumps your soft swell of thigh. Everything would be silent if it weren't for the rushing pulse in his ears, a restless sweeping of knuckle against denim.

Can never stay still around you.

"There's a leak, I think. Up there."

"Oh." You look up. His palm finally kisses your hip. "What do I do?"

"I'll fix it," he offers. "I can fix it for you, baby."

You've paused, pupils catching his, he holds this gaze as if it's too precious and tender to let go of. There's a tiny, almost unnoticeable curve to the corner of your mouth. It makes him nearly smile, too.

"Thank you," you say. "Can you do one other thing?"

"'Course."

So many thumps all at once, as your hand glides sweetly down his neck, a perfect rivulet of touch he dreams of while away.

"Stay tonight."

A million nights, all of them, forever. "Yeah, angel. I'll stay."

masterlist ♡

notes i haven't felt like writing anything at all ! i am in a deep slump

[bleachedduck]

❝ 𝐓𝐎 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐋 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐘𝐎𝐔. ❞

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : dean winchester x afab!reader.

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬 & 𝐜𝐰 : ꒰ dean couldn't imagine not holding you. ꒱ ⫶ non-sexual intimacy. clingy dean. reader has stretch marks and a soft belly pouch. just pure fluff and very short. no proofread. self indulgent.

He loves how tender you are. How supple and soft you are beneath his hands and how much you let him grab of your.

Anywhere. Everywhere.

You think of his groping habit as something he's learned to associate with emotional regulation, even if he couldn't be bothered to learn about what exactly that is.

It makes his chest feel a little less heavy, his stomach a little less knotty when he looks over at you, that leme of hope in his quartz clear eyes that resemble a dog asking for its favourite toy.

Favouring his need before your modesty, you always nod your head yes and watch him scoot closer to you in the diner bench, ignoring how waitress' eyes dart on his fingertips sliding just slightly under your belt, enough to give Dean access to your flesh.

You just keep eating your fries and resting your head on top of his.

Most of his body is now laying on top of you, crown of his head wedged lazily on the gap that runs from your chin and down to your collarbone. His hands have bunched your tank top high enough to claim their place on your torso, and they've also pushed the waistband of your shorts and panties down.

Dean will take and take as much as you let him, he hasn't learnt to be full yet. And you will always keep giving.

MacGyver is playing on the boxy TV in the motel room, the rumpled sheets beneath you softened up from friction and sweat, while Dean softly breathes you in and out.

His head is ducked down enough to have access to both your solar plexus and the underside of your breasts if he leans his head up or down, brushing his lips against them every few minutes, as if he's making sure he can take everything in and be satisfied for the day.

Fire and dramatic explosions aren't part of your areas of interest. The careful but incessant fret of his cheek against your stomach is.

His hands haven't stopped softly squeezing the sides of your hips, with his other arms that's beneath and around you caressing the upper side of your waist.

"...You having fun, baby?" Your voice pulls at the limp strings in his heart, soft, sleepy eyes flickering up until they find your face and that small smirk that makes him want to hide away and fantasize about it while you're still here with him.

"Myeah," Dean murmurs placidly, coming to bury his face between your breasts, exhaling his love against your sternum as he pulls your shirt down to his nape, tucking himself inside your warmth. The smell of your skin claws at his body and makes him soft.

"Mhm..." You repeat, the soft hum tangled with a small giggle that makes him smile agains your bristled skin.

Gentle fingertips trace the shape of your stretch marks and circle your navel, exploring you as if it's the first and last time he gets to touch like this. Because he never knows, he won't risk not taking the chance to savour you whenever he can.

It doesn't take him long before his mouth is replacing his fingers, trailing down and over the reddish and paler lines on your lower belly. A playful bite to your right hip and he has you giggling again.

His arms wrap you tight like he needs more time to hold you, as if you're planning on going anywhere.

Exhaling softly, you just lay back, hands taking his hair in bunches that lull him back into that sluggish position where he's been cocooned into you.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 : i haven't slept and i'm on my period. leave me alone.

[violained]

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

[bleachedduck]

✸ 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗘𝗔𝗥 𝗔𝗨 : 𝖢𝖠𝖱𝖬𝖸!𝖣𝖤𝖠𝖭 𝖶𝖨𝖭𝖢𝖧𝖤𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱 x 𝖲𝖸𝖣!𝖱𝖤𝖠𝖣𝖤𝖱.

" 乇very second counts, ɪ don't wanna talk to you anymore.

Ƭell you how I felt, sugar coated melting in your мoυтн. Know you'd make fun of me. "

❝ 𝖯𝖱𝖤𝖬𝖨𝖲𝖤: After taking charge of The Original Beef of Chicagoland, now The Beef—because what a tediously long name, long enough to tighten the knot in his throat before he can even finish saying it out loud—, his late younger brother's will, Dean finds an absolute mess as soon as he walks inside to which he cannot tenderly smile to. Nothing is romantic or good enough anymore when he's spent these last four years away from home building his talent and working at the best restaurant in New York.

His reputation proceeds him, he knows he's good, but that's not enough for him to magically teach his new skills to the people in The Beef his brother has left behind. Everything feels unknown to him now.

It takes him nearly half a year to put order into this place, to make it feel like a workplace and not the bodily remains of Sammy, but he finally got it.

And then you walk through the door, stars in your eyes and that kind of hope he'd kill to feel again, asking him for a chance to prove yourself to him. He says yes.

Your recommendations are impeccable, everyone has something impressively warm to say about you, and there's not a single thing to cross out of your long list of abilities. Except for when there is, and it's never fair, Dean knows that. He feels envy's heinous sneer tugging downwards at the corners of his own mouth whenever you beat him to something he should've came up with— more acid for the sauté asparagus, or extra butter for the purée, or some other absolutely petty shit like that. But, at the end of the day, when he looks over his shoulder and you're still there arranging recipes and silverware at midnight after everyone else is already gone, he can't help but feel a little mushy on the inside.

He kind of sees you as a Saint reaching her hand down to bring a sinking ship to the surface. He's gonna end up drowning you with him if he holds on too tight. ❞

“ As I'm ɠetting older. ꘘull of reɠrets. ”

CW: (it will be specified whether each part does or does not have +18 content, and it will be tagged accordingly ((mdni)) ) — mental health topics like: ptsd, ocd, depression, severe anxiety, panic attacks, anger issues, + (it will be tagged). dean's chronic manchild behaviour. fighting. stress, etc. (to be added)

COMING SOON !

[violained]

random bf!dean headcanons <3

cw use of baby, pretty, and sweetheart. cuddling, kisses, crying!

masterlist ; divider

× dean shares his silver rings with you. thinks it's really cute, seeing you twist them around your fingers, holding one in your palm when you're deep in thought or anxious. he'll take your hand carefully and slip his favorite on before he leaves to check out a string of murders in some faraway town.

"nothing will happen. i've gotta come back for this," he says. "keep it safe for me, pretty."

× dean loves calling you while he's away on a hunt, bored and lonely and feeling much too desolate in another stuffy motel room. he misses your voice and smell and smile; wishes you were here to tell him how good he is, how badass he looked ganking that vampire.

"hey, baby," he'll murmur into the phone. "thinkin' about you."

"bet you looked so pretty today."

"you've been thinking about me, too? aw. that's cute."

× it can feel slightly overbearing, but dean is constantly checking in with you. whether that be vocally,

"you hungry? when's the last time you ate?"

"wanna lay down for a while? y'should get some rest, pretty."

"hey. you doing okay, sweetheart? yeah?"

or through his body language, his eye contact, the way he's always watching and making sure you're alright. if he notices a scrunch to your nose or brow, he'll come up beside you and loop an arm around your waist. reminds you silently that he's right here.

× he won't admit it aloud, but he absolutely adores simply laying in bed with you, cheek pressed to the soft of your stomach, arms bent and warm hands kneading gently over your sides. he often falls asleep and stirs with a short grumble, pressing his face against you in a groggy attempt to bury himself there forever.

× when you refer to him as angel or pretty boy, he swoons. the bone of his knees turns mushy and pliable and he might wobble on his feet. he'd never been called such sweet, sincere names before you, and has to stifle small begs of, "please, call me that again, baby. please." every time.

× he's not at all trained to handle emotions and can barely work through his own. but when you cry, or you're feeling down, lost, angry, he does his very best to comfort you. tries to force out a helpful sentence or two, though they're awkward and tangled and he's not confident in the words.

he prefers to use his body. holding you, kissing gently at your temples, wiping your wet cheeks with the pad of his thumb. keeps you close until whatever you're feeling either wanes or passes completely.

"you're okay, baby. c'mere. s'okay."

"look at me, hey. please? show me those pretty eyes."

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these r so nothingburger my brain is dead i think

[bruisedfig]

Soldier Boy teasing reader all day and then fucking her but not letting her cum. So she's frustrated and he's all happy and smug because he got to cum and not her.

this is so canon ben to me. very mean and sexually sadistic when he wants to be, without ever needing to lay a hand on you. he thrusts deep inside your weeping cunt, completely ignoring your swollen clit and puffy folds begging desperately for attention or some sort of proper friction. your juices gush around him while he delivers his self-indulgent strokes, enjoying the sensation of your oozing slickness around him. he flicks your bud and swipes over it for a split second, just to watch your face fill with relief before it falls when you realise he’s still teasing.

when he finally speeds up, chasing his orgasm, you struggle to take him—the way his thick angry cock spears you open, his heavy balls slapping the fat of your ass, his hands holding your body completely still underneath him like some useless ragdoll. it’s just all too overwhelming, especially when your built-up desperation surges through your veins like burning acid.

ben finally cums, spurting hot loads deep inside your spasming walls, filling you up until you’re plugged full with his thick pearly seed. he pulls away after a moment, delivering a chaste kiss to your lips, leaving you even more pent-up than before. his tone is unforgiving as he mutters, “you’re gonna leave yourself alone, doll. don’t even think about gettin’ off or touching that pussy.”

[violained]

݂ ໋. ⎯͟͟ ͟ㅤㅤ.‎ ‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎surrender !

summary in the backseat with dean <3

content MDNI 18+, gn!reader, reader is slightly shy, dry humping, gentle nipple play (dean receiving mhm) #happy trail dean! he is needy and very in love, use of baby, angel, and pretty !

masterlist ; divider

wc 816

Dean kisses your bare sternum with the same delicacy that he uses to kiss your cheeks and jaw and the smooth of your calf. His lips are feathering plum pink; he's kiss-bitten and happy to be. The heat of a gentle bite stings his neck.

He likes when you bite, though you'd been shy about it. The feeling always plunges him into hazy dizziness. Your knee shifts and bumps his stomach lightly, he spreads molten fingers over the plush of your thigh and pushes down to flatten the bend.

"Come on," he whispers. "Tell me what you want, pretty."

Too many options. You weigh them. He'll give anything, you could ask for his mouth or thick fingers or dick. Could push off your back and clamber onto his lap. He's a mess but hiding it well, save for telling pinched brows.

"Wanna see you better."

He sits high on his knees and blinks at you, trying to focus. It's hard, when you're a glowing vision in his backseat and nude besides underwear. An angel. Splayed and running a tender hand along his chest, your thumb coaxes his nipple.

"Fuck," he hisses, dark lashes aflutter.

You smile. Rarely are you the one doing the teasing.

"Sensitive," you coo and pinch quick. "Oh, you like that."

Ribbons of silver moonlight bleed through the windows, strapping across his abdomen. They set the honey-blond hairs above his belt flaming white, flowing down his navel in a band, beckoning to be licked and touched.

You twist his nipple between a delicate thumb and index. He barely swallows a whimper.

"Baby." He scrambles to hitch your thigh up his waist, holding it there while he helplessly grinds the swell of his jeans against you. "Fuck, you're so- so good. A fuckin' angel."

Your hand falls and settles on his bicep. He ruts slow and stuttered, lowering himself to press the point of his nose beside your ear. Powdery fragrance, he breathes in and in again, chest flowering with sticky, sweet love.

"Dean, I... oh."

He raises his head, fingers kneading at the dough of your leg. His rings indent cold and your half-lidded eyes tug his heart achingly. You've such a breathy, faraway voice and he hasn't even fucked you stupid yet.

"Good?" he checks. "Feels good? You like this?"

You nod feverish, catching his chin with a sloppy, pillowed kiss. He's got enough sense to grin lopsided and swallow your mouth whole, tongue needling for yours. This earns him a dreamy, lilting sigh that pits straight to his gut and pools there in welling heat.

"Y'sound like..." he starts, mumbling and blissed, following a connecting string of saliva back towards your lips. Can't ever get his fill, mind a mantra of you, warm, soft, sugary. "Heaven. What does heaven sound like?"

A shaky breath passes from your nose. "Heavenly, I'd guess."

He licks a stripe on your throat. Your arms cross over his shoulder blades, palm scooping through spiked hair, hips lifting to meet his movement. A small, hiccupping sound flies from him traitorously, bordering on plea.

"Jesus- shit," he says. His clothed thrusts become sloppy.

"Here," you offer, reaching for his belt. "Please."

There's nothing else to think about, to feel, except for your fingertips grazing past that musky trail on his low stomach. He slows, missing the friction as it wanes, but adoring your cautious expression. Excitedly nervous. Your pinkie curls around a belt loop. His palm skates the length of your thigh.

"Y'don't have to," he murmurs. "It's okay, baby."

Dean decides you must be magic, when your eyes find his. Glittering jewels amidst the dim light in the car. He can see your smile, a perfect, curling thing, and holds back from kissing you again and again until your brain is mush.

"Want to," you reply. His belt comes undone with a clink.

The button of his jeans pops out lazy under your tentative touch, but he doesn't rush. Rolls his lip beneath a shiny canine as you slide the zipper down and stifles a whiny beg. You're soft and pretty and he wants to bury himself in your skin forever.

You work his jeans to his knees and then pause to watch him quietly, ignoring his straining boxers, your chest pulling with prolonged rises. He wonders where that brief teasing went but loves you just as much, like this. Affected.

"Hey," he whispers. Leans quickly to give a smacking kiss to your hip bone. "You're beautiful."

"Thank you. You're, um. You're beautiful, too."

His body pangs. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Can you fuck me, now? Please."

Yes, yes, yes.

Clumsy in the small space, he manages to kick off his pants without hitting the top of his head and yanks his wallet from the back pocket to grab a condom. Brings it to his teeth and tears it open. His supply is diminishing.

"Yeah, yeah, baby. Yes. C'mere."

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂

EWW okay. this is just simply a mess don't laugh at me :p i wrote the majority of this half-asleep and barely read it over !!!

[bleachedduck]

𝓅𝓇ℯ𝓉𝓉𝓎 𝒷ℯ𝒽𝒾𝓃𝒹.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : beau arlen x afab!reader.

𝐜𝐰 : +18. MDNI. smut (piv, clit rubbing). sex in workplace. filmed sexual relations. pet names (baby, pretty, sweetheart, beautiful). gentle dom beau. creampie (? kinda.

Slow, almost gently, like he's trying not to bottom out and ruin it, Beau slides in and out of you with a pace that's been making the tension building in your lower belly painfully tight.

The drag of his length every time he drives his hips forward pushes you just a little further against his desk where he has you bent over, the quiet squelch where your bodies are joined making you hot in the face. It's getting harder to think about anything else but how disarmingly well he stuffs full you every time.

He's been teasing you like this for ten minutes, making you think he's about to quicken his pace only to push into you languidly again, the grip of his hands around your hips loosening and clenching every time you do the same around his girth, finding stability in the softness of your flesh.

"You okay, baby?" He asks ever so gently, his voice just loud enough to break through the haze of your mushy brain. "Need me t'stop?" The erratic shake of your head is enough answer.

Beau gives a quick look to your phone that's propped up by coats and a stack of documents on one of the chairs in front of his desk.

This was his idea, filming while his fucking you so cruelly like this, but he wanted to let you have full control of what happens with this video once it stops recording.

You— sweet, stupidly blissed out you, starting to drool over a report sheet on the desk because you just can't help it when his tips keeps bumping that pulpy, almost alive spot inside of you— can only nod, barely ducking your head down a few times, chin brushing against your shoulder, before your eyes shut tight, letting out another of those whines that are starting to sound like you're about to cry.

It started a few days ago. The idea bloomed in Beau's mind after a painfully long week where he couldn't see you until the next morning, which seemed unacceptable and strangely physically painful for him.

He was needy, lonely, and he couldn't get his hands on the real thing. Couldn't cup your face between his hands, couldn't trace the shape of your lips with the tip of his tongue, couldn't reach down and rub your arousal all over your slit and sensitive bud like he's doing now.

Sure, he had that spectacularly hot and simultaneously tender Polaroid you took for him six months into your relationship to give himself some relief, the one he keeps in the same drawer of everything of real value he owns in the trailer.

Pebbled nipples under one of his flannels, peeking out under the hem where you had bunched it up around the upper part of your midriff, hand between your legs and tights pulled apart just enough to make him shudder every time he looks at it.

He's even made a copy of it, just one— you know, just in case the original got lost— but he's not ready to tell you about that yet.

That night he needed to watch your flushed face, the thin coat of sweat building up on your skin after each thrust. Needed the deliciously slick sound of his skin meeting yours and the way your body shivers against him.

Couldn't get the idea of your cunt dripping down the edge of his desk, each sway forward of his body making your clit rub against it.

And he didn't have anything like that available at any time except for his memory, where he had taken you after hours in this same room.

Until today.

You came in after a couple of days of not seeing eachother, wearing that gorgeous smile on your face and that glimmer in your eyes that told him how much you had missed him, and you kissed him like you wanted him to eat you alive, and he just couldn't help himself, so he did.

He was more than relieved to know you were into it. That you had been thinking about it, too.

It's risky to fuck you silly in this workplace, a police station, he knows. But everyone's gone home early today, and the idea of having a video of you, bent over his desk, huffing and puffing like you're actually going to start shedding tears if he keeps delaying your orgasm...

Yeah, he would've been pretty fucking stupid if he hadn't asked you to film a sextape in his office.

He'll fantasize about this day until the day he dies. He'll fight to keep this position if that means he can come back here until he can barely walk and think about the scene laid in front of him.

"What's that, pretty?" He hums softly, like he's trying to console you, his right hand releasing your hip for a moment just to thread his fingertips through the strands masking the side of your face. "You gotta tell me how good it feels, okay? Can you tell me how good it feels?" He brushes them aside, tenderly caressing the side of your head as your face becomes into display for the camera.

"Feels so good," There's a ridiculously notorious waver to your voice, eyes meeting the lens, but you've started to use all of your willpower to not come yet.

There aren't words that are good enough to describe the way you look right now, with those beautiful eyes encased in a thick layer of tears and the spit edged on the rim of your lips where it's already dripped over whatever paperwork he has tending to an hour ago.

"So pretty," Your moan echoes his words, thin and pitiful enough to make him smile fondly as he watches your eyelashes flutter, sparkling your precious tears on the desk. "So, so pretty. Oh, beautiful, didn't mean to make you cry."

When he leans down to soothe your sorrows away, caging you down onto the sturdy wooden surface, you let out the first sob, frustrated and pent up enough to start blubbering, a variation of wanna come and please, please, please Beau and feels so good, feels too good.

In this new angle he rests his head over your shoulder, starting to pick up his pace again and with that ripping a moan out of you that he wishes he could bottle up and pour all over his body next time he can't have your touch.

Beau looks into the camera at the same time one of your hand comes up to fist his silky, chestnut tufts of messy hair, grunting against your skin when his own release threatens to snap at him.

There's something uniquely sweet in the way the tip of his fingers crawl down the arm of your free hand and interlock with yours, guiding the other one back between your thighs, the sluggish pace of his hips unconcerned about the way your cunt squeezes him so hard it makes him dizzy.

"Wanna come?" Needless to say that you immediately nod your head like it hurts to even think about not doing so. "Gonna come now?" His middle finger fiddles with your clit and you feel miserably perfect, like this is the way sheer pleasure feels and nothing else but this. "Want me to cream this pretty pussy so good? Wanna be full of me?" His voice is so placid and soft his words barely sounds filthy at all.

"Please." You whine again, your breath catching in your chest when he somehow manages to cram all of his cock inside of you, your vision becoming blurry for a moment before it takes over your whole body like dead weight made out of ecstasy.

Feels so good. Youf feel so perfect and My precious, perfect girl is what you hear while everything shuts down around you, his thick cum bathing your insides and the wreck of your orgasm is all you can feel for some solid three minutes.

During that time, he nuzzles his nose behind your ear, velvety pecks peppered all over your sticky skin, broad hands rubbing your arms and your back up and down, a new trail of praises leaving his mouth when you come back to him, peering up at him over your shoulder like he's just brought the world to your feet.

"Love you," You manage you mumble tiredly, pulling a saccharine sweet smile from him and earning you a smooch on the left corner of your mouth.

"Love you, sweetheart." He pats your bare ass gently before carefully pulling out of you, hearing the soft sound you make with your face hidden against your upper arm and taking the chance then to rub two fingers over your still very sensitive puffiness, making sure everything leaking out of you can be stuffed back in.

"Can't let anything go to waste, can we?" You just let out a shameful chuckle at that against your clothed arm. His hand searches for your face and slowly prods two fingers inside your mouth. "Atta girl. Mhm, that's good, isn't it?" And you suck them clean until they're wet with your spit only, smiling against his lips when he leans down to kiss you again, properly this time.

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 : well... this is pretty shitty but i had a spurt of inspiration and i couldn't just kill it, so...

also i feel like it's a little ooc or that is a little weak of substance, but WHATEVER.

[violained]

altogether

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summary dean wants to help when you're feeling too much!

content gn!reader, established relationship, very hurt/comfort with big emotions described in a soft, vague way. gentle domesticity and a hug, use of baby and sweetheart and angel

masterlist ♡ requested

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨ ❤︎⁠ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

Dean is mildly startled when he opens his bathroom door and realizes it isn't unoccupied, but doesn't think at all to step out when he sees you. Cold water curves in splotches down your nose and cheeks, the faucet hurriedly shut off by a slightly shaky and equally wet hand.

"Hey," he greets. "Baby."

You offer a smile, eyes owlish. His pupils wobble in an impossible attempt to decipher tears from the rest of the water. He can't tell and hopes you would've come to him if you were crying, but knows better.

"I'm okay," you're quick to say.

He nods. "Okay."

A slow ache chews his stomach and turns it jammy as he watches you grab a fuzzy hand towel off the counter to scrub dry. He thinks about what to say. He's never been good with this part of you, though he wants to be, because he loves you in an overwhelming entirety.

To ask if you're really okay would cause embarrassment. You'd start worrying about how obviously vulnerable and worked up you look, so he won't ask, but he'll cross the small space and pull the cloth from your fingers gently because you're being too rough.

"Didn't know you were back," he murmurs, one palm settling over the rise of your hip. His thumb smooths circles there. You're warm. He draws the towel in soft strokes over your chin and the delicate skin beneath your pretty eyes.

"Sorry," you answer, staring at him jewel-eyed. He feels a lot at once.

"Why? You don't need to be. No reason."

"Oh. I'm glad you're here."

You're far away, voice a dreamy fade, gaze pointing an invisible dagger to the center of his chest. It narrowly misses his heart. He drops the towel once your face is matte and tilts his head. It crumples on the tiled floor with a hush.

"I'm here," he repeats. "Always here."

You hum. So distant, he'd like to take your arms and hoist you from this thick, sticky mass of overwhelm you've sunken into. He can make sure you don't fall too deep. Gives a squeeze to your waist and sways you with him. The tip of his nose kisses the bridge of yours.

"You smell good," you whisper.

"Thanks." He blinks at you. "What d'you need from me?"

"Dean, I don't need anything."

He takes in a small breath, heart swelling.

"Please," he begs. "Angel, just talk to me."

He desperately wants you to understand that you can ask for whatever you'd like, doesn't matter whether he knows how to give it. And if you need him to be different, if that would be easier, he'll scrape a new man together and spread the pulp over his skin in resemblance.

"I... I don't know," you say. "I don't know. Can you hold me?"

"Yeah," he says quick, already gathering his forearms around the small of your back. "'Course, whenever. I like holding you, sweetheart."

Dean is steady and pillowed by a weakness you've endowed; carapace dissipated. Tiny kisses land on your temple and he keeps you upright when your weight begins to slump. His plan is to stay like this forever, but your brows furrow when the fluorescent flickers, so he detaches only to guide you into his bed.

His sheets waft amber and earth and the faint, stuffy notes of immature cologne. He sweeps soothing fingers along your side and doesn't urge you to explain yourself.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ୨ ❤︎⁠ ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

[pittsick]

⏜︵ ♡ 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 : fluff thoughts ৴

you woke up from a nightmare, sweating and searching for dean.

it’s the feeling of your warm hands on his bicep that woke him up right after, his eyes wide open like he had felt danger. “you okay, baby?! what’s wrong?” he’s second away from turning the lamp on, grab the gun from under his pillow and get on his feet but all he can do is wrap his arms around your body when you decide to melt onto him.

his hands hover over your back for a second before he starts rubbing it as you nuzzle your face in his neck; just making sure he’s really here.

“you had a nightmare, uh?” his voice is groggy; full of sleep and rough but there’s a hint of softness when he speaks to you. you nod your head. “yeah, i did.” you don’t explain more than that and dean understands: you just don’t want to talk about it—you don’t want to even think about it and he respects that. you are pressed against him before you know it, his hands slipping under your shift just to rest on the warm skin of your back. that way, you don’t have to worry about him leaving.

“it’s okay, sweetheart. it’s okay. i’m right here and i got you. no one about to hurt you, m’right?” he speaks quietly, nose brushing against your cheek before dean presses a kiss near your ear, one of his hands rubbing your back up and down. he’s quiet for a moment, eyes closing with the silence in the room. he’s almost asleep again when he hears you speak. it’s tender, he almost missing it with morpheus calling him back in his arms.

“i love you so much, dean.” the words leaves your mouth and instantly, dean tightens his grip around your body to feel more of your warmth; not like a furnace, but like the sun gently hitting down on him during late-summer. he hums, shifting his face toward yours again.

“i love you so much too, sweetheart. go back to sleep, alright? i won’t move an inch, i promise.” and you do fall back asleep; because you trust dean to keep his promise, even if it means head butting him when you wake up from another nightmare.

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