⊹₊ ⋆ 〔ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ part of my dean winchester, who… series. 〕
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he’s not really sure where it came from.
one minute, he’s above you, steadily thrusting into you, looking down at your eyes, then your hair on his pillow—the next, the words are spilling out of him faster than his brain can tell him to shut the fuck up. something that was holding him back is no longer there, so now his thoughts come tumbling off his tongue, the way he thinks about you all on display.
you’ve only just started actually dating now. you’ve known dean for years—but you knew a relationship was different. knew it was going to take some time for him to open up. and it did. but don’t get it twisted, dean did compliment you, very much so. all the damn time. but it was never to this extent. never with so much… emotion behind it. it feels like he’s bearing his soul to you—and shit.
maybe he is.
first, dean says how pretty you look, never once faltering his thrusts. gorgeous. beautiful. perfect. he says perfect at least half a dozen times—so much so that you actually believe it by the end of the night. your face is hot after the first time he tells you, the redness on your cheeks contrasting the white of dean’s sheets. but not because you’re embarrassed. just flustered, because dean’s never been one to say such things—especially during sex.
the next thing that comes out is how good you feel. he’s said that before during sex. it shouldn’t make your chest ache. but it does. he’s saying it over and over, like he needs you to believe it as much as he does. he’s saying you’re made for him, and he fits so perfectly inside you—like he doesn’t know what that does to you. like you wouldn’t cry at that had you been more in a wobbly state. you don’t cry, but a choked moan escapes you from trying to take a steadying breath when dean buries his face against the side of your head, bottoming out inside you once again like he’s been doing this whole time.
that’s what spurs the third thing: he tells you that you smell so so good. over and over again, just as before. like a row of beads following the other down a string with each thing he says. the o’s are dropping from his words: s’good coming out slurry after the fourth time he says it, like he’s drunk. he buries his nose in the strands of your hair closest to him, which happened to be by your ear, inhales deep like he needs it—needs you—to breathe. you open your mouth to try to say something, anything to reciprocate how much he means to you too, but the tip of his dick hits that spot deep inside you at that exact moment. so you’re more focused on that now, hiccuping in a breath from the way he stole it from you. your hands find his shoulders and the back of his head—holding him against you as he thrusts into you, over and over again. you’re surprised he hasn’t come yet. he’s surprised too, with how much he’s worked himself up.
the final thing he says is he loves you. he says it the most out of all the things by far. it’s like all the times he wanted to say it but didn’t have the courage to have been building up inside him for years now have all come out at once. he repeats it over and over as you both come, but he’s choking on the words like they’re getting stuck with how much he really does love you. or like his body’s punishing him for not saying it as much as he’s supposed to, as much as he wants to.
it’s usually the only time he says it for a long time. it becomes a habit for him to say it as he comes, or only when he’s inside you.
⊹₊ ⋆ 〔ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ part of my dean winchester, who… series. 〕
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you knew dean cried.
he had to. of course he did, he was human. but you’d only seen the close calls: the wobble of his lip, the wetness pooling in his eyes when he was trying to keep his emotions under control. never full-blown, actual meltdown crying.
until the other night.
you’d immediately noticed that dean wasn’t acting himself. of course, you’d known better than to outright ask what was wrong with him. this ain’t your first rodeo. it may be only a couple months you guys have officially been together, but you’ve known dean for years. he wasn’t going to just spill the beans if you asked.
he’s been overwhelmed lately (let’s be real, when has he not), but the hunt had gone good, so it wasn’t that. and no close calls with you, him or sam—shit, you’d think he’d be celebrating, not acting like this. like something did go wrong. closing in on himself, shuttering the blinds. he’s putting on the face he always does—the ‘yes, i’m fine, of course i am, why would you think anything otherwise’ one—but it might as well be cling wrap on his stupid pretty face to what lingers beneath. you can see something’s bothering him, but you don’t know what.
you don’t find out on the drive back to the bunker. you don’t find out at the bar—because dean said he didn’t want to go to the bar after you’d all finished up the hunt. you and sam had exchanged looks, but his brother didn’t know what was wrong with dean, either. he had left a bit ago—a book signing he was going to with eileen.
you honestly forgot about it for a little. you and dean both were tired from the hunt and showered (not together, unfortunately) before getting into bed, not bothering with much discussion about anything. you’d talk about it tomorrow, you promised yourself. whatever it was that was wrong, you’re glad he hadn’t turned to a whiskey bottle to quiet it like he usually did.
he’s been trying to be better about that for you.
you didn’t outright ask him to do anything. he realized on his own that maybe he should stop destroying himself now that you’re with him—because you plan to be for a while. he still can’t believe it. but he’s been trying to be better about a lot of things. you notice it, of course. you always do.
dean’s arm shifts you around for you to face him at some point. you hadn’t fallen asleep yet, just sort of laying there instead—it was more that phase of laying in your bed and being so unbelievably comfortable wrapped up in dean, his whole body behind yours—not nearly close to being sleepy. you try to meet his eyes when he moves you around—but it’s just a little too dark for you to see anything except the main parts of his face: the angle of his jaw and nose, a bit of his eyes glimmering off the light shining in from the vent in the door.
he doesn’t say anything. just looks at you, his eyes raking down your face, like this was a dream. like he’d made you up in his head. you open your mouth to say something—anything, but he leans in the short distance and presses his lips to yours before you can.
it’s soft, sweet—like most kisses between you are nowadays. but there’s something else there, too. you assume, you know it’s the same something he’s not telling you. and he knows you know something’s up, of course—but dean would rather cut grass with a pair of nail scissors before admitting that.
your lips snap apart with a wet pop when air becomes a necessity again—but dean’s lips are still brushing on yours as you breathe into each other’s mouths. your hands had found their way around him—on his shoulder and on his free side of his face as you’re laying down. one of his hands have made its way to your wrist that’s holding his face, keeping your hand there—and he simultaneously melts into your hand and the pillow at the same time before he kisses you again.
you’d gotten yourself worked up—well, maybe dean had done most of the work with that, considering he was kissing you with the intent of sucking your face clean off—but pj’s and underwear come off eventually, and soon enough, he slides into you with a breath that sounded like relief.
not a moan, or a groan, or a swear. a breath. a sigh. like he was sinking himself into a warm, soapy bath instead of your pussy. like he needed to be inside you in order to let go, to feel better, to relax.
that’s new. or maybe you just haven’t noticed it. either way, something about it makes your heart break and mend all at the same time. you’re helping—just by this. just by you being here.
he feels good inside you, as he always does—but you’re not gonna let him hide away and lose himself to forget everything in his brain, like his instincts tell him to. your hands go to his shoulders, fingers trailing over the barely-there freckles that dust the tops of his skin. you sigh too when he fully bottoms out inside you—and it’s hard to keep your eyes open, but you do.
because you have work to do.
dean’s already trying to distract himself when his hips meet yours with the first of his thrusts—he’s not looking at you, and his hand not holding himself up slips under your shirt hem, tugging on it. you help him get it off, but then your hands find his face this time when he immediately tries to go to your breasts that have now hit the air. dean always tries to make you come first—but you don’t want him to do that this time.
maybe that’s what starts it, his unraveling. dean’s been hanging on like a stringed-out piece of floss since he…well, he’s not sure about that. a damn long time, he supposes. weeks. maybe months. maybe years. and when your thumbs brush his cheeks, he almost loses it right there, almost buries himself away, almost sobs. he continues to thrust into you, but you can feel his hand trembling just a little as it rests on your bare hip. he can now feel that sudden urge to cry again when your hands tilt his face to look at you again, but he’s not going to.
he should be happy—the hunt went great, you’re okay, and he gets to have sex with you. he should be over the moon, should be grinning and cracking jokes while he’s inside you like he sometimes does.
but he’s not.
dean clenches his jaw, swallows down and bites the inside of his cheek—he just needs to get through this, make you both come, then he can go to the bathroom and get himself together, then clean you up. a perfect plan. he can do this. and he can’t lose it now—he’s close, he can feel it. but he can feel the ache in his chest becoming stronger now, can feel the lump fighting its way back up, too. he stutters a little in his movements, blinking as he looks at your nose instead of your eyes.
“dean,” your murmur and hands make him look back up at you—and you’re not looking at him with pity, or disgust, or annoyance. you’re looking at him like you always do—like he’s a person, like he means something, which is somehow worse. your eyes are a little half-lidded, and something is eased in dean once he sees that. at least he can still make you feel good even when he’s falling apart.
you don’t ask if he’s okay—even though he’s most certainly not. you don’t treat him like he’s some little fragile thing that’s gonna break—even though he most certainly is.
dean’s lip wobbles when he meets your eyes—fucking dammit. you didn’t notice, he hopes. he thinks. he shakes his head at nothing, thrusts into you once more—and you say his name again, but he doesn’t stop. if he comes inside you, he’ll feel better. he’ll forget about all of it, lose himself inside you like he he always does, so he starts to speed up, feverishly slamming himself into you—but not so hard that it hurts you. obviously, you notice. and dean hopes you won’t say anything, that you’ll just let him do what he wants—but deep down, he knows you’re concerned, and he hates it. hates that you have to worry about him. he doesn’t want you to waste time on that, on him.
but you do.
“dean,” you say again—and dean knows it’s not in an “oh, fuck, dean” way. you’re trying to get his attention, trying to stop him—but if he stops now, he might die. or cry, which is inherently more worse. “wait, d— dean—”
“just lemme—” come? feel good? do this? but before he can finish, dean lets out this broken, strangled sound. it gets caught in his throat, and before you can try and say anything, his thrusts go faster than before, but his arms buckle simultaneously from holding him up.
jesus, was he seriously gonna cry, while he was balls-deep inside of you? how humiliating, he thinks. he’s dean winchester. so no. no fucking way was he doing that—but his lips were wobbling again, and he almost chokes on his next breath from trying to hold it all in. you notice that immediately too.’not only because you know him, know his tells, but because he’s so close to you.
your hands are still on dean’s face, and it’s too much. it’s been too much for almost 4 goddamn decades. he hadn’t stopped thrusting in and out of you this whole time—and he speeds up even more, over and over as he looks away. it doesn’t hurt. but it doesn’t necessarily feel the same, like he always feels, the way you know he feels inside you. he’s getting desperate, like he’s trying to hold on to nothing—and your arousal isn’t exactly fading, but it hadn’t really ever came to it’s high like it always did. because you knew something was up from the moment he kissed you—and consequently, most of your concern right now was focused on dean, not yourself.
“dean,” you’re not sure what else to say besides his name, and your hands on his face go to his shoulders and chest instead, trying to stop his movements. “just— dean, look at me.”
and it takes everything in his power to do so. he’s a man, for christ’s sake. and winchester men don’t cry. he’s been told that since he was four. so dean doesn’t cry. no. he can’t. it would be pathetic, humiliating. and you’ve already stopped feeling good, because you’re too busy focusing on him. god, this was so fucking embarrassing—can he seriously not keep it together enough to make his girl feel good? to make himself feel good? what kind of a man was he? his body was betraying him. he couldn’t cry now, while he was still inside you.
but his lip wobbles again anyway.
then the dam breaks.
maybe it was the look on your face as you held him still above you. maybe it was the love he felt for you becoming overwhelming—or maybe it was because dean didn’t know how to regulate his emotions for shit.
either way, that was it. he breaks apart into a million little pieces above you. another choked noise escapes him once more, then suddenly he’s collapsing on top of you like a bag of bones.
it’s pathetic. dean knows it is. of course it is. so is everything he’s ever done in his goddamn life. he’s a drunk, a psycho, a control freak, an idiot, an asshole, a broken, chipped, half-assed excuse for a brick wall with daddy issues laced in the cracks. he shouldn’t be here, but he his. he should’ve been dead a long time ago, but he’s not. he should’ve been suffering in hell until the end of time, but he hasn’t. he should be all alone, drowning in nothing but his own failures and bleeding out in a ditch somewhere, but he’s not.
for some reason.
dean’s body is violently shaking in your arms—his dick now fully softened inside you and all attempts of fucking you long gone, lost in the hot tears spilling out of his eyes with the sobs that leave him. he’s a kindness-sucking vaccum, a scrappy stray dog desperate for approval, for attention—and you’re giving it to him.
like you always do.
he’s completely and 100% sobbing in a heap on top of you, still inside you—loud and broken noises he hasn’t let escape his lips since… he can’t remember. can’t remember the last time he cried like this. can’t remember the last time someone held him while he cried. can’t remember the last time he let himself feel everything, even if it hurt. because as much as dean’s breaking apart, something inside him is slowly being stitched back together, jagged shard by jagged shard.
the snowball of a lifetime of self-hating and bottling up emotions has rolled into an avalanche of sobs and tears, falling faster and more frequently with each tremble of his shoulders. your arms are tight around him—because he’s moving so much and also because some little tiny, ridiculously optimistic part of you believes that you can hold the broken pieces of dean together solely from pure will.
you can’t.
you know you can’t.
but you try anyway.
dean’s arms had found their way around you, too—they’re starting to hurt, since they’re under your back as you’re laying down, but the ache in his chest is more painful. and his face hurts—his head feels like there’s pounds of pressure pushing on his skull, and he can feel the snot dripping onto your chest. his face is still buried in your neck and part of your shoulder—and there’s something resembling a puddle accumulating on your skin. he can feel it, but he doesn’t say anything.
and neither do you.
you just hold him as he continues to cry—and the bed’s creaking from how much his body shakes with each sob that echoes off the walls. you hold him—tighter than he’s ever been held in a long time.
you know he needs it, know he craves it. even after every bad thing he’s ever done. he doesn’t deserve it—deserve you. deserve your kindness, your respect, your patience, your love. not by a long shot. he’s a terrible influence, an even worse brother, and a pathetic excuse for a son. he’s not a good partner. not a good boyfriend. he won’t be a good husband. a good father. he knows that. he’ll never be, in his eyes.
but he tries to be.
and that is why you give dean all the love you have to offer. why you don’t let him drown all by himself—because right now, he is in fact drowning, but it’s easier when someone’s there with him.
you’re saving him, every time you let him show the real him without judgement—the side that’s locked behind decades of trauma and horrors he never wants to relive. the side desperate for love, desperate for someone to understand. for someone to justify his feelings. it’s the very core of him. the reason he’s the way he is. because for everything that dean winchester is, under all the muscle and unwavering bravado:
is a scared little boy.
that’s his big secret. the thing that people can’t get even remotely close to. his weakness, his downfall.
inside, he’s just a scared 4 year old kid all over again, helpless and terrified. he’s scared most the time now—and you can see it. in everything he does. he’s scared to lose the people he loves, because he already has. he’s scared to lose everything and everyone that’s ever mattered and meant something to him, because he already has.
and he cannot lose you.
because you’re putting him back together with every night that ends with him in your arms like a baby. after every nightmare, after every shitty hunt. you’re there for him—and you’re making it better somehow. he’s not quite sure how you’re able to do that. he’s not even sure you’re aware you’re doing it.
but you’re gluing the pieces of him back together regardless.
just like you are now.
dean’s sobs have subsided into sniffles, slightly shaking shoulders and the occasional shuddering breath—the kind you can’t control after a breakdown like that. he doesn’t know when your hand had started tracing on his back across his skin, but it’s lulling him into a haze that makes his head feel like it’s been shoved between two pillows. almost suffocating, but oddly bearable.
he doesn’t look up at you when you wipe at the parts of his face you can reach, trying to clean him up at least a little. and you haven’t said anything this entire time—but what the fuck could you say to dean that you haven’t already said? reassure what’s already been reassured? comfort what’s currently being comforted?
so you don’t say a word.
you just hold dean like that—until the trembling of his body ceases, and exhaustion takes him under, your fingers still caressing the slope of his back. he passes out still buried inside of you—the snot and tears making your skin tight where they lay, now dried up. but you don’t move, and neither does he. you don’t say anything, and neither does he.
eventually you fall asleep like that, too, holding dean—your legs tangled together as he lay on top of you. he’ll be awkward about it tomorrow, you expect. if not awkward, then embarrassed, humiliated. but you won’t let him feel like that for long. you never did—so you’ll talk him off the hypothetical edge of his overthinking tomorrow.
but for now you’ll just hold him until he wakes up.
Dean Winchester who finds the reader wearing a cat-woman latex suit. Headcanons
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His jaw would probably hit the floor. He'd stop dead in his tracks, eyes wide, and just stare for a solid ten seconds before he could even process a coherent thought.
The first thing out of his mouth would definitely be a low whistle or some classic Dean-level flirty remark, like "Well, hello there, kitty cat. What's a nice girl like you doing in a suit like that?"
He'd try to play it cool, but you'd totally see the flush creeping up his neck. He might even nervously adjust his shirt or run a hand through his hair.
He wouldn't be able to resist circling you, admiring the... details. He'd probably have a mischievous grin, already thinking of all the trouble you two could get into.
He'd totally insist on you doing a "meow" or a dramatic pose. And then he'd probably grab his phone to take a picture, claiming it's "for evidence."
BONUS
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He probably bought a Batman costume just at the last minute, giggling to himself about the surprise he had in store for you after a long, successful hunt. He'd be posing dramatically on one of the motel beds, maybe with a single lamp on for mood lighting.
He'd hear the door open and immediately strike his most heroic, brooding Batman pose, ready to deliver a cheesy line like, "The night is young, Catwoman," or "Gotham needs us."
Then Sam walks in, probably carrying a bag of groceries or a stack of lore books, and just stops. His brain would short-circuit for a good five seconds, trying to process the sight of his older brother in full Caped Crusader gear.
Dean's face would go from smug anticipation to absolute horror in a split second. He'd probably yelp, stumble off the bed, and try to hide behind a pillow or pull the covers over his head, muttering, "Sam! What the hell?!"
Sam, after the initial shock, would probably burst out laughing. Not just a chuckle, but full-on, wheezing, bending-over-double laughter. He'd pull out his phone immediately to snap a photo, threatening to send it to Crowley.
Dean would be beet red, yelling, "Don't you dare, Sammy! This is private! You ruin everything!" while Sam is still wiping tears from his eyes, asking, "Were you… were you waiting for me to be Catwoman?" The teasing would last for weeks.
You being blissfully unaware what's happening.
Too focus on removing the latex suit in the impala.
Han Solo being jealous when reader is fixing up Luke Headcanons
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He'd definitely be leaning against a doorway or bulkhead, arms crossed, with a look on his face that's a mix of boredom and thinly veiled annoyance. Every now and then, he'd let out a little huff or sigh just loud enough for you to hear.
He'd make snarky comments like, "Looks like the farm boy needs his diaper changed again," or "You'd think with all that Force power, he could patch himself up." It's his way of trying to downplay the situation and maybe even get a reaction out of you.
He might "accidentally" drop something heavy near you, or suddenly need your expert opinion on a minor issue with the Falcon that just can't wait, pulling you away from Luke even for a second.
If Luke tries to be charming or overly grateful towards you, Han's eyes would narrow. He might even step a little closer, subtly putting himself between you and Luke, or clear his throat loudly.
Later, when you're alone, he might try to casually bring it up, "So, you really like playing medic, huh? Next time I get a blaster wound, you gonna be all over me like that?" He's fishing for reassurance, even if he'd never admit it.
Han Solo finding out that reader has a crush on him by Chewbacca telling him Headcanons
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Chewie would definitely be the one to notice first. He'd probably have been observing your interactions with Han, picking up on your subtle glances or blushes.
He wouldn't just "tell" Han outright. It would be a series of nudges, concerned growls, and pointed looks whenever you were around. Han would eventually get annoyed and ask, "What is it, you walking carpet? What's with the racket?"
Chewie would then let out a long, deliberate series of roars and grunts, probably gesturing towards you. Han's face would go through a whole range of emotions: confusion, then dawning realization, then pure disbelief, maybe a hint of a blush.
Han would probably scoff, "What? Her? No way, Chewie, you're crazy." But he wouldn't be able to meet Chewie's knowing gaze, and a small, almost imperceptible smirk would play on his lips.
After that, he'd be hyper-aware of you. Every casual touch, every laugh, every time you looked at him, he'd be replaying Chewie's 'revelation' in his head, suddenly seeing everything in a new light. He'd try to act normal, but he'd be a lot more observant and maybe a little bit clumsy around you.
Steve's hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he slammed into you from behind, his backwards cap shading his eyes while he watched your ass bounce with every thrust. The bedroom was a mess of tangled sheets and heavy breathing, but none of that mattered—only the way his thick cock stretched your pussy, filling you so completely it made your vision blur. "Fuck, baby," he groaned, voice low and rough, one hand sliding up your spine to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to arch your body. "You take me so good. Look at you, all desperate and wet for me."
You whimpered , pushing back against him, your knees digging into the mattress as the slap of skin on skin echoed through the room. His cap brushed against your shoulder when he leaned forward, his chest pressing to your back, hot and sweaty. "That's it, sweetheart ," he murmured right against your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine. "Ride my cock like you mean it. I wanna feel that tight little pussy squeezing me."
He didn't let up, pounding into you relentlessly , the head of his dick hitting that spot deep inside that made stars explode behind your eyelids. Your walls clenched around him, slick and needy, and he chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through you. "Already close? Shit, you're so fucking easy for me. But I'm not done yet- gonna fuck you stupid until you can't even remember your own name."
Steve pulled out suddenly, making you whine at the loss, but before you could protest, he flipped you onto your back, his strong arms manhandling you like you weighed nothing. He settled between your thighs, hooking one leg over his shoulder as he lined himself up again. His cap sat crooked now, strands of his hair peeking out from under it, but he didn't bother fixing it- instead , he thrusts back in with one brutal snap of his hips, burying himself to the hilt. "Eyes on me, Y/N," he demanded, his free hand cupping your jaw to tilt your face up. "I want you to see how much I love ruining this pretty pussy."
You locked eyes with him, his brown gaze dark and intense under the brim of his cap, and it only made the heat coil tighter in your belly. He started moving again, slower this time but deeper, grinding his hips in circles that had you gasping. "Good girl," he praised, thumb brushing over your bottom lip before pushing inside your mouth. You sucked on it instinctively, and he groaned, picking up speed. "Suck on that while I fuck you. Imagine it's my cock- yeah, just like that."
The room filled with the wet sounds of him sliding in and out, your arousal coating his length and dripping down onto the sheets. His other hand roamed your body, pinching your nipples until they hardened into peaks, then sliding down to rub rough circles over your clit. "Come on, baby, let go for me," he coaxed, voice husky as he watched your face contort in pleasure. "I can feel you fluttering around me. Don't hold back—cum all over my dick."
It hit you like a freight train, your orgasm crashing through you as your pussy spasmed around him, milking his cock with every pulse. You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders, but Steve just kept thrusting, drawing it out until you were shaking. "There we go," he said smugly, not stopping for a second. "That's my girl. Fuck, you're so tight when you cum."
He wasn't far behind, but he held off, pulling your leg higher to change the angle, hitting even deeper. Sweat beaded on his forehead, trickling down under the cap, but he looked every bit the confident as he railed you. "You want my cum, don't you?" He asked, already knowing the answer from the way you nodded frantically. "Gonna fill you up, y/n. Mark this pussy as mine. Say it- beg for it."
"Please, Steve," you gasped, voice broken and needy. "Cum inside me. I need it—"
"Fuck yes," he growled, slamming in harder, his rhythm faltering as he chased his release. His hand left your clit to brace against the headboard, the other still holding your face so you couldn't look away. Under the cap, his eyes squeezed shut for a moment before snapping open again, locking on yours. "Here it comes, baby. Take every drop."
He buried himself deep one last time, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, hot ropes of cum painting your walls. The sensation pushed you into another smaller orgasm, your body trembling beneath him as he rode it out, grinding against you until he was spent. Finally, he collapsed forward, careful not to crush you, his forehead resting against yours while you both caught your breath.
But Steve wasn't one to quit while the high was still buzzing. After a minute, he pulled out slowly, watching his cum leak from your pussy with a satisfied smirk. "Look at that mess," he said, dipping two fingers inside to push it back in. "Can't let it go to waste. You gonna keep it in for me?"
You nodded weakly, still dazed, and he chuckled, kissing your forehead before sitting up. His cap was askew, but he adjusted it with a grin, looking down at you like you'd hung the moon. "Not done yet, though," he warned, voice dropping to that teasing tone. "Think you can handle round two? I wanna see you on top this time—ride me until you're screaming."
Before you could respond, he was pulling you up, positioning you to straddle his lap. His cock was already half-hard again, slick with your combined release, and he guided you down onto it inch by inch. "That's it," he encouraged, hands on your hips to help you sink fully. "Feel how hard you make me? Even after all that, I want more of you. Bounce for me, Y/N. Show me what this pussy can do."
You started moving, tentative at first, but his hands urged you faster, his thumbs digging into your skin. The cap shadowed his face as he tilted his head back to watch, but his eyes never left yours. "Fuck, yeah," he breathed, one hand sliding up to cup your breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers. "Just like that. You're so goddamn hot when you're riding me. Keep going—don't stop until I tell you."
The friction built quickly, his cock hitting all the right spots from this angle, and you ground down harder, chasing the pleasure. Steve's dirty talk didn't let up, spurring you on. "You love this, don't you? Being stuffed full of my cock, knowing I own this body. Tell me how good it feels."
"So good," you moaned, leaning forward to brace your hands on his chest, feeling the muscles flex under your palms. "Steve, you're so deep—"
"Deeper than anyone else," he finished for you, thrusting up to meet your movements. "And you wouldn't have it any other way. Cum again for me, baby. I wanna feel you soak my dick."
His words pushed you closer, and when his hand snaked between you to thumb your clit, it was over. You shattered around him, crying his name as waves of ecstasy rolled through you. Steve groaned, holding you down as he followed, pumping more cum into you until it overflowed, trickling down his shaft.
Exhausted but sated, you slumped against him, and he wrapped his arms around you, the brim of his cap tickling your hair. "You did so good," he whispered, pressing kisses to your shoulder. "Fucked stupid just like I promised. Rest now—but don't think we're done for the night."
He shifted, laying you both down without pulling out, his cock still twitching inside you. The backwards cap stayed firmly on his head, a constant reminder of the wild, unfiltered passion that defined every moment with him. And as you drifted in the afterglow, you knew he'd talk you through every filthy second of whatever came next.
warnings. big dick!steve harrington, descriptions of male genitalia, mating press, doggy style, oral sex. this is more a blurb than a real fic (despite being 1.6k words)
hyde's input. did you sneak into the recordings of season 5 vol. 2 and somehow find out big dick steve was about to become canon?
Steve’s dick is big. Like, big big.
Eye-bulging, jaw-dropping, panty-soaking big. The kind you see for the first time and have to physically hold yourself back from flinching, from panicking, because how the hell is all of that, all of him supposed to fit inside of you?
Of course, the panic is a little presumptuous of you — it’s not like Steve has even so much as expressed any interest in you, much less implied he would ever want to try fit his gargantuan cock inside of you. In fact, the only reason you even see it is by accident.
A day at the pool, something organised in a last ditched effort to not have the summer of eighty-five end on the depressing note of losing a father and a friend. Things aren’t normal, but they’re getting there, one Harrington hang-out at a time.
Dustin is the criminal, the one charged with ruining your life, for it’s he who has the bright idea to stroll up behind Steve — who is in the middle of passionately ranting to you about how awful he and Robin’s new boss is — and pants him.
The plan goes a little too according to plan, leaving Steve naked from the waist down, too startled by what just happened to collect himself fast enough for you to not notice. The inviting trail of coarse hair, guiding your eyes from navel to pubic bone. The wider-than-a-handful thickness, so much weigh to him you figure that surely it must hurt to walk with that thing constantly in the way. The absurd length, not even hard yet hanging over halfway down his thigh. The veins, decorating the pale of his skin with a blue hue. The mushroomed tip, a bulbous blush of pink that practically begs for a little loving to be given to it. The matching set of balls, heavy with the cum of a man’s whose libido is through the roof yet his sex life is as dry as wheat.
When Steve finally reacts, a slurry of curses aimed directly at the Henderson boy, you know it’s too late. You fucked up, stared too long, and now he’s caught you, wide-eyed and no doubt drooling over the sight of his flaccid dick.
Where you expect him to tease you, or even acknowledge your wandering eye with a wink, the fucker decides to simply stare you down as he tugs his swim shorts back up and tucks himself back into place.
From that day onward, you’re cursed with knowing what he’s packing beneath those too-tight jeans.
You try your best to forget about it, to not notice how much the crotch of his pants always seem to bulge; to not stare when he sits down and has to physically spread his legs apart, just to get comfortable. Try not to think about it that one time you’re all scrambling into the back of a van, running from the law, and a crowding problem forces you to crawl onto Steve’s lap, leaving you with the burden of feeling him the rest of the bumpy drive, poking at your back with every speed-bump Nancy hastily speeds over.
Eventually, time grants you freedom: you forget all about Steve and his massive dick.
Which would be great, if it didn’t come back to bite you — and someday fuck you — in the ass. Because Steve ; sweet, lovesick, cotton-candy hearted Steve finally lets desperate times call for desperate measures when, after nearly watching you twist and snap in every direction, eyes rolled back and mind caught in Vecna’s dimension, he finally fesses up.
Tells you all about his feelings, long realised and even longer hidden. All about how he used to switch his shifts around at the scoops, just to see your face a little longer. About how he used to take the bus to school, despite having a perfectly drivable car, just to sit next to you. About how Dustin is forever teasing him, in moments when you turn your back, mocking his love-struck features every time he so much as looks at you.
Safe to say, Steve Harrington finally gets himself a date.
One date leads to another, leads to a month, leads to — Oh no.
Because, while taking things slow had been more forced on you by life and all its extenuating circumstances, it had certainly not helped you remember one crucial detail about your precious, hair-obsessed, charmingly confident boyfriend…
Until the problem is glaring you in the face.
Splayed atop his bedsheets, already four — or is it five? — orgasms deep, remnants of your own ecstasy staining his chin and his fingers in a sheen of wetness, you go from love-drunk to stone-cold sober in a matter of seconds, as soon as Steve conquers the clasp if his belt and shucks off his jeans, only to reveal a site you had worked a little too hard to forget.
His cock, massive and slapping up against his stomach, smudging his porcelain smooth skin with a bud of precum.
“Steve, that’s- Wow- It’s too big,” god, don’t you just feel so silly in that moment, blood battling to rush to your cheeks and your clit all at once. As much as the sight is fear inducing, you can’t ignore the fact a part of you wants him, cunt already clenching around nothing at the mere thought of having him stretch it nice and wide. “It won’t fit!”
“Oh, I-” Pretty as ever, Steve has the modesty to chuckle, hand taking a hold of his dick and giving himself a slow, purposeful pump, like he is trying to tease himself. Clearly it works, for a shiver ripples through him and the tiniest, choked out groan escapes him. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’re gonna make it fit, okay? You and me, gonna train her to take me, all of me. Can take it as slow as you need, feed it to you little by little. Just- I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise.”
You both make an admirable attempt, truly, yet you wind up tapping out, gushing around him for the sixth time that evening, when he’s barely breached halfway in — and still you feel like he is in your guts, reorganising your organs to make way for his cock.
One would assume you would get used to his impressive length, the longer the you not just see it but feel it, taste it, milk him for all he’s worth… One would be wrong.
Because there is no getting used to this.
To how he consumes you from the inside out, pinning your knees to your chest, your ankles locked behind his head, while he continues to grind down into you in sloppy, barely-there rolls of his hips, too many inches of him burrowed deep within your cunt for either of you to do anything other than gasp into one another’s mouths, letting the world roll by while you lose yourself in one another atop the mattress, grasping at flesh and babbling out songs of praise.
To how deep he reaches in your throat, forcing your eyes to a water while your throat muslces seize around the head of his dick, fighting to extract him yet welcoming him deeper the further down you sink your mouth on him. It’s a bathroom break, a tiny window in which Robin has ran out of the radio booth to relieve herself, leaving you and Steve the perfect chance to, well, relieve yourselves. Head back, pupils blown out, hand tangling in your hair, Steve loses himself in the feeling and fucks into your throat, groaning louder with every victorious gag he feels and hears, followed swiftly by pathetic whines for more of him, evidence of just how good it makes you feel to make him feel this way.
To how, when things go wrong and tensions run high, you are the one he reaches for at the first sign of reprieve. Bent over the nearest surface, relieved of any clothing denying him of access to your cunt, it’s only a matter of time before you find yourself drooling, with your eyes rolling into the back of your skull while Steve takes all that frustration out on you, fucking you from behind and showing you just how deep he can reach, he can fuck you, especially when he’s too far gone to care for decency, to worry about going too hard or too deep. Unrestricted, unabashed, these are the times where Steve Harrington gives you the best and most of him, sinking right down to the hilt and watching you choke on your own breath, no doubt feeling him somewhere in your lungs.
The absolute worst part of Steve’s well-endowment isn’t that he practically has you dickmatised. No, the worst part is that he has no clue. Truly, he is humble and in denial about his size to the point where, at first, you had mistaken it for a feigned politeness, the kind of thing one must do because it is the societal norm.
But then you began to notice it. The shy glances, the hesitant smiles, the shakes of his head when you’re lost in the sauce, babbling in his ear about how he must own the greatest cock mother nature ever made, something only the most erotic and bodice-ripper novellas could come up with — yet here it is on a simple Sunday morning, plugging you full of his cum in the afterglow of lazy lovemaking, the perfect way to start a perfect day.
So, in conclusion, Steve’s dick is big. So big. Please make sure you tell him this as much as possible, preferably while it’s several inches inside of you, because despite that charming smile and easy-breezy attitude, he’s just a man looking to be told how good he is — even in the most superficial, debaucherous, primal ways.
Stationery Snob — Tom never had much money,well, actually non...
So he would always save up for some stationary other than food. He would only buy the finest of quills. Ordinary parchment made him grimace, and even a single blot of ink felt like an insult. His notes were always flawless, almost like art. Want to borrow or ask for one of his pens? You’ll regret it.
Mirror politics — Before addressing the Knights of Walpurgis, Tom would practice in front of a mirror.
Every word and every gesture,like he was preparing for a performance.His reflection was his first audience. He had this obsession with his looks and sometimes those practices turned into him styling his hair with gel.
He doesn't dislike cats...okay,Okay! Stay here with me for a second before deciding this is bullshit.
Let me explain. It all started when he as an orphan found a stray cat outside his window. He decided to see what it does and somehow he found himself petting it. Of course after that he washed his hands because of that dirty animal. He would rather die than admit he enjoys them.
Books — It all started back at the orphanage with muggle books.
He quickly ate up all of them.After learning he was wizard,he felt disgusted by anything muggle related. But he couldn't deny that he enjoyd some of them. Mostly classics.
Snake Gossip – Spends hours chatting with random garden snakes about the “idiocy of humans.”
Some snakes are just like: “bro chill, I’m trying to sunbathe.”
Obsessed with Politeness – As a boy, he learned that being charming got him what he wanted.
As a result, he’s bizarrely polite in mundane situations (like holding doors open or saying “please” to shopkeepers) while simultaneously plotting mass murder.
Muggle inventions — Tom considered muggle inventions the true dark arts.
To him, a simple machine or chemical could wield more quiet, insidious power than any spell,proof that the world outside magic had its own dangerous secrets.
Dramatic Sleeper – Tosses, turns, mutters speeches in Parseltongue in his sleep.
Like a snake-themed Shakespeare play.
Coffee Ritualist — Very specific,picky on his coffee.
Says that drinking coffee is in itself an art only a few can understand. No, actually he just feels very poetic and aesthetic.Only drinks black coffee.
Weird Shoe Habits – Insists on polishing his shoes to a mirror shine.
Dean Winchester's reaction to you in a revealing outfit for a hunting mission
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Dean's jaw drops, and he lets out a low whistle. He's definitely not complaining about the view.
He tries to play it cool, but his eyes keep drifting back to you. "Whoa, easy there, tiger. We got a job to do."
Underneath the playful teasing, he's genuinely turned on. "Alright, alright, you got my attention. What's the plan?"
He can't help but imagine what you'd look like without the outfit, and his mind starts to wander.
During the mission, he's extra protective, making sure no one else gets a glimpse of you.
He cracks jokes about you being a distraction, but there's a hint of admiration in his voice.
When you kick ass in the outfit, he's both turned on and impressed. "Damn, you're a natural. Maybe we should make this a regular thing."
After the hunt, he insists on taking you back to the motel room, where he can properly thank you for your efforts.
He steals kisses and caresses, telling you how amazing you look. Later, he admits that seeing you in the outfit made him realize how much he wants you. "You looked... incredible. Just so you know."
The Winchester brothers x reader headcanons at the beach for a hunting mission
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SPOILERS NO WEIRD ASS WINCEST cause that's nasty
Dean: Immediately checks out the scenery including you in a swimsuit, makes a few suggestive comments, and is all about blending in by hitting the beach bar.
Sam: Focused on the mission, a bit exasperated by Dean's antics, but secretly enjoys the change of scenery. He makes sure you're comfortable and have everything you need.
All three of you set up a "beach day" as a cover, complete with towels, sunscreen, and beach umbrellas.
You and Sam pour over maps and research while Dean "scouts" the area aka flirts with potential witnesses.
There's a lot of playful banter and teamwork as you strategize, with Dean occasionally getting distracted by you in your swimwear.
Dean uses his charm to gather information from locals, while Sam uses his research skills to identify the creature's patterns.
You act as the "bait," attracting the creature's attention while Dean and Sam set up traps.
There's a lot of close calls and adrenaline-fueled moments, with all three of you working together seamlessly to take down the monster.
You whined at him ur boyfriend as he teased you, his fingers knuckle deep in your needy cunt. Today, you were a bit bratty and he was tired of that.
“Please…” you murmured, your lip wobbling. He chuckled at you, curling his fingers to hit that special spot that had you cumming again. “I-I’m sorry… I’m sorry for being a brat…”
This made him coo, and he finally leaned down to give you a sloppy, heated kiss. Finally getting to taste his tongue and feel him explore your mouth and you cumming again, squeezing his fingers.
“I see you’re done being such a brat. Maybe I’ll let you have my cock tonight if you act right.”
you shouldve said no. harvey dent is a man of control— clean suits, morals, all fire and righteousness in the courtroom. but two-face? he was all chaos, all edge, with that scorched grin and the flick of a coin that decided everything, your fate included. right now, he had you pressed against his desk.
“tell me, sweetheart,” harvey murmured, voice smooth as silk, brushing a knuckle down your jaw. “did you come here for me…” his lips brushed your ear, and then his tone dipped, darker, rougher— two-face creeping in. “…or for him?” you swallowed hard. the question wasnt rhetorical. he kissed along your neck, gentle. the other hand grazed your skin with a jagged chill that made you shiver. he pulled back just enough to flip his coin between his fingers.
heads: he kissed you slow. tails: he ruined you.
you didnt even see it land. all you knew was the desk hit your hips and his mouth was on yours, all heat and hunger and madness. his hands were rough, needy, like he didnt know whether to worship or destroy. one moment he whispered your name like a vow. the next, he growled it like a warning. “you knew what you were doing when you came here in that little dress,” he said, one hand tangling in your hair, the other trailing down your thigh. “you wanted both of us. dont play innocent now.” you bit your lip, but your legs were already parting for him and he grinned.
Harvey still uses his coin to decide what kind of date you'll go on, but he always makes sure it's something you'll both enjoy. If it lands on the scarred side, you might end up at a dive bar, but if it's the clean side, he'll take you to a fancy restaurant.
Two-Face always gives you two gifts for every occasion – one representing his Harvey side and one representing his Two-Face side. It could be anything from a bouquet of roses and a switchblade to a heartfelt letter and a stolen diamond. You and Harvey have learned to compromise when Two-Face is in control. You might let him make small decisions, like what to have for dinner, but you always stand your ground on important matters.
You're not afraid of Harvey's scars. You often trace them with your fingers and tell him that they don't change how you feel about him.
Harvey trusts you implicitly. He knows that you'll always be there for him, no matter which side of him is in control.
You accept Harvey for who he is, both Harvey and Two-Face. You love him unconditionally, and you're always there to help him through his struggles.
You've developed a dark sense of humour to cope with Two-Face's antics. You often make jokes about his coin flips and his split personality, but always in a loving and supportive way.
Two-Face is fiercely protective of you. He'll do anything to keep you safe, even if it means resorting to violence.
Despite his dual nature, Harvey loves you deeply. He's grateful to have you in his life, and he'll always cherish your love and support.
