.angxlz

[sleepydollyy]

“bloodbound”

pairing: sam winchester × c4nnibal hunter!reader (blood sucker only tho)

Summary: You're a hunter with a twisted hunger for blood. What starts as sneaky nibbles on Sam's neck and hands turns into secret feedings and an addiction to his taste. After a hunt leaves him bleeding, you pounce-His control snaps. One taste of Sam's blood and you're on your knees, high and desperate on his demon blood.

Warnings!: Graphic descriptions of oral (m receiving), bloodplay, blood consumption/ drinking, cannibalism themes (non-lethal, survival-based), injury, sam's demon blood elements, brief mentions of self-harm, sam calling reader puppy with chewing fixation. 18+ only. Dead dove: do not eat.

WC:4.9K

Four months after the first time she tasted him—really tasted him, tongue pressed to the shallow slice on his chest while his pulse hammered against her lips—she would look back on that night and realize it had rewired something in her brain. The memory lived in her mouth. The copper-salt bloom of his blood. The way his breath had stuttered when her lips sealed over the wound. The guttural sound he’d made when she swallowed and kept swallowing, like she was trying to drink the ocean through a straw, and still wanted more.

But the thing that stuck with her most—the image she conjured on cold nights in roadside motels when Dean’s snores rumbled through the paper-thin walls—was the moment Sam’s hand found the back of her head. Not gentle. Not tentative. His fingers twisted into her hair and held her there, and his voice came out wrecked: “Look at you. Just look at you.”

She could still feel the vibration of those words against her skull.

She could still taste the salt at the back of her throat.

That night changed things. It changed the way Sam looked at her across the breakfast table, eggs going cold on his fork. It changed the way he said her name—softer now, like the syllables had been sanded down. And it changed the geography of her body. Her mouth, which had always been a weapon, a hunger, a thing to hide—suddenly became something Sam reached for in the dark.

But the story of how they got there didn’t start with his chest wound.

It started two weeks earlier, with a lie she’d told so many times it felt like truth.

---

“Hunting accident.”

The cut on her forearm was fresh. Three inches. Clean. Dean squinted at it over the rim of his coffee mug and made a sound that was half-skeptical, half-impressed.

“What’d you do, fistfight a werewolf?”

“Wendigo.” She tugged her sleeve down. “Got me with a branch.”

Sam, seated across the library table with a book open in front of him, didn’t look up. But his eyes had stopped moving across the page.

That was the first thing she’d noticed about Sam Winchester. He didn’t need to stare at you to see you. He watched from the edges of his vision. He catalogued. He waited.

She’d been staying with them for six weeks by then. Long enough that Dean had stopped offering her the “you don’t have to hunt alone” speech and started handing her a beer without asking. Long enough that the bunker’s corridors no longer felt like a labyrinth designed to swallow her. Long enough that Sam’s silence had gone from polite to something heavier.

He was the one who found her digging through the hospital’s biohazard disposal three towns over.

She’d thought she was being careful. Late shift change. South entrance. The night nurse took her smoke break at 2:15 a.m. like clockwork. She’d been inside for four minutes when the door swung open and there he was, silhouetted against the fluorescent hallway light, a gun in his hand.

Not pointed at her. Not yet.

“Tell me you’re not what I think you are.”

His voice was steady. That was the terrifying part. Sam Winchester, all six-four of him, voice like a cello string pulled taut, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were doing that thing where they saw everything at once.

The blood pouch was still in her hand. Still cold. Still sealed. She was gripping it so hard the plastic strained.

“I’m not a vampire.”

“Then what are you?”

She could have lied. The lie was right there, pre-packaged, ready to go: I’m a nurse. I’m stealing supplies. I’m a junkie. I’m a medical student with a weird kink. But Sam Winchester was looking at her like he already knew the shape of the truth and was just waiting to see if she’d have the decency to hand it to him herself.

So she told him.

“I eat people.”

The gun didn’t move. Neither did his expression.

“Not—” she amended, “not people people. I don’t kill anyone. I don’t hurt anyone. I just…” She held up the blood pouch like it was a hall pass. “I need it. To survive. My body doesn’t make something it’s supposed to make. Iron. Hemoglobin. I don’t know the science. All I know is if I go more than a month without it, I start falling apart.”

Sam’s jaw tightened.

“And your arms?”

She blinked.

“The cuts. Dean mentioned them. You said they were hunting accidents.”

A pause stretched between them.

“Sometimes,” she said, quieter now, “when I can’t get to a hospital, I use my own. It buys me time.”

Sam lowered the gun.

Not fully. The barrel tilted toward the floor, but his finger stayed curled around the guard. He was still deciding whether she was a threat, and she could see the machinery of his mind turning—all those hunter instincts colliding with something else. Something that looked almost like pity.

She hated pity.

“You can shoot me if you want,” she said. “But I’m telling you the truth. I’m not a monster. I’m just… not normal.”

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a door closed with a pneumatic hiss.

Then Sam did something she hadn’t expected. He holstered the gun.

“The hospital in Lebanon has better security,” he said. “If you’re going to keep doing this, you should know which cameras are dummies and which ones aren’t. I can show you.”

He turned and walked out.

She stood there for a long time, the blood pouch warming in her hand, and realized she’d just been given something she hadn’t earned.

Trust.

Or maybe curiosity.

With Sam Winchester, it was hard to tell the difference.

---

The nibbling started accidentally.

She didn’t mean to bite him the first time. They were in the library, three days after the hospital confrontation, and he’d been explaining something about a sigil in a book he was reading. She’d leaned over his shoulder to look, and her mouth had been closer to his neck than she’d realized, and before she could stop herself, her teeth had grazed the curve where his shoulder met his throat.

Not hard. Barely a touch. A whisper of pressure.

Sam went still.

“Sorry,” she said, jerking back. “I didn’t—that was an accident. I wasn’t trying to—”

“It’s fine.”

His voice had gone strange. Lower. Rougher. He cleared his throat and turned back to his book, but the tips of his ears had gone pink.

She should have let it go. She should have backed away, retreated to her room, and pretended the whole thing hadn’t happened. But her mouth was still tingling. Her teeth were still remembering the give of his skin, the warmth of him, the faint salt taste that lingered on her lips.

So she did it again.

The next day, she bit his forearm while he was reaching for a coffee mug. The day after that, she caught the meat of his thumb between her teeth while he was scrolling through his phone. Each time, he flinched. Each time, he didn’t pull away.

By the end of the week, it had become a ritual.

She’d find him in the library, or the war room, or sprawled across his bed with a laptop balanced on his chest, and she’d settle beside him like a cat claiming territory. Her mouth would wander. His wrist. His knuckles. The ridge of his collarbone. She’d press her teeth to his skin and just hold there, breathing him in, and something in Sam would loosen. His shoulders would drop. His breathing would slow.

“You’re like a puppy,” he told her once, not looking up from his research. “A puppy with a chewing fixation.”

“I’m a cannibal.”

“Same thing.”

She bit down a little harder, and he sucked in a breath but didn’t tell her to stop.

That was the thing about Sam. He never told her to stop.

---

The first time she tasted his blood, it was an accident.

She’d been nibbling on the inside of his wrist while he read a book one-handed, his other arm draped across the back of the couch where she sat curled against his side. Her teeth found the thin skin over his vein, and she bit down a little too enthusiastically. Not hard enough to do damage. Just hard enough to break the surface.

A bead of blood welled up. Copper-dark. Warm.

She froze.

Sam glanced over. “What?”

She couldn’t answer. Her senses had narrowed to a pinprick. The world had collapsed to the single ruby droplet sitting on his skin, and her mouth was watering so hard her jaw ached.

“Hey.” Sam’s voice was careful now. He shifted, and his wrist moved, and the bead of blood smeared across his skin in a thin line. “Talk to me.”

“It smells different.”

She barely recognized her own voice. It was throaty. Hungry.

“Different how?”

“Not human. Not entirely.” Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. “What are you?”

He didn’t answer right away. She looked up at him, and his expression had gone shuttered—the same look he’d worn in the hospital hallway. Assessing. Calculating risk.

“Demon blood,” he said finally. “When I was a baby. Azazel fed it to me. It’s been in my system my whole life.”

A normal person would have recoiled. A normal person would have asked follow-up questions—horrified questions, sympathetic questions. But she wasn’t a normal person, and the only thought that surfaced through the haze of her hunger was: That’s why.

That’s why his blood called to her like a siren song. That’s why, when she’d bitten him casually over the past week, she’d felt a pull she couldn’t explain. His blood wasn’t just blood. It was something rarer. Something stranger. Something that sang to the broken parts of her.

“Can I—” She stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. “Can I taste it? Just a little. Just what’s on your wrist.”

Sam’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

“You’re asking permission.”

“Of course I’m asking permission.” She sounded almost offended. “I’m a cannibal, not an asshole.”

Something cracked in his expression. A laugh, maybe, or something softer. He lifted his wrist to her mouth.

“Go ahead.”

She didn’t need to be told twice.

Her tongue met his skin before her brain caught up to her body, and the second the taste hit her, she understood what addiction actually meant. Not craving. Not dependence. Homecoming. That was the only word for it. His blood tasted like something her body had been missing since the day she was born. It was rich. It was metallic. It was laced with something dark and humming, something that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up and her vision sharpen at the edges.

She heard herself moan.

It was not a dignified sound. It was the sound of someone falling off a cliff and discovering they could fly. She sealed her lips around the tiny wound and sucked, gently, barely, and Sam’s whole body went taut.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, that’s—” But he didn’t pull his wrist away.

She let go. Not because she wanted to. Because if she didn’t stop now, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to.

His wrist was clean. She’d licked every trace of blood from his skin, and the tiny wound had already started to close. Sam was staring at her with an expression she couldn’t read.

“Your blood is incredible,” she said. Flat. Honest. “It’s like a drug. I could drain you dry and still want more.”

Sam’s pupils had dilated. His breathing was uneven. But his voice came out steady.

“We should probably set some boundaries.”

“Probably.”

“Like… not draining me dry.”

She nodded. “Reasonable.”

“And not when Dean’s around.”

“Obviously.”

“And—” He hesitated. “You have to tell me when you need it. No more sneaking around. No more hospitals. If you need blood, you come to me.”

Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her teeth.

“Sam. You don’t have to offer that.”

“I know.”

“I’m not a vampire. I’m not going to die if I don’t get it. It’s just—it helps. It makes the cravings go quiet.”

“I know,” he said again. And then, softer: “I know what it’s like to need something that’s bad for you. Something you can’t control.” He looked at her, and there was a whole history in his eyes—years of demon blood addiction, of withdrawal, of clawing his way back to humanity. “If I can make it easier for you, I want to.”

She didn’t cry. She wasn’t a crier.

But something in her chest cracked open, and she had to look away for a moment to compose herself.

“Okay,” she managed. “Boundaries. No draining. No Dean. I tell you when I need it.”

“And no more nibbling on my hand while I’m trying to read.”

“That one’s non-negotiable.”

He laughed. It was the first time she’d heard him laugh—really laugh—and the sound of it settled somewhere deep in her stomach.

“Fine,” he said. “You can nibble. But if you draw blood, you have to warn me first.”

“Deal.”

She bit the pad of his thumb, just to seal the agreement, and Sam’s laugh turned into a sharp inhale.

---

The arrangement worked better than it had any right to.

Every few days, when the cravings got too loud, she’d find Sam wherever he was and press her face to the nearest available patch of skin. His bicep was her favorite spot—the muscle dense and warm under her mouth—but she’d fed from his forearm, his shoulder, the tender skin inside his elbow. He always made the same sound when her teeth broke through: a low, bitten-off grunt, like he was trying not to let it show how much it affected him.

But it did affect him. She could tell.

She could tell by the way his pulse quickened under her tongue. The way his hands would find her hair or her shoulder or the back of her neck. The way he’d hold perfectly still, barely breathing, while she drank from him in slow, careful pulls.

“You’re holding back,” he said one night, three days before the chest wound. She was curled against his side in his bed, her mouth working lazily at a fresh cut on his bicep. Dean was out. The bunker was silent. The only light came from the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows across Sam’s face.

She pulled back. “Hmm?”

“You’re barely drinking. I can feel it.”

“I’m savoring.”

“You’re rationing.”

She didn’t deny it. He wasn’t wrong. Every drop of his blood was precious to her, and she had this gnawing fear that if she took too much, he’d realize what she’d known since that first taste: that his blood was the best thing she’d ever had, and nothing else would ever compare.

“Take more,” Sam said.

His voice was quiet. But there was something underneath it. A command dressed up as permission.

Her mouth went dry.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I trust you.”

Three words. That’s all it took. Three words, and the last of her restraint crumbled. She sealed her mouth over the wound and sucked harder, and Sam’s head dropped back against the pillow with a groan that vibrated through his chest.

She drank.

His blood flooded her mouth—warm, vital, electric. It tasted like copper and darkness and something that had no name. Something that made her feel powerful. Something that made her feel alive. She swallowed in long, greedy pulls, her tongue pressed to the wound to coax out more, and Sam’s hand came up to cradle the back of her head.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “That’s it. Take what you need.”

She took.

When she finally pulled away—only because the wound had started to close and her jaw was aching from the effort—she realized she was lightheaded. Not from blood loss. From pleasure. Her whole body was humming, and there was a warm, liquid sensation spreading through her limbs that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the man whose arms she was currently lying in.

His eyes were dark. His lips were parted. His chest was rising and falling in shallow, rapid breaths.

“Better?” he asked.

She nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

“Good.” His thumb stroked the curve of her skull. “Next time, don’t wait so long. If you need it, come find me.”

She didn’t tell him that she always needed it. That the need never went away. That his blood hadn’t quieted her hunger so much as given it a target.

She just nodded again, and pressed her face to his shoulder, and tried not to think about how good he tasted.

---

The hunt that changed everything was a routine salt-and-burn in Oklahoma. A ghost. Nothing special. The kind of job they’d done a hundred times before.

Except the ghost had put up a fight. It had manifested solid enough to swing a fireplace poker, and one of its wilder arcs had caught Sam across the chest before Dean put a salt round through its skull. The wound wasn’t deep. A shallow gash that started just below his left collarbone and angled down toward his sternum. It bled enough to soak through his shirt but not enough to warrant stitches.

“You’re gonna need a new flannel,” Dean said, surveying the damage as they packed up the Impala.

“I’m fine.”

“I’m just saying. That’s your favorite one.”

Sam peeled the ruined shirt off in the backseat and pressed a wad of fast-food napkins to the wound. Across from him, wedged into the corner with her knees pulled up to her chest, she stared at the blood seeping through his fingers and felt her mouth flood with saliva.

She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. The craving had descended like a curtain, blotting out everything except the gleaming red line tracing down Sam’s chest.

She spent the drive back to the bunker with her jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached. Sam kept glancing at her in the rearview mirror—Dean was driving, so Sam was riding shotgun, twisted around to check on her—and each time their eyes met, she had to look away.

He knew. She could tell he knew.

The question was what he was going to do about it.

Dean announced he was going to grab pie from the diner two towns over—the one with the cherry lattice crust he’d been talking about for the past forty miles—and the second the bunker door closed behind him, she moved.

Sam was in his room, sitting on the edge of his bed, still shirtless, a fresh gauze pad taped over the wound. He looked up when she came through the door, and his expression shifted—not surprise. Recognition.

“Close it,” he said.

She kicked the door shut behind her. The latch clicked.

“I need—”

“I know.” He leaned back on his hands. The motion stretched the skin over his ribs, made the gauze pull taut. “Come here.”

She crossed the room in four strides. Her knees hit the floor between his legs—not because she planned it, but because that was where her body wanted to be. Her hands found his thighs. Her eyes found his chest.

“Can I—?”

“Yeah.”

She reached up and peeled the gauze away. The wound was ugly. Red. Raw. A three-inch slash that still glistened with fresh blood where the napkins hadn’t quite done their job. It wasn’t deep enough to be dangerous. It was deep enough to taste.

Her tongue met his skin before she’d consciously decided to move, and Sam’s entire body jerked like she’d hit him with a live wire.

“Fuck.”

The word came out strangled. His hands fisted in the bedsheets. She didn’t stop—couldn’t stop—her mouth sealed over the wound and she sucked, and the taste of him hit her bloodstream like mainlined heroin. Copper. Salt. The dark humming thing that lived in his blood and sang to the hollow places inside her.

She moaned against his chest. The vibration made him shudder.

“You have no idea,” he said, his voice scraping out of his throat, “what you look like right now.”

She lifted her eyes to his face without lifting her mouth from the wound. His pupils had swallowed his irises. His jaw was tight. A vein stood out in his neck.

She drew another mouthful of blood from him and swallowed.

“Jesus.” His head dropped forward. His breath was hot against her hair. “Keep—keep going.”

She kept going.

The wound wasn’t producing much blood anymore, but she didn’t need much. She traced the length of it with her tongue, cleaning every trace of red from his skin, and Sam’s breathing got progressively rougher. His hands left the sheets and found her shoulders, her neck, the curve of her skull. He was trembling.

She pulled back to look at him. His lips were parted. His chest was heaving. And there was something in his expression she hadn’t seen before—a hunger that matched her own.

“Sam?”

He kissed her.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tentative. It was a kiss that had been building for weeks, ever since the first time her teeth grazed his neck in the library. His mouth crashed into hers, and she tasted her own hunger reflected back at her. His tongue pushed past her lips, and his hands twisted in her hair, and when he dragged her up into his lap, she went willingly.

The gauze pad had fallen to the floor. The wound on his chest was still glistening. She could feel the warmth of it through her shirt as she pressed against him.

“I’ve been thinking about this,” Sam said against her mouth. “Every time you bit me. Every time you fed. I’ve been thinking about what else your mouth could do.”

Her brain short-circuited.

“What else,” she repeated. Her voice didn’t sound like her own. It was breathy. Eager. Hungry.

“Yeah.” His thumb traced her lower lip. Pressed down. Parted her teeth. “You like my blood so much. How about you try tasting something else?”

She didn’t answer with words. Her hands dropped to his belt.

The sound of his zipper was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Sam’s breath caught as her fingers worked the button of his jeans, his hips lifting automatically to help her tug the denim down over his thighs. He was already hard. She could see the outline of him straining against his boxer briefs, and the sight made her mouth water in a way that had nothing to do with blood.

“You’re sure about this?” she asked. The last shred of her sanity. The final lifeboat before she drowned.

Sam’s answer was to hook his thumbs in his waistband and shove his underwear down.

She’d known he was big. She wasn’t an idiot. You couldn’t share a bunker with someone for months and not accidentally catch glimpses of things. But seeing him like this—flushed, straining, the head already slick—made her brain go quiet in a way it never did.

“I’m sure,” he said. “Are you?”

Instead of answering, she leaned forward and ran her tongue from base to tip.

Sam made a sound she’d never heard him make before. It wasn’t a groan. It wasn’t a grunt. It was a whimper, high and desperate, and his hips bucked involuntarily off the bed.

“Sorry,” he gasped. “I didn’t mean to—you just—”

She did it again. Slower this time. Tracing the vein on the underside of his shaft with the point of her tongue. Tasting the salt of his skin. The faint musk. The warmth.

“God.” His head fell back. His throat worked. “You’re going to kill me.”

She smiled against him. “Only a little.”

And then she took him into her mouth.

All of him. In one motion. The head of his cock hit the back of her throat, and she didn’t stop—didn’t pause, didn’t gag, didn’t even feel the reflex that had always been there before. The blood was still singing in her veins, and it had rewritten something fundamental about her body. Her throat opened. Her jaw relaxed. She swallowed, and the head slipped past her soft palate, and Sam shouted.

“Oh fuck—fuck, wait—”

His hands scrambled for purchase. One found the headboard. The other twisted in the sheets. She looked up at him through her lashes, her nose pressed flat against his abdomen, and watched his composure shatter.

“How are you—” He couldn’t finish the question. His hips twitched. The movement pushed him impossibly deeper, and she made a sound of contentment that vibrated around him.

“You’re going to make me come,” he warned, his voice cracking. “If you keep doing that—if you don’t—I’m going to—”

She pulled back just far enough to free her mouth. A string of saliva connected her lower lip to the tip of him. She licked it away.

“Then come.”

She swallowed him again.

This time, she didn’t stay still. She set a rhythm—slow at first, then faster, then impossibly deep. Her head bobbed in his lap, and Sam’s hips rose to meet her, and the sounds he was making were the filthiest things she’d ever heard. Broken moans. Half-formed words. Pleas that never quite made it past his teeth.

“Your—mouth—I can’t—it’s too—”

His hand found the back of her head. Not pushing. Not guiding. Just holding, like she was the only solid thing in a world that had gone liquid. His fingers twisted in her hair. His thighs trembled under her palms.

She hollowed her cheeks and sucked.

Sam’s back arched off the bed. His heel slammed against the mattress. A guttural sound tore out of his throat—not her name, not a word, just a noise of pure, obliterating pleasure—and then he was coming, hot and thick against her tongue, and she swallowed that too.

Everything he gave her. She took it.

She kept her mouth on him through the aftershocks, through the twitches and the gasps, through the way his hand went slack in her hair and his body sagged against the pillows. She kept her mouth on him until he was soft, and then she kept her mouth on him anyway, her tongue moving in lazy circles around the head, cleaning the last traces of salt from his skin.

By the time she realized what was happening, he was hard again.

“No way,” she murmured, pulling back to look at him. His cock was flushed and glistening, rising from the dark thatch of hair like it had never left.

Sam’s eyes were half-lidded. His chest was glazed with sweat. The wound on his chest had closed, but her saliva still glistened on his skin.

“You did that,” he said hoarsely. “You just—kept going—and I—”

“Are you complaining?”

“No.” He swallowed. “Just—give me a second. I’m sensitive.”

“I don’t want to wait.”

She took him in her mouth again, and this time the noise he made was almost pained. Overstimulation. She could feel it in the way his whole body flinched, in the way his thighs tensed, in the way his hand flew to her shoulder like he couldn’t decide whether to push her away or pull her closer.

“It’s—fuck—it’s too much—I can’t—”

She pulled off just long enough to look up at him. Her lips were swollen. Her chin was slick.

“You can,” she said. “You will.”

She didn’t deep-throat him this time. She went slower, gentler, working him with her tongue and lips while he shuddered and gasped above her. Her hand cupped his balls. Her other hand braced against his hip. She took her time, drawing him back from the edge of overstimulation into the building warmth of a second climax.

When he came again—harder than the first time, his whole body curling forward around her head—he said her name. Just once. Just a syllable. But the way it broke in his mouth made her feel like she’d swallowed the sun.

She pulled off him gently. Pressed a kiss to the inside of his thigh. Rested her cheek against his leg and looked up at him.

Sam was wrecked. His hair was plastered to his forehead. His chest was heaving. His hands were shaking. But when he looked down at her, there was something in his eyes that made her heart stutter: softness. Pure, unguarded softness.

“Come here,” he rasped.

She crawled up his body. His arms wrapped around her. His lips pressed to her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured. “You know that?”

She tucked her face into the crook of his neck and smiled against his skin.

“I’m a cannibal with a blood addiction.”

“Same thing.”

She bit his shoulder. Not hard. Just a reminder. His laugh rumbled through his chest, and she felt it in her teeth.

Outside, the bunker door groaned open. Dean’s voice echoed down the corridor.

“I got pie! Somebody better be alive in here!”

Sam’s arms tightened around her. She felt him smile against her hair.

“Don’t move,” he whispered. “We’ve got three minutes before he comes looking.”

“And then what?”

“And then we pretend we weren’t just doing what we were just doing.”

She snorted. “He’s going to know.”

“Probably.”

“Good.”

She pressed a kiss to the center of his chest—right over the wound—and felt his heartbeat flutter under her lips.

[sleepydollyy]

“Pineapple Paradise”

Pairing: Castiel x Hunter!Reader (Female Reader)

Summary: When Dean makes one too many jokes about your excessive pineapple-cranberry juice stash, Castiel’s angelic curiosity gets the better of him. What starts as an argument about whether it actually makes you taste sweeter quickly turns into the angel burying his face between your thighs to “see for himself.”

Warnings (MDNI) : Explicit smut, oral sex (f receiving), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, Castiel being an eager learner, slight voyeurism (Dean hears things), dirty talk, and one very satisfied angel.

A/N: im so nice teehee heehee i left a littol bonus at the end bc im so nice teehhe heehee👀 rub my belly.

wc:~3k, one shot ok (not exactly proofread)

You’re sprawled across the worn mattress in your room at the bunker, the heavy metal door shut and locked behind you after the argument spilled over from the library into the hallway and then straight into this. Your heart is still hammering from the sheer audacity of it all, but the heat pooling low in your belly has nothing to do with anger anymore. Castiel—your Castiel, the angel who once smote demons with a touch and now looks at you like you’re the only miracle he’s ever needed—is on his knees between your spread thighs.

Your panties are dangling from one ankle, kicked half-off in the frantic shuffle that got you here. Your hunter’s jeans and boots are somewhere on the floor. The room smells like gun oil, old books, and the faint artificial sweetness of the pineapple-cranberry juice you’ve been religiously stocking in the bunker’s industrial freezer for weeks. Dean had laughed his ass off when he first saw the cartons, muttering something about “hydration for the hunt” with a knowing wink. You’d flipped him off and kept drinking them anyway—because a girl’s gotta have her secrets, especially when the world is literally ending again and your missing brother is still out there somewhere.

But secrets don’t stay buried around these people.

It had started innocently enough, or as innocently as anything gets in the Men of Letters bunker.

You’d been hunting with Sam, Dean, and Cas for months now. You were good—damn good. Capable with a machete, steady with a shotgun, and relentless when it came to chasing leads on your brother’s disappearance. The boys had taken you in after you helped them gank a nest of vamps that had been circling a small town in Kansas. Trust built slowly: late-night research sessions, shared beers, the kind of brutal honesty that only comes when you’re staring down the apocalypse together. Comfort grew. You stopped hiding the little things.

Including the juice.

Fifty cartons. Maybe more. You rotated them through the freezer so they stayed ice-cold, tart-sweet, exactly how you liked them. Dean figured it out first—probably because he’d walked in on you chugging one straight from the carton after a particularly long shower. He’d smirked, made one off-color joke about “natural flavors,” and you’d threatened to salt and burn his favorite leather jacket if he ever said it again. Sam just rolled his eyes and went back to his lore books. Cas, though… Cas had tilted his head in that devastatingly innocent way and asked, “Is it for your health? Human bodies require specific nutrients, I believe.”

You’d played it off. “I just really like juice, Cas.”

He’d accepted that. At first.

Then came the hunt in Missouri. The warehouse is dim and dusty, reeking of sulfur and decay. You’re moving in formation: Dean on point with his shotgun, Sam flanking with the demon blade, you covering the rear with your machete, and Cas bringing up the middle, grace humming under his skin like a live wire. The demon you’re hunting is a mid-level prick with a silver tongue, currently possessing some poor bastard who’d been dumb enough to make a crossroads deal.

You’ve just decapitated one of its underlings when Dean decides the mood needs lightening.

“Looking good there, sweetheart,” he calls over his shoulder as you wipe black blood from your blade. “All that pineapple-cranberry action must be paying off. Bet you taste like a goddamn tropical vacation right now.”

Sam groans audibly. “Dean. Focus.”

You freeze mid-swing, heat rushing to your face. “Shut the hell up, Winchester, or I’ll use this machete on parts that won’t grow back.”

Cas tilts his head, trench coat swirling as he blasts another lesser demon into nothingness with a touch. “I do not understand. What does the juice have to do with taste? Y/N has been consuming large quantities. Is it medicinal?”

Dean laughs so hard he has to lean against a crate. “Oh, come on, Cas. You’re an angel. You’ve gotta know about this shit. Certain fruits make a woman’s… y’know… sweeter. Down there. Our girl’s been prepping like it’s a bake-off.”

Sam mutters something about needing a drink and moves ahead. You want the floor to swallow you whole. Cas just stands there, blue eyes wide with genuine celestial confusion, staring at you like you’ve sprouted a second head.

“I have extensive knowledge of human biology from millennia of observation and healing,” he says slowly. “I do not recall this phenomenon. It seems… improbable.”

You shoot Dean a death glare that promises retribution later. “It’s nothing, Cas. Dean’s being an idiot. Let’s just kill this demon and go home.”

The rest of the hunt passes in a blur of violence and grace. But you catch Cas glancing at you more than once, that thoughtful frown creasing his brow. He doesn’t forget. Angels never do.

The questions started the next morning.

“Why do you consume so much pineapple and cranberry juice?” he asked while you were both in the kitchen, you nursing a cold glass and him sipping coffee he didn’t need but enjoyed anyway.

You shrugged, cheeks warming. “Tastes good. Keeps me hydrated on hunts.”

He stepped closer, invading your space the way only Cas could—zero regard for personal boundaries when something puzzled him. “Dean implied it affects… taste. Specifically, a woman’s taste. I have no recollection of this biological fact in any of the human physiology texts I have absorbed. Angels do not require such knowledge for procreation, but—” He tilted his head. “I find myself curious.”

You nearly choked on your juice. “Cas. Drop it.”

He did not drop it.

For three straight days he asked. Gentle questions at first, then more direct ones when you kept dodging. “Is it truly sweet? Sweeter than normal? I enjoy sweet things, you know this.” (He did. The man had once eaten an entire pie in one sitting because “it brought him joy.”) You tried playing innocent—wide eyes, subject changes, even dragging Sam into research sessions to avoid being alone with him. But Castiel was relentless. An angel on a mission.

Finally, in the library late one night, surrounded by dusty tomes about the latest apocalyptic threat, you snapped.

“Yes, okay? It makes things taste sweeter down there. It’s a thing some people swear by. Happy now?”

Cas stared at you, unblinking. Then, with that devastating sincerity only he could muster: “I do not believe you.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Human bodies are complex. I have healed thousands. I would have encountered this information if it were factual. You are… teasing me. Or Dean is.” His eyes darkened, just a fraction. “I would like to see for myself.”

The argument escalated from there—bickering that was half-frustration, half-foreplay you hadn’t admitted to yourself you wanted. You called him an over-curious celestial idiot. He told you, voice low and rough, that lying to an angel was pointless and that he needed evidence. One thing led to another: his hand on your wrist, your back against the bookshelves, his mouth crashing into yours in a kiss that tasted like coffee and ozone and pure want. Then the stumble down the hall to your room, clothes shedding, the door slamming shut.

And now here you are.

Your panties hang from one ankle like a forgotten flag of surrender. Cas has you folded like a goddamn towel. Castiel’s hands—large, warm, faintly glowing with restrained grace—are gripping the backs of your thighs like iron. Your hamstrings scream from the stretch, but the burn only sharpens the pleasure. He’s got one large hand splayed across the back of both your thighs, pinning you open and immobile. You couldn’t wiggle away or crawl off if you tried. You’re completely at his mercy, pussy exposed and dripping, and he’s staring at it like it’s the most fascinating miracle in creation.

“Cas—oh my god,” you whimper. Your voice is already wrecked.

He leans in, breath hot against your soaked folds. “You are very wet already.” His voice is gravel and wonder. “And the scent… sweet. Like the juice you favor.” Then his tongue drags a slow, broad stripe from your entrance all the way to your clit.

You cry out, hands flying to his hair. He groans deeply, the sound vibrating through you. “It is sweet,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Tart. Pineapple. Cranberry. Better than I imagined.” He licks again, savoring, exploring every inch with deliberate thoroughness. No rush. Just pure, angelic focus on making you feel everything.

You try to laugh but it comes out as a broken moan when he dives back in. His tongue is relentless—broad, flat strokes at first, mapping every inch of you like he’s memorizing scripture. He eats you out with devastating skill for someone who claimed ignorance. Long, flat licks that cover your entire pussy. Tight circles around your swollen clit. He dips his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in shallow thrusts while his nose nudges your clit. The wet, filthy sounds fill the room—your moans, his approving hums, the slick glide of his mouth.

You’ve already come once—hard—barely five minutes in. He’d sucked your clit between his lips, flicked it with the tip of his tongue while two thick fingers curled inside you, stroking that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes. You’d cried out his name, thighs clamping around his head, but he didn’t stop. He held you open and kept going, licking up every drop like it was ambrosia.

Now you’re on the edge of a second one, hips trying to buck but held firmly in place by angelic strength.

“Castiel,” you gasp, fingers threading through his messy dark hair. You tug, not sure if you want to pull him closer or push him away from the overwhelming intensity. “It’s—too much—slow down—”

He lifts his head just enough for you to see his face—lips shiny and swollen, eyes glowing faintly blue with grace, pupils blown wide with lust. “No,” he says simply. “I am enjoying this. You taste divine. Literally.” Then he’s back down, tongue fucking into you in shallow thrusts before sliding back up to torture your clit again.

Your back arches off the bed. Sweat beads on your skin. The stretch in your legs from how he’s holding you open only heightens everything—the slight burn, the helplessness, the way it lets him devour you completely. He’s not just eating you out; he’s worshipping. Long, luxurious licks that drag over every sensitive nerve. Precise flicks that have you keening. He adds his fingers again—two, then three—stretching you open while his mouth focuses on your clit. The wet squelch of his fingers pumping in and out mixes with the obscene sounds of his tongue.

You come the second time with a sharp cry, vision whiting out. Your walls clench around his fingers, thighs trembling violently in his grip. He groans loudly, the sound vibrating through your core as he laps up everything you give him, refusing to pull away even as you shake and whimper.

“Good,” he praises against your oversensitive flesh, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh before diving back in. “Again.”

“Cas—I can’t—fuck, please—”

“You can.” His voice is rougher now, angel veneer cracking under raw desire. “For me. Let me taste how sweet you are when you fall apart completely.”

He doesn’t let up. If anything, he doubles down. His tongue works faster, fingers curling and stroking in time. One hand leaves your thigh just long enough to reach up and pinch your nipple through your shirt—still half-on and rucked up over your breasts—before returning to hold you open. The overstimulation borders on pain but melts into pleasure so intense it steals your breath.

You lose track of time. Minutes? Hours? The third orgasm builds slower but crashes harder. You’re babbling—his name, curses, pleas—body slick with sweat, legs quaking. When it hits, you sob through it, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer force. Castiel moans like he’s the one coming, grinding his hips against the edge of the mattress for any friction as he drinks you down.

Finally—finally—he eases off, pressing gentle, soothing licks over your swollen folds as you come down. He lowers your legs carefully, massaging the strained muscles with strong hands while kissing up your stomach, your ribs, the valley between your breasts. When he reaches your mouth he kisses you deeply, sharing your own taste with you. It is sweet. Tangy. Exactly like the juice.

“You were correct,” he whispers against your lips, voice wrecked and adoring. “I will never doubt you again. And I believe… I would like to conduct further experiments. Repeatedly.”

You laugh breathlessly, boneless and glowing, pulling him down on top of you. “You’re such an angel.”

“Yours,” he corrects, nuzzling into your neck. “Entirely.”

Outside the room, the bunker hums on—research waiting, the world still needing saving, your brother still missing. But for now, in this stolen moment, there’s only the taste of pineapple and cranberry on an angel’s tongue, the warmth of his body against yours, and the promise of many more nights where curiosity turns into devotion… one long, devastating lick at a time.

You reach down between you, palming him through his slacks, feeling how hard he still is. His breath hitches.

“Your turn to be studied, angel,” you murmur, grinning.

Castiel’s eyes flash with heat. “As you wish.”

The night is far from over

!!!bonus bc im totally cool and awesome!!!

The bunker’s corridors carried sound in strange ways—echoes bouncing off concrete and metal, the low constant drone of the air system almost masking everything else. Dean had been heading back from the garage, wiping grease from his hands after tinkering with Baby, when he passed your room. The door was shut tight, but not airtight.

At first it was just a muffled thump. Then a gasp. Then your voice—clear enough to stop him dead in his tracks.

“Ah—Cas—fuck, yes—”

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. He glanced left, then right. Empty hallway. He took one quiet step closer, boots barely making a sound.

Castiel’s reply was low, gravel-rough, and devastatingly focused. “You are dripping for me. So sweet. I can taste the pineapple… the cranberry… every time you clench around my tongue.” The wet, obscene sounds that followed left zero room for interpretation—long, hungry licks, the slick push of fingers, the faint creak of the bed as Castiel held your thighs spread wide.

Dean’s mouth fell open. “Son of a bitch,” he breathed, voice barely above a whisper. A slow, filthy grin spread across his face despite the mild horror in his eyes. He shouldn’t listen. He knew that. But curiosity and that protective big-brother instinct (mixed with pure dude gossip fuel) won out. He leaned in closer, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe.

You moaned again, louder this time, the sound breaking into a whimper. “Don’t stop—please, I’m so close—”

“I will not stop,” Cas answered, the words vibrating right against you if the wet noises were any indication. “Come on my tongue again. Let me drink every drop of that sweetness. You are… exquisite. Better than any pie. Better than anything I have tasted in this world.”

Dean had to press his fist to his mouth to stifle a snort-laugh. Angel of the Lord, ladies and gentlemen. Cas sounded absolutely wrecked in the best way—voice hoarse, reverent, and filthy all at once. The rhythmic sounds picked up: faster licks, the wet squelch of fingers curling deep, your hips trying to buck but clearly being held down by strong angelic hands. Your next moan turned into a sharp cry as you came hard. The sound was muffled, probably into a pillow or Cas’s shoulder, but still loud enough to echo faintly down the hall.

“Atta girl,” Dean whispered to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. “And atta boy, Cas. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

He stayed there another few seconds, ear practically glued to the door now. Castiel was praising you softly between long, lazy licks as you came down—things like “so good for me,” “taste so perfect,” and “I could stay between your thighs for eternity.” You were panting, laughing breathlessly, then gasping again as Cas apparently decided one orgasm wasn’t enough and dove back in.

The mattress creaked louder. Your voice cracked on his name.

Dean was mid-grin, replaying the mental image (and immediately trying to scrub it), when heavier footsteps sounded from the direction of the library. Sam. Probably carrying another stack of lore or heading for coffee.

“Shit.” Dean straightened up instantly, wiping the smirk off his face like it had never existed. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and started walking again at a normal, casual stride, just as Sam rounded the corner.

Sam slowed, glancing between Dean and your door. “Hey. You good?”

“Yep,” Dean said, popping the ‘p’ with zero guilt in his voice. “Just stretching my legs. Garage stuff. You know how it is.”

Sam’s eyes flicked to the door again. A faint, breathy moan carried through at that exact moment—followed by Castiel’s unmistakable low groan of approval.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Is that…?”

“Pipes,” Dean said immediately, steering his brother toward the kitchen with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Old bunker. Always making weird noises. Remember that time it sounded like a ghost in the vents? Same thing.”

Sam didn’t look convinced, but he let himself be guided. “If you say so. Sounded a lot like—”

“Nope,” Dean cut him off cheerfully. “Beer?”

As they disappeared around the corner, Dean allowed himself one last quiet, amused mutter under his breath:

“Son of a bitch…”

He’d tease you both mercilessly tomorrow—probably with a pointed comment about “extra hydration” or “thorough taste-testing” over breakfast. For tonight, he’d keep the secret, grab that beer, and pretend the bunker was as quiet as ever.

Behind the closed door, the night was still young, and Castiel showed no signs of stopping anytime soon.

[sleepydollyy]

“BLIND HEAT”

strategist!reader x oscar piastri

wc: 1.5kish

tags: SENSORY DEPRIVATION, blindfolds, oral (f!receiving), rough sex, praise kink, cumplay, overstimulation, power dynamic, multiple orgasms, kinktober yay

Summary:

After a grueling Grand Prix, you—Oscar Piastri’s strategist—find yourself in his hotel room, chasing the high of his podium finish. What starts as a debrief turns into a night of sensory deprivation and unrelenting pleasure, with Oscar taking control in ways that leave you trembling. Blindfolds, headphones, and his wicked focus push you to the edge—again and again.

BLIND HEAT

The roar of the crowd still echoed in your ears as you slipped into Oscar Piastri’s hotel suite, the door clicking shut behind you like a secret promise. It was the night after the Singapore Grand Prix—another podium for him, another rush of adrenaline that neither of you could shake off. You’d been his strategist for months now, crunching numbers and plotting overtakes during late-night sessions, but lately, those meetings had blurred into something more electric. Stolen glances in the garage, fingers brushing over data pads, and now this: an unspoken invitation to unwind in ways that had nothing to do with lap times.

Oscar was already there, lounging on the edge of the king-sized bed, his McLaren polo unbuttoned just enough to reveal the taut lines of his chest. His dark hair was still damp from a quick shower, and those piercing eyes—calm, calculating—locked onto you the moment you entered. “Took you long enough,” he murmured, his Aussie accent low and teasing, a smirk tugging at his lips. He patted the bed beside him, but there was no rush in his movements. Oscar was always patient, always in control. That’s what made him deadly on the track… and intoxicating off it.

You kicked off your shoes, heart pounding as you crossed the room. “Blame the debrief. Zak wanted to relive every corner.” But your voice came out breathier than intended, betraying the heat pooling in your core. You’d been fantasizing about this all race weekend—about him, about letting go after the high-stakes chaos.

He stood slowly, closing the distance until his body heat enveloped you. “Forget the race for tonight,” he said, his hand cupping your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “I want to focus on you. All of you.” His thumb brushed your lower lip, and you shivered. There was something intense in his stare, like he was mapping out every reaction before it happened. “You trust me?”

“Always,” you whispered, and that was all he needed.

He guided you to the bed, his touch firm but gentle as he peeled off your team shirt, exposing your lace bra. “Good girl,” he praised softly, his voice sending sparks down your spine. He reached into the nightstand, pulling out a black silk blindfold and a pair of noise-canceling headphones. Your pulse quickened— you’d talked about this once, in a hushed whisper after a particularly grueling qualifying session. Sensory deprivation. No sight, no sound, just feeling. Just him.

“Ready?” he asked, and when you nodded, he slipped the blindfold over your eyes, the world plunging into darkness. The silk was cool against your skin, tying securely behind your head. Then the headphones, muffling everything until the only thing you could hear was the faint thrum of your own heartbeat. Isolated, vulnerable, every nerve ending heightened.

You felt the bed dip as he joined you, his hands starting slow—trailing up your arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Without sight or sound, each touch was amplified, electric. His fingers unclasped your bra, tossing it aside, and then his mouth was on your neck, sucking lightly at the pulse point. You gasped, arching into him, but he held you steady, his control absolute.

“Shh,” he might have said, but you couldn’t hear it—only felt the vibration of his lips against your skin as he moved lower. He kissed down your collarbone, then to your breasts, his tongue circling one nipple while his hand pinched the other. The contrast—wet heat and sharp pressure—made you moan, your hands fisting the sheets. He lingered there, teasing until your nipples were hard peaks, sensitive to the slightest breath.

Then his hands slid down, unbuttoning your jeans and tugging them off along with your panties. Exposed now, you felt the cool air of the room on your bare pussy, already slick with anticipation. Oscar’s fingers traced your inner thighs, inching closer but never quite touching where you needed him most. The deprivation made it torture—every brush felt like fire, your body straining toward him.

Finally, his thumb grazed your clit, and you bucked, a whimper escaping your lips. He circled it slowly, deliberately, building the pressure until you were trembling. “So wet for me already,” he probably murmured, but all you knew was the sensation as he dipped two fingers inside you, curling them against that spot that made stars explode behind your blindfold. In and out, slow at first, then faster, his palm grinding against your clit with each thrust.

You came undone quickly, the orgasm crashing over you like a wave—intense, blinding in its own way. Your pussy clenched around his fingers, juices coating his hand as you cried out, body shaking. But Oscar didn’t stop. He rode it out, milking every aftershock until you were panting, oversensitive.

He removed the headphones first, his voice cutting through the haze: “That’s one. We’re not done yet.” Then the blindfold came off, and you blinked up at him, vision adjusting to the dim light. His eyes were dark with lust, his cock straining against his sweatpants. He stripped quickly, revealing his lean, muscled body—abs carved from endless training, and his hard cock, thick and veined, already leaking pre-cum at the tip.

“Round two,” he said, smirking as he positioned himself between your legs. “No blindfold this time. I want you to watch.” He rubbed the head of his cock against your slick folds, teasing your entrance. You were still sensitive from the first orgasm, but the ache was delicious. “Beg for it.”

“Please, Oscar,” you whispered, hips lifting. “Fuck me. I need your cock inside me.”

He groaned, pushing in slowly, inch by inch, stretching your pussy until he was buried to the hilt. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he muttered, his hands gripping your hips. He started thrusting—deep, controlled strokes that hit every nerve. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer, your nails digging into his back as he picked up speed.

The room filled with the sounds of skin slapping, your moans mixing with his grunts. He angled his hips, hitting that sweet spot again, and you felt another climax building. “Come on, cum on my cock,” he urged, one hand moving to rub your clit in tight circles. It pushed you over the edge—your second orgasm ripping through you, pussy pulsing around him, milking his length.

Oscar followed soon after, his thrusts erratic as he spilled inside you, hot cum filling your pussy in thick spurts. He collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing hard, his cock still twitching inside you.

But he wasn’t finished. After a few minutes of lazy kisses—his lips on your neck, your hands in his hair—he pulled out, a mix of your juices and his cum dripping from you. “Round three,” he said, voice husky. “On your knees.”

You obeyed, flipping over onto all fours, ass in the air. He blindfolded you again, but no headphones this time—just the darkness heightening your other senses. You heard him move behind you, felt his hands spread your cheeks. Then his tongue—oh god—lapping at your pussy, tasting the mess he’d made. He ate you out like a man starved, tongue delving deep, sucking on your clit until you were grinding back against his face.

“Fuck, you taste so good with my cum in you,” he growled, the vibration making you whimper. His fingers joined in, three this time, stretching you wider as he licked around them. The overstimulation was exquisite, your body on fire. You came again, harder than before, squirting a little as your pussy spasmed, soaking his chin.

He didn’t give you time to recover. Still blindfolded, you felt him line up his cock—hard again already—and slam into you from behind. This round was rougher, his hands bruising your hips as he pounded into you. “Take it,” he commanded, each thrust jolting you forward. “My good little slut, cumming all over my cock.”

You moaned incoherently, the blindfold making every sensation sharper—the drag of his cock against your walls, the slap of his balls against your clit. He reached around, pinching your nipples, then sliding down to rub your oversensitive clit. It was too much, too good—you shattered for the fourth time, screaming his name as your pussy clenched, pulling him deeper.

Oscar thrust a few more times, then pulled out, flipping you onto your back. He removed the blindfold just in time for you to watch him stroke his cock, cum shooting across your stomach and breasts in hot ropes. “Fuck, look at you,” he panted, collapsing beside you. “Covered in me.”

You lay there, spent and glowing, as he cleaned you up with a warm cloth from the bathroom. The plot twisted back to reality—he pulled you into his arms, kissing your forehead. “You were perfect,” he whispered. “But next time? We add earplugs. See how many rounds you can handle then.”

You smiled, already plotting the rematch. After all, with Oscar, the race was never truly over.