Summary: Based on this post by @jamesdeanbby. When Dean and Cass call an angel to help detox Sam. She gives him her blood and might have caused him another addiction....
Relationship: Sam Winchester x f!reader. No use of y/n
Warnings/tags: Suggestive, supernatural stuff, blood, drinking blood, addiction, mention of kinda abusive childhood, religious themes, a bit of size kink because self-indulging, might be more but i'm horrible at tagging
Wc: 2,2k
Author's note: Thank you for letting me inspire this fic on your idea @jamesdeanbby, I tried to respect it as much as I could but I also wanted it to have my personal touch. Might make it a series and give it a part that adds more depht to the characters and maybe resolves the tension.... If you like it be sure to comment. If you have any idea for a fic, feel free to request. English isn't my first language sp if I make any mistakes please correct me. x
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You used to think humans were strange creatures. Back when your father assigned your garrison as a protector of humanity you were proud of yourself. After all, humans were very valuable creations to Him, leaving you in charge of them was a great honor.
So, you devoted your existence to the wellbeing of the species. At first, because of father’s orders, but you quickly realized that spending time with humans could really change one’s perception. As time went by you witnessed the worst and best of humanity. From Adam and Eve to the Tower of Babel, Moses, David, the Roman Empire, Jesus and so on until the XXth century with its World Wars and Vietnam; you had seen humanity be born and you had seen it try to destroy itself. Curious creatures, humans, they were passionate and full of love, yet those precious attributes often led them to perdition. That you found fascinating. Love, curiosity, creativity, empathy and the need to belong; father hadn’t given you nor your brothers those attributes but as time went by, as you started living among them, you started to feel.
You obviously kept it a secret. Curiosity, in most angel’s eyes, was close to doubt and they were right. As time went by, you started doubting, you started becoming more and more human.
There were few angels that would understand, one of them was your dearest brother: Castiel. He didn’t doubt yet, he still feared, but you saw in his eyes a spark of curiosity from the moment he first saved that Winchester boy, and that made him your favorite. So today, as his call came, you answered.
You appeared in some sort of basement in the middle of South Dakota. In front of you were two men and one angel.
“Hello sister.”
“Good morning, Cass. Do you need something?” He looked at the men beside him.
“Dean, Bobby, this is my sister” he said your name.
“Dean Winchester and Robert Singer, it is a pleasure to meet you.” You extended your hand and shook theirs with polite confidence.
“So, you do know social cues.” Dean said.
You laughed. “Yes, well, I have been in Earth a bit longer than my dear brother. I descended from heaven in 1968.”
“Rough time.” Bobby muttered.
“Indeed. That is exactly why I came. I am a protector of mankind and it hurt to watch everything from heaven without at least trying to help a bit.” You paused after the sincere moment. “So, gentleman, what do you need from me?”
Dean breathed deep. You could smell the nerves coming out of his body. “You see, my brother Sam…he has a problem.”
“Yes, I have heard.”
“So, you know about the demon blood.”
“I am aware your brother has been taking demon blood to enhance the psychic powers the demon Azazel gave him, am I wrong?
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, well, news travel fast and I tend to keep an eye on Castiel and, therefore, you troublemakers.”
“Cass said you might know how to help. That true?” His voice broke a bit. “It’s just…please, please the withdrawal is making him sick and I can’t help him, it’s-it’s killing me not being able to cure him. Please, please help him.” You placed a hand on his arm to ground him.
“It’s okay, calm down. There is a solution. It would make him stop craving demon blood forever, but it would require a lifelong treatment.”
Hope filled his eyes. “Well, what is it?”
“You see, where demon blood is like venom, angel blood is more like… medicine, it is one of the purest things in the universe and it can cure one’s body. It won’t make him powerful like a demons’, but it would protect him from ever wanting to consume it. That’s what I clearly know, but I don’t know about any other effects it could have. This, however, is not a detox, it could still cause an addiction. Addictions are behavioral, they are one’s choice. I can’t change that.”
“So, you want to, what? Change his drug basically?”
“It wouldn’t be the same. This “drug” he’s taking is destroying him. Look, I will give him mine personally, think of it like taking medication for a chronic disease. You must take it every day, but it cures you.” Despite the justification, both Dean and Bobby still seemed skeptical. “Look, Dean, I know it’s scary, and I know it hurts to see your brother be like this, Father knows if I had to watch Cassie in this situation it would pain me greatly. However, this is the best solution I am aware of. It’s all I can give.” They seemed to relax with that. “Look, I love humans. You are my father’s creation, hurting you would be blasphemy. I just want to help. But I respect your wishes and Sam’s and I won’t do anything you don’t want.” Your voice was kind and soft, Dean couldn’t help but melt. He was stressed and angry with his brother and himself for not protecting him, hearing that comforting tone made him trust her. He had hope.
“Okay.” He finally said. “I am going to ask Sam.”
He opened a door in the back of the wall. You could see a tall figure inside a hidden room, you assumed it was Sam. You turned to Cass.
“I missed you, Cassie.” You hugged him. That always seemed to surprise him. As you had mentioned, he had lived among humans for much less time and wasn’t as used to these displays of affection.
“I missed you too, dear sister.”
“I see taking care of the Winchesters Is proving to be difficult.” You looked at both Cass and Bobby. The last one chuckled.
“Tell me about it. Those idjits have been trouble since they were born.” The fatherly tone those words carried made you smile. You wished you could hear Father speak in that tone. A hidden part of yourself wished he spoke about you. Wished he spoke to you. How could He let humans suffer like you had seen Dean suffer for his brother? How could He leave his children alone? You decided not to think about it, those thoughts only made you sad and confused. Your attention rapidly changed when the door to the little room opened.
“You can come in.” Dean offered.
As you entered you discovered a circular chamber filled with protective sigils. There were books in the walls, a little table, and a bed where the tall man was seated.
“Sam?” You presented yourself with your name. “I have come here to help you. I understand Dean told you how.”
“He did.” He looked pale, tired and had a look in his eyes you couldn’t quite describe as something else than light madness. It saddened you to see him like this. Humans were beautiful creatures, full of life and joy. Human smiles were fascinating. You wondered how such a simple movement could change so many things. It could make one laugh, cry or fall in love. Sam looked anything but happy and you, as a protector of humanity (and therefore of their happiness) took it as your mission to cure him so you could see him smile. “Thank you.”
“What for? It is my duty to help you.” His eyes somehow lost a bit of that sadness as he gained a similar reaction to Dean’s. It seemed these boys hadn’t had a lot of gentleness in their lives, but you had plenty to spare. “Dean,” you turned and looked at him “could you leave us alone for a moment?”
“Sure. Thank you” he said your name and left closing the door.
“Well, I have obviously never done this before, so I don’t really know how it’s going to feel. So, I want you to be as comfortable as possible in case it kind of feels bad or something- “you saw fear in his eyes “which I sincerely doubt it will.”
“Okay.” His voice was soft, but unlike yours, it was born of exhaustion and pain. He sat further on the bed and looked at his side as if he was inviting you to take the place. You did.
“I think it would be best if you laid down.” He did. You approached his frame and sat beside his hips. “Are you comfortable?”
“Yes.” You took off your coat and your angel blade. You placed the garment at the foot of the bed and the knife on your thighs. Sam was enchanted by your movements, they seemed slow and careful. You handled everything with a sweetness and attention that, in his state, made him almost jealous of the blade.
You took the sleave of your shirt and folded it. Then you placed the knife against your wrist. Finally, you made an incision and watched as bright red blood started to make its way out. With the same meticulous care with which you handled everything you put your wrist against his lips. He looked at you, his eyes filled with shyness at the strangely intimate atmosphere as if asking for permission. You nodded. He dove right in.
At first the taste surprised him. It was very different from a demon’s blood’s. Where it had been more flavored, almost salty, this one was like sweet water. It tasted pure and clean; it filled his mouth so gently like those candies that melted in your tongue. It made tingles travel from his nose to his neck and down his spine leaving a trace of goosebumps. It was a hundred times better than demon’s blood. It was a million times better than anything he had ever tasted. His heart started beating faster, his senses regained their precision. He now could smell her: vanilla, clean; he could hear her breathing: low and deep; and he could feel her smooth skin under the tips of the fingers that had engulfed her little -by comparison- forearm so naturally. He opened his eyes, and he was met with an extraordinary view.
You stood with your eyes closed and brows furrowed, your chest raised slowly, and he could see the outlines of your breasts trembling as it did. You seemed as lost in the feeling as he was. Finally, he felt satisfied and let go of your wrist.
You gradually opened your eyelids as he stood and returned to the seated position. His face was now so close to yours you could smell your blood in his mouth. He now could almost taste that vanilla his nose had noticed. He then started to focus on the features he hadn’t cared to note in his previous state. He observed your eyelashes and their gentle curve, your neat eyebrows, the bridge of your nose, your cheeks and their gentle blush, your chin and its perfect curvature and finally, your lips. They looked so singular to him, he thought he had never seen lips with such a soft texture and beautiful color. They looked as if you had bitten them. He didn’t know why, maybe it was because of the intimate act you just had shared, maybe it was because of those attributes he had just noticed, but he felt something push him to place his lips against hers and their perfect shape.
While he was busy looking at you, you were frozen on the spot. Your wrist had already healed, and you were a bit lightheaded. You looked at his face and saw a mole on the side of his nose. You don’t know why but it was the first thing that caught your attention. You loved that about humans: moles. They were so unique, it reminded you of how diverse and special each person could be. Unlike angels, humans were more peculiar. They had desires and feelings, different thoughts, distinctive features. You don’t know why, but you suddenly had the urge to kiss it. And you did.
You closed the space between you two and kissed his mole. Sam closed his eyes, he felt you everywhere. In his hand that now rested in your shoulder gently as if he was touching something precious, in his mind that now held all the data his senses were receiving, inside his veins pumping and fighting the pain and suffering. You were everywhere like a bubble of intimacy and sweet care.
You finally parted and looked at him with a shy smile. God, he was fucked. “You should go upstairs and get some rest.” You tried to avoid acknowledging the sudden act of boldness. He nodded; he didn’t think he could speak right now.
The next day you returned to Bobby’s house and repeated the action and, after a week, it became a routine. You also started to get to know the boys. The need to be close to Sam grew uncontrollably. Day after day, you spent your time trying to fight the urge to bury your lips in his skin, to feel its warmth, to sense its smell.
Sam, however, was fighting even more. Not only the force that wanted to make you his, but also the urge for your blood. For the feeling it gave him; it felt like home, it felt so comfortable like a precious dream he didn’t want to wake up from. Day after day, his need for you, for your blood, grew. He wanted to possess you, to make you his forever. He was addicted again, but this time his hunger not only grew, it owned him.
The mansion loomed against the overcast sky like a monument to faded glory, its marble columns and wrought-iron gates speaking of wealth that had long since stopped trying to impress anyone but itself. You'd seen a thousand places like this over the decades—testaments to the kind of money that came from being a supe in the golden age, before Vought started churning out heroes like they were action figures on an assembly line.
You lingered in the back of the black SUV for a moment longer than necessary, watching through the tinted window as Homelander's cape billowed in the artificial breeze he'd conjured for dramatic effect. Some things never changed. The man couldn't walk through a door without turning it into a production.
Soldier Boy had already climbed out, his boots heavy on the gravel, that familiar swagger in his shoulders that had made him the poster boy for American exceptionalism for nearly four decades. He'd glanced back once, a questioning tilt to his brow, and you'd waved him off with a lazy flick of your fingers.
Give me a minute.
He'd rolled his eyes but continued on, falling into step beside Homelander as they approached the mansion's grand entrance. You could hear the exchange even from here: Homelander's clipped impatience, Soldier Boy's gravelly amusement, and then the door swinging open to reveal the trembling figure of Mr. Marathon himself.
You'd seen his face before. Of course you had. The man was practically a Vought poster child for the new generation of supes. All shiny smiles and earnest enthusiasm. He was handsome in that has-been kind of way that had sold merchandise to teenage girls and lonely housewives, with the kind of boy-next-door charm that made him palatable for daytime television appearances.
But you'd also seen the other side of him. The side that had plastered his bedroom walls with posters of Soldier Boy. The side that had written fan letters so embarrassingly adoring, to both you and certain soldier, that they'd made your cheeks heat when you'd stumbled across them in years ago.
You'd always known, on some level, that you were a fantasy. That was the job, really. To be beautiful, to be unattainable, to be the thing men whispered about in the dark when they were alone with their hands and their thoughts. You'd made peace with it years ago, had even started to enjoy it—the power of it, the way you could make a man's entire world shrink down to just you with nothing more than a glance and a smirk.
It was a power you'd perfected over the decades. A power that had made Soldier Boy, of all people, look at you with something approaching genuine respect.
And it was a power that was about to be very, very thoroughly deployed.
The front door was still slightly ajar when you finally emerged from the car, your heels clicking against the stone pathway in a rhythm that was almost hypnotic. Your dress swayed with each step, the slit up the side revealing just enough thigh to make a man's mouth water.
You heard the words before you saw the scene unfold.
"Homelander! Soldier Boy!" Mr. Marathon's voice was pitched high with barely contained excitement, the kind of breathless fawning that you'd heard a thousand times before. "Such an honor! I can't- I mean, I've been a fan of yours for years, Soldier Boy. I literally popped my cherry on your underwear, I can't even-"
You paused just outside the doorway, a smirk curling your lips as you caught the expression on Homelander's face. Disgust, pure and undisguised, the kind of revulsion that came from being confronted with the deeply human messiness of desire. His nostrils actually flared, like he'd smelled something foul.
Soldier Boy, for his part, seemed caught between amusement and annoyance, his jaw working as he processed the confession.
And Mr. Marathon just kept going, his words tumbling out in a rush like he couldn't contain them anymore. "It was the late 90s edition and—" His eyes found you suddenly, widening to comical proportions as his brain short-circuited. "Oh. Oh. Oh my god. You're-"
You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed beneath your breasts, and let the silence hang for a moment. Let him squirm under the weight of your gaze.
"You were my first jerk off-" he blurted out, his cheeks flushing a shade of red that nearly matched your dress. "My first- I mean, the first time I ever- with the magazine, the one from 1993, the-"
"I was your first jerk-off?" you cooed at him, like you might do to a specially dumb and slow puppy, your voice syrupy sweet and dripping with amusement.
His mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. A strangled noise escaped his throat.
You pushed off from the doorframe, your heels clicking against the marble floor as you approached him with the slow, predatory grace of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted. Soldier Boy watched you come, that familiar glint of curiosity in his eyes, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.
You didn't stop until you were standing directly in front of Mr. Marathon, close enough to smell the expensive cologne he'd doused himself in, close enough to see the way his pupils had blown wide.
"Mm. Cute."
The words came out soft, almost tender, and you watched him crumble at the sound of them. His knees actually buckled, just slightly, before he caught himself.
Homelander made a sound of pure disgust, rolling his eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in his skull. "Can we please get on with this? We're not here to indulge in- whatever this is."
He shoved past Mr. Marathon, shouldering the man roughly as he strode into the mansion with all the grace of a spoiled child. "The V1. We're here for the V1. Don't waste my time with your pathetic fanboy nonsense."
Mr. Marathon stumbled, catching himself on the wall, and for a moment he looked almost shell-shocked. Then the spell seemed to break, and he was scrambling after Homelander, his voice pitched high and anxious. "Of course! Right! The V1! I've got it- I mean, not got it, per se, but I know someone who knows where it is, I can-"
Soldier Boy didn't move. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching you with an expression that was equal parts amused and curious. When Mr. Marathon had finally disappeared down the hall after Homelander, he turned to you fully.
"Didn't know ya liked 'em pathetic, doll."
The words were mocking, but there was genuine curiosity underneath. You'd known him long enough to recognize the difference.
You chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made his eyes darken. You moved closer, your arms coming up to loop around his neck, your body pressing against his in a way that was familiar and intimate. Your lips ghosted over his, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath but not quite touching.
"I like men who cry their way through sex."
He huffed out a laugh against your lips, rolling his eyes with exaggerated annoyance. "'Course you do."
But he was smiling, just a little, and you knew he was already half-hard in his jeans. He'd always been a sucker for your particular brand of depravity. That was what had made the arrangement work for so many years—you were the only woman he'd ever met who could match his appetite without getting caught up in the messy emotions that usually followed.
"Shoulda known. You always were the freakiest bitch I ever met."
His voice was low, amused, mocking in that way that always made heat pool between your thighs. "I thought you had better taste than that."
"Go talk to Malchemical." you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I'll be along in a minute."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're gonna play with your little toy, huh?"
"Maybe." You pulled back, giving him a smile that was all teeth. "Don't wait up."
He snorted, shaking his head as he turned to head down the hall. "Try not to break him too badly. We still need him functional."
You watched him go, savoring the way his shoulders moved beneath his jacket, the familiar heat of desire curling low in your belly. Then you turned and followed the direction Mr. Marathon had disappeared, your heels clicking against the marble like a countdown.
It didn't take long to find him.
He'd been left in a hallway somewhere near the back of the mansion, probably sent to retrieve something or other while Homelander brooded and Soldier Boy did his lines. You found him leaning against the wall, his face buried in his hands, the only visible part of him were his ears: and they were the color of a ripe tomato.
Poor thing. He'd been so overwhelmed by the whole encounter that he'd shut down completely.
"How adorable," you murmured, your voice carrying through the empty hallway. "You poor, pathetic little thing."
His head snapped up, eyes wide and glassy, and the look on his face was so utterly wrecked that you felt a surge of dark satisfaction.
"I- I'm sorry," he stammered, pushing off from the wall. "I didn't mean to- it's just- you and Soldier Boy and Homelander, I never thought I'd actually meet you, I've been a fan for so long and-"
You closed the distance between you in three quick steps, and before he could finish his sentence, you had him pinned against the wall.
The sound he made was obscene—a high, desperate whine that went straight to your core. His eyes fluttered shut as you pressed against him, one of his legs bending at the knee and hooking around your waist in a pathetic attempt to pull you closer.
"How cute." you murmured against his lips.
And then you kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It was brutal, messy, the kind of kiss that left nothing to the imagination. Your tongue swept into his mouth, tasting the faint sweetness of the champagne he'd clearly been drinking before your arrival. His lips were soft and pliant against yours, parting eagerly as you devoured him.
He was trembling beneath you, his whole body shaking with the force of his arousal, and you could feel the evidence of his desire pressing hard against your thigh. Your hand found its way into his hair, gripping tight and tilting his head back to expose the column of his throat.
"Pretty," you breathed against his skin. "So pretty for me."
He whined again, his hips bucking forward involuntarily. You could feel the damp spot forming on his pants, the fabric sticky and warm against your leg.
"You're going to be so good for me, aren't you, baby boy?" you cooed, dragging your lips along his jaw. "Going to let me have my way with you?"
"Yes, yesyes please-" he gasped. "Please, mommy, please—"
The title sent a thrill through you. You bit down hard on the junction of his neck and shoulder, just shy of breaking skin, and he choked on a moan, his hips jerking against you.
"That's it," you purred. "Let me hear you, princess. Let me know how much you want it."
He was drooling now, just a little, a thin strand of saliva escaping from the corner of his mouth. You licked it away, savoring the taste of him, and then moved lower to leave a trail of harsh lovebites along his throat.
His leg tightened around your waist, his hands fisting in the fabric of your dress. He was so desperate, so pathetic and needy, and the knowledge that you had reduced him to this—a whimpering mess against a wall—was intoxicating.
"Please," he begged again, his voice cracking. "Please, mommy- mommymommymommyyyy-"
"I know what you need." You sucked another mark into his skin, right over the pulse point, and felt his whole body shudder against you. "You need someone to take care of you, don't you? Someone to tell you what a good boy you are."
"Yes," he moaned, eyes rolling back into his skull. "Yes, yes, please-"
"Lucky for you," you murmured against his throat, "I'm feeling generous today."
Soldier Boy found you like that.
He'd only been gone a few minutes—just long enough to do a few lines and make sure Homelander didn't fry off anyone sat on the pool table. When he'd turned around and found you still absent, he'd known immediately where you'd gone.
The trail of destruction you left in your wake was legendary.
"What the fuck," he drawled from the end of the hall, his voice carrying through the space like a whip crack. "Couldn't even wait five minutes?"
You pulled back from Mr. Marathon's throat, your lips shiny with spit and a thin smear of blood where you'd gotten a bit too enthusiastic. The man beneath you was a wreck: eyes glassy, lips swollen, his whole body trembling with barely contained need.
Soldier Boy's gaze traveled down, cataloging every detail. The lovebites blossoming along Mr. Marathon's neck. The way one of his legs was still hooked around your waist. The obvious tent in his pants that had left a dark, damp spot on the fabric.
"You just can't help yourself, can you?" Soldier Boy's voice was mocking, but there was a familiar heat in his eyes. "Gotta get your hands on every pathetic little fucking bitch you come across."
Mr. Marathon moaned at the degrading term, his hips bucking against you involuntarily. Soldier Boy's expression shifted to something darker, hungrier.
"Should have known you'd have a taste for submissive bitches, sweetheart." He was walking toward you now, his boots heavy on the marble floor. "All that power, all that control.. you just can't resist a man who begs."
You chuckled, dragging your tongue in a slow stripe up the length of Mr. Marathon's throat, from the base to his jaw. He shivered violently, his leg clenching around your waist, a series of pathetic little noises escaping his throat.
"Can you blame me?" you murmured, batting your eyelashes at the older man and feigning innocence, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. "Look at him. So pretty when he falls apart."
Mr. Marathon whimpered, his hands fisting in your dress.
Soldier Boy reached you in four more strides, and then his hand was fisting in the back of your dress, hauling you away from the man you'd been devouring. Mr. Marathon slumped against the wall, his knees giving out, barely managing to stay upright.
"Hands off." Soldier Boy's voice was a growl. "You're not the only one who gets to play."
And then his mouth was on Mr. Marathon's.
It was brutal. It was a kiss that was more about domination than pleasure. Soldier Boy's tongue shoved past the man's lips, taking what he wanted with ruthless efficiency. His hand found its way to Mr. Marathon's throat, squeezing just enough to make him gasp, and then he was biting down on the man's lower lip.
Hard.
A thin trickle of blood welled up, and Mr. Marathon's whole body went rigid, his eyes flying wide. Then he was coming, hard and fast and embarrassingly quick, his hips jerking as he painted the inside of his pants white.
Soldier Boy pulled back, his lips stained red with the man's blood. He looked down at the mess Mr. Marathon had made of himself, then back at you, a slow smirk spreading across his face.
"Mmm." He licked his lips, and Mr. Marathon whimpered at the sight. "Well, I kind of see the appeal here, sweetheart."
The nearest room turned out to be a guest bedroom, all white linens and tasteful decor that was completely at odds with what was about to happen.
Soldier Boy grabbed Mr. Marathon by the front of his shirt and hauled him through the door, shoving him down onto the bed so hard the man bounced. You followed at a more leisurely pace, watching the way Mr. Marathon's chest heaved, the way his eyes tracked you both with desperate, hungry need.
"Strip, bitch." Soldier Boy commanded, and Mr. Marathon scrambled to obey.
His hands were shaking as he tore at his clothes, fumbling with buttons and zippers in his haste to comply. He was naked in under a minute, his cock jutting up against his stomach, still wet with the evidence of his earlier release.
"So eager," you cooed, settling yourself on the edge of the bed. "Good boy."
Mr. Marathon whimpered at the praise.
Soldier Boy shoved him onto his stomach, hard, and Mr. Marathon went willingly, face hitting the mattres with a muffled "umphf-" as his arms folded beneath his head.
It wasn't even a second before reflex kicked in and he pushed his ass up in offering.
"Look at you," Soldier Boy growled, palming himself through his jeans. "Pathetic little bitch, presenting yourself like a dog in heat."
"Please," Mr. Marathon sobbed. "Please, sir, please-"
"You want it?" Soldier Boy fisted a hand in the man's hair, yanking his head back. "You want me to fuck you?"
"Yes-" Mr. Marathon moaned. "Yes, yes, fuck, please, sir. I've wanted—I've wanted you for so long-"
"Bet you have." Soldier Boy released him, and Mr. Marathon collapsed forward again. "All those years jerking off to our pictures, wishing it was us fucking you instead of your hand."
Mr. Marathon's entire body shuddered.
You moved closer, settling yourself at the head of the bed so you could reach Mr. Marathon's face. You cupped his jaw, tilting his head up to meet your eyes, and smiled.
"Let me see you," you murmured. "I want to see your face when he takes you."
His breath caught in his throat.
Soldier Boy had finished undressing, his body as impressive as you remembered: all broad shoulders and narrow hips and that cock that had driven you to madness more times than you could count. He didn't bother with lube or preparation, just spat into his hand and slicked himself up, the sound obscene in the quiet room.
"Gonna fuck you like you deserve," he growled, positioning himself behind Mr. Marathon. "Gonna fuck you like the whore you are."
And then he pushed in.
Mr. Marathon moaned—a high, desperate sound that was half pain and half pleasure. His hands fisted in the sheets, his whole body shaking as Soldier Boy bottomed out in one mean thrust.
"Fuck," Soldier Boy groaned, his head falling back. "Tight little bitch."
He pulled out and thrust back in, hard, the rhythm he set punishing and relentless. Mr. Marathon was crying now, tears streaming down his face, but his hips were pushing back to meet each thrust, desperate for more.
"Look at him." you crooned, stroking Mr. Marathon's tear-streaked cheek. "So pretty when he cries."
Mr. Marathon sobbed, his mouth dropping open in a wordless plea. You leaned forward and kissed him, swallowing his cries as Soldier Boy fucked him harder.
"I've wanted-" he gasped against your lips. "Wanted this for so long, wanted you, wanted him, wanted-"
"Shh," you murmured, kissing the tears from his cheeks. "You have us now, princess. We're going to take such good care of you."
"You don't deserve it, though, have that clear." Soldier Boy growled, his thrusts growing more erratic. "You don't deserve to be touched by me, or her, you pathetic little mutt."
Mr. Marathon moaned, his hips jerking as he came again, his cock painting the sheets beneath him.
Soldier Boy didn't stop. He kept fucking him through the aftershocks, his rhythm never faltering.
"Please-" Mr. Marathon sobbed. "Please, I can't- it's too much—"
"You can take it," you purred, smoothing his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead. "You can take it for me, can't you, baby boy?"
He nodded frantically, his eyes rolling back in his head.
Soldier Boy pulled two more orgasms out of him before he came himself. When he was finally satisfied, the man was sobbing and shaking beneath him. Once he pulled out Mr. Marathon collapsed onto the bed, his chest heaving.
"Beautiful.." you murmured, stroking his back. "So beautiful for me."
"Had enough, mutt?" Soldier Boy flopped onto the bed beside them, his chest slick with sweat.
Mr. Marathon whined, already shaking his head. "No- no, nonono, please, I need—"
"What do you need, princess?" you asked, tilting his chin up.
"You," he gasped. "Need you- need to touch you-"
He reached for you, his hands trembling, and you let him pull you into his arms. He buried his face in your chest, nuzzling against the swell of your breasts, and you chuckled softly.
"Hungry, are we?"
He nodded frantically, his mouth finding the curve of your breast through the fabric of your dress. You helped him push the straps down, baring yourself to him, and he moaned as he took your nipple into his mouth.
"Christ," Soldier Boy muttered, watching the scene with narrowed eyes. "Greedy little fucker."
"Can you blame him?" You arched into Mr. Marathon's mouth, loving the way he sucked and bit at your sensitive flesh. "They are quite spectacular."
Ben made a sound of mock disgust, but you could see the hunger in his eyes. "Alright, that's enough of that." He grabbed Mr. Marathon by the hair, pulling him off your chest with a growl. "If you want something in your mouth so badly, you'll get my fingers instead. Those tits are too good for the likes of you."
Mr. Marathon whimpered as Ben scooped up some of the cooling cum that had pooled on his stomach, then shoved two thick fingers into his mouth. The smaller man's eyes fluttered shut, his tongue laving over Ben's fingers with desperate eagerness.
"Look at you," you cooed. "Such a good boy for us."
Soldier Boy pulled his fingers free, and Mr. Marathon whimpered at the loss. Then he was being hauled up, positioned on Soldier Boy's lap, impaled on his cock once more.
"Ride," Soldier Boy commanded. "Ride me like the whore you are."
Mr. Marathon sobbed but obeyed, his hips rolling as he bounced on Soldier Boy's cock. You positioned yourself atop of him, your legs spread wide, and he was almost sort of fainting when you sank down on him.
"Mommy," he gasped, his mouth finding your breast again. "Mommy, please-"
"That's it," you crooned, stroking his hair. "Take what you need, princess."
His hips picked up speed, frantic now, and you could feel him trembling on the edge again. Soldier Boy's hands were on his hips, guiding him, and you could hear the grunts he made as he got closer to his own release.
Sensing this, Soldier Boy reached across your bodies to start playing with your clit, making you clench down on the man sanwiched between you.
"Ah- come for me," you murmured against Mr. Marathon's ear. "Come for me, baby."
He did, moaning your name as he spilled himself inside you. Soldier Boy followed moments later, his grip bruising on Mr. Marathon's hips as he filled him.
You collapsed together in a heap of sweaty limbs and heaving chests. Mr. Marathon was still crying, soft little sobs that he couldn't seem to stop, and you gathered him in your arms.
"Shh," you murmured. "You did so well. So good for us."
"I love you," he sobbed, the words tumbling out unbidden. "I love you both—"
"Oh, sweetheart." You chuckled, pressed a kiss to his forehead. "No, you don't. But that's okay. You don't have to love us to enjoy this."
He whimpered, but he nodded.
Soldier Boy snorted from beside you. "Fucking groupies. They're all the same."
You smiled, stroking Mr. Marathon's hair until his sobs quieted to soft hiccups. His breathing evened out, and you could feel him slipping toward sleep, utterly wrung out.
"Sweet dreams, princess." you murmured.
Soldier Boy watched you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he reached over and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face.
"You are one depraved bitch, you know that?"
You smiled at him, slow and predatory. "You love it."
The motel room was bathed in the amber glow of a single lamp, its light fighting against the encroaching darkness of the evening. Dean stood with his arms crossed, his jaw set in that particular way that meant he was about to argue a point he knew he'd lose. Sam sat on the edge of the bed, a thick lore book balanced on his knees, his brow furrowed in concentration. And you were sprawled out beside your brother, your own book resting on your stomach, your eyes growing heavier with each passing minute.
Castiel stood near the window, his presence a quiet anomaly in the cramped space. His head was tilted slightly, that perpetual expression of divine confusion painted across his features as he listened to Dean's latest protests.
"The seal is in St. Louis," Dean was saying, pacing now. "We've got maybe three days before Lilith tries something. We need to mov-—"
"Move where?" Sam interrupted, not looking up from his book. "We don't even know what the seal is yet, Dean. You want to just wander around Missouri until something happens?"
"Better than sitting here reading-"
"I'm hungry." you announced suddenly, your voice cutting through the tension like a warm knife through butter. You stretched, your spine cracking pleasantly as you set your book aside.
Dean's entire demeanor shifted. The argument drained from his shoulders as he turned toward you, and Castiel watched the transformation with muted fascination. It was remarkable, really, how quickly Dean's focus could pivot from divine missions to his little sister's stomach.
"Your sandwich is in my bag," Dean said, jerking his thumb toward his duffel bag near the door. "From lunch. Should still be good."
Sam's head snapped up, his expression shifting from focused hunter to concerned older brother in the span of a heartbeat. "Wait, you didn't eat lunch?"
"She said she wasn't hungry," Dean defended, already moving toward his duffel bag. "What was I supposed to do, force-feed her?"
"Yes!" Sam's voice rose just as he did from the bed, frustration bleeding through. "Yes, Dean, that's exactly what you're supposed to do! How many times do I have to tell you? She needs to eat three meals a day. Three. Not two, not one and a half—three!" He counted, holding out a finger for each number.
"Hey, I offered it! She refused!"
"She needs to eat! She's a growing girl, Dean! Do you have any idea-"
"She's sixteen, Sam, I think she's grown enough to know when she's-"
"Her body is still developing! And with her condition-"
"I know about the condition! I was there-"
"It doesn't seem like you were there if you're letting her skip-"
"You're blaming me for this? She's the one who-"
Castiel's head swiveled between them, like a viewer on a tennis match watching the ball go from player a to player b, his vessel's brow creasing deeper with each exchange. This was… strange. He understood conflict, of course. He had witnessed millennia of wars, battles, arguments between celestial beings that had shaken the very foundations of Heaven. But this was different. This was born not of anger or pride or any of the other sins that typically fueled discord among humans. This seemed to spring from something else entirely. Something soft and warm that had twisted itself into sharp edges.
Care. They were fighting because they cared.
It was one of those human paradoxes that continued to baffle him.
You, meanwhile, had reached Dean's duffel bag and were rummaging through it with the single-minded determination of a very hungry teenager. You found the sandwich—wrapped in slightly squashed foil—and straightened up with a triumphant noise.
"See? Found it. Crisis solv-... ed.."
You froze.
The words died in your throat. The sandwich slipped from your fingers and landed on the floor with a soft thud. Your eyes went wide, unfocused, and your hand reached out blindly as if searching for something solid to anchor yourself.
Castiel saw it happen in fragments. The way your body suddenly went still. The way your weight shifted unevenly on your feet. The way your expression crumpled into confusion, like you weren't quite sure where you were anymore.
And then Dean was moving.
Castiel barely registered the motion. One moment Dean was halfway across the room, and the next he was right beside you, his hands closing around your arms with practiced efficiency.
"Sam," Dean said, his voice a low command. "It's happening again."
Sam was already there, his book abandoned, his earlier frustration transformed into something sharp and focused. "I see her. Dean, get her down."
"Right, I know how to do this, I've done it before-"
"Then stop talking and do it!"
Dean's hands tightened on your arms. "Hey, sweetheart, he, I've got you. We're just going to go down nice and slow, okay? Just like we practiced."
Your knees buckled.
Dean caught you fully, now your whole weight resting on his arms, easing you down to the floor with an expertise born of experience. But by the time your back touched the ratty motel carpet, your eyes were closed, your body limp in his arms.
"Damnit, Dean! I told you-"
"I know what you told me! She wasn't hungry!"
"She's never hungry!"
"Forgive me for not wanting to shove a sandwich down her throath!"
Castiel had not moved.
He stood frozen by the window, his blue eyes wide and fixed on the scene before him. The angel, who had faced demons and monsters and the very wrath of Heaven itself, was utterly paralyzed. His vessel's heart—a human heart that had been beating steadily for decades—now hammered against his ribs with alarming speed.
Because from his perspective, from the divine lens through which he viewed the world, something had just gone horribly wrong.
One of his charges. One of the fragile humans he had been tasked with watching over. The youngest one. The one who was smaller than her brothers, softer, more in need of protection.
She had simply… stopped.
She had been standing, speaking, living, and then she had stopped.
Her vessel had collapsed, her consciousness had flickered, and Castiel had felt something that he had not experienced in the long eons of his existence. Something that was not quite fear and not quite terror and not quite grief but hovered somewhere in the space between all three.
"The child," he said, and his voice came out strange. Thicker than usual. Rougher. "She is—"
"She's fine, Cas." Dean was already shifting, trying to make you more comfortable on the floor. "She's just passed out. It happens."
"It happens?" Castiel's head snapped toward Dean, and the hunter actually recoiled slightly at the intensity of the angel's gaze. "You mean this is a common occurence?"
"Uh… yeah?" Dean looked at Sam, who nodded grimly. "I mean, not all the time. But every now and then-"
"And you did not think to inform me of this vulnerability?"
"Man, it's not a vulnerability, it's just—it's a medical thing." Dean waved a hand vaguely. "It's not like she's dying or anything."
Castiel didn't wait for further explanation. He was already moving, crossing the room and dropping to his knees beside you with none of the grace that usually accompanied angelic movements. His hands hovered over your prone form, and a low sound of distress escaped his lips.
"Something is wrong with her body." Castiel's eyes were darting over your form, cataloging, analyzing. "Her vessel is not functioning properly. I can sense a deficiency. A lack. But I cannot identify-"
"Cas, calm down—"
"DO NOT TELL ME TO CALM DOWN!" Castiel's voice boomed through the motel room, and for just a moment, the lights flickered, just shy of exploding into a cascade of sparks. Dean and Sam both flinched back, their hands raised in instinctive surrender.
Castiel's chest was heaving. His hands were trembling. He looked down at them, those hands that had smote demons and healed wounds and once held the very fabric of time, and found them shaking.
This was wrong. This was all wrong.
"Her vessel is flawed.." he said, his voice dropping to something quieter, more horrified. "There is something.. wrong.. with her blood. I can sense it. Her blood is… thin. Inadequate. It lacks something essential."
"Alright, that's actually pretty accurate." Sam said cautiously. "She has iron deficiency anemia. Her body doesn't store enough iron. It makes her-"
"Iron deficiency?" Castiel repeated the words like they were foreign.
"Uh…" Sam looked at Dean, who shrugged helplessly. "Yeah, um, Iron. It's a mineral? It's in food. You need it to make hemoglobin, which carries oxygen in your blood."
"Oxygen," Castiel repeated. His eyes had gone very wide again. "Her blood lacks oxygen?"
"Not exactly—"
"You mean to tell me." Castiel's voice had become dangerously quiet. "That this human has been walking through this world with blood that is starved of oxygen?"
"Technically, yeah, but-"
"And you have allowed this?" Castiel rounded on Dean, his eyes blazing with a fury that made both hunters flinch. "You allowed your charge to develop such a deficiency? You did not feed her sufficient iron?"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa-" Dean held up both hands. "First of all, I didn't allow anything. She's had this since she was a kid. Since before I even knew-"
"Since childhood? This affliction has persisted since childhood?"
Dean realized he was lowkey making everything worse the more he opened his mouth.
"Yeah, but we've got her on supplements now. She takes them every day. Sam makes sure of it."
"Clearly not effectively enough!" Castiel gestured toward your limp form. "She passed out. Her vessel shut down. Because she did not consume this- this iron you speak of."
"Man, it's not like I forgot to give her food. She just wasn't hungry. And if she doesn't want to eat, I can't force her-"
"Forgive me for my bluntness, Dean Winchester, but you clearly can." Castiel's voice had an edge of something that might have been panic. "If the alternative is her vessel shutting down, then yes, you must force her. You ensure she consumes whatever her body requires to remain functional. This is not a difficult concept."
Castiel lifted his eyes from your body and realized Sam looked like he was trying very hard not to smile and Dean looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
He looked between them with growing frustration.
"Something about this situation is humorous to you?"
"No, no, man, it's just-" Dean's composure cracked, and he let out a short bark of laughter. "You're really freaked out about this, aren't you?"
"Of course I'm freaked out!" Castiel's voice had risen again. "One of my charges just lost consciousness in the middle of a completely non-dangerous activity! She was standing. She was speaking. And then she was not. And you are not concerned?"
"We are concerned." Sam said, his voice gentle. "But we've been dealing with this for a while now. We know what to do. She'll wake up in a few minutes, and then we'll make her eat her sandwich, and she'll be fine."
"Make her eat her sandwich." Castiel repeated slowly. "You are certain this will restore her?"
"As long as she keeps up with her supplements, yeah. It's a manageable condition, Cas. It's not going to kill her."
Castiel stared at Sam for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then, very slowly, he turned back to look at you.
You were still unconscious, your face peaceful in a way that was somehow more alarming than if you had been grimacing in pain. Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Your skin, Castiel noticed, was pale. Paler than it should be. Paler than it had been just moments ago, before—
Before you had dropped like a stone.
"You must teach me." Castiel said suddenly.
Sam blinked. "Teach you what?"
"How to ensure she consumes enough sustainance. I will… I will make certain she eats. Every day. Multiple times per day. She will not skip meals. She will not- she will not collapse again."
It was such a practical, logical solution that Castiel could not understand why Sam was looking at him with that strange expression. And Dean—Dean was definitely laughing now, though he was at least trying to hide it behind his hand.
"Cas," Sam said, and there was a warmth in his voice that Castiel did not quite understand. "You want me to teach you how to make sandwiches?"
"I want you to teach me how to make anything that prevents this situation." Castiel's brow furrowed. "If the deficiency is caused by a lack of this mineral in her diet, then the solution is simple. I will ensure she consumes it in adequate quantities. I will monitor her intake. I will-"
"Cas." Sam's voice was soft. "You know you don't have to do that, right? We've got it handled."
"You clearly do not." Castiel's voice was flat, deadpan as can be. "She collapsed. Under your watch. She collapsed because you did not feed her appropriately."
"Ouch," Dean muttered. "Right in the ego, man."
"You are not listening to me." Castiel was growing more agitated, his vessel's heart still racing, his grace pulsing with anxiety. "I have a duty. I have a purpose. Which is keeping the Winchester Sibiligns alive, Heaven's orders. And if that purpose involves standing guard over a fragile human child to ensure she consumes the necessary nutrients to maintain her vessel, then that is what I will do."
He turned back to you, and something in his expression softened.
"She is so small," he said, almost to himself. "So fragile. You twoy are also fragile, but she is… she is younger. Younger and smaller and more vulnerable. And she has been walking through this world with oxygen-starved blood for years. How is that possible? How has she survived?"
"Adaptation," Sam said. "Kids are resilient. Her body just kind of… adjusted to it."
"It should not have had to adjust." Castiel's voice was fierce. "She should have been cared for. Protected. FED."
"Yeah, well, our dad was kind of—" Dean made a vague gesture that conveyed about a thousand words of frustration. "..He wasn't exactly the nurturing type."
"Then it falls to you." Castiel's eyes met Dean's. "And it falls to me."
Dean's expression had shifted. The amusement had faded, replaced by something more serious. More appraising.
"You really care about her, don't you?" he said quietly.
Castiel hesitated.
The question was not one he had expected. Care was a human concept, a human emotion. Angels did not feel things the way humans did. They existed in a state of divine purpose, of celestial duty, of-
And yet.
And yet, when he looked at you.. he felt something that was not quite duty. Not quite purpose. Something that made his vessel's heart beat faster and his grace thrum with a need to protect.
"Yes," he said finally. "I suppose I do."
Sam was smiling now, a soft, almost fond expression that Castiel did not quite know what to do with.
"Alright," Sam said. "I'll teach you how to make her favourite sandwiches. And I'll show you the supplements she needs to take. And you can help make sure she doesn't skip meals."
"I would appreciate that," Castiel said, and his voice was steadier now. "I would appreciate that very much."
Dean was grinning now, slapping Castiel on the shoulder with a force that would have staggered a normal man. "Look at you, Cas. A regular mother hen."
"I do not appreciate that comparison." Castiel said flatly.
Summary: You notice the way Castiel flinches whenever anyone touches his back, and he tells you a story you'll never forget about a human and an Angel.
A/n: Title is from Budapest by George Ezra. Cas is beautifully damaged and all I wanna do is hold him. Enjoy reading!
Ever since you saw the shadow of Castiel's wings, you couldn't get them out of your head. You thought about them more often than you'd care to admit, every day, every time you saw Cas, every time you thought of him. Which was kind of a lot.
But you noticed something too.
You noticed how whenever Dean would clap a hand on his back, or even just a soft pat, Cas would flinch. Dean wasn't even being rough, but every touch made Cas tense up, the harder ones even causing a slight wince. Dean never noticed, no one did, except you.
You had a theory, but you had to put it to the test before you could confront Castiel about it.
So one fateful day - descriptive, huh? - Cas was sitting in an old arm chair in the library, leaning forward, elbows against his knees. You walked up behind him, gently resting a hand on his back to get his attention. And he did it again. You could see the way his shoulders pinched up, just the slightest bit.
"Yes?" He turned back to look at you and he was just as he always was, no signs of anything different.
"Can you come with me? Please?" You asked, voice soft and timid, sending a wave of concern over Cas as he stood, following you down the hallway.
"Of course. Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, I just- I need to ask you something"
"Anything"
You took his hand and guided him into your room, shutting the door behind him. He looked at you with pinched brows and a slight pout, adorably worried.
"Your wings" You started and his eyes darted away, suddenly finding the fraying carpet under your bed fascinating "They hurt, don't they?"
His gaze was locked on the old, cream coloured tassel.
"Sometimes"
"Like when someone touches your back?"
"How did you know?"
"I saw. Whenever anyone does it, you flinch. Just a little"
A silence passed between you, not entirely uncomfortable, more like you were both waiting for the other to do something, anything.
"I hate seeing you hurt" You murmured, barely audible "Can I do anything to help?"
His mouth opened and closed for a moment before muttering "No, nothing"
You moved closer to him, tugging him down to sit on your bed, his gaze stayed away from yours, fixating on your hands in your lap now "I know you're lying, Cas. Please, tell me"
"I-I heard of something, a long time ago. It might help but, I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable"
"Tell me, Cas. You could never make me feel uncomfortable" Your hands shifted, clasping over his gently, you only just missed the slight inhale from your Angel.
And that's what he thought of himself as, yours. Though he never thought to tell you
He took in a breath, an obvious one, steadying himself "I heard of an Angel who, had a human. In the way humans have each other"
"Like dating?"
He shook his head "Much more. Something, indescribable. Significant in a way I couldn't imagine, before I met you"
You could feel your heart beat quicken along with your breathing "Yeah?"
He nodded.
You turned the conversation back to the topic at hand, unsure of where the current one could lead you "A-and what did they do? The human and the Angel"
"The human, they held the Angel. Often. It was some form of bonding that had a way of healing the Angel. I doubt it was true but-"
"Do you wanna give it a try?"
His lips parted ever so slightly, looking up at you with awe, eyes finally meeting yours in a way they never had before. More significant, somehow.
"Would you?"
"Of course" You gave him a soft smile and shuffled up on the bed a little, resting against the headboard "Is this good?"
"Y-yes" He muttered, slowly moving closer to you, careful, like it all might fade away if he moved too fast.
He hovered over you awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed before your hands found his arm and shoulder, guiding him to rest atop you. It took him some time to adjust, but eventually Castiel settled into your warmth, nesstling his cheek against your shoulder, melting into your hold.
You stayed like that for a while, just holding him contentedly. After some time passed, you weren't sure how much and you didn't care, you asked him.
"Feeling any better?"
"I'm not sure, I believe it takes time" He turned his head up to face you, blue eyes softer than ever "Is that alright?"
You let out a huff of a laugh "Yeah, Angel. More than alright"
He wore a simple smile as he laid his cheek back down, just below your collarbone. You moved your hand up to curl your fingers in his hair, carding through the dark locks gently and he let out a soft, low sound. An angelic purr if you will.
Eventually, you brought your other hand up and experimentally ghosted a fingertip up his spine. He took in a shuddering breath but didn't move.
"Cas? I'm so sorry, did that hurt?"
"No" He replied, short and quiet "I think it was, nice" The word wasn't enough to describe the feeling, but it was the best he could come up with in the moment.
"Want me to do it again?" You offered with a soft peck to his forehead, accidentally forcing a heat over his cheeks.
"Yes please"
You repeated the motion and you felt him relax into you, subconsciously pressing his face closer to you. You added just a little more pressure, running two fingers up and down his spine with a steady but still gentle touch.
He moved himself even closer to you, somehow, resting his face in the crook of your neck. You tried to ignore the way his breath fanned against your skin, but it wasn't exactly easy. Without any warning or hesitation, he pressed the softest, lightest kiss to your pulse point and you could have sworn you stopped breathing.
It came so naturally, which was certainly a first for the Angel. And within seconds, you could feel the way his breathing evened out. He was asleep. Castiel, Angel of the Lord, Mr Angels Don't Sleep, was letting out almost silent snores against your neck.
You continued your ministrations and Castiel let out soft little hums every now and then, this perfectly content smile playing across his lips. You turned your head to press another kiss to his forehead, whispering as you did.
"Love you, sleep well, Angel"
You barely caught his "Love you too" so uncharacteristically casual and warm, because loving you had become second nature to him now.
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Taglists - General Supernatural - 45 + more in comments!
Summary: Cas surprises you at the wrong time, he doesn't understand and you explain it to him, and other things.
Warnings: a small amount of suggestive thoughts and language, description of lingerie, Cas and reader both pining, Cas not understanding humans and human feelings and reader explaining, kinda really adorable, no use of y/n.
Word Count: 1.8k
You gazed around at the clothes in the store. You weren't in a rush for once so you decided to browse. Sam and Dean were off visiting an old friend and they left you alone so you decided to do a bit of shopping. You rarely got time to yourself, averting apocalypses is a fairly time consuming job, but when you did have the odd moment or two you liked to do something silly, frivolous, normal.
You were eyeing random bits and bobs here and there but one item in the lingerie section caught your eye in particular, a white lacy baby doll set. You weren't sure what compelled you to try it on but you did, possibly just for the "Why not?" of it. You walked over to the change rooms and tried on a few tops, some dresses and then you got to the baby doll set. For some reason you felt a little embarrassed, maybe because you had no one to wear it for or maybe because you had someone in mind.
Just as you looked at yourself in the mirror, admiring how the sheer lace clung to your body just right, your phone rang. When you picked it up you were immediately embarrassed and a little nervous seeing Cas' name pop up on the screen.
"Cas? Is something wrong?" You tried to hide the flustered tone in your voice.
"Where are you? I checked with Sam and Dean and at the bunker"
"I'm just at the mall, I went shopping and I came to the change rooms and-Cas?!"
He appeared in front of you, clearly having no concept of the boundaries of change rooms. You tried covering your body with your hands as you reached out, trying to grab anything that might cover you even a little bit.
"What the hell are you doing here?!"
"You said you were in the change rooms"
"That wasn't an invitation!"
"I'm, sorry?"
You sighed, you knew he didn't have any concept of privacy, Dean found that out the hard way.
"I-it's fine, could you please just, close your eyes?"
"Why?"
"Cas, I know you don't get human interactions but surely you know that we don't tend to like being naked in front of our friends"
"Ah, yes. Embarrassment continues to confuse me more than most human conventions"
"Okay, great, now turn around"
He turned and you got dressed, you felt like a hypocrite saying all that about being naked but if ever the occasion, this was not it. Cas was confused by many human things but you were the worst. He was confused by the way he felt when he's was around you, the way his attention would always be on you no matter what, the way you looked at him and the way his vessel seemed to hurt whenever you weren't around. He was extremely confused by his feelings when he appeared in your dressing room, seeing you ever so briefly in something so revealing, felt wrong. Wrong in the way that he was happy, he was always happy around you but this was a different kind of happy. He believed it may have been the same kind of happy that Dean always talked about.
"You can turn back around now"
He turned around and you were in your regular clothes. He started explaining the new evil thing you had to deal with but you didn't listen much. Instead, you noticed something you'd never seen before, Cas blushed. It was faint, but his cheeks were certainly a light shade of pink. He sounded like he was talking just a little faster than usual as well.
He reached his hand out to teleport you back to the bunker and you flinched, stepping back for a moment.
"Is something wrong?"
"No" You wanted to tell him more, you wanted to tell him that you were afraid that if he touched you, you may melt "I just um, I get kinda sick when we teleport, mind if I just drive back? It's only a few miles"
"Alright. I'll be in the library, I should start researching"
"Oka-" Before you were able to reply, he was gone.
You smiled to yourself at the thought that you just made an angel flustered. It may have only been slightly and for a second, you weren't even sure that it was you but, it had to be, right? You started to walk out of the store but not before you bought the set, if you were lucky, you may be able you use it at some point, in the far, far future but still, you had a little sliver of hope.
The second Cas got back to the bunker he let out a deep breath he didn't even know he was holding. Being an angel, he hadn't had much experience with breathing but somehow, whenever he was with you he suddenly became very aware of it, especially now.
When you walked through the door you went straight for your room, not saying a word to Cas. You wanted to put your new purchase away as soon as possible. You came back out to the library where you read in silence for hours, the two of you couldn't even make eye contact. A wave of relief washed over you when your phone rang and it was Sam, it didn't last long.
"Hey Sam, you guys nearly here?"
"Hey, sorry but we caught another case on the way. It should be a quick snatch and grab but we won't be back til morning"
"Really? Can't you just call Garth or something?"
"We're here now and it doesn't look to tough, will you be right for a night without us or is it really bad?"
"The matter is not urgent" Cas said, the first thing he'd said in three hours.
"Great, see you tomorrow"
Sam hung up and you looked at Cas, dumbfounded.
"Not urgent?"
"No, it can wait until tomorrow"
"Then why the hell did you zap into my change room?!"
"I thought you were telling me to come, I'm still working on when to read into subtle cues and when not to, Dean is helping me"
"Oh, well that explains it then"
"Explains what exactly?"
You laughed lightly "Nothing Cas, just, nothing"
He looked down a little "I don't like it when people do that"
"Do what?"
"Say things that I don't understand and never give any explanation. It's hard trying to walk among humans, trying to be one when I've never been taught what your small phrases and sayings mean"
"Cas" You said softly, solemnly "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to exclude you, it's just hard to explain these things sometimes. But I'll try"
"Thank you" He said, sincerely.
"So, what else has Dean "helped" you with?" You asked, putting air quotes around the word "helped".
"That, the-" He mimicked your gesture "Flying bunnies, what does that mean?"
You did your best to contain your laughter as your hand flew over your mouth.
"The, the um,"
"Flying bunnies?"
That was it. You couldn't hold it in any longer. You burst out with laughter and Cas' expression turned into a frown.
"I'm sorry!" You wheezed "I've just never heard anyone call air quotes flying bunnies!"
Cas began to laugh a little, something you found absolutely adorable. You breathed heavily as your laughter died down.
"Okay, okay. First of all, my sweet little angel, those are called air quotes. Second, they are used to express the opposite meaning to what you're saying like when I said Dean was "helping" you, I used air quotes to suggest that he wasn't actually being of any help"
"That sounds completely pointless"
"Ah! You have grasped your first human lesson perfectly! A lot of what we do is pointless, some of it is just to fill time and if we're lucky, make us laugh"
"You sound, sad"
"Life's sad sometimes, that's why humans developed humour"
"Why would you be sad?"
"Everybody is sad for their own reasons"
"But I don't understand, you're often smiling, you have friends and family who care about you and you have saved the world many times, why are you sad?"
"I guess, it might be because I have no one to share it with"
"To share what with?"
"Everything"
"What about Sam and Dean?"
"I love them and they're family but I mean someone to love, to be in love with"
"Like Ricky and Lucy?"
"Who?"
"Ricky and Lucy, they are people on the television, though they seem to have trouble understanding each other sometimes"
You smiled brightly.
"Did I say something funny?"
"No, you were just being you"
He looked down again, a little hurt. You crouched down and took his hand in yours.
"No, I didn't mean it in a bay way. I just meant, they way you talk about TV characters like they're people, the way you try so hard to understand, to belong"
"And how I always fail"
"Sometimes you do, sometimes I do, that's a big part of being human, Cas"
"What about feelings?"
"Feelings are very human, any in particular"
"Love, I think"
You tensed up "Uh, w-what about love?"
"I think I feel it, for you"
You stopped, you couldn't breathe.
"I'm not sure what it is but my best guess is love. I feel good when I'm around you but it's a strange kind of good, I can't concentrate, I'm very aware of my breathing and I feel uncomfortable. The only reason I can tell it's good is because I feel pain when you're not near me, I always worry about your safety and my chest hurts. Is that love?"
You just stared at him, he loved you, he really and truly loved you, as much as you loved him.
"Was that wrong? Should I have kept that to myself?"
"No" You said just above a whisper "T-that was...good. That's love as far as I can tell"
"Good? Does that mean you feel it too?"
You nod once, barely. You always have trouble getting out proper sentences around Cas but you are hopeless in this moment.
"Should I...kiss you?"
"I-I'd like that"
You moved slowly towards each other, your lips got closer and closer until they finally met. His lips felt surprisingly soft, pressed to yours so gently. He pulled back, only by an inch.
"Was that...right?"
He searched your eyes for an answer, prayed he did well.
"Yes, Cas. That was perfect"
His lips quirked up into that adorable little smile.
"You taste, sweet. Like cherries"
"Want another taste?"
"Yes please"
It would take a long time to get there, a time you both loved every second of, but the far, far future looked a little closer now.
check out the masterlist for more! spencer requests welcome
summary: you’re just like many other college students with a crush on your criminology professor, spencer reid. sweet, handsome, oblivious spencer reid. except you were never one to ogle from afar. you were determined to be the one to seduce him.
tags and warnings: smut, no use of y/n, sub!spencer reid x dom!reader, afab!reader, pretty mean dom reader, professor x student, slight dubcon, dynamic implies age gap but not specified, masturbation (reader), implied fingering during masturbation, reader is a nasty gal!, reader wears a very mini skirt at one point, degradation, reader gets off on shaming spencer, p in v sex, oral (fem receiving), cowgirl position riding, face sitting (fem), slight blackmail for a moment, creampie, mentions of pregnancy but no preg bc WE DON’T DO THAT HERE, author is waaay into foreplay, most of spencer’s rambling is random stringed-together criminology jargon as i pretend to know what im talking about
a/n: inspiration for this fic! this is like if a smut fic was very silly. reader wants that cookie baaaad. this is a very small concept that stretched into a big long fic i hope no one gets bored. also IF YOU’RE READING THIS GET IN MY INBOX!!! I AM WILLING TO TAKE REQUESTS!!! I WANT SPENCER IDEAS, EVEN FLUFFY ONES!!!!
It was certainly hard to focus when in the class of Professor Reid. Almost every seat in the front row was taken up by a girl twirling her hair or chewing on her pen. Or both. And you really couldn’t say you were any better.
Spencer stood at the front of the lecture hall, adjusting his glasses with one hand while holding a stack of papers in the other.
He didn’t mean to be distracting, but he so very was. Tall, lanky, always dressed neatly in button-ups and vests, and his intelligence just radiated from him. And when he was teaching, his voice gained such weight and precision it was impossible for the attention of the room not to be drawn.
He was certainly handsome. And it was sweet of him to pretend he didn’t know it.
You couldn’t blame the ogling women. You'd be lying if you said you weren't taking this class at least partially for Reid. You sat near the middle, your notebook open but mostly blank. You’d spent the last ten minutes sketching tiny hearts in the margins instead of taking notes. you were listening. You just… liked looking at him, too. The way his hair fell slightly over his forehead when he leaned forward onto his desk, how he bit his lip when concentrating, how soft-spoken yet assured he sounded. It was all kind of unfairly attractive for a professor who probably didn’t even realize half these girls were here for him and not criminology.
But you were a woman of drive. A woman of initiative. And a woman of... well, perverse sexual desires, honestly. And Professor Spencer Reid would see that soon enough.
You pretended it was a coincidence that you’d arrived earlier than could possibly be accidental.
And it was a coincidence, technically. A class of yours prior had been canceled last minute, and now roaming the halls of the building, the open door to Spencer’s hall was just too inviting to possibly ignore.
You hadn’t planned to show up an hour early just to secure a good seat. But now here you were, walking in at 8:05 AM for a class that started at 9, eyes roaming over the empty front row with a giddy greed.
Part of you had hoped to spare just an extra minute with the handsome professor before his lecture began. But much to your pleasant surprise, he wasn’t one to arrive two minutes before class was to begin like your other professors. As you stand in the door, Reid stares back at you with brown eyes like saucers, mid-scribble on the board, slightly alarmed to see someone so early.
His hair was unruly. The eyebags under his eyes, not dark enough to be troubling, but just enough to make you wonder if he had spent more than a few hours resting.
Spencer straightened up quickly and nearly knocked over the empty coffee cup on his desk. He clears his throat, and gives you a stiff wave. “Oh! Uh… good morning.”
You clear your throat and shift your bag on your shoulder, moving to secure a front row seat. “…First one, huh?” you say, like it’d been accidental.
Spencer nodded, still slightly flustered by your presence. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re… pretty early! 53 minutes early, actually.”
He turned back to the board and picked up his marker again, but didn’t resume writing just yet. Just stood there shifting it in his grip awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself now that someone was watching him work.
He slowly turns back around. “Did you… uh… have a question? Or something I can help you with?”
It makes you a little giddy inside that he was talking to you directly now. Like being alone with a celebrity. It was quite invigorating to have a crush.
“Oh,” you wave your hand, settling into your chair. “Nope. No questions here.”
He stares at you for a moment, eyes just subtly roaming over your figure. “…Cool,” he said lamely, then turned back to the board and started writing again, a subheading to yesterday’s lecture notes.
Crossing your leg over the other, you tap your fingers on your knees. You sit front and center, watching Spencer like he’s on display. The silence is a little uncomfortable, the only sound in the room the squeaking of the marker as his hand flies across the board, but you didn’t care. You were too busy getting an eyeful of his derriere each time his blazer rode up with his arm.
Eyes still fixed on the prize, you muse, “You like to be early too, huh?”
Spencer nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I like to get everything set up before class starts. Y’know… organize the slides, make sure the projector’s working,” He gestures vaguely to the ceiling. “Helps to not feel, uh, overwhelmed, actually.”
“Ah. A lot to do, I imagine.”
“Mhm!” he hummed in agreement, scribbling more notes on the board, something about a list of common stress triggers in violent offenders.
“Anything I can help with, sir?”
He turns slowly, marker in hand. “Uh… no? I mean, I’m good.” He smiled awkwardly, then immediately went back to writing before the conversation could continue further.
Your face falls. The slight sting of embarrassment makes you grimace behind his back. “Not even get you another coffee? …You look like you need it, sir.”
At that, Spencer considers. “…Actually,” he said slowly, “that would be really nice.”
You pop up from your chair like a spring. Spencer is slightly startled. “I, uh, take it with a lot of sugar!” He calls as he watches you move to the door, then retracts it as soon as he feels too demanding. “Actually, just— just bring the sugar here, I’ve got it.”
“Aye, aye, professor.”
Five minutes later, you returned, holding a steaming cup of coffee and a generous amount of sugar packets between your teeth.
You climb up the steps to the stage, for the first time being on the same level as your professor. And just a few feet away at that. You bite your cheek.
He carefully takes the cup with a tiny, grateful smile, but hardly makes eye contact with you, much to your dismay. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “That’s really thoughtful of you.”
He immediately ripped open three sugar packets, dumping them in at once. He stirred it with a spoon from his desk, watching the swirl of cream and sugar mix. When he finally sipped it… perfect. Strong. Sweet. Just how he liked it.
Still not looking at you directly, too aware that you were just standing there watching him oddly, he gave another quiet thanks.
You were lingering a little longer than necessary if you were being honest, eyes following the way his throat bobs as he swallows another gulp of the coffee.
Spencer stares at you awkwardly. You give a sheepish grin as you catch yourself. “Sorry! I’m not, uh,” you bite your lip, humming, “bothering you or anything by being here so early?”
“Oh, no! No, it’s— it’s fine,” he said quickly, setting the coffee down. He fidgeted with his cufflinks and finally looked at you properly for the first time since you arrived. Maybe you were obsessed and ready to froth at the mouth over scraps, but something about the eye contact felt intimate. “It was really thoughtful of you,” he says again, gesturing to the coffee. “Besides, your performance in this class is excellent, might I say,” he compliments.
You suppress a grin. Score. You knew furiously scribbling down those notes as your head spun from all the criminology jargon, studying all night until you could recite the pages back to him was all worth it just for that tiny compliment.
“—So I don’t think you’re in any need of extra help outside of class,” he continues, smiling with a nod, “Therefore you’re… more than welcome to come in right at the time of the lecture. Don’t feel like you need to arrive early or anything.”
You deflate a little at that.
Goodness, you hadn’t even considered that. A little private tutor session? Just you and Professor Reid? Goddamn it, none of it was worth it at all. You should’ve been failing.
Spencer seemed to notice the shift in your expression, how your smile faded. Whoops. You forgot to be subtle.
He backtracks quickly, “I mean… unless you wanted extra help?” He offers, raising his eyebrows slightly.
“Always more to learn!” You smile brightly, voice a little too chipper.
Spencer’s eyes brightened at your enthusiasm. “Okay! Cool,” he nods. “If you want, you can come by my office after class? I can go over some advanced profiling techniques for crime assessment and inputs.”
You struggle to keep the fireworks booming in your body from exploding out of your mouth. God, he had no idea. “Yes! Y-yes. yeah,” you nod rapidly. “Sounds great.”
He smiled, a genuine one that made her insides clench. “Awesome! My office is 208B,” he said, pointing down the hall with his thumb. “I’m usually there until around five?”
With a final nod, Spencer turns to organize some papers. You see the opportunity and seize it.
Leaning on his desk, you ask casually, “Ah, five, huh? Gotta… get home to the wife?”
His eyes snap back to yours, confused and startled.
“Oh! N-No, no, I’m not married.”
“Whaaat? Get outta here. Not even a girlfriend?”
He blinks. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Then looks down at his papers, suddenly very interested in alphabetizing them. “…Nope.” Why was this conversation happening?
Meanwhile, you could practically fall over and die. “Wow. That’s… yeah, that’s crazy.”
He opens his mouth with the strange need to defend himself. “I… I mean… I just haven’t—” He cleared his throat and gestured stiffly to the board. “Anyway! Should probably finish this, uh, lecture prep.”
“Right, right! No, of course.” You shuffle away, moving to the steps to make your way off the stage. But you halt, pivoting on your heel. “…Aaanything else I can help you with?”
Spencer thinks. The room was quiet, the air thick with the smell of coffee and faint scent of whiteboard markers. He turns to spare you a glance, and realizes you seemed… eager to help.
“…You could hand me those slides?” He asked, pointing to a stack of pages on the side table that needed sorting into order.
“Hah, fuck…”
Laying back on your bed in your vacant dormitory, you let the back of your head hit the mattress again. Hair tussled, cheeks warm, a layer of sweat on your body.
As your fingers work between your legs, the only thought in your mind was your handsome professor. The thought of his lips greedily sucking your heat, dark locks falling over your thighs, as those long, wiry fingers work in and out of your cunt. The fantasy played out vividly in your mind, every detail sharp. His wide brown eyes shining with tears, his erection straining against those stiff pants he insisted on wearing to each class. His lips would be swollen and glistening from lapping and suckling. How sweet he’d sound, you think, with his moans muffled into your pussy as you grind against his face.
You fantasized about your Professor more often than you were ready to admit. When you were sure you were alone, the words “professor”, “teacher”, or “college” found itself in your laptop’s search bar frequently, often accompanied by your fist down your panties.
It certainly wasn’t the one fantasy you had. Gripping his wrists like a vice, fucking yourself on his dick while he could only watch helplessly— that was another contender. God, the sound he’d make if you yanked his hair just right. Or clamping a hand over his mouth as he sat between your legs, your fist working his cock faster than he could possibly keep up with. How flustered he’d be, stammering something sweet and nervous between kisses.
You thought of stuffing that tie in his mouth, of tugging that unruly hair, of bending him over your knee, of—
You lay back on your mattress, panting and flushed with a sheen of sweat, basking in the afterglow with your nerves still buzzing.
You hadn’t meant to get that carried away, but once you started thinking about him like that… it was impossible to stop.
You kicked your legs in the air, letting a breathless giggle escape you, the excitement of seeing him again so soon enough to send another rush of arousal through you.
You’ll admit, you were a little disappointed with the result of the small tutor session, none of the fantasies exactly coming to life.
“Well, I gotta say, I think you’re keeping up incredibly well,” Spencer flips a page in a file as he sits in his office chair across from you. “You’re remarkably competent. I mean, I don’t think you’re in need of any help outside of my class at all.”
You sat stiffly in the chair across from his desk, knees pressed together.
Remarkably competent. Keeping up well. That was… great. But also so boring. You wanted him to say something like “you’re stunning,” “I think about you constantly,” “let me kiss you.” But instead, it looked like you were losing the opportunity for these sessions.
“It’s… nice,” he says, looking up at you properly now, “to have someone actually enrolled who cares about the subject. It’s funny, did you know you’re just about one of the only students of mine actually registered?” He laughs lightly. God, you would eat him alive. “Turns out, most of the people I get in my lectures are only auditing, it’s… it’s a little disappointing, actually.”
“Yeah, I know,” you nod casually, far less oblivious as to the reason for that.
Spencer pauses, sensing something. “You… do?”
“Yeah,” you shrug.
“Oh!” He glances off to the side for a moment. “Well, it’s, uh… kinda weird, right?”
“I mean… have you noticed it’s only the girl students doing the auditing?”
His eyebrows shoot up. “…Yeah,” he says slowly, “I guess I have.”
With a slow, strange shock, you realize. “Oh, you actually don’t know.”
Spencer’s face scrunches slightly. “Don’t know… what?”
“Uh, well. They audit the class for you, sir.”
His lips part slightly. He blinks at her for a moment in surprise. “For me?”
“Yeah. Like… they think you’re cute.”
The color drains from Spencer’s face, then floods back in a rush of red.
“Oh,” he squeaks, then clears his throat. “Oh.”
“Mhm. Kind of flattering, no?”
Spencer is already not handling this well. His fingers tap nervously against the file on his desk. He can’t look at you. His eyes keep darting to the ceiling, then back down.
“It’s… um,” he stammers, “I mean… I don’t— I never considered that.”
He was so oblivious. Painfully so. “Yeah.” You fiddle with your pencil and decide to test the waters. “You could, like… fix your whole ‘single’ problem with just about any one of them.”
Spencer looks mildly horrified by the idea. “I don’t—” he starts, then stops, “I mean… I could, but I wouldn’t want to.” His nose scrunches slightly.
“You wouldn’t?” you ask quickly.
“No,” he says automatically. Then he suddenly gets a little shier. “I mean… it’s not appropriate. I’m their professor.”
“Oh,” you say softly. “So it’s a moral thing.”
He nods, happy to be understood. “Yeah, professional boundaries, and all that. It just… wouldn’t be right.”
“Yeah, but you’ve never liked something that’s wrong?”
Spencer frowns. That was a very specific question. He shifts in his seat, suddenly feeling very warm under his button-up. “…No? Not like that?”
“No?”
“I mean…” he swallows hard, “not in a way that would ever matter.” This conversation had suddenly veered very personal before Spencer had even realized.
You’re leaning closer across the desk than he remembers you were five minutes ago. “So, if you did, hypothetically, happen to like one of those students, you wouldn’t date them?”
Spencer’s hands clench slightly in his lap.
“…No,” he says quietly, but there's a strange waver in his voice.
The sly tease flies out of your mouth before you can help it, “…Are you considering it now, Professor?”
“I’m not—!” he starts, defensive. His eyes flicker to yours for half a second before darting away again.
Got him.
After letting the silence linger for just another tense second longer, you stand abruptly. Your chair screeches against the floor, and Spencer nearly jumps out of his seat at the sudden movement. Slapping laptop down and sliding it under your arm, you flash him a smile. “Much to think about!”
“Uh— wait,” he blurts, standing too. “M-Miss—!”
But you were already halfway to the door, bag tucked under your arm. “See you in class, sir!” you call over your shoulder.
The door clicks shut. Spencer stands there, frozen in the middle of his office, staring at where you’d just been.
His palms are sweaty.
He slowly sinks back into his chair and stares blankly at his desk.
What just happened?
A few days later, he’s a little startled the by the sound of a cup enthusiastically landing on his desk.
His eyes trail up the arm attached until he meets your sparkling eyes, and he immediately relaxes. “Morning!” You chirp.
This had become routine between the two of you now. Every morning you’d show up, steaming cup in hand, sugars and all.
“Ah, my prized student,” he says back warmly, and accepts the cup with both hands.
“Oh! Will that graduate to favorite student if I keep bringing you these coffees?”
Spencer’s lips twitch into a smile, his lips around the rim of the cup. “You’re already my favorite,” he admits without thinking. After a moment, he seems to catch on to his own words, and suddenly backpedales. “I mean— not in a weird way! Just… you bring me coffee.”
The smile on your face is downright perverted. “And sugar,” you remind him.
“And sugar,” he echoes, smiling shyly. He rips open four packets of sugar and dumps them in one heap.
You tap your nails against his desk idly and muse, “Y’know, I was studying for your class last night when I realized, I think I’ve finally found something I’m stumped on.”
Spencer perks up. “Oh! Okay, what is it?”
“Geographical profiling. Don’t understand it a lick.”
He brightens. “Ah, that’s actually really fascinating!” He says, setting his coffee aside. “What is it specifically you’re struggling with? Are you struggling with the mathematical algorithms or more the theoretical framework?”
You wave a hand. “All of it,” you lie, miming something flying over your head. “Whoosh.”
Spencer quiets for just a fraction longer than normal. All of it? That… seemed extreme for someone who had been acing tests so far. But he plays along. “Okay, well… let’s start at the beginning—”
“—After class, right? In your office?” You interrupt him eagerly.
“Oh! Uh, yeah,” he nods. “Sure. After class.”
“Wonderful. Wouldn’t wanna distract my mind before your lecture today, y’know?” You tap your index finger against your temple and smile at him warmly. Shifting your bag on your shoulder, you begin to walk to secure your front row seat.
But the moment you step out of the way of the desk, Spencer’s gaze drops before he can stop it. His eyes can’t help but roam over your lower half. Specifically your legs. Practically the entire expanse of your legs, in fact. You were wearing just about the shortest skirt he thinks he’s ever laid eyes on. A skirt that if it was even an inch shorter, there’d be a problem.
His brain short-circuits for a solid two seconds, long enough that the coffee cup tilts dangerously in hand. Then he chases himself away, his throat tight, awkwardly adjusting his tie. He busies himself with pretending to organize files that don’t need organizing.
As you shuffle down the steps, you call over to him, “Don’t you just hate when your mind’s distracted?” You don't dare peek at him over your shoulder, fearing he’d see the coy smile plastered on your face.
Spencer swallows hard. “Yeah,” he croaks out, “Hate it.”
That lecture is practically public humiliation for Professor Reid.
He stands at the front of the class as usual, his voice echoing across the hall as he speaks, gesturing with his hands for emphasis. But his fingers keep twitching. In minute and a half intervals— because yeah, you were counting— his eyes accidentally flick down to you, front row center, legs crossed primly.
He’s usually quite a smooth lecturer. Articulate. Confident. Lost in the thrill of sharing his knowledge. But today, he keeps stumbling over words, noticeably missing transitions between points, and a few of the students are beginning to exchange glances. Since when did Professor Reid lose track of his lectures?
Meanwhile, you’re watching it all unfold smugly from your seat. Your eyes haven’t left your dear professor since this class began. Which wasn’t out of the ordinary. After all, everyone in the class had their gaze on him. But Spencer’s only painfully aware of one.
You notice the way he begins to subtly avoid looking in your general direction. Each time he glances up to check for engagement, his eyes skip a whole section of students like there was a bubble around you.
He discreetly wipes his perspiring palms on his pants.
Unhappy with the lack of attention, you shift in your chair. Under the guise of getting more comfortable, you sink in your spot, legs uncrossing, your mini-est skirt in the world at risk of riding up with any strong movement. You casually lean back, stretching one leg out just a little further, the fabric of your skirt rising up just an inch.
Your shoe taps against the floor like a quiet Yoo-hoo, over here. And when you’re certain he’s looking your way again, albeit in his peripheral, and with the slowest, softest, subtlest movement you can manage, you idly flex your legs open and shut, open and shut. His throat bobs, and your lips curl.
You keep the motion slow, almost lazy, like you weren't even aware of it. Just tiny, imperceivable movements. Rhythmic, absentminded. The way one taps their fingers or twirls a strand of hair. But it might as well have been a flashing neon sign saying Look at me, with your thighs tensing under the thin material of your skirt over and over before relaxing again.
Each time your legs spread, if Spencer looked close enough, he’d catch the color of your thong.
He grips the edge of his podium, knuckles whitening. The lecture drags on, every second an eternity. He finishes his last point five minutes early, voice trailing off awkwardly. “…And that’s— that’s all for today.”
A beat of silence. The students blink at each other. Each person shuffles out quickly, confused by the abrupt ending, but not exactly complaining. Spencer just wanted it to end.
You take your sweet time packing up. Slinging your bag over one shoulder, then pausing to yawn, arms high above your head in a long stretch that makes your shirt rise up at the waist.
Spencer watches, against his will, as your shirt lifts just enough to reveal a sliver of skin, then as you reach higher, pulling your muscles in a different angle, and this time your back arches slightly.
He’s speechless atop the stage.
Frustratingly, you don’t spare him a glance as you file out alongside the other students that trickle through the door. “Bye, Professor,” he hears your voice above the rest.
“Bye,” Spencer mumbles back, robotic.
The second the door clicks shut behind you, he exhales like he’d been holding his breath the entire lecture. Miserably, he drops to his chair and presses both palms into his eyes.
What was wrong with him?
A light knock comes to his office door, and Spencer’s head jerks up. That's you.
He clears his throat. “Come in!” he calls.
In comes you, with the brightest smile, one he can hardly tear his eyes from. “Hi, Professor!” You chirp.
“Hi,” he says back, softer than intended. He gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Sit down, whenever you’re ready.” His hands are folded neatly in front of him. A professional, composed posture. But his heart isn’t listening.
Spencer notices the absence of the skirt immediately, the expanse of your legs hidden from view again. But why was he looking? Was he hoping you hadn’t changed?
You plop down in your seat across from him with a bounce. After light conversation and a moment to get settled, he grabs a folder labeled Geographical Profiling and cracks open a textbook. “So,” Spencer begins, flipping open the folder. “Geographical profiling is basically a way to predict where a serial offender might strike next based on their previous crime scenes.” He pulls out a map, already marked with locations. “It uses statistical analysis and spatial patterns—”
“—Can I come over to your side?”
Spencer stops, staring at you a little oddly.
You shrug a shoulder. “I just think I’d get it better looking at it from your angle.”
“Oh! Yeah, for sure,” he says, scooting his chair over to make space.
You stand and circle around the desk, dragging the chair behind you. As you sit down with your shoulders just barely brushing his, the smell of your perfume engulfs him. Pleasant, not too overwhelming. Girly in a way that made him nervous. He clears his throat, “Where— where were we?”
Refocusing on the map, his steady, academic tone returns easily. “So we’re looking at these crime scenes here and here—” His finger taps two dots on the paper.
As he talks, you lean closer to the paper. Which naturally results in you leaning closer to Spencer. Your arms brush at some point with featherlight contact.
He doesn’t react. Instead, he keeps pointing at the map, voice even despite his body temperature suddenly rising. “…And based on this pattern,” he continues, “the offender likely lives somewhere along this radius.”
Abruptly, you turn to open a drawer on his desk. You scan the contents inside, then move to the next.
“Uh…” he starts, watching you with bewilderment.
“Looking for a pencil.”
“Ah!” He fumbles in his own pocket and pulls out a clicky ballpoint. “Here,” he says, offering it to you. “You can use mine.”
“Ohh, your’s huh? I’m flattered. Promise not to chew on it.” You wink.
Spencer’s lips twitch. He watches as you take the pen, your fingers brushing. On purpose? Or was that just wishful thinking?
“Y-yeah, for sure. Just, um… just ask me next time, okay? I’d prefer it if you didn’t dig through my drawers.”
“Ah, I see,” you chuckle behind your lips.
“…See what?”
“I dunno. You hiding something dirty in there, Professor?”
Spencer’s face is mortified. “W-what? No!” He sputters, voice cracking slightly. “It’s just… paperwork! Notes. Th— that I’d prefer to keep organized.”
You bite back your grin. “You don’t have to be shy about it!”
“I-I’m not shy! There’s nothing to be shy about!” Spencer insists, a little too loudly.
He clears his throat awkwardly and tries to turn back to work like nothing happened. The paper and textbook stare back at him, completely uninteresting now. All he could focus on was how close you still were. How your perfume kept wafting over every time you moved. “So… statistically speaking, the offender likely lives within a three-mile radius of these clustered crime scenes.”
You nod along, but you're not really listening. You’re still watching him. The way his brow furrows when he concentrates, how his fingers tap the paper absentmindedly.
Spencer feels a poke on his shoulder.
“Hey.”
He turns his head sharply, eyes wide. “…Yeah?”
There’s a heartbeat of silence where you just stare into each other's eyes, your faces far too close. And for a moment, Spencer thinks this was going in a very different direction.
Then you smile. Soft, playful. “You talk with your hands a lot,” you observe casually. “I like it.”
“Oh,” is all he says at first. “Thanks?”
“Yeah, you’ve got good hands, you know?”
“Uh… yeah, thanks,” he mumbles again, voice weirdly small. “You too? I think?”
“Yeah? Mine?”
“Yeah, your—” Spencer gestures vaguely to your hands. They were nice. Soft-looking, well-manicured. Holdable. “I mean… they look… clean?”
“Hm. Clean.” You examine your own hands, spreading out your fingers and flipping them back and forth. You seemingly nod in agreement. “Don’t like to be messy, Professor?”
Spencer shakes his head quickly. “No, I hate messes,” he admits. “Germaphobe, honestly. The sheer amount of pathogens passed in a handshake alone is staggering, actually.”
“Really? What about… in a kiss? Now that’s gotta be dirtier.”
“Actually,” he says immediately, leaning forward slightly, “saliva contains millions of bacteria. Some studies estimate that a single kiss transfers 80 million microorganisms between people.” His voice gains the same weight you recognize from his lectures. “And it’s not just bacterial exchange either! There’s enzymatic activity too…”
Spencer’s scientific rambling slowly trails off mid-sentence as he takes notice, finally, of where your gaze is locked. His lips. His brain also finally acknowledges the warmth of your thigh deliberately pressed against his through the fabric of his pants, and he feels something stirring in his lower half he’d really rather ignore.
As Spencer’s mouth goes dry, a slow, wicked grin spreads on your face. “Sorry, I’m getting you all distracted again, aren’t I?”
He squirms slightly in his seat. “Y-yeah, a little.”
You nod to the paper. “You wanna… go back to telling me about geographical profiling?”
What was this, the third time now he’s had to begin again?
“Yeah. So… like I was saying, the offender’s most likely residence is here—”
For a while, you seem, to him, to be listening well. You occasionally nod, ask a question here and there to keep him talking. But your attention once again is curved by the handsome man sitting not even an inch away. And as he talked, the gears in your mind were turning.
You knew what came next. The big part. The one you’d actually practiced a humiliating amount of times. You squeeze your thighs together, your skin prickling with the thrill running through you.
Spencer doesn’t notice your distraction, too focused on explaining the logistics of distance decay. “And based on these crime scene locations,” he says, “we can calculate the mean center, which is essentially how all these points would balance if we put them on a scale.”
“Hm. Yeah, I just feel like I would see it better from your angle.”
Spencer stops as you interrupt him for the nth time. There’s no space left to scoot closer, but he still shifts a little— an instinctive, subconscious lean toward you. His shoulder is pressed flush against yours now. “Yeah… okay,” he murmurs, tilting the map slightly so you could see better, the proximity making his pulse erratic again.
You shiver a little at the closeness, subtly biting your lip. It practically takes all of your self-control to shake your head. “No, no, now you can’t see it.”
Spencer huffs a tiny, almost-laugh. “I assure you, I can see it. Not to worry. Besides, you should really be the one looking—”
“May I?”
“…May you what?”
“Move to a better angle for both of us, obviously.”
“Oh, right! Right,” Spencer scoots his chair back a generous amount to give you room, a little sheepish about having moved closer to you in the first place.
But you don't even acknowledge this. You rise from your chair smoothly, casually adjusting your clothes. Then, much to Spencer’s surprise, you lay a hand on his shoulder and move to stand between his legs, lording over him. He was suddenly at a disadvantage, looking up at you with eyes wide as saucers and watching your every move like a frightened animal.
You lock eyes with Spencer as you slide your arm around his neck. You feel the tenseness in his body, each muscle taut with anticipation. With a jut of your knee, you spread his legs and calmly perch yourself atop his thigh, effectively sitting in his lap. He nearly jumps back in shock, but pinned under your weight, he doesn’t have far to go. His body is stiff as a robot’s, so you take it upon yourself to grab his arm and effortlessly maneuver it until it’s wrapped comfortably around your waist, pressing his palm flat against your hip.
Spencer looks as though he’s been electrocuted. He’s completely paralyzed. You were in his lap. Your weight settled against him, your warmth seeping through his clothes. For a moment, he wonders if he’s just died.
“…What? You said I could.”
Spencer’s lips parted, but no sound came out. When his brain finally rebooted, all it could manage was a weak “I—I didn’t—”
You could somehow feel his heartbeat, wild and frantic, from where you sat on his knee. The rapid thump-thump of his pulse circulating through every vein like a trapped bird. Spencer could feel it too, betraying every ounce of panic and… something else he didn’t want to name. His fingers finally twitched slightly where they rested against your hip, like testing you were really there under his palm.
“Well, go on,” you feigned innocence, patting his shoulder twice. “Keep talking.”
Spencer’s mouth opened. Nothing. All he could focus on was the girl in his lap, your scent, your warmth, the soft fabric of your shirt under his palm. “…I,” he started, then stopped.
Poor guy. You suppose you should give him some help after being so cruel. “What’s that one mean?” you ask, pointing to a diagram in the open textbook.
Spencer’s gaze followed your finger to the diagram. He swallows hard. “That one,” he starts slowly, voice slightly higher than usual, “shows how crime scenes cluster around the mean center based on statistical dispersion.”
“Oh, I see. So what else do you have to teach me?”
Not this. He wasn’t qualified for whatever this was.
But his mouth moved anyway, defaulting to academia, his safety. “Uh… there’s also the concept of hotspot analysis, which uses kernel density estimation to identify high-crime areas—”
You weren't listening. Obviously. You watch his lips move as he rambles, gently trailing a manicured nail down his scruffy cheek, which briefly makes Spencer stutter.
“…And— and the—” He takes a shuddering breath. “…the algorithm accounts for temporal decay too, which means crimes are more likely to occur closer in time to previous events than further away. Th— there’s an equation for it, but I can’t… really remember right now.”
“Oh, dear, am I distracting you again Professor?”
“…A little!” he squeaks, a tight, bashful smile on his face.
“I was starting to think you never forgot anything.”
“I don’t, I— I just… I’ve never been distracted like this before.” It was true he had an eidetic memory. Something he was keen to remind everybody of. But right now, he was sure he couldn’t recall his own phone number if someone asked him.
“Never had a student on your knee?”
The way you phrased it, like this was normal, almost made him laugh at the absurdity. “N-no, no, never.”
“Well. Don’t let me distract you. Just trying to learn.”
You lean into his side almost affectionately as he talks, your nose brushing against his cheek. Spencer swallows hard. He falters, just barely, but it was enough to make his next sentence waver. “…and the weight is inversely proportional to distance from the epicenter, meaning closer crimes have higher influence on predicting future locations…”
You blow once on his ear.
Spencer jumps, his arm tightening around you involuntarily and his head tilted away from the sudden puff of air. He whispered-shouts your name, scandalized.
You snort. “Oops.”
“You’re— you’re messing with me,” he accuses, voice low but tinged with something begrudgingly playful.
“Who, me?” You bat your lashes.
A tiny, disbelieving laugh leaves his lips, nearly a scoff. “Yes,” he says, “You!”
You giggle, and Spencer feels some part of his brain turn mushy at the sound. “Okay, okay! Sorry, Professor. I’ll behave.”
He exhaled softly, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Thank you,” he murmured genuinely. “…So if we apply this methodology to an actual case,” he said, pointing at a crime scene map on the textbook page.
Before he can say much, he feels the lightest press of lips to his stubbly cheek, and his words quickly fade into an unintelligible, flustered mumble.
“W-we can predict with… um… reasonable accuracy where... mm…”
“Can’t hear you when you mumble, sir. How am I supposed to learn?” You nose his cheek.
He tried again, louder this time, “I said we can predict future crime locations with statistical modeling!”
God, this was torture.
“You’re getting kinda sweaty.”
“It’s— it’s hot in here,” he lied weakly, tugging at his cardigan.
“You can take that off,” you gesture to the sweater. “You don’t have to be professional with me.”
He laughs breathlessly. “Yeah, I… think I stopped being professional with you the moment I let you sit on my knee.”
You pull at his cardigan. “Take it off,” you whine.
“No! No,” Spencer grasps your wrists, his grip firm. He says your name in a scolding tone. “We’re still… on campus. I can’t just—”
“What, taking off a sweater isn’t allowed on campus?”
He exhaled through his nose. “I just… don’t feel comfortable, that’s all.”
“What, are you thinking of something gross?”
“No!” He blurts. “I just—I mean—I’m not—” He flounders for words, horrified by the accusation.
You couldn’t help it, you burst out laughing. You double over slightly, still perched on his knee, shoulders shaking, and Spencer’s chest does a weird little squeeze. He didn’t know whether to be offended or charmed, but his frown softened into something almost shy.
Your laughter ends with one sweet sigh, and with your hand on his cheek, you lean in to press a chaste kiss to his temple. Grinning against his skin, you murmur, “Wanna know something?”
“…Yeah?” He whispers back, voice small and uncertain.
“I know this is turning you on.”
Spencer’s red down to his chest now. He sputters, “Wh— I— that’s not—”
“Mhm. Wanna hear what else I know?” You tilt his head up to peck his cheek twice. “I know you were staring at me in that skirt.”
Spencer couldn’t even form a coherent response to that.
“What were you thinking about? My legs? My ass? ‘Cause I’d say that’s pretty dirty, Professor.”
“No!” he whispers harshly, eyes wide. He squirms in his seat like he wants to escape. “I wasn’t— I didn’t—” His hand tightens slightly where it rests on your waist.
“So you were!” You giggle, pulling back from him and cupping his face in your hands. “C’mon, look at you. What happened to those… professional boundaries you were so worried about?”
Spencer’s expression twisted with shame and flustered panic. “I don’t know,” he admitted in a tiny voice, “You just… ruined them.”
“Oh, I did, huh? So it’s my fault? It’s my fault you were staring at me?”
Alarmed, he shook his head violently. “No! No, that’s not— I didn’t mean it like that, I-I meant it like—”
“Guess it’s just my fault you’re having all these perverted thoughts about your favorite student.”
“They’re not—” His chest rises and falls as he pants with desperate frustration. “I don’t have perverted thoughts!” he protests, voice pitching higher.
You laugh cruelly, “You do! Who knew? Professor Reid’s a big pervert who stares at the girls in his class.”
You shift in his lap, moving until your front is squished up against his, thighs clamped on either side of his legs, your hips putting unfortunate pressure on his pelvis.
Spencer presses himself as far back as he could in his chair, eyes darting everywhere except your face. “I-I’m not! No! No, it’s not like that!” His hands hovered in the air like he was trying to surrender. Every nerve in his body was screaming this is wrong, this is wrong, but his traitorous cock pulsed anyway.
“Gross. I can feel your dick getting hard.”
Mortification crashed over him like a tidal wave. “It’s not— I can’t help that!”
“What, are you turned on by this or something?”
Spencer just squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed, grip tight on the armrests of his chair. His silence was answer enough.
“Pervert,” You hiss.
His face burns a deep, humiliated crimson. “I’m not… I’m not a pervert, okay?” He whispered, voice trembling with shame and genuine distress.
You dip down slowly, lowering your forehead to his, your breath on his lips. “Then why do you wanna fuck me?”
Finally, reality laid bare. And with the arousal very clearly straining against his pants, Spencer sees the uselessness in denying it, though his lips still part reflexively. For a heartbeat or two, you stayed like that, faces touching, breaths mingling. Then at last, he moves, and slowly he presses his lips to yours in the softest, most unsure kiss of his life.
At first, you don’t seem to reciprocate. Your lips stay upsettingly still, he’s not even sure your eyes are closed. Spencer whines slightly in his mouth in embarrassment. The moment his lips shy away from yours more than an inch, however, your grip suddenly winds into his hair. With an abrupt and furious force, you tug him back, teeth nearly colliding as you devour his mouth. Instantly, he melts back into your taste, completely unprepared for the intensity but his body responding instinctively. His hands fly back to your waist and his lips clumsily attempt to keep up with your hungry movements as he drowns in you.
One hand slides up your back while the other grips your waist tighter. He makes a small, needy noise against your mouth. You kiss him like you’ve been starving for it. like this was inevitable, like Spencer had been yours all along. You bite his lower lip gently before diving back in, tongue sliding against his with a hunger that leaves him breathless. He clutches you closer, fingers twisting into the fabric of your shirt.
Time seems to blur as the world narrows. The chair creaks under your combined weight as you shift atop him, pressing yourself even closer. Your thighs tightening around his hips, your body molding against him, beginning to grind over his erection.
Spencer groans into the kiss, his palms sliding down to grip your thighs. Your hips move against his with deliberate pressure, rolling down in slow, smooth circles just to feel him twitch. He breathes raggedly through his nose, trying to force himself up to meet your body every time it rises off of him just to grind back down.
“You’re stupidly hard,” you growl the moment you part for air.
Spencer looks up at you through his lashes with a dazed expression. His lips are kiss-swollen, his face flushed, and he’s panting like he just ran a marathon. “S-sorry,” he breathes out automatically.
“I haven’t even fucking done anything to you,” you smile wickedly. “I kissed you and you’re throbbing.”
Spencer nods frantically, his cheeks burning with humiliation and arousal. “You’re… really pretty,” he blurts out suddenly.
The compliment elicits some kind of reaction from you, something he can’t quite place. You smirk again, eyes briefly rolling back like he’d touched you. You hum in satisfaction. “I’ve waited so fucking long to hear you say that.”
Spencer’s chest swells with something warm. His heart pounds harder. He wants to say more now, clumsy and sweet things that aren’t usually his style.
“You want me to touch you?” you coos condescendingly in a way that makes him dizzy, cupping his face. “Yeah? You want my pussy? Want me to suck your filthy cock?” you say crudely.
He doesn’t know how to respond, doesn’t know what the right answer is. Instead, his eyes dart down to your lips again, then lower, just for a split second, before snapping back up in panic.
“Answer me, Professor.”
“…Yes, y-yeah,” he finally squeaks out, the words so quiet it’s barely audible. Then he adds in a slightly louder whisper: “Please.”
“Yeah? Just like this?” One of your hands slides down to press against the front of his pants, right where he’s straining. He strains to not buck into your palm like a virgin.
His breath comes out in short, shaky puffs. He nods rapidly. “Yeah. Yeah, uh-huh. Like that.”
You rip your hand away suddenly like you’d been burned. In an instant, his collar is wrapped in your fist as you slide off his lap and yank him to his feet. He stumbles after you, wide eyed and bewildered. Spencer barely has time to process what’s happening before he’s being whirled around, practically manhandled, and he finds you both have swapped places. You seat yourself lazily in his chair and tugs him down with you, down until his knees hit the floor of his office, until his head is hovering between your thighs.
“Wha—?”
“Earn it.”
Spencer’s brain is scrambling. He stares at your spread legs and closes his jaw. He swallows hard. His hands hover awkwardly at his sides, unsure what to do with them. He’s never done this before. But the thought of touching you, tasting you, it sends a thrill through him that overrides his nervousness.
You casually undo the button of your pants, stripping them from your legs and kicking them off carelessly with effortless confidence. Spencer watches, mesmerized. Without a word, you sling one leg until your ankle rests over his shoulder, the other sitting on his thigh.
Now here you are, half-naked in his chair while he kneels like a supplicant, and the view is unreal.
He’s suddenly hyper-aware of every detail. The warmth radiating from between your thighs, the faint scent that makes his stomach flip. His hands finally move, trembling as they reach for the hem of your fine, lacy panties— specifically chosen, to be sure. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slowly peels them down.
The lace slides down your legs easily, unveiling your cunt. Spencer’s not sure he’s seen a woman like this up close before, not in person. Not like this. His face burns as he stares for half a second too long. With tentative, almost reverent hands, Spencer leans forward and presses a single, feather-light kiss to the inside of your thigh. It’s not where you want him, but he needs a moment to steel himself.
His lips are soft. Nervous. The kiss is chaste, too innocent for what you want, but the warmth of his lips against your skin still sends a little shiver through you. You tilt your hips slightly, nudging his back with your heel. “Don’t be shy. Lick it.”
His face is inches from you, so close he can feel the heat.
He swallows hard, then slowly, painfully slowly, he leans in and drags his tongue over you in one experimental stroke. The taste is new. Sweet, musky. Spencer does it again, a little bolder this time, his tongue moving with cautious curiosity as he explores the soft folds of you, his hands gripping your thighs to steady himself.
You inhale sharply through your nose, threading your fingers into his hair to guide him. “Fuck, yes,” you grin.
The praise shoots straight to his loins.
He redoubles his efforts, following the gentle tug of your fingers in his hair. He presses a few open-mouthed kisses before finally sealing his lips around your folds and sucking gently. His tongue flicks experimentally over your clit before he laps at it properly.
Your back arches slightly, letting airy moans slip. Spencer might be a virgin at this, but he’s a smart boy. He adapts fast. His tongue works in small circles now, swirling the bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pressing him closer, not that he even needs encouragement.
Spencer loses himself in the rhythm. Licking, sucking, following whatever makes you gasp. He drags his teeth very lightly over your clit before soothing it with a long swipe of his tongue. Fuck, he likes this. So much. He moans mindlessly into your cunt, the vibration of which travels through your body, making your hips jerk up into his mouth.
Spencer’s arousal is obvious, the bulge in his pants twitches with practically every movement. He’s so turned on by this, by the way you react to him, that it almost hurts.
You spread your legs further, pushing his head and shamelessly grinding up into his mouth. You laugh breathlessly, then let your head fall back in a moan.
He loves this. He lets you use him, his hands sliding up to grip your hips, helping guide your movements as he devours you with messy enthusiasm.
The office is quiet except for the wet sounds of his mouth on you and your hitched breathing. Spencer’s lips are glistening, his cheeks flushed. He can feel himself getting dizzy from the scent of you, from how good you taste. Each moan he pulls from you goes straight to his cock, aching in its confinement.
Spencer has no idea how hot he looks right now. Wild hair, flushed face, lips slick with you. But you know. You’ve been fantasizing about this for months now, him between your legs, his clever mouth working on you like this. And reality is so much better than any daydream you ever had. Months of imagining this, and Spencer is even better than any late night, desperation-fueled fantasy. His lips are so soft, his tongue so eager, like he genuinely wants to please you. It’s intoxicating.
A particularly good flick makes you gasp “Fuck!” You gasp.
Spencer has lost track of time, only aware of the warmth between your thighs, the way you squirm and moan above him.
Your fingers twist tighter in his hair, and you start rocking against his mouth faster. The realization that you’re close makes Spencer’s stomach flip with excitement. He doesn’t slow down. If anything, he doubles down with a greedy sort of focus, his tongue moving with more purpose.
Your thighs flex, hips jutting erratically as you near the edge. Spencer’s own body is strung tight, his cock leaking, his pants sticky, but he ignores it. All that matters is you and the way your breathing turns ragged, the cries escaping your lips. He wants to taste it when you cum.
Your back arches off the chair, your thighs clamping around Spencer’s head as you cum with a sharp cry. He keeps going gently through your orgasm.
The aftershocks ripple through you in small twitches and soft gasps, and Spencer finally eases off, pressing one last tender kiss to your inner thigh before slowly sitting back on his heels. His lips are wet. His face is a mess.
When the last waves of pleasure subside, you slump bonelessly in the chair. Spencer finally eases off, pressing one last tender kiss to your inner thigh before slowly sitting back on his heels.
You exhale shakily, blinking down at Spencer, still between your legs, his lips wet and swollen. The rest of him disheveled. You laugh breathlessly at his ruined and endlessly attractive state.
Spencer wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still a little dazed, but your laugh makes him smile faintly. He’s never felt so satisfied, and he didn’t even get off.
“Did I…” he pants, “did I do okay?”
Through the bliss, you shrug, teasing him. “Took you long enough, didn’t it?”
Spencer’s face falls slightly. “It was my first time,” he mumbles defensively, a little hurt.
“Still,” You groan as you fix your posture, sitting up in the chair, “coulda figured out geographical profiling while you were trying to figure out what to do with your tongue.”
His lips purse, embarrassed. He stares up at you from the floor with unintentional puppy dog eyes. “I-I was trying…” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
From your elevated position, your eyes catch his cock is still straining in his pants. “Get on the floor, professor,” You push him back with a heel against his shoulder.
“Okay!” Spencer goes down without resistance, lying flat on his back now. He watches you from the floor, wide-eyed and waiting.
You slide out of the chair and drop to the floor, crawling atop him. You pop open the top button of his shirt. “Lie there and let me use your cock, or I’ll tell everyone Professor Reid licked his student’s cunt.”
Blackmail? His brain jumps back and forth between panic and pathetic arousal. “…Okay,” He nods quickly, hands hovering uselessly in surrender. “Okay, do whatever you want. Just… just don’t tell anyone, okay?”
She smiles in satisfaction. “So you know this is wrong.”
He swallows. Yes, it was wrong. It was all wrong. But it also felt so, so right, and he wanted this too badly to stop now. “Yeah,” he whispers, “I know.”
“Then you admit it, huh?” Your fingers suddenly grip his collar, undoing the knot of his tie. “You admit you’re a pervert?”
“…I’m not a pervert,” He says resolutely.
“Right.” His tie freed, You bunch it into a ball in your fist. “Then you’re not gonna, like… cum or something, right? ‘Cause that’d be pretty bad for your case.”
Yes. “…Nope.”
“Oh, good!” You grin, “Now we don’t have to worry about a condom!”
He opens his mouth to protest, and you swoops in to take the opportunity to stuff his tie between his jaw, effectively gagging him.
His muffled sound of surprise barely escapes. Panic spikes in his chest, but it’s too late. You're already moving, and Spencer can only lie there helplessly as you unzip his pants with a hungry gleam in your eye.
His cock springs free, hard and aching, and completely at your mercy. Spencer’s eyes are huge behind the gag. “Careful,” You whisper dangerously as you hover over his dripping cock, “don’t wanna get your student pregnant.”
Spencer whimpers nervously.
You don't tease. No, you waste no time. In one smooth motion, you sink yourself down onto him. Spencer’s body goes taut, a choked noise escaping around his tie. It’s too much. You're tight and warm and he wasn’t ready for this at all.
You bite back a groan as you sheath the entirety of his length, every inch swallowed. “Fuck, this all for me?” You laugh mockingly, “Look at you, oh, you’re so fucking hard. It’s pathetic.”
Spencer lets out a muffled, shameful whine. His hands finally move, clutching at your hips like he doesn’t know where else to put them. You allow it, if only because the touch of his hands still sends a thrill through your body. “Poor thing… if only your body were half obedient as your mouth. Must be so frustrated.”
Spencer is frustrated. Frustrated that he can’t kiss you, frustrated that you’re talking like this, frustrated you’re not moving. He squeezes your hips gently, begging without words as he squirms under you. Move. Please.
You admire the way his cock bulges slightly in your tummy. “What? Huh? I can’t hear you under there."
Spencer makes a muffled noise, a furious cry, and rolls his hips upward, trying to show you what he wants.
You gasp slightly at the movement, laughing under your breath. “Aww, are we getting impatient?”
Spencer nods rapidly. His hands slide up your sides, then back down to grip your ass this time. He’s already breathless.
“You want me to fuck you so bad it makes you look like a virgin.”
Spencer just nods again, his saliva soaking the tie.
“Last I checked, dildo’s don’t whine.” Finally, mercifully, you slide yourself back up to his tip, cock almost slipping out. “I’m gonna ruin you,” you purr, “and you’re gonna thank me for it. Won’t you?”
Spencer moans as he nods frantically, like a bobblehead.
The slow drag of you taking him back in makes his toes curl, the sensation electric. It’s so good he almost forgets to breathe. The stretch is perfect, the heat maddening. But the slow, careful movements as you adjust don’t last long. You grip the collar of his shirt for stability as you begin to move yourself faster, then faster, immediately setting an unforgiving pace.
Spencer’s entire body convulses with pleasure. Each sharp bounce of your hips punches the air from his lungs. His hands scramble to hold onto your waist, fingers digging in as you ride him hard. Muffled moans spill out continuously from behind the fabric in his jaw as his vision blurs at the edges. His stomach tightens, his thighs tremble.
The pace is relentless and purposeful. It sends a message. That you’re taking what you want from him, and Spencer is just along for the ride.
Through your own bliss, you laugh at his state. “Oh, you are gone.”
The laugh vibrates through him and sends another wave of pleasure down his spine. His hips twitch up weakly to meet yours with every bounce.
You lean forward, pressing your chest against his, the pace never faltering. You bring your lips to his ear, your breath against his skin. “Gonna make you cum so hard you’ll show me what a whore you are.”
The words send a shiver down his spine, and he clenches his eyes shut. So vulgar, so degrading, and yet Spencer’s cock throbs at the sound of them.
The pace doesn’t slow for a second. If anything, it gets harder, more punishing. Spencer’s muscles tense, his orgasm already building fast, and he knows he’s not gonna last. He moans and whines girlishly as he starts to writhe beneath you.
“Oh, poor baby,” you mock, “I thought you… mmm, said you weren’t gonna cum in me. Fuck. Don’t tell me I’ve got a little liar.”
His entire body is tensing, his breath coming in short, frantic bursts out his nose, but he shakes his head violently.
“Oh, so close. So close, aren’t you? I know. I know, and you don’t wanna cum. Don’t wanna get me pregnant, do you? Fuck, I bet you’d lose your job.”
He tries to hold back, biting down onto his tie. It’s agony trying to hold back. His balls are tight, his cock pulsing with every bounce of your hips. The threat of consequences makes it worse. He can’t cum, he really can’t, but you're making it impossible. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes from desperation.
“Too bad,” You hiss, leaning down again to whisper in his ear like a devil on his shoulder. “C’mon, just cum for me. C’mon, who cares? Who cares I’m your student? Make me drip with you.”
He tries to shake his head, but Spencer’s body betrays him. With a silent, shuddering convulsion, his orgasm rips through him. Even through the gag, his choked moans escape as he cums inside you, pulse after pulse filling you as pleasure tears through his entire being.
You let out an airy, girly moan and laugh at him, giddy and triumphant.
Spencer goes limp underneath you. He breathes heavily through his nose, still whining and squirming. After a while, his eyes flutter open as he weakly lifts his head. He stares at where you’re connected with horror, the haze fading and the clarity hitting him.
You notice. “You wanna see?”
Spencer nods rapidly.
You lift yourself from his softening cock, the globs of his release sliding down his length. You're dripping with him. His cum, so much of it, leaking down his own cock and dripping from your thighs.
The sight makes him nauseous. His chest rises and falls rapidly in panic. His eyes are blown open wide and searching yours for an answer.
Finally satisfied, you end the game. “I’m on the pill.”
Spencer's entire body sags with instant relief.
You chuckle, then grasp his cock from between your thighs, realigning it with your dripping entrance.
Again? His cock is sensitive, overspent, he’s still coming down from the high of his last orgasm. But you don't seem to care, just guiding his half-hard cock back inside without hesitation.
The moment you push yourself back down, it’s too much. Too sensitive. The oversensitivity makes his writhe involuntarily, a whimper escaping around his gag. He doesn’t know if he can go again, but you clearly expect him to try.
You don't give him time to adjust. You start moving immediately, rolling your hips in slow circles. His body responds despite itself, his cock stirring back to life, slowly hardening again inside you.
Spencer’s hands clutch at the carpet beneath him helplessly. It shouldn’t feel good. It hurts. But the sensation is undeniable, and his hips give tiny little involuntary thrusts upward.
You lean down, finally pulling the gag out of his mouth. “There we go,” You murmur, then kiss him, deeply this time.
Your lips are warm, your tongue sliding against his as you start to ride him again. To Spencer, it feels intimate. He hums into your mouth, kissing you softly. But it doesn’t take long before your pace stops being gentle.
You’re using him. Using his cock like a dildo, and something about it is dizzying. His hands find your waist again, gripping tight as you pick up speed, chasing your own pleasure now. He just lies there, letting you take what you want from his body.
The kiss breaks as you focus on riding him harder, faster. Spencer’s head lolls back against the floor. He’s just a thing to you right now— a toy, a tool. He’s much comparable to a ragdoll. He watches you from the floor as you use him, gritting your teeth and moaning.
You’re riding him erratically, moving yourself and his dick whichever way hits that spot inside you best. He watches your face, the way your brows furrow, how you bite your lip, and decides it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. Even as a ragdoll, he can appreciate that.
Your moans get louder, coming out in shorter, clipped bursts. You're close. Spencer feels it, the way your thighs tense around him, how you grind down with purpose now. He stays perfectly still, letting your chase that high on top of him.
A sharp cry escapes you as your body locks up, and he feels the sudden tight clench around him. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you ride out the waves of pleasure.
When it’s over, you huff once, then slump forward, forehead pressed to his chest, and just breathe for a moment.
Spencer stays still, one hand hesitantly rubbing your back.
After a beat, You grab his face with a ferocity and force your lips back to his. With a dazed expression, Spencer eagerly accepts.
The kiss is messy and sloppy. Your post-orgasm haze mixes with any lingering adrenaline. And Spencer kisses back like he’s starving for it, his hands sliding up to cradle your face.
But you slip out of his grasp all too soon, and Spencer whines. Sliding yourself off his cock with a groan, you suddenly reach up to grip his hair, tilting his head back. “Open your mouth,” you command.
Albeit a bit confused, he obeys, lips parting. His heart is still racing, his body humming from everything that just happened.
You crawl up his body like a predator, and Spencer realizes with dizzying clarity, you want to straddle his face. And some part of him gets a thrill that he did it well enough the first time you would demand it again.
You don't have to guide him. He’s ready, eager even, holding out his hands to steady you. His palms slide up your thighs, and he tilts his head just right, lips parted expectantly. Please. That’s what the look in his eyes says.
You lower yourself onto his mouth with zero hesitation. Spencer inhales sharply through his nose, your scent is everywhere, before his lips press even against you.
This time, he doesn’t bother with the coquettish hesitation. He dives in. Immediately, he tastes himself on your tongue, the flavor of which strange, salty and musky. But he doesn’t mind. Spencer laps at you contentedly, his tongue exploring with more confidence than before, licking and sucking and kissing.
You inhale sharply through your teeth, your fist gripping his hair. You shudder atop him, your thighs squeezing around his head. “Oh my god,” You breathe out, genuinely surprised. His tongue is moving just right, his pressure is perfect. Your hips start rolling against his mouth, chasing the pleasure.
Spencer, for his part, is fully immersed, licking and kissing like he’s worshipping you. His cheeks and nose are damp with your arousal.
Your back arches into him as you practically ride his face, greedily taking everything his mouth has to offer. He holds your thighs steady, letting you grind against his lips, his tongue working tirelessly to give you exactly what you want.
You're close again, sooner than last time. Breathing raggedly, your grip on his hair tightens as you chase that second high.
Spencer can feel it, the way your body tenses, the tiny trembles in your thighs. A high, broken moan tears from your throat and you shake, your thighs clamping around Spencer’s head. He keeps his tongue right where he is, letting it happen, letting you ride out the waves on his mouth.
You finally lift yourself from his mouth, taking the heat of your cunt with you. Spencer helps you crawl back to his lap as he catches his breath. He pulls your limp body gently into his arms. He can’t help but cradle you against his chest. It felt like the right thing to do. You slump against him without a complaint.
You’re both a mess. Sweaty, sticky, and exhausted, the smell of sex thick in the air.
You both lie there, boneless. The floor doesn’t make for the most comfortable spot to lie, but neither could especially move if you tried. The cool air conditioning, at least, is pleasant against your overheated skin.
Spencer exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling. “So, uh… what… what now?”
Your breath is still coming out in puffs. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”
Spencer purses his lips, suddenly nervous. He swallows. “…Are we… um… gonna talk about what just happened?”
You lie there wordlessly for a moment. “…I dunno. I didn’t really plan this far.”
Spencer nods slowly. Silence stretches between them, heavy and awkward. Then he suddenly frowns in thought. “You… you planned this?”
“Yeah. I’ve been wanting to fuck your brains out since I found out you weren’t another old, boring professor.”
Spencer’s eyes widen slightly. His cheeks flush again. “Oh.”
“Yeah, I mean… shit, everybody does. I just did it first. I tried to tell you.”
“Yeah, I, uh… thought you meant— well…” He thinks back to your conversation in his office, about the female students in his class, auditing only because they intended to spend the class ogling him instead of listening. “I assumed the fact that you were enrolled meant you… didn’t share the sentiment.”
“What, sitting in your lap wasn’t enough of a hint?”
“W-well, I think it hit me by that point, actually!”
You drop your head in exasperation with the knowledge that all of your flirting, this entire time, flew under his radar. Jesus, it was a miracle you’d gotten to this point at all.
You exhale theatrically, reaching up to pat his cheek. “You’re very dense. It’s very charming.”
He smiles, small and shy. “Thank you?”
You just hum. The both of you are silent again, slumped against each other. The clock ticks in his room, the AC rattles.
Spencer idly taps his fingers against your back, still staring at the ceiling. “Did you, uh… wanna… get coffee sometime? Or something?”
A lazy grin spreads across your face, Spencer feels it against his skin. “God, I could fuck you again.”
The motel room smelled like stale coffee and old carpet, the flickering neon sign outside casting a sickly orange glow through the cheap curtains. A mess of lore books lay scattered across the rickety table, pages marked with sticky notes and coffee ring stains, but neither of you had touched them in the last hour.
Not that either of you cared.
Sam's back hit the mattress with a soft thump, his long legs already wrapping around your thighs as you knelt between them. His hands found your hips instinctively, fingers digging into the denim of your jeans like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. Which, honestly, you probably were.
"Dean and Cas won't be back for hours," you murmured against the column of his throat, your voice a low purr that made him shiver beneath you. "Hours and hours, baby. We've got time."
"You keep saying that," Sam breathed, his voice already gone rough and strained, that familiar desperation creeping in at the edges. "But then you- fuckmnfhp-"
Your teeth grazed that spot just below his jaw, the one that made his entire body jerk like you'd zapped him with a live wire. His hips bucked up against you instinctively, grinding against the heat between your thighs through layers of denim.
"Then I what, sweetheart?" You soothed the sting with your tongue, dragging it slow and deliberate up his throat. "Then I give you exactly what you need? What you've been thinking about all day while we were pretending to research?"
Sam's response was a wrecked little sound, half whimper, half groan. His fingers were scrambling at the hem of your shirt now, trying to get his hands on bare skin. "You know I- I can't focus when you're- when you keep looking at me like that, like you want to eat m'alive-"
"I do want to eat you alive, silly boy." You pulled back just enough to look down at him, drinking in the sight of his flushed cheeks and blown-wide pupils, the way his chest was already heaving even though you'd barely touched him. "I want to take you apart piece by piece until you can't even remember your own name. Think you can handle that for me?"
His throat worked as he swallowed hard, nodding frantically. "Yeah. Yeah, I can- I can handle it. Just please, please—"
"Please what?" You dragged your nails slowly down his chest, watching the way his muscles jumped beneath your touch. "Use your words, baby. You know I like to hear you beg."
Sam whimpered, his head falling back against the pillow. His hips kept twitching up against you in tiny, aborted thrusts, looking for friction you weren't giving him yet. "Please touch me. Please, I need- I need you to touch me, I've been thinking about it all day, thinking about your hands on me, and I—"
"Good boy." You leaned down to press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart, and felt it racing beneath your lips. "That's my good boy. You're so pretty when you beg, Sammy. So pretty and so desperate for me. All spread out, begging so nicely. What would Dean say if he could see his baby brother right now, huh?"
Sam whined—actually whined, high and desperate in the back of his throat—and his hips jerked up harder against you. The friction of his zipper against your jeans was maddening, but you could feel him through the denim, thick and hard and straining against his boxers.
"He- hah- he'd kill me" Sam managed, his voice cracking on the last word. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown so wide there was barely a ring of hazel left, and his lips were kiss-swollen and slick. "Said you were- off- off limits-"
"Mm, but you never listened to your big brother, did you?" You pushed yourself up just enough to look down at him, and the sight made something hot and possessive curl in your gut. He was wrecked already, and you'd barely even started. His chest was heaving, his abs flexing with every ragged breath, and there was a sheen of sweat building on his forehead that made his hair stick to his skin.
His hands came up to tangle in your hair, not pulling or guiding, just holding, like he needed something to anchor himself. "N-No-" he admitted, his voice dropping to something raw and honest. "You've ruined me, you know that? I can't even- other people don't even register anymore. It's jus' you."
Something warm bloomed in your chest at that, something that had nothing to do with the heat pooling low in your belly. You'd been doing this for months now, sneaking around, stealing moments, taking Sam apart and putting him back together, and somewhere along the way it had stopped being just about the sex. Not that you'd ever admit that out loud.
Not yet, anyway.
"Good." you said instead, your voice softer than you intended. "That's exactly how I want it. You're mine, aren't you, Sam? All mine."
"All yours," he agreed immediately, fervently. "Fuck, yes. All yours. I've been yours since I was sixteen and you walked into my dad's motel room covered in vamp blood and winked at me-"
Your laugh came out surprised and genuine. "You were sixteen, you didn't even know what—"
"I knew." He was looking up at you with those big, earnest eyes, the ones that always made something in your chest twist. "I knew I wanted you. Even then. I just- I didn't know what to do with it."
"Look at you now." You grinned, sharp and wicked. "Look what a good little slut you've turned into for me."
Sam's face went that lovely shade of red that always made your mouth water. "I'm not-"
"Not what?" You ground down against him deliberately, watching his eyes flutter shut and his mouth fall open. "Not my good little slut? Because that's sure what it sounds like when you're moaning for me, baby. That's sure what it looks like when you're spread out underneath me like this, begging for it."
He was shaking now, actually shaking, his grip on your hair tightening. "Please. Please, I need-"
"I know what you need." You reached down between you and palmed him through his jeans, feeling him hard and straining against the denim. "I know exactly what you need, sweetheart. You think I don't know? You think I don't pay attention to every little sound you make, every little way you react to me?"
Sam's hips jerked into your touch, a desperate little sound escaping his throat. "Always. You always pay attention. You always- you notice everything, and I—" He broke off with a moan as you squeezed gently,
"I've got you." You pressed another kiss to his chest, then another, trailing your lips down his sternum. "I've got you, baby. Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel so good you forget your own name."
"You always do." he whispered, his voice wrecked and reverent. "You always do..."
That was all the encouragement you needed.
You set to work with single-minded focus, determined to make good on your promise. Your mouth trailed fire across his collarbones, down the planes of his chest, marking him as you went. Little bruises bloomed under your lips, red and purple and beautiful against his pale skin. He'd have to wear a turtleneck tomorrow, probably, and the thought made you smile against his throat.
Meanwhile, your hand was busy working the button of his jeans open, then the zipper, sliding inside to find him straining against his boxers. You wrapped your fingers around him properly, and Sam's whole body arched off the bed.
"Oh, fuck-"
"That's it," you cooed, stroking him slow and firm. "That's my good boy. You feel so good, Sammy. So hard for me already, and I've barely touched you."
"Can't help it," he gasped. "Can't- you just- everything you do—"
Everything you do makes me crazy, you finished in your head, because you'd heard that particular confession often enough. Everything you do makes me want you so bad I can't think straight. You've ruined me for anyone else, sweetheart. You know that, right?
Sam's legs tightened around your, pulling you closer, trying to get more friction. His hips were moving now in a rhythm that matched your hand, chasing his pleasure with an abandon that made your heart race. He was so beautiful like this, so open and vulnerable and trusting, and the fact that he'd given himself to you so completely-
"Close," he gasped, his fingers scrambling for purchase on your back. "m'close, m'—"
"Not yet." You pulled your hand away, ignoring his desperate whine. "I'm not done with you yet, baby. I want to make this last."
"But I-"
"I know what you need." You shifted position, settling more firmly between his legs. "I know exactly what you need, sweetheart. Just let me take care of you, okay?"
Sam nodded frantically, his chest heaving. "Okay. Okay-"
You leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead, then his nose, then the corner of his mouth. "I always take care of what's mine, 'member, baby?"
His eyes fluttered closed, and the expression on his face was so soft, so full of trust and need and something deeper, something you didn't want to examine too closely—
The motel room door opened.
"What are you doing?" Castiel's voice was flat, confused, and you felt Sam freeze beneath you.
Sam's reaction was immediate. A startled gasp, his whole body going rigid beneath you as he tried to cover himself. He made a sound that was half-mortified, half-needy, and you finally turned to look at the angel standing in the doorway. Castiel was dressed in his usual rumpled suit, his head tilted in that curious way of his, his eyes fixed on the tableau you made.
"Cas," you said, your voice calm and warm, like you hadn't just been caught jerking off his friend's little brother. "Dean's not with you?"
"He's not" Castiel stepped into the room, his eyes still fixed on you and Sam. His head tilted, eyes fixed on the scene in front of him with an expression of mild curiosity. He looked utterly unbothered, like he'd walked in on the two of you sharing a cup of coffee instead of... well.
"I attempted to knock," he said, his voice flat and serious as always. "The door opened."
"Cas." Sam's voice was still strangled, his hands coming up to cover his face. "Cas, could you maybe-"
But you could feel the shift in him, the way his body had gone from frozen to trembling in a completely different way. His hips were still twitching against you, his breathing still uneven, and the sounds he was making-
You knew those sounds.
"Cas." you said, your voice smooth as honey. "Come here."
Castiel's head tilted further. "I don't think—"
"Come here." you repeated, and something in your voice must have triggered some long-forgotten instinct, because he stepped forward. Closer to the bed. Closer to the two of you.
Sam made a sound that was half protest and half plea, his hands still covering his face. But his hips were still moving, still grinding up against you in that desperate little rhythm, and you could feel the evidence of his arousal pressing against your thigh.
"Look at him," you murmured, reaching down to push Sam's hands away from his face. "Look at our Sammy, Cas. Look how pretty he is."
Castiel's gaze swept over the scene in front of him with unnerving focus. "He appears... distressed."
"He's not distressed." You stroked Sam's cheek, feeling the heat of his skin under your fingers. "Tell him, baby. Tell Cas how you're feeling."
Sam's eyes were huge, glassy, fixed on Castiel with an intensity that made something possessive curl in your chest. "I feel—feel good-"
"Of course you do, sweetheart." You traced your thumb over his lower lip, and he instinctively parted his mouth for you. "Use your words."
"I'm..." Sam swallowed hard, his gaze flickering to you, then back to Castiel. "I'm okay. I'm— I just..."
"Embarrassed." Castiel supplied, his voice matter-of-fact. "You feel embarrassed that I interrupted your mating ritual."
"Mating?" Sam spluttered. "That's not— we weren't—"
"I appreciate the attempt to be polite." Castiel said, and there was the barest hint of amusement in his voice. "But I am an angel. I saw what you were doing before I opened the door."
Sam made a strangled noise that might have been a whimper. His face was so red now that you were genuinely concerned about his circulation.
"Stop teasing him, Cas." You chuckled, and something flickered in Castiel's eyes—interest, maybe. "He's already embarassed. You're not making it better."
"I wasn't aware I was making it worse." Castiel said, but he stepped even closer to the bed.
"Where's Dean?" Sam sounded almost panicked. "He's not in the hallway, is he?"
"He is getting food. He'll be back in approximately twenty-three minutes." Castiel's gaze swept over the two of you again. "..That should be enough time."
You raised an eyebrow. "Enough time for what?"
Castiel looked at you, and there was something new in his expression, something you'd never seen on the angel's face before. "I am... curious," he admitted. "About the mechanics of human physical intimacy."
Sam made a sound that was half laugh and half sob. "Oh my God. Cas, you can't just- you can't just say things like that—"
Castiel tilted his head, clearly confused by Sam's reaction. "I have observed humans engaging in this activity for millennia. But I have never understood the appeal. The biological imperatives, yes. The spiritual significance in certain contexts, yes. But the actual experience..."
You could see where this was going. And more importantly, you could feel Sam's reaction, the way his body was practically vibrating with a mixture of embarrassment and... something else.
Something interesting.
"You want to find out," you said slowly. "What the appeal is."
Castiel's gaze met yours, steady and unwavering. "I would be... amenable. To an educational experience."
"Cas-" Sam's voice was hoarse, nothing shy of a whine, his eyes wide.
"Then come here." You reached out, grabbing Castiel's wrist and pulling him closer to the bed. "Stand right here. Watch."
Castiel complied, positioning himself at the edge of the mattress, looking down at the two of you with that same intense focus. Sam made another small sound, his hands coming up to cover his face again.
"No," you said, gently pulling his hands away. "No, sweetheart. I want you to look at him. I want him to see you."
"Please," Sam whispered, and you could hear the desperation in his voice. "Please, I don't think I can-"
"You can." You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "You can, baby. I know you can. You're so good for me, aren't you? So good and so brave."
Sam nodded frantically, his eyes still fixed on Castiel.
"Look at him," you murmured, running your hands down Sam's chest. "Look at how he's watching you. Do you like that, sweetheart? Do you like having an audience?"
Sam made a sound that was definitely a whimper. His hips bucked up against you involuntarily.
"I'll take that as a yes." You grinned, sharp and knowing. "You're such a little exhibitionist, aren't you? Getting off on being watched. On people seeing how desperate you are for me."
"Please," Sam breathed. "Please, I need-"
"I know what you need." You reached down and finally, finally pulled his jeans down, exposing him completely. His cock sprang free, hard and red and already leaking against his stomach. "Look at that, Cas. Isn't he pretty?"
Castiel's eyes dropped to Sam's dick, and he made a small sound of interest. "It appears... functional."
"Functional." You laughed, low and pleased. "It's much more than functional, Cas. Do you want to see what it can do?"
Sam made a sound of protest, but his hips were still moving, still thrusting up into the air like he couldn't help himself.
"I am interested in the... mechanics," Castiel admitted, and there was something different in his voice now, something almost curious. "I have never understood why humans are so obsessed with this particular activity."
"Then let me teach you." You reached down, wrapping your hand around Sam's cock. He gasped, his whole body arching off the bed. "Sam's a very good student, aren't you, baby? Very responsive. Very vocal."
Sam made a sound that was almost a sob. "Please don't— I can't— when you talk like that—"
"When I talk like what, sweetheart?" You stroked him slowly, deliberately, watching his eyes flutter closed. "When I tell everyone how good you are for me? How you spread your legs so prettily and take whatever I give you?"
"Fuck," Sam gasped. "Fuck, I'm going to come if you keep-"
"Not yet." You released him, ignoring his desperate whine. "I'm not done showing Cas what a good little slut you are for me."
Castiel made a sound of interest. "You refer to him with words that are typically derogatory. But the tone you use is... affectionate."
"Because he is." You reached down and stroked Sam's cheek. "He's my good little slut, aren't you, Sammy? You love it when I call you that, don't you? When I tell everyone exactly what you are."
Sam nodded frantically. "Yes. Yes, I love it. I love when you- when you show me off-"
"He likes being seen." you explained to Castiel. "He likes being watched. It makes him feel wanted. Desired. Is that right, sweetheart?"
"Yes," Sam breathed. "Yesyes."
You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Now let me show Cas how you take care of me. Let me show him what that pretty mouth of yours can do."
Sam's eyes went wide, and he looked between you and Castiel with something like sudden understanding. "You want me to—"
"I want you to show him," you said simply. "Show him how you use your mouth. I know you were curious about that, weren't you, Cas?"
Castiel's expression flickered: surprise, maybe, or interest. "I... yes. I have observed humans engaging in oral intercourse. I have never understood the appeal."
"Then let Sammy show you." You shifted position, moving to straddle Sam's hips properly. "He's very good at it, aren't you, baby? You always make me feel so good with that clever mouth of yours."
Sam was breathing hard, his eyes fixed on Castiel. "I— I mean, if you want—"
"He wants." You reached down and guided Sam's cock to your entrance, sinking down onto him slowly. His groan was choked, his hands flying to your hips. "I want to take care of you, sweetheart. And I want you to take care of Cas."
Castiel was watching with intense concentration, his head tilted, his eyes fixed on the point where your bodies joined. "The mechanics are... interesting."
"They're more than interesting." You started to move, slow and steady, feeling Sam's cock slide deep inside you. "They're incredible. It feels incredible, doesn't it, Sam?"
Sam's response was a moan, high and desperate. "Yes. Yes, it feels— you feel so good—"
"I know, baby." You reached down and stroked his cheek, your rhythm never faltering. "I know. Now show Cas what that pretty mouth can do. Turn your head."
Sam turned his head obediently, and suddenly he was face to face with Castiel's crotch. His eyes went wide, and he looked up at you with something like panic.
"I don't- I've never-"
"Never what, sweetheart?" You rode him a little faster, a little harder. "Never been with a man before? Never been with an angel?"
Sam shook his head frantically. "I've never- I don't know if I'll be any good-"
"Oh, don't worry." You grinned down at him, sharp and knowing. "You'll be amazing. You always are."
You reached out and unzipped Castiel's pants, pulling out his cock. He wasn't fully hard yet, but he was getting there, his body responding to the situation in ways he clearly hadn't expected.
"See?" You stroked him gently, feeling him harden under your touch. "He likes you, Sam. He likes you a lot."
Sam's eyes were fixed on Castiel's cock, his mouth slightly open. He looked nervous but also... curious.
"I don't— I don't know what to do." he admitted.
"Just follow your instincts," you told him, still moving above him, still feeling him deep inside you. "Start slow. Use your tongue. And don't forget to breathe."
Sam took a shaky breath and leaned forward, pressing a tentative kiss to the head of Castiel's cock. The angel made a small sound of surprise, his hand coming up to rest on Sam's head.
"That is... different," Castiel said, his voice slightly strained. "I was not expecting that sensation."
"Better than you expected?" you asked, still riding Sam in a steady rhythm.
"I... yes. It is surprisingly pleasant."
Sam, emboldened by Castiel's reaction, opened his mouth and took the head of the angel's cock inside. Castiel's breath caught, his fingers tightening in Sam's hair.
"Good boy," you murmured, watching the scene unfold in front of you. "That's it, sweetheart. Take your time. Show him how good you are."
Sam moaned around Castiel's cock, the vibrations making the angel gasp. He started to move his head, slowly at first, then with more confidence.
"His mouth," Castiel said, his voice strained. "His mouth is—"
"Amazing?" you suggested. "Incredible? The best you've ever had?"
"I have never had," Castiel admitted, his voice strained. "But I am beginning to understand the appeal."
Sam was getting into it now, his head bobbing as he took more of Castiel's length into his mouth. His hands came up to rest on the angel's hips, pulling him closer.
"Look at him," you said, still riding Sam, feeling him pulse inside you. "Look at our Sammy, taking care of you. He's so good, isn't he? So eager to please."
"Very... eager, ah-" Castiel agreed, his voice tight. "He is very skilled."
"Of course he is." You grinned down at Sam, who couldn't see you, his eyes closed, focused on the task at hand. "He's my good boy, aren't you, sweetheart? My perfect little boy, always so eager to make me proud."
Sam groaned around Castiel's cock, the sound vibrating through both of you. His hips were jerking under you, his rhythm becoming more erratic as he got closer to the edge.
"Don't come yet." you commanded. "Not until I tell you."
Sam whimpered in protest but obeyed, his movements stilling slightly as he fought to hold back his orgasm. His mouth never stopped working on Castiel, though, and the angel was making increasingly unangelic sounds.
"This is... very good.." Castiel admitted, his voice strained.
"Feels good, doesn't it?" you asked, reaching out to stroke the angel's hair.
Castiel's gaze met yours, and something in his eyes shifted. "Yes," he admitted. "It does."
"Then let go." you told him. "Let it happen. Sammy's got you."
Sam chose that moment to take Castiel's entire length into his throat, and the angel made a sound that was almost a groan. His hips bucked forward involuntarily, and Sam didn't fight it, just took it with a happy moan.
"Goooood boy," you praised, now reaching down to stroke Sam's hair instead. "Such a good boy. You're doing so well, sweetheart. I'm so proud of you."
Sam moaned again, and you could feel his whole body vibrating with the need to come. But he held back, following your command, his jaw working Castiel's cock even as he fought for control.
"He's very- ah, obedient." Castiel observed, his voice strained. "He follows your instructions perfectly."
"He does." You were close now, so close, riding Sam harder and faster. "He's my good boy, aren't you, Sammy? My perfect boy."
Sam whimpered around Castiel's cock, his hips jerking under you.
"Almost there," you gasped. "Almost there, baby. You feel so good. So fucking good."
Sam doubled his efforts on Castiel, taking him deep, then deeper, his throat working around the angel's length. Castiel's grip in his hair tightened, and the angel made a sound that was almost human.
"Sam," Castiel said, his voice strained. "I- you should-"
"Come," you commanded. "Come for him, Cas. Show him how good he is. Show him what he does to you."
Sam's eyes flew open as he felt the angel come in his mouth. He swallowed it all, still working his throat, still making those needy little sounds as Castiel's grip tightened almost painfully.
"Fuck," Sam gasped out a cough, when he finally pulled off Castiel. "Fuck, that was-"
"Not done." Your rhythm was growing more frantic, chasing your own pleasure. "Not yet, baby. You haven't come yet."
"I can't— I won't be able to hold on much longer—"
"Then don't." You reached down, grinding against him with the perfect angle.
Sam's entire body went rigid, his back arching off the bed, his cry muffled against Castiel's thigh as he turned his head. You felt him pulse inside you, felt his release flood your core, and that was all it took to push you over the edge.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing and the muffled neon hum outside.
Sam collapsed against the pillow, his chest heaving, his eyes closed. He looked utterly wrecked and incredibly satisfied. Castiel had found a chair and sat down heavily, still fully dressed except for the zipper of his pants being down, looking slightly dazed.
You stretched out beside Sam, pulling the blanket up over the two of you, one arm draped possessively over his chest and the other reaching out towards Castiel. The angel's fingers twitched, hesitating, before he reached out to grasp your hand.
"So," you said, your voice low and satisfied. "Did that answer your questions about the appeal of human intimacy, Cas?"
He considered the question seriously, tilting his head in that familiar, birdlike gesture. "It seems," he said slowly, choosing each word with care, "that the appeal is... significant. Though I suspect the particular participants in this educational exercise may have skewed the sample."
Sam made a sound that was trying to be a laugh but came out like a whimper. "I really hope Dean doesn't find out about this."
"Dean is bringing tacos," Castiel said, and there was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. "I suspect he would find the explanation... less digestible than the tacos."
Sam snorted, trying to hide his face in your shoulder.
You grinned, pressing a kiss to his forehead, and then standing to find your clothes. The motel room's bathroom light flickered overhead as you passed, casting strange shadows across the rumpled bed.
"So what's next?" you asked, digging through your duffel bag. "Research? Dean's going to have questions about the lore books we were supposed to be reading."
"You are welcome to invent a plausible explanation." Castiel had stood up now after having fixed his zipper, adjusting his tie. "I will confirm whatever story you choose to tell."
"As long as it doesn't implicate me in this..." Sam pulled himself up, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. "I mean, Dean is never going to let me live this down if he finds out."
"He's not going to find out," you said, zipping up your jeans and padding over to press a kiss to Sam's lips. "You worry too much, baby. I've got you covered."
Sam smiled, soft and warm, and you felt your heart skip a beat. Damn. You were definitely in trouble.
"At least let me put a shirt on before he gets back," Sam muttered, accepting the offering.
"I don't know," you said, pretending to consider. "Maybe I like seeing you like this. All marked up and wrecked."
His cheeks flushed a deep pink that went all the way to his ears. "You're going to be the death of me."
~♡ꜝꜞ ❝ 𝓖ogo Dancer ❞
────── · · Castiel Novak ( s4 ) x fem ! reader ( destiel and dean x reader cameos )
a / n : COMPLETELY HYPNOTIZED AND ENTRANCED CASTIEL COMING UP RNNNN!!!!!
character/s featured. castiel novak .ᐟ sam winchester .ᐟ dean winchester .ᐟ
rating: fluff .ᐟ
🏷 ,, ( @r4wrr3-xpp )
requesting rules. masterlist.
The neon sign flickered erratically above the entrance of "The Velvet Noose," casting an intermittent crimson glow across the rain-slicked pavement. Dean killed the Impala's engine and turned to face the backseat, a wicked grin already spreading across his face.
"Alright, sweetheart," he said, his green eyes dancing with barely contained amusement. "You ready to go back to your roots?"
You practically bounced in your seat, fingers already itching for the duffel bag at your feet. "Dean, I have been waiting for this moment since you told me we were hunting a succubus. Do you have any idea how long it's been since I've been on a real stage?"
"Too long?" Sam offered from the passenger seat, his own lips twitching despite his best efforts to maintain a serious demeanor.
"Too long," you confirmed, unzipping the bag and pulling out the garment bag containing your costume. "I was fifteen when I started, you know. Little thing, barely weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet, but I could work that pole like nobody's business. Made enough to keep myself fed and housed until John found me."
Castiel, who had been sitting silently beside you in the backseat, tilted his head in that curious way of his. His blue eyes, impossibly old yet somehow innocent in their confusion, studied you with an intensity that made your stomach flutter. "You performed labor at fifteen years of age? That seems... young."
"Honey," you laughed, reaching over to pat his cheek. He leaned into the touch almost imperceptibly, and you pretended not to notice how his eyes fluttered half-closed. "You have no idea."
Dean snorted from the front seat, and Sam shot him a warning look that did absolutely nothing to wipe the smirk off his face. "Cas, buddy, you're in for a real treat tonight."
Castiel's brow furrowed further. "I do not understand. We are here to investigate a succubus. Why would witnessing the hunt be a treat?"
"Because you're not witnessing the hunt," you said, already reaching for the door handle. "You and the boys are going to be patrons at the bar. I'm going to be inside."
"Inside where?"
"The club," you clarified, stepping out into the cool night air. You leaned back into the car, meeting Castiel's confused gaze. "I'm going to be a gogo dancer tonight. Undercover. Succubus are drawn to places with high energy, lots of movement, lots of... well, let's call it creative expression. They feed on desire, and there's no better place to find that than in a club."
Castiel's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "You are going to... dance?"
"Like I haven't done in years," you said, and you couldn't keep the giddy grin off your face. "This is going to be so much fun."
You grabbed your bag and headed for the side entrance, the employee entrance, where one of the club's managers was already waiting. You'd called ahead, used some old contacts, got yourself a guest spot. It was almost too perfect.
The moment you disappeared through the door, Dean turned in his seat to face Castiel fully. The angel was staring at the door you'd just walked through with an expression of pure, unadulterated confusion.
"She seems... remarkably happy about this undercover disguise," Castiel said slowly. "Is that not unusual for a hunt? Should she not be more cautious?"
Sam finally let out the laugh he'd been holding in, covering his mouth with his hand and pretending to cough. Dean, however, had no such restraint. He threw his head back and laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that filled the Impala.
"Oh, Cas," Dean wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye. "Oh, man. You really have no idea, do you?"
"Idea of what, Dean?" Castiel's voice carried that particular edge of frustration that only ever seemed to surface when Dean was being deliberately obtuse. "I am an angel of the Lord. I have witnessed the creation of stars and the birth of civilizations. I—"
"Yeah, yeah, you're old and wise, we get it," Dean cut him off, still chuckling. "But you haven't seen this."
Castiel's frown deepened. "I do not understand why you are both behaving so strangely. This is a simple hunt. We will locate the succubus, we will kill it, and then we will leave."
"Uh-huh," Dean said, already reaching for the door handle. "Simple. Sure. Come on, let's get inside. I want a good table."
The bass thrummed through the floorboards of The Velvet Noose, a dive bar that had seen better decades and probably several exorcisms. Neon signs flickered in the corners, casting everything in shades of sickly green and bruised purple. The place smelled like stale beer, desperation, and something distinctly sulfurous, which, given that they were hunting a succubus, was probably not just the cheap whiskey.
Dean Winchester nursed his beer with the practiced ease of a man who had spent more time in establishments like this than in actual homes. His eyes swept the room with casual surveillance, cataloging every exit, every potential threat, every patron who looked too interested in the dancers. Sam sat beside him, doing much the same but with less beer.
And then there was Castiel.
The angel sat rigidly on the barstool between them, his posture so straight it would have made a Marine Corps drill sergeant weep with pride. His trench coat hung off his shoulders like a protective shell—or maybe a security blanket, Dean thought with an internal snicker. Those impossibly blue eyes darted around the room with the bewildered intensity of a deer caught in headlights, if that deer had also just been told that humans willingly paid money to watch other humans writhe around metal poles.
"This establishment is… loud.." Castiel stated, his voice flat but carrying that particular note of confusion that Dean had come to recognize as his "I don't understand humanity" voice.
"That's kind of the point, Cas." Dean replied, taking a long pull from his bottle. "Bars are supposed to be loud. Helps people forget their problems. Or find new ones."
"I do not understand why we cannot simply find the succubus and smite her. This elaborate deception seems… inefficient."
"Because, feathers." Dean said, leaning in with a grin that promised mischief, "succubi don't exactly walk around with little name tags saying 'Hello, I'm a demon, please exorcise me.' They blend in. They hide. And the best way to catch a predator is to look like easy prey."
Castiel's brow furrowed, that adorable little crease appearing between his eyes. "Our hunter is not prey. She is highly trained and capable. I have witnessed her dispatch three vampires with nothing but a machete and considerable enthusiasm."
"Sweetheart's something else, isn't she?" Dean's grin widened as he caught the almost imperceptible way Castiel's posture shifted at the mention of you. The angel's eyes, if possible, grew even more intense. "That's why she's perfect for this part of the plan. She knows these places. Grew up in them, basically."
"I am aware of her history." Castiel said, and there was something protective in his voice, something fierce that made Dean's eyebrows shoot up.
Sam snorted into his water glass, covering it with a cough.
The angel cut him off with a sharp look. "Where is she? She has been gone for thirty-seven minutes. That seems excessive for changing one's attire."
Dean and Sam exchanged a look. The kind of look that brothers share when they're both thinking the same deeply amused thought and are trying not to laugh.
"She's getting ready, Cas." Sam said, his voice carefully neutral. "You know, for her undercover role."
"But she is a hunter. She does not require elaborate preparation to be effective. I have seen her fight in her civilian clothing and she was perfectly capable."
"Trust me, man," Dean said, barely containing his glee, "this is different. This requires… preparation. And probably some sparkle. She looooves the sparkle."
Castiel's expression didn't change, but something in his eyes flickered. "I do not understand."
"Just wait,. Dean said, settling back in his seat with the air of a man about to watch his favorite TV show. "You'll get it when you see it."
The minutes stretched on. Castiel continued his rigid surveillance of the room, though his gaze kept drifting to the stage area, to the backstage door, to any sign of you. Dean watched him with barely concealed amusement, filing away every micro-expression for future teasing material.
"She is a very capable hunter." Castiel said, apropos of nothing. "Her skills are impressive. The way she handles a blade is remarkably fluid. Almost like dancing, in a way."
"Dancing," Dean repeated, his voice flat. "You think her fighting looks like dancing."
"I did not say-" Castiel's face did something complicated. "I simply meant that she is graceful. In a combative context. Not that I have observed her in any other context that would require- this is not what I intended to convey."
Sam's face was turning red from the effort of not laughing.
"Cas," Dean said slowly, savoring every syllable, "are you saying you think our dear girl is graceful?"
"She is adequate." A pause. "More than adequate. She is… exceptionally adequate."
"Wow. High praise from the angel of the Lord."
Before Castiel could press further, the lights in the club began to dim. A hush fell over the crowd, and a voice crackled over the speakers:
"Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for our special guest tonight—FIRECRACKER!"
Dean's smirk could have lit up the entire club. "Here she comes," he murmured, and there was a note of genuine fondness in his voice.
Castiel turned toward him, his brow furrowed. "Firecracker? That is not her name. Her name is-"
Dean leaned in, his hand reaching out to grip Castiel's chin, turning the angel's head firmly toward the stage. "No, buddy. That's her. Watch."
And then you appeared.
The lights dimmed to a smoky haze, and there you were, bathed in a spotlight that caught every curve, every shimmer of the white lace that was barely holding onto your body. The lingerie was delicate, almost ethereal: a confection of lace and silk that somehow covered everything while leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. You moved to the music like water, like liquid fire, like you were born to be up there.
Castiel's mind went completely blank.
Not the kind of blank that comes from contemplation or prayer or any of the other things angels do. This was the kind of blank that comes from a complete and total system failure. His higher cognitive functions: the ones that processed language, tactical information, the nature of the divine, all of them just… stopped.
There was only you.
The way your body moved around the pole was hypnotic. You weren't just dancing; you were commanding the stage, owning it, making every patron in the room forget their own names. Your hair, usually pulled back in practical hunter style, was loose and wild, catching the light like spun silk. The curve of your spine, the flex of your muscles as you twisted, the way your legs seemed to go on forever, wrapped around that silver pole like you were made of honey and sin.
Castiel's lips parted. His pupils dilated. His breath
"Good boy." Dean murmured, his hand still holding Castiel's chin. He lifted his beer to his lips with his free hand, watching the angel's reaction with the satisfaction of a master fisherman reeling in a prize catch. "There you go, buddy. Just look. Don't try to think. Your brain can't handle this."
Sam nearly choked on his water. The side-eye he shot Dean could have curdled milk. "Dean, what the fuck—"
"Shh.. shh.." Dean hushed him mockingly, not taking his eyes off Castiel's wrecked expression. "Let him have this moment. It's his first time. He's learning about humanity."
He looked back down at Castiel's infatuated expression.
"We've all been there, buddy. Well, Sam and I have. The pining is a rite of passage."
"The.. pining." Castiel repeated, sounding completely out of it.
"Dean, seriously." Sam cut in. "Can you not?"
"I'm being supportive!" Dean protested. "This is me being supportive! I'm helping him process his feelings!"
"Your version of 'helping' is literally the worst."
"You love me."
"I really, really don't right now."
But neither of them could look away from the scene unfolding before them. Because Castiel, the angel of the Lord, the soldier of Heaven, the being who had witnessed the creation of stars and the fall of Lucifer himself, was completely, utterly, irrevocably gone.
His eyebrows were drawn together in that particular expression of vulnerability that Dean had only ever seen in the faces of those under him while tangled on the sheets. His eyes were wide, glassy, and filled with something that looked terrifyingly like worship. His pupils had blown so wide that his irises were almost invisible, twin pools of darkness in a sea of blue. His lips were slightly parted, pouty and soft, and there was a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
On stage, you continued your dance. You spun around the pole, your body a perfect line of grace and power. You dipped low, rose high, made eye contact with the crowd like you were sharing a secret with each and every one of them. The lace of your outfit caught the light, and Castiel made a sound: a tiny, strangled noise that might have been a prayer or might have been the last coherent thought in his head escaping through his lips.
"There it is." Dean whispered, almost reverently. "There it is right there."
"What is it?" Sam asked, despite himself.
"A man who's about to have a spiritual crisis. And I'm here for it." Dean finally released Castiel's chin, settling back in his seat with a satisfied sigh. "This is better than pay-per-view."
The dance continued for another few minutes. Castiel didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't seem to remember that he was supposed to be a functioning being with responsibilities and a divine purpose. He just watched, completely transfixed, as you moved through your routine with the confidence and joy of someone who was exactly where they were meant to be.
And you were glowing. That was the thing that struck Castiel most, even through the fog of his completely scrambled brain. You were so happy up there, so alive, so utterly in your element. The smile on your face was genuine, not the practiced smile of someone performing but the real, radiant joy of someone doing something they loved. Your laughter as you interacted with the crowd was infectious, and even from the back of the bar, Castiel could feel its warmth.
This was you. This was the woman who had survived the loss of her family, who had rebuilt herself from the ashes, who had turned pain into power and made it look effortless. This was the hunter who had saved his life twice now, who never hesitated to throw herself into danger, who always had a joke ready even when the situation was hopeless. This was the woman he had been watching for weeks now, the one who made his vessel's heart beat faster for no apparent reason, the one whose smile he found himself seeking out without conscious thought.
And she was beautiful. So beautiful that it ached.
Your eyes found the table where the boys were sitting, and you winked. A quick, playful gesture that was probably meant for Dean but had Castiel sucking in a breath like he'd just been punched.
"Heaven help me.." Castiel breathed, and the words were so quiet that only Dean, with his hunter's hearing, could catch them.
Dean snorted. "Oh, I don't think Heaven's got anything to do with this, buddy."
The music ended. The lights shifted. You blew a kiss to the crowd and disappeared backstage, leaving the audience—and one very shell-shocked angel—wanting more.
Castiel's hands had curled into fists on the table. The wood beneath his fingers creaked ominously, and Sam reached over to gently uncurl the angel's grip.
"Easy, Cas." Sam murmured. "you gonna crack it."
Castiel didn't even acknowledge him. His gaze was locked on where you had just stood moments ago. He continued to stare at the empty stage for a long moment. Then another. Then another.
"Cas?" Sam waved a hand in front of his face. "You still with us?"
No response.
"Buddy, I think we broke him." Dean observed, not sounding particularly sorry. "We probably shouldn't have done that."
"We absolutely should not have done that." Sam agreed. "His brain is going to need a factory reset."
"I don't think angels work like that."
"I don't think angels work like this either, Dean. Look at him. He's not even blinking."
It was true. Castiel's eyes remained fixed on the spot where you had been, his expression frozen in that same state of awe and confusion. His mouth was still slightly open. His breathing, another thing he'd apparently started doing recently, was shallow and rapid.
"Hey, Cas." Dean snapped his fingers in front of the angel's face. "Earth to angel. Come in, Castiel."
Castiel blinked. Once. Slowly. "What did.. what was.."
"That was a gogo dancer, Cas. That's what she was doing. Gogo dancing. It's a thing. People pay money to watch women in skimpy outfits dance on poles. Have been doing it for decades, probably centuries in some form or another. Part of the human experience. You know, culture."
Castiel turned to look at Dean. His eyes were still wide, still glassy, but there was something else in them now—something that might have been horror, if horror looked like awe.
"She was wearing white," he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Dean blinked. "Yeah? And?"
"The color suits her," Castiel continued, his voice dreamy and distant. "Her skin seemed to glow against it, and the fabric was thin enough that I could see—"
"Okay, that's enough-" Sam interrupted quickly. "We don't need the play-by-play."
"Sam's right," Dean agreed, though he was clearly fighting a grin. "Some things are better left to the imagination."
"The imagination," Castiel repeated, his brow furrowing. "I don't need my imagination. I can still see her clearly. Her chest—"
"CAS!" Sam and Dean shouted in unison.
Castiel blinked, looking between them. "What?"
"You can't just-" Sam ran a hand over his face. "You can't just say things like that. It's... it's not appropriate."
"I was merely describing what I observed," Castiel said, genuinely confused.
"Yeah, well, don't." Dean pointed a finger at him.
"She is… comfortable… in this environment."
"Very comfortable. Look at her." Dean gestured toward the backstage area, where you had just emerged. You were dressed again in your civilian clothes (jeans and a fitted tank top, boots that had seen better days) but you were still radiating that post-performance glow. Your hair was a little mussed, your cheeks flushed, and you were laughing at something one of the other dancers had said.
You looked happier than Castiel had ever seen you.
"Is that because of the dancing?" the angel asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "She was… joyous."
"Probably, yeah. Like I said, it's her thing. It's where she feels at home."
Castiel's jaw worked, but no sound came out. His hands, which had been resting on the table, had curled into fists. His knuckles were white.
"Okay, you need to calm down." Sam said, noticing the tension. "She's fine. She's happy. This is a good thing."
"She was…" Castiel swallowed hard. "She was…"
"Pretty hot, right? I mean, I've known her for years, so I'm immune, but you haven't had that long to build up an immunity. That was probably a lot to take in."
"I am immune to everything." Castiel said stiffly. "I am an angel. I do not experience attraction in the human sense. My vessel's biology is irrelevant to my divine-"
"Your vessel's biology is making your face go red, Cas." Dean was grinning again. "Just so you know."
Castiel's hand flew to his cheek as if he could feel the heat himself. "That is… this is… it is merely a physiological response to the ambient temperature of the establishment."
"It's like freezing cold in here."
"Then I am… warm. For no reason. Which is completely possible and not at all indicative of any emotional response to witnessing… that."
"'That' being Sweetheart wrapping herself around a pole like she was born to it?"
"I do not wish to discuss this further."
"Noted. But just so you know, I'm going to bring it up every chance I get for the rest of your immortal existence."
Castiel was saved from having to respond by your arrival at the table. You slid into the booth beside Dean, your energy practically crackling with residual performance adrenaline. You were beaming, your eyes bright with joy, and your smile was so genuine that even Sam found himself smiling back.
"God, I missed that." you said, reaching for Dean's beer and taking a sip. "I haven't done that in years. I forgot how good it feels."
"Looked like you were having fun up there, sweetcheeks." Dean said, his voice warm. "Good to see you in your element."
"I was having a blast." You leaned forward, lowering your voice conspiratorially. "Speaking of elements, I got a hit. The succubus isn't just working here, she's living in an apartment above the bar. Second floor, back corner. I got the address from one of the other girls."
"Nice work." Sam said, pulling out his phone to jot down the information. "That'll make this a lot easier. We can hit her place after closing."
"Perfect. I also got a look at her—tall, blonde, wearing way too much purple. She was watching me dance." You shivered slightly. "Creepy. Not in a human way. In a 'I want to eat your soul' kind of way."
"Classic succubus behavior. They like to pick their targets."
Your eyes drifted to Castiel, who had been silent since you sat down. "Cas? You okay? You look… kind of like you've seen a ghost. And we've seen a lot of ghosts, so I know that look."
Castiel opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. His eyes were fixed on you, and there was something in them that made your breath catch—something raw and hungry and completely unguarded. It was the look of a man who had just had his entire worldview upended and was trying to figure out how to rebuild it.
"I am… fine," he managed. "I am merely… processing."
"Processing what?"
Dean snorted, the sound breaking the tension. "Cas is just having a moment, Sweetheart. He's never seen a gogo dance before. It was a lot for him to take in."
"Oh my God." You turned to Castiel, your eyes widening with realization. "Did you watch my whole set?"
"I… did." The words came out strangled.
"Shit." Your cheeks flushed, though not from performance afterglow this time. "I didn't think about that. I mean, I knew you were going to be here, but I thought you'd be… I don't know. Looking for the demon. Not watching me."
"I was looking for the demon," Castiel said, and it might have been convincing if his eyes hadn't dropped to your chest for half a second before snapping back up. "I was… thoroughly searching the environment for supernatural threats. The stage was included in my search."
"Uh-huh." You raised an eyebrow. "And did you find any supernatural threats on stage?"
"Only… you. And you are not a threat. You are…"
He trailed off, and Dean pounced. "She's what, Cas? Finish that sentence. We're all dying to hear."
"I will not be baited, Dean."
"Come on, just say it. You were thinking it. I saw your face. You had 'pretty' written all over it. And 'oh no, what is happening to my celestial body.'"
I miss when ads were a single click and then they’re gone. Now every ad has a minimum of three phases where you watch a video, exit the still frame of fake gameplay, and then exit the app download. That doesn’t even touch on the ones that forcibly take you to another app after opening a tab in safari without you ever touching the screen.
I hate advertising. I hate that you can’t do anything without companies jumping down your throat with mostly bullshit ads. I hate that billboards exist. I hate that every company unanimously decided to make their ads longer and longer. I hate that ad blockers try to charge you money and there are in app purchases to remove ads. I hate that my attention has become commodified. I hate that there’s nothing I can do about it.
“i’ve heard virgins get wet real quick. is that true?”
his eyes are twin pools of tar, a darkness so profound that you fear if you stare too long, you’ll be pulled beneath the surface, never to find your way back to the light. you drop your gaze to his lips instead—the full, lush red of cherries in late spring.
“…guess there’s only one way to find out,”
the words leave your lips with an airy lightness, intended to sound noncommittal, though they sound anything but, with your pulse hammering erratically against your eardrums. shifting from his haunches, tate rises onto his knees, stance parting wide, and your gaze inevitably drifts to the distinct tent straining against dark denim. he’s hard; violently so. you draw a sharp breath when his palm cup your breast, his fingers flexing in a tentative yet firm squeeze. tate smirks, indentations in his cheeks. for a fleeting moment, you catch a glimpse of the boy you first fell in love with. everything will be okay, won’t it?
