Haaaiii! I was wondering if I may request a vessel x reader fic with some fluffy smut. I don’t really have anything else to request because I like how your works flow, so if you have specifics you’d like to ask me you can. Or you can take it and run with it. Or choose not to do it. I’m rambling, sorry. 😅🫶🏻
fluffy smut + breathplay and marking (as requested via DMs), which wound up slotting perfectly into day 8 of kinktober - breathplay. hope you enjoy!
tw: breathplay, marking/biting
ao3
MINORS DNI
hooked on the hitch in your breath (vessel x gn!reader, sleep token)
Backstage is a riot of activity, as it always is before a ritual, but the thud of shoes and the din of the crew shouting instructions to each other - and beyond that, the muted roar of the crowd - barely manages to register over the rush of your breath in Vessel’s ears.
Your throat bobs as his teeth work a bruise into your flesh, the swell of his thumb tucked against your chin. Your breath huffs through your nose at the brush of incisors over skin razed tender by teeth and tongue, his name a reedy gasp, trembling, on the edge of your lips.
A subtle tightening of his fingers along the back of your throat breaks the syllables in two, your breath hitching against his lips, pulse quick against his tongue. Your fingers curl tightly in the folds of his cloak, knuckles brushing against his chest - lightly at first, until Vessel slots his body against yours, forcing your palm flat, fingers splaying along his sternum.
“ - ah,” he hears, a soft breath hissed from between your teeth. Your fingertips flinch against his flesh, a tremor running through your palm. You’re so afraid to touch him - really touch him - lest you leave some trace of yourself behind, smudge the paint coating his skin, as if Vessel wouldn’t welcome it, as if he wouldn’t wear the mark with pride.
“Touch me,” he urges you, breath thick against your throat.
“Vessel,” you groan, low, urgent, even as your fingers curl against his chest, the edge of a nail dragging sharply across his sternum. “Vessel, there’s no time.”
“We’ll make time,” he rasps, hungry, insistent, tracing the line of your throat with the pad of his thumb. You swallow roughly and his dick jumps at the sensation of your skin undulating against his palm, his breath hitching in time with yours as he squeezes at your flesh and feels the tripping of your pulse beneath his fingertips.
His other hand winds around your hip and drags you firmly against him, his mouth parting at the delicate friction of your sex against his. Your flesh shivers beneath his hand, a trapped moan trembling in the column of your throat, and Vessel wastes little time in setting a rhythm that has your head slumping back and your pulse jumping beneath the splay of his painted fingers.
Broken gasps spill from your parted lips as he grinds against you, quickly swallowed by the din backstage, but Vessel can feel them still, each muted whimper and hot puff of breath burning through his blood until he’s nearly insensate with desire, hips hitching against yours and tongue dragging hotly along the arch of your throat.
“Ves-sel,” you cry out softly, his name breaking in the middle as he squeezes once more at the delicate arch of your throat. Your fingers spasm against his chest and he gathers them up between his own, pressing them against the strip of flesh that cradles his heart and feeling your throat jump as you hear the muffled pounding of his pulse.
“This is your doing,” he rasps fiercely, fitting his teeth to the deepening bruise he’d coaxed into your flesh and dragging his incisors along the swath of hot, tender skin. You whine at the sting, jerking feebly in the circle of his arms, and in a fit of madness Vessel imagines disregarding the ritual and taking you on stage instead, driving himself into your warmth even as the crowd roars its approval. How hard your throat might hitch around its moans then. How sweetly you might sing.
“Oh god,” you moan, the syllables garbled on your tongue as you jerk against him, fingertips digging furrows into the paint coating his chest. Vessel can feel it flaking off beneath your nails, smudging your flesh with traces of thick, dark pigment, and satisfaction burns hotly in the pit of his stomach as he realizes there will be no time to fix it, not before he’s rushed on stage.
The thought of you marking him as indelibly as he had marked you rips a moan from Vessel’s throat, hips driving against yours as a familiar heat begins to coil at the base of his spine - a heat he can feel reflected in the sensuous curve of your body as it grinds feverishly against his, a heat he’ll carry with him long after he’s departed from your desperate embrace, a heat he knows the crowd will feel the moment he descends onto the stage.
A heat he’ll return to you, deep into the night and all the nights after, for as long as you’ll have him.
For the February drabbles- fluffy Dean, birthday. Thank you!
“Okay, this is the only gift I have for you, so I really hope you like it,” you blushed as you handed him the box. It was after hours, so it was the two of you inside his room alone after everyone had gone to sleep. Sam, Castiel, and Jack had given him their gift, but you wanted yours to be more intimate when he opened it.
Just like a little kid, he ripped through the wrapper, excited to get to the juicy center. Because he was such a sucker for sentiment, you had all the pictures you had of the two of you and made that into a photo album. It took a lot of work, but you did it.
“What is this?” he asked in a shocked voice, opening the book.
“I had all our pictures printed, and I made this book. I decorated it cute, and I just wanted you to have something special.”
“This is amazing,” he smiled as he flipped through the pages. Each picture was different, but they all hold a special place in his heart.
“Do you like it?”
“I love it,” he admitted, setting it aside to kiss you properly. As you molded your lips with his, you took a seat next to him.
“Go ahead and look through the whole book,” you muttered against his lips, pulling away after a few seconds. He smiled widely before doing so, excited that you made this for him.
This fic was written for my own “Jen Said What?” Challenge. (for those who are curious, all the prompts are lines I have actually said to people in real life, and they are pretty funny.) There are loads left, so if you want to enter, click here for the master post. My prompt is: “Whose clothes are you wearing? I dunno. Where are your clothes? I dunno. What’s with all the questions?
“You, Sam Winchester, can go fuck yourself!” You shrieked furiously as you slammed out of the kitchen just as Dean was entering.
Dean looked his brother. “What did you do? She sounds really pissed.”
Sam didn’t look too happy either. “Do you see what she’s wearing?”
His brother couldn’t help but grin. “I like that dress. It shows off her....”
“I know!” Sam exploded. “She’s going out drinking with her friends tonight, and if she wears that, the guys will be all over her. All I did was tell her that she might want to wear something a little less revealing.”
Dean just shook his head. You big, stupid Moose. Tell me you didn’t tell her to change. You did, didn’t you?” When Sam’s face flushed, he had his answer. “You moron! And I bet you said something stupid like ‘don’t want them to get the wrong idea’.”
“Fuck you, Dean!” Sam snapped as he left the kitchen, Dean hot on his heels. There was no way he was missing this show.
You were halfway up the steps when they came out. “For the record, I think you look great,” Dean told you cheekily.
“Wait, Y/N, I didn’t mean....” Sam began.
You held up a hand. “I know exactly what you meant, Sam.” You snapped as you wrenched open the heavy door. “Don’t wait up.”
It was around two in the morning when you finally came home because Sam was still awake. When he heard you making a ton of noise, knocking things over and giggling he went to check on you. “Are you okay, Y/N?”
Your head was buried in the freezer, and you were rummaging around inside. “Found it!” You said happily as you began eating chocolate peanut butter ice cream right out of the container.
Sam instantly took notice that you were no longer wearing the very short black dress that clung to your chest and barely covered your ass. You were now wearing an Army sweatshirt and a pair of Kansas City Chiefs Sweatpants, both of which were several sizes too large for you.
“Are you okay, Y/N?” He immediately asked
“Peachy-fucking dandy, Why?” You responded with a mouth full of ice-cream.
“Whose clothes are you wearing?”
You looked down to check. “Huh. I dunno.”
Several scenarios went through Sam’s mind, none of which he liked. “Where are your clothes?” He said quietly, trying to stay calm.
“I dunno. What’s with all the fucking questions? Since when are you the fashion police? I’m dressed, aren't I? Get out of my face! I’m going to bed.” You threw the container of ice cream back in the freezer and slammed the door.
You tried to move past Sam, but he grabbed your arm. “Wait. We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t. Whatever it is, it can wait until I’m sober. Now get out of my way before I fucking stab you.” You darted around him and headed for your room before he could stop you.
What can we expect when you make your move, Michael? Are we talking a war, something long and brutal? Will it be a quick transition to your envisioned new world?
May I pretty please with sugar on top be tagged for CASPN?
Come play tonight and if you dig it, absolutely! I just like to make sure people don’t get in there and go “Ohhhhhh..... oh nooooooes what did I sign up for”. I’ll tag you for temp tonight, and let me know in game if you want it for good.
But I mean, you won’t run for the hills. My decks are fabulous. So are the ones from the seasons, of course, but I’ve tossed in some crazy, to be sure. 😈
