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fandomfic-galore · 2 years

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Made For You | Chapter 15

Summary: Dean and Sam like what they have together, and if screwing your brother screws with the universe’s “grand plan” while they’re at it, then even better. Neither of them has ever cared much for tradition or fate, but it turns out there are some destinies you can’t escape. Sometimes, someone is just made for you.

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader Rating: 18+ Warnings: Incest Tags: AU, Time Jump, Omegaverse, Alpha!Dean, Omega!Reader, age difference, taboo relationship, scent attraction, true mates, Dean’s self-loathing, Ellen not taking anyone’s bullshit, overprotective father, overprotective alpha, angry angry daughter Bingo Squares: @spnabobingo - Overprotective Alpha Word Count: 2.3k

Series Masterlist

Dean’s POV

Dean’s head is spinning. The shock of running into Sam after all these years apart is staggering, and it hasn’t gone at all like the countless reunions he used to picture in his head. He hasn’t bothered picturing them for a long time, given up on the possibility of ever seeing his little brother again. Yet here he is, sitting across from him. Except this isn’t the Sammy Dean had known twenty years ago. Hell, Dean isn’t the same person he was twenty years ago either. Twenty years ago he’d been head over heels in love with the man who’s now sitting across from him, even though they’d never really spoken about it like that, in such specific terms. Maybe he should have, Dean thinks with regret. Maybe then Sam wouldn’t have thought that he’d be unwanted, he would have felt safe confiding in Dean and raising their child with him. But he hadn’t, and that was Dean’s fault.

Dean’s fault that Sam ran away. Dean’s fault that Sam never came back. Dean’s fault that he had to raise their daughter all on his own. Dean’s fault that she’d grown up with a made-up story about who she is, and where she’d come from. Dean’s fault that he hadn’t known who she was when they met, and he’d taken her fucking virginity. And then fucking abandoned her less than seventy-two hours later. God, how has he already surpassed John for ‘worst father of the year’ award when he’s known his daughter for all of a week?

“Dad?” Y/N’s voice brings Dean out of his thoughts, and he finds her staring at Sam with hurt in her eyes. Dean looks at his little brother and sees an unfathomable mix of emotions playing across his face. There’s wrinkles on his forehead that hadn’t been there the last time Dean saw him, and another barb of regret at everything he’s missed stabs at his chest.

“Yeah?” Sam asks gently, eyes trained on their daughter almost too concertedly as if he’s purposefully avoiding looking at Dean.

“Is there something wrong with me?” she asks meekly, stealing the barest of glances towards Dean, before darting her eyes back to Sam.

“What? Sweetie, no,” Sam’s hand jumps forward to grab hers, a show of paternal comfort that looks so natural he must have done that a thousand times, Dean thinks bitterly. And he was never there to offer the same thing. “Why would you think that?”

“Because we–” Y/N breaks off, looking at Dean helplessly.

“Y/N,” Dean warns with a low voice, shaking his head.

“Because you thought you and Dean were mates?” Sam asks sympathetically, his hazel eyes flickering to meet Dean’s in a sort of begrudgingly understanding grimace. “No, Y/N that doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you,” he reassures the girl, his attention firmly back on her. “We all get confused sometimes, hormones at your age are overwhelming and unpredictable. There must have been something in you that recognised the family bond that you have. He made you feel safe, and comfortable? Happy?”

Y/N gives Sam a tiny nod, tears gathering on the rim of her lashes.

“And you feel all those things with me too, don’t you?” Sam presses on, his voice patient but clearly pleading with her to understand.

“Of course I do, Dad,” Y/N answers immediately. “But–”

“Then that’s all it was, baby girl,” Sam interrupts with a sad smile and another squeeze of her hand where it’s resting on the table. Dean thinks he sees Y/N flinch back when Sam calls her ‘baby girl’, probably remembering, just as Dean is, when he had called her that in bed last weekend. “Get up on your hands and knees for me, baby girl. Wanna watch that pretty little cunt stretching around my knot when I fuck you this time.” The memory should make him sick to his stomach, but it only makes his cock twitch in his jeans. Yeah, he’s the goddamn father of the year alright.

“Dean?” Y/N turns to him, struggling to find the words, but Dean knows what it is she’s trying to ask him. It wasn’t just that, right? It was more, you felt it too, didn’t you? You told me you felt it too. But when Dean opens his mouth, he can’t make any answers come out. He doesn’t know what to say to this, how to handle what’s happening. His daughter is crying, looking to him for answers, and he doesn’t have any. No comfort or wisdom he can offer her.

Can you even be true mates with family members? Dean hadn’t thought so. That’s why he’d always reasoned that he and Sam could be in love, but they never felt that thing that people talked about, the thing that made you certain someone else had been made for you, and you alone. As much as he loved him, Dean had never had that with Sam. He has it fucking bad for Y/N though. And it’s not just an urge to belong together, like family might feel, it’s a primal need. It’s physical lust, and an irrational desire to be wrapped up inside her body, and put a bite on her neck to show everyone she ever meets that she belongs to someone. To Dean. These are not fatherly feelings. Despite his lack of familiarity with the role, he’s certain of that much, at least.

“Sam,” Dean breathes, the name pushing itself out from between his lips against his better judgement. Sam and Y/N both turn to look at him, one wary, the other burning with hope. “It’s not just Y/N that felt it,” he admits shakily, making himself hold his brother’s gaze. He’s not a coward, he can look a man in the eye when he tells him he fucked his daughter. Their daughter. “She’s right, there’s something more than that between us. She–” his voice chokes up a little, to his extreme embarrassment, but he clears his throat and ploughs on. “I’ve felt more alive since I’ve met her than I have for the past twenty years. An–and being with her last weekend, it was like a missing gear finally clicked into place, man,” Dean laughs at how fucking cheesy he sounds, dropping his eyes to his hands momentarily and rubbing the heel of his hand across his brow. “I know how it sounds, but all that shit people say about finding ‘the one’ and just knowing, somehow,” Dean’s laugh dies on his lips when he looks back up to find Sam glaring at him with a hatred he’s only ever seen on their father’s face. He never could have imagined that Sam could feel that depth of malice. Very slowly, Sam stands from his seat, hands resting on the table as he leans forward.

“Are you telling me–” every word is measured, precise, deadly. “–that you touched my little girl?”

Dean swallows thickly. Right. He should have seen this one coming. This is the fight he had been expecting to have with Y/N’s father when they met, after all.

“Dad, it wasn’t like that!” Y/N leans between them, tugging on Sam’s sleeve in an effort to get him to return to his chair. “He helped me, I went into my heat too early. I could have wound up in the hospital if Dean wasn’t there.”

If Y/N thought that would help matters, she was sorely mistaken.

“You took advantage of her when she didn’t have clear judgement?!” Sam roars, the chair flying across the room as he storms around the table and hauls Dean out of his seat by his collar.

“Dad!” Y/N shouts, but Sam isn’t paying any attention to her now.

“Hey! Cool it, Sam! You know I’d never fucking do that,” Dean hisses, his breath a little constricted due to Sam’s hold on him.

“Do I?” Sam demands, seething. “I haven’t seen you in twenty years, Dean! What the hell do I know about you?!”

“I’m still your brother! You should know I’m not a fucking rapist!”

“Boys!” There’s a shout and an audible click of a shotgun being loaded, and Sam and Dean both spin around to see Ellen walking steadily in their direction. “If you’re gonna let this dissolve into blows, you’ll kindly take it outside my establishment,” she fixes them with a look that brooks no argument, and Dean feels Sam’s anger deflate a little under her glare.

“Sorry, Ellen,” Sam grunts, releasing Dean’s shirt and running his hands through his hair, pulling himself together. “There’s no need. Dean’s leaving.”

“Dad, you can’t be serious!” Y/N stares at the pair of them with wide eyes, brimming with disbelief, and Dean thinks his own face probably looks quite similar.

“Y/N Campbell, do not give me that look. I’m deadly serious and you know it.” Sam takes hold of Dean’s arms and marches him towards the door, Y/N following hot on their heels.

“I was dropping by the Roadhouse to see if Ellen wanted to swing by a hunt I found a few counties over,” Sam informs Dean when they get outside to the parking lot, and Dean feels like he’s gotten whiplash from the change in conversation.

“Okay… and?”

“Why don’t you look into it instead?” Sam suggests, fishing a notebook out of his pocket and tearing out a page to hand it to Dean. He doesn’t look down as the paper is crumpled into his palm, he can only stare incredulously at Sam. “And then, don’t come back.”

“And what if I do come back?” Dean asks stiffly. He’s never been a big fan of taking orders, his dad had left a bad taste in his mouth where that was concerned.

“It will be pointless if you do. You’re never gonna see Y/N again,” Sam crosses his arms over his chest, squaring up to Dean menacingly, and instinctively he takes a step back. It feels like Sam’s knocked the wind out of his chest without even touching him.

“Dad, please. You can’t mean that,” Y/N tries to run to Dean but Sam catches his arms around her waist and holds her back. “Dean, please!” she turns to him now, begging him not to leave.

“What are you gonna do, Sam? You gonna send her away? Like what Dad did to you? Is being with me really so awful that a life on the run is the better option?” Dean’s voice cracks, and he has to hold back the tears that are threatening to break free. This is all his fault, the hurt he sees on both of the faces in front of him. Maybe Sam’s right, and they’d be better off if he stayed gone.

“You know what Dean? Do me a favour and just let whatever monster that is take care of you for me, okay? Because if you ever touch my daughter again, I’ll kill you myself,” Sam snarls, and by God, Dean believes him. Y/N is sagging against Sam’s arms, tears falling freely as she continues to protest, her fists beating weakly against her father’s embrace.

“Okay, Sam, okay,” Dean holds up his hands in surrender, flashing the paper Sam had pushed onto him. “I’ll go, and you won’t see me again.” He starts to step back towards the Impala when he hears a deep grunt and the skittering of gravel.

“Dean, wait!” Y/N runs after him breathlessly, throwing herself into his arms. “I’m coming with you,” she pants, but Dean shakes his head immediately.

“Y/N, no, you can’t,” he insists, brushing the hair back from her face so he can look at her properly, but not daring to do anything more affectionate with Sam staring at them, seething and still bent double from where Y/N had apparently kicked him between the legs. Dean feels a grim swell of pride at the sight. His baby girl is a fighter. “I know we didn’t get to talk about any of this, but I wasn’t about to start bringing you out hunting with me,” he laughs sadly, hoping she’ll understand.

“Why not?! I can take care of myself, I can shoot, and I know about ghosts and demons and monsters–”

“Knowing about them ain’t the same as hunting them, baby girl,” Dean holds her cheek, savouring the way she presses herself into his palm. Sincerely hoping this isn’t the last time he feels that, but also knowing that it very well might be. “It’s way too dangerous.”

“At least we agree on one thing,” Sam huffs, holding his hand out in ready as if he’s waiting for Dean to pass their daughter back over to him. “Say goodbye, Y/N.”

The omega looks pleadingly between Sam and Dean, both resolute in the decision that she’s not going anywhere, and she realises she has no chance of persuading them otherwise. Desperately, she throws her arms around Dean’s neck, pressing her nose into his skin and breathing in as much of him as she can, and Dean can’t help but do the same, wrapping her up so tightly in his arms that her feet come up off the ground.

“I’ll call you,” she whispers in his ear, and Dean squeezes her tight in response, to indicate he heard her, before he puts her down.

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he breathes, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. Sam yanks her away before he has a chance to say anything else, marching her back towards the Roadhouse.

With nothing else to do, Dean unrolls the paper in his hand and scans over the info Sam had given him. If this is a real lead, it does sound like something supernatural, so he may as well take a look at it while he and Y/N figure out what to do. Because he’s not going to let Sam run away from him again, and if he does, he’s not going to stop looking until he finds them.

Series Tags: @outofnowhere82 @ladysparkles78 @missusbarnes-rogers

We’re All Mads Here: @vulgar-library @negans-lucille-tblr @fandomfic-galore @petitgateau911 @schaefchenherde @kickingitwithkirk @little-diable @laxe-chester67 @kassyscarlett @austin-winchester67 @flamencodiva @katbratsupernaturalwhore @letsbys-library @fictional-affairs @leigh70

All SPN: @cemini-winchester @akshi8278 @stoneyggirl @deandreamernp @lyarr24 @lovealways-j @slamminmine @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @alaufeyson @raidens-realm @tatted-trina6 @defenderrosetyler @cluz1babe @maliburenee

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fandomfic-galore · 2 years

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To Be Loved By You - King Steve Rogers x Queen Reader AU

A/N: This seems really weird, writing an author’s note and bringing you something new when I can’t even remember the last time I wrote something! Here we are though! I took part in @mrsalwayswrite challenge and I am so so so sorry I’m late with this! I had stages of writing and then not wanting to write and rewriting things but anyway, it’s here! I chose the Royalty AU and Arranged Marriage AU prompts and came up with this! It’s long… Potentially 20k so yeah haha I do have another AU prompt I picked that I need to get sorted but for now, enjoy this one 😁

A/N 2: I’m sorry if this sucks… I’ve been away too long!

Summary: King Steve Rogers didn’t want to marry anyone but his beloved Peggy but when she’s engaged to someone else and you are thrust into his world, he has no choice but to make it work. Well, he would, if he could get Peggy out of his mind. Despite the fact he’s making you miserable, he can’t let you in to his heart but his heart has other plans, especially when he begins to realise how loving someone should truly be like…

You didn’t want to marry him either, your heart still mourning your first love, Pietro, but you do start to fall for King Steve’s charms, even though he could never ever love you back. Even when you are miserable, a kind word from him makes you light up. When you both come to an impasse, you spend time getting to know each other, properly, and that’s when you truly fall for him. Although he could never love you back… Or could he?

Warnings: Angst, mentions of early stages of cheating, not being happy, being lonely, horrible parents, Steve is a dick at the beginning, Nat and Sarah being the good besties, Peggy being a bitch, angst angst angst (have I mentioned that?) Smut, reader kisses her ex Pietro, revelations, slow burn, idiots in love, violence, fighting, mentions of injury, heartbreak, fluff, fluffy smut… I think that’s all? Also I was watching Infinity War writing one scene which you’ll be able to guess straight away but it sounded good haha

Marvel Masterlist

You knew your fate in life was to marry royalty. That was the way of a Princess.

To marry whoever your parents chose for you, whether you liked them or not.

To eventually give said King children.

Even better if they were boys.

You’d be draped in jewels and fancy dresses, to be seen and not heard, to be the face of beauty and grace and never be a burden to your husband.

You were to turn a blind eye to his indiscretions, pretend that there weren’t bastard children running around, pretend that the mistresses didn’t undermine you at every turn.

But you were never allowed any indiscretions yourself. Oh, no, that would result in death.

All these rules for women, never anything for the men.

You didn’t want to marry a King and live in a Palace and have to do all of those things.

Keep reading

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fandomfic-galore · 2 years

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!

Hehe thank you so much lovely n

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fandomfic-galore · 2 years

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Hehe you love it.

Oh fuck... Come at with my weakness why don't you!!

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fandomfic-galore · 2 years

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Even though I've not had the easiest of days with work... I want to make someone else day brighter 😁

1) thank you. Love a bit of eye candy.

2) what the fuck. Are you ok? Send me a message now!!!!!

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fandomfic-galore · 2 years

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Isn't it Lovely? II: The Man in the Moonlight

Summary: Practice makes perfect. But sometimes, it's good to have a bit of advice. It's not so good, however, to get that advice when you're not supposed to be out and about, from someone that could get you into a lot of trouble.

Warnings: angst, abuses, strong language, the Red Room & HYDRA are a big part in this fic btw, my best attempt at writing ballet, this isn't proofread/edited yet, check my new page break banner

Word Count: 2,000+

Isn’t it Lovely? Masterlist II Marvel Masterlist

It’s dark and quiet to prevent anyone from finding out that you had somehow gotten free of the handcuffs binding you to the bed. God knows what would happen if the guards found you out of bed, what the Madame would do. She’d probably have you fight the strongest girl in your class, a fight you’re sure to lose, and then, you’ll be dead.

But you haven’t been caught in years. You’ve perfected sneaking around, avoiding guards and security cameras, being undetected. Like a good spy. A great spy. And all for what?

Staring in your reflection as you hold your pose, arms above your head and legs straight, en pointe. You’ve stopped counting how long you’ve been holding this pose after a while. And when you breathe out a long breath, you come out of that pose and glance down at your feet.

Rolling your feet, you look up at the mirror to stare at yourself again. You only have to keep doing this until the end of the year when you’ll go through your last round of tests and then the graduation ceremony. Then, you’re out of the place.

And then comes KGB or something like that.

Not that you have other plans. The Red Room has been your home since they found you. Before that, you had nothing. Just a little orphanage on the streets, fighting to survive. Now, you’re so close to being an assassin. And the Red Room Academy creates deadly ones.

Swinging your leg around, you start to work on the sequence you need to perfect for the final exam. The one taught to you at the beginning of the year. It requires flexibility, something you always find yourself struggling with. Especially when you’re under pressure.

You try to remember how you had seen the other girls doing it. The ones that were praised for their technique, and you try to replicate it. But it doesn’t look as graceful.

Maybe if you arch your back more in the turn-

“Fuck,” you mutter when you stumble and stop immediately.

If you did that in a class, you would have been scolded, blamed for your incompetence, and been called weak. Being weak is not an option in this place. Fucking up, is not an option. Those that do are killed.

Walking over to the resin box, you roll your shoes in the power, just to make sure that you’re not slipping because of that. Just to be sure that it’s your own fault you’re messing up.

You don’t know it, but as you walk back over to your spot in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror and flex one foot en pointe, a pair of eyes follows you. And when you start to dance through the air, they follow you, watching you move with what they think is grace, not seeing a single mistake in your movement.

Until you get to a specific part.

Stumbling again, you give a frustrated groan and grip the roots of your hair as your curse to yourself.

“You’re overthinking it.”

You jump at the sound of a voice being with you in the room, and your head snaps to the source as your heart drops. This is it. You’re done for. You’ll be called out tomorrow morning in front of everyone. Your sisters will know of your disobedience and you’ll be killed.

Shaking your head to yourself as you drop your hands away from your hair, you narrow your eyes to see in the darkness. And that’s when you spot a figure lurking in the corner of the room.

When did they get in? How did you not hear them?

“Excuse me?” you softly ask, realizing that they had said something.

“You’re overthinking the move. I can see it.” By the roughness of the voice, you can tell that it’s a male. Perhaps a guard?

That thought only makes your blood run cold. And when they take a step forward, you take one back. “If you just let it happen, it will be smoother. More flexible,” he states.

What do you know about ballet, you want to ask. But that would be rude. And if this is a guard, giving lip to them is never a good idea. All you can do is take the advance this man is giving you and pray that he doesn’t reveal your secrets to anyone.

He stops walking just when he’s about to step into the light cast by the moonlight shining through the window. And when he holds out a hand to gesture for you to carry on, you make a note of the shine of metal on his hand. No, it’s his hand that is metal.

His left hand.

Biting your lip and turning around to look at the mirror again, your eyes go to him. You take a deep breath and do the sequence again.

And when you get to the part you’ve come to hate, you want to do what you’ve always done, what you’ve tried to do. But, you stop yourself and just go with the feeling. You let it happen. And it feels like your cutting air.

Coming into the finish you’ve never reached, you stare breathlessly at the man through the mirror. His advice was right. You’ve done it. You won’t be scolded in class, called out for your mistake.

You won’t be pushed into a shining spotlight.

And yet, the man doesn’t chuckle, laugh, or do anything. All he does is shrink back into the darkness before he turns around and walks away.

“Wait,” you whisper, turning around to try and follow him. But the studio door closes, leaving you alone again.

And you know that you have to get back to your room in case that was a guard.

“Mission report.” Those words make your eyes snap open and stare ahead. Not at anything in particular. You just stare, dazed at what crossed your mind and the medical team scanned over you for any fatal injuries while your commanders head your way.

Now, they stand in front of you, like a team of lawyers waiting for you to spit out the information you have. And when you don’t think, your mind is still in the ballet studio and the man in the shadows where all you knew was that he had a metal arm, one of the men in charge of your action - in charge of you - moves forward and stands in front of you. He breaks your stare into nothingness.

“I said, mission report,” he firmly says, bringing back to the present moment. You don’t have to look to know that his hands grip the armrests of the chair you’re in tightly. Had it been your skin, there would be bruises later.

And yet, his order doesn’t make any words leave your tongue because the more you look at this man’s face, the more you think about what your mission has been, you realize that you can’t do it. “They got away. I couldn’t kill-”

Your sentence is cut short when the man in front of you brings the back of his hand across your cheek, making you gasp in pain as you head jerk to the side at the force of the blow. “Did any of them recognize you?” he asks, your head slowly moving back in front of you so you can coldly glare up at him.

There were two of them, two of your targets right in front of you that you could take out right there. The red-haired was easy. It was as if you knew her moves of attack before she even carried them out. A similar way to how you used to fight before…

Then your next target interceded before you could finish off the first. And his face. “His face…” you mutter to yourself, your eyes traveling over to the side as you recall his eyes, how you know them, even if it’s the first time you saw them. Was it the first time? And a name falls off your lips before you can stop it. “Bucky.”

That was a mistake and it earns you another slap across your cheek. The same cheek as before. And the sting is enough to make your eyes tear up so you close them to stop yourself from showing them something vulnerable.

“Wipe her and put her on ice for a few days.” You know you can’t fight back that order even if you hate it.

“Pierce, we have other ways to handle this situation-”

“I said wipe her and put her on ice,” the order is repeated by the man in charge of you. His say is final when it comes to you and everyone knows that. Even you.

And when you’re pushed back into your seat, you don’t even push against the force. You cling onto the memory of the dance studio, the man into the shadows, and the shine of the metal of his left hand in the moonlight filtering through the windows. You cling onto it for just a moment because you know, in a few seconds, it will be gone.

Normally when the Madam lifts her hand to stop the music, it’s to scold someone for being sloppy or to give a rude comment to the group in front of her. Nonetheless, whenever the music stops, it’s become natural to stop, drop the pose you’re in, and stand in a neutral position, eyes forward and hands folded behind your back.

It’s only when the doors of the studio open, every girl fighting the urge to turn their head to see who has walked in, that you realize that this is not going to be a moment to have flaws pointed out.

Two men walk into the room, confidence in each step and blank expressions on their faces. “Things will be different from now on, ladies,” the Madam states, standing with one leg in front of the other and hands folded in front of her as she looks over the group of orphanage girls being trained to be killers. “HYDRA will be with us until the end of your training and they will recruit only one of you. They will choose the best. It is an honor to have them with us,” she states, giving the whole group a look everyone knows all too well.

“It is an honor.” The words fall from every girls’ mouth, including yours.

You look to the two men. The one in front seems older than that behind him, giving you the impression that he is the leader of this project. But you doubt he’s the leader of HYDRA. “Good morning, ladies.” His greeting is responded quickly by your group and he smiles. “Please, carry on with your days normally and act as if we are not here. Our Fist of HYDRA is joining me to give insight into which one of you will be suitable for our program as he will be the one training you if you are recruited.”

Turning your gaze as the second man turns his body to face the group of girls, you take in a sharp breath - but you’re not the only one to do that. The other women in the room react because of the threatening aura he gives off, how strong he seems to be. How, they know, he could kill them with ease if he wanted. Some even gasp at the sight of the metal arm, how it has been modified, and wonder if they were picked, which parts of them would be changed too.

But your reason for responding to his movement is different from everyone else’s. It’s that arm that you saw in the moonlight last night when you were in the dance studio when you weren’t allowed to be. And as you lift your eyes to his face that’s half-covered with a mask, you find him staring right at you.

He remembers your face, you can tell. All he has to do is speak, call you out and say what you have and that you have broken a rule and everything will be over for you. But he remains silent, still staring at you as he slightly tilts his head to the side, watching your reaction as the fact hits you.

It was him helping you better yourself, your movements last night. It was him lurking in the shadows of the moonlight.

And now, putting his face to the voice makes it almost impossible to look away from him. This is going to be hard with him around now. Knowing that he’s seen you mess up on something, that you’re not as strong and the other girls around you make you feel as if you won’t be recruited by HYDRA.

And it will all be because of him.

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fandomfic-galore · 2 years

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Are you trying to kill me.

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fandomfic-galore · 2 years

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How did I know. I saw the notification and knew it was pictures haha.

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fandomfic-galore · 2 years

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This is honestly ridiculous. I’m glad Chris said something. Some of his fans are being predictable assholes in the comments though.

Anyways, Sam Wilson is Captain America and anyone who doesn’t like it can die mad 🤷🏾‍♀️

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fandomfic-galore · 2 years

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i’m just gonna leave this here

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fandomfic-galore · 2 years

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Dustin: *sneaks into house at 2am*

Steve: *turns in swivel chair* care to tell me where you were?

Dustin: I was with... Uh... Eddie!

Eddie: *also turns in swivel chair*. Care to- *keeps spinning* Steve- I can't stop the chair-

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fandomfic-galore · 2 years

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And he’s right!!!!!

He said what he said.

#sam wilson is captain america

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fandomfic-galore · 2 years

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Made For You | Chapter 5

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader Rating: 18+ Warnings: Incest Tags: AU, Time Jump, Omegaverse, Alpha!Dean, Harvelle’s Roadhouse, Alpha!Jo, Omega!Reader, flirty Dean, age difference, taboo relationship, scent attraction Word Count: 1.9k Created For: @spnabobingo - Ocean Spray / Spiced Rum / Lime

Series Masterlist

Twenty Years Later - Dean’s POV

Dean pulls the Impala through a cloud of dust and into a parking spot, cutting the engine with a heavy sigh. This place looks like it’s about to fall down – shutters barely clinging to their hinges, neon sign rusted over so whatever colour it’s supposed to be only shows up as a dull orange – but the dirt lot out front has enough cars and bikes sitting in it to make him think it’s worth a stop. He’s been desperate for some food and a cold drink for about an hour now, and the empty Nebraska plains haven’t shown another sign of habitation for miles in either direction.

Pushing open the squeaking door to Harvelle’s Roadhouse, Dean feels a little like he’s been transported into an Old Western. Everyone in the joint stops talking when they hear the sound of the door and swivels their heads in his direction with an eerie synchronicity. The door shrieks gratingly as it swings shut behind him, and Dean has to blink a few times to adjust his eyes to the gloom that envelops him as the late evening sun paints streaks over the dust and smoke that’s floating through the saloon.

“You comin’ in stranger?” an amused female voice with a subtle rural accent asks from the direction of the rickety bar, and Dean swings his head around to find a slim blonde in a tight tank top smirking at him as she wipes down the wooden counter. “You’re spookin’ the locals,” she giggles, jerking her head towards the tables that haven’t quite gone back to their previous conversations. They all look like your typical truck stop and biker fare, nobody Dean couldn’t handle if he needed to, so he rolls his neck a little, plasters on his most charming smile, and saunters over to the barmaid who’d spoken to him.

“Take it you don’t get too many travellers through here then,” Dean guesses as he slides himself onto a stool in front of the pretty woman. Her long blonde hair hangs in straight curtains on either side of her slim face, sparkling blue eyes standing out dangerously from the rest of her features. Dean would bet she reels a lot of men in with those eyes, and he wouldn’t be opposed to being one of them. It’s been a while since he’s whetted that particular appetite, too.

“A few,” she shrugs, tucking the towel she’d been wiping the bar with into a back pocket. “But we got our regulars, and they get a little jumpy around newcomers.”

“Well, tell ‘em not to get their panties in a twist, I’m just passin’ through,” Dean smiles, crossing his arms on top of the bar and leaning forwards on them.

“Get you something to drink?” the barmaid offers, spinning around to grab a glass from the tray over her shoulder and showing Dean a great view of her perky ass in the tight jeans she’s wearing.

“Whatever beer you’ve got that’s cold would be great, sweetheart,” Dean answers, eyes taking in the rest of her figure appreciatively as she fills his order.

“Anything else?” she asks when she places the full pint in front of him on a crumpled napkin, the condensation dripping down and soaking a ring into the flimsy cotton.

“A menu?” Dean quirks a brow hopefully and she smiles, spinning on her heel and grabbing a beat-up sheet of laminated paper from beneath the counter. “And your name?” he asks, equally as hopeful as she hands over the menu.

“Jo,” she answers after a moment’s consideration, crossing her arms as she leans back against the counter behind her, which pushes her breasts up appealingly in her tank top. “But I’m not on the menu,” Jo smirks, and Dean chuckles lightly.

“Shame,” he sighs, eyes running over the available food and deciding on a burger and fries; no point messin’ with a classic order. “I think you’re exactly the kind of meal I’ve been craving all day,” Dean winks, smiling when Jo rolls her eyes at him.

“If you’re looking for something extra, you can try your luck with Y/N,” Jo suggests, nodding her head across the room to where a door is swinging open to reveal a young girl in a serving apron, carrying a tray of food. The intoxicating smell of french fries and grilled meat makes its way across the room to where Dean is sitting, but those aren’t the scents that made his mouth water. There’s something refreshing and bright about the girl’s scent, but also a dark, syrupy sweetness, and a sharp bite. It reminds him of the beach, sipping on a cold drink by the ocean, citrus and spiced rum pooling on his tongue. He swallows roughly.

“Yeah,” Jo snorts as she watches him, breaking the reverie Dean found himself in and drawing his attention back to her. “Knew she’d be more your type.”

“Oh?” Dean arches his brow suspiciously. “And what exactly do you think my type is?”

“Omega,” Jo laughs easily. “Can’t help but agree,” she winks, and Dean realises why she hadn’t been interested in his offer earlier. She must be on scent suppressants or something at the moment because Dean had assumed she was a beta, not an alpha. “Just, don’t tell anyone I sent you her way,” Jo adds after a moment, looking sheepish. “Her dad would take me out back and shoot me if he knew I was trying to get her laid,” she giggles. “So would my mom, too, come to think.”

“I’m not really great with protective parent types,” Dean grimaces, glancing back over his shoulder at Y/N forlornly. She looks young, much younger than Dean, but he only finds that more appealing; the promise of her youthful innocence making his cock twitch interestedly in his jeans.

“Well then it’s a good thing our parents aren’t working tonight,” Jo shoots Dean a wink, and he gives her a considering look. “I’ll go put your order in,” she smiles, sidling out from behind the bar and walking towards the kitchen. She reaches the door to the back just after Y/N, stopping and glancing back at Dean with a conspiratorial smirk before she pushes her way through, and the door swings shut behind her with a dull thud.

Dean smirks to himself a little as he takes a sip of his drink. Girls are such an odd species, he reflects. Sometimes they band together to make sure no one in their little group is allowed to leave a bar with some stranger they just met, sometimes they throw their friends at the strangers so fast it’s like they’re making a commission on everyone they helped get laid. But whatever these girls’ deals are, Dean doesn’t particularly care, he’s just looking for a good time. Hunting has been irritatingly time-consuming lately, and it hasn’t been courteous enough to take him through a big city where he could just rock up to the first bar he sees, get wasted, and find someone equally inebriated to get his rocks off with. It’s been him and his goddamn fleshlight for far too long.

The kitchen door swings open again and Y/N emerges, while Jo is nowhere to be seen. The girl is carrying another tray of food, and she makes her way to the bar, in a beeline towards Dean, with a small, self-conscious smile on her face. As she approaches, Dean feels his breath catch in his chest, her scent overwhelming him as he lets his eyes run freely over her body.

Fuck, he hasn’t smelled an Omega this enticing in fucking forever. Even if he hadn’t been desperate for a bit of human contact after his dry spell, he would be desperate for this girl.

She is much younger than him, though, younger than Jo too; maybe twenty? Twenty-one at a push? She’s at least over eighteen, or she wouldn't be allowed to work in a bar, so Dean feels a small sense of comfort in that knowledge. Her eyes are soft and nervous, framed with long, thick lashes that she’s using like a shield to hide her expression from him. Her hair is tied up in a ponytail, displaying the long column of her neck, and Dean swears he can see the blood beating in her veins, can sense how quickly her heart is racing, its pace matching his own.

When Y/N stops in front of him with the tray of food, she finally looks up from her feet, her eyes meeting Dean’s for the first time, and he feels a little smug at the fact that he can see her breath catch in her throat when they do. She swallows thickly, shaking herself from the momentary freeze in embarrassment. “Burger and fries?” she squeaks nervously, setting the food down before Dean has actually answered to tell her that she’s correct, that is his order.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he smiles widely, holding her gaze with his own as she takes the tray back and clutches it against her chest.

“Can, uh, can I do anything else for you?” she stutters, knuckles going white from how tightly she’s holding her serving tray. Dean smirks, enjoying how on edge he clearly has the poor girl. He’s the hunter, she’s his prey, and he’s got her in his sights.

“You know, I was gonna ask if I could do anything for you,” Dean ventures, giving her a seductive smile, enjoying the flush he can see rising up her neck.

“For me?” Y/N blinks, her eyes caught between shock and confusion.

“Your friend, Jo, implied that maybe we could help each other out a little,” Dean says, watching her carefully for her reaction, not wanting to actually make her uncomfortable with his flirting if she isn’t as up for this as Jo had led him to believe.

“Oh,” she lets out a shaky breath and ducks her head, one hand releasing her tray and coming up to play with the end of her ponytail. “Sorry about her, she’s been on this warpath for ages,” Y/N rolls her eyes in exasperation. “You don’t have to do anything for me, I’m sorry if she put you up to this.”

“Believe me, sweetheart, she didn’t put me up to anything,” Dean attempts to reassure the girl, eyes trying to connect with hers so she can read the honesty of his interest in his expression, but she’s already starting to pull away, looking as if she’s going to head back towards the kitchen.

“Wait,” he holds out his hand, casting his eyes around and landing on the stack of napkins nearby. Dean grabs one off the top and then looks for something to write with. He spots a pen tucked into Y/N’s ponytail and he smirks, reaching across the bar and plucking it from her hair, making an attractive pink flush creep over her cheeks as she watches his movements closely. He quickly scrawls his name and number onto the napkin, then pushes both the napkin and her pen back across the bar in her direction.

“If you change your mind,” Dean winks.

Y/N quickly grabs the pen and napkin, tucking both into the pocket of her jeans as she flees from behind the bar, leaving Dean behind with his food and the ghost of her intoxicating scent; and the unusual craving for a tropical drink.

Chapter 6 posting on July 12th or subscribe to my website to read up through Chapter 9 today!

Series Tags: @outofnowhere82

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fandomfic-galore · 2 years

Text

minors who pull the “age of consent is 16 where i live” don’t understand that you’re still a fucking CHILD.

🗣why would anyone want to read porn written by a CHILD? why would anyone be okay with reading porn written by a CHILD? because YOU ARE A CHILD.🗣

you are not a fucking adult, even people who are 18 are barely even adults. if i could police and make my blog 20+ i would.

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fandomfic-galore · 2 years

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Fuck yes!!!

Dean and pegging please. 😊🤤

Title: Yes, Ma’am

Kink: Pegging - Pegging is a sexual practice in which a woman performs anal sex on a man by penetrating his anus with a strap-on dildo. This practice may also involve stimulating the male genitalia.

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Tags: use of strap on, anal sex (male receiving), tones of sub!dean, use of anal plug, tones of dom!Reader, mentions of p in v

WC: 670+

A/Ns: Dean would 10000% be into pegging and you can’t convince me otherwise.

Bee’s 2020 Kinktober Celebration Masterlist

“Are you sure you're ready, baby?” you checked. “Been a while since we got to do this,” you reminded him, dragging your nails softly down his torso, feeling his cock try to resist the restrain of cotton as it throbbed slightly under you as you straddled him.

“Fuck yeah,” he gasped out, fingers squeezing at your thighs.

“Sure?” you asked once more.

“Check for yourself,” he smirked up at you with a cocky grin, and you giggled softly, climbing gently off of him to push his boxers down his legs. His cock sprang free, slapping against his stomach softly and dribbling precum there. But that wasn't your focus. Your hand fondled over his balls gently, and then dipped lower, your fingers being met with smooth silicone.

“Oh, you naughty boy,” you giggled softly, pressing harder against the silicone and watching as Dean hissed, arching his back slightly. “How long has this been there?” you teased, starting to pull at the plug so it moved a little.

“Si-since we got back, when I – I showered,” he explained, gasping for air. Biting your bottom lip, you tugged at the plug until it was slowly coming out.

“Nice and ready for me then?” you purred, pushing the plug back in, and then out as you slowly started to fuck him with it.

Dean's eyes were half lidded as he nodded, his lips shining from when he licked them, and he groaned when you took a hold of the purple silicone strapped to your pelvis and started to softly stroke.

“On your hands and knees, baby,” you encouraged, watching as he eagerly scrambled to do as he was told. You moved yourself to kneel directly behind him, pressing down on his back so he was the perfect height, and then once more fucked him with the plug, watching him stretch to accommodate it. He'd gone for the larger one, meaning he was already beautifully stretched open and ready for you. You left the plug inside as you reached for the lube and worked on slicking your purple cock with it. Dean grumbled softly, reaching with his one hand to wrap it around his cock and pump slowly when you removed the plug completely. You started to press the tip of the toy against his opening, driving your hips forward slowly and gently, watching him take it so well like always. Dean dropped his head lower, and groaned a little louder, his free hand gripping his pillow tightly.

You rested your hands on his hips as you slid the rest of the toy inside and watched him take a shuddered breath, adjusting to the feeling of being so full all of a sudden. You waited to see his shoulders relaxing before you started to fuck him, easing the toy in and out of him, working on loosening him up enough.

“Fuck baby, looks so hot,” you moaned softly, feeling yourself getting incredibly wet just watching. Dean started to rock back against you, fucking himself on the toy, moaning louder and pumping himself harder. It never took him very long to get to the edge when he was being fucked, and you were watching carefully for all his tells that you needed to stop. “Take me so well, don't you?”

“Fuck, Y/N, feels good,” he admitted, gasping. “Holy fuck.”

“Forgot how good, didn't you?”

“Ye-yeah, shit.”

Dean's body slumping, his face pressing into the pillow was your cue to pull out.

“On your back baby,” you instructed, tapping his thigh lightly. You were quick to release the harness from around your waist and legs, the straps and toy falling to the bed. You climbed out of it as Dean settled on his back and you moved to straddle him again. He was panting as he looked up at you, a tired, blissed out smile on his plump lips as he watched you line his cock up with your dripping centre.

“Now it's your turn to fuck me,” you smirked.

“Yes, ma'am.”

- - -

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