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chronically-ghosted · 5 months

Text

there ain't enough room in this Pontiac for the two of us

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

word count: 8K

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

summary: 1. No sex. 2. No touching yourself. 3. No orgasms. 4. No murdering your annoying DEA partner. (A Javier Peña-shaped rift on this iconic fic)

tags/warnings: smut, dubcon/noncon elements, hand jobs (f receiving), no use y/n, javi being sexually frustrating as hell, time period compliant sexism (not from Javi)

a/n: please go read the original fic. Her’s is far superior to mine and this is but a shameful hollow echo.

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Bogota

11:23PM

Back before you willingly and eagerly joined the special task force between several unruly government organizations created with sole and express purpose to hunt down and catch the cartel king Pablo Escobar – before you applied to the DEA on the highest recommendation of your law professor, your criminal psychology professor, and the dean of admission, all whom believed your talents, (despite the unfortunate accident that you were a woman) would have a deep and profound impact on catching those responsible for the deaths of thousands worldwide – hell, even before you applied to Stanford and you spent your free time oscillating between color guard, JROTC, and retaking your practice SATs and ACTs until you got nearly a perfect score so that the realization that you didn’t have one single friend in the world to distract you from your single-minded almost obsessive focus to prove yourself, despite all your faults –

Before all of that –

If someone had discreetly taken you by the arm, gently sat you down, and told you what a perfect and deluded idiot you would make of yourself on a seven hour stake out on a dark, rainy night in the capital of Colombia, well, you probably would have laughed them out the door.

You aren’t one really predisposed to bouts of uncontrollable, side-splitting, “I’m laughing so hard I’m afraid to take a breath out of fear of the noise that’s going to come out of my nose” laughter, but if someone allowed you to take a good, long, healthy look at one of your more unhealthy habits – that, of course, being your almost toxic levels of competitive behavior – you might have been prone to at least one giggle.

The thing was, you really didn’t lose. Ever. You didn’t back then and you don’t now and your tenacious, unbreakable will made you not only a formidable and dogged DEA agent, but it also (and perhaps more importantly) made you a social, professional, and absolutely mental equal to men like Javier fucking Peña.

Javier Peña, whom women would literally melt into a puddle around, whom men would clamor over themselves just to get a drink with. He’s just so fucking cool, you overheard one of the office interns mutter to another, just look at him. That was also the day you spilled coffee down your entire blouse because you squeezed your styrofoam coffee cup too hard, but that was an entirely unrelated matter.

Whatever sway Peña seemed to inflict over the panties of every woman in the building, you resolutely stayed immune. When you first joined, it had been easy to avoid him. So much so, you were completely flummoxed when the man with the name you’d heard whispered in the hallways, finally made his way over to your side of the building for a meeting with your boss. He walked in with a badly-fitted suit, bags under his eyes, the reeking stench of day-old cigarettes, but by the reactions of the phone girls, you’d thought Elvis himself had just emerged from his coffin and began performing “Hound Dog” topless in bedazzled pants.

This? This is “The Guy”? The guy that women on your floor would spend their entire lunch breaks in the bathroom comparing stories over – “yes, Kathy, I heard his dick really is that huge!” “Yes, Shannon swears he made come for hours just with his tongue!”

Him?

Really?

Was it just slim pickings between married men and wheezing senators?

Never meet your heroes, I guess.

That was back in the late 80s. Back before the bombings and the kidnappings and the mutilated bodies of journalists.

Things had changed. Significantly.

Once things had gotten – let’s just say, dire – the agency started moving around teams, prioritizing certain missions over others. Which meant not only were you taken off a case you had just spent the better part of a year and a half building, but you were reassigned to a new team. Co-led by the one and only Javier. Fucking. Peña.

Now, Javier didn’t like the rain, especially not after a seven hour stake out. You knew this because every time it rained, he stormed into the pen, snorting like an enraged bull, his hair wet and his shoulders damp. Why the man couldn’t just simply go out and pick up an umbrella, you didn’t feel the need to ask. But it set your teeth on edge that a grown adult would be so annoyed by something that had such a simple solution. More than once you thought about hurling your own umbrella like a javelin at him, but your fighting matches had become legendary around the office and you refused to be provoked again by Javier’s own arrogance.

But that’s what started all of this, right?

You, with your white-hot competitive streak, and him, with his over-inflated ego, clashed again and again – until finally about the one thing both brought you a sense of pride: your sex lives.

Annoyingly, this was proving more difficult than you anticipated.

Thumbing the rim of your third lukewarm coffee of the night, you sigh, long and loud, not entirely regretful of the choices that led you here, but simply rather irked that someone had come along and finally proved to be a real challenge.

“Shut it.”

“Excuse me?”

Javier, who had been sitting next to you for the better part of the past seven hours, his long legs tucked up around the bulky wheel of the black Pontiac Firefly the agency had rented for this mission, continues to scowl through the dark and the rain at the spot where you had tracked one of Pablo’s higher ranking enforcers. A gambling den on the first floor, and a brothel in the basement, most men you tailed here spent only a few hours betting and fucking, before wandering back home, probably a little drunk and significantly less horny. But this guy – fuck – did he have the stamina of an Olympic athlete?

What had begun as a quick follow up to some intel your team received earlier in the week had turned into one of the longest and most unbearable nights of your life.

“I said, shut it.”

Your mouth drops open. “I am literally just breathing, Javier.”

“Yeah and you’re doing it too loud.” He takes a sip from the coffee between his legs then resumes his hunched, crossed arm position. “It’s annoying.”

Huffing, you sink lower in your seat, as much as the surveillance equipment and evidence boxes around your legs would allow.

“This is so stupid,” you grumble.

“This is basic DEA work, sweetheart. If you can’t cut it, I’m sure I can find someone – literally anyone – else to take your spot. Sarah’s always been eager to spend some extra time alone with me. Or what about Mac? You two get along right? Who am I kidding? You get along with e-e-everyone–,”

It is infuriating he knows exactly where to poke and prod to supercharge your competitiveness as well as your jealousy.

“I’m not talking about the sting, Javier! I’m talking about your need to always be in control. I’m talking about how, just because you can’t get your fucking rocks off, you’ve been sniping at everyone in the building.” You scowl and lean as far away from him as you can in the cramped hatchback. “Making everyone’s lives hell because you haven’t gotten your dick wet in a month.”

“Oh, sure, I’m the only one being a fucking nuisance in the office,” he sneers, scratching at his forehead with his thumbnail. “After your little meltdown at the copier machine, I think Mark from accounting would rather fist-fight God than have to ask you for a stapler again.”

You snatch up the used napkins in the cupholder between you and shred it to pieces. You chuck the little bits at him as you snap back,

“The. Stapler. Was. Right. There! He. Was. Being. Stupid!”

“Stop it! You’re going to get it in my coffee!”

With a snarl, you hurl the mangled rest of the napkin at him and he swats it out of the air. It rolls over the dashboard, fluttering in the AC that was doing absolutely nothing to combat the sticky humidity.

He did this to you. He always did this to you. Made you feel like a silly child, an overly emotional brat, for pointing out things he did time and time again. Why was he allowed to get away with it and you weren’t?

In the temporary silence, the rain patters loudly on the roof of the car. Headlights emerge from the gloom and disappear as the few unlucky caught out in this deluge run from awning to awning with magazines, newspapers, or umbrellas tucked over their heads. It had been raining for hours and it seemed to have no intention of stopping anytime soon.

You aren’t sure which irritates you more: the humidity or the stickiness gathering on the crotch of your panties.

It had been there for days, constant, a reminder, no matter how often you changed them out for some temporary escape. Your thighs tightened as close as they could, but a large storage box split your legs apart.

“You know,” Javier begins softly, almost contrite, gentle in a way you’d never heard before. He's pinching the edge of his coffee cup with his fingers, resolutely not looking at you. “If this bothers you so much, you can just quit. Call it off. No hard feelings.”

You snort. He really is the most ridiculous man alive.

“Yeah? You’d get the satisfaction of finally coming, after being hard for at least – what, a month, month and a half? – and half my next paycheck? I don’t think so.” You adjust in your seat, your left hip starting to ache from the position you’ve been maintaining for seven hours. “Well, the money’s one thing. But I think I’d rather be physically shot than have to listen to you parade around the office, gleefully spilling secrets about me as your latest conquest, bragging to all your little buddies around the water cooler how you finally bested that bitch in the bullpen. At that point, I’d rather we just actually fuck. At least that way I can finally understand what the fuck has the secretaries all in a goddamn hissy fit over.”

After nearly a third of the day spent next to you, he finally tears his gaze away from the target and looks at you. His dark eyebrows drawn down, plush lips frowning, he’s unnervingly serious. You wonder if you actually managed to make him genuinely angry.

“I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t brag about you to anyone, even if you lost. And I especially would never if you let me fuck you.” Let me? Now that’s a turn of phrase you definitely won’t spend hours thinking about. His frown deepens as he glances down to his coffee cup. “People – women – like to talk, but I never say anything, to anyone. I don’t encourage it, but it feels like I’m the one being checked off a list. Like I’m a space on a fucking bingo card. It’s rude.”

Gobsmacked into silence, you watch as he cranks down the window for just enough space to chuck his (and yours) empty coffee cups out onto the wet road beside the car. You let him tug it out of from between your legs without a single line of snark.

Your brain finally comes back online when the window squeaks back into place.

Hang on a second – did you really just feel bad for the office casanova? That little shit manipulated you into actually feeling sorry for the dozens of women he willingly brings home then turns out like used toilet paper. You can feel that decades old hate and disgust crack open and boil in your stomach.

“Well, hey, Javi, here’s an idea. Just stop fucking the women you work with. If it bothers you so much, then stop fucking women entirely!”

“I did! I have done that and I am!” He gestures wildly with his hands, palms out as if in supplication. “Everyone in the office – including Noonan, I’m pretty sure – knows about this stupid fucking bet and for once, it’s been great to have an excuse to not have to hold up my expectation of being a great lay!”

You will not allow yourself the time to fully process the idea that not only is Javier Peña grateful to not have to fuck a skirt, but it’s you he’s doing it for, so you snarl back, as you always do.

“Then what? What’s got you so fucking wound up, if your poor dick needs a break from getting sucked?”

With a groan that starts somewhere in his lower ribcage, he falls forward into the steering wheel, his forehead on the rim.

“I’m not saying that, alright? It’s actually been nice to have my bed to myself for a bit. But Jesus Christ, I miss pussy.”

Don’t.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about the way he says it. Like it’s holy.

The warmth of the humidity in the car ratchets up as your heart starts to race, your palms sweat. You wonder vaguely if there’s condensation on the inside of the windows. He shouldn’t be allowed to get you so wet by just saying the word. You swallow, clawing back that familiar anger until you feel in control again.

“So then go get it.” You wave your hand around the dark streets of Bogota. “Just go out there and end this thing once and for all. God knows I’m sick and tired of having to listen to you roll around, grunting and huffing, with a hard-on so big I can almost hear it.”

“What are you so mad at me for?” He snaps up, a much more palatable rage in his eyes. “All of this – the bet, the rules, the fact that you actually included wet dreams – you decided on!”

“You’re the one who demanded you move into my apartment for the entire duration of this hell! You’re the one who went out and bought two twin beds like a fucking maniac and made me take out my bed to put in your little torture devices to make sure neither of us cheated off the clock!”

“And you agreed to it! I’m not the only insane one here! Sometimes I think you do it on purpose – kicking and fighting with the sheets, moaning in your sleep, rubbing yourself up on the mattress. Twice now I’m pretty sure I’ve gone blind in one eye, listening to all that and not being able to do a goddamn thing about it.”

You scoff, but now slightly uneasy. You’ve been moaning in your sleep? Fuck. Taking down your overbearing and egotistical coworker a few pegs was one thing. Becoming roommates with him was something else entirely. About two weeks in, he had come out of the bedroom without his shirt on – he’s been doing that more and more lately – and you had to sit in the bathroom with your hands clamped around the toilet seat for ten minutes straight to keep from finger-fucking yourself on the living room coffee table.

“I’m honestly surprised you didn’t want to install cameras in the shower just to make sure I’m not jacking off in secret. You better not be doing what I think you’re doing in there, Javi. You touch yourself once and I win, Javi. Stop looking at my ass when I’m wearing less clothes than a Victoria Secret model, Javi.”

“It’s summer in Bogota, you jackass,” you snipe, particularly ruffled by his high-pitched affectation of you. It stings more than it should because it sounds exactly like the shrill harpy all your male coworkers make you out to be. “What do you want me to wear?”

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, something terrifying like a smirk crawling across his perfect mouth and you feel the safety of annoyance crumble out from under you. He really is so fucking pretty.

“A puffy snowsuit would be lovely, actually. Arms, legs, all wrapped up. Cover your gorgeous hair in a hat too, if we’re at it. But if I knew you’d wear what I bought you, all you had to do was say so. Women always say I have excellent taste.”

You sigh, again, irritated and desperate to relieve that fist of tension in your shoulders, that gently knotting warmth between your legs. You wonder how much rubbing your crotch with the seam of your jeans you could get away with before he’d say something.

No, fuck, shit – focus. You’ve got to get a grip. This is just like those long night study sessions at the academy. All you had to do was buckle down and get serious about this. Sleep deprivation and curtailing your basic instincts didn’t scare you. You had been outlasting men like Javier your entire life and you weren’t about to get weak-kneed now.

And then something occurs to you that you hadn’t really considered before.

You had been so caught up in your own denial, in fighting your own need to hump your pillow even for a bit of relief – you hadn’t stopped to think what this might be doing to him.

Jesus Christ, I miss pussy.

Here's a crack in his resolve and you had seen it. Just for a minute. But it's there. You didn’t have to win so much as to make him lose.

Javier Peña. Nowhere to go and having nothing to fuck made him a very dangerous man. One you could easily exploit. However, and as much as it physically pained you to admit, Javier was smart. Blind-sided by his own horniness, or not, if he caught wind of you purposefully stacking the odds against him, there was no telling what he’d do in retaliation.

For a moment, your sex-deprived brain lounges in the idea of the many forms his retaliation might take.

No – Focus. You lick your lips, wrenching your gaze to the ceiling of the car. You had to be very careful about this.

“Look, I’m sorry, alright?” Go at it from the side. Around back while his attention is focused elsewhere. This was fucking guerilla warfare tactics. Placate him with submission. “I didn’t realize my outfits were bothering you. It’s just . . . it’s been so hot lately. I feel like I wake up, drenched wet in sweat, and it’s just too much still. And then, with this bet, sometimes I wake up and between my legs, I’m so –,”

A fist slams against the inside of the window so hard and so loud it makes you jump. His shoulders hunched, the fist in his lap tight and white-knuckled, he doesn’t even fully open his mouth when he snarls, “Do not . . . under any circumstances . . . finish that fucking sentence.”

He’s breathing heavily, breath skipping between his ribs, and you know you’ve got your opening. Your bottom lip drawn in between your teeth, you’re as much transfixed by his control visibly slipping as you are secretly, darkly thrilled to hear him make those noises. He breathes for a few more times, eyes closed. The sound of rain makes another appearance.

His hands come up to wrap around the steering wheel, as if he were picturing something else flexing beneath his palms.

“I know what you’re doing, or what you think you’re doing. But it’s not going to work. It’s just going to make me mad and I am not above hauling you over my lap and spanking you for being such a tease.”

You aren’t sure what shorts out your brain first: the fact he caught on so quickly, or the mental image he’s painting – and how much you fucking love it. God, when did it get so hot in here? You can feel sweat pooling along the ridge of your spine, under the cups of your bra. As though reading your mind, he shucks off his notorious brown jacket and hurls it into the back seat. Your toes curl in your boots. He’s wearing that white linen shirt that expertly shows off the cut of his biceps, his forearms and is more appropriate for a beach trip in Hawaii than the mean streets of Bogota. In his movement, his infamous sunglasses clatter against his stomach – if he just buttoned his collar all the way up like any man with an ounce of decency, they wouldn’t get in the way as much. You want to tell him that, correct him yet again, but now you can see the sweat shine in his clavicle, skin slightly pink and feverish over the hollow of his throat. You had no idea you affected him this much.

“You’re right. This is ridiculous.” He huffs, tossing back his glasses too before flopping back against the seat. “This can’t be healthy, at least. Edging ourselves for weeks at a time. I keep seeing tits in the clouds.”

“So then end it already.” You don’t mean to sound breathless – it’s the opposite of what you want – but your heart rate still hasn’t settled over the idea of Javier spanking you till your ass is red. He’s so much bigger than you, broader. He’d do it rough, if you asked, you know he would. You really hate to sound like you’re begging, but maybe you are. His eyes snap open wide at your near whimper. “Javi, please. We’re not going anywhere. He’s been in there for hours and he’s not coming out any time soon. Just unbutton your pants – I can just watch you – drop your hand in your underwear and –,”

A hand that can cup you nearly from ear to ear flies across the console and claps over your mouth. Something’s changed about him. You can see it in his eyes. At this point in your partnership, you had become fairly good at identifying his emotions, given there were only a handful he ever cycled through: tired, irritated, bored, furious, frustrated, disappointed. But this . . . this is different. His shoulders still face forward, arm reached out over the console, but his thick eyebrows arch down, as if he’s considering something. His head is cocked slightly to the side. You have to stop yourself from breathing in a sigh when his tongue wets his bottom lip.

“I’ll willingly lose this godforsaken bet on one condition,” he rasps out. His hand is warm, all consuming, you can barely breathe under it. You train your entire focus into the way his hair flops over his forehead to keep from whining at what his deep voice does to your lower half. Your muscles clench and your neglected pussy drools. Fuckin’ traitor. “And the condition is, that after this is done, after this fucking doomed stakeout is finally over, I drive us home and you let me rail you against our couch. How does that sound?”

You squeak, once. That’s it, but you can already feel that tell-tale hum, that warmth that almost itches, taking root below your stomach. His eyebrows arch in surprise, in victory, that smirk threatening to make an appearance. Your nails dig into the pleather seat – you want to thrash back, to get out from under the weight of his hand, to snark back a litany of responses that are not only mean but belittling – but you don’t.

You know he can feel you swallow and his eyelids hover halfway as he licks his bottom lip. He shifts, elbow now pressing against the back of the seat, his weight leaning forward, almost pressing down on you. His other hand is dangerously close to your knee.

“I’d make it good. I’d make it so fucking good, I swear. I’ll get down on my hands and knees and eat that wet little pussy for as long as you want. Lick and suck that attitude right out of your cunt.”

The car is too small, too cramped. Heat is washing over you in waves and the ache between your thighs is burning. With him this close, you can smell his cologne, the cologne that you rib him endlessly for because you’ve watched women inhale it like a pheromone as he passes down the hall. The scent now floods your senses, choking out everything that isn’t him, and your fingers dig up around his wrist, to pry him off you. You can feel sweat trickle down your temple onto his pinkie over your cheek. He watches it with his eyes, hungry and ready to devour. You have to wrestle back some semblance of control, or else your heart is going to beat out of your chest.

With all the strength left over from keeping yourself from bucking your hips up into the center console, you shove him back across the car.

“You fucking . . . stay over there,” you croak, gulping down air as if you had been deprived. He sprawls back, arms outstretched across the window ledge and the back of his seat. “Don’t ever fucking t-touch me again. Those things y-you said. I should report you–,”

“Why?” he chuckles. “You liked it. Thought you were going to eat me there for a minute . . . and I would’ve let you.”

It’s remarkably easy how your white-knuckled, lightning-sparked anticipation for him to do exactly what he said he’d do quickly morphs into a near-blinding rage. He doesn’t get it – he still doesn’t get it – he thinks this all a fucking game, when every minute of every day, your entire self-worth was put on the line.

But this is how you danced with him – right up to the edge, barking, screaming, yelling, then when it got real, or even almost real, you backed down. And he knew it.

“You really deserve someone who knows what they’re doing,” he continues. He folds his arms across his chest, grinning wildly. “Maybe that would teach you to be nice. Is that why you’re so nasty all the time? Someone who cares about you to properly stuff up that sweet little pussy in the way you need it?”

You feel fire crackle up and down your spine, plunging low to lick your insides every time he muses about the state of your cunt, then sky-rocketing back into this rage you’ve built out like walls.

It’s your turn to twist in the seat, to push against the windows as if you could expand and break out from this twisted scrap of metal that kept you chained to him.

“This is not about sex, Javier.” Your teeth ache from grounding out the words. “This is about proving to every single man out there that I deserve to be here. That I’m not just some cock-struck idiot who falls to her knees just because you snap your fingers. I don’t care what you think I need or what you want to do to me. I don’t care because until I come out of this bet the winner, all they’ll ever see is a pair of tits who negs them to do their fucking jobs.”

That wipes the smirk instantly off his face.

His eyes go soft and that might be worse than when he threatened your cunt.

“You think I don’t respect you.” It wasn’t a question but a surprised, almost hurt, statement. He sits up as best he can while still facing you. You were both irate and appreciative that you didn’t have to put it all into words. Words that would make you, again, feel like an overly emotional wimp. Someone with feelings. “You think I’m doing this – that I’m still doing this – because I want to humiliate you.”

You wait in silence for the pricking in your throat to subside before continuing on. “Is that not why? To bend that bitch as far as she’ll go before she breaks so everyone can see how much of a child she really is?”

His nostrils flare. “That’s the second time you’ve called yourself that tonight and I won’t stand for a third. Do you understand?”

His protectiveness flares so fast you aren’t quite sure what to do with it, so you nod.

“Good.”

Javier turns back around, his knees spread outright around the edge of the steering wheel, and picks the packet of cigarettes from underneath the radio. He wheels down the window again, rain spitting inside the inner ledge, and he lights up for the first time all night. His breath is shaky as he exhales through the crack he made. You can’t stop staring at the shine against his throat. What was rain and what was sweat? The golden lights from the store fronts and shops make the curls around his neck glow.

“I’m sorry that by fighting with you, I made you feel inferior. If you can believe it, I actually respect the living shit out of you and I . . .” He taps out ash before dropping his gaze to his lap. “That was never my intention, but Christ alive, you drive me crazy.”

If anyone ever asked, with a gun to your head, what was the one thing that immediately turned you on, you would without question answer with: Javier’s voice. How deep it got when he barked orders. How stern and serious it was when he directed raids and stationed soldiers. How playful it could be when you stopped trying to claw his eyes out.

He inhales slowly, thoughtfully, before blowing out again, fully turning his shoulders away from you as if something he is ashamed to admit is crawling up his chest into his mouth. He presses back against the seat, his unoccupied fingers tapping on his thigh.

“I think you’re one of the best agents I’ve ever met,” he confesses quietly. “Which should be the only opinion that matters, actually. I don’t say that to be egotistical – this bet isn’t about them. It’s between you and me, so fuck them. They’re all idiots and you know that. They know you know that and that’s why they want to take you down. Some men can’t stand it when a woman is smarter than them.”

Your tongue unsticks from the roof of your mouth. There is a heady mixture of pride, relief, and lust swirling lower and lower. He thought you were one of the best agents he’s ever met. Your lower half tightens at the praise, especially coming from him. “And you? What do you think?”

Javier grins. He flicks the butt end of the cigarette out the window and rolls it all the way up as he says,

“It’s a fucking turn on, is what I think.” His hips adjust towards you, that obnoxious belt buckle gleaming in the low light. Do not look at his crotch. He presses the backs of his two fingers against his mouth as he watches you. “But I’m not going to let you win this bet because you flutter your pretty eyes at me.”

He knocks his temple against the headrest, gaze shamelessly sweeping up your thighs, your wrists – of course, your tits – your neck and then your lips. You had caught glimpses of this look from him before – when you were reporting to a room full of slobbering men with precision and direction, or when you kneed a suspect into the ground, pinning him down and cuffing him with the other hand or that one time you joined the game of volleyball at the agency picnic in nothing but a sports bra and swim trunks. But now, that unique Javi look that seemed reserved only for you, it barrels down on you in full force – not another agent or superior around the corner to drag his attention away. Without restraint, he let those dirty, nasty little thoughts spring into his mind and you can almost hear the moans you're making in his head.

The desire that had been reduced to a simmer suddenly flares up in a fever pitch. Between your legs, your cunt aches at the mere hint of attention.

“Javier, don’t,” you warn. You try to back away, try to cut the argument in half like you do in the office by storming away down a hallway or into the bathroom or your car. But you can’t. You’re pinned by proximity under the weight of his stare. You’re not even fighting with him and he’s making you angry.

Angry? God, leave it to fucking Javier Peña to prove to you that the line between rage and being outrageously turned on was a razor-thin edge.

“I’m not even doing anything, baby,” he croons. He rounds his shoulders as if trying to lean forward, cover himself with his body. If you couldn’t see the whites of his knuckles around his clasped hands, you would have feared you would have been making this all up. “I’m not touching you, just like you asked.”

“Thank you, Javi,” you squeak out. “Now, please let's just get back to–,”

“I could, though, if you change your mind.” His eyes follow a very predictable path up the curve of your throat. “I could touch you. Are you going to change your mind?”

Even now, on the knife edge, even when he has been extraordinarily honest with you, you can’t make yourself say it. Can’t ask for it.

“It’s against the rules.” Because she's a traitor to you, your cunt leaks when you meet his jet black gaze. You feel the sweat on your neck return so fast you shiver. “I will kick you if you come over here again.”

“You’re so mean to me but, fuck, I love it so much.” He smirks. With mounting horror, you watch as he lifts his hand, the same one that flew over your mouth, up to the lip of the center console. “Here I am pouring my goddamn heart out, and you want to resort to violence.”

Not so much cautious, but more with the slow, syrupy flow of direct and deliberate intention, he brushes the backs of his fingers against your thigh. You jolt back, a muffed gasp caught between your teeth, but you don’t move to snatch his hand away.

He watches your face for any hint of resistance. When he doesn’t find any, he continues, casually flowing the pads of his fingers from the top of your knee, all the way up to your hip.

“Do you wanna know what I think, baby?” He purrs. “I think, somewhere along the way, someone came along and really fucked you up. Hurt you beyond comprehension.” His touch is more insistent now, more of his fingers, his palm occasionally. His thumbs sweeps your inner thigh and your cunt clenches down onto nothing and your teeth ache in your head.

“Javier–,”

His eyes flutter for a minute at the sound of his name tearing through your mouth. “Fuck, you’re getting me distracted . . . what was I saying? Oh, yeah . . . I think someone fucked you up and like the fucking warrior you are, you built up safeguards to never let that happen again.” His eyebrow arches lazily as he palms your waist. By the sheer grace of God, you had tucked your shirt into your pants today, never wanting to give the men in the bullpen the satisfaction of an accidental flash of skin. But Javier just tuts at the intrusion. His knuckles digging into your skin, he pinches out the edge of your shirt, bit by bit. “Problem is, you kept building until you locked yourself in and now you don’t know how to get out. You don’t know how to ask nicely at all.”

His broad palm slides uninterrupted under your shirt, smoothing the rough pads of his fingers across your stomach, and then up to the underwire of your bra. That’s enough to jerk you out of this dizzying haze.

“Javi, you can’t–,” you squeeze your eyes shut, as tight as your cunt, as he threatens to brush his thumb over your teased nipple. “I–I don’t wanna – I don’t wanna lose –,”

“Fuck the bet, sweetheart. You can tell them I lost for all I care. Right now, I just wanna feel you gush between my fingers.”

He doesn’t even need to touch your tit to yank that first moan out of you, but the breeze of his thumb only elongates the noise. Your own hand claps over your mouth this time, to muffle half of that stifled sound.

“None of that now,” he purrs, switching the direction of his hand and going lower on your body. “It’s fine when we’re in public, but here, I want you hoarse from screaming my name as loud as you can.”

“Javi, please–,”

His hips twitch. Twitch so hard they jerk off the seat, the side of his crotch rubbing the steering wheel. His eyes roll back in his head.

“Juuust like that, baby. Keep saying my name just like that.”

His fingers don’t slow down as they breach the waistband of your pants. He didn’t even unzip you so his entire warm hand is shoved right up against your coarse, damp hairs.

“Fuck, is this sweat, baby, or is it from me? Please fucking lie if it's not and tell me it’s for me.”

The pad of his middle finger skims the top of your lips, terrifyingly close to your clit and you finally react. Your clit throbbing, your fingers clamp down on his wrist and he freezes. But he’s panting, breathing harshly across the seat.

“Don’t ask me to stop. Not right now. Please don’t –,”

Your hips buck into his palm and your head drops back against the window. You end up pressing him harder against you and you moan.

“It’s you, Javier, I’m dripping for you.”

“Shit,” he snarls and rubs himself against the steering wheel again, anything to relieve the pressure. His fingers slide around the edges of your puffy, swollen lips, skitters across your pulsating clit, and you nearly orgasm from the direct touch. You jerk back, the denial of your orgasm almost painful, but because your waistband binds him to you, his fingers come with you and you bump into them again. You almost cry out at the intrusion, but his hand is still.

“Can I touch you– c-can I put them inside you, baby – please?”

Tight-lipped, you shake your head furiously, muffling nuh uh between your teeth. He hisses darkly.

“This can’t possibly still be about this stupid fucking bet –,”

“I don’t – w-w-wanna lose – I-I-I don’t wanna lose –,” you swallow, voice breaking, and you yank his hand out from your soaking underwear. You can’t bear to look at his fingertips, assuming from the ocean between your thighs, they’ll come out pruny. But the ache doesn’t go away. It lingers, waiting and lurking for the next touch. It’s been denied too many times tonight. Your head spinning, you gasp for breath for the split second he’ll allow.

“You know, for such a smart woman, you really don’t get what’s best for you.” His other hand finally comes around and grabs your knee, pinning you apart with his broad hand and his other elbow as his fingers dive for the buttons of your pants. You try to shut your legs, but the box at your feet is immovable. “Just fucking relax and let me take you apart.”

“W-w-wait, Javier, that’s not–,”

His gaze pinning you down as much as his weight is, his fingers deftly unzipping your pants, sliding through the opening, and pressing up against your sodden panties. You gasp. It’s relief, painful, throbbing relief, but it comes at the cost of fire licking your spine.

“But that’s not what you need, is it, pretty baby? That’s only part of it. Touching is one thing, but you need someone inside of you, don't you? Need someone to fuck up into that pretty cunt.” Your pussy swollen, you fight to breathe as much as it to fight off your impending orgasm. “Just say thank you, Javi when we’re done, alright?”

Unrelenting and deaf to your cries, his fingers strip back your underwear and finally, finally, finally, he sinks two fingers into your hot, pulsating core. His shoulders shudder as you arch back, letting out a wail. Your thighs quake around the box in front of you.

“‘Is so good. So warm.” He slurs. His hand releases your knee and slides up your hip to palm as much of your ass as he can reach. “Can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do this.” He inhales like he wants to haul you over the console into his lap, but that you resolutely cannot allow, because there would be no coming back from that. You can still see the other side of your orgasm, enough to stifle it back down, sequester it. He strokes your inner muscles, in and out, the wet sound obscene – you must be gushing – and he hums. “Listen to that, sweetheart. God, the things I could do with that. Put you over my fucking shoulder, for one.”

Your release is roaring at you, the razor-edge of pain and pleasure digging into the meat of your pussy, as you fight again to deny what you actually really want. You plant your heels, rolling your hips against his fingers because if you were going to fucking lose, you were going to be the one to make you do it. Not him.

And then unprompted, he retreats his fingers and all but shoves them into his mouth. His hips buck up again and he’s not breathing properly. You shudder at the loss of contact but at least the edges of your vision return. God, you’re not sure how much more you can take. But there is some respite, even for a moment. Javi seems to have momentarily forgotten how close he had come to winning.

Saliva and your thready cum dripping from between his lip, Javier sucks on his fingers as if someone were threatening to cut off his hand. His hips bump lazily, distractedly, against the steering wheel as his other hand white-knuckles his knee. He licks his wrist up to the meaty side of his palm, never one to waste excess.

“Fuck, fuck, f-f-fuck,” he murmurs, eyes closed. The sight has you flushing again. “I’m gonna eat that cunt whole if it’s the last thing I do. Gonna put you in my lap and bounce you on my cock until you beg me to let you –,”

“Come.” You command, sanity finally snapping as you use the same voice to scold rowdy students at the academy or talkative agents in a presentation. It’s forceful, direct, and you are hoping that it throws him off enough to do exactly that. Come, so you win fair and square. Because that means you can finally come too.

It works.

Or it nearly does.

Javier’s spine goes rigid, hips still, his soaked fingertips hovering inches from his wet lips. His eyes snap open and oh, shit, you’ve done it now, you’ve really done it now. His once blissed out face contorts into that scowl of primal determination that only comes down for raids. For meetings with sketchy CIs. Moments when lives are at stake.

“What did you just say to me?” The growl is more gnarled wolf than human. You immediately back up as far as the car will allow, the front of your pants still undone.

“Javi, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry –,” By his expression, you half-expect him to throw open the door, storm around to your side, yank you to your feet and start fucking you against the car window. Your cunt is throwing a fucking riot at this point. She’s so pissed at you, she’s squeezing so tightly, you think she’ll suck the air right out of you. “I wasn’t thinking – i-i-it just slipped out –,”

He unbuttons two more of his buttons on his shirt and you think, deliriously, he’s going to take his shirt off, but no, he’s just letting more heat escape. More steam rise from his sweaty back. He seems to grow, fill out, until he takes up the entire front seat of the car.

“Please, please, don’t make me come, Javi.” You cry, shrinking back as far as you can. You might actually die from this. From him or a lack thereof. Either way, Javier Peña is going to destroy you.

“I should leave you alone, you know.” He growls. “I should just leave you there to fucking drool into your jeans, smart little cunt knotted up so tight, I could breath on you and make you come. The kind of shit you pulled tonight, you fucking deserve to suffer. But I’m not going to do that and you know why?”

Without warning, his hand snatches around your wrist, yanking you up against the center console. He’s right, you’re so fucking close, the movement rubs you wrong and you squeak again.

Slowly, with superhuman restraint, his nose delicately strokes the underside of your jaw by your ear, then down your neck, as if inhaling the goosebumps that burst out across your skin. You shudder. “J-J-Javi, p-p-please –,”

His other hand slides back up under your shirt, his fingers slotting in between your ribs, your back as arched as it can go. He feels you breath shakily and he closes his eyes. His next words are so soft, spoken so close to your cheek, you can feel the hairs there vibrate with the frequency of his voice.

“I’m not going to do that because I want you to know exactly what the fuck has the secretaries in a goddamn hissy fit over. I want you to think of me and me only every time you try to open your legs for anyone else. I want you to cry in frustration every time you can’t make yourself come with just your fingers because they’re not mine – they’re nowhere close to mine – and I want you to scream in frustration when I don’t pick up the phone. After tonight, I’m going to ruin you for everyone else.”

He pauses, as if expecting an answer, but he couldn’t possibly think you are capable of responding, of dredging actual human thought up out of the murk he held you under. His lips drag gently over the arc of your cheek as he leans into your ear. His voice rumbles and you whine, embarrassed, at the sound alone.

“Because that’s what you’ve done to me.”

No, no, that can’t possibly be right – it’s a trick. It’s a trap. It’s a lie. Javier Peña can’t actually be –

And then, in that same, slow timbre of voice, Javi says,

“I’m gonna finger-fuck you now, okay?”

Any chance of fighting back, of arguing still, is obliterated when his hand shoots back down between your thighs, surges past your underwear, and hooks his fingers up inside you again. This time it’s fast, he’s not waiting for you to gather your sense, he’s going to split you open, here in this fucking Pontiac.

The force of his thrusts make your spine turn to ooze and you drop forward onto his shoulder.

Fine. It’s fine. You’ll fucking lose. Who cares about your precious pride?

You don’t realize you’re whimpering in time with his fingers until you try to say his name. He cups the back of your head, reverently, as he spews more filth into your ear. As if the lewd noises he’s evoking from your pussy isn’t enough.

“I’m going to take care of you, you little sweet cunt. I’m going to take care of you the way no one else has. That’s right, that’s a good little pussy, squealing for me. Hmm, tell me, does she like this?”

His thumb merely brushes your clit, the lone survivor in all of this, and your hips jolt in his hand. He holds you steady against his shoulder. Your fingernails dig into his bicep.

“Oh, yeah, she does. Of course, she does. I can do that for as long as you like, alright?”

That white heat curls your body inwards, tearing your mouth open, and sending your eyes to the back of your head. “JaviJaviJaviJavi – please –,”

He tsks into your ear. “You keep saying that but you never tell me what you’re begging for.”

It’s coming. It’s staggering. It eclipses everything and it’s just out of reach. You feel it start to expand and after all this time, it’s actually a fucking relief to give yourself over. To let yourself be rent asunder by something this huge and overwhelming.

His fingers, the ones not rocketing you towards the biggest orgasm of your life, gently wind up into your hair, sweetly caressing the soft skin behind your earlobe. His voice is quiet, coaxing, kind. His lips almost kiss the ridges of your ear.

“It’s okay, baby. I’ll tell you what to say. Say, Javi, I want you to make me come.”

“Javi, I–,”

There’s an explosion.

No, not like that. He’s not that good.

It’s a literal explosion in the street, with flashes of flames and heat that rattle the car. Alarms go off, your vision goes white – because of a pipe bomb stationed out underneath a car parked outside the part-time gambling den, part-time brothel. Javi’s arm flings out in front of you as the car is rocked from the impact. Flames lick the charred out husk of the front of the building. Only when your ears stop ringing, do you finally hear the screaming.

And then patter of bullets.

“Baby, get your gun and stay low!” He roars, as the windshield of the car behind you shatters, the popping of gunfire echoing the distance. He lunges back and grabs his jacket, fumbling for his gun. The panic in his voice shakes you awake and you dig into the glove box for your own handheld.

It’s a firefight for your lives, in the middle of the rain, in the middle of chaos and smoke.

It’s time to go to work.

🤍Part 2

#javier peña #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena smut #javier peña x y/n #javier pena x y/n #javier pena fic #javier pena one shot #javier pena x ofc #javier peña x reader #javier peña smut #javier peña x you #narcos #narcos netflix

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amaranthhiding · 1 year

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Samwena in 13x19 Funeralia

Excuse me while I fall into another obsessive Funeralia spiral. (I swear, every single time I rewatch any scenes, this episode gets me!) Or even better yet, join me on my descent!

When Dean tells Rowena that Sam is the one who's going to kill her in every single one of her books, she is hurt. Ruth's acting is absolutely phenomenal, you can see the hurt in every little change on Rowena's face. It even goes far enough for her to have that little lip and chin tremble.

Jared's acting is just as stellar because Sam's guilt over the whole thing is tangible in the air between them. He is so torn by guilt, he can barely look at her reaction for two seconds before he has to swallow and avert his gaze.

Then Sam tries to handcuff her, and she falls back into her pattern of trying to mask her hurt with humor. She thinks she managed it by proving her superiority with that astral projection stunt. She's fleeing in a wild run because of course she wants to avoid getting captured. But I think she's partly also trying to run away from this hurt by physically distancing herself from the place it happened, and especially from the person who caused it.

Note how at this point it doesn't seem to be her plan at all to abduct Sam in any way. She's just trying to run.

Then Sam catches up to her, and she doesn’t even try to flee or fight or use magic. She’s just standing there, frozen on the spot, like she has to know the truth. She has to know if he’d actually do it, but she can’t even face him while he makes his decision.

Sam struggles, he does. There are actual tears in his eyes.

And he realizes he can’t do it. Everything inside himself screams at him not to. He lets the weapon sink.

Thinking Sam has made up his mind, Rowena finally dares to turn around to look at him in a moment of connection because she thinks it’s safe.

That’s when the promise Sam has given Dean takes over that he’d put a bullet in Rowena if she breaks bad.

After the car talk with Rowena in 13x12, Sam finally admitted how helpless he’s feeling to Dean. Sam has failed over and over again this season, and nothing would work out the way he’d intended. He got knocked out like 6 times during the last few weeks and Dean had to come save him multiple times. Sam thinks he’s the one who got Kaia killed, and that he’s the one to blame for Jack being stuck in Apocalypse World. And just one episode ago, he let Gabriel go after using the archangel’s grace to heal him. When Dean found out, he reacted with an extremely volatile outburst of frustration targeted at Sam specifically, for giving away their last hope of saving their mom and Jack. That outburst was loud enough to actually make Sam wince. All of Sam’s choices this season leading up to this point have turned out so terribly wrong that it cost people’s lives.

So Sam allows Dean’s choice to overrule his own because he has lost every shred of trust in himself and his own decisions. Sam can’t let Dean down again, he can’t.

He raises the weapon back up and pulls the trigger.

Sam can’t believe what he just did. He doesn’t want to see Rowena’s corpse slump to the ground. But the outcome he was dreading did, in fact, not happen because she stopped that bullet. Sam can’t bear to see the expression on her face and hear the slight tremble in her voice.

For Rowena, the hurt cuts even deeper than before, burning more fiercely than anything she has experienced in a long time.

Nobody was supposed to be able to hurt her like this ever again. She thought she had fortified herself against it ever since that trauma all the way back with Crowley's father who broke her heart by leaving her. She'd had no idea that Sam possessed the ability to hurt her like this, that they'd somehow grown close enough for this to be possible at all. And now the hurt just won't stop, so she short-circuits and tries to make it stop in the way her old self has done over all these centuries... by lashing out at whoever is hurting her, and making sure they can never do it again.

Naturally, the way she chooses to do this is by... putting him to sleep and transporting him into her room (How even? Levitation?) where she busies herself with lighting all the candles until Sam comes back to his senses. Then she cuts into her own palm, tears his shirt open, and presses her blood onto Sam's bare chest right over his heart. You know, as you do. Completely normal way of attacking someone. Absolutely nothing to see here.

(Also note that while the whole thing did seem to hurt Sam because he groaned in pain, no mark whatsoever is left on his skin. Not a burn. Not a scratch. She made herself bleed, but not him.) Death appears, and while Rowena is claiming that what she's doing here is killing Sam Winchester, her body language is telling the exact opposite. Throughout the entire exchange, she's threatening Billie, not Sam, with the knife. The whole thing hilariously looks like she's defending Sam against Billie! Her body is in a very clear defensive pose and she's positioned exactly in front of Sam.

Even when she finally turns her attention from Billie to Sam, supposedly to make true on her threat to kill him, it's only her head that moves to look back over her shoulder, but her arm with the knife stays aimed at Billie.

That damn knife never even gets anywhere near Sam. Then it's entirely gone in the next shot, so she must have dropped it as soon as she realized there was no way in hell she would cut into Sam's skin with it.

She’s talking softly with Sam about Crowley, but she is so confused. At this point, her emotions are boiling so high she can't handle them at all any longer, so they burst out into the open in exactly the same way they did earlier when she targeted Sam's heart, but this far more violent outburst is aimed at the target that won’t take any harm.

She doesn't understand what's happening, why she can't kill Sam to make sure she's the one in control, why she can't make the hurt stop in the way she has always done in self-preservation over all these long centuries.

Billie is the one who has to put into words what has been so glaringly obvious through the whole scene to anyone other than Rowena herself. "You were never going to kill him. There was a time you would've, but not now."

That's when Rowena caves and finally admits to everyone including herself that she has no idea what to do with all these feelings, because the only way she knows how to handle them is no longer working. She doesn't even get back to her feet to defend herself when Dean bursts into the room, instead just cowering there with quiet sobs.

Sam is the one who stops Dean with a panicked-sounding warning call. Dean was in no danger whatsoever, not from Rowena and not from Billie who clearly just stated that the Winchesters were needed. So the only possible meaning I can read into Sam's call is that he's begging Dean not to shoot Rowena.

After a scene cut, Rowena is still sitting on the floor in a position very similar to the one she's been in ever since her breakdown, with Sam and Dean sitting opposite her. She has something to drink in front of her now, though. And hilariously, we see Sam reach into the fridge like he lives there to take a bottle for himself and Dean each, so I assume he's the one who handed out the drink to Rowena as well, trying to make everyone feel better.

He goes even further than that, asking both Dean and Rowena how they are feeling and getting them to talk openly. In addition to genuinely wanting to know how these people he cares about are feeling, I think what he's doing here is ensuring the waves are smoothed over enough that this will not be a repeat of the Amy Pond situation where Dean went back to kill the "monster".

Rowena asks, "Sam, what've I done?", sounding stifled and horrified like she thinks she has ruined their relationship forever, and she still hasn’t even fully stopped crying.

This is her way of both saying sorry and carefully testing out the waters of where they're standing after all of this. He gives her a look that I can seriously only describe as soft, telling her "You had a chance to kill me and you didn't. I'd call that progress."

The wording makes even more sense considering that Dean is sitting right next to them, so Sam is making a point of putting emphasis on the fact that she isn't a lost cause, that she isn’t something they have to hunt.

Then Sam goes so far as to tell her that it wasn't her fault what happened with Crowley, even though he must realize that's blatantly false and that her way of (not) parenting clearly had a strong influence on Crowley's fate. The way Sam says it with that frowny headshake and soft voice almost gives me the impression they're talking in code, and this is his veiled "I forgive you" in reply to her veiled apology from before.

This whole exchange is insanely gentle given the fact that they both just tried to kill each other. Yes, clearly neither of them wanted to kill the other, what with those tormented expressions on their faces when it happened and Sam firing only a single bullet (which was probably his loophole way of justifying to himself that he kept his word to Dean without actually getting Rowena killed.) But still, it's remarkable how soft this conversation is after the insanity of this episode.

When Dean begins one of his motivational speeches for Rowena, Sam listens quietly, knowing he has won. He has accomplished his goal of making sure Rowena is no longer on Dean's kill list. And only after that, Sam proceeds to say the most outrageous thing possible in this situation, complimenting Rowena on her deadliness and luring the first real smile out of her still tear-streaked face. And with that one seemingly crazy comment, he cements towards her that things between them are fine and that he accepts her despite her past.

(I'm in awe of Sam's emotional intelligence.)

When Rowena asks if they think she can still be redeemed, Sam waits and lets Dean go first, even though one can basically see Sam itch to get his own reassurance out. His mouth even opens! But he has to know for sure first that Dean really has no ill will towards Rowena any longer.

And because he actually trusts her and wants to show both her and Dean that he does, he nips a potential future conflict in the bud by openly telling her the truth that Lucifer is back instead of somehow hiding that fact from her. Dean comments in a way that shows clearly he thought she was going to freak out at this piece of information, but Sam just sits there with a calm face because he trusted that she would not.

Even with everything that's at stake for Sam (they need Rowena to find Gabriel to save Mary and Jack), even after the way Gabriel let him down just one episode prior and Sam's willingness to trust in the good in people has buried them in a whole pile of problems, Sam still wants the relationship between Rowena and him to be based on open trust from here on out. So he gives her the truth about Lucifer, knowing fully well how traumatic it is for both of them.

And Rowena in turn takes that offered trust and returns it to Sam in the most outrageous way possible, finding solace in the fact that he, not Lucifer, is the one prophesied to kill her. Because Rowena is the living proof that his blind faith in the good in people was never wrong, Sam is suddenly shown to have hope and self-esteem again “You changed other people’s fates, maybe we can change yours,” after he had all but abandoned any kind of it following his interactions with Gabriel and Dean in the episode before this one. (He couldn’t even get out anything but stutters when they called Rowena at the beginning of this episode and Dean had to steal the call from him, that’s how low Sam was!)

And Rowena is so touched by still being trusted and accepted despite everything that of course she agrees to help them save their family, when at the start of the episode she had still refused because she was busy trying to save hers.

I... am not okay? Help?

#samwena #amaranthmeta #samwitch #sam x rowena #sam winchester #sam #rowena macleod #rowena #13x19 #funeralia #spn

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skarlette1 · 1 year

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Pearl Girls: Trustee's Balls to the Wall

–Part of the Pearl Girls series.

Finally, the night of the Trustee’s Ball had arrived! The anticipation was driving me mad, it felt like I’d been preparing for this night for years!

I’d barely slept in days, digging into my reserves of stamina I’d gained as the superheroine Argent in order to finish grading the finals for all the classes I taught as Alexis Ames, PhD. The last twenty-four hours were a marathon of preparation and primping with my personal shopper, Crystal Creese, punctuated by furtive bouts of passionate sex and refreshing cat naps in the afterglow. Crystal had made me into a version of myself more beautiful and alluring than I thought possible. Every element of my ensemble orbited my single-strand pearl necklace and served to accentuate my sexuality—from my platinum-blond French twist, to my shimmering, crystal-encrusted evening gown, to my flawless makeup (waterproof to resist spills of any kind of fluid).

After so much buildup, it was little surprise that I made my entrance to the ball much too early. Neither the trustees nor Dean Dickinson had arrived yet, but I did see one familiar face. Ordering a drink at the bar was Hipolyta Leasch, clad in a red silk gown. She was a professor of archaeology, a well-respected scholar, and, most importantly, the wife of my colleague Dr. Grant Kerry. Their marriage had been in shambles since I seduced Grant in order to protect my secret life as a Pearl Girl. Although Grant had sworen to me that he hadn’t told his wife just what had occurred between him and I, the wisest course of action would be to avoid the woman entirely.

Of course, the buzz of my pearls led me directly to her. I’d failed to resist their direction for so long that even the prospect of speaking with the woman whose life I’d ruined couldn’t keep me from obedience.

Hipolyta was tall and curvy with waves of dark hair in gorgeous contrast to her bright red gown. Before becoming a Pearl Girl, I had even felt overshadowed by her beauty the few times we’d met. Now, the pearls reminded me that I’d tasted her husband’s cum just a few days ago. She had already lost to me and didn’t even know it.

I leaned against the bar next to her and ordered a virgin daiquiri. “Doctor Leasch! How nice to see you again. How was your trip abroad? Did you dig up any interesting fertility statues?”

She replied over her shoulder. “Not a fertility statue exactly, but I did uncover a fascinating ...” She faced me with a quizzical expression. “I’m sorry, do we know each other?” Considering the changes to my appearance since I last saw her at a faculty mixer nearly a year ago, I wasn’t surprised that she didn’t recognize me. Most days I barely recognized myself.

“My stylist said a new outfit would completely change my appearance. I suppose she was right. I’m Alexis Ames. We met at the English faculty mixer last year. I’m a colleague of your husband Grant.”

Her mouth turned sour at the mention of her unfaithful spouse. She spoke with cold politeness, “Lovely to see you again, Doctor Ames.”

“Please call me ‘Alexis.’ I’m surprised to see another faculty member here. Normally, it’s only administrators, trustees, and potential donors at these things. No scholars allowed.”

“The Leasch family have contributed to the school’s endowment for generations. I’ve been coming to these things forever. You’re the one who seems out of place. What tears you away from an old book this evening, Doctor Ames?”

Ignoring her question, I replied, “You must call me ‘Alexis.’ All my friends do. I feel like we’re old friends, considering how much Grant talked about you while you were traveling.”

Hipolyta winced. “He pestered you while I was away? I hope he wasn’t too much of a burden, Alexis.”

“Not at all. He suffered so greatly while you were gone. The bond you two share must be something special to cause him such pangs of longing while you were apart. Your chemistry could inspire a fertility cult of its own, Doctor Leasch.”

“Call me ‘Lyta.’ You’ve got the wrong idea about Grant. He’s not the man you think he is.”

“I don’t know about that, Lyta. He seems to me to be a man of good character, beset with the same vices we all are. Struggling with his passions and his appetites. While you were gone, his passion for literature kept us up many a late night debating Marlowe versus Spenser. As the weeks and months wore on, his appetite for spirits cut a swath through my wine cellar. The whole time, his passion for human connection and appetite for tender touch … well, you know how deep and profound that appetite is. What man could possibly bear so many months of separation from a beautiful woman? He’s only human.”

Her lips trembled with rage and humiliation, a single teardrop gliding down her cheek. My pearls rewarded my cruelty with a buzz of bliss throughout my body. When faced with a rival, a Pearl Girl always comes out on top.

Catching sight of Dean Dickinson, I excused myself and let Hipolyta Leasch stew in her own impotent fury.

The Dean was clearly upset, arguing with one of the guests. I recognized the man. He was an ABD adjunct professor in the history department. Peterson, perhaps? Or Paulson? All I recalled about him for certain was that he had a sneering, arrogant demeanor and misogynistic attitude that I found repugnant.

Considering that two beautiful women hung from his arms, not everyone shared my low opinion of the professor. On his left was a girl, no more than a college sophomore, with hair nearly as platinum blond as my own. She wore hers in a wavy bob, perfectly complimenting her bright red lipstick and prominent beauty mark over her lip. She bore a flirtatious smile, frozen in place as if she were paralyzed. Most notably, she wore a shiny gold corset with exaggerated bra cups in the shape of cones, as if she’d just stepped off stage from the Blond Ambition tour.

On his right arm was another girl with platinum blond hair. Hers was a pageboy style and looked clearly like a wig. The girl wore a garish dress made of a white tank top joined by two metal rings to a blue tie-dye miniskirt. The design left her sides bare with plenty of creamy flesh on display. She completed the outfit with shiny black PVC thigh-high boots, as if she were ready to stroll down Rodeo Drive and turn tricks for Richard Gere. Despite her trashy makeup and glassy-eyed expression, something seemed familiar about the student. Where had I seen—

My jaw dropped.

It was Yvonne Yates, my former lover and superheroine partner Sable!

That meant that the one dressed like the ’80s pop star must be her roommate Thora Thames! I had barely seen Yvonne all semester. Between my academic commitments and my duties as a Pearl Girl, there had been no time. Plus, to be honest, I feared what Yvonne would think of my transformation. Never once had I considered what changes might have overtaken her. What sort of monster could have caged Sable’s heroic heart and turned my fierce, spunky partner into this brainless, bimbofied knockoff of a pretty woman?

“Professor Paulson, this unacceptable!” Dean Dickinson bellowed. “I extended this invitation as an opportunity for an ambitious faculty member to make connections, not to display your exploitation of the student body!”

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Dean. I’m simply using the girls as performance-art commentary on the madonna-whore complex. It’s just a bit of fun. Freud wouldn’t mind. The girls don’t mind. Do you, girls?”

Yvonne and Thora responded in sing-song tones, perfectly synchronized. “No, Professor Paulson.”

“This is outrageous!” the dean spluttered. “You will leave immediately or your contract will be terminated! I have half a mind to—”

I stepped forward. “I’ll show the professor out, Dean.” Nudging Yvonne aside, I took Paulson’s arm.

“Get your filthy hands off me, you arrogant twat!” Paulson tried to pull away, but he was only a man. It took only the slightest pressure of my superheroic strength to keep him from escaping.

Steering him toward the door, I hissed in his ear. “You’re lucky that the Dean didn’t fire you on the spot, Paulson. Adjuncts like you, without your dissertation, are a dime a dozen. He was being merciful. Although I cannot deal with your misdeeds right now, I have no intention of being as kind as the Dean. Whatever hold you have over these two girls will end tonight. If both Yvonne and Thora are not completely freed from your influence by tomorrow morning, I will destroy you.”

As we stepped onto the portico, I placed my hand on Paulson’s chest. With a super-strong flick of my wrist, I sent the self-important oaf sprawling into the bushes. Thora scampered over to help him. Before Yvonne could follow, I took her elbow. “You don’t need to be with him, Yvonne. Whatever he’s done to you, we have friends—teammates—that can help you.”

The briefest flicker of hope crossed Yvonne’s face before being replaced with enmity. “Professor Paulson is a great man, Alexis. A great man. He’s shown me my proper place. Which is more than you ever did.”

Before I could reply, Treasure Tartarus’s voice cut through the night. “Doctor Ames, you mustn’t be late to the ball.” The slightest whiff of her exotic perfume set my pearls buzzing and made my pussy slick.

But I couldn’t leave my lover Yvonne in the clutches of that wretched man another second! Simply saying Just a moment, Treasure would allow me to go to Yvonne and make her see reason. I took a step off the portico, but the buzzing of the pearls increased around my throat, down my spine, inside my brain. The buzz increased and increased until there was nothing else inside me. The pearls buzzed my legs into turning me around. They buzzed a smile onto my face. They buzzed words from my lips. “I obey, Mistress Tartarus … but ... I … must ...”

The sexiest girl I had ever seen sashayed over to me, her white fur coat swaying with every step. Snaking one finger under my pearl necklace, Treasure yanked my head down so she could whisper in my ear. “The only ‘but’ you must think about tonight is your own ass, Alexis, and how much those trustees will love fucking it. Screw this up and you’ll never get to kiss me. Understand?”

While my heart broke for Yvonne, every inch of my flesh ached for Treasure’s kiss. Through the pearl-induced haze of buzzing in my head, I couldn’t want anything other than to please her. “I … understand, Mistress Tartarus.”

She released my necklace and began fussing with my dress, ensuring I looked my best. “This dress is lovely, you have flawless taste, Alexis. But I want to be sure you understand your rules for tonight. Repeat them for me.”

“I am to treat each and every trustee as though they were pearl-level members of Club Absinthe, pleasing them however I’m able.”

“Good. What else?”

“I am to stay attentive for any information that might help you gain leverage over the trustees.”

“Excellent, Alexis. And your final rule?”

“I must not cum, Mistress. I can fake as many orgasms as the situation demands, but I must not climax myself. No matter what. No excuses.” I hadn’t tasted the sweet release of orgasm in months, and I knew that streak would not be ending tonight.

“There’s a good Pearl Girl, Alexis. Go give those fat, old trustees their Viagra’s worth!” She turned and walked off into the night.

As I turned toward the doorway, a flicker of red silk retreated inside. I took three steps and stopped. I glanced over my shoulder to the bushes where I’d tossed Paulson. Neither he, Yvonne, nor Thora were anywhere to be seen. A superheroine would have tracked those innocent girls down to save them. A lover would have called Yvonne to ensure she was okay. A friend would have texted to offer support.

Without another thought, I strutted inside. Tonight, I was neither heroine, lover, nor friend. I was a Pearl Girl: first, last, and always.

--To Be Continued (in a week or so)…

---

Like what you read? Will you buy me a coffee and request something rich to sink my teeth into? Or peek into the depths of my longer fiction?

#skarletteone #mind control #flash fiction #superhero

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dothwrites · 3 years

Note

13 and 20

13. and 20.--Detective AU and Teacher AU

---

Castiel represses a sigh as he stands up straight. His spine pops as he subtly stretches out the kinks in his aching body.

He'd thought that he was a reasonably fit man, but bending over and scrubbing at filthy floors and tables every day is playing hell with his lower back.

The bell rings, and Castiel curses under his breath as he moves back against the wall. Less than thirty seconds later, all of the doors near him burst open and a flood of teenagers courses into the hallway.

Castiel's had a lot of unpleasant assignments in his life, but going undercover at Carver Edlund High School is among the worst. He thought that he'd seen some of the worst that humanity had to offer: murderers who cared nothing for the pain of their victims, kidnappers who plunged families into turmoil for years, robbers who were willing to kill just in order to get a few quick bucks. But upon seeing the horror show of the cafeteria after a group of freshmen finished lunch, Castiel has to start reevaluating his list of atrocities.

The tardy bell rings, and Castiel sighs as he steps out in the hall. He rolls his eyes at the debris that the students have left behind and grabs his push broom to start clearing it away.

Going undercover at Carver Edlund wasn't Castiel's first choice of assignments, but with several students ending up in the hospital due to drug overdoses, something drastic had to be done. Castiel's job is simple: gather as much intelligence as he can about where the drugs are coming from. If possible, he's to find the dealer and shut the whole production down.

In theory, it's a good assignment. Success here would mean a potential commendation, maybe a promotion if the operation is big enough. But the reality of the situation is much different. Castiel's been masquerading as a member of the maintenance team for a little over a week, and he's no closer to finding the source of the drugs than he was when he started.

His captain had ultimately decided to send him in as a member of the janitorial staff for access reasons: as a janitor, he has keys to every door. Not even lockers are safe from him. There's no place in the school off-limits to him. Unfortunately, it also means that his opportunities for questioning potential suspects are limited: no high school student wants to have long conversations with the janitor. He's reduced to sweeping around gaggles of kids, hoping that they'll just so happen to let something slip.

His plan hasn't worked. So far, he's learned about the latest TikTok challenge, who's rumored to have slept with who, and who on the football team is getting suspended, but drugs? Either these kids are savvier than he gives them credit for, or they don't know anything.

"Oh, sorry, 'scue me... Oh. Hi, Steve."

It takes Castiel just a second too long to respond to the name. Part of that is because he's still not used to answering to his cover name, and part of that is because he's still not sure how to act around Dean Smith.

He braces himself before he turns around, but that still doesn't prepare him for the sight of Dean Smith leaning against the wall. Looking at him is like looking into the sun, if the sun was in a dingy hallway with flickering florescent lights and questionable stains on the floor. Even with those inauspicious surroundings, however, Dean Smith, with his sandy hair, vibrant eyes, freckles, and bright, crooked grin, stands out.

"Hello, Dean." Castiel allows the hint of a smile to cross his face. He'd called Dean 'Mr. Smith' exactly once before Dean had put a stop to it.

"Oh, no," he said, grimacing in distaste, "I get enough of that from the kids. Just Dean, man." Castiel hadn't argued, and the slightly stuffy Mr. Smith became Dean.

"Another beautiful day cleaning up the debris of the world?" Dean gestures towards the small pile of dirt and dust that Castiel has managed to collect.

"It's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it," Castiel answers.

No doubt his superiors would be screaming if they could see him right now. Zachariah, his Captain, would sneer, You're there to catch drug dealers, Novak, not to play nice with pretty boy teachers, but Zachariah isn't here right now. Plus, it's not like Castiel's making any headway on the drug dealers, so he might as well indulge his crush with a guy who's miles out of his league.

Dean is the kind of good-looking that gets noticed by modeling companies in the line at the cafe. Castiel has found himself wondering, more than once, what a guy like him is doing substitute teaching. It's obvious that Dean is smart, and he doesn't doubt that he could have a job doing whatever he wanted. Still, Dean's being a substitute teacher works out well for him, so he doesn't complain. Not if it means that he can be just a little closer to him.

Maybe if Castiel wasn't undercover and wearing an unflattering jumpsuit with the name 'Steve' stitched across the front pocket. Maybe if he were dressed in his customary suit and had a badge and gun to flash around. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

"Don't talk to me about dirty jobs," Dean says, his voice entirely too low and insinuating for the circumstances. Heat blooms underneath Castiel's collar.

"Well, I'm not sure what else to talk to you about," he confesses. He resents the broom handle in his hands.

Dean shrugs. His smile is still carefree, but there's something else in his eyes when he says, "What about any books that you've read lately? TV shows that you've watched?" His eyes flash to Castiel's, and his tongue flirts with his lower lip as he asks, "Restaurants that you'd like to go to?"

Castiel's heart stutters. For a second, it sounded like... But that can't be right. Dean can't be inviting him out. Guys like Castiel don't go out with guys like Dean. That's just the way the world works. Maybe if he was Detective Castiel Novak, but now when he's Janitor Steve.

He takes a second too long to answer. By the time that he's managed to figure out that Dean is serious, Dean's expression has shuttered. He flashes a painfully fake smile at Castiel. "Hey, man, don't worry about it. I'll catch you later, okay?"

He's turning to go, and fear grabs at Castiel. He knows that if he lets Dean walk away, then everything will change between them. No more jokes, no more stolen conversations in the hallways. They'll become nothing more than vague, uneasy colleagues, at least until Castiel's assignment ends and he disappears forever from Dean's life.

The indignity of his assignment and the frustration of his ineptitude rises in Castiel, and bursts out of him in a quick call. "Dean!"

Dean turns around. Hope flickers in his eyes before he hides it. "Yeah?" he asks. The carefully blank tone in his voice is like a knife twisting in Castiel's chest.

"I like Italian food," Castiel answers. He offers a hesitant smile towards Dean, hoping against hope that Dean will accept his overture.

After a second, Dean's smile spreads slowly across his face, as bright as the sunrise. "Yeah," he says, nodding slowly, "yeah, I think we could do that."

---

Dean's heart dances in his chest as he walks away from Steve.

He did it. After weeks of ogling and tentatively flirting, he finally asked out the hot janitor.

Steve is a lot more than a pair of pretty blue eyes and a five o'clock shadow that makes Dean's lip yearn for stubble burn, though. (Though Steve does fill out a jumpsuit better than anyone Dean's ever seen. One day, he was lifting a desk onto the dolly so that it could be moved, and Dean thought his eyes were about to pop out of his skull. Between the thick thighs attempting to pop the seams on his pants, and the biceps rippling, Dean hadn't known where to look.) Steve has a wicked sense of humor, an innate sense of kindness, and he's caught every single one of Dean's literary references (the pop culture ones, not so much. Seriously, who's never seen Indiana Jones?). There's more to Steve than meets the eye, and Dean's itching to peel back the dozens of layers.

He ignores the tiny voice in the back of his head (which sounds like an alarming mix of Sam and Bobby) saying Don't get too involved. This is a temporary thing. Dean frowns and tries to tell the voice to shut the fuck up.

He's only here for as long as it takes him to figure out who's bringing drugs into the school. At the first viable lead, he'll be yanked out, and Dean Smith, substitute teacher, will die, to be replaced by Agent Dean Winchester of the DEA.

Because of the environment, there are multiple law enforcement agencies working on this case. There's state police, the DEA, and maybe even a few FBI agents sniffing around. It's naive to believe that there aren't other agents working in the school, but he hasn't come across any yet that he knows of. He's not entirely sure; he lets Bobby deal with all of the inter-agency bullshit. He has his mission and his cover, and Bobby, as his handler, can navigate every other pitfall.

Beyond small talk and leading conversations, Dean hasn't tried to get close with anyone. Every smiling face could conceal an undercover agent or a dealer. With suspicion everywhere, it's best not to succumb to temptation.

Which makes his attraction to Steve all the more intriguing.

Just thinking of the other man sets off a series of fireworks in the pit of Dean's belly.

This is probably a terrible idea, doomed to failure, but Dean is going to enjoy the ride while it lasts.

Whistling, he goes back to the classroom and prepares for his next class.

#destiel #destiel fanfic #destiel fic #deancas #deancas fic #supernatural #supernatural fic #dean winchester #castiel #teacher au #detective au #dothwrites #i forgot how much i loved tumblr ficlets

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sirthisisa-wendys · 3 years

Text

Independent Study: Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

synopsis: Geto Suguru is a star grad student with a lot going for him. And he wants to add you to that list.

wc: 1.9k

tw: NSFW (oral, unprotected sex, light exhibitionism)

“Professor y/n?” The sound of your name makes you look up from the laptop in front of you and into the black orbs of the graduate student everyone was raving about.

“Mr. Geto,” you call out, and stand from the wooden desk, fingertips grazing the surface carefully. “Please, come in. Close the door.” The man comes into your office, sliding the leather messenger bag off his shoulder and onto the floor before shutting the door, then taking a seat in front of you. “I heard you made the Dean’s List for the third time from Professor Yaga; congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Geto smiles sheepishly at you, ducking his head a little. “I’ve been working on a presentation, and I wanted to come to ask you some questions.” He pulls out his laptop and rests it on his knees, placing his glasses over his eyes as he squints at the screen. You can’t help but notice how studious he appears to be at all times.

The staff had gone wild over the man when he first arrived, not only because of his looks but his fully-funded endowment that brought the university over one-hundred thousand dollars in revenue. Here he was, in your office, despite you being in the physics department, and Geto being an engineering student.

“How can I help you?”

He turns the screen to face you, and you see the tell-tale font of a research paper. “I’m having a hard time with this study. Mind taking a look?” You hold your hands out for the device and take it willingly, sliding it across your desk and reading the title: A Study on Intercourse.

“Interesting,” you muse, but as you continue reading, you realize by the second sentence that the paper is anything but peer-reviewed research-based. Your cheeks heat up as you turn the laptop back around, avoiding his gaze. “Um, Mr. Geto, I’m not sure that this is your research paper.”

“Oh?” He squints at the first couple of sentences, then tilts his head. “No, that looks about right.”

“It’s… um… it looks like the beginnings of a personal account of your dealings with… intercourse.”

“That’s right.” He turns the laptop back to you. “You see, I require a sample size of twenty since I only have two variables in this study. I don’t want to parade around campus having sex with twenty girls. Too many unknowns, right?” You stare at him dumbly, anticipating his next words. “So I thought, why I don’t I just ask the most attractive woman on campus if she’d be willing to have sex with me twenty times? And that’s where you come in, Professor.” Have sex… with… Geto Suguru? The thought makes you feel the heat between your legs, but you fumble for your answer.

“I-in Section Fifteen of the employee handbook, it states that I am not allowed to engage in any relations with students on or off-campus. That--”

“Includes sexual relations, illicit drug use, drinking, or parties of any kind.” Geto finishes.

“How do you--”

“I’m employed to study here, Professor y/n. Did you think that hefty endowment couldn’t buy me some leeway?” You gape at the man, mouth slightly ajar. “Besides, being a scientist in residence is part of the endowment.”

“I--”

“If you want to help me, meet me here tomorrow at 12.” He slides you a sticky note with an address scribbled on it. “Your lunch is an hour and a half, right?”

“Yes…” you breathe and he nods, stuffing his laptop back into his bag before standing.

“Great. Oh, and… bring a change of clothes if you do show up.” Geto unlocks the door and leaves you sitting in your chair, dumbfounded.

_____________________________________________________________

Your finger finds the doorbell of the townhome, and as it rings, you look at your watch.

11:58.

You fiddle with the hem of your blouse as you wait for Geto to answer the door, hoping against all hope that he wouldn’t answer and you could go back to work without considering any--

The door swings open, and Geto stands in the doorway, hair falling around his face.The grey shirt he’s wearing matches the joggers, but you dare look no further than the waistline. “Right on time,” he coos, and you enter the abode, looking around at the foyer and dining room. Everything is immaculate, you note, looking up at the crystal chandelier in awe. “Pretty, isn’t it?” You nod, and follow him past the kitchen and into a bedroom that’s twice the size of the one in your apartment. “You want anything? Water, something to eat?” He asks, turning around to face you.

“No, thanks,” you mumble, and he shrugs, shifting papers around on a desk that’s opposite a large bay window. The room is just as clean as the rest of the house: the bed is made, the floor is clean, and a video camera sits on a stand in the corner. “Um, Mr. Geto, I can’t--” Geto follows your line of sight and grunts once.

“I have to record these to gather evidence.” You look over at him, startled, and he holds up a piece of paper with blank spaces on it. “For my dissertation?” The reminder eases your nerves and you slide your purse off of your shoulders, setting it on his dresser. “I need you to sign this.” He walks over to you and hands you the paper with a ballpoint pen.

“What’s this?”

“Just a statement saying you agree to participate in the experiment and be filmed, but I agree to keep these for my viewing pleasure only and it won’t be distributed elsewhere.” You read over the words on the contract and sign below Geto’s name once you’re satisfied. When you finish, he takes the paper back and sits it on his desk before turning on the camera. “Date, ninth of May. Time, twelve o’five. First trial out of twenty.”

“H-how many are we going to do today?” you whisper.

“Just one per day. Though, we can go multiple rounds if you want,” he chuckles, rolling his shirt over his head and revealing his impeccable physique. You’re so focused on the way he looks half-naked that you almost forget why you’re there in the first place. Well, that is until he approaches you with a half-grin on his face. When he cups your chin and tilts your face up, you have no time to prepare for what comes next.

The kiss shared between you two snatches your soul from your body, and you lose all sense of what to do. Sure, you’ve had sex before, but it was always rushed, drunken, and passionless encounters. But the feeling of Geto’s fingers dipping beneath your blouse and to the edge of your pants makes you heady and so…

“I’m going to take my time with you,” he murmurs against your lips. “I want the best results for my research.” You reply by kissing him again, and he finds the zipper to your blouse easily, pulling it down so that you can slide it off without breaking the kiss. When Geto guides you to the bed, you sink back onto the soft sheets, and he leans over you, pulling your hands above your head.

He trails soft kisses down your neck and to your breasts, covered in a lacy pattern you fished out from the bottom of your drawer. You lift up a little so his fingers can fiddle with the clasp, and he undoes that with dexterity and ease, much to your surprise. He flings the item across the room and marvels at the way your body looks beneath him, eyes drifting over your figure with lust.

“I’ve been obsessed with you since my first day,” he admits, and you gasp slightly. “Fuck.” His mouth finds your left breast and tugs at the nipple with his teeth before easing the discomfort with his cool tongue. While he’s giving your chest attention, he’s simultaneously pulling your pants down, exposing your lack of underwear below. Geto notices a moment later, and chuckles again, looking up at you in surprise. “My, my, it looks like we left our underwear at home, huh?” He dips a finger past your folds to see how wet you are and is not met with an unsatisfactory discovery. In response to this, he immediately drops to his knees and pulls you to the edge of the bed. His tongue finds your core and you moan loudly, hoping that the camera would pick up every single sound you utter.

The slurping and hums of appreciation drive you wild, and your hands lace through his hair as he loses himself in eating you out. “Geto…” you breathe, and that drives him to go a little faster, drawing noises out of you that you aren’t used to hearing. He flicks at your clit once, twice, then dives back down to your slit eagerly, attacking your core like someone who hasn’t had a decent meal in ages. When he pulls away, mouth covered in your slick, he licks his lips and raises a brow at you.

“Ready?” You nod in response, and he pulls down his joggers to reveal a raging hard-on. “See? Both of us wore nothing underneath.” You stare at his length, mesmerized by how long and thick and… proportionate it was.

First, Geto was smart, then he’s handsome, and he’s well-endowed? It was virtually impossible, right? He grabs his cock and pumps it a few times, driving the head toward your slit and pressing past your folds with some difficulty.

“Shit,” he mutters, sliding the tip out and trying again. “You haven’t been fucked in a while, have you?”

“Uh-uh,” you respond before hissing at the stretching feeling.

“Fine by me.” He pulls out again to try one more time, and finally, the tip of his cock slides into you fully. He groans and you whimper gently. Geto sinks into you and leans on top to deliver a series of sweet kisses to your mouth as he moves inside of you slowly. “God, this is fucking amazing.”

You clasp an arm around his muscled back, moaning as he rocks his hips back and forth. “G-Geto, please…” Your words encourage him to move a little faster, the sound of your wet pussy slapping against his hips obscene and loud, but you don’t care. All you want is for Geto to fuck you senseless. The bed creaks with his movements, and his hair tickles your face as he watches your expression change from semi-discomfort to enjoyment.

“Mmmm, seems that all you needed was a little bit of stretching out,” he muses, capturing your other breast in his mouth and sucking the skin hard. You cry out, digging your nails into his back, and he hisses, mouth lifting off of your chest. “Shit, y/n.” You buck your hips against him fervently, and Geto’s eyes close as he finds his rhythm again, biting his lower lip.

The way he feels inside of you, stretching you past your limit and yet, caressing your walls with his veiny length - it was all too much. Forget experiments, this was more than that. This was passion.

“Suguru,” you pant. “I… I’m going to cum… I--”

“Cum for me,” Geto whispers in your ear, and you let loose, spasming around his cock while continues to thrust into you. “Mmmm, just like that… Fuck!” Seconds later, he cums as well, grunting as he tosses his head back and drenches your insides with his seed. As you both come down from the feelings of ecstasy, you wind your fingers through his hair and he rests his head in the crook of your neck, sighing contentedly.

“And how many times did you say we’d have to do this?” you wonder, stroking his hair.

“Twenty is the minimum… but I could always use some extra trials… you know, just in case.”

_____________________________________________________________

TAGLIST: @leanne-tamashi @jotazinha

#geto x reader #jujutsu kaisen getou #geto suguru #jjk geto #getou x reader #getou suguru #jujutsu kaisen #geto smut #jjk smut

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narcissisticmf · 2 years

Text

demons | dean winchester x fem!reader

description: when dean gets possessed by a demon, y/n tries everything she can to help get it out of him. she ends up confessing her feelings to the demon himself.

trigger warnings: sexual content, seductive behavior, angst, foul language, etc. please do not proceed in reading if you are under the age of 18. thank you.

word count: 3.5k

With your breathing slow, you stood leaning against the frame of the empty doorway that led into the kitchen. The bunker was quiet with just you and Sam; Jack and Castiel were out working a case. Sam and you decided to watch over Dean as he had been possessed by a demon, trapped in the cellar of the bunker beneath a devil's trap. Your arms crossed over your chest as you looked at Sam who poured himself a glass of whiskey and took a swig of it without cringing.

"You know, Sam, if you wanna go meet Jack and Cas, I'm sure I can keep an eye on Dean," You suggested, your glossy lips resting together as you look at him. Your eyes were warm and pupils begun to dilate.

"You're joking, right?" Sam released a soft chuckle.

Your face remained still, breathing through your nostrils slowly. Sam's face relaxed as he nodded gently, lips formed into a frown.

"You're itching to do some work, I can tell," You pointed out, pushing your back off the frame of the doorway.

Sam looked down at you with a knit in his brow, "I won't leave you alone with a demon, Y/N/N."

"I can handle myself, Sam. It's Dean we're talking about, remember?" You breathed out softly.

"It's a demon possessing Dean's body, Y/N," Sam replied.

"I can handle it," You nodded, lifting your chin to look up to him with your lips pulled into a thin line.

Sam was hesitant about leaving you, but could tell you desired to do this yourself. He breathed out through his parted lips and allowed his eyes to sink, relaxing the tension in his face. "Okay," He nodded. "Call me if anything happens."

You nodded and gave him a tight-lipped smile. Sam patted your shoulder softly and turned on his heels to grab his coat off the hanger, exiting the bunker after making a left turn down the hall.

When your heard the door latch close, you felt your heart sink into your stomach, slightly nervous about doing this by yourself, but it really was Dean, somewhere trapped under that demon. You attempted to keep that in front of your mind as you turned on your heels and made your way to the door of the cellar.

The door was metal and cold to the touch. You turned the knob and pulled back the door, peering your gaze down the flight of stairs. You sucked in a breath between your lips and walked down the steps, closing the door behind you. Your sneakers clicked against the wooden staircase, soon making it to the cement floor.

"Thought we'd never get time alone," Dean's groggy voice spoke as his head lifted to look at you, as you walked deeper into the cellar. The air was frigid, but you didn't shiver. He was tied in a metal chair, just below a devil's trap on the ceiling.

You stared at him for a few moments, your hands rested down at your sides. Dean was still in there and you were determined to get him back, more than you'd ever been before.

"Staring is rude, sweetheart," He spoke with a smirk arising upon his lips.

"So is possessing one of my best friends," You replied calmly, furrowing your brow.

"I like this vessel, you don't like it?" He tilted his head, still smiling wickedly at you. You didn't respond, instead you crossed your arms over your chest, walking across the room, to lean against of the desks that were down there, right beside Dean's chair.

"Oh come on, babe, you know you can't get enough of him," He smirked and followed with a chuckle, eyes crinkling in the same way that Dean's always did every time he laughed. Your expression softened at the sight, but soon tensed back up when you remembered that it was still a demon.

"Dean, I know you're in there," You released in a single breath.

"Dean's not here right now, please leave a message," He cackled cyncially.

"You're in there, I know you can hear me," You continued, attempting to ignore the side comments made by the demon. "Please try to gain control, get one hand on the wheel, Dean." You stepped closer, but we're careful not to step inside the devil's trap.

"You are so pathetic, Dean can't talk right now. You should hear him though, screaming inside me," He laughed softly, eyes darkening as he stared at you. You swallowed thickly and clenched your jaw. "What's a little thing like you gonna do, hm? You can't do anything, I'm far more stronger than you," He added, aggressively.

"Dean, please, take control," You kept yourself as calm and relaxed as you could. "I know you can."

"Enough!" He yelled, making you breath in sharply. You held your breath for a moment before releasing a gentle sigh. "Dean's not available right now. It's just you and me, sweetheart."

You swallowed thickly and stepped closer, inside the devil's trap. Your knees were pressed against Dean's, as he looked up to you with parted lips. Your eyes burned with tears as you felt there was nothing you could do, he was too power, but you felt Dean could take the wheel; you knew he was strong enough to do so.

The demon cooed, "Oh, if only you could hear him right now." You clenched your jaw and let a few tears slip from your eyes, gazing at him with pure emotion.

"I love you, Dean," You breathed out, tears falling from your eyes and staining your cheeks.

"He can't hear you," The demon smiled, eyes flickered black.

"I love you, Dean. I've loved you since the minute I met you. All my life I've felt so much towards you, emotionally and physically. I know you can hear me, please. Take the wheel so you can come back," Your voice broke as your tears burned your soft skin. You hadn't expected anything to come out of this moment, but you figured it was the best moment to express your feelings for him, perhaps if he felt the same he'd be able to have more strength over the demon.

Your eyes closed, letting more tears slip. The stillness of the room caught you off guard, but it was comfortable. You figured the demon would've said another snarky comment, but he didn't. You fluttered your eyes opened and saw Dean who looked exhausted, staring up to you with glossy eyes and a smile tugging at his lips.

"Dean?" You croaked quietly.

"I wanted to be the first to say it," Dean's voice was groggy, yet soft and warmed your chest. You smiled through the tears that fell from your eyes and cupped his face as you stood before him. The pad of your thumbs stroked his cheeks, admiring how relaxed he looked. "Exorcise it, sweetheart," He whispered.

"But, Sammy tried– we all tried and it didn't work. Nothing was working, Dean," You whispered, worried that it would do no good.

"Trust me," He looked up to you with dilated pupils. You nodded softly and begun to say the exorcism, pulling from his grasp and standing on the outside of the devil's trap. As you were growing closer to the end, Dean's face looked distressed and uneasy. You didn't stop and continued speaking the Latin words. Dean threw his head back and a black smoke was released from his mouth, dissolving into the ceiling. You finished and breathed out, staring at Dean who's head hung low.

"Dean.." You breathed out and hurried towards him, straddling his lap and untying his hands from the rope. You looked at him and cupped his face, tears slipping from your eyes as you called out his name through your soft weeps.

After a few moments, Dean fluttered his eyes opened and smiled weakly at you. You pulled your lips into a grin through your tears, pulling him into a tight hug, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He gently wrapped his arms around your torso, squeezing you tightly. His face buried into your neck.

"Thank you, Y/N/N," Dean mumbled against the material of your shirt.

You rested your chin on his shoulder and let a few more tears fall as your fingers ran through the back of his hair. "It was so hard seeing you like that," You whispered through your sobs.

Dean pulled back and took his large hands, holding your cheeks as you did with his. He gently swiped away your tears with his thumbs and admired you for a few moments. You grew self conscious and looked down at his chest, finding that your hands ran down the side of his face and rested on his chest.

"I love you," He spoke softly, gripping your chin with his fingers.

You felt your heart racing through your chest as you made eye contact with him. Without much thought put to your action, you leaned closer to him and pressed your lips against his. Fluttering your eyes closed, you molded your mouth with his. Your fingers gripped the material of his shirt, straddling his waist as you pulled yourself closer. His eyes closed as his lips moved in perfect sync with yours. Feeling his tongue slip through your lips, you released a gentle whine, wrapping your arms around his neck. His arms tightened around your waist, keeping you as close to him as possible.

"Dean.." You released a gentle moan into his mouth. His lips curved into a smirk in the kiss, letting his fingers gently move up under your shirt. You were taken back by the motion, but allowed it to happen, feeling safer than ever with him in the moment.

Pushing himself off the chair, you released a gentle yelp and wrapped your legs around his waist, continuing to move your lips with his. He pulled back from the kiss, keeping his arms wrapped around you as he made his way to the staircase of the cellar. You let your lips trail up and down his neck, crazing the taste of him and to be as close as you possibly could.

Dean made his way up the stairs, keeping you tightly held against him. He opened the door and walked through the main room of the bunker, down the hall that would lead the both of you towards your room. You lifted your head and pressed kisses along his cheek and jawline. You could feel his heartbeat begin to race against your chest. He opened your bedroom door and closed it behind him. You giggled gently as Dean laid your back against the bed, crawling atop you to press a deep kiss to your lips.

You released a moan into his mouth and cupped his face, your legs parted subconsciously as Dean laid between them. Your lips molded beautifully with his, as though they were made for one another; crafted by the Gods themselves just for the two of you. You could feel your core pulse against him. You whimpered when he pulled back and gave you a grin.

"I don't want this to stop," You whispered, catching up with your breath.

"Me either," Dean whispered, kissing your neck and chest. "If you do, at any point, tell me." You nodded and watched as he began to unbutton his flannel, shrugging it off and tossing it onto the floor of your bedroom. You smiled when he tugged off his jeans, kicking them to the floor along with his boots and socks. He sat back on his knees and removed his shirt over his head. You stared at him with admiration, gnawing on the inside of your cheek. He was left in a pair of briefs as he hovered back over you.

"You're beautiful," You took your short fingernails and traced over his chest, softly. Dean smiled and kissed you deeply, making you grin into his mouth, draping your arms around his shoulders. His hips rocked against yours, making you gasp softly.

"Your turn, sweetheart," Dean muttered, pulling back and let his lips trail up and down your neck. He stopped below your ear and nibbled on your lobe, noticing that his motion gave you goosebumps all over. You nodded and unbuttoned your jeans, gently shaking them off and tossing them to the floor. You pulled back from Dean and took off your t-shirt, tossing it into the growing pile of clothes. You were left in just your undergarments at this point.

Dean gazed at your body, pulling back to let his eyes examine the beauty of your bare skin. You reached your hand up to run through his short hair, caressing the side of his face. He closed his eyes in response, leaning in to your touch. You slowly brought your hand back when he leaned down to kiss your cheek.

"Do you have anything in here?" He whispered into your ear.

"First drawer," You nodded and watched as he reached over you, rummaging through your bedside table to find protection. Once he found it, he checked the size and smirked before taking one out and held it between his fingers, still in the plastic.

"Wanna take off my briefs for me?" He asked seductively. You nodded and gently gripped the hem of his underwear, pulling it down to his knees as he did the rest, kicking them to the floor. You looked down at his private and whimpered, making him smile as he rolled the condom onto himself, making sure it was on properly. You leaned your head back against the pillows and felt your arousal drip down along your folds as he reached behind your back to undo your bralette, with your permission. Once he removed it and tossed it over his shoulder, he smirked at how hard your nipples were against the cool air.

You pulled his head down with your right hand and kissed him lovingly. While molding your lips together, he slipped down his hand down to gently tug off your underwear. You released a nervous breath after he pulled back to slip it off down your legs. You watched him with pure softness in your gaze.

The two of you were completely undraped against one another as he laid down atop you, connecting his lips to your breast. You leaned your head against the pillows, softly arching your back as he slipped his tongue around your nipples.

"Perfect," Dean muttered under the raspiness of his tone and sucked on your nipple, making your breath shakily. You took your hand and ran your fingers through his hair, tugging softly as he moved his mouth along your chest.

"Dean.." You whined softly, feeling your legs part subconsciously as more arousal coated your center. You felt it stick between your thighs, making you cry out with desire. His fingers ran down your stomach, making you shiver gently as he came into contact with your core. You arched your back as his fingers moved his circular motions, spreading your arousal throughout every inch of your folds.

"You're soaked, sweetheart," He pointed down, continuing to move his fingers, "And I haven't even done anything yet."

Whining quietly, you arched your back beneath his touch and felt him curl his fingers inside. You released a gentle moan, attempting to keep everything quiet. It was more intimate for you in such a way. Dean smiled and pressed his lips against yours, beginning to move in fingers in and out, curling them up inside you.

You cupped his face as your kisses grew weaker, sinking into the mattress of your bed at how beautiful it felt. Just his fingers inside you felt like magic. You pulled back from the kiss and released shaky moans, curling your toes as he moved his fingers in and out of you.

"I need you, Dean," You whispered through your quiet, helpless moans.

"Patience, sweetheart," He replied, kissing your neck as he removed his fingers from inside you. You softly arched and felt him trail his kisses down your stomach, swiftly moving over your navel and down to your thighs. You took your fingers and ran them through his hair, tugging softly at the roots. His stubble grazed over your inner thighs, making you whimper audibly. He smirked in response.

"I know, baby.. feels good, doesn't it?" Dean brushed his cheek against your thigh again, making you shutter. You gently squeezed his face with your thighs, making him grin. He wasted no more time and pressed his lips against your sweet center. You whimpered aloud and arched your back as he took his tongue to explore the taste of your insides. His eyes were peeled opened as he looked at you, watching as you withered beneath his every touch.

His mouth felt perfect against your center, making you moan and toss your head against the pillows. "Oh, God.." You choked out as his tongue flicked up against your folds. Your body was his and he knew that all too well.

He pulled back and brought himself close to your face, making you whimper, spreading your legs wide. Dean's forehead pressed to yours and his lips were inches from yours. "Wanna taste yourself?" He asked, with a gentle grunt of desire leaving his lips. You nodded and without hesitation, he pressed his mouth to yourself, letting you taste the sweet and savory flavor of your sex.

"Dean.." You whined into his mouth when you felt his hardened tip brush against your heat.

"Sorry, sweetheart," He muttered into your mouth.

"No, don't be," You pulled back and cupped his cheeks, "You can continue." Dean smiled softly and kissed your once more, humming into your mouth.

Without wasting another moment, Dean slipped inside you. You gasped into his mouth as he got settled, making sure you were comfortable. You felt his tip gently bulge against your lower stomach. He pulled his lips back and smirked at the sight of you beneath him, beginning to rock himself against you. You arched your back and moaned with pleasure.

Dean grunted deeply and continued to move swiftly in and out of you. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders as he leaned further against you, kissing your neck and collarbone. You dug your short nails into his back, attempting to muffle your loud moans of pleasure.

"You feel amazing, sweetheart," Dean mumbled through his moans.

You couldn't speak, the pleasure was taking over your entire body. All you could do was whimper in response. His body was hot against yours, making your body glisten with sweat. You could feel yourself growing closer, but you wanted the moment to last forever.

"You're close?" Dean breathed out and kissed your cheek. You nodded, swallowing thickly. "Atta girl.. I am too, baby, it's okay," He released in a string of moans as you whined and arched your back.

His movements were perfect and hit every spot of yours with passion. You couldn't hold back, you allowed your core to come undone, releasing your pleasure with the sound of a melody that came from your lips. Your back was arched as you felt Dean spill into the condom. It was the most glorious feeling you'd ever experienced. Dean cupped the back of your neck and kissed you slowly, ending the moment with a blissful motion.

You smiled into his mouth and watched as he pulled back, slipping the filled condom off and tossing it into the trash can beside your bed. Your body was sweating, as was his. He kissed your temple and laid beside you, against his back. You smiled and listened as the bed creaked, while you moved over, wrapping your arms around his torso. You nestled your head against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart.

"God.." Dean whispered with a smile and wrapped an arm around your back, stroking your hair softly. You smiled and moved closer, your cheek pressed to his warm chest.

The room was still for a while, the silence was comfortable as you let your eyes close. Dean's presence was enough for you to feel safe and protected.

"How long?" Dean asked, breaking the silence.

You lifted your head and looked up to him, seeing that he was already looking down at you. "What?" Your pupils were big.

"How long have you loved me?" He asked, brushing some strands of hair from your eyes.

"Since the minute I met you," You replied quietly.

"We were six," Dean laughed softly, eyes crinkling. You nodded and pulled yourself closer, caressing his cheek as you looked up to him.

"Exactly," You smiled and leaned up to kiss his lips warmly. He returned the gesture and closed his eyes into the kiss. Your heart sped up through the kiss, clinging yourself to his side tightly.

a/n: i had a dream that went exactly like this so i hope you all enjoyed it! i'm not even kidding when i tell you my dream last night was just like this, it was crazy and i loved it. anyway, please have a wonderful day, be safe and treat people with kindness. — angelina.

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sinnabonka · 3 years

Text

If you wish hard enough

Dean’s never been one to expect gifts from anyone, let alone God himself, but today he's gotten the best gift he could ever wish for, on AO3

Dean wakes up to a gentle caress on his cheek. It feels nothing like Miracle's wet slimy wake up call that's become a part of his daily morning routine, and he jolts, hands scavenging the sheets for his gun.

The emptiness under the pillow makes Dean’s guts flip, but his mind keeps searching for options. He remembers there’s a pen knife hidden in his boot under the bed, a demon blade in the jacket hanging on the doorknob, plus, there is always a lamp on the nightstand he could effectively fling.

Instead, running the numbers, he decides first to shed some light onto the scene, and paws his way to the switch and flips it.

He winces when the white dim light floods the room.

As his eyes refocus, he blinks, mouth falling open. Swallowing, his throat clenches around the fragment of a sound ready to escape. His fists ball on the comforter on both sides of his thighs as his stomach careens into the endless and weightless feeling of falling.

The light is weak, the outlines it draws are smudged and blurry.

“Hello, Dean.”

The room floor tilts like a ship deck in a storm, and Dean finds himself grasping on solid surfaces of the furniture in a rushed attempt to get out of the bed. His lungs ache at the lack of air to fill them up.

Dean makes one unsure step, then another. His knees buckle, but with the last ounce of strength he forces himself to stay upright.

He reaches out to what has to be a ghost, because what else can it be, and as he does, his fingers are trembling. A hopeful thought struggles, drowning in the white noise inside his skull.

And then there’s a touch.

“Cas.”

Dean chokes on the word, the one he kept whispering in the middle of the night for the last few months trying to speak it into existence. The name he was too broken and hurt to say out loud knowing the sound of it would defeat him if he did. The name he was sure he was never meant to say again looking into those familiar blue eyes, now staring back at him, expecting.

“Cas,” he repeats, finally finding the solid ground. His voice is low and trembling, but unlike all the times he’s been sobbing it half asleep, his voice is not hollow anymore. It may be a bit too emotional than Dean cares to admit.

“Hello,” the ghost repeats with an unsure smile.

“Hey,” Dean says back.

It’s just a moment before an unknown force pushes him forward. His hands fly, touching, grasping, pulling in. Dean abruptly exhales as the air gets punched out of him in a single moment when their chests collapse against each other.

“Cas,” he whispers, burying his face into the crack of Cas’ neck.

The wrinkled fabric of the trench coat under his palm feels real, so does the warm, soft skin under the pressure of his cheek and the hand slipping up to rest across his back in comforting circles.

Please be real. He squeezes his eyes shut and allows a single loud sob escape his lungs.

“I’m here,” says Cas, but Dean is not sure if he hears it or feels the vibration of the voice, pressing too hard to the source of it. “I’m right here, Dean. It’s alright now.”

“I didn’t think I’d see you again. I thought the Empty…”

“Some things are beyond their control,” Cas says with a smile, before pulling away.

“But why?” Dean shakes his head at the way the question sounds and asks instead: "How?”

“Jack says hi,” Cas smiles knowingly.

It’s a short moment of silence between them, a moment of long-awaited comfort and relief, and Dean’s afraid to spoil it with words. He leans in closer and lets both his hands rest on Cas’ shoulders. He catches himself thinking that if he lets go, looks away or blinks too slowly, Cas is going to disappear, dissolve into nothingness, leaving him alone in the dim light of the bedroom.

He slowly shakes his head, staring into Cas’ eyes, as if gathering the fuel for his own bravery. He clears his throat before speaking up.

“I need to say something,” he starts, each word weighed and measured. “Last time you bailed on me and didn’t give me a chance to, so now I’m gonna jump straight to the...”

“Dean, I…”

“Goddammit, Cas, let me finish. I’m not the talking kind, you know that. This one is long due.” He clears his throat again, though it’s nothing physical he can simply cough out. Dean tries again: “I need to say it, okay? I never thought I’d get a chance, I’m still not sure I’m not daydreaming over a book or something.”

Cas looks as if he was about to interrupt him again, but never does.

“I promised myself that if I ever see you again, it would be the first thing I say, okay? No maybe laters, no tomorrows, just here, now, a’right? Last time it took Thee Death literally knocking at the door for one of us to speak up.” Dean smiles nervously. “That’s not happening again.”

Cas’ eyebrows raise, but he stays respectfully silent.

“I’m not losing you again, you hear me? So you gotta cut this self-devotion-take-me-instead crap. From now on, none of that. Clear?”

Cas nods, not sure if he still is not allowed to speak.

“Good,” Dean says with a dead serious expression etched across his face.

His heart is loud inside his chest, the even thuds echoing through his temples. He can’t think of what he’s doing even for a split second or he’ll find a thousand and one excuses not to. And he can’t afford it, not this time. His hand lands on the back of Cas’ neck and he inches closer, suddenly short of breath.

“Dean...”

“Shut up,” he huffs, freezing for a moment with his eyes glued to Cas’ mouth. He licks his own lips, he curses silently, and comes the rest of the way in one movement.

When their lips meet, Dean shakily exhales and sinks into the kiss.

“I love you,” he whispers against Cas’ mouth, as if just hearing it was not enough, as if Cas had to taste the sincerity of those words to believe them.

“I love you,” he repeats into the kiss, and he misses the moment when Cas’ hands wrap around him and press them together firmly.

“I love you, dumbass,” he smirks, “and I am not losing you again. You hear me?”

“Of course,” Cas answers.

It takes them another few minutes before they break away. Breathless, blushed, they look at each other with unmistakable fondness.

“What time is it?” Cas asks suddenly.

Dean looks over his shoulder on the clock, but for a moment can’t make out the numbers jumping under his blurry vision.

“Ten past midnight,” he says finally, and follows with, “Why? Gotta be home before you turn into a pumpkin?”

“Happy birthday, Dean,” Cas says, instead of reflecting on the joke, and plants another quick kiss on Dean’s lips. “Jack asked to wish you a happy birthday, too, and to remind you that if you wish hard enough for something, it’s sure to come true. I guess it was him…”

“Yeah,” Dean interrupts, his face warming up, “Yeah, I know what that's about.”

He rests his forehead against Cas’, eyes squeezed shut, and thinks of how it took him forty two years to finally take his first full breath.

He's never been one to expect gifts from anyone, let alone God himself, but today he's gotten the best gift he could ever wish for.

“I love you too,” Cas whispers, and Dean’s heart sings to it.

He smiles at the thought of how later today, when he will be blowing out candles on his birthday cake, he will have nothing left to wish for.

#happy birthday Dean Winchester #destiel #spncreatorsdaily #destiel fanfic #destiel drabble #hbd dean #destiel ficlet #destiel fluff #dean winchester #deancas fic #spn fic #deancas #spn #castiel #spn 15x20 coda #sinnabonka writes

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chaoticdean · 3 years

Text

Pitch black, pale blue

[read on ao3]

“I love you.”

The first time he lets it slip from his lips is in the dark, pressed up against Castiel’s back, both his arms wrapped tightly around his middle, his lips ghosting over the skin of Cas’ nape, and it scares the shit out of him.

Because Dean Winchester isn’t used to letting space inside his soul for anyone, isn’t used to falling asleep feeling content and cared for, isn’t used to gentle reminders that it’s okay to voice what you feel.

Cas finds his hand in the dark, squeezes his fingers gently, and Dean can feel the ghost of a smile on his lips when he turns his head just enough to drag his lips on his cheek, dropping a gentle kiss on the bolt of his jaw. “I love you too, Dean.”

Dean sinks into sleep wondering how in the holy hell he managed to get so lucky.

“Because I love you, you idiot!”

The second time it’s yelled in the aftermath of a hunt where Cas gets injured, in a crappy motel room outside of Pittsburgh, and it’s a direct answer to Castiel’s “I don’t see why you’re so pissed at me, we get injured all the time, it’s not that big of a deal”, and Dean doesn’t even register until he sees the way Castiel’s eyes glimmer and how Sam immediately offers to go out and get some food despite the fact that it’s the middle of the night and no one fucking cares about food.

The door slams shut and they meet in the middle, every single kiss a silent apology bathed in pain and fear; it’s Dean clutching at Cas’ hips as hard as he can, a reminder that he’s still here, that they’re still alive, together. They’re still allowed this, can still hold onto each other to remind themselves they’re still making a story together.

“God, I love you so much.”

The third time, it’s whispered into Castiel’s ear as Dean snuggles against his back in the kitchen, his head finding its place in the curve of Cas’ neck, eyes heavy with sleep. Cas is making coffee, it’s barely pushing 6 am, and Dean realizes that for the first time in a very long time, he’s happy. There’s an ex-angel in his arms, a place that feels like home, and love coursing through his veins.

“Fuck, Cas, I love you.”

The fourth and the fifth time, Dean bites it against the curve of Castiel’s throat as they make love. It’s steamy, and heavy, and full of everything he’s not able to express yet. It’s nothing and everything all the same, it’s the result of more than a decade of unsaid things that hangs between them, and Dean speaks it against Castiel’s skin, just because he can.

It’s in the way they move against each other, in the way Castiel’s eyes glimmer with so much love that he can almost feel his heart leap; It’s in the way Dean’s hand clutches at his sides so hard, like he’s afraid Cas would disappear again. It’s in the way they kiss, in the way they touch, in the way they come together, whispering sweetly against each other mouth before they both find ecstasy together.

It’s Supernova turning into a bolt of stars.

“I’m sorry, I know I fucked up. I love you, please don’t go.”

The sixth time, it’s Dean whispering into the dark again, trying so hard not to break into tears as Cas stands in the doorway ready to leave. It’s full of pain and fear, buried under a ton of self-loathing and doubts, and Dean can’t get his eyes off Cas, can’t even begin to think about him leaving.

Cas turns back to look at him, and then crosses the room to wrap him in a hug. Dean finally breathes again, inhaling Cas’ scent as he buries his head in the crook of his neck, both his arms wrapping around him and snuggling closer into the space between them.

“I know you do, but it doesn’t give you the right to hurt me because you love me,” Cas whispers against the shell of his ear after a while, and Dean burrows even closer.

“Don’t leave me,” he mumbles into the warmth of Cas’ embrace, “please.”

Cas just hold onto him tighter in response, never letting go until Dean sinks into sleep after a long while.

“I’m here. I love you. Do you remember that? I love you.”

It’s said against the shell of Castiel’s ear as he trembles between Dean’s arms, carefully wrapped around him. It’s a way to bring him back to Earth after a serious case of anxiety attack in the middle of the night, and Dean doesn’t know it yet but it’s what grounds the ex-angel to earth.

Cas melts against him, his head slouching against the line of his jaw. He breathes in deeply, closes his eyes again.

He's here. He's okay.

He's loved.

Dean just holds on, lulling the once-upon-an-angel back to sleep against him as dawn starts creeping in.

“I love you, Cas.”

It’s in the final part of his wedding vows, in front of their entire band of merry idiots that they call family.

Cas, radiant in his navy-blue suit, eyes twinkling with so much love that Dean feels like he’s levitating, just smiles back and says, “I love you too, Dean.”

It may be the hundredth or the thousandth time he’s said those words, but it feels just like the first time: electric, terrifying, mindblowing, full of everything he thought he’d never deserve.

Like walking into the sun while simultaneously reaching for the stars, and realizing it’s been right there in front of you all along.

Written into space.

#i literally don't know what the hell this is #but i'm not sorry #destiel ficlet #fluff #mild angst #hurt/comfort #jus writes

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deancasbigbang · 3 years

Text

Title: The Incredible Sinking Novak

Author: FriendofCarlotta

Artist: CJ

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Cas/Dean, Sam/Jess, minor Charlie/Meg, past Cas/Amelia, past Cas/OMC, past Dean/Lisa, background Benny/Andrea, background Garth/Bess

Length: 61808

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Panic Attacks

Tags: Modern AU, Inspired by Gilmore Girls, Kid Fic, Single Parents, Bottom Cas/Top Dean With Implied Switching, Fluff, Romantic Comedy

Posting Date: October 13, 2021

Summary: When Castiel Novak’s wife dies, he buries himself in work and lets his formidable mother take charge of his daughter Claire’s care. Two years later, he realizes Claire has become a stranger to him and takes her on a road trip so they can reconnect. They wash up in the small town of Lebanon, whose quirky residents include Charlie Bradbury, a sculptor with a vendetta against the town’s mayor; Bobby Singer, a grumpy antiques dealer; and Garth Fitzgerald, the town’s mailman, go-to babysitter and general jack-of-all-trades. But most importantly, there’s Dean Winchester, the handsome owner of the local diner and also a single father. As time passes and Lebanon becomes home, Castiel realizes he and Claire may have another chance to be part of a family.

Excerpt: When Claire and Castiel reach the town square, they find at least twenty people gathered in front of the gazebo. At the center of the crowd stands an older man in a knitted sweater, his white hair in a state of advanced disarray. “What I mean to say is, it’s obscene!” he says, gesturing emphatically in the direction of the gazebo. “It shouldn’t be allowed!” Castiel briefly considers that perhaps he should steer Claire away from whatever commotion is going on, especially if it really does meet the definition of “obscene.” But Claire says, “Oh! Let’s go see what’s happening!” and drags him along, and Castiel is admittedly curious too. The fact that he’s spotted Dean and Jack at the outskirts of the crowd, and that Dean is trying and clearly failing to hold back a grin, has nothing at all to do with his decision to investigate further. “What’s going on?” Castiel asks when they arrive next to Dean. “Oh, hey, Cas and Claire!” Dean looks genuinely happy to see them again, and Castiel’s heart flutters in his chest like an overexcited hummingbird. “You’re just in time for the most interesting thing to happen all week.” “Somebody put a statue of a naked lady in the gazebo, and Donatello doesn’t like it,” Jack explains solemnly. “Why not?” Claire asks. “That’s a very good question,” Dean says, matching Jack’s solemn tone. To Castiel, he adds, “Donatello is our mayor. He’s kind of grumpy, but he really likes being mayor, so we haven’t had the heart to vote him out.” A tall, skinny man shuffles up to Castiel’s other side. “This is the third time the statue’s turned up someplace around town. Donatello keeps getting rid of it, and it keeps showing up again,” he says. “It’s quite the mystery.” The man holds out his hand to shake. “Garth’s the name. Are you new in town?” “Castiel, and I’m just passing through. This is my daughter Claire,” Castiel says, shaking hands. “So nobody knows where the statue came from?” “Oh no,” Dean says. “We all know. We just don’t tell Donatello, because it’s more fun that way.” At the center of the gazebo, the man Castiel assumes to be Donatello is now engaged in a spirited argument with Sam, who is throwing around phrases such as “artistic freedom” and “the slippery slope of censorship.” A woman with bobbed red hair and a Star Wars t-shirt walks up behind them, greeting Dean with a one-armed hug. “How long have Donatello and Sam been going at it?” Dean screws up his face into a thoughtful grimace. “They’ve gotten around to ‘think of the property values, Sam’ but they’re not at ‘freedom of expression is guaranteed by the Constitution, Donatello’ yet.” “Oh goodie.” The woman rubs her hands gleefully. “Still got a few minutes till Sam gives up and storms off.”

DCBB 2021 Posting Schedule

#dcbb 2021 #fic preview #2021 promo #deancas #destiel

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mishacollinsthighsss · 3 years

Text

"Sam, what do you want?"

Cas stared at Sam, unsure why the younger brother wanted to talk to him so badly, but now seemed to struggle to get a single word out.

"Listen man, there's- there's things you should know about. It's about..."

Sam trailed of with a sigh and sat down in one of the chairs in the library, so Cas did the same.

"About what?"

He got more and more confused by the second, but he could sense that Sam was really nervous, almost scared, so he tried not to be too impatient.

"It's about Dean."

"What about Dean? Is he- did he get in trouble again when I was gone?"

Sam sighed again, even deeper this time, but shook his head.

"No, that's not- have you noticed anything different about him since you're back?"

Cas furrowed his brows and lowered his gaze to the table, trying to think of anything, but there was nothing, at least not something he'd noticed.

"No, not really. Well, he eats even more, but other than that-"

"Yeah, he eats more because he was starving the last few weeks?"

"Starving?"

Cas tried to keep up with Sam, but it got harder and harder.

"Yeah. He- you know how he is, when someone dies, he always blames himself-"

"It's not his fault. I told you to go, both of you. I thought I could handle it."

"I know Cas, but that's not the point."

Sam brushed his hair behind his ear, and just then Cas noticed that he was shaking a little.

"What is it, then?"

"If you'd stop to interrupt me-"

"If you'd just say what you want to say-"

"Okay, okay, stop. This isn't going anywhere that way."

Cas looked up again, his eyebrows still knitted together, but as soon as his eyes met Sam's, he could see the worry in them, so he closed his mouth and made a gesture for Sam to continue.

"Listen, this wasn't the first time. I mean, it was the first time it was that bad, but... whenever you die, Dean's- he's different. He doesn't eat, drinks whenever he can get his hands on some booze, he doesn't sleep, has nightmares. He's a mess without you, dude."

That definitely wasn't what Cas was expecting, and even though it was good to hear that he was important to Dean, his heart felt heavy because Dean suffered because of him.

"That's normal when you're grieving Sam, you should-"

"No, no its not. Not like that. When- when Charlie died, or Kevin, or even dad... it's different with you."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Sam took another deep breath, before he locked eyes with Cas, a determined expression on his face.

"Do you love him?"

Cas was taken aback for a second, because of everything Sam could've asked, he definitely wasn't expecting that.

"Of course, you know I love you both-"

"No. No, no, not like that. Are you- are you in love with Dean?"

Cas sucked in a sharp breath, his heart racing. He knew that Sam asked because he didn't know, how could he, Cas tried to hide it as good as he could. He thought about lying for a second, but why should he?

"Yes."

His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, and he couldn't hold Sam's gaze anymore. His eyes fell closed and he had to lower his head once again, because he could feel his cheeks burning.

"Good."

"Good?"

"Yeah."

When Cas looked up again, a small smile appeared on his lips, but the angel couldn't quite figure out what was going on inside the younger brother's head.

"Why?" he asked after a long moment of silence, afraid of the answer, but he was too curious not to ask.

"Because I- I think he loves you too."

Even though his grace was protecting the vessel, Cas could've sworn that in this moment, he was close to a heart attack, but he quickly shook his head.

"No, that's not- he... he doesn't like men, Sam. It's normal that he's grieving me, he said it a few times, I'm like a brother to him-"

"Oh, and you believe everything that comes out of his mouth without any doubt?"

Sam raised an eyebrow, challenging, and Cas quickly shook his head.

"No, of course not, but he- he made it clear that he isn't interested in me that way."

"Goddamnit Cas, do you have any idea what I have to deal with when you're gone?"

"No, I don't know if you've noticed, but I was dead."

The angel's voice was quiet, but he couldn't stop it from shaking completely, so he hoped Sam didn't hear it.

"He's- he's not Dean anymore when you're gone, man. He's just- just an empty shell. God he- he wanted to die, Cas. You've seen him grieving, and when you're gone- that's a whole new level."

Sam looked stressed now, almost desperate, but Cas didn't allow himself to think about it, not even for a second, so he just shook his head stubbornly.

"You two are fucking killing me! Just go and kiss Dean and you'll see."

"Wait- what?"

Both their heads snapped around when all of a sudden, Dean appeared in the library, still wearing his pajama, a cup of fresh coffee in his hand.

"You heard that right, could you two just kiss? Do you have any fucking idea how frustrating it is to see you dance around each other, both of you obviously totally smitten, but neither of you has the balls to make a fucking move?"

Cas stared at Sam with wide eyes as he stood up and stomped out of the room, leaving Dean and Cas alone there.

"You uh- is he- I mean does he-"

"Yes. I'm sorry Dean, I know you don't feel that way and it was inappropriate for Sam to-"

"So you- you love me. Like... in love with me? The whole chick-flick stuff?"

Dean's voice came closer, but Cas was too afraid to look at him, so he stubbornly stared at the table.

"Uh...y-yes."

The angel could practically feel Dean's eyes on him, so he lifted his hand and rubbed his neck, in an attempt to lessen the feeling, but it just got stronger with every second.

"Huh."

"Huh?"

"Thought angels couldn't feel that way."

"Well, we aren't supposed to."

"But you do?"

"Yes."

"Great."

"What?"

"I said great."

"Oh."

"So... you gonna make a move now, or what?"

Dean's voice was close to Cas' ear now, and when he looked up, there noses were touching all of a sudden. Dean's eyes were shining and even though Cas wanted to bring some space between them, he couldn't stop staring. His heart hammered in his chest by now, and he knew he could use his grace to calm it down, but for some reason, he didn't want to.

"Because, y'know, me too. The same thing, I mean. Me too."

"You- you mean you...?"

"Yeah."

Both of them were just whispering, but they could hear each other perfectly, could feel their breaths on their lips, even. For the first time in his existence, Cas felt like he wasn't able to think, wasn't even able to breathe. He hesitated for another second, but then leaned forward to close the gap between their lips. A quiet whimper escaped him when he felt Dean's lips for the first time, followed by a sigh. He'd kissed people before, but not like that. He'd never felt the way he felt for Dean, which made it so much more special to him.

He could hear a distant noise, but before he was able to pull away, two warm hands were on his cheeks and pulled him even closer. Their kiss was messy, almost clumsy because of Cas' lack of experience, but neither of them broke it. After what felt like hours and no time at all, Cas could feel Dean sitting down on his lap, so he hesitantly wrapped his arms around the other man's waist. Apparently, that was a good move, because he could feel Dean smiling.

Dean was sighing quietly too now, so Cas used the chance to deepen it even more. His hands were shaking and he could actually feel his blood rushing through his veins, which made him chuckle just a little.

They didn't know how long they were sitting there like that, just kissing and touching each other, when suddenly, Sam cleared his throat from the other end of the room.

"You guys done soon? Because I found a case."

Dean was the one who pulled away first, a smile on his lips and his eyes shining with happiness, something Cas could stare at forever. His cheeks were flushed and the angel knew that he probably looked exactly the same, but he still turned his head to look at Sam, who was trying to hide a grin.

"If you ever do something like that again Sammy, I'm gonna kill you myself. And I'll make sure that you'll stay dead."

Dean's words were harsh, but there was no heat behind them. Cas tightened his grip around Dean's waist and buried his face at his neck, not ready to let go yet, which made the other man laugh quietly.

"Noted. Anyway, there's this case..."

*****

So, it's 3 in the morning, it's still 26° Celsius outside and I already forgot half of what I wrote. I'm also too exhausted to read over it now, so if there are any mistakes, my apologies 😅

Also I didn't make a tag list now, but I'm gonna tag the people who asked anyway. If you want to get tagged too in future fics, please let me know, and also let me know if you wanna get tagged for destiel, cockles, or both 😊

💙💙💙

@green-blue-heller @sam--ships--it

#dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #deanxcastiel #destiel fanfic #destiel fic #destiel ficlet #also Sam but i dont wanna tag hik because reasons #deancas fic #spn #destiel first kiss

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curlynerd · 3 years

Text

What He Wants

Happy gift posting day for @starrynightdeancas gift exchange! My gift recipient is @bipridedean! She requested a Destiel, canon-adjacent fic, so here it is! I hope you like it! <3

Word Count: 2.6K Rating: G Summary: 5 times Dean said "I do" and 1 time he didn’t. Notes: Post canon, fix-it fic, oneshot, love confessions, Destiel wedding

Also read it on AO3!

The first time it happens Sam is the only one to hear it. They’re alone in the bunker, surrounded by months and months of tireless research. But finally, finally, Dean thinks they’ve discovered how to get into the Empty.

Dean wants to push through the night and get a portal up and running as soon as possible. Sam insists they both go to bed, pleading with Dean that he won’t be able to concentrate on the spellwork to maintain it without at least a few hours of sleep.

Dean spends most of the night staring at the ceiling, thoughts racing through his head at a hundred miles an hour. This time tomorrow, he could have Cas back. This time tomorrow he can--Dean is almost afraid to think it, afraid that giving form to what he wants will somehow curse it and stop it from ever coming true. After all, the thing he wanted most before this was for Cas to love him back, and that didn’t exactly end rosy.

Still, as Dean finally closes his eyes, he allows himself a small, private wish. He hopes this will be the last time he falls asleep alone.

The next morning, they’re both expecting some sort of bump in the road, some rare ingredient or some missing incantation that will set them back even longer, keep Dean from seeing Cas again for God knows how long. But fortune is on their side, and Sam executes the spell flawlessly.

Dean is armed to the teeth with every weapon and protection spell they could collect on short notice. His plan for finding Cas and dragging him back home sits clearly at the front of his mind. His heart pounds in his ears, fast but steady and strong.

“You know, if this doesn’t work, you could get stuck there. I might not be able to open a new portal.” Sam looks at the pulsating mass of black that serves as the portal to the Empty. Worry is etched deeply into his forehead. “Do you really want to do this?”

Dean thinks of Cas’ face, the way he had smiled as he said he loved him. He thinks of how he was so close to having the one thing he really wanted. How Cas had wanted the same.

There’s no peace in loneliness.

Dean tightens his grip on his angel blade, his jaw set, his eyes determined. He’s ready to get his angel back. “Yeah. I do.”

The second time it happens, it takes Cas by surprise. It’s been a week since Dean heroically pulled the love of his life from the Empty...and also since Dean lost all remaining courage. He choked. His unspoken response to Cas’ confession is a taut tension wire between them, keeping them inches apart, words suffocating in their tightly sealed mouths, both terrified to say anything and risk breaking something that can’t be mended.

Dean hates himself for it. It’s cowardice is what it is. It’s a lifetime of desperately fighting against the things that make him vulnerable. Against wanting things. Against believing anyone could love him. Even with Cas’ confession still crystal clear in his memories, Dean doubts.

He is deep into those self-deprecating thoughts when he finds Cas in the garage, struggling to figure out how to change a flat tire on his truck from a Youtube video.

“Cas? What’re you doing?”

Cas startles and immediately hunches his shoulders in guilt. He wasn’t expecting to be caught. “Dean.” He looks down at the lug wrench in his hand, and Dean can see the wheels spinning in his head, trying to concoct a cover story before he shrugs and gives up the truth. “I was trying to fix the truck.”

“You need to go somewhere? Cuz I can just drive you.” Dean’s heart pounds, his mouth going dry. Cas wouldn’t need to sneak around for a little errand.

Cas shakes his head and confirms Dean’s fears. “I wanted to have it ready. In case I needed to leave.”

“Leave?” Dean repeats, and his blood goes cold.

Cas deflates a little, resigned and sad. “I assume I’ll need to soon.”

“You can’t leave!” ‘Tell him!’ screams in Dean’s mind, but he can’t. He can’t. What if he’s wrong? What if Cas doesn’t love him like that? What if Cas doesn’t love him at all anymore? What if Dean screwed it up by staying silent and Cas realized he deserves to be with someone who can provide a simple answer to “I love you?” What if--

“I don’t want to,” Cas says softly. The pain is evident in his eyes as they flicker to his truck, like he expects to need to book it out of here at any moment. “But I wasn’t sure if you wanted me here after--” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome,” he amends.

“Cas, this is your home, same as me and Sam.” Cas doesn’t look so convinced. “C’mon man, you really think we don’t want you around?” Dean leans against the side of Cas’ truck to ground himself. “Cas, I want you here.” ‘I want more than that,’ he thinks, and it would be so easy to say what he really needs to say, but he can’t. He fights viciously with his own self-esteem, ripping at it, begging it to let him say more. “Please don’t leave,” he says, small and helpless, and it’s like moving a mountain to say that much.

Cas’ expression softens into longing. His hand clenches at his side, like he’s fighting the urge to reach out to Dean, but he smiles a soft, incredulous smile. “I can stay? You really mean it?”

Dean swallows thickly. A hundred words crowd his throat, fighting to get out, but his own fears win this round and keep them down. Instead all he can manage is a choked, “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

The third time it happens, it takes them both by surprise. They’d gone on a hunt, just the two of them while Sam was visiting Eileen, and everything had gone sideways. What they thought was just a troublemaking demon turned out to be an extremely powerful witch, one with more than enough experience in Enochian magic to put Cas in serious danger. And of course Cas was reckless in his desire to protect Dean, and only managed to avoid getting killed by quick thinking and, to be honest, a helluva lot of luck.

The fight left Cas injured, and Dean pissed. “What the hell were you thinking!” he scolds at the end of a cold, silent drive back to the bunker.

“I did what I needed,” Cas shoots back with a steely glare.

“No, you didn’t need to go rushing in like that!” Dean’s worry leeches out as anger, the fear of losing Cas yet again clouding his reasoning that Dean himself would have died without Cas’ quick action. “You could have gotten a lot more hurt!”

“Why does it even matter to you?” Cas yells back, and it’s the note of hysterical bitterness darkening his words that makes Dean snap and say what he’s been hiding for far too long.

“Because I love you, you stubborn ass!”

The words freeze in the air between them, sharp and strong, wedging themself right where Dean’s anger was just a moment ago.

“You...love me?” Cas asks, his voice small, his eyes big.

And like that, Dean’s fears seem so foolish. Cas loves him. Cas died because just admitting he loves him was the happiest moment of his life. Cas has already done the hardest, scariest part for him. Dean doesn’t even have to fear Cas not feeling the same.

Silently, Dean takes a single step forward. Cas is frozen on the spot, staring at him like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He takes another step, and another, until he’s close enough to reach out and tug Cas into an embrace.

“Of course,” Dean breathes. He holds Cas close, tucking his chin over his shoulder and squeezing tight, like he never wants to let go. He doesn’t ever want to let go. Cas is slower to react, but when his arms finally wind around Dean, he breathes out a soft, sobbing gasp and clings to Dean. Dean turns his head to bury his nose in Cas’ hair. “Of course I do.”

The fourth time it happens, Cas doesn’t even hear it. Cas found out about a nearby crafts fair, and all it took was one particularly soulful look from those big blue eyes of his, and Dean was driving them a full hour and a half away to look at homemade pottery and local honey and overpriced tacky mesh wreaths and pretending that the entire atmosphere of the place wasn’t giving him hives.

Cas is having a blast. Dean is carrying bags and lurking in the shadiest spots he can find away from the summer heat while Cas browses. Cas is having an animated conversation about beekeeping with a honey merchant when Dean ducks into a large tent filled with the kind of flowy, bedazzled, polyester shirts he thinks of as “PTA Chic” because they also happen to have a large fan blowing.

“Lookin’ for something in particular, sugar?” The tent owner saunters over to Dean, her Southern accent thick and her top scandalously low. She’s stunningly pretty, and Dean’s eyes and smile light up out of a lifetime of habit. She responds in kind, dragging her eyes down, then back up Dean’s body. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were lookin’ for more than clothes.”

Dean chuckles and flashes her his best charming, but chagrined smile. He feels a little guilty for leading her on, and he doesn’t want to hurt her feelings. “Oh sweetheart, if I were single, I’d gladly take you up on that offer, but I’ve already got my special someone.” Dean nods to the honey booth next door.

Her eyes trail over to where Dean gestured, and for a split second her brow furrows in confusion before she laughs just a little, more incredulous than cruel. “You really want someone like that over me?”

Dean looks over at Cas. And, yeah, Dean gets the question. He’s a grown-ass man wearing cargo shorts, carrying a canvas bag with the most obnoxious sunglasses-wearing beach ball Dean has ever seen, and his hair looks like it's been electrocuted. Dean grins, feeling a rush of fondness for his dorky, criminally unfashionable angel.

“Yeah,” he says softly, without an ounce of hesitation. There’s no one else in the world for him but Cas. “Yeah, I do.”

The fifth time Dean says it, Cas is the only other person around for miles. He drags Cas out of bed bright and early one Saturday, forcing him into the car before he’s even fully finished his coffee. Cas allows it, only because he can tell Dean is positively vibrating with nervous energy. Dean brushes off all of his prying questions during the long drive until they finally arrive at a small, peaceful meadow in the middle of nowhere.

He’s packed a lunch, because ostensibly this outing is meant to be a picnic, even though Cas is suspicious on that fact alone. Dean never picnics. It doesn’t really matter though, because Dean is too nervous to even consider eating.

“So why are we really here?” Cas asks after a few minutes of nibbling at his chips. Dean’s sandwich lays untouched on the blanket.

Dean steels his nerve and takes a deep breath. “Do you know where this is?” he asks, fighting the jittery bouncing of his heartbeat to keep his voice steady.

Cas nods. “This is where I returned when Jack resurrected me.” He looks around, smiling down at the flowers surrounding the two of them. The windmill behind him creaks softly in the wind.

“And where I spread your ashes.” Dean’s fidgeting fingers find a frayed edge on the blanket, and he starts picking at it.

Cas nods again and remains silent, patiently waiting for Dean to find the rest of his words.

“And it’s…” Dean pulls a thread out of the blanket and lets it fly away in the wind. “This is where I realized I love you. I’m an idiot who didn’t even realize how much I loved you until after you were gone.”

Cas leans forward and rests his hand on Dean’s knee, warm and reassuring. Dean continues, “At the time I’d thought, ‘I can’t do this. I don’t want to live without him.’ Which was stupid because you were already dead. It didn’t matter what I wanted.”

Cas squeezes his knee. His eyes are gentle. “We’re both okay now.”

Dean’s heart warms. “Yeah. We are. But you know I...That feeling’s never gone away. You and me? I want us to be forever.” Dean reaches into his pocket. There’s no small velvet box, no shimmering diamonds, just a thick band of practical silver he found at a pawn shop. He looks down at the ring with a tender smile. “Man, never in a million years did I think I’d ever be doing this,” he marvels, and when he looks up, Cas’ eyes are wide with surprise.

“Dean?” His normally steady voice wavers.

Dean reaches for Cas’ face, his thumb gently stroking across his cheek. He holds up the ring. “What do you say, Cas? Wanna go legit about this?”

Cas’ expression is impossibly soft, eyes overflowing with love and devotion. He swallows thickly around a lump in his throat and takes the ring from Dean. He slides it onto his finger and stares at it like it’s his own personal miracle.

“You’re serious, Dean? You really want to get married?”

Dean smiles as he leans in close. Just before he kisses his new fiance, he whispers, “Of course I do.”

The sun is setting, casting long shadows down the sand. The shifting winds coming from the sea carry a chill, making the little crowd gathered around them draw their jackets close and huddle together, but the smiles on their faces are nothing but warm. There’s no altar. No stage. No decorations. Just Cas and Dean, standing in front of the ocean, wearing their favorite flannels and jeans, two bright yellow black-eyed susans pinned to their shirts--stolen right out of someone’s garden on their way to the beach.

They didn’t even bother trying to put out chairs for the ceremony, not knowing how many of their friends and family would be able to make the long drive to see Dean get hitched to his angel, but in the end it’s a good thing, because damn near everyone came, and they need to crowd in close to hear them over the wind.

It’s completely and utterly perfect.

Dean grins, unable to take his eyes off Cas while Donna, the only member of his overly-emotional family he trusts not to bawl her eyes out through the ceremony, finishes the last of their vows.

“Do you, Castiel, take Dean Winchester to be your, well, not so lawfully wedded husband?”

There’s a twitter of laughter from the crowd. Cas smiles a sweet, crooked smile and squeezes Dean’s hand. “I do.” His voice is soft, meant for Dean’s ears only, because Dean is the only one his promise matters to.

“And do you, Dean Winchester, FBI’s Most Wanted, thrice dead criminal, and the terribly generous gentleman who will surely be covering our drinks on this celebratory evening, take Castiel to be your husband?”

Dean looks at Cas. Even in the dim light of the setting sun, his eyes are impossibly blue. His smile is so warm Dean knows he’ll never feel cold again, so long as he can see it every day. Dean beams back and proclaims loud enough for everyone on the beach to hear, “Oh hell yes!”

#userstarry #starrynightdeancas gift exchange #bipridedean #tuserari #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #destiel fanfiction #deancas fanfiction #destiel wedding #deancas wedding #dean winchester #castiel #spn #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #katie writes things

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lisinfleur · 3 years

Text

Blómstur

The request:

Author’s Notes | This was definitely one of the cutest things I ever wrote. Universe | Vikings Pairing | Ivar x Reader Info | Viking Age AU, requested by @blonddnamedhandz for 5CW Ivar II. Posted for HTGI Event. Title translation: Flower. Words | 1306 ⁑ Warnings: Mentions to labor pains, Ivar’s ableism about his children.

It was what? The fifth one? The sixth if he would count the twins as two. There was Sigtryggr, Ingvar and Ímar - the twins. There was Udir and the little ones Erik and Einar - this last one his major concern since he didn't have left your boobs when Ivar accidentally got you full of his seed once again.

Would he be able to avoid his children from hating each other as Sigurd and he had done for so long?

Another sip of his mead, and, one more time, the cup almost fell from his hand with a growl of pain in your voice coming from the bedroom.

Why did it have to be so loud every single time?

Sigtryggr was taking care of his little brothers for him, outside of the house, to grant none of them would listen to your screams. As the older one, he had already age enough to understand those moments, and he knew how afraid his little brothers could be. He was thinking about getting a wife himself, on top of his fifteen years, and maybe carrying for his little brothers was a good way to learn how to behave when it was the time to see his wife screaming to put his children into Midgard like you were doing for his father's one more time.

Another scream cutting his thoughts.

"Gods..." Ivar mumbled, drinking from his cup one more time. "Why does it have to be so painful?"

Couldn't the gods be merciful about the birth part of that process?

To make the children was something so pleasurable! Why should putting them into this world be that horrible, bloody, and painful way?

You cried once again, louder. And Ivar swore he heard the midwife asking you to be strong and do it one more time.

Fuck that shit! You were the strongest human being he'd ever seen in his life!

Sword wounds? He could handle them.

Burning bleeding wounds with red-hot blades? Easy!

Now passing something as big as his children through a hole where his dick was used to feel tightly compressed? This was something his manly mind wasn't able to figure out how it was possible.

You'd always had long deliveries. His children were painfully big, healthy boys he could call everything but little. Sigtryggr was fifteen, and he was already taller than him! Ivar could bet he would be as tall as Ubbe or maybe Björn! And the twins weren't going through a different way: tall children, all of them! Big babies, all of them!

A new scream cut his ears. Were you giving birth to twins once again?

He got his crutch, forcing himself to stand.

It was taking too long!

Thinking closely, Siggtryggr had taken one day and half of a night. The twins took two days to be born. Erik was the shorter with one whole night. And Einar had taken almost as long as his twin brothers - the lazy thing. This one was approaching the end of its first day, but fuck! It was supposed to be quicker now, wasn't it?

Ivar thought about sitting down once again. What would he do inside that room but bother the women's work? What did he know about labor, to start with?

But what if something was wrong with this baby?

What if it was something wrong like...

Ivar felt startled by his own thoughts. Was it possible that the gods would allow Hel to touch one of his children like she had caressed his legs? After all the others, this one?

His eyes looked at the door, his heart speeding, his breath becoming shorter until everything stopped in his mind.

And around him.

A freezing cold shiver slid down his spine.

Why was everything so deep silent?

As fast as he could, Ivar rushed into the room, not minding the scared expression on his face when he opened the door, catching all the pairs of eyes into that place at once.

You were laid in bed, tired and sweaty like the last times you've done that. Ivar's eyes ran over the midwives, none of them seeming to be scared or anything but surprised with his sudden entrance.

One of them approached you, delivering a moving package in your hands.

It was smaller. Why was it smaller than the others?

Ivar's heart sunk into his chest as he approached the bed, but your smile confused him for a moment before you could show him the little package in your hands.

"Isn't she lovely, husband?" you asked.

And everything broke into shards of stars and light around him.

She was smaller than the others.

She.

His little gift from Freya was looking at him, with icy little blues exactly like his, filling his eyes with tears and making his lips break in a giggle that remembered that knock-kneed fool's voice for a moment.

Oh, Floki would be surely laughing at his anxiousness if he was there to see that moment. Or else, he would be making any stupid joke about how visibly melted Ivar's heart was with the sight of that little preciosity in your arms.

"A girl..." he mumbled, giggling again. "You gave me a beautiful little girl."

"Yes, my love. And I want to name her Aslog Ivarsðóttir. To remember your beautiful mother she'll probably grow to follow in beauty.”

He giggled again.

Oh, damn that fool! He would grow into an old wreck just like him.

But how wouldn't he be happy in front of such a thing? You passed the little package into his hands, and he cut the cord like he'd done so many times for his children before, marking her little forehead with the blood as a blessing.

"Oh, gods, look at you..." he mumbled, speechless in front of the small blue eyes looking at him so full of curiosity.

How, in the name of Odin, could something be that beautiful?

"I grow, I get older, but the gods don't get tired to bless me, do they?" he asked the little one as if she could answer him. "I've seen many things in this life, my child, but none... None was as beautiful as you are, looking at me like this."

His words were making you feel your heart full.

"My father once told me his daughter was the light of his heart. I never understood what he was talking about... With the many sons he had, how could she be different?" Ivar said, looking at you.

And then, turning himself to caress his little girl's face, as gently as if his fingers could break her delicate skin like the flowers you've once seen him braiding into a crown for you.

Maybe now, he would have more flower crowns braided by his hands in the course of his life.

"I get him now," he said. "It is different." Ivar completed.

He loved his children. Every single one of them.

But that moment was unique, and her way to look at him was unspeakable.

His heart was sure he would never see the world the same way once again.

She would be the light to enlighten his way. And what once was black and white had just been painted in the most beautiful colors Ivar ever had seen in his life.

"Are you happy, husband?" you asked.

Just to see him lifting his teary eyes to smile at you.

"No... Happy is too little of a word to define how enormous is what I'm feeling now."

Happiness is nothing, his father once said.

In that little girl's eyes, he could understand it too. It's nothing.

Happiness is nothing compared to the wonders he could experience with you by his side.

Happiness was nothing compared to what it was to hold that little package knowing his world would never be dark ever again.

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x-ladyathena-x · 3 years

Text

Free

Dean Winchester x Reader

Multi-POV (mostly reader POV with some Dean POV mixed in for clarity and understanding of the situation)

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Smut, Fluffy Smut, Smutty Smut, idiots in love

Word count: 4k - Buckle in, it’s a long one! (that’s what she said?)

Summary: An evening at the bunker planning your next hunt takes a romantic & steamy turn as you and Dean confess your feelings for each other.

You’d just finished a hunt and made it back to the bunker. Tired and exhausted, you see Dean at his computer, probably researching the next job.

“Welcome back, Sunshine!” he yells across the massive room, eyes never leaving his computer screen.

You roll your eyes at the pet name, but laugh at the same time. “Smartass.” You mumble under your breath at him.

“Aww, you’re the sweetest, y/n” Dean smirks at you with his goofy fake cheesy grin.

After a little playful banter back and forth, you unload your gear and slump down into a chair at the table that Dean is sitting at with his laptop.

“whew! I’m beat.” You say, rubbing your eyes.

Dean Drains the last bit of the beer he’d been sipping on and gets up for another. He holds up his empty bottle, “want one?”

“yeah, grab me one too.” You say, thinking about the ice-cold deliciousness awaiting you.

Dean walked back to where you were seated. You’d pulled out your laptop by this point and had started running a map spread.

He walked up, opened your beer for you and presented it to you like a waiter in a fancy restaurant would present a bottle of Champaign. “Your beverage, ma’am.” Dean says with a slight bow.

You laugh and take the beer. While you throw your head back, savoring that first sip, you don’t notice Dean watching you with a little smile on his face from having made you laugh.

You set your beer down. “Ok, come look at this.” You say. You’ve got the map pulled up on your screen.

Dean comes up behind you. He places one arm on the back of your chair, the other balancing his weight on the table. You’re acutely aware of how close he is to you. Your body stills. The world around you slows, moving in slow motion. You can feel him hovering right over your shoulder and it feels like an electric charge coursing through your skin.

You swallow. “Right here.” You say, pointing to the screen. “we’ve got intel on vamp nests; here, here, there, and way over here. I think we should begin with this one.” You say pointing to the blue dot. “But I’m not sure when we should hit the others.”

Dean leans forward. He moves his hand from the back of the chair to your shoulder. His fingers graze the skin of your exposed neck. He points to the screen with the other hand. “Well green would definitely make sense to hit after blue. But, as for red and yellow? Shouldn’t make much of a difference which of those we hit after that.” His hand was still on your shoulder and he gave it a quick squeeze. “See? Easy as pie!”

He stopped, hesitating, and looked down at where his hand was. His eyes suddenly became hungry.

Dean slowly began trailing his fingers along the exposed skin on your neck. You leaned into his touch, his hands – his hands! You could feel the strength and power in them at their touch. Oh, that rough touch. It set every molecule in your body humming. When you let out a small groan of pleasure, you could have sworn you felt deans body waver for a moment.

Gently, he moves a wisp of hair that had fallen down the nape of your neck. Taking his time, he allowed his fingers to brush through your hair, making goosebumps appear on your skin.

You shudder and bring in a short gasp of breath at the light, deliberate touch. Gah… this man could bring you to your knees with one touch. Just melt you into a puddle.

Umm, wake up, y/n! you think to yourself. You’re a badass hunter. Humans and creature alike literally fear your name! And here you are melting at the touch of (of all people) Dean effin Winchester… Ugh, get it together, y/n!

You’d never told anyone but you actually really liked Dean. A lot. He’d been on your mind more than usual lately. Maybe it was all the time you two had been spending together? He was fun and funny. And Charming… Oh yea, charming. So charming he just loved charming his way into the pants of every girl he met. You felt your teeth clench at the thought.

Am I jealous? Is this jealousy? You think to yourself. Jealous… jealous of what? Nothing. Something? You didn’t know why you felt that way. Dean wasn’t yours, after all. You knew he only saw you as a friend. Someone to joke around with, hang out with on your days off. He’s made moves on other girls. If he were interested in you, he’d have tried to make a move already. But he hadn’t. Just a little light hearted flirting, but you knew that was his personality. So that’s that. But- but, this?

What was this? What was happening right now?

Dean leaned down and pressed his lips to the back of your neck, resting his forehead against your hair. A deep sigh and the soft flutter of eyelashes tells you that he closed his eyes as he breathes in your scent.

Was this it? Was he making his move? The feel of his face nuzzled in your neck lit a fire burning in your belly. Him. You wanted him. Needed him. And his body language suggested that he wanted you just as bad.

“Dean...” you say breathlessly.

“y/n, I- “

The sound of your name brings you back to your senses somehow.

Making his move. You think to yourself. On you? Who does he think you are?! Some tramp from the bar? How can this man both infuriate and arouse you all at the same time?! This was starting to feel like an emotional roller coaster that you wanted to get off of.

You clear your throat and decide to lay down the law. You needed to let him know that playing around wasn’t your thing. And, of all people, he should know that about you, ugh.

“I’m not one of your conquests. Another one-nighter. So, if that’s what you’re after, you can pump the breaks before you start any of your trusty old sweet talk like honey dripping from your lips.” Mmm… his lips… Snap back to earth, y/n!

He’s smooth, you give him that. And as bad as you’d love to throw him down right here and fuck his brains out, you gather your senses and realize that your self-respect and dignity are more important. But, oh… those lips. The high road sucks.

You take a deep breath, gather yourself, and continue, “I, unlike your long list of hit-em-and-quit-em’s, am a lot of hard work. I require dedication and respect.” You spat the last word out a little more icily than you meant to, but you were seething at the thought of his hands being on anyone else.

Did he just screw some rando less that twelve hours ago? You don’t know. Probably. You clench your fist at the thought.

Dean moves suddenly. Swiftly. Like the predator you know him to be out in the field while hunting. Taking you by surprise, he kneels beside you, grabbing both your hands, turning you sideways in the chair to face him. He looks up at you with deep sadness in his eyes.

“Y/n, I- I haven’t. N-not once. Not since I- I realized…”

-----

Dean couldn’t stand it anymore; he couldn’t bear to hear the heartbreak in y/n’s voice. And he did hear it. Even though she tried to cover it; lacing every word with venom. He could still hear it. And it broke him inside.

What makes him good enough to deserve someone like y/n? She was way better off without a messy relationship with him. A relationship that would inevitably end in heartbreak. Heartbreak for one of them. Because in this life, the life of a hunter, having your heart ripped to shreds by the loss of a loved one was part of the reality. He was so scared to allow himself something good.

Good? Why do I deserve good? He thought. Maybe death and loss are part of everyone’s reality. Maybe, just maybe he was making the pain worse by fighting this… Maybe she, like him, was also scared. Would she even feel the same if he told her? What would he say? That he’d been in love with her for, well, he wasn’t sure when it happened. They’d always playfully flirted with each other. Sometimes she stole his beer, took a few sips, and handed it back. He liked the idea of putting his lips where hers had been. Dean imagined about how she would taste. He- he needed to tell her. Tell her everything.

Why was he making himself so miserable? This had to end, he was being stupid. It was his own fault for not confessing sooner. Dean gathered his courage. In one fluid motion, taking y/n by surprise, he knelt beside her, took her hands in his, and turned her body to face him.

Dean looked up at y/n. There it was. A mixture of torment, sadness, and longing. All weakly camouflaged by an icy look in her eyes.

“Y/n, I-“ Dean froze. I, what? Come on, spit it out, man! You’ve got this. “I haven’t.” Haven’t what?! Words. What are words? “N- not once. Not since I- I realized…” shit. Dean froze again as y/n’s breath quickened. Her eyes wide, listening to him speak. Her nails unknowingly digging into his palms in nervous anticipation of what he was trying to say. Why couldn’t he just spit it out?!

-----

You feel your pulse racing. You’re hanging on to every word pouring from those perfect lips. Every. Word. As your gaze dances across painfully beautiful green eyes, your expression softens.

“Not since I realized I love you.” Dean finishes in a low, rough voice.

Your breath catches in your throat. Is this real? Are you breathing? Did Dean just say what you think you heard him say?

“Y/n, I love you. And I have for a long time now.”

You release a big breath that you didn’t even know you were holding. Gently you lift his rough hands up to your mouth, brushing your lips across his calloused knuckles.

Unable to speak, you keep your hands on his as he reaches up to your cheek to wipe away a single tear. Am I crying?! You think to yourself. Apparently. Yes. The rush of emotion and relief that you’re feeling, knowing that he feels the same way that you feel keeps you tongue tied.

Your reaction to his words was the catalyst Dean needed to keep going. He continued, “I love you. I haven’t been with anyone for a while now. Not since I realized that you were right in front of me the whole time. Exactly what I’ve been searching for.” Dean was on both knees by this point.

As if Dean were searching for the next words he wanted to say, his head dropped down against his hands (which were still holding yours in your lap) and he drew a shuddering breath.

You could feel his soft hair against your leg. Why does he have to be so damn sexy?! As he composes himself, you reach out and run your fingers through his hair. His head jolts up at your touch. You smile at him, “I love you too, Dean. I just never knew you felt the same. Why are you only telling me now? Why hide it for so long?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you. Or lose you.” He whispered as he looked up at you through his lashes.

“Hurt me? Uh, didn’t ya think this whole ‘apparent unrequited love’ thing was killing me too?” you say sarcastically with a smirk. But in truth, that wasn’t fair to Dean. Because he didn’t know how you felt either. You’d never told him. Sure, you always flirted with each other and you found him insanely attractive and hot. Especially when he got protective over you during a hunt, or some creep at the bar. How many nights did the two of you stay up laughing at each other’s stupid jokes and throwing back a few beers? You’d always enjoyed each other’s company.

You repeat yourself, but softer this time, with longing in your voice. “Why now, Dean? Please. Tell me.”

“Because I was tired of denying myself the one good thing that ever came into my life.” He said heatedly. “Because I can’t think when I’m around you. You drive me absolutely fucking crazy, y/n. I can’t sleep without thinking of you. I can’t eat, hell, I can’t even put a beer to my lips without wishing it was you that I had at my lips. I want. No. I need you in my life. By my side. I need to - taste you. Breathe you. Y/n, I know I’m not the only one that feels this way. I see it in your eyes, I see the way you look at me. And I’m scared shitless of how deep these feelings go. This-“ Dean gestured between the two of you, “Is something that I never even knew it was possible to feel.

Without skipping a beat, Dean put his hand behind your head and pulled you into his lips. It was a tender kiss. Gentle, soft. You could feel the fire growing inside you. He felt so good. Your hands found the stubble on either cheek as you kissed him back. His tongue slipped inside your mouth and found yours.

The kiss became more forceful, and full of need. You didn’t want it to stop. It couldn’t stop. If it did stop, that may be the end of the world as you know it.

Dean stood, pulling you up with him as he wrapped both arms tight around your waist. He began running his hands over every surface of your body he could reach. He pulled you flush with his body, never breaking apart your lips. You could feel the heat radiating off him. You ran your hands down his powerfully muscular back. This. This man. Him. Dean. Dean is what you want.

Dean broke the kiss apart. “I love you, y/n. I love you so damn much it hurts.” He said, his voice breaking.

“I love you too, Dean.” You say, smiling up at his face, tangling your fingers in his hair.

With a small grunt, Dean lifts you up by your ass and you instinctually wrap your legs around his hips. You feel a growing bulge in his jeans. You pull his face back in to yours. You can’t think straight, you want him so bad, you can taste it. Your core is aching with need. The need for him growing more intense. Only he can quench this fire burning you up.

Dean carries you clumsily down the hall to your room. Your arms still entwined around each other, holding each other together, holding the universe together.

Once inside Dean puts you down and you both stand there, staring at each other, breathing heavily. You both suddenly fly towards each other. Grabbing and pulling clothes, pulling each other’s lips down hard on your own. You unbutton Deans blue jeans and he unclasps your bra. Your t shirt and shorts long forgotten somewhere on the floor.

The feeding frenzy of ripping each other’s clothes off slows to a savory pace as you tug and pull off Deans pants, leaving nothing to hold down the massive tent in Dean’s boxers.

He pulls the straps of your bra from your shoulders, slowly. When the cold air hits your nipples, they perk instantly Dean lets out a sharp hiss. “Oh, y/n.” He teases the soft flesh. First with his thumb, then with his mouth. As you feel his tongue against your skin, you let out a sigh of pleasure. His eyes dart up to your face. He lifts his head and softly kisses you on the mouth. “I would love nothing more than to throw you onto this bed and fuck you senseless right now.” Dean said with a growl, but then his expression softened. “But if this is too much, we can stop. You’re in charge… as per usual.” Dean laughs at his own joke and you playfully smack him on the arm, grinning.

“Hey now!” you say laughing, “I’m not always in charge when we do hunts.”

Dean rolls his eyes and says sarcastically, “Yea, ok. Sure…”

You lean in and plant a kiss on his neck, “Well, I guess – since – I’m the one – in charge,” you say playfully between kisses. Trailing them down his chest and belly, stopping at his boxers. His erection obvious. “Then, I’ll accept nothing less than-“, you pull his boxers down revealing his full length. You flash your eyes up to his. He’s hungrily watching you, “-being fucked senseless.” You say as you take him into your mouth.

-----

She was so fucking beautiful. Perfect. The most perfect thing he’d ever seen. As y/n started bringing her kisses down his torso, Dean could feel his erection stiffen even harder. When she stopped to pull down his boxers, he could feel his shaft weeping with anticipation.

He was so worried that he had crossed a line earlier. It totally took him by surprise that y/n wanted him just as badly as he wanted her.

“Well, I guess, since I’m the one in charge, I’ll accept nothing less than being fucked senseless.” Y/n said as she looked up at him with a mischievous sparkle in her eye. Damn! She was so hot. Dean had never been this riled up by anyone before. Oh, if that’s what you want, Baby, then that’s what I’m gonna-

Dean wasn’t able to finish his thought stream. Y/n had taken his whole length into her mouth. “Oh FUCK!” Dean screamed out, grabbing y/n by the hair. He slowly began to guide her head at the pace he wanted. Her tongue, her mouth, her! She was about to make him come already. Dean pulled himself out of her mouth. “Bed. Now.” He commanded with a sly smile.

Y/n laughed, “whatever you say, Baby.” As she climbed onto the bed, she did a dramatically slow striptease style crawl that made Dean’s erection throb.

Dean crawled up her body, kissing every inch of her he could reach. Y/n made a little pleasurable whine as dean kissed her thighs while he pulled down her lacy black thong. Her center was absolutely dripping wet. Dean wanted to live between those perfect thighs. Spend years there, never come back to reality. Was time even moving at all? What day is it? What year is it? He didn’t care. None of those things mattered. None of it mattered because he had his y/n. His. Mine.

The only thing that existed was the two of them.

Dean dove his face between y/n’s thighs to her soft center. She tasted like Spring sunshine. Dean took his time, savoring every shudder that ran through her perfect body. Every gasp, scream, and moan that came out of her perfect mouth. She was getting close to coming.

-----

Your whole body is on the brink. Every move dean makes brings you closer to the edge. You need this release and you need Dean to give it to you. You feel yourself climbing, building, then suddenly – the earth shatters around you. You scream “Dean! Oh, DEAN!”

Dean keeps going while you ride out the high, he slowly brings you back down. You sigh, “Dean that- that was- I-“ you have no words. He seems to understand what you’re trying to say because he smiles.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Your heart and core flutter at his words.

He climbs between your thighs, positioning himself at your entrance. You place your hands on his hips and start to guide him in. With one smooth powerful thrust, he slides his whole length inside you, filling you up, stretching you in the most delicious way. You both gasp. He smiles and kisses your forehead.

His pumps start slow at first, then become more deliberate, more powerful. You love the protectively dominate power he radiates as he’s on top of you. Dean is a MAN. And he feels good. He feels so damn good. You start to feel yourself building again to what you knew would be another earth-shattering orgasm.

Dean found his rhythm and savored every movement, every stroke. He could stay here for ages.

As you feel yourself building, your need for him grows stronger. Dean... He was yours. And you were greedy for more of him. As his rhythm quickened, you dug your nails into his ass pulling his thrusting hips toward you with more force at each thrust. He catches the hint.

Without ever breaking the two of you apart, he flips you over onto all fours and doesn’t hold back. His urgency makes you cry out in pleasure. “Baby, yes! That’s it!”

“You want more? You want me to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before?”

“YES!” you scream, reaching around and slapping his thigh. That does it. He unleashes himself. You hear him roar with pleasure, holding onto you so tightly, pulling you against him so fast and hard. The sound of flesh slapping echoed around the room mixed with both your cries of pleasure.

“Baby, I’m about to come!” you pant.

“Come on. Come for me Baby.” Dean says breathlessly. “I want to know that I’m the one to make you come.”

-----

Dean was talking out of his mind in the throes of ecstasy. The thought of y/n coming… of him coming inside her, was throwing him over the edge. Just as he felt himself going over, he felt y/n tighten around him.

-----

Just as you feel Dean twitching inside you, you feel yourself tighten around him. The sheer power of your shared climax hit you both like a freight train.

When you felt him pull out, you felt empty with his warmth gone. Dean lays back on the pillows and pulls you into his arms. You settle yourself in the warmth and comfort of his body. Dean absent mindedly plays with your hair as you lay your head on his chest and you both breathe heavily while you float back down to reality.

“Dean?” you say softly.

“Mmm?”

“That was amazing. Absolutely amazing.”

Dean chuckles and kisses the top of your head. “Glad I could be of service.”

He’s such a smartass, you think to yourself laughing. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more honest with you either.” You say, picking up your conversation from earlier. “I know I’m partly to blame for this dance we’ve been doing around each other for - who knows how long.”

“No, you were right. I should have just nutted up and told you how I felt. It just crushes me to think that I was causing you pain because you thought I was seeing other people.”

You absent mindedly draw circles on his chest with your finger. “I don’t know, I suppose we’re both to blame. I mean, look at this mind-blowing sex we could have been having all this time.”

This coaxes a real laugh out of Dean, and you feel his chest moving up and down from the laughter. But then he stops and you see a seriousness wash over his face. The same pain you saw in his eyes earlier, but maybe – perhaps you are imaging it – less pain, more - hope?

“I meant everything I said earlier.” Dean says in a husky, deep voice. “I am scared shitless to lose you, or to know that I’d be the source of your pain if you ever lost me. I mean, hell we’re hunters, we know how this ends eventually.” Still holding you tight, Dean continues, “I guess, If I’ve got one life to live, even if it’s a short one, I want you by my side. Always. I want you. All of you. The sassy you. The smartass you. The bossy you. The…” he paused to run his thumb across your lips, “The incredibly sexy you that I can’t keep my hands off of.” Dean smiles “I didn’t know that happiness like this, or these – feelings - were even possible to feel. And that’s just it. You made me feel. You pulled me out of a darkness that I didn’t even know I was in. You made me – free.”

#dean winchester #supernatural #SPN #spnfandom #dean winchester SPN #smut #angst #hunters #idiots in love #fluff #sad dean #sexy dean #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x y/n #y/n #dean winchester x reader

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