c1eepypas1a

[c1eepypas1a]

don’t hang up | d.w

ghostface!dean winchester x f!reader

MDNI

masterlist

word count: 8.4k

summary: “You don’t even know who I am,” he murmured through the phone, voice thick with hunger. “But you still let me make you come with just my voice. What does that say about you, sweetheart?”

warnings: SMUT, like filthy smut, dubcon, orgasm denial, fingering, oral f!receiving, p in v, glove kink, mask kink, edging, dirty talk, possessive!dean, mutual masturbation, phone sex, dean talking you through it, stalking, fear kink, lmk if i missed any!

a/n: dedicated to my one & only @sudsnribbons

You weren’t expecting anything that night.

Just another quiet Friday. One of those evenings where the silence in your house stretched too long and the TV felt like more noise than company. You’d tossed on a worn tank top and cotton shorts after your shower, settled into the couch with your legs folded beneath you, and picked at leftovers with a fork in one hand and your phone in the other. Comfortably numb. Mindless.

Until your phone lit up.

Unknown Caller

No name. No number.

You frowned, thumb hovering.

It rang once. Then twice. Long enough to startle you out of your daze, but not long enough to commit to voicemail. Like whoever was on the other end was waiting.

You hesitated.

Another ring.

Against your better judgment, you hit “Answer” and brought the phone to your ear.

“…Hello?”

For a moment, nothing.

No voice. No sound. Just the slight hiss of a line open and waiting. And then — the faintest inhale.

A breath.

Slow. Intentional. Not startled. Not accidental.

Someone was there.

You sat up straighter. “Is someone there?”

Still nothing. But you heard it again: that long, steady exhale. Someone was listening.

Your eyes flicked toward the window near your front door — blinds drawn, but the porch light outside flickered slightly against the edge. You swallowed.

“I’m gonna hang up now,” you warned.

And then, finally — a voice.

“…Didn’t think you’d answer.”

Low. Rough. Velvet dipped in gravel. It wasn’t the kind of voice you’d forget — not casual, not boyish. Older. Confident. There was something dangerous threaded into every syllable, something dark behind how calm it was.

“Who is this?” you asked, tension crawling into your shoulders.

He chuckled. The sound was quiet, almost like he was amused by the question.

“You don’t know me,” he said. “Not really. But I know you.”

A chill shot down your spine. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve been watching you,” he said simply. No hesitation. No apology. “You always answer your phone with that soft little hello. Always tuck your leg under you when you sit down. You like white wine better than red. Always stop at one glass — you think that makes you disciplined.”

You froze.

You glanced to your side — at the half-empty glass on the coffee table. Still sweating slightly at the base.

Your heart began to pound. “What kind of sick joke is this?”

He didn’t answer immediately. You heard something else — a shift in the line. Like he moved the phone to his other hand. Or maybe adjusted something. Then his voice dropped a little lower.

“That tank top you’re wearing… it’s thin tonight. Light gray, right? No bra. Like always, when you’re home alone.”

You stood so fast the wine nearly spilled. Your hand flew to your chest, suddenly aware of how much skin was showing. You rushed to the window, yanked the curtain aside.

Nothing.

Porch empty. Street calm. Just the soft breeze nudging the bushes and a distant hum of a car somewhere beyond the next block.

“I swear to God,” you said tightly, voice trembling, “if this is some kind of prank—”

He cut you off with another breathy chuckle. “It’s not a prank, sweetheart. I just… couldn’t help myself tonight. Needed to hear your voice.”

You blinked hard. Your body felt like it was humming — nerves twisted between fear and something far stranger. A part of you was terrified. The other part… couldn’t stop listening.

“Who are you?” you whispered.

The pause that followed made your skin crawl.

Then:

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Click.

The call disconnected.

You stared at the screen for several seconds before you realized your hand was shaking.

⸻

You spent the whole weekend on edge. The call played on a loop in your mind, crawling under your skin like static. Every time your phone buzzed, you flinched.

But it never came again. Not that night. Not the next day.

By Monday, you were starting to wonder if you’d imagined it.

The line between fantasy and fear blurred too easily when you were alone.

You told yourself it was nothing. Maybe someone drunk dialing. Maybe someone with the wrong number. Maybe someone playing a sick little game.

But deep down, you knew that wasn’t it. That voice — it was intentional. That wasn’t someone making a mistake. It was someone who knew you.

And worse?

Some part of you had liked it.

The power in his voice. The way he spoke your routines like a secret he’d memorized. The fact that he sounded so calm. Like he’d been waiting for this moment — not just for days, but months.

So when the phone buzzed again at 11:12 p.m. that Monday, you didn’t freeze this time.

You stared.

Unknown Caller.

It rang. Once. Twice.

You swallowed and answered.

“…Hello?”

His voice came through immediately. Smooth. Confident. That same rich rasp that curled in your belly like heat.

“I was hoping you’d pick up again.”

You didn’t speak.

“I thought about you all weekend,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Had to work real hard not to call again too soon. Didn’t want to scare you off.”

You cleared your throat. “You’re a little late for that.”

He chuckled. “Yeah… but you still answered.”

You hated the flush rising in your cheeks. You hated how right he was. Your heart beat hard against your ribs, but you couldn’t bring yourself to hang up.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked. Your voice didn’t sound angry. It just sounded curious.

He breathed in slowly. “Because I like the sound of your voice. Because I think about what you look like when you sleep. Because when you shower, you hum that song — the one from the Tarantino movie — and I like that you don’t even know you do it.”

You sank down slowly to the edge of the bed.

“You’re sick,” you whispered.

“Maybe,” he said softly. “But I’m also hard as a fuckin’ rock right now, just listening to you breathe.”

You squeezed your thighs together instinctively, caught off-guard by the heat that shot through your core.

He kept going, voice lower now, filthier. “You ever get off thinkin’ about someone you shouldn’t? Just the idea of ���em — the way they talk, or walk, or look at you? Someone you know you’re not supposed to want?”

Your breath caught.

“You’re disgusting.”

“But you’re still listening,” he murmured.

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t.

“Tell me what you’re wearing,” he said.

You clenched the phone tighter in your hand. “You already know.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Silence stretched between you.

Finally, you whispered, “Tank top. Shorts.”

“Bare underneath?”

You hesitated.

Then nodded — forgetting, stupidly, that he couldn’t see you.

“Yes.”

His breath hitched. And your stomach twisted in a dangerous, aching way.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “You’re gonna make me lose my mind.”

His breath slowed again. Controlled. Even. Like he was trying not to let something show.

Then, lower — filthier:

“I want you to touch yourself.”

You blinked, heat flooding your cheeks so fast it burned. “What?”

“Slide your hand down those pretty thighs. Under your shorts. I know you’re already wet.”

“You don’t know that,” you whispered, voice breaking.

He chuckled darkly. “Baby. I do.”

You swallowed hard. And for a second — a dangerous, fragile second — you didn’t say anything.

Because you were.

Your body had turned against your brain the moment he said your name that way. The moment he spoke to you like he knew everything you tried to hide — not just the clothes you wore or the wine you drank, but the way you curled into your sheets at night, the way your fingers brushed low when you were half-asleep, not even meaning to touch yourself until it was too late to stop.

And now he was in your ear. Steady. Unrelenting.

“Go on,” he coaxed. “Just a little. One hand. I won’t hang up.”

Your breath trembled. Slowly — barely breathing — you slipped your hand under the waistband of your shorts.

The cotton was already damp.

His voice curled in your ear like a secret.

“There she is.”

You exhaled shakily, lips parting as your fingers brushed low. You weren’t even thinking anymore — not about the danger, not about who this was or where he might be or why he knew so much. All you could feel was that aching pressure coiled inside you and the steady, gravel-rich rhythm of his voice.

“Tell me how it feels.”

You swallowed. “Warm.”

He made a low sound — something between a hum and a groan.

“Bet it is. Bet you’re soaked already. That little pussy—” he said it slow, thick, savoring it, “—gets real needy when she’s not being taken care of, doesn’t she?”

Your fingers trembled. You pressed in deeper, gathering slick.

“Touch your clit for me. Slow circles. Don’t stop.”

You obeyed. You hated how easily you obeyed. But you couldn’t stop.

“You doing it, baby?” he asked.

“…Yes.”

“Good girl.”

Your breath hitched. You shouldn’t like that. But it cracked something open inside you.

“God, I’d give anything to see you right now,” he muttered. “Laid out on that bed. All soft and pliant. Rubbin’ your sweet little cunt just like I tell you.”

You whimpered, thighs twitching.

“Keep goin’. Let me hear it. Let me hear what I do to you.”

And you did. You couldn’t stop the sound that spilled out of you — quiet, gasping, desperate.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “I could come just listening to you. Bet you’re fuckin’ drippin’.”

You bit your lip hard. “I—I don’t know who you are—”

“I know,” he rasped. “That’s what makes it so hot.”

You couldn’t argue. Not when your body was pulsing, slick fingers circling faster, chasing the edge like it was the only thing tethering you to earth. You wanted to hate him. You wanted to scream. You wanted to beg.

Instead, you moaned. A soft, broken thing that cracked through the line.

“There you go,” he growled. “Keep going. You close?”

You nodded — then caught yourself and gasped out: “Yes.”

He groaned.

“Good. Want you to come for me. Want you to come with my fuckin’ voice in your head.”

Your eyes fluttered closed. Your back arched. You were right there — seconds from falling off the edge when—

“Wait.”

You froze.

His voice dropped.

“I changed my mind.”

“What?” Your voice was wrecked. High and pleading.

“I want to hear you beg first,” he murmured. “I want to hear what that little voice sounds like when you’re desperate.”

You whimpered, thighs trembling.

“Please.”

“Mmm, more.”

“Please, please—let me come—”

“That’s better,” he growled. “Now be a good girl and fuckin’ come for me.”

You did.

It hit you like a wave breaking—sharp and hot and helpless. Your whole body arched, thighs trembling, fingers soaked, the phone nearly slipping from your hand as your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t know if you moaned his name, or just made a sound, something small and broken and raw, but it was loud enough for him to hear.

“Fuck,” he groaned through the receiver. “Jesus fucking Christ, you sound so good when you come.”

You gasped, shaking. Your free hand fisted the bedsheets as your body rode it out, wave after wave leaving your nerves fried, chest rising in shallow pants. You felt dizzy. Out of control. Stripped bare in the worst, best way.

And he just kept talking.

“Wish I could see your face right now,” he said low, voice like warm smoke. “Bet you’ve got that sweet little dazed look—eyes all heavy, lips parted, pussy throbbing.”

You whimpered, hips twitching as your fingers slipped out of yourself, soaked and trembling.

“I’d lick you clean,” he murmured. “Then start all over. Keep you spread open all fuckin’ night, just to see how many times I can make you come.”

You let out a breathy, shaky moan, unable to stop yourself.

“Goddamn, baby,” he rasped, “you don’t even know what you do to me.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Your head fell back against the pillows. The room spun slightly. Your skin felt too hot, too bare. You hadn’t even taken your clothes off, but it felt like you’d been undressed, piece by piece, just by the sound of his voice.

And he wasn’t done.

“You like that?” he asked softly, like he already knew the answer. “Lettin’ some stranger talk you through it?”

Your stomach fluttered. That heat hadn’t gone away. Not even close.

“You’re not a stranger,” you whispered.

“Oh yeah?” he said, amused. “What am I then?”

You swallowed hard.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly. “But you don’t feel like a stranger.”

He made a soft sound. Like approval.

“That’s ‘cause I know you,” he said. “Better than anyone. Better than you think.”

You opened your eyes, heart still pounding. You hated how true that felt.

“How do you know all this?” you whispered. “The wine. The tank top. The song in the shower… how long have you been watching me?”

Silence.

Then, calmly:

“Long enough to know no one else sees you the way I do.”

Your breath caught.

He meant it. You could hear it. And worse—you could feel it. That sick, dark part of you that liked being seen like that, needed it. The part that woke up aching some nights without knowing why.

“What do you want from me?” you asked, voice small.

Another long pause.

Then, soft as a threat:

“Everything.”

There was silence. But not the kind that felt empty.

It was thick—humid with everything that had just happened. With everything still pulsing between your legs and pounding behind your ribs. You were limp, sprawled across your bed, your shorts still pushed aside, fingers still damp.

And the line was still open.

You could hear him breathing. Slow. Steady. Like he’d just watched you come and was savoring the sight.

“Don’t hang up,” you whispered, unsure where the words came from.

He didn’t laugh this time. He didn’t gloat. He just said—quiet, firm, grounded:

“I wasn’t gonna.”

You bit your lip.

“Are you…” Your voice faltered. “Are you still—doing something?”

A low chuckle rumbled through the phone.

“You mean am I jerkin’ off to the sound of your voice, your cute little gasps, that perfect moan at the end?” he drawled.

You closed your eyes.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he rasped. “I am.”

Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers into the sheets, the shame and the thrill warring beneath your skin.

“Tell me what you’re picturing,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He groaned softly. “Fuck. You want the truth?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

“I’m picturing your pussy,” he said plainly, low and raw. “All messy and red and sensitive. Those shaky little thighs. Your hand still between your legs. I want it to hurt next time I touch you, baby. I wanna push you past what you can take.”

Your whole body tensed again, muscles clenching around nothing.

“Want you to be fuckin’ ruined,” he growled, voice thick with need. “Ruined for anyone else. Only ever able to come for me—my voice, my cock, my fuckin’ name on your tongue while you fall apart.”

You whimpered. Just a sound—too overwhelmed to form words.

He heard it. And it lit him up.

“You like being ruined, don’t you?” he purred. “You want to be someone’s pretty little secret.”

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Say it,” he said.

“I want to be your secret.”

A rough exhale, like he couldn’t believe how perfect you were. Then—quieter:

“I’ve been so fuckin’ patient,” he said. “You don’t know what it’s been like—watching you. Listening to you laugh on the phone with your friends. Seeing you stretch in that tank top when you think no one’s looking. Smiling at some guy at the grocery store like he stands a fuckin’ chance.”

Your stomach twisted.

“You follow me?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Because you belong to me.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a fantasy. It wasn’t a game.

It was a promise.

You should’ve felt scared. Maybe you were scared. But that fear melted into something deeper. Something wetter. Something willing.

“I don’t even know what you look like,” you whispered.

Another pause.

Then, voice low and serious:

“You will.”

Your breath caught.

“I think about showing you all the time,” he said. “Coming to you. Letting you see me. Pulling you into my lap with my mask still on. Lifting that little shirt. Sliding my fingers inside you—while you guess who I am.”

You gasped.

“You want that, don’t you?” he asked, almost smug. “You want to feel me before you even see my face.”

“Y-yes,” you breathed.

“Mmm. Good girl.”

You bit your lip so hard it nearly stung.

“I’d fuck you in the dark,” he murmured. “Leave you shaking and sore and begging for more—and still you wouldn’t know who I was. You’d go to bed wondering. You’d wake up aching.”

He let the silence settle. Then added, softer:

“But part of you would hope it was me.”

You didn’t say anything.

Because it was true.

Even in this haze of breathless confusion and heat, even in the quiet of your dark bedroom, part of you wanted that. The mystery. The mask. The voice that filled you like smoke.

“I don’t think I should talk to you again,” you whispered, voice trembling.

“But you will.”

You exhaled, head spinning.

“…Why are you doing this?”

He paused.

And then—soft. Unapologetic.

“Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Because you’re mine. Whether you know it yet or not.”

The line crackled slightly. You thought maybe he would hang up. That the weight of the moment had reached its peak.

But he said one last thing:

“Leave your window unlocked tonight.”

Click.

⸻

You didn’t sleep.

Not really.

You lay awake with your limbs tangled in the sheets, your skin still hot from the call, heart thudding against the inside of your ribs like it didn’t know what to do with itself.

His voice echoed in your head long after the line went dead.

“Leave your window unlocked tonight.”

You hadn’t meant to obey.

But you had.

The screen was still latched, the glass pushed up just two inches. Just enough to let air in. Just enough to let your thoughts crawl out into the dark and imagine what might be watching you from the yard.

You didn’t know how long you lay there—awake but unmoving, ears straining, breath shallow. Listening for a creak, a shift, the rustle of something heavier than the breeze.

Nothing came.

Not that night.

And somehow, that was worse.

⸻

The next day was a blur.

You moved through the hours like you were walking underwater. Everything felt thick, muted, strange.

At work, you flinched when your phone buzzed—even when it was just a calendar notification. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder when no one had called your name.

And in the bathroom mirror, you didn’t recognize your own reflection for a second.

You looked flushed. Tense. Tired.

You looked watched.

You kept thinking about what he’d said.

I want to fuck you in the dark. With my mask still on.

I want you to guess.

You belong to me.

The worst part?

You wanted to hear it again.

⸻

When night fell, the quiet returned.

You didn’t plan to let it happen again. You told yourself you wouldn’t answer. That you wouldn’t wait for your phone to ring. That you wouldn’t sit on the edge of your bed in the dark, skin prickling like it knew something was coming.

But you did.

The silence stretched.

You curled up under your sheets, legs bare, tank top soft against your skin. You stared at the phone on your nightstand like it might start glowing.

You checked the lock on your window.

Still unlatched.

And your fingers… drifted.

It started with a brush of your inner thigh. Just a flicker. A test. Your body reacted like it remembered the night before in full color. The sound of his voice. The way he told you to come.

You closed your eyes. Let your hand slip lower.

You imagined him again—not his face. You didn’t even want to see it. Just the mask. The voice. The thick, gloved hand between your thighs.

Your breath came faster. Your hips rolled gently into your palm.

You imagined him standing at the foot of the bed. Just watching.

Silent. Still.

Taking you in like he was memorizing every twitch and whimper.

You almost came just like that—without a word spoken.

And then your phone buzzed.

Unknown Caller

Your hand froze.

You stared at the screen like it was alive.

It buzzed again. Ringing. Steady.

You picked it up with shaking fingers and answered, breathless.

“…Hello?”

A pause.

Then:

“Good girl.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I didn’t even say anything,” you whispered.

“You didn’t have to,” he said. “I know what you were doing. You touched yourself without me even asking this time, didn’t you?”

You clenched your thighs together, hand still pressed against your mound.

“…Yes.”

“Mmm.” He groaned. “Fucking perfect. Just like I knew you would.”

You couldn’t help it—you slipped your fingers beneath the waistband of your panties, slowly circling.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you said, even as your breath hitched.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s—wrong.”

“You want me to stop?”

Silence.

He waited.

“No,” you admitted, brokenly.

He made a pleased sound—soft, smug, possessive.

“You kept the window unlocked.”

You stilled.

“…How do you know that?”

Another long pause. You could hear him smile.

“I always know what you’re doing.”

Your stomach dropped. Your hand went still between your legs. Your eyes flicked toward the window—still dark, still quiet. But now it felt different.

“Are you outside?”

“I’m wherever I need to be,” he said calmly. “You think I’d miss the way you look when you touch yourself for me?”

You were panting now. Too hot. Too exposed.

“You watching me right now?” you whispered.

“You want me to be?”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

He exhaled slowly, and that alone made your toes curl.

“Keep going,” he murmured. “Let me listen. I’m not leaving tonight.”

“Keep going,” he whispered again.

Low. Encouraging. Dangerous.

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until you let it out in a trembling exhale, your hand already moving again—fingers pressing in deeper, slower this time. Deliberate. Needy.

“Tell me what it feels like.”

You swallowed hard. “Warm. Wet.”

A dark chuckle crackled through the receiver.

“Fuck, baby. You really are perfect.”

A pause. “You shaking yet?”

You were.

Your legs were already starting to tremble, your body far too sensitive from the night before, from the fantasy that never left your bloodstream. You couldn’t even lie to yourself anymore—you wanted this. All of it. The control. The secrecy. The voice in your ear that felt like a hand around your throat.

“You’re touching yourself in the dark again, aren’t you?” he asked. “Lights off. Legs open. Just waiting for me.”

“…Yes.”

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he growled. “You don’t even need to see me. You’d let me bend you over and fuck you in that bed without ever taking the mask off, wouldn’t you?”

You moaned softly, your fingers moving faster now. Shame didn’t even register. It was buried under how badly your body wanted to be ruined for him.

“I’d be so good to you,” he murmured. “Tie your hands. Make you come until you cried. You’d beg to see my face and I still wouldn’t let you. ‘Cause you don’t need a face, sweetheart. You just need a cock and a voice and someone who actually sees you.”

You gasped, thighs clenching.

“I see you,” he said. “You’ve been starving for this. For me.”

“Please,” you whimpered.

“Please what?”

“Please tell me you’re real.”

“Oh, baby.” A smirk in his tone. “I’m more real than anyone you’ve ever fucked.”

He let that sit. He knew what it did to you.

You could feel your orgasm building already—your body too raw, too worked up. Every word made it worse. Every breath of his in your ear made you twitch harder.

“You gonna come again for me?” he murmured. “Wanna hear it, baby. Let me fuckin’ feel it through the phone.”

You were already there. Your breath hitched, back arching, your fingers slipping and sliding through soaked heat as your thighs trembled again.

Your mouth fell open. No words came—just a low, desperate cry, just a sound.

“Fuck yes. That’s it. Good girl. Fucking come for me.”

And you did.

You shook under the weight of it, a rolling, pulsing climax that left you open and undone. You gasped into the quiet, curling your fingers in the sheets, your body heaving with shallow breaths.

He said nothing at first. Just listened.

Like he needed to hear how you sounded ruined.

And then, after a long, reverent pause:

“I wish you could see how hard I am right now.”

Your breath caught. The room was still spinning.

“I’ve got the mask on,” he said, voice lower now. “I’m sitting in my car. Windows down. Just listening to you fall apart. And my cock’s so hard it hurts.”

You whimpered, weak and shaking.

“You left the window open again,” he added. “Good girl.”

“…Are you out there?��

Another pause.

Then:

“Why don’t you come take a look?”

You froze.

“I—what?”

“Go ahead. Peek out. I know you want to.”

Your heart slammed into your ribs. You turned your head, slowly, toward the open window. It was just a crack—barely a few inches—but your pulse was deafening now.

You pushed the sheets away and moved to the edge of the bed, legs trembling as you stood.

The phone shook in your hand.

You crossed to the window slowly.

Peered through.

Nothing.

Just the yard. Still. Empty. Quiet.

You exhaled.

“I don’t see you,” you said.

“I know.”

Silence.

Then he added:

“But I see you.”

You stepped back from the window like it bit you.

“I could come inside, you know,” he murmured. “You left it unlocked. Just like I told you.”

Your breath hitched.

“I could be at the foot of your bed right now. Could pull your hand away from your pussy and finish the job myself.”

You whimpered. The air in the room suddenly felt tighter. More full.

You turned around, slowly.

Still no one.

But it felt like someone was there.

“Do you want me to?” he asked. “Do you want me to come inside?”

You couldn’t answer. You didn’t know. You were too wet, too wired, too wound up to tell the difference between fear and longing.

“…I don’t know.”

“That’s okay, baby.” His voice was gentler now. Warm. “You’ll know soon.”

And then—calm, steady, promising:

“You’ll feel me before you ever see me.”

Click.

You stood there for what felt like forever.

Phone in hand.

Bare feet cold on the floor.

Heart pounding so loud you thought your neighbors could hear it through the walls.

He was gone. The call had ended. But his voice lingered in your ears like a fever dream, like a ghost. You could still feel it in your skin — those words, that promise:“You’ll feel me before you ever see me.”

The window stayed open.

You should’ve closed it.

You didn’t.

You backed away slowly, eyes scanning the corners of the room, every shadow suddenly thick with possibility.

There was no one there.

You were alone.

But the air felt heavy.

Too heavy.

⸻

You lay in bed, but you didn’t sleep.

Not really.

Not the way you meant to.

You drifted. Floated. Let yourself hover somewhere between awareness and dreams — that blurry place where the line got soft and the dark got bold.

That’s when you heard it.

The creak.

You sat up fast.

It came again — slow, deliberate. A floorboard near the door.

Your breath caught. You stared into the black.

Nothing.

But something was there.

You knew it.

You scrambled for your phone. Lit up the screen.

2:47 a.m.

No new calls.

Just silence.

You reached toward the lamp—

And a gloved hand snapped over your mouth.

You screamed—but it came out muffled, swallowed in leather and heat.

A strong arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back into a broad chest. The smell hit you first—cologne and sweat and leather, mixed with something darker. Something electric.

Then—

“Shhh.”

That voice.

That fucking voice.

In your ear now. Not the phone. Not the line.

He was here.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, low and thick. “Told you I’d come when you were ready.”

Your heart nearly exploded out of your chest.

You struggled. Twitched. But his hold didn’t tighten. He didn’t hurt you. He just held you—firm, calm, like he owned you.

You whimpered into his glove.

“You gonna scream?” he whispered, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You want your neighbors to come running? Want them to see what kind of filthy little thing you’ve turned into?”

You shook your head fast.

He chuckled, dark and satisfied.

“Didn’t think so.”

He eased you back down onto the bed, hand still over your mouth, his weight pressing against your side now. You couldn’t see his face. But you felt the mask when it brushed your temple. Cold plastic. Familiar.

Your thighs clenched.

“You’re scared,” he said. “But you’re wet too, aren’t you?”

You nodded before you could stop yourself.

He hummed.

“Good girl.”

His gloved hand slowly released your mouth, fingers trailing down your jaw.

You gasped in fresh air, blinking fast, chest rising and falling like you’d run a mile.

He sat behind you on the mattress now. One hand still lightly at your throat, the other drifting down your shoulder.

“You wanted this,” he said. Not a question. A truth. “You begged for me.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

His fingers toyed with the strap of your tank top.

“I thought about this every night I watched you sleep,” he murmured. “How easy it’d be to climb into your bed. Slide my hand down your stomach. Make you come without ever turning on the light.”

Your legs shook.

“You ever been touched like that?” he asked. “Not knowing who it is?”

You barely whispered, “No.”

His gloved fingers dipped under your tank top.

“Then let me be your first.”

He didn’t move to take your clothes off.

Instead, he laid you back gently.

And stayed. Just above you. Heavy. There. His breath moved over your cheek, the mask brushing your skin. You reached up blindly—fingertips grazing that cold, smooth surface.

“Can I see you?” you whispered.

A pause.

Then:

“No.”

A beat passed.

“But you can touch the mask. Just this once.”

You did.

You traced the hollow cheekbone. The sharp nose. The twisted grin. Your fingers trembled as they moved across the slick plastic. He didn’t stop you.

“I want to know who you are,” you whispered.

He laughed quietly.

“No, you don’t.”

You swallowed hard. “I think I already do.”

His hand slid down your side, slow, gentle, unzipping you from the outside in.

“I knew you were mine,” he murmured, “the moment you whispered please.”

He hovered above you in the dark, weight pressing you into the bed. The mask still covered his face. His voice in your ear, his gloved hand at your throat, his scent—real, present—filled every inch of your world now.

And still, somehow, it wasn’t enough.

Your fingers trembled where they touched the hard curve of his mask. You traced his jaw, the exaggerated frown of the Ghostface mouth, and whispered, “Please.”

He chuckled.

“Please what, baby?”

“I need… more.”

“Mmm,” he hummed. His glove slid down the center of your chest, fingertips dragging over the thin cotton of your tank top. “You’re already soaked, aren’t you? Just from me sneaking into your room and putting my hand over your mouth. That’s all it takes now?”

You nodded quickly, flushed and breathless.

His hand dipped beneath your top without waiting. Gloved fingers grazed your nipple and you arched into him with a gasp.

“That’s it,” he purred. “Let me feel how warm you are. So fucking soft…”

You whimpered as he rolled the sensitive bud between his fingers. The glove made everything sharper—rougher, cooler, foreign in a way that made your thighs instinctively press together.

You felt feral beneath him. Unraveled.

And then he moved lower.

His free hand tugged at your sleep shorts.

“You gonna let me take these off?” he asked. “Let a masked man you’ve never seen finger your needy little cunt in the dark?”

You breathed, “Yes.”

He growled, low and approving.

Your shorts and panties came off in one slow drag. Cold air hit your soaked folds, and he hissed between his teeth.

“Fuck. Look at you.”

You blushed. “You can’t see.”

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, fingers ghosting up your thigh, “you left the window open for three nights in a row. You think I don’t know what you look like when you come?”

Your legs fell open.

And he touched you.

Two thick, gloved fingers slipped between your folds—slow, lazy strokes, teasing your slit. He didn’t push in yet. He just circled your clit with the leather-covered pads, watching your hips twitch under him.

“So sensitive,” he whispered. “Could play with you like this for hours.”

You moaned, bucking gently into his hand.

“You’re so fuckin’ responsive,” he said, lips brushing your jaw. “I talk, and your whole body listens. I breathe on you and you beg.”

“I’m not begging.”

“No?” He pressed the glove more firmly against your clit. “You sure about that?”

You gasped. “F-fuck—please…”

He chuckled darkly.

“That’s better.”

His fingers slid down and pushed in—just the tip, just to tease. You clenched around nothing, wanting more.

“Such a tight little pussy,” he groaned. “She missed me, didn’t she?”

You whined. “Please.”

He thrust two fingers in at once.

You cried out—high, sharp, wrecked.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Take it.”

He pumped into you steadily, curling the leather inside you, fingertips hitting that spot that made you see stars. Your thighs tried to close, but he held them open with his other hand.

“Look at you,” he breathed. “So desperate for a stranger’s fingers. For a ghost in your bed.”

You moaned, arching under him.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered. “This pussy’s mine. Your moans? Mine. Your fucking soul…”

He pushed deeper, harder, dragging you closer to the edge with every slick, wet thrust of his fingers.

“Say it,” he growled. “Say who you belong to.”

You gasped, hips bucking. “You—f-fuck—you.”

“Damn right.”

His fingers worked you harder, rougher now. The wet sounds were obscene, echoing off your walls as your hands scrambled for his shoulders—leather, cloth, no skin. No face.

Just power. Heat. Him.

Your body trembled.

“I’m gonna—”

“No,” he said sharply. He pulled his fingers out.

You sobbed at the loss.

“Not yet,” he whispered, hovering over your lips, mask brushing your cheek. “You don’t get to come until I say.”

You whimpered, squirming beneath him.

“Say thank you.”

You swallowed. “T-thank you.”

“Good girl.”

And then, to your shock, he licked his fingers under the mask.

You could hear it. The wet sound. The moan.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped. “You taste like sin.”

You moaned, body on fire, aching and pulsing.

He leaned in close again, his breath hot against your ear.

“I’ll let you come,” he said. “But not tonight.”

“What?” you gasped.

“I want you aching when you think of me,” he growled. “I want you to fuck your own hand and beg for me and still not know my face.”

You were shaking. Whimpering.

And when you blinked—

He was gone.

⸻

You didn’t move for a long time.

Couldn’t.

You lay there in your bed, soaked between your legs, legs still open like you were waiting for him to come back.

But he was gone.

The weight had lifted. The heat. The voice.

The mask.

You weren’t even sure when he’d left.

It was like he’d evaporated, or melted into shadow.

One second he was pinning your wrists, gloved fingers inside you, whispering filth into your ear—

And the next?

Gone.

Just like a ghost.

⸻

You were shaking when you finally sat up.

Your body felt loose. Used. Empty in the worst, most delicious way. Your tank top clung to your sweat-slicked skin. You could still smell him in the air. The leather. The heat of his breath. The faint sharpness of a glove that had just been inside you.

You reached down between your thighs.

Still wet. Still sore.

Still aching.

He hadn’t let you come.

You were so close. So fucking close—

And now you were just left ruined in the silence.

You should’ve been terrified.

Instead, you were horny and furious.

You wanted to scream.

⸻

The next morning, everything felt wrong.

Your clothes didn’t fit right. Your coffee tasted weak. Your phone screen made your eyes ache.

And every time you blinked, you felt it all over again:

His hands.

His voice.

His breath on your skin.

“You don’t get to come until I say.”

Your thighs clenched under the table.

Your stomach flipped.

You checked your phone.

No new messages. No calls.

Just one photo. Sent overnight.

Unknown Number

No caption.

No context.

Just a photo of your bedroom window.

Taken from outside.

Lit from within.

You could see your silhouette. Sitting on your bed.

You were touching yourself.

Your throat went dry.

You stared at it for too long.

You didn’t delete it.

⸻

That night, you didn’t even try to sleep. You wore the same tank top. No underwear.

You left the window open again.

You turned your lamp low, sat on your bed, and waited. Legs tucked under you, chest tight.

You waited like prey.

But you felt like you’d invited the predator.

You stared at the phone. Nothing.

You waited. And waited.

You didn’t touch yourself.

Not yet. Not until you knew he was listening.

And when the screen finally lit up—

Unknown Caller

You answered before the second ring.

“…Hello?”

Silence.

Then—

“You left the light on for me.”

Your body shuddered.

“I thought you might come back,” you whispered.

“I never really left,” he said.

You swallowed hard. “You were watching?”

“Every fucking second.”

You looked toward the window. The breeze fluttered the curtain.

“Why didn’t you come in again?”

“Because I wanted you to miss it.”

You clenched your thighs together.

“You gonna behave tonight?” he asked. “Or are you gonna make me tie you up so I can take my time?”

Your breath caught. “You can’t keep doing this to me.”

“I can,” he said calmly. “And I will.”

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

“You will. When I say.”

You bit your lip.

“…Can I come tonight?”

“No.”

You whimpered.

“Touch yourself anyway,” he growled. “Right now.”

His voice hit like a command, not a suggestion.

You were already wet. You’d been wet. All fucking day. Ever since you got that photo. Ever since you stared at your own silhouette, caught mid-masturbation, knowing he had taken it.

You lay on your back now, legs spread, phone clutched in your hand, and the window cracked open just enough to let the night seep in.

“I want your fingers inside,” he said. “Slow.”

You obeyed.

You whimpered at how easily they slid in—how your body clenched down tight, aching for something thicker, something real.

“You thinking about my glove?” he asked, voice a dark velvet rasp. “How it felt when I stretched you open?”

You moaned softly.

“Thought about tying your wrists to the headboard tonight,” he said casually. “Gagging you with your own panties while I edge you over and over until your body begs without words.”

Your legs trembled.

“You’d take it,” he whispered. “You’d let me ruin you.”

“I want you to,” you breathed.

“Want me to what?”

You flushed. “Come inside.”

He chuckled.

“You want me in you, or just in the room?”

“Both.”

“Mmm.” His voice warmed. “You’re learning how to beg so pretty.”

You started rocking your hips, desperate for more friction, more anything.

“Fuck,” you whined. “Please let me come this time.”

“Not yet.”

You whimpered.

“You don’t get to come just because you’re desperate,” he said. “You get to come when I say.”

“I—I can’t take it anymore.”

“Yes you can.”

He let that sit. Let it sink.

Then:

“You’re gonna finger yourself ‘til you’re shaking and stop right at the edge.”

You made a small, broken sound.

“Now.”

You did it.

You thrust into yourself, hips writhing, building faster, harder, trying to get there even though you knew you couldn’t.

You moaned his name—not his real name, because you didn’t even know it—but the one that lived in your head now.

“Ghostface… fuck—Ghostface, please—”

You gasped, seconds from release.

“Stop.”

You froze.

The pleasure slammed to a halt like hitting a wall. Your body jerked with the absence of it. You sobbed into the quiet.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “You’re perfect when you suffer.”

You couldn’t even speak.

“Now pull your fingers out.”

You did, twitching. Whining. Ruined.

You heard his breathing change.

“You wanna know where I am?”

You turned your head. Eyes wide.

A low chuckle.

“I’m watching you from the hallway.”

Your pulse slammed.

“I can see the way your legs shake,” he murmured. “The way you pout when I don’t let you come. You make the prettiest little victim.”

You gasped.

“And tomorrow night?” His voice dropped. “I’m gonna come in that room. And I’m gonna fuck you.”

You moaned helplessly.

“I’m not taking the mask off,” he added. “You’re gonna come all over my cock without ever seeing my face. You’ll never know who I am.”

You trembled.

“You’ll just know what I feel like.”

Click.

⸻

You don’t sleep.

Not because you’re afraid.

But because you’re ready.

You know he’s coming.

The voice had promised.

“Tomorrow night, I’m gonna come in that room. And I’m gonna fuck you.”

You’re wet just thinking about it. Your body’s been wrung out from night after night of his voice, his orders, his hands—always there and gone too fast.

But tonight… tonight he’s going to stay.

You lay still. Tank top. No panties. Window open. Lamps off.

And when you hear your bedroom door creak—

You don’t scream.

You don’t move.

You just breathe.

Heavy boots move across your floor. You know that walk. Confident. Lethal. Controlled. You blink up into the darkness, heart pounding.

And then he’s there.

Ghostface. In full silhouette.

The mask glowing pale in the moonlight. Body broad. Towering over you.

He says nothing at first.

Just watches.

You arch your back for him—slow, offering. You swear you hear him groan.

“You’ve been so fucking patient,” he murmurs.

His voice is closer. Closer than it’s ever been. No phone. Just his mouth behind the mask. Just hot breath and filthy promises.

You open your legs.

“Please,” you whisper.

He drops to his knees.

Gloved hands grip your thighs, spreading you wide. You shiver under the leather.

“You so desperate to get filled, baby?” he asks. “You been dreaming about my cock?”

You nod. “Every night.”

He growls low in his throat. “Then remember this.”

And he devours you.

His tongue flicks out through the slits of the mask—messy, greedy. It shouldn’t be hot, but it is. Somehow hotter than anything else. He eats you with purpose, with pent-up need, with a kind of possession that has you crying out almost instantly.

“Oh my—fuck, Ghostface—”

He moans against your cunt. Loud. Mask rattling.

And when you clench too hard, too close—he pulls away.

“No.”

You sob. “No—please—!”

“You don’t come until I’m inside you.”

He stands.

You barely have time to breathe before he’s pulling his pants down. You hear the zipper, the shift of leather, the weight of what’s coming next.

Then—

“Hands and knees,” he orders.

You roll over, gasping, presenting yourself like a good girl. You feel the bed dip behind you.

Then—hot, heavy—his cock slides against your folds.

Not in yet. Just teasing.

And you wail.

“I’ve thought about this pussy for so fucking long,” he rasps. “Stroking my cock in the dark to the sound of you moaning. Now I finally get to ruin you.”

“Do it,” you beg. “Please, do it—”

He thrusts in.

Hard.

You cry out—sharp, breathless—your fingers twisting in the sheets as he buries himself inside you, fully, in one brutal stroke.

He holds there, just for a second. Deep. Filling.

Then he leans over your back, hand on your throat, mask beside your ear.

“You feel that?” he breathes. “That’s me. Inside you.”

You sob, nodding, overwhelmed.

And then he fucks you.

Relentless. Mask still on. Voice in your ear. Gloved hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

“Take it,” he growls. “You said you could take it.”

“Yes—yes, please—”

“You belong to me. This pussy’s mine. You understand that?”

You moan, high and cracked.

“Say it.”

“It’s yours! It’s—fuck—it’s all yours—”

He fucks you harder.

You can hear him panting behind the mask. Hear his cock pounding into you, your slick coating his thighs, your cries bouncing off the walls. You’re loud. And he doesn’t care.

He wants the whole fucking block to know.

You claw at the sheets. You’re close again—closer than ever. You can barely form words.

And then he pulls out.

You scream.

“Not yet,” he growls.

You collapse onto your back, whimpering.

But he’s not done.

He flips you over, lifts your hips, and slams back in with one solid thrust.

You scream his name again—the only one you know.

“Ghostface—please—I can’t—!”

“You can,” he snarls. “You’ll take every inch. You’ll come all over this cock and still beg me to stay masked.”

“I need it—need you—”

“Then come.”

He drives into you, punishing, perfect, and you explode around him—writhing, screaming, sobbing as your orgasm rips through you like a wave crashing down, loud and endless and messy.

He grunts hard—once—and you feel it.

The warmth. Deep inside.

He doesn’t pull out.

He stays there, cock throbbing inside your spasming cunt, filling you until you’re still again.

You’re both panting. Quiet.

You reach up—touch the mask.

“…Please.”

He catches your wrist.

“No.”

“Just tell me your name.”

He leans down, kisses your throat through the mask.

Then whispers:

“You already did.”

And just like that—

He’s gone.

⸻

You didn’t hear from him for two days.

No calls. No photos. No shadows under the door or footsteps in the hall.

Just silence.

Your sheets still smelled like sex. Your body still ached in places you shouldn’t have liked. Your thighs rubbed sore from how hard he’d fucked you, how long he’d held you on the edge before letting you fall.

You’d never even seen his face. But he’d left fingerprints in your blood.

You hated yourself for how much you missed him.

You replayed every detail.

His voice. The weight of him. The glove between your thighs. The mask against your cheek.

You couldn’t stop touching yourself just to hear the echo of him in your head. You didn’t even fantasize about who he might be anymore.

It was about the way he made you feel.

Controlled. Wanted. Known.

Still, a part of you needed to know.

Not for closure.

For control.

You couldn’t take one more night of wondering if the barista who smiled at you or the mailman who asked your name had once licked your cum off his gloves behind a plastic mask.

So you did something stupid.

You checked your front porch camera.

He’d always been careful before.

Except once.

The night he sent the photo.

It had come at 3:02 a.m.

You scrubbed back to 2:58.

And there he was.

You couldn’t see the mask—just the hood. Broad shoulders. Confident walk. He came right up to the porch, phone in hand, stared up at your lit window… and then turned.

Your stomach dropped.

You froze the frame.

You stared.

You knew that profile.

The square jaw. The curve of the nose. The smirk.

Dean.

Your neighbor.

Dean fucking Winchester.

Mr. friendly smile.

Mr. “Need help carrying those groceries?”

Mr. leather jacket, flannel, always in the garage fixing his stupid Impala.

He’d helped you jumpstart your car two weeks ago.

You’d hugged him.

He knew your birthday.

He knew your schedule.

He—

Your phone buzzed.

Unknown Caller

You answered without thinking.

“…Dean?”

Silence.

Then, that voice.

The one you’d moaned to. Cried for.

“Should’ve kept the curtains closed, sweetheart.”

Your heart stuttered.

“You watched me the whole time,” you whispered. “All those nights—”

“All those days,” he corrected. “When you walked to get the mail. When you bent over to tie those red converse you wear. When you said hi and didn’t know I was already hard just looking at you.”

You were shaking.

“You came into my house.”

“And you begged me to stay.”

Your mouth went dry. “You—ruined me.”

He laughed, low. “No, baby. I found you.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“You’re not wearing the mask right now,” you said.

“Nope.”

“You’re not hiding anymore.”

“Nope.”

“Then why are you still calling?”

There was a pause.

Then—

“Because you haven’t run.”

You froze.

He was right.

You hadn’t.

You still hadn’t locked your door.

Still hadn’t told anyone.

And deep in your gut, where fear and want lived tangled together, you didn’t want to.

You inhaled shakily.

“…What happens now?”

Dean’s voice came through, low and final.

“You come over here.”

Click.

[c1eepypas1a]

DAMN THIS IS GOOD

ɴᴏᴡ ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅɪɴɢ ... 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚕

♫ ��ʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: spit by show me the body + princess nokia (4:00) // 𐙚 " it's so filthy, disgusting - so ugly i'm sure, i'm so ugly, disgsusting - and filthy for sure... " ᝰ.ᐟ

bob is known for drooling in his sleep, when he's about to sneeze and just in general when he's bored. but now he practically drools whenever he sees you like pavlov's dog.

when you first made out with him, it was just spit and teeth - and thats when you became acutely aware of it all, and how intriguing it was.

when you first had sex, you took note of how drool pooled and spilled out of he corner of his mouth with every pant coming out of him as he held onto your hips like a lifeline.

now you make it an internal game with yourself, how quick you could make bob drooling beneath you.

when you go down on him, licking that vein on the underside of his cock you watch the saliva pool - and how he has to haphazardly wipe his mouth with a hand as his head falls back.

when he goes down on you it's just wet and sloppy from inexperience and the added drool - tongue lapping at your core like it was the last thing he'd ever do, when he goes down on you his brain just turns off so he doesn't really think about what's coming out of his mouth from your hands tugging at his hair.

you then started to incorporate it into sex, asking him to spit into your hand when jerking him off, letting a drop of your own spit drop onto his hard cock, suckling on eachothers fingers - because the sight of bob taking your thumb into his mouth was too good to let up.

when sentry or void fronts, they make it a thing to vocalise the type of shit bob truly likes in bed and what he's willing to do but too nervous to do so - meaning spitting in your mouth by pulling at your jaw to open your mouth or dragging his tongue down your body, pulling back your folds and spitting directly onto your pussy.

and during the day, when anyone in the group makes fun of bob for drooling like a dog when he takes naps on the living room couch - you both just have to sit there and act like you didn't have him writhing beneath you because of said drool, so you sip your coffee and suppress that smirk.

(dude this is actually filth, i didn't hesitate with the title and song..)

[c1eepypas1a]

remember the time when jensen literally got a bit excited on the stage?...yeah me too.

♡tags: @soldiersgirl @figthoughts @briiverse @bejeweledinterludes @littlesoulshine @cowboysandcigarettes @rositaslabyrinth @soangelbaby @sugardean @angelblqde @sunsbaby @soldierboysdoll @cherrygirlfriend @scrmqwn @1967barracuda @g0away-tate @florchids @sammygvrl @thekhloediary @hischrrypie

[c1eepypas1a]

Yall do you know any mafia dean bots in janitor ai pleaseeee 🙏🙏

[c1eepypas1a]

Smash

Master List Link

⚸ Todoroki Shouto / Fem Reader

Note; We all want to see jealous Shoto…… well maybe just me but here it is regardless.

⚸ Everyone in this is aged up/18+.

Shouto could do it.

It’d be no skin off his back to linger patiently until you sauntered off to the restroom and ambush you on the way back. To tug on your wrist and drag you into his Father’s bedroom. To fuck you into the sheets of his pristinely made bed until your voice cracks as you cry out his name and his only.

If he could just —

A small, chubby hand suddenly smacks roughly against his cheek and it jerks him from of his mind, piercing the veil of the severe glare he was aiming at Endeavor. Shouto peers down at the 8 month old baby taking up space in his lap. His son, Yuto, babbles, letting out a high pitched nonsensical coo and grins up at him with eerily similar mismatched eyes.

Shouto smiles softly, the resulting warmth unfurling in his chest takes the edge off the bitter jealousy prodding at his rib cage.

The three of you had come to the Todoroki household that evening to have “family dinner” per Fuyumi’s request. Which was more begging than anything else if he’s honest.

Shouto had agreed because well — he’s trying. Trying to be civil with his Father and because somehow his sister had convinced Touya of all people to be there. So sue him if he wanted to see his brother.

And now that Shouto’s a dad to a beautiful baby boy who sports snow white hair and chubby little cheeks and freakishly reminds him of his eldest brother, he doesn’t want any turmoil to ruin Yuto’s childhood.

But of course, his bastard of a Father crawls under his skin just the right way and gets his blood burning with an all too familiar righteous fury.

Endeavor is currently speaking with you across the room as he flips through a binder filled with old baby pictures of Shouto and his siblings that he’s positive his Mother must have taken.

The way Endeavor is looking at you makes Shouto’s stomach sour. He’s never seen the old man’s gaze so tender, never witnessed that gentle expression on his face, and when Endeavor touches your arm Shouto forces his attention back on his baby because if he keeps looking he may very well explode.

Someone sits down heavily on the couch beside him, jostling Shouto and then Yuto is squealing delightedly, clapping his hands and reaching out towards the person next to him. He already knows who it is before the other man speaks.

“Jealous, baby brother?”

Shouto exhales a cloud of steam before shifting his body to glare at Touya.

“Why would I be jealous?”

Touya shrugs nonchalantly.

“Seems as if our dear old dad is chattin’ up your pretty little wife.” Touya grins like the Cheshire Cat, lifting his eyebrows in amusement.

Shouto fights the itch to wrestle him off the couch and freeze him to the ground, but he can’t very well do that with a baby in his lap.

“Father is not flirting with my wife. She wouldn’t entertain behavior like that anyways.” Shouto sniffs, glancing at you then back at his brother.

Shouto watches Touya’s turquoise eyes brighten like the sun when Yuto huffs restlessly and reaches for him again. He easily hands the little chunk over to his uncle. His brother hums happily and reclines against the couch’s backrest so Yuto can rest on his chest, the baby wrapping his tiny arms around the other’s neck and laying his head on his shoulder with a content sigh.

“Ya know, if it were me, I’d go over there and remind that dickpunch who she belongs to. Not that you’d ever do that, right golden child?”

Shouto rolls his eyes so hard he fears they may get stuck in his skull.

“No, because I’m not a lunatic like you Touya-nii.”

“Sure sure, whatever you say otouto.”

Shouto mulls it over and is beside himself when he finds his thoughts circling back to the previous images of you facedown in Edeavor’s bed.

Is Touya actually making sense??

He shakes his head to get rid of the disturbing idea that Touya could be right and convinces himself that he has more self restraint than that.

Yet as he listens to Touya cooing sweetly at Yuto beside him and he peaks at where you’re otherwise happily engaged in conversation with his Father, the muscle in his jaw ticks once he clenches it.

He’s not so sure his brother is crazy after all.

Shouto doesn’t have to wait long before you excuse yourself and venture to the restroom.

He makes up his mind that second, not caring the slightest bit about any untold consequences his plan could bring and implores his brother to watch his son.

After receiving an infuriatingly smug smirk in lieu of an answer Shouto slips away to wait just behind the door frame of Endeavor’s room. The bathroom is just down the hall and Shouto’s heart beat begins to thunder when he hears the door open.

Your footsteps are hushed as you stride across the hardwood flooring, blissfully ignorant to your husband hiding a few inches out of sight and Shouto sees his opportunity when you pass by.

His hand darts out to circle your wrist and then he’s wrenching you into the bedroom.

“Shouto!” Your startled gasp is muffled by Shouto’s palm covering your mouth. Your eyes go wide, pupils tracking over his face in confusion and thinly veiled irritation once he releases you completely. “What the fuck are you doing? Where is our son?”

“He’s with Touya, and I pulled you in here because you were speaking to my Father.”

Your brows furrow but you let out a breath of relief knowing Yuto is in semi decent hands. You level him with a scowl.

“That’s why you pulled me in here and scared the hell out of me?? I talk to him all the time!” You throw your hands up in the air.

“I am aware, but I couldn’t stand the way he was looking at you.”

“It was no different than how he usually looks at me Sho.”

“Yes it was!”

Your lips part in shock when Shouto’s voice raises, an edge of frustration laced in it. You could count on one hand the amount of times you’ve heard Shouto yell.

You regard him carefully, resting a hand gingerly on his bicep and you take a step towards him until you’re invading his personal bubble.

“Are you alright Shouto?” You study him as his face pinches, eyebrows knitting together and then he’s framing your cheeks with large palms. His right hand is significantly colder than the other.

“Endeavor has taken everything precious away from me for my entire life, but you — you’re mine. He can never have you and I’ll never allow him to hurt Yuto.”

That freezes you in your tracks. You hadn’t been aware Shouto was struggling with an insecurity that major.

Endeavor had been more friendly recently, sure, but it mainly began when Yuto was born. You’re pretty convinced he’s the reason why Enji has softened up as of late, but you’re not about to tell Shouto the way he feels isn’t valid.

You reach up and grip his wrists reassuringly and Shouto bends down to rest his forehead on yours.

“Shouto, listen to me. Your Father will not ever come anywhere close to remotely important in my life. I tolerate him for you. For your sister. For the rest of your family and our son. I love you, more than anything.”

Your husband’s eyes flutter closed and a rosy pink blooms over his cheek bones and the bridge of his nose. He reopens them only for you to find adoration and gratitude staring back.

“I love you too.” Shouto brushes a sweet kiss over the tip of your nose and a thought suddenly occurs to you.

“Sho, was the only reason you dragged me in here to talk about what was bothering you?”

Shouto hesitates.

“No, it wasn’t the only reason.”

You arch an eyebrow.

“Care to share with the rest of the class?”

Shouto smirks coyly then, stepping away and turning to shut and lock the bedroom door.

In a heart beat you’ve been shoved onto the bed and dragged to the edge until your ass hangs off. The soft dress you’re wearing pushed up to bunch around your waist and then Shouto’s peeling your panties down your legs and dropping them carelessly to the side.

He sinks to his knees and you grab fistfuls of his short shaggy hair, squeaking when he runs his tongue between your pussy lips to part them. His playful tongue circles your clit and your breath stutters in your throat as you try to swallow your moans.

Shouto pauses, reminding you to hush before he eats your pussy with the intent to get you drooling. He sucks your clit between his lips a few times, coaxing a low whine from your throat and then he’s manhandling you until he’s shoving your face in the sheets and hauling your ass in the air.

He positions himself to stand at the edge of the bed and undoes his jeans with deft fingers. He hooks his thumbs in his waistband and yanks them down along with his briefs just so his achy cock can bob free.

A thrill zips down your spine, stomach clenching when the blunt tip of Shouto’s cock teases between your lips and catches when you wiggle your hips.

Shouto’s stills, his soft huffing dancing in your ears and you gnaw at your lower lip in anticipation of the toe curling stretch.

“Okay baby?”

“I’m okay Sho, please move.”

That solidifies Shouto’s resolve and then he’s pressing in in in, letting his cock fill out your tight pussy and pushing prickles of pleasure out to the tips of your fingers.

You moan simultaneously when he bottoms out and then he’s pawing at the squishy flesh of your hips, snapping his own viciously and inching you across the sheets with each movement.

You start losing control of the volume of your cries and you turn your face into the blanket with white knuckles as Shouto continues to yank you back to meet his thrusts. The obscene sound of your skin meeting continuously is all that remains in the background.

Aware that you have a time limit to this quickie, your husband gets the memo and bends forward to press on your lower back until he can get the perfect angle to strike your g-spot. He feels borderline desperate to make you cum on his cock.

Your orgasm swells ominously behind your navel and you warn Shouto through hushed stutters and breathy moans.

Shouto’s possessive urge to claim you returns with vehemence, rushing up his spine and muddling his thoughts. Suddenly he can’t help the way he’s threading his fingers through your hair, fisting it and tilting your head back in a brutal bend. Shouto’s voice rumbles in his chest.

“Whose pussy is this baby?”

You wheeze, trying to keep quiet still.

“Your pussy Shouto, it’s yours!” Your scalp aches with a dull throb and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“That’s fucking right baby, and whose wife are you?” His cock twitches violently as edges closer to his release.

“Fuck! M’your wife Sho, yours!” A few tears slip down your cheeks and your pussy flutters rhythmically, mind blanking on the fact that you’re supposed to be silent.

“You’re my fucking wife, don’t ever forget it.”

The heady rasp of Shouto’s voice unravels the knot in your belly and then you’re cumming. Your pussy suffocates his cock and Shouto’s hearing goes fuzzy, toes curling in his socks with the force of his own orgasm.

Your chest heaves with the attempt to catch your breath, a thin layer of sweat beading on your forehead. Shouto smoothes his hands over the soft skin of your lower back before pulling his cock free. You wince slightly, dreading the soreness you’ll be saddled with later.

“Stay here.”

You nod to yourself, gathering your wits about you and Shouto appears with a damp towel to clean you enough to be comfortable.

It only takes a moment for you both to readjust yourselves. You’re both flushed pink and your dress is wrinkled when you pull it down and try to smooth it out.

To Shouto’s delight, the fact that your underwear is still lying on Endeavor’s floor slips your mind. You plant a chaste kiss on Shouto’s lips, whispering about how your absence must be noticeable by now and everyone must know what you were doing but Shouto doesn’t hear you.

You shuffle out of the doorway, fixing your hair to the best of your ability but Shouto stays rooted to the spot.

He doesn’t second guess his decision as he scoops up your panties and shoves them under his Father’s pillow to discover later. A reminder that you love Shouto so much you’re willing to be fucked in Endeavor’s bed just because he asked you to.

When he returns to the living room he notices you speaking with Fuyumi. He turns to Touya and the man trails his eyes up and down Shouto’s disheveled appearance, shooting Shouto a knowing smirk. It seems his brother hasn’t moved an inch since he disappeared, content to snuggle the baby snoozing peacefully in his arms.

Later, once he’s ushered the three of you home, Shouto’s phone rings with a call from Touya. When he answers his brother is already laughing hysterically and recounting the furious way their Father had banged around his room once he unearthed Shouto’s present.

Shouto snickers along with him without an ounce of remorse.

[c1eepypas1a]

Luv this

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖

⋆.˚✮Lex's My Hero Academia Master List.✮˚.⋆

Izuku Midoriya.

⋆ New Girl, Izuku Midoriya x Fem!Reader. ⚝

⋆ Panic Attack, Izuku Midoriya x F!Reader ⚝

⋆ Tattoo, Izuku Midoriya x Fem!Reader ⚝

⋆ Drunken confessions, Izuku Midoriya x Fem!Reader. ⚝

⋆ Cigarette. Pro Hero!Izuku Midoriya x Fem!Detective!Reader ⚝

⋆ Sleep over. Izuku Midoriya x Fem!Reader. ⚝

⋆ Yandere!Reader x Izuku Midoriya ⚝ ♡Headcanon/thinking abt.♡

⋆ Late night hangout. Izuku Midoriya x Fem!Stoner!Reader. ⚝ ♡18+♡

⋆ Rich!Reader x Izuku Midoriya ⚝ ♡Headcanon/thinking abt.♡

⋆ Fem!Izuku Midoriya x Fem!Reader ⚝

⋆ Virgin!Izuku x Fem!Reader ⚝ ♡Headcanon/thinking abt.♡18+♡

⋆ Laughing. Izuku Midoriya x Fem!Reader ⚝ ♡Valentines Prompt♡

⋆ Izuku Midoriya x Biting Love language!Reader ⚝ ♡Ask♡

⋆ Teacher!Izuku Midoriya x Pro Hero!Fem!Reader ⚝ ♡Ask♡18+♡

⋆ Falling. Izuku Midoriya x Fem!Reader ⚝ ♡Valentines Prompt♡

Katsuki Bakugo

Coming soon...

Shoto Todoroki

Coming soon...

Tenya Iida

Coming soon...

Ejiro Kirishima

Coming soon...

Shota Aizawa

⋆ Looking. Shota Aizawa x Art Teacher!Fem!Reader. ⚝ ♡Valentines Prompt♡

Hitoshi Shinso

Coming soon...

Hanta Sero

Coming soon...

Dabi/Touya Todoroki

Coming soon...

Tomura Shigaraki

Coming soon...

Hawks

Coming soon...

[c1eepypas1a]

KINKTOBER

╰┈➤ DAY TWELVE: BOOT WORSHIP w/ SOLDIER BOY

"Better be able to see my fuckin' reflection in these puppies when you're done, sweetheart." Ben chuckles harshly, one rough palm squishing your face firmly against the inside of his thigh, the material of his suit cushioning your sweet, tear-stained cheeks.

Your hips roll over the dirty red leather of his boot pathetically, folds parted and dripping as you spread more and more syrupy juices across his shoe with each needy buck.

Ben inhales deeply as his cigarette hangs from his parted lips, his eyes low with a mixture of lust and amusement. His powerful thighs tremble slightly under the onslaught of your ministrations, the muscles in his legs taut with need. His cock is fucking aching in his pants, rock hard and filled to the brim... but he's getting off on your whimpers and the frustrated furrow of your brow as you try to angle your hips just right to drag your little clit against the leather. You're too cute.

The task of finding your rhythm makes your head spin, hands grabbing at Ben's calf as you hug his leg for leverage, huffing and whining as you grind yourself down on the curve of his boot. All Ben does is laugh at you, patting the side of your face with a smug grin sporting his face. You look fucking frantic; twisting, winding, trailing your hips all over his shoe, leaving it all sticky and glossy. Ben's certainly satisfied with the job you're doing, it beats having to get them shined by a professional.

But you're far from satisfied. You let out a frustrated groan, grinding harder against his boot, trying to find any sort of relief from the unyielding leather. The harshness of the gritty leather against your puffy clit is almost too much to bear, making you shudder and squirm. Your eyes are fixed on the throbbing tent in his pants, and you're craving that delicious stretch and blunt pounding against your gushy insides.

"Please, Ben! Please, please just fuck me already!" You sob, voice pleading and desperate, echoing in the quiet room as you grind yourself down on his boot and circle your hips.

Ben's too mean to give in, though. He's having too much fun.

"My girl wants a good ol' fashioned fuck, huh?" Ben drawls, puffing on his smoke without a care in the world and tugging at your hair to messily guide your feverish movements. as he lifts his foot up ever so slightly, pressing it flat along your sopping cunt, the pressure against your sensitive flesh making you whine and jolt against the leather.

"It's a shame you still got the other boot to shine."

the fact that I'm still writing kinktober stuff in December is shamefullllllll

aiming to finish before 2025 😜

[c1eepypas1a]

touchstarved! hc’s - bnha

cw: 18+ mdni. all chars 20+, afab!reader, smut

dabi

hawks

‎shigaraki tomura: pt 1, pt 2

katsuki bakugou

shouto todoroki

eijirou kirishima

denki kaminari

aizawa shouta: pt 1, pt 2

sero hanta

izuku midoriya

hitoshi shinsou

monoma neito

tenya iida

tamaki amajiki

a/n: currently accepting requests for your fave mha boy ♡ﾟ

[c1eepypas1a]

Sugar and Spike

pairing(s): Spike x fem!reader

summary: after a night of patrol goes wrong, Spike starts noticing some changes in himself, mainly that Buffy's sweetest friend won't leave his mind and that she would never look at him the same if she knew what he wanted to do to her.

warnings: smut!!! a smidge of yandereness, kinda a sex or die fic, possessive spike, handjob, unprotected piv sex (wrap it before you tap it), oral (fem receiving), praise kink, biting/marking (mentions of blood), a little bit of spanking, overstimulation, riding, fingering, veryyy little plot, and I think thats about it.

In hindsight, they should've kept a better eye on him. It was an odd night of patrolling, the usual gaggle of vampires being a demon or two this time around. Big tall thing that appeared out of nowhere and left as soon as it came. Spike, always with little regard for the consequences of his actions, ran right in. Ran so hard he went right through the demon as it went into smoke. He breathed it in before going into a coughing fit, as if he could feel it in his nose and lungs, spreading in his chest like a vine that pulled everything impossible tight before releasing him like he was never in its grasp . Red flag one.

It fell on him like rain, some clumping into what looked like pink sparkles in his hair, on his jacket, his worn boots. He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, pulling away expecting to see it gunked together, but there was nothing there. It felt like his hair had been hit by my mist, slightly damp and cool. It seeped into his exposed skin, adhering itself into a pink sheen which also disappeared after only a few minutes. He remembered trying to brush it off, expecting it to feel wet but it was just slick. It was admittedly infuriating, especially since the feeling wouldn't go away. Red flag two.

“Buffy!” He shouted, rubbing his hands on his jeans as if it was going to wipe away the phantom feeling, but his complaints were met with apathy. 

“There’s nothing there, Spike.” A groan bubbled in his chest. 

“Astute observation, Slayer, but it feels like something’s there.” You were there beside him, something that would’ve gone unnoticed had he not been hit with your scent as your fingers brushed against his hand. He pulled away quickly out of instinct, not as subtle as he would’ve liked to because you noticed and scampered off in between Buffy and Giles. The distance between you and him got larger and the two of you talked about a mall trip you had planned and Willow was the only one to stick with him. She humored him, allowing him to shower at her place and taking a sample of skin only to find nothing. No residue, nothing abnormal, nothing had changed at all. Red flag three.

But he was sure it was fine. Nothing had really changed. You had been a bit cautious though.

You were prone to worrying, and he couldn't blame you. There was a lot to worry about when your best friends hunted demons and one of them was a literal creature of the night. You worried about Buffy so much he genuinely feared you would collapse from all the stress you put yourself under. Pursuing a nursing degree so they could avoid hospital visits unless absolutely necessary because none of you had the money. Having him train you in basic self-defense because you hated feeling like dead weight. You took up Latin and all of the other dead languages in those old dusty books just so you could be useful. You tied yourself in knots just to be sweet. God, you were so sweet. Even to your own detriment, like pure sugar that was going to rot his teeth eventually.

The more time you spent together, the more the rot seemed to take his brain than his teeth. His mouth never got anywhere near you; Buffy made sure of that. He wished he could say it was because she was babying you too much, that you were also tired of Buffy making Spike seem like the biggest mistake you could ever make. To be fair, he hardly knew you. He knew of you; he knew of the pink wardrobe and the fluffy socks and the pretty shoes. He knew of you as Buffy's cute neighbor who stopped by so often that you might as well live with them. You weren't being a baby, you were being cautious, even more now. He almost wished you didn't believe him as much as you did, maybe you'd keep visiting him. He hadn't seen you in days and it was really starting to take a toll on him. His leg bounced and he got in the bad habit of biting his nails, which was starting to get annoying with how often he had to repaint them.

If you were here, you would repaint them. You would sit your pretty self on his busted couch, and you'd have a little bag with you with all your pins and charms that jingled like the earrings that dangle from your ears. In your bag would be at least three shades of pink, a range of blacks and greys, and a wild card or two, maybe a blue or a green. You'd let him pick his color, despite knowing he always went for black. You asked anyway, just in case he decided to go with pink just to humor you. Had you walked through right now, he would've obliged. He would've done anything you asked him too. It wasn't even that he was lonely, but it was getting to suffocate in here. It was getting hot, like a fire was spreading. Each breath felt smoke filled, his skin was on fire, his skin was getting damp, like the dust had fallen again. His hand was shaky as he put a cigarette between his lips and lit it, surely the smell would break him out of what had to be a daze.

If you were here, you'd make a joke about him needing to air the place out. He'd probably open the door and call that enough air, but he liked his privacy, and he didn't like the idea of anyone just being able to waltz right in. You would want to make a joke about no one wanting to visit him, but you’d bite your tongue at the fear of being too harsh. You always got that look in your eye when you thought something that could be misconstrued as mean. You took your lip into your teeth and your pretty eyelashes flitted and you looked away. He thought about what it would be like to bite your lips, wanting to see what they looked like, all red and even prettier than they were before. Just a taste, that's all he wanted, a taste.

He got up to open up the door only for that phantom feeling to return. All over his body, it felt like he had stepped out into the sun, like every molecule that made up his body was vibrating and mere seconds from combusting. His breathing got ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly and his brain going into overdrive. He squeezed his eyes shut as if it would make it go away, but even from behind his eyelids, you were there. The idea of you, your smile, your laughter, fuck the very way you said his name. It sounded so nice coming from you. 

The way you said it when he got injured in a fight when you would patch up his wounds and have a bag of blood for him to replace what he lost. “Spike.” you would say. Like he should’ve known better than to just throw himself into danger. Not even bothering to consider the possibility that he did it to look heroic, or maybe in your care with your hands over his chest. There’s no reason for him to be this beaten and bruised from some baby vamp; William the Bloody. Spike? He had pride, but not as much as Angelus. It was easily quenched by the fact that he was in no way losing with your delicate hands tracing over faded scars on his chest and feeding him blood while they were just dust. 

“Spike.” Buffy would say, her tone laced with less concern and more disapproval. She knew something was up. After all they had gone through together, vampires should’ve been nothing for him. He had to space out his “fuck ups” just to get her off his back, just to get her voice out of his head. She didn’t say his name like you did. 

There wasn’t much better than how you said his name when it was just the two of you. Being together in his crypt, sometimes in your own bedroom which you had invited him into much to Buffy’s chagrin. “It’s Spike,” you had said, “how many times have we saved the world with him? I think he’s earned it.” It sent shivers down his spine. He would’ve saved the world so much sooner if it meant being able to be in your space. If it meant getting to hear you say his name through fits of laughter, trying to regain your breath while still finding enough to utter his name. “Spike.” you said, your hand over his while you giggled. He felt that heat now, felt the heat of all your touches culminating right now. All over his skin, tensing his muscles, holding his chest as he fought for breath himself. 

While he had the chance, he should’ve raided your underwear drawer. Now he was left to fist his dick with just the memory of you. You wouldn’t notice a pair or two gone, surely you wouldn’t. It was the type of small thing you would overlook because really what is a pair or two. You wouldn’t want him to be in pain, hearing his situation now, you’d feel like it was all your fault. The least you could spare was a pair of your prettiest panties for him to wrap around his cock while he fisted himself to the thought of you and how you would say his name now. 

The closest he’d gotten would be after a big battle. You had taken a beating, by the time you had gotten to a safe space you had lost a dangerous amount of blood, but the sounds that came out of your mouth were so delicious. And you trusted him to carry you to safety, your bloody hand wrapping itself around his bicep to maintain some tether to consciousness. “Spike.” your voice dripping with pain, but even that wasn’t enough to mask how pretty you sounded. He felt bad then for how hard it got him, but there is such a thin line between   pain and pleasure. The only difference now would be circumstance, and he would never hurt you. This would be good for you, the both of you, you just had to let him. You just had to say his name. 

“Spike?” In that moment, he knew there had to be some high power looking out for him when he heard your voice. Dream-like, and soft, like the wind could have blown it out and away from your lips. “Spike?!” you said again. He couldn’t tell if it was his shred of restraint or his body’s unwillingness to listen to his brain that kept him glued to his couch. 

“Now really isn’t a good time, love.” He tried to keep his voice level, he really did, but it was too much. And you weren’t stupid, he heard the heels of your shoes against the hard floor and smelt you before he even saw you. And fuck you smelt heavenly. 

“Are you okay? What happened-” You looked like you had a halo above your head, or maybe he was much further gone than he had thought. You cut yourself off in shock. When you had walked in, you hadn’t expected to catch Spike with his hands down his pants. 

“You know what, I’m just gonna go a-and come back later.” You tried to smile in an attempt to make the situation less awkward than it needed to be, but he grabbed you by your wrist. 

“Wait-I just need-fuck. I just need you to stay for a bit. I don’t feel good.” Your eyes met and you saw the sheen of what you assumed to be sweat covering his chest and face. His pupils blown out, his hair out of place, his labored breathing, like he couldn’t catch his breath. Oddly enough, the sheen had a pink tinge, and despite the fact that his fangs were protruding, his vampire face hadn’t appeared. You reached out to touch his forehead to surprisingly find a temperature. He groaned at the contact, both wanting to melt into your skin and like it physically pained him. 

“What happened?” He declined the answer, instead pushing his head more into the palm of your hand, tipping his head to sniff the inside of your wrist. “What are you doing?” You tried to pull away and put some distance in between the two of you, but he pulled you back, even closer than before. 

“You smell so good.” He nosed his way past your wrist and up your arm till he made it to your collarbone, trying to find where he could hear your blood pump the loudest. “Stop it!” you pushed against him as soon as you felt the tip of his fangs attempting to break skin. To both of your surprise, he let you. It looked like it pained him to do so, his eyes screwed shut and his hand gripping the arm of his couch until the wood snapped. 

“If this is about the demon thing, I’m gonna go get Willow, okay? You just need to stay right here.” The authority you had laced in your voice was cute. 

“Just stay here with me, yeah? There’s no need to get Willow. We don’t need Willow.” His voice had dropped an octave, his pupils blown and his brain damn near empty. Anything went in one ear then out the other as he held your hands in his, staring through you as if daring you to defy him. 

“Spike, you aren’t well.” You had tried to reason, but all he heard was that you weren’t saying no because you didn’t want this. You were concerned for his well being, even when he had you pinned down and his teeth at your neck, each breath moving you closer to him drawing blood, you were saying no because you were concerned he didn’t want this. You somehow thought he didn’t want you. 

“I’ve never felt better, baby.”, he said-practically fucking growled. Hell if he wanted you, he needed you. He pressed himself into you, his hands grabbing at anything he could to ground himself, his left at the base of your scalp and his right bunching the fabric of your skirt in his hands. He breathed into your neck, nipping and nicking at bare skin then soothing it with his tongue and kisses. He worked himself up over you, taking and taking until he was drunk, his tongue lolled out as he put his head on your chest.“Can I fuck you.” 

You had been caught in a daze yourself, his words had barely registered. You had more sense than he did at this point, finding enough resolve to shake your head. “Please.” he begged, groaning it out through clenched teeth. “I need you to make it feel better, please God just make it feel better.” He had pushed his hips into your hand, his weeping cock leaking onto you, pleading with you to touch it. “I’ll make it good for you, I swear, just be my sweet girl, yeah? Just make it better.”

You experimentally rubbed the tip, and he whimpered. His hand grabbing your wrist so fast a look of shock flashed across his face. You took that as a sign to pull away but he put your hand back around him, pushing your hand up and down his base. “Too much too quick, love.” 

Any hesitancy you had was swallowed as he smashed his lips into yours. It was urgent and quick, almost bruising how hard he kissed and held you as if you were going to disappear at any point. He tugged at a handful of hair, catching you in a moan that he used to force tongue into your mouth, sucking it as you pumped his dick at a painfully slow pace. 

His kisses made you breathless, and it was then you realized that he likely forgot in his haze that you actually needed air. He moaned into your lips, the sound spreading throughout your body and shaking you to your core. It wasn’t lost on him how damp your underwear had gotten, had he had the strength to pull away to touch you he would, but the mere seconds his skin would be off yours was enough of a deterrent to keep him in place. 

You tried to move away, but his hand kept you in place. “Don’t move.”, he rushed it out, a tone that otherwise would’ve been more commanding had he not been weak himself. “Keep going.” His hips bucked and stuttered, his movements becoming erratic the more faint your touches became. Like it was a warning; let me up for air and I’ll keep touching you. He whined at the thought of you pulling away. That wasn’t fair. 

His lips parted from yours, settling for the corner of your mouth before moving to your jawline to your neck, then just under your ear. You gasped for breath, you numb with the ecstasy of air and the feeling of his rushed kisses. He was getting close. Your hand was covered in his sticky pre-cum, his cock even more so as your hand moved alone over him, his own hand now grabbing at your shirt at the feeling. You squeezed at the bass, a motion he clearly enjoyed with how his body tensed up. A series of obscenities flowed from his pretty lips as he came, spurts of his cum getting over your pretty pink skirt, an image Spike would get himself off to later. 

You didn’t get long to sit in what just happened when he was on you again, laying you on your back and ripping your skirt clean off. You moaned something that sounded like “My skirt!”, but neither one of you were really worried about it. 

His lithe fingers were quick, rubbing you through the fabric of your panties, while he kissed up to where you wanted him excruciatingly slow. His hands rubbed and teased at the soft skin of your thighs, marking bruises everywhere he went. 

He moaned into you, sniffing you once again, before finding a place he wanted to dig his fangs into. Maybe it was how delicately he stuck in his teeth, maybe it was the lust blown fervor, but it didn’t hurt as much as you anticipated. In fact, you moaned at the intrusion, unable to know what to do with yourself as he sucked and lapped up the blood he had drawn. Your fingers wove into his hair, as if he could be pulled any closer to you than he already was. “You taste so good. So good.” And he let you know as such. The obscene noises that flew from the both of you, the slurping and whines, the pop of his lips as he traveled from one spot to another. But that’s not how he intended to eat you whole.

You were unbelievably wet, soaking through your panties and even Spikes fingers before he took pity on you and decided to pull them aside and plant his fingers into you. Now, you weren’t a virgin, but you had never had sex that felt as good as this. Never had someone in you that had hundreds of years of practice beforehand. 

“You’re doing so good, Sweet Girl. So good, can’t get enough of you.” What was an attempt to calm your nerves, had you keening and over the moon, the praise bringing tears to your eyes as you ground yourself in his hand. That didn’t move him along any quicker, his tongue still collecting anything you would give him like he hadn’t been fed in years. 

“Spike!” You called out, which finally seemed to get his attention. He saw the glass-like look your eyes had taken and the pout on your face. You looked like you were about to cry. Poor thing, so desperate. He said he’d take care of you, make you feel good. No point in denying the inevitable. 

You whined when he pulled out of you just to choke when he began to devour you. His nose at your clit and his tongue plunging into. “Thank you.” he muttered into you, like this was some divine gift to him. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” The combination of his praise and how good he was giving it to you made that coil in your belly tighten and tighten until it threatened to snap. And he just kept going. Completely in his own world, the only thoughts in his mind being about you, how you smelled, how you tasted, god you were so good to him. Letting him eat you out like this, helping him like this. He shouldn’t have expected any less from his girl. His sweet girl. No one else's, you couldn’t be anyone else's after this. His grip tightened around your thighs at the very thought. “Mine.” he said, the vibrations hitting your core deliciously. “Mine.”

“Yours Spike, all yours.” He hummed in approval, inserting two fingers back into you while he kept up his electric pace. He held your hand as it began to be too much, your back arching off the couch and your thighs closing around his head as he just kept going. You called his name as you came, high and higher until it became too heavy on your mouth and you couldn’t say anything at all. The grip you had on his hand had loosened, but he hadn’t let up. He still rambled into you, “Again. Again. Again. Please.”

You didn’t know if your hips were bucking into him or try to wiggle away from him. Either way, both attempts were unsuccessful. With how hard he pulled on your panties they had snapped and had been thrown to the side for the simple crime of being in his way. His forearm lay on your hip keeping you in place. Your hand still laid in his, him squeezing it as if it was any comfort from the inescapable feeling of his tongue licking your thoroughly soaked pussy. 

Your toes curled in your frilly socks as you came again on his tongue, and you foolishly expected that to be enough. You would’ve asked him to stop if you could pant out anything more than whines. You would’ve pushed him away if you could manage anything more than weak taps on his forearm. “No more.” you whispered out. “Can’t.” His fingers rubbed your hand as some form of encouragement. 

“Yes you can, love.” You shook your head weakly, scooting your hips back only for him to swiftly smack your pussy. You preened on the contact, and he drank in the arousal that gushed out just from that. “My sweet girl isn’t gonna disappoint me, is she? She’s gonna make me all better, isn’t that right?” Your brain was so fogged out you couldn’t even produce a response. You just groaned and squirmed, unable to brace for impact when he smacked you again. 

“Spike!” You cried out, but he didn’t care. Heknew you were feeling good from how much you gushed while he tongue fucked your cunt. It was just a bit too much for you right now. You would feel better, you just needed to let go some more. He tried to relax you, tried rubbing mindless shapes on your skin to calm you down as he worked you through your third orgasm, but you just heaved. Your tits bounced with how heavily you breathed, and yet after all of that, he still didn’t feel better. Why didn’t he feel better?

Despite the relief that came from him pausing his abuse, you still whined as he sat up from behind your legs. With your taste still on his tongue, he kissed you. You sighed into him, the feeling of his large hands moving from your hip to under your shirt to touch your tummy and rip your bra in half. You didn’t even notice him moving you into his lap and setting your thighs on either side of him so you straddled him. He thumbed your nipples, pinching and rubbing over them while he relished in the feeling of you cunt so close to his dick. 

You didn’t seem to catch on either as he slid in between your folds, too lost of him finally kissing you again. You moaned into this kiss as his fingers dipped to toy with your clit before he whispered in your ear. “Just one more.”

In one fluid motion, he slipped his dick into his cunt, catching you as your limbs went weak. He was so big you felt your eyes water with the pressure of him being in you. You could tell he was struggling to stay still, but the haze had worn off enough for him to regain some sense. He still waited eagerly for you to adjust, brushing the fallen tears from your eyes and kissing your checks to make it all better.

“Too big. It’s too big.” You stuttered. It was all you could manage to mutter out. He cooed at you, his dick growing harder than he thought possible at the feeling of it all and the praise. 

“I was made for you, Pretty Girl, you can take it.” You yelped as he jerked his hips into yours, but he just couldn’t help it. You were so pretty like this, all fucked out and dumb. Not a thought behind those eyes of yours and the only thoughts he was capable of was you. How warm you were, how wet you were, how tight you were. You were squeezing him and  milking him dry and as much as he tried he just couldn’t stop him self from fucking into you. 

“I’m sorry.” and he meant it. You weren’t ready and he couldn’t even tell if he was ready, his body had a mind of his own and he felt himself just slipping into the feeling of being enveloped by you. “Just too good. You’re too good. My good girl. You’re gonna take all I give you, aren’t you, love? You gonna be my sweet girl and take it?” His voice was breathy and low and impossibly hot. 

All you could manage was a soft ‘mhm’ as you took him in. It wasn’t like you had any other choice as you bounced on his cock, gripping at his chest and taking in each moan you earned as you drew blood from your scratches. 

You felt every inch of him, felt the tip of his dick hit your cervix and kept pounding at it like it was his job;  like he would die if he didn’t. You can’t do anything but take it as you screw your eyes shut and just try to breathe as everything in your body fights to hold on to some feeling. It was impossible to think, not when Spike’s hands were all over you and his touch was so incredibly hot. Even stranger, a pink glow began to emanate from him, that or you were closer to passing out than you originally thought. . 

He kept you close to his chest as you both chased your impending highs together, your lips meeting in the middle as you moaned and sighed into each other's mouths and he was a goner, rambling like a mad man in your ear, thanking you endlessly for something he couldn’t put his hands on. Maybe it was your release, that you felt coming like a truck. He squeezed at the fat of your hips, pulling you even closer until neither one of you could tell where the other started and ended and you came like that, so close that you were almost suffocating, but a different kind from before. 

He came not long after you, his dick still inside spurting his cum inside you and keeping it in there with little intention of coming out any time soon. That pink glow had faded from before, fading away until there was nothing there and the slight pink tinge from before was gone too. His eyes drooped a bit, his blue irises that you hadn’t realized you had missed finally reappeared, his pupils returning to normal and his fangs retracting. 

He hung his head in your neck and you felt his temperature drop a bit, no longer boiling hot. He refused to move his head from his spot though. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was ashamed of what just happened. 

After the both of you had a moment to catch your breaths, he removed himself from inside you, stalking off to find something to wear now that your outfit was completely ruined. He even had the decency to turn around while you changed, granted he had a hard time looking at you anyway. 

“You’re gonna wanna deep clean that couch.” You said to break the silence. You were surprised you got a chuckle out of him. 

“Yeah. I don’t normally do this sort of thing on there.” Another moment of silence passed between the two of you.

“You know, we can go back to my place and I can fix your nails. I can tell you’ve been biting at them.” He didn’t need to be told twice either. The place still stunk of sex and his head was feeling clearer than it had in days, he couldn’t stand to be there right now.

“About all of this…you won’t tell Buffy, right?” You giggled. 

“Not if you don’t.” And that was more than enough for him.

[c1eepypas1a]

content warnings : fem!reader, softdom!sam, praise, lack of shame, creampie, breeding kink, taking advantage, selfishness, 13.3k+ characters

The night was truly beautiful, with a clear sky dotted by stars. The moon shone brightly, casting a gentle glow across the graveyard stones. Each stone glimmered, appearing almost magical in the soft light. Earlier, rain had fallen, leaving the ground cool and fresh. Tiny droplets clung to the grass and leaves, sparkling like diamonds in the dim illumination.

You leaned against one of the sturdy trees, feeling its rough bark against your back. With a practiced motion, you pulled out the joint you had tucked away in your sweatshirt pocket. As you lit it, a small flame flickered, illuminating your face for a brief moment. Inhaling deeply, you felt the smoke fill your lungs, bringing a sense of calm. A soft smile crept onto your lips. For some, being in a graveyard might seem strange or even unsettling. But for you, it was comforting.

This place, though filled with tombstones and memories, felt safe. It was quiet and serene, empty of the noise and chaos of daily life, yet alive with the spirits of many who had once walked the earth. Each grave held stories, lives lived, and experiences that lingered in the air. As you enjoyed the moment, letting the smoke curl and drift away, a sudden noise caught your attention.

A sharp crack of wood echoed through the stillness, startling you. It was odd to hear anything at this hour. You turned your head sharply, scanning the shadows. Out of the corner of your eye, you thought you saw a figure. Your heart raced for a brief moment, but you shook your head, dismissing the thought. Perhaps it was just your imagination, playing tricks in the dark. With a deep breath, you refocused and continued to smoke, allowing the relaxing haze to wash over you once more. As you took another drag, the effects of the plant began to wash over you, pulling your senses into a haze. Suddenly, the figure you thought you glimpsed earlier became clearer, solidifying in front of you. It was none other than Sam Winchester, the younger brother of Dean, his familiar face bringing both confusion and surprise.

"Hello, beautiful," he greeted you with an inviting smile that seemed out of place in the dim light of the night. "What are you doing here at this hour?" His voice held a playful tone. You blinked, your eyes heavy and bloodshot from the high, struggling to focus on his features. "I'm smoking, can't you see?" you replied, a hint of irritation creeping into your voice. Sam stepped closer, towering over you, his presence both comforting and daunting. As he looked into your eyes, you felt a strange tension swirling in the air. There was something in the depths of his gaze that warned you to run, to get away as fast as possible. But your body felt rooted to the spot, weighed down by the intoxicating buzz coursing through you and the rapid beating of your heart. "What do you want, Sam?" you asked, forcing the words out, your mind tangled in a fog that made it hard to think clearly. "I just wanted to see you, away from Dean. Just us," he replied, a hint of sincerity lacing his voice. The way he said it left you uncertain, caught between a feeling of curiosity and a sense of caution.

"Just us huh? " you repeat taking another long drag from your joint. The smoke fills your lungs and you exhale slowly letting it drift into the cool night air. Your voice emerges huskier than you intended perhaps due to the lingering haze of smoke or maybe from the intensity of Sam's gaze which seems to pierce right through you in the silvery moonlight. "Here in a graveyard? " Sam chuckles softly a warm sound that contrasts with the eerie surroundings. He shrugs a casual gesture that belies the weight of the moment. "Seems appropriate doesn't it? A beautiful girl the moonlight casting its glow and whispers of eternity all around us... " His tone shifts becoming more intimate as he leans in closer his breath mingling with the night air. "Besides who wouldn't want a private moment with a captivating vision like you? " You furrow your brow slightly at his smooth words a flicker of amusement dancing in your glazed eyes. "Private moment? With the Winchester brothers infamous for interrupting each other's everything? " You take another drag savoring the taste then blow out a stream of smoke that curls teasingly between you. You shifted slightly against the tree, trying to steady yourself as Sam’s presence filled the space around you. His expression was soft, yet there was an intensity in his eyes that made your heart skip a beat. Here, between the silent stones and the whispering night, the world outside seemed to fade away.

"You always did know how to find the most interesting places," he murmured, his voice a gentle rumble that matched the distant rustle of leaves. Sam's gaze lingered on your face, tracing the curve of your lips, the outline of your features in the moonlight. You felt warmth spread through you, curling like the smoke from the joint between your fingers. The cool night air mixed with the warmth of his nearness, creating an exhilarating mix that left you with a slight shiver. "And here I thought I’d have the night to myself,” you replied, a teasing lilt in your voice, trying to mask the flutter of nerves and excitement he stirred within you.Sam's smile widened, a subtle acknowledgment of the tension that crackled like static electricity between you. He moved closer, his movements slow and measured, respecting the space but closing the distance with a magnetic pull that was hard to resist. "I couldn't resist the chance to get you alone," he said, his tone holding a promise that sent a delicious thrill through you. Your heart raced, a shared understanding passing silently in the space between you. The night's chill seemed to intensify every sensation—the rough bark against your back, the cool breeze on your skin, the heat from Sam's body as he drew nearer. Every heartbeat echoed loudly in the quiet, mingling with the whispered secrets of the graveyard.With a slow, deliberate motion, Sam reached out, brushing a gentle thumb across your cheek, his touch soft yet electrifying. "Why here, though?" he asked, curiosity mingling with the warmth in his voice as he searched your eyes.

You took a moment to gather your thoughts, your mind a haze of emotions and sensations. "It's peaceful," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. "Away from everything... it's just... quiet." He nodded, understanding, and his hand lingered, a comforting presence. “I get that,” he said softly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Sometimes, you need a place to just breathe.” As you lingered in the shared silence, the air between you thickened with unspoken words and desires. Sam’s gaze flicked down to your lips, and an urge surged within you—an overwhelming need to close the space that separated you both. “Sam…” you breathed, the name escaping your lips like a plea. You reached up, your fingers brushing against his jaw, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. He leaned into your palm, his eyes darkening as the warmth of the moment enveloped you both. With a gentle tug, you pulled him closer, drawn by an invisible thread that seemed to bind you together. The moment hung between you, electric and alive, and you could feel the world around you fade into a blur. The graveyard, once a comforting refuge, now felt like a secret sanctuary for the heat swelling between you. Without a word, Sam closed the gap, his lips capturing yours in a soft yet urgent kiss. It was tentative at first—a brush of warmth that sent waves of desire coursing through you. You responded instinctively, deepening the kiss, allowing the warmth of him to seep into your very core. The taste of him was intoxicating, a mix of smoke and something distinctly Sam, as if he were a part of the night itself. His hands found your waist, drawing you closer until there was no space left between you. You melted against him, pushing back against the rough bark of the tree, feeling alive as his body pressed against yours. His fingers traveled along your sides, igniting every nerve in their wake, a silent declaration of the passion simmering just below the surface. With a slight tilt of your head, you deepened the kiss further, your hands tangling in his hair as you lost yourself in the moment. Sam responded, his hands moving to cradle your face, holding you delicately as if you were something precious and fragile. Breathless, you pulled away just enough to catch your breath, your foreheads resting against each other. “We shouldn't…” you whispered, though the words felt hollow against the burning desire building within you. “Why not?” Sam murmured, his voice low and coaxing. “This feels right. You feel right.” His gaze was fierce, and any hesitation dissolved beneath the weight of his longing. You could see the desire swirling in his eyes, a reflection of your own need. Despite the surroundings, the world faded away, leaving just the two of you. Every heartbeat felt like a step deeper into something uncharted, something thrilling. With a soft push, you tilted your head back, exposing your neck to him. Sam’s lips found their way to your skin, trailing hot kisses along your collarbone, igniting sparks that danced across your body. You gasped, a shiver running down your spine as you surrendered to the sensations, losing yourself in the intimacy of the moment.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, the soft warmth of his breath sending another wave of heat through you. Encouraged, you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, each kiss igniting the night around you. In that magical, moonlit graveyard, nothing else mattered except the two of you, the heat of your bodies, and the quiet urgency of the moment unfolding between spirited breaths and whispered promises. As they continue to explore each other, Sam's hands slide up your sides, gently cupping your breasts. His thumbs brush over your nipples, already hard from the chill in the air and the heat of their passion. You arch into his touch, a low moan escaping your lips. Feeling your reaction, Sam's mouth finds one of your nipples, sucking it between his lips while teasing the other with his fingers. His tongue swirls around the hard peak, causing you to tremble. A shudder rolls down your spine as he alternates between them, his hot breath fanning your skin. The sensation is intense, and the pleasure is overwhelming. Sam's hand slides lower, seeking the hem of your shirt. With deft fingers, he lifts it just enough to reveal your bare stomach, then resumes his exploration of your breasts. The cold night air brushes against your exposed flesh, heightening the contrast with the warmth of his lips and hands. Meanwhile, your own hands wander, finding the bulge in his pants. With eager fingers, you fumble with the buttons, freeing his hardened length. It springs free, pulsating under your touch. A low growl rumbles through Sam's throat as he bites down gently on your nipple, his grip on you tightening. You stroke him, feeling the veins and the slickness of pre-cum. As you continue, Sam's kisses trail down your body, leaving a fiery path that seems to echo the flames within you. He reaches your navel and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your pants, easing them down over your hips. Exposed, you feel vulnerable, yet utterly alive as his fingers graze your wetness, making you quiver. He slips one digit inside, coating it with your arousal before adding another. Your back arches as he fills you, his fingers stretching you in preparation for him.

The sensation is exquisite, the cool night air a stark contrast to the heat building within you. Sam's lips find yours again, kissing you deeply as he pulls his fingers out and aligns himself with your entrance. "Are you ready?" he breathes, his voice thick with wanton need. You nod, unable to speak, your heart pounding as he guides himself into you. The initial stretch is intense, but Sam moves slowly, giving you time to adjust. Once fully enveloped, he pulls back slightly before thrusting forward, burying himself to the hilt. A sharp gasp escapes your lips at the fullness, pleasure mingling with pain. "Fuck," Sam whispers, his own breath hitched. He pulls out and thrusts back in, the rhythm of their movements picking up as they both fall deeper into desire. Sam's hips grind against yours, the sound of flesh meeting flesh filling the silence of the graveyard. His mouth finds your neck, nipping and sucking as you cling to him, your body rocking with each powerful thrust. You moan, the night air filled with the symphony of their lust, as the pleasure builds within you.

He's relentless, each thrust sending shockwaves through your body until, suddenly, you're on the edge. You cry out, your orgasm ripping through you like a tidal wave, leaving you weak and trembling. The sight of your release pushes Sam over the edge, and he growls, his own climax surging through him. Hot and intense, he spills himself deep within you before collapsing onto you, both of them panting. For a moment, the two of you lay there, intertwined and spent. The world around them fades into insignificance, replaced by the warmth of each other's embrace. This fleeting moment of ecstasy becomes a sanctuary in the midst of a graveyard, the epitome of life and passion amidst the tranquil reminder of mortality.

[c1eepypas1a]

helloooo! :D I wanted to ask if you’d ever write for cas? It’s completely okay if not, only do what YOU want <33

BUT I also had a thought so hear me out:

Dean calling the reader a pet name for the first time, and not really realizing what he said but the reader is just like 😵‍💫 all blushy caught off guard because THE Dean Winchester just called her honey as if they didn’t confess like a week ago 🧍🏻‍♀️

remember to eat and hydrate, I hope you sleep well too💙

-💫

⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆🔧 honey,

summary. you're dean's honey .ᐟ

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 469

notes. this is just wholesome and... relatable. and i'd definitely be down to write for our sweet sassy angel cas! do you have a specific scenario in mind? 👀

The clang of tools against the Impala’s hood fills the garage, a melody as familiar as breathing. You’re perched on a stool nearby, half-focused on the book in your lap, but mostly on Dean. His hands move deftly as he tinkers under the hood, a smear of grease streaked across his jaw.

“Pass me the wrench, would ya?” he says, glancing at you with those green eyes that always manage to make your stomach flutter.

You nod, leaning over the workbench to grab it. When you hand it to him, his fingers brush yours—just a brief, fleeting touch, but enough to send a spark racing through you.

“Thanks, honey,” he mutters absently, turning back to the car.

Your brain short-circuits.

Honey?

Did Dean Winchester just call you honey?

You blink, replaying the moment in your head to make sure you didn’t imagine it. No, you’re sure of it. He said it so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The book in your lap is forgotten as you try to process the anomaly. A week ago, you and Dean finally confessed your feelings for each other, and while things have been a bit more... touchy-feely, this? This is new.

“Uh… you good over there?” Dean’s voice breaks through your spiraling thoughts. He glances at you again, brows furrowed slightly.

“Huh? Oh, yeah, totally fine,” you blurt, your face heating up.

He smirks, the corner of his mouth twitching like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You sure? You’re lookin’ a little pink.”

“I’m not pink,” you mumble, pulling the book back into your lap and staring at it like it holds the secrets to the universe.

Dean shrugs, clearly oblivious to the bombshell he’s just dropped on you, and goes back to work. But the damage is done. The word honey keeps bouncing around in your head, making your heart race and your palms sweaty.

Minutes pass, and you try desperately to regain your composure. But then Dean turns to you again, wiping his hands on a rag. “You wanna grab lunch? Burgers sound good?”

“Sure,” you manage, your voice a little too high.

Dean tilts his head, his smirk widening. “Seriously, what’s up with you? You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not acting weird,” you protest, even though you’re about two seconds away from combusting.

“Uh-huh,” he says, clearly unconvinced. “C’mon, let’s go, honey.”

There it is again.

You let out a small squeak, your cheeks flaming as you follow him out of the garage. Dean doesn’t even notice, but you’re left reeling, wondering how someone can casually call you honey and not realize they’re turning you into a puddle.

And as you climb into the passenger seat of the Impala, you can’t help but smile, even through your embarrassment. You're Dean Winchester’s honey.

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles

[c1eepypas1a]

Loveee it sm

which logan(s) would put you in the most heavenly mating press i’m talkin entire body mass crushing your thighs to your tits and either brutal pounding with his teeth in your neck OR passionate (still pounding. it’s all he knows) deep ass thrusts holding ur head with both hands i’m gonna explode

https://x.com/Father4u666/status/1865094902285013461 the size difference…

Oh sweet anon you are KILLING ME HERE- pls continue..

But this link??? Im actually deceased, you do not understand. Size kink going wild rn soooo heres my thoughts on this:

70s dofp!Logan is the best at the mating press. Hands down. I mean we have all seen the scene cap of him and the girls frankly TINY arm over his neck. That is a big, heavy man who FUCKS with everything in him. Size kink screams when he’s near. He’s completely draped over you no matter the position.

Oldman Logan often gives deep heavy pounds that are slow in pace, holding your face/neck tight in his hand. He’s cooing in your ear so much filthy shit, trying to drive you to the edge with every single thing he knows. Fingers like a champ. When he has the stamina on a good, moderately painless day, he is soooo good at fucking rougher. He lovessss being ridden and WILL absolutely thrust up from the bottom fast and hard when you get tired. Hes also big on spanking. Bc That’s daddy frrrr

X1-X2 Logan is somewhere between both.. but arguably most feral, speed is definitely something he utilises, quick pounding is his kinda vibe? He’s certainly got the stamina for it. Def leaves the most marks too- you can guarantee your leaving with hickys and bite marks allll across your neck/tits/thighs.

Worst Logan.. I feel like worstie is cautious at first. He doesn’t want the risk of hurting his partner, but he will give Slow and deep. He will give it quicker when he’s more comfortable if that’s what you need but mostly he knows he’s got time here.. He Can afford to savour every moment with you. Also a biggggg giving oral for his pleasure kinda man. Gets needy for you to simply ride/warm him

Origins is all about praise, about making you feel good at all times. He’s a sweet sweet lover boy. He’s probably the most likely to fuck the gentlest in all honesty. He’s allll about the slow intimate sex, keeping eachother closer than close in bed. Def more on the love maker spectrum than rougher fucking but he is capable if it’s what you need from him orrrr when/if he’s jealous- Also probably the best when it comes to mutual masterbation/clit play. This Logan is boyfriend, this Logan is husband.

[c1eepypas1a]

┌── ˚*❀*̥˚ ─── ˚*̥❀*˚ ──┐

✐ᝰ bluemerakis

┗━━• ❃ ° •° ❀ °• ° ❃ •━━┛

❝ feelin’ fuckin’ fantastic ❞

⤷ Part 1/2

⤷ Word count: 6.8k

[18+ ONLY!!]

═════════════════

PAIRING:

S3!Soldier Boy x fem!reader

WARNINGS:

Cussing, angst, masturbation m receiving, let me know if I’ve forgotten any!

SYNOPSIS:

After the love of your life—Soldier Boy—is kidnapped by the Russians, you strike a deal to work under them as a Scientist so that you could keep tabs on your boyfriend.

Over the years, you managed to make modifications to Compound V as per the Russians’ orders, so that Soldier Boy could receive the treatments and be remade in a far greater image than any other living Supe—a biological weapon.

But it all comes to and end when you make contact with a strange group and conspire to get yourself and Soldier Boy out of dodge.

═════════════════

“He’s ready for you.”

Those very words crept past the nape of your neck to caress your ear as a warm breath, yet you felt the way it instilled chills down the expanse of your spine, whisking your attention away from one of the lab assistants you’d been checking stock with. You placed an apologetic hand on her shoulder, braving a thin-lipped smile as you excused yourself and handed her the clipboard of listed supplies.

“Take care of that for me, will you?” You murmured kindly, to which the assistant relieved you of the board with a meek of course, and you thanked her hastily before sending her on her way.

Turning to face the bearer of bad news, you were confronted by the guard you’d tasked with pulling Soldier Boy from his induced coma. Immediately, your attention snagged onto the faint trail of blood smudged above the curve of his upper-lip. It formed an incomplete line that told you he’d attempted to obliterate the evidence of his known temper with a hasty swipe of his thumb—but more so, it told you that Soldier Boy was in one of his fouler moods today.

The Supe was quite physically capable of inflicting more damage whenever he pleased, but his compulsive urge to do so only surfaced on his worser days—which seemed to be growing more frequent.

All courtesy of the godsent fucking side effects of induced sleep.

The technology was still so new despite being in use for these last couple of years, and hence you hadn’t been able to successfully map out any tangible links between behavioural alterations and manual arousal of the brain—you only knew that it happened. The how was as good a guess as anybody’s.

“Trouble?” you asked the guard pointedly, the hand at your side making a subconscious reach for your lab coat as you throttled the white material in anticipation.

You didn’t know why you still bothered to ask, really, when the answer to that singular question had always been the same. You couldn’t have Soldier Boy without the trouble. They were the sort of two-for-one special that you couldn’t have said no to—but at what cost?

The guard rolled his shoulders with a husk of embarrassment as he spoke, drawing your attention back to him. “You know the prick,” he grumbled, averting his gaze to acquaint every aspect of the hallway other than your own expectant stare. “He’s on some of the crazy shit today. . . jumped me and decided to lay one on me after we put him in the room—but don’t worry, I put him in his place.”

“Uh huh,” you murmured distractedly, your attention slipping past his figure to tune into the door that loomed like a menacing figure at the end of the facility’s pristine hallway.

The reinforced steel frame adorned with high-tech locks all along the perimeter could identify itself as Soldier Boy’s door—because who else could possibly warrant such caution within this secret facility?

Truthfully, you’d allowed the guard’s explanation to slip through your care entirely. You had bigger things on your mind—for one, what sort of greeting you could expect from Soldier Boy this time around. The induced sleep has been rough on his brain. It made him feral at times—made him blindly lash out like a rabid animal of prey. And he wasn’t notorious for restraint, either—god forbid or you’d have never had to expel the name Herogasm from your waking mind.

“If you’ll excuse me.” You brushed past the guard to put an end to the suspense you felt inevitably building at the idea of seeing Soldier Boy again—after all this time. Your fingertips seemed to tremble in solidarity.

“I’ll come with you,” the guard insisted, and the unpleasant screech of his heavy duty boots followed shortly after as he pivoted on his heels to follow.

“No, I’m going in alone,” you called over your shoulder without so much as a glance to spare.

“Well, be careful!” the guard called to the back of your rushing figure. “He’s wilder today—not using a single goddamn braincell!”

Seems to be the common trend around here, you thought, birthing a mental scoff. Men. The last thing you needed was to add another twig to the fire by bringing along the guard Soldier Boy had already popped one on. He’d gone easy on the guard, you knew him well enough to deduce that, but it also meant that the flimsy punch responsible for the bloodstain above that guard’s lip was merely a promise for a truer beating somewhere down the line. That time would not be now—not if you could help it.

You hurled a dismissive hand over your shoulder that told the guard not to worry—a feat to brush aside his concerns, but also to hopefully coerce away yours. If you wanted to feel braver, maybe a good place to start would be to act as though there was no reason to feel scared.

Would Soldier Boy hurt you?

You couldn’t help but lift a hand to ghost across your neck for a few seconds before lowering your hand back to your side.

The door that would give sure way to that nagging question seemed to grow with each passing second as you closed in on it, and when you came face to face with the worn, thick steel, the breath in your chest stilled. Your gaze lowered along the various locks, which had been left unlatched—not a bad finding, surely, if it meant he was tame enough to temporarily forsake the extra security. That thought gave permission to your lungs to breathe as per usual.

But when you really tried to listen, head slightly turning to tune in your hearing, you could make out a cluster of grunting and thudding from beyond the six inches of steel. It wasn’t a finding that eased away the dread your fingertips so insistently clung to—you’d hoped for an entirely different scenario.

Fuck, you cussed internally, taking your lower lip into a frustrated bite, before you decided to push through the anticipative haze by fastening your hand around the door’s handle.

You pushed the door open, your vision bombed by the blaring, overhead lights that beat down on the even whiter room. You’d always thought the room had been purposefully modelled to convey the impression of a void—it was no wonder the test subjects often went insane in here. The room swallowed up your senses for a moment, and you fluttered your eyes in an attempt to adjust to the blinding air before you came to focus on Soldier Boy’s figure in the centre of the stage.

He lay plastered along the length of a reinforced operating table, fist-drawn hands sentenced to his side by thick, steel-linked chains. There were a few sets to match, which secured his torso and legs to the table, intended to immobilise him as best as possible—but Soldier Boy seemed determined to test out the limitations of their purpose as he thrashed vigorously between the fortifying steel, guttural sounds filling the silence of the room.

He only laid the effort to rest when his head lifted from the table with a grunt of effort, and his eyes fell onto your figure. His sudden calmness seemed to ease off the four guards lining the table—their weapons long since drawn as a show of force, and a promise of death, should the subject make a successful escape.

Your airways thinned as you caught Soldier Boy’s stare, the rage that framed his eyes simmering into a semblance of relief as he drank in your presence.

He called your name. Your name.

Your lips parted as a slight breath of disbelief pierced its way through—forced from your lungs by the sudden jolt in your heart.

“Leave us,” you ordered, your attention lingering on the Supe for a few seconds longer before you broke the mental tether to whisk a hard stare across the idling guards. “Now.”

The guards all exchanged a look that seemed to communicate a shared feeling of doubt, but neither of them wore a pair big enough to outwardly criticise your command. So, hesitantly, they holstered their weapons in practiced sequence, then in complete silence, they streamed from the room in an orderly fashion.

The last one to slip past you lingered at your ear only to murmur, “we’ll be outside to intervene if anything goes wrong.”

Don’t bother, is what you wanted to say—you knew just the way to go about handling Soldier Boy. After all, you’d been doing this for years. But you also knew that this was standard protocol set in place to protect any and all employees—especially when said employee was as valuable as you.

So, instead, you turned your chin slightly to offer the guard an acknowledging nod, which allowed him to slink through the doorway and lug the heavy door closed behind him. The mechanism clicked into place, and it echoed brashly between the four walls of this inspired asylum.

You turned your attention back to Solider Boy, who still had his eyes patiently fixed on you. The hands at his sides had stilled completely, and his body had relaxed against the cold steel of the table, but there was still a tension bracketing his jaw that was yet to release, even at the sight of you.

“The hell was it this time, huh?” His sombre voice dampened the hollow air—you’d almost forgotten how profound the rumble in his throat was, and it tickled your senses in all the right ways. “Three, four months? A year?” He seethed, the muscles of his jaw faltering with great restraint.

“Six months,” you told him levelly, chin lifting slightly as you endured the brunt of the guilt that was evoked under his resentful glare.

You didn’t hold any joy for this procedure—pulling him in and out of an induced sleep throughout the years only to inject him full of experimental compounds that burned him from the inside out. You hated it, almost as much as he did. But that was just the way things had to be—for now, at least. It’s what the Russians had brought you here to do—and funnily enough, it was the only way to keep him safe.

There was a scoff from Soldier Boy, followed by a soft thud as he allowed his head to collapse back onto the metal frame. “Yeah, you’d know. . . fuckin’ stewardess on the sidelines, draped in that goddamn lab coat while they pluck your guinea pig from the greatest fuckin’ nap of his life.”

You let loose a light huff at that, the trembling in your fingertips beginning to slip away at last. “Yeah?” You began moving off to the side of the room where various tables lined the walls, coming to a stop at the nearest one. It was adorned with nothing but a black, sealable case with a label signed sample 246. Your own handwriting.

“And what’d you dream about?” You asked, reaching to unclip the case before lifting up the top compartment to reveal what horrors lay inside.

“You.”

Your hands faltered on the case, your chin slightly buckling to take in the view of the table as that singular word bounced about the dark corners of your mind. Suddenly, your breathing sounded a lot louder in your ears, and you managed to catch a slight hitch in your airways.

“What about me?” You pushed on almost timidly—dreading the honest answer to such an open-ended question.

Throughout the years spent in this facility, there were various versions of yourself that you could recall—creatures you’d become in order to endure and survive the brutalities of your work under the Russians. None of those versions had a commendable reputation—not one of them. And that scared you—the thought that Soldier Boy had come to meet so many of those prior versions, and that he might’ve forgotten the one he’d fallen in love with all those years ago. If you were put in front of the mirror, you couldn’t honestly say that you’d recognise yourself, either.

There was a pause from Soldier Boy, and the silence was so loud that your ears began to ring. “Don’t play stupid with me,” he said at last, coupled by the soft clinking of chains against the table.

Instinctively, you glanced over your shoulder with an undertone of panic. But when you took in the view of him, he was still cemented in the same position, and his head was already turned toward you—likely to prowl after your every move like a waiting predator.

“Yeah, that’s right, look at me,” he grinned, but the gesture was ingenuine, and it was plucked from his lips quicker than you could blink it away.

“It’s the same dream, every fuckin’ time,” he continued. “Birdsong, all around—god, the fuckers never stick their beaks in the bark. . . Anyways, there’s sun streaming in through the windows. And there you are, in my bed, a mewling mess between the sheets with not an inch of modesty anywhere on that fine body of yours. I’ve got you pinned, and I mean really pinned between the sheets—skin’s fuckin’ bruising—and instead of pleading for some sort of release, you’re telling me you love me. Pretty sure I remember the feeling of my ballsack puckering up at that.”

A smile crept its way back onto Soldier Boy’s lips as his gaze raked over your stunted expression, and this time, it was founded on blatant curiosity.

“You look surprised,” he remarked, and there was a lot of room for him to poke at any aspect of your reaction, but he held onto his tongue with a practiced calmness. You couldn’t help but feel as though he had some unspoken motive.

You drew in a steadying breath, fighting to control the influx of mental pictures that his dream seemed to coerce into your brain. But it was hard to deny something its rightful place, especially when said dream of his was not a dream at all, but a memory.

Slowly, you turned your head back to the case at hand, focus falling onto the singular needle cushioned within a foam imprint. With one hand, you reached to free the needle, and with the other, you clicked the the case closed again.

“I am surprised,” you admitted, bringing the needle up to your eye line as you studied the blue serum behind the glass.

“Do tell.”

You waited and watched as a bubble soared through the compound to cling to the uppermost point of the vile, then you flicked your finger across the glass to dissipate its fragile skeleton. You lowered the needle and turned to face Soldier Boy, who entertained a mildly curious look on his features.

“This sleep you’ve been under, it’s not exactly. . . well-understood. We’ve hit a few bumps in the road. The worst of the effects has to do with the patient’s cognitive function.”

He scoffed. “What, you mean to tell me I’m goin’ dumb?”

“No,” you answered carefully, taking a few steps toward the table. “It’s your memory. There were times after we’ve woken you where you failed the standard procedure questionnaire—things about your life. . . thing’s that you’ve answered a hundred times before. You should know it all by now—it’s really just there as a sanity ritual. But, like I said, there were times you’ve failed it, and it doesn’t always happen, but it’s becoming more frequent.”

You stopped before the table with a few inches of space to spare, noting the way the confusion on Soldier Boy’s face seemed to deepen with each passing second that you spoke.

“There’s some retrograde effect to it, though,” you continued. “Sometimes, you wake up in a fit state. You’re calm, and you’ve got a memory as best as it’s ever been. . .” You trailed into uncertainty, feeling at war with your role in his current memories.

You knew perfectly well where you stood with him, but you wanted to—needed to know what version of you currently stood with him, and that all banked on just how much his drug-addled brain remembered this time around—details of his life before the sleeping tank, about his purpose, and about his relationship with you.

His brows furrowed as he gazed up at you. “And the other times?” He prompted you to continue.

You cleared your throat self-consciously, your eyes wandering down to the hands chained at his side. “Well, the other times, you wake up explosively, blindly dealing fists faster than the guards can reach for their weapons. You even managed to kill a guard, once.”

“Badass,” he chuckled smoothly, deeply—the familiarity of it tugged at the fibres of your heart. “But don’t you get any ideas about what today’s little skirmish was all about.”

Those words caught you off guard. You tore your gaze away from his knuckles, brows kneading together as you acquainted the mischievous glint in his eyes—those goddamn eyes. A dick move from heaven to give him a feature as beautifully persuasive as that. You couldn’t help but drown in their green depths whenever he sentenced you to a hearty stare, and it’s an ocean you’d never need, nor want rescuing from.

“What’re you on about?” You asked.

“Don’t tell me you weren’t thinkin’ about that guard I fisted back there.” He lifted his first from the table to make a commotion that aided his words. “He tell ya I went berserk on him, hm?”

The hum in his voice sent a barely perceptible shiver down your neck, and it pulled forward a sudden memory of his frame pressed up against your back—broad, bare chest cushioning your exposed shoulder blades as he sank you deeper into the mattress with each, drilling movement of his pelvis into yours. His lips would find your ear, murmuring endearing words of encouragement to spur you on, doing so good for me, sweet girl—my sweet girl, and he’d hum ever so sweetly at the sound of your rapid undoing.

You pushed the memory away, reinforcing the grip on the needle that had begun to slip under your frail focus.

“He said you were a hassle, that’s all,” you told Soldier Boy. “And that he put you in your place.”

He gave a scoff the most scornful you’ve heard thus far. “Please, dickhead’s got the swing of ninny. Didn’t even leave a scratch. I, on the other hand, gave him the slightest taste of my dick with that punch—and I’ll tell ya, I knew damn well what I was doing for every glorious second of it. It wasn’t the goddamn drugs pumped into me.”

A hopeful spark lit up in your chest as you slowly began to confirm the parameters of his mental state, and you felt eager to ask him just how much he remembered this time around, but you fought to compose yourself. Instead, you asked, “did you pass the questionnaire?”

Soldier Boy held your stare with an almost devilish glint to his eye. “Cum laude,” he said.

You couldn’t help but let slip a breath of a relieved chuckle, but Soldier Boy’s charm sobered up pretty quickly as he forged a more serious look. His eyes wandered down to the needle in your hand, which he acknowledged for the first time since you’d pulled it out.

“This the part where you stick it in me?” He caught himself with a sultry chuckle, his eyes fluttering closed as he turned his head to face the ceiling again. “Never thought I’d hear those words outta my own mouth, that’s usually your line.”

Heat momentarily flushed your cheeks at that comment, but you pushed it away and lowered your gaze to the needle in grasp, a heavy sense of regret coupling your words as you pushed out a soft, “I’m sorry.”

“Well, what’s it gonna be this time ‘round? Burnin’ me blind? Cramps that feel like a fuckin’ mole trying to explode from my stomach? A full body burn-up and debilitating seizures seem to be a favourite.”

You listened to him with a guilt in your heart that had long since hollowed out much of your chest—there was not much else to feel in all the time between his ritualistic awakenings. “I’m sorry, Ben,” you told him again, only because you were unsure of what else you could be saying.

You let slip a heavy sigh of defeat at the circumstances, before you seized up on the name you’d accidentally let slip. You tore your gaze away from the needle to glance at Soldier Boy with slight anticipation, but he only turned to stare at you with a quieted expression. The use of his real name didn’t seem to come as any unfamiliar shock, and that gave you some solace on the mental debate of how much he remembered about your relationship.

He gave a small jerk of his chin. “Come on, then, do your thing and get it over with. Don’t care for all the fuckin’ edging.”

You closed in on the last of the space separating your bodies, and you took the time to observe the clean pair of scrubs he wore this time around, as well as the gentle whiff of scentless soap radiating from his skin. They made a habit of washing him shortly after pulling him from sleep, usually once the questionnaire was completed. As much as they considered his bodily hygiene, you only wished they’d taken it a step further to address the growing beanstalk of a beard plastered to his chin—not his best look by far, but it was something you could work with.

You reached out your free hand to hover over his arm, eyes trailing up to his. He watched you closely, intensely, with an emotion not quite decodable by your means. “I’m going to inject it into your arm,” you warned him.

“And take your damn time with it, apparently,” he said, lifting his arm to cover what little distance he could manage before the chains reinforced their hold.

You turned your eyes onto his presented arm, and hesitantly, you reached to snake your hand under his elbow. His skin felt so warm against you—it was comforting.

“In these six months you’ve been asleep, I tried my best to modify the compound to have as little side effects as possible. I’ve tested it on the animal subjects, and at most, they showed an elevated body temperature.”

“Yeah, well, let’s just see how much my primal DNA counts in my favour,” he scoffed as he watched you at work, but never once did that look in his eyes waver.

Your lips tackled silence as you focused on the task of inserting the needle. You didn’t have to do much searching to choose the vein to victimise—the vessels were quite open to appreciation along the length of his arm. You lifted the needle toward your vein of choice and slowly inserted it through the skin. Carefully, you began to press down on the plunger, watching as the contents streamed from the vile and into the vessel streaming beneath the skin.

Ben sucked air through his teeth, which snapped your attention to his face. His eyes were screwed shut, his teeth displayed in a clench as his head borrowed back slightly further into the table.

“Are you okay?” You asked him.

“Feelin’ fuckin’ fantastic,” he pushed out sarcastically, the squeeze of his eyes yet to let up.

“Good to know,” you muttered with a brief, dismissive flick of your eyes before you focused on the needle once more.

With the last of the contents emptied, you carefully released the hold on his elbow to draw a swab of cotton from your coat. You pressed the material over the insertion point of the needle and applied a light pressure before you began withdrawing the steel length from his skin.

You set the needle onto the table beside his arm and retrieved a plaster from your pocket, and after removing the paper film, you secured the cotton against his skin. You reclaimed the needle and briefly left Ben’s side to place it back into the case before you returned to monitor his vitals.

“Do you feel any different?” You asked, coming to stand beside his arm.

“I’m hot as fuck and more sober than I’d like to be,” he answered wryly.

You were tempted to be snarky, but then you realised that compared to his usual state—the one you’d often come to find him in back in his prime days—this very well could be considered a difference of note.

There was a silence that carried out for a few minutes as you stood waiting to observe any worrisome changes, and it was never uncomfortable—not with him, but Ben eventually put an end to it.

“You know,” he began, a singular brow slightly cocked with curiosity. “You didn’t ask why I punched that dickhead asshole back there. I mean, we’ve established that my brain’s pretty much like that . . . what’s his name? The dude was born somewhere after me, smart as fuck—Stephenson fuckin’ somethin’—anyway, who gives a fuck? I got all my shit in one place, I’m not a goddamn freak show of flying fists, so ain’t ya the least bit curious about it?”

You glanced at him with a hint of surprise. “It’s not exactly off-brand for you to go around punching people, even on your good days,” you pointed out with a hint of amusement.

He rocked his head side to side in a gesture of acceptance. “Eh, fair enough. But I’ll tell ya,” he said.

You watched him closely, a soft smile on your lips. It felt good to talk to him normally. You’d missed this dearly. “I’m listening.”

“The fucker made a jab at me about you, said he’s been keeping one hand in your panties since they put me under—takin’ sweet care of you all the while. So I gave him a light face fuck, the only action he’s ever gotten, and I’d have done a whole lot more had the four assholes out there not strapped me down like some kinky bondage plaything.”

Your heart fluttered at the idea that he’d gotten so protective over you. But you barely had time to process the emotion before he continued.

“He ever touch you?” Ben’s stare was hard, but despite the soldier act, you caught the way his eyes briefly flickered down to your lips.

“No,” you answered instantly, bristling slightly at his nerve to ask. “Never. He’s all talk, no show, and even if he had something to show for it, I can handle my own.”

Am impressed smirk stretched Ben’s lips. “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled. “And I always did love that about you.”

Those words paved way for the question you’d been itching to ask since the beginning. You dropped your gaze to your hands, planted against the table beside his.

“Ben,” you began softly. He gave a deep hum of acknowledgment. “Just how much do you remember about me?”

There were a few uncaptioned moments of silence, and you almost wished you could see his face to decipher his thoughts, but some other emotion kept your eyes glued to veins of his arm.

“Everything,” he answered at last. “Every damn thing.”

You glanced at him, feeling a mixture of surprise and relief at that confession, and released a long sigh. “You have no idea how relieved that makes me feel.”

Ben held your stare intently, his eyes softening a fraction. “Those times you said my memory got fucked. . . did I forget you?”

You nodded hesitantly and saw the slight ghost of disbelief whisk across his eyes, which caused your heart to ache with the less fond memories between the two of you.

The first time it’d happened was twelve years ago. You’d been right beside the pod they’d pulled him from, and in the midst of his confusion and blind rage, he’d grabbed ahold of you at the neck—another strange face, nobody of any significance to him. Just another damned Russian. You’d been strangled in his grasp for quite a while; the guards coming to your aid were unable to pry his hands from your windpipes in time to escape a blackout.

You’d woken up a day later with severe bruising to your neck and collar bone, and the only news that could’ve been considered good was the fact that you were lucky enough to escape his rage alive. The force with which you were choked should have killed you, you knew that. The only reason you’d survived is because you, yourself, were a Supe.

You’d met Ben back in his prime, before the team had staged the coup that had landed him here. When he was taken by the Russians and betrayed by everybody around him, you’d struck a deal with the higher-ups to get a foot on the inside of the entire operation. Under them, you worked as a scientist to formulate compounds that would enhance Ben to the level that the Russians needed him at.

The first time Ben saw you walk into the medical room, he’d nearly imploded with relief, panic and betrayal all at once, but you’d never let on your relationship with him to anybody within the operation. So to any outside onlooker, you two were strangers to one another, only connected by the duty of the experimenter and her experiment.

It was crucial to keep things that way, especially when you’d been in the company of some of the Russian generals who wanted to witness the first experimental injection on Ben firsthand. Upon his recognition of you, you had to convince everybody that he was undergoing an episode of psychosis—formulating a romantic relationship between the two of you that had never existed in the first place. You had blamed it on the effects of the induced coma, and it had easily passed as an excuse due to the little knowledge possessed on its side effects at the time. Granted, not much progress was made in that field even in this current day and age.

Eventually, when you’d managed to gain enough reputation to demand treatment sessions alone with Ben, you’d gotten the opportunity to explain everything. He had little to be happy about, given that everybody he once trusted had betrayed him in a blink, and the one person he had left to cherish and love was currently pumping him with unreliable modifications of Compound V.

But with time, he’d come to accept it.

You weren’t proud of it. And in the moments that Ben would awaken only to forget you, he’d made sure to toss out every vile insult and cuss word he could each time you slid that needle into his arm, which only only broke your heart further. But it was the price to pay to ensure nothing worse would happen to him.

The only barrier that had been set between him and a fate worse off, was you, and that’s a fact you’d tried hard to remind yourself of in all the passing years you’d spent drowning in guilt for your sins. But even then, it never made enduring his mind-swept states easier, and especially not when he looked at you with such hatred solidified in his gaze that it became all you could think about.

You came back to the present when Ben’s hand struggled through the restraints to graze your fingers. You flinched at the touch, at first, but it wasn’t long before your hand relaxed within his hold. So warm, so gentle, even considering all that he’s been through. It was comforting to know just how human he still was.

“Untie me,” he said, and you opened your mouth to argue before he cut you off with a feat of reassurance. “I feel fine. It’s been a good couple of minutes, and nothin’s happened. Don’t ya trust me?”

You tilted your head slightly at him. “You know I do,” you murmured, your hand tightening within his. “But Ben, there’s something el—”

“Untie me first, then tell me about all the shit I’ve got coming for me,” he insisted.

Your eyes scanned the room self-consciously, picking out the two corners that had cameras mounted to their wall. “You know they’re watching us,” you told him. “Our every move.”

“Yeah, fuck those fuckers,” he sniffed, following your gaze to do his own quick sweep of the room. “Fuckin’ assholes!” He called aloud, and you tightened your hand in his as a warning. He glanced back at you with a slight scoff. “What? They’ve seen my bare balls and ass, shit they’ve even stroked it. They know damn well how I feel about them.”

“Don’t provoke them,” you told him, and he flashed you a look that screamed bet, though he chose to resort to his best behaviour as he clamped down on his tongue. “I can’t take your chains off, they’ll storm the place the moment I do. I’m sorry.”

Ben held your gaze for a moment as he considered the circumstances, then his attention slid past you and lifted to the ceiling above your head.

You turned your head to follow his gaze. “What?” You asked, turning back to him with curiosity.

“Every time they roll me in and outta this room, I get a glimpse of the security room,” he said in a low murmur, raw emphasis on keeping his words out the enemy’s ears. “There’s two cameras in this room. One behind ya—“ he made a gesture with a flick of his eyes, “—and one behind me in the opposite corner. And it’s my lucky fuckin’ day, cause the camera behind me’s busted.”

You frowned as he spoke. “And what favours has that got to offer you?” You asked.

Ben seemed content to explain. “Camera behind you’s the only one still workin’. But your body—god bless it in its fuckin’ entirety—is blocking their dandy view of my dick.”

You listened carefully, the crease in your brow beginning to loosen at the understanding of where he was headed. “Absolutely not,” you scolded him, a dumbstruck smile poking through.

“Oh, come on,” Ben drawled. “Why the fuck not? I’ve been all pressed up in that sweaty fuckin’ tank for weeks, months, years on end and every time my eyes close, I get that goddamn dream of you and I, hittin’ pound town like there’s no fucking tomorrow—shit, and I mean no tomorrow. Seriously, all day, all night-“

“All right, all right,” you cut him short, heat beginning to flush into your cheeks.

“Now, it’s not gonna be a recreation of that sweet, sweet day,” Ben said regretfully. “But if you could give a man a taste of relief by using that hand for somethin’ other than sticking a needle in my arm, I will fuck you senseless as a reward as soon as I’m freed the fuck outta these chains—you just gimme a time and place. That sound like a plan, baby?”

You couldn’t deny the hot burn that jolted it’s way into your core at the sound of that promise, but you pushed it aside to address the other issue you hadn’t yet been given the chance to voice.

“It’s a date, Ben, but you need to listen to me about that something else,” you told him, releasing his hand.

Ben puckered his lips as he coaxed forward a shushing noise, jerking his chin toward his hard on. He didn’t often need a lot of pampering to erect his dick—the bloody thing could get off on the scent of your perfume alone.

With a frustrated sigh, you tossed a quick glance over your shoulder, glimpsing the camera that had been peering over your shoulder since you’d set foot in here. You saw it blinking with a red light at its centre, the dead giveaway of recording. You then turned to look at the opposite camera, and it didn’t hold the same red dot in its core, which meant that Ben was indeed right.

Of course he was.

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes, Ben,” you muttered in disbelief, tensely, guiding the hand that had held his only seconds ago toward the bulge in his pants, simultaneously shifting your body to shield the scene more firmly. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Try not to make it too obvious,” Ben advised smugly, his eyes dipping to where your hand slipped under the flimsy waistband of his scrub pants.

“Shut up.” You were immediately greeted by his firm hard-on, not having any underwear beneath the scrubs. It felt warm and swollen against your palm, and when you passed a curious thumb over his tip, you felt the damp kiss of his pre-cum.

“Yeah, he’s a little excited—you felt it, get a move on,” he ordered impatiently.

You’d forgotten just how much of a curt dick he could be when it came to anything remotely sexual.

You wrapped your fingers around his length, your thumb gathering all tangible pre-cum to spread it along the head before you began to pump him with slow, fluid strokes.

Ben’s head collapsed back onto the table, his mouth falling slightly ajar with breathy grunts of pleasure.

“I need to make it less obvious?” You sniped in a harsh, low tone. “How about you?”

“Fuck,” Ben spat, lifting his head with what looked like great effort to face you. “Forgot just how good you feel, you’ll forgive a man for being expressive.”

Your heart fluttered at his compliment, and you tightened your hold on his girth to applaud his behaviour. “Keep on talking to me,” you said. “Make it look like we’re having a conversation.”

“Yeah. . .” Ben stammered distractedly, a clear indication that he was struggling to multitask.

“Oh, for fuck’s sakes,” you muttered under your breath, picking up the pace of your strokes. You made sure to come down on his balls with considerable force to add to the stimulation, and he let slip a strangled, gruff moan that caused your core to ignite its own fire.

“Atta girl, pumping it almost as well as your pussy does,” he praised breathlessly as he struggled against his restrains with a frustrated grunt. “These fucking things. . .” He trailed off and met your gaze. “What was it you wanted to say?” He asked, his chest beginning to heave more rapidly now.

You were doubtful that you had his full ear to unload the importance of what you were about to say onto him, but you decided to spill that can anyways, making sure to keep up the pace of your strokes.

“This is the last injection you’ll ever have to get, Ben,” you told him softly. Ben’s sex-addled haze sobered up real quickly at that, his eyes now fully focused onto your face.

“The fuck you on about?” He asked.

“Tonight, you’re getting out,” you told him, feeling as the heat around his length began to build with each continued stroke. You could see Ben strain with the movements, wanting desperately to reach his release while trying to focus on your words. “I made contact with this group, they’ve been looking for you for a while—followed your trail all the way out here. You wanna know what the Russians intended to use you for? Well, Turns out, you’re the one strongest biological weapon that planet earth has to offer.”

His eyes widened briefly at that before screwing shut as his head collapsed back onto the table, and then you felt him implode, his warm seed trailing down your hand. You gave a few more slow pumps to urge the last of it out, and then gently released his manhood and discretely pulled your hand from his pants.

“Feel better now?” You asked, bringing your hand to wipe his juices onto your coat.

Ben lifted his head just in time to catch that act, which caused him to grunt in disappointment.

“Do it right next time,” he scolded you. “You know you love the taste of it.”

You did, but this wasn’t exactly the time or place for you to express that particular savoury tooth. “Listen,” you continued the earlier conversation. “This group, they need you, and come tonight, they’ll break you out of that fucking tank you’ve been stuck in all these years.”

Ben’s expression seemed to knead both relief and anticipation as he considered your words. “Where will you be?” He asked earnestly. “I’m not leaving without you.”

You took his hand into your own, and he squeezed it tightly. “You won’t,” you assured him. “I’ll be right there beside you when you wake up. But for now, you’ve got to go along with everything—act normal, like it’s any other day.”

Ben nodded slowly, the most docile and compliant you’d ever seen him. “These people . . . how much do you know about ‘em?”

You shook your head slightly. “Not a lot,” you admitted. “But enough to know they’re the lesser evil. They get us out of here, you do what you need to do, and then we run.”

“Yeah, fuck it, I’ve had worse odds,” he decided, something which you could contest to. “This group, do they have a name?”

“Yeah,” you said, recalling the blatant stupidity of it. “They call themselves The Boys.”

═════════════════

A/n: Man, this was pumped out of me at 3 am because my biological urges just decided to go full-blown FUCK YEAH for Jensen Ackles. Arg I NEED him. Anyways, stay tuned for part 2 with all the delicious smut. Thank you for reading! All likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀི

Tags: @gibson-g1rl @fallbhind

Comment/message me to be added to/removed from the tag list for any future Soldier Boy works!

Other works: The Boys Masterlist

[c1eepypas1a]

Sam Winchester As A Sub

Sam enjoys having his hair pulled.

Sam enjoys getting head pats as rewards.

Sam enjoys when you tease and edge his cock.

Sam moans, whines, and whimpers.

He enjoys being praised, especially when you call him a "good boy."

Sam is super needy.

He loves it when you call him his pretty boy.

Sam humps the bed when he eats you out.

He's always begging to taste you.

Sam likes to be pegged.

Sam is highly obedient and will do whatever you tell him.

kisses you after giving him a blowjob.

Sam loves it when you're riding him and place your hand around his neck, lightly choking him.

Sam calls you ma'am or mommy.

[c1eepypas1a]

And I'm obsessed

what's my flavor?

pairing: sam winchester x reader

content: EXPLICIT 18+, oral (fem!receiving), vampire!sam, blood drinking, bloodplay (surprisingly little though tbh), fem!reader (afab anatomy + the word girl used in reference like three times or so), feeding being explicitly referred to as similar to drugs/getting high, mentions of serious illness (made up for plot reasons but still)

word count: 10.5K

summary: Working your way through college, you find a secretary job with great pay and more than enough downtime on the clock to get your coursework done. The only downside is that it leaves you with no choice but to attend night classes. But it's not so bad, especially with Mysterious Hot Guy attending them as well. Oh, and there's been blood bags going missing, but you're pretty sure that's not going to be relevant to your life any time soon.

notes: this was supposed to be pwp. it was also supposed to be posted on halloween. clearly, neither of those things happened. but fuck it, we ball.

crossposted on ao3

You don’t understand how anyone could get through college without a job. You hear about people surviving off scholarships all the time, and you try your first year, you really do. But, God, something has to change. You can’t imagine working your way through school could be any more stressful than the budgeting, and the skipping meals, and the cards declining at the grocery store. 

So you get a job. A good one, too; a secretary job at an office ten minutes away from your apartment, and only twenty minutes away from campus. The job is easy, with plenty of downtime for you to work on your coursework, and the pay is good. Better than good, even. The only problem is the hours; 9-5 is great, generally, but not very convenient when setting up a college schedule. You’re relegated almost exclusively to night classes. Which is fine. Not ideal, but fine. 

You take four classes, two a night, and it leaves your Fridays wide open after work. It would truly be a perfect schedule if it didn’t mean you were on campus until 11 o’clock most nights. But the classes are relatively empty and none of your professors are total hardasses, so it’s not so bad. Actually, you start to really enjoy it. 

You make a little game out of studying the other students, trying to figure them out. The woman who sits in front of you in your statistics class is a stay-at-home mom, you think. The older man a few rows down in english is retired military. It’s interesting, and it gives you a reason to actually make it to class everyday. Well, that and Mysterious Hot Guy. 

Mysterious Hot Guy (or MHG, for short) is in two of your classes: your 6 o’clock political science class on Mondays and Wednesdays sitting a row down from you, and sitting beside you in your 8:30 biology class on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He first caught your eye because, frankly, he looks more like he should be on a movie set than night classes at a dinky community college. He’s drop dead gorgeous, and that’s putting it lightly. Even so, that’s not what has you so intrigued. Something about him is off somehow, strange in such a way that it has you completely captivated. Alluring in a way you can’t quite put your finger on, even outside his appearance. 

MHG hardly ever speaks. You’re pretty sure he’s only said one word to you the entire four weeks of the semester so far, and he sits literally a foot away from you every other day. He’s also, apparently, a genius. He never takes notes, never writes a single thing down, he never asks questions and never answers them either, for that matter. Still, you happened to catch a glimpse of his grade on the test your biology professor handed back last week, and he got a perfect score. 

He also doesn’t have a car. Or, rather, he doesn’t have a car of his own. Every Tuesday and Thursday as you’re walking back to your own car at almost 11 PM, he’s climbing into the passenger seat of an absolutely gorgeous vintage Chevrolet Impala that makes you simultaneously green with envy and desperate for him to push you up against the side of it. Or push you down against the backseat. Or the front seat, which you find out is a bench seat after some minor googling. Car like that, you’re not exactly gonna be picky about where. 

Still, even after all your observing, you don’t learn a single useful piece of information about MHG until six weeks into the semester—two weeks out from midterms—when your biology professor announces that you will be choosing your partners for the midterm project. You barely even let the words leave his mouth before you’re turning to your right, pouncing with what you hope is a normal amount of enthusiasm, although you’re so damn intrigued by this guy that all you can do is pray you don’t come across as a total stalker. “Hey. Would you wanna partner up?” 

MHG turns to you, his eyes wide in a way that leaves you a lot less hopeful about how normal your greeting was. “Uh. Me?” he asks, and his voice is…warm in a way you weren’t expecting. He could do audiobooks, or a podcast, or something—he has a nice voice is what you’re getting at.

You laugh. You’re almost a little starstruck—it makes sense; you’ve definitely turned this guy into your own personal celebrity. “Who else?” you respond, holding out your hand for him to shake. “I’m ____.” 

He eyes you for a moment before he clasps your hand and gives it a shake. Jesus, this guy must have anemia or something because his hand is fucking freezing. “Sam. Uh, Winchester. Sam Winchester.” His touch lingers for a moment before he tugs his hand back. “And…yeah. Yeah, we can…partner up.” 

Sam Winchester. Finally, a name to put to the face. No more thinking of him as Mysterious Hot Guy for you; you and MHG are on a first name basis now. “Awesome,” you say softly, and you really, desperately hope your smile looks less manic than it feels. “So. Sam. Would you mind giving me your number or something so we can set up a time and place to meet up?” 

He hesitates, but he does scribble a number down on the corner of his empty notebook page. “I, uh. I can’t do…daytime,” he tells you as he slides it over. 

Okay. Weird way to phrase that, but you assume he’s like you, he works during the day or something. So you shrug and take the proffered paper. “Me neither. I have work.” You pinch it between your fingers with a grin. “We’ll make it work.” 

He smiles at you, a shy sort of thing that makes your chest ache to draw out more. “Yeah. Okay.” 

You plug the number in your phone almost as soon as you get home, but it takes you almost an hour to actually text him. You go through probably a hundred different drafts before you finally land on: ‘hey!! it’s ____. does friday work for you? my only day without classes lol’ 

Once you press send, you figure you’ll probably have at least five minutes to freak out and overthink. Sam doesn’t really seem the type to be glued to his phone. Which is why, you suppose, that you nearly have a heart attack when your phone buzzes with a response no more than 30 seconds later. ‘Friday works. 7 at the library?’ 

‘see you then :)’ You debate over the smiley face for a solid minute and a half before finally sending it and then violently throwing your phone across the couch and screaming into your throw pillow. 

When you do finally work up the courage to pick your phone up again, he’s sent two texts back. ‘See you then.’ And then another one, a small bubble containing two characters: ‘:)’ Embarrassingly, you giggle alone in your living room. Oh, this guy is going to be the death of you. 

You spend the rest of the night googling Sam Winchester and coming up with absolutely nothing. He seems to have absolutely no social media presence at all, not even an old MySpace or a private Facebook account. The only reference you can find to his name at all has it listed as one of two sons of some random serial killer from, like, the 1800s, which is obviously useless. 

You give up your fruitless search with a sigh, closing your laptop and shoving it aside. Your tv is playing on some local news station—doesn’t matter which one, they’ve all been reporting the same story for weeks. You click it off, 100% disinterested in hearing about the blood bags going missing from local clinics for the millionth time this month. 

You go to bed and dream of brown hair and eyes that you just can’t quite place the color of, but you can swear you see them flash red.

Friday finds you at the library almost a full hour early. You’d agonized over your outfit all day yesterday, and for another half an hour after work to boot. In the end, you’d decided to go casual. After all, it is just a study date—and actually, not a date at all! A study meet-up. A study hangout, at best. The fact that you did your make-up and your hair for it is entirely irrelevant. 

It’s 6:45 when a cough draws your attention up from your phone. Sam is standing in front of you with another one of those shy smiles, and two coffee cups in his hands. Coffee cups from your favorite cafe. He shoves one in your direction. “Uh. I’ve noticed that you have drinks from here pretty often. And- I hope you don’t mind, but I…I read one of the cups? So. This is for you.” 

Your eyes flick over him, your heartbeat practically pounding out of your chest. So he’s been watching you too. Or—Jesus, not watching, that makes it sound creepy. Observing is a better word for it. He noticed a pattern in your coffee cups. He read one to find out what it was you were drinking. “Thanks,” you tell him, taking the cup from his hand. Turning it to read the writing, you find he’d gotten it right. Maybe you should find it creepy, actually. As it is, you’re sort of having a hard time not swooning. You beam at him. “I’ll…have to return the favor.” 

For some reason, that makes Sam laugh as he sits down across from you. “Sure.” He opens his backpack and takes out his laptop. “So, this project.” 

Sam, as it turns out, is a genius. Or at least exceptionally smart. A project that would’ve taken you hours on your own is done in record time with him, which leaves the two of you there at 7:30 with a fully completed midterm project and half-empty coffee cups. You don’t want to leave, and it seems Sam doesn’t either, as he closes his laptop and asks, “Why are you taking night classes?” like he’s really, genuinely curious. 

So you tell him. You tell him about trying to get through college on your own, deciding you needed a full time job, how it’s probably the best job you’ve ever had. You ask him the same question, and he tells you about his brother, who is, apparently, the one who drives that fucking awesome car. He drops Sam off at classes, and pretty much anywhere else he needs to go.

The two of you chat for an hour and a half before Sam gets a text that says his brother is literally going to leave him there if he doesn’t shag ass and get in the car pronto. So Sam walks you out of the library. 

“You know,” you blurt out before you can lose your nerve, “I feel like our classes would be a lot easier if we put our heads together like this. You know, regularly. Like, every Friday, maybe.” 

He ducks his head, smiling that same shy smile he’d had when he gave you the coffee. “Sure. Every Friday. Sounds…helpful.” 

You don’t realize until you get home that he never actually told you why he takes night classes. It turns out to be a pattern for him, as the two of you meet up week after week. You simultaneously feel like you know everything and nothing about him, and every week you like him more and more for it. Well, for that and the coffee that he gets you every time. 

It takes a week before he moves seats in your political science class. The Monday after the second Friday you meet up with him, you almost sit in the wrong seat because you’re so used to him sitting two rows ahead of you. Of course, when you realize what’s happened, Sam’s staring at you with an amused grin on his face, like he’s trying really hard not to laugh at you. So, you decide, you are friends, at least. And as far as friends go, Sam’s a pretty good one.

You and Sam text, constantly. Despite seeming relatively unplugged, he responds to you instantly almost every time. You hate to get your hopes up, but by the time finals roll around, you’re starting to really like him. You’re starting to think he really likes you too. 

He finishes his biology final on the last Thursday of classes long before you, but when you leave the classroom, you see him leaning against the wall, waiting. Again, you don’t want to get your hopes up, but when he lifts his head and sees you approaching him, you swear to God, you see his whole face light up.  He looks a little pale, maybe. But it also might just be the fluorescent lights of the hallway.

“How do you think you did?” he asks, falling into step beside you.

And, you think, it’s now or never, now, isn’t it? Classes are over. You may never see Sam again (although, you like to think the two of you are close enough now that you would at least remain friends outside of having classes together, but still, the sentiment remains). So you change the subject and ask, “Would you wanna get dinner with me on Saturday?” 

He pauses, freezes in place pretty much, and you stop to match him. “Dinner, like…dinner?” he asks, as if that question makes any sense. 

You laugh, a little awkward, and adjust your backpack straps. “Uh, yeah. Like, dinner.” You don’t want to explicitly mention it being a date. You feel like he likes you, you really do, but if you’re wrong…that rejection is going to sting. So you don’t say it, not explicitly. 

But still, Sam’s face lights up with a grin. “Yeah. I’d…really love to get dinner with you, actually. I’ll have to—I’ll text you. But…yes, yeah. I’d love to.” 

You’re pretty sure the smile on your face matches his. “Okay. Then, I’ll see you on Saturday. And you’ll text me.” 

“I’ll text you,” he agrees. 

The two of you linger for a moment before parting, and you have never been more excited to say goodbye to someone in your entire fucking life. 

When you get home, you have a text message. ‘I’ll pick you up. Does 7 work for you?’

You have to take a moment to squeal into your pillow before answering that yes, 7 does work for you, and you’re excited to see him then. And then, as an afterthought, your address.

God, you need to find something to wear.

Saturday comes around, and you’re fully ready by 6. Sam’s almost always shown up early, after all. Your TV plays news footage, stating that the clinics have taken to putting up extra security around their blood banks to no avail. You couldn’t care less, too giddy and girlishly excited to even think about the stolen blood bags. 

6:45 rolls around. Sam isn’t there. That’s…fine. He’s not obligated to show up early. You set up a time to pick you up for a reason, right? There’s no reason for the sinking feeling in your gut. 

7:00. No sign of Sam. But that’s no reason to worry. Maybe he got stuck in traffic. People are late sometimes, and you don’t need to panic just because Sam’s never been late before. 

At 7:30, you shoot Sam a text. ‘are you okay? don’t tell me you forgot about me :( lol’ You don’t get a response. 

You don’t change back into lounge clothes until 8, and you don’t take off your makeup until 8:30, and that’s only because you’re pretty sure you’re about to start crying and ruin it anyway. 

The real kicker is that you thought Sam, at the very least, considered you a friend. Or at least friendly enough to let you down easy rather than agree to a date and then stand you up. Clearly, you severely misread the entire situation. You entirely misunderstood Sam in general, if he’s really the type of person to do this sort of thing. 

Wiping hot tears off your face, you cork open your expensive bottle of wine. Desperate times, right?

Two hours and half a wine bottle later, you’ve swung from devastated to angry. How dare he stand you up? You’re a catch! You’re gorgeous, you’re funny, you’ve ignored all of his weird quirks and red flags, and for what? To cry into a glass or five of overpriced wine on a Saturday night? Screw that. You should call him and give him a piece of your mind.

Or…no, you’re pretty drunk, actually, so you probably shouldn’t call him. But you could text him. Yeah. You fumble for your phone, furiously typing out a text and hitting send without a second thought. ‘if u werent interested in me u cldve just said so. didnt have 2 ghost me’ 

Next thing you know, you’re opening your eyes the next morning with a killer headache, a damn near empty bottle of wine, and no response from Sam. While you’re curled over the toilet, the alcohol isn’t the only thing turning your stomach. There’s a worry brewing there too. 

Because the more you think about it, the more that this really just doesn’t feel like Sam. Now that you’re further out from it, you can acknowledge that much. When you ask yourself if you truly believe that the guy who bought you your favorite drink every time you met up, the guy who remembered every single thing you ever told him, the guy whose face totally lit up when you asked him to dinner—when you ask yourself if that guy would stand you up, you truly, honestly don’t believe he would. So the real question is: why did he?

You fight through the worry until about halfway through your shift on Monday when you realize that with finals over, you have absolutely no idea when, or even if you’ll see Sam again. You call him. It rings all the way through until you get his voicemail, and you wish the sound of his voice could calm you, but it only reminds you that he’s not answering. You don’t leave a message, sending him a text instead. ‘seriously, are you okay? please at least let me know you’re not dead.’ You’re not surprised to find you haven’t gotten a response the next time you check your phone, walking to your car at the end of the day. Desperately, heart-clenchingly worried, but not surprised. 

You open your laptop the second you get home, furiously searching anything you can think of. You search for his name again, hoping to find anything that could point you towards family or friends, to the brother he mentioned. You search local obituaries, John Does, anyone who might even bear the slightest resemblance to Sam, but there’s nothing. Nothing, until you accidentally click on one of the articles about the blood theft. There, in a blurry screenshot of footage from the new security cameras one of the blood banks had installed, you see it. You recognize his brother’s gorgeous fucking car. 

Your eyes go wide. Holy shit, you’ve been flirting with a criminal. You scroll up through the article, reading furiously, but it doesn’t even mention the car, focusing instead on the blurry, shrouded figure entering the doors. Is this why Sam went missing? Laying low until he can be sure no one will connect the footage of the car to him or his brother? Why the fuck is he stealing blood bags in the first place? Needless to say, the discovery leaves you with more questions than it does answers. 

The world, unfortunately, does not stop with this revelation. You go to bed. You get up, you go to work, you come home. You think about Sam. You have no idea what you’re supposed to do in this situation. Should you go to the police? It’s not like he’s killing people but…it’s still illegal to steal blood bags. Also morally wrong, probably. Plus, you now have information that could help forward an ongoing police investigation. You’re not entirely sure what counts as aiding and abetting, but you’re not exactly itching to find out where the line is. 

On the other hand, Sam never seemed particularly…criminal-like to you. Strange, sure, but he was nice. Kind, even. You never in a million years would’ve pegged him as some sort of criminal mastermind. That’s got to count for something. Right? At the very least, you think it allows him the benefit of the doubt. So…late Tuesday night, you send him another text, the last one you’ll ever send him. Probably. ‘hey so keep ignoring me if im wrong but are you the one stealing blood from the clinics?’ 

He doesn’t text you back, and you pretend that means you’re wrong. That you can clear your conscience and go to sleep. That you can go to work and stop worrying about vintage cars in blurry security footage. 

Then the sun goes down on Wednesday, and someone knocks on your door. 

The man on the other side of it is unfamiliar to you. He’s wearing a leather jacket, an amulet hanging off his neck. There’s absolutely no reason you should recognize him as quickly as you do. Except that he has this quality about him, something unreal or maybe inhuman, and you’ve seen it before. You can’t quite tell what color his eyes are.

He smiles at you, and confirms it. “You’re ____, right? Sam’s told me all about you.” This is Sam’s brother, the one with the car. The car that you recognized in the blood bank footage. “I’m Dean. Can I come in?” 

You keep your hand on the edge of the door, ready to slam it in his face if need be. “How’d you get my address?” you ask, instead of answering the question. This man could be dangerous. You trust Sam, mostly, but his brother…that’s a different story.

“Sammy had it. Remember? For your little date.” Dean says, taking a step towards the threshold. You take a step back. “Can I come in now?” 

You ignore the fear raging down your spine, the urge to turn tail and run away. Sam carries himself differently than Dean, presents himself in such a way that instead of cowering away from him, you want to keep looking. His strangeness is intriguing, not off-putting. Dean, though, he takes those same qualities and twists them on their head. Dean looks at you, and your entire body screams Danger! Like he’s some sort of predator. “Why are you here?” 

“Look, I don’t have time for this,” he snaps. He takes another step forward, but stays notably on the other side of the door. Just barely. “Sam needs help. Are you gonna invite me in, or not?” 

He could be lying. He could be manipulating the affection you already have for his brother to get you to let him in so he can off you, maybe the only person who’s connected him to his crimes. But, if that was the case, why wouldn’t he have just forced his way in? And also, why the fuck would he go that far just to cover up some stolen blood bags? “What’s wrong with Sam?” you ask, stepping back from the door to allow him inside. When in Rome, right?

His lips press together, like he’s irritated, though you can’t imagine why. You’re letting him in, which is what he wanted. He stares at you for a moment before sighing, world weary, like he’s holding the weight of a hundred lifetimes of idiocy on his shoulders. Jesus, this guy’s dramatic. “You have to invite me,” he grits out. 

Your confusion only grows, but you oblige anyway. “Okay…come in, then.” 

Dean steps into the apartment almost as soon as you’ve said it, like you’ve only just now opened the door. You back up a few steps further. 

“Just so you know,” you say, standing up taller and trying to act less terrified than you feel, “I have a gun. So don’t- don’t try anything ‘cause I’ll shoot you.” You’re completely bluffing, of course, but there’s no way Dean could know that. 

“No, you don’t,” Dean says, like he definitely knows you were bluffing. Well, great. “Besides, I’m not here to hurt you. My brother needs help, you think I’m gonna kill the only person who can help him?” 

He doesn’t look like he’s lying. Then again, you’re pretty sure this man is a criminal, so maybe he’s just a really good liar. “Yeah, you said that before. If he needs my help so bad, why didn’t he just tell me himself?” It’s not like you slammed the door in Sam’s face and told him to leave you alone. You’ve sent him four texts and a phone call since he dropped off the face of the earth last week. He’s had every opportunity to ask for your help. 

“Cause he’s sick,” Dean tells you. He lifts his hands before he approaches you, like you’re some sort of wild animal that he doesn’t want to spook. Embarrassingly, it works. “Really sick.” 

You shake your head, bemused. “I don’t understand—what does that have to do with me? If he’s sick, he needs a doctor. Not…a random college student.” 

Dean nods. “Yeah, he would. But he’s got…it’s complicated.” He pauses in his approach and nods his head toward you. “Can I come closer, or are you gonna shoot me, tough girl?” 

You roll your eyes, but gesture him closer. “Be my guest, so long as it means you’re gonna tell me something that actually makes sense.” You’re tired of the riddles, frankly. If he doesn’t give you real answers soon, you don’t care how terrifying he is, you’re gonna have to do something drastic.

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, I can see why Sam likes you,” he mutters, shaking his head. “See, me and Sam…we’re not exactly normal. If I took him to a doctor, not only would they not be able to fix him, they’d probably kill him.” He stops beside you, forcing you to look up at him as he speaks. He cuts an intimidating figure, even without the air of a predator about him. You really, really wish you actually owned a gun.

“What do you mean by that?” you ask, voice quiet in the face of this hunter. “That you’re not normal?” 

He grins, big and sharp and toothy. And then his illusion drops. Your eyes seem to fail you, like someone’s dropped the floor out from under you and then told you the floor was never real in the first place. His eyes catch your attention first, blood red and striking. And then, of course, you see his teeth—no, his fangs. Two long, sharp, killer fangs where his canines used to be. “Welcome to the night of the living dead, sweetheart.”

Vampires are real. There’s a monster in your fucking living room. This is crazy. You should be screaming. You should shove this man out the door and lock it behind him and maybe never leave your apartment again. Instead, you blurt out, “So that’s why you were stealing blood bags.” Honestly, a lot of things are starting to make way more sense now. You’re almost embarrassed you didn’t think of it before. 

Dean laughs. “Right on the money.” You flinch as he claps you on the shoulder, and he laughs at you again. 

“So…I’m guessing Sam doesn’t just have a regular old stomach bug, then?” You really feel like you should be having a more extreme reaction to this situation. You just found out that not only are vampires real, but you’ve been actively flirting with one. You think maybe you’re in shock. “This is some sort of weird…vampire virus, or something?” 

“Smart girl,” he says, pointing at you approvingly. “Though it’s not exactly a virus, more like���food poisoning. Actually, we call it blood poisoning. Comes from drinking stale blood—bagged blood, for example—rather than fresh from the source.” 

You frown. “Why drink bagged blood, then, if it makes you sick?” 

“Why do people go vegan even though they need protein?” Dean counters. “Harm reduction. Plus, it doesn’t always make us sick. It’s pretty rare, actually. More common now than, you know, the olden times, but it happened back then too. Storing blood in vials, bottles, anything can make blood go stale, but it means you don’t have to hurt as many people getting it. Some things are worth the risk.” 

That much, at least, you can understand. “So this…this stale blood, whatever—it makes you sick,” you repeat, that same worry for Sam from before roiling in your stomach again. “How sick?” 

Dean grimaces, so whatever it is is clearly not good news. “It can kill us. Pretty easily, too. I have to tell you, I don’t know exactly how it works. Sam’s way better at this sort of thing.” He taps his fingers against your coffee table. “But I do know how to fix it.” 

It’s pretty easy to guess. Dean’s here, despite the fact his brother is apparently dying, and there’s really only one thing you have that they don’t. “He needs blood,” you say quietly, beating Dean to the punch. “Fresh blood.” 

He nods and shoots you a stilted smile. “Quick on the draw, huh?” The two of you stare at each other for a moment before he sighs, shaking his head. “Sam hates what he is. Doesn’t matter that he’ll die without it, he won’t hurt anyone. He just won’t.”

You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly uncomfortable with Dean’s intense stare, like he can see straight into your soul. “So- so, what am I supposed to do about it?” you ask, your shoulders shrugging helplessly. “I’m still a person. I can’t force him to do something he doesn’t want to do.” 

Dean takes a step toward you, and this time you don’t step back or shrink away. He’s dangerous, sure, but not to you. Not as long as you’re the only thing standing between his brother and certain death. “Look, Sam really likes you. If he knew I was here right now, and he wasn’t on his deathbed, he’d kill me. But I just—I’ve tried. It’s been a week, and I’ve tried so hard—” He ducks his head as he cuts off, his jaw working over clenched teeth. “I know that you care about him, right? I mean, I saw the texts; I know—I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t desperate. I can’t just sit around and watch my little brother die. I had to try. I have to try.” 

Seeing him now, you almost can’t believe you were afraid of him. He looks almost terrified himself. And despite the uncertainty you feel, the fear, well…there’s a clear answer here. Yes, there’s a chance Sam refuses to feed from you, but there’s also a chance to save him. You can’t just stand back and let him die because you’re scared. “Okay.”

Dean’s eyes snap to yours again. They sparkle with hope, and even though the illusion is dropped, even though his eyes are red and his teeth are viciously sharp, for the first time since you first saw him, he looks human. “Okay?” 

“Take me to him,” you tell him, moving past him to grab your coat off the hanger by your door. “Let me try to save him.” 

Dean gives you the key to the apartment and a wish good luck, but stays in the car (which, yes, is just as nice as you imagined, though you wish you’d gotten to experience it under different circumstances). He tells you as you climb out the passenger door, “If this goes the way I hope it does, you two aren’t gonna want me there. Trust me.” 

Apprehension keeps you rooted outside the locked door, biting a hole through your bottom lip. There’s a lot of ways this could go. Quite a few of them could end up with you dead, and you’d be a fool not to acknowledge that. Then again, you’d also be a fool not to acknowledge what you know about Sam, what Dean’s told you about him today. Kind, gentle Sam, who is sick and dying, but apparently still refuses to hurt anyone. Who drinks from blood bags, despite the risk, simply because it means he can live without harming others. He doesn’t deserve to die.

You take a deep breath, and unlock the door. 

The apartment is…Well, it’s a little dingy, but it’s cozy. Homey. There’s clutter and trinkets on every shelf, books that look so old that you fear they’d disintegrate if you touched them. It occurs to you, then, that you don’t know how old Sam actually is. A memory flashes in your mind of his name mentioned in records from the 1800s. Holy shit. 

“Dean?” You recognize Sam’s voice, but it’s thin and croaky. Weak. Really sick, Dean had said. “Are you home?” 

  You follow the sound of his voice into a bedroom, and the stale smell of illness almost makes you stumble back from the doorway. It doesn’t smell bad, necessarily, so much as still and wrong. Sam’s been in this room, wallowing in sickness, for a week. Your heart aches for him. “Not Dean,” you say quietly, hoping not to spook him. You approach the bed, and only just keep from gasping at the state of the man curled up in it. Sam is pale and sunken, visibly weak and malnourished. He’s trembling, shaking all over with chills, maybe, or just tremors in general. 

His face changes when he hears your voice, his brows furrowed in confusion. He opens his eyes and peers up at you over his cocoon of blankets. His eyes, like Dean’s, are red, but unlike Dean’s, they’re glassy and tired, his eyelids fluttering like he’s struggling to keep them open. “____? What…what’re you doing here?” He pushes himself up to sit, and you can see the effort it takes him to do even that, his arms shaking under his own weight. 

You sit gingerly on the edge of the bed beside him. “Dean sent me,” you tell him, ratting Dean out immediately. 

Sam groans, rubbing his hands over his eyes. The veins in his hands are standing out, ugly, mottled red under pale skin. As if the blood really had poisoned him. “I’m gonna kill him.” Wow, Dean hadn’t even exaggerated, huh?

“Not like this, you’re not,” you mutter, reaching out to take his hand in yours. “Jesus, Sam…” He’s ice cold to the touch like he’s been out in the snow for hours. You curl your hands around his, trying to warm him. 

His gaze flicks to them, your hands barely covering his. “Sorry I missed our date,” he says, mournful like he really is repentant, like standing you up is the worst sin he could’ve possibly committed. “It…was a date, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, it—I meant for it to be.” You huff out a laugh, sympathetic as you smile at him. “And, you know, somehow I can’t find it in myself to hold it against you.” 

Sam laughs, and for the first time, you catch a glimpse of his fangs. They’re just as viciously sharp as Dean’s, but they somehow look less dangerous on Sam. You’d worry you’d been charmed or something (isn’t that supposed to be something vampires can do? You have to admit, you’re a little out of the loop of vampire lore), if you weren’t certain that Sam would never do something like that. No, not charmed, not in any sort of magical sense. “I’ll die happy then.” 

Wow, you see the dramatics run in the family. “You’re not going to die,” you say firmly, releasing Sam’s hand to brush his bangs out of his face. He’s freezing all over. It makes you want to wrap him up in your arms, make sure he never goes cold again. You settle for pressing your palm against his cheek, your fingers cupping around his jaw. 

“I am, though,” he shoots back, like he’s arguing about who’s answer on the homework is right, not about his actual, literal life. “I’m going to die. But that’s—it’s okay. It’s been a week, so I’ve sort of come to terms with it.” 

“Screw that.” You turn more firmly towards him, pulling your legs under you to kneel on the bed. “Seriously, screw that. I can help you. If you think I’m just gonna- what, stand aside and let you die, then you really don’t know me at all.” 

“Sure. And you’re just gonna fix me, huh?” He shakes his head, turning it away from you with a huff. “All sunshine and rainbows after that. Not like I’ll have to bleed you to get better, right? Oh, wait.” Oh, he’s such a fucking diva, even on his deathbed, apparently.

“Oh, my God—yeah! I sort of figured it wouldn’t exactly be pleasant.” You didn’t spend all that time hesitating at the door because you thought it would be a walk in the park. “But if the choice is between that and letting you die, there’s no contest. I don’t understand why you’re so set on it when I’m sitting here offering you a solution!” 

“Maybe I don’t want to be saved!” His outburst silences you, especially because it seems to take a lot of energy from him to snap at you like that. He stares you down, red eyes meeting yours, and you…you don’t know what to say to that. 

You can lead a horse to water, but… “Sam—”

He cuts you off with another shake of his head. “Dean…he used to tell me that what we are doesn't make us monsters, it’s what we do. And I really wish I believed that, but the thing is, I…am going to die if I don’t feed from someone, like- like a fucking parasite. What is that if not monstrous?” 

“I don’t think you’re a monster,” you tell him. Slowly, cautiously, you reach for his face and replace your hand on his cheek, turning his gaze to meet yours. “I actually happen to think you’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. I don’t know what kind of monster would’ve apologized for getting deathly ill and accidentally standing me up.” 

His eyes flick over your face, like he’s searching for something. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” His voice, thin and mournful, is heartbreaking. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t know—I’ve never been sick like this before. It’s possible I won’t have a lot of control if I feed on you like this.” 

That’s sort of what you were afraid of. But that’s the benefit of him feeding from you, rather than some random person off the street, right? You know what’s going on. “I won’t let you go too far,” you assure him. “Sam, please. I want to do this for you. Let me…let me help you.” 

His eyes meet yours, and he seems to find what he’s looking for. He lifts his hand and brushes your hair back off your neck. “If I do this—if—it’ll hurt, at first,” he tells you, placing his hand on your shoulder. Just resting there. It sends sparks down your spine all the same. “But not for long. It’ll start to feel good, kind of like getting high. But if I—I’m not going to bite you if I’m not sure you’ll be able to stop me if I take too much.” 

“I’ll stop you. If I have to.” You trust him, mostly. But you’re also aware that he hasn’t fed in a week, so you’re prepared to have to at least alert him to your blood loss. 

His fingers trail along your neck, goosebumps following in his wake. His eyes follow the path of his touch, and his hands may be hesitant, but you can see the hunger in his eyes. Maybe you can make the horse drink, after all. “Are you sure?” he asks, and his hand moves to the back of your head. Bracing. 

“I told you—” you say, your voice coming out almost as quiet as a breath— “I want to do this for you.” 

“Okay.” He leans forward until you can feel his breath on your neck. It’s almost cold, unnaturally so. “Tilt your head a little more, that way—there you go,” he instructs, and that tone in his voice is…yeah. You are definitely glad Dean didn’t come in with you. His lips brush your skin when he speaks next, “Ready?” 

“Yes.” You’re not sure how you manage to get your voice to come out as stable as it does. You bring your hands up to brace on his shoulders, and your grip goes a bit tighter when you feel his fangs press, just barely, against your skin. “Yeah, I’m—go ahead.” 

You’ve never been bitten by a vampire before. You have no frame of reference of whether this is what it’s like every time, or if it’s just a Sam thing. Or if it’s just a you and Sam thing. But the whole process is intensely intimate in a way you weren’t expecting. Even when he first sinks his fangs in and it stings, makes you draw in a sharp breath. He’s a little uncoordinated, you think, and maybe goes in at a weird angle, because he draws his teeth out to sink them in again, but not before his tongue flicks out to catch the blood that drips down the side of your neck. The gasp that escapes you this time is not just from the pain.

He was right, of course. It does hurt at first. But the pain is offset by his hand on your head, his fingers curling just so to grip your hair. You swear you can feel in real time as he gets his strength back. As your blood flushes the sickness out of him. You’re not sure there is anything more intimate than that. 

You think maybe you expected a transition between pain and euphoria, but there is no slow fade. In between one blink and the next, the pain disappears, replaced with a floaty, echoing pleasure that has your fingers clutching at Sam’s shirt. Everything around you goes a little unfocused, fuzzy, except for everywhere Sam touches, where you swear your nerves are lighting up with sparks and ecstasy. You might be making noises. It’s a little hard to tell, your senses dampened as they are. 

“Sam…” You shove a little at his shoulders when you notice your hands start to shake. He hums, and you feel it on your skin. You can see, now, why he likened this feeling to getting high, although you’re not sure it’s the feeding that you can see yourself getting addicted to. You shove him a little harder. “Gettin’ dizzy here.” 

He pulls back from your neck, and your senses return to you in a rush of sound and a pinprick sort of ache where his teeth had sunk into your skin. You watch, full focused vision returned, as Sam wipes at his mouth and then drags his tongue over his hand, now free of mottled veins, to catch the blood that had, you assumed, spilled as he drank from you. Like he can’t bear to waste a single drop. You swallow thickly, your mouth suddenly very dry. 

“You taste like…” He trails off, and then his mouth is on you again, but not biting. No, his tongue drags up your throat, and it occurs to you—vaguely, through the fog of earth-shattering, soul-bending lust that settles over you—that if blood had spilled down his mouth, then it stands to reason that it had made a mess of your neck as well. Not that you’re complaining, if this is the result of a little mess. He makes a soft noise against your skin, his breath hot now in a way it hadn’t been before. “Taste like…” His voice peters off again, distracted or just unable to find the words to describe it.

Yeah, screw this. “Let me find out for myself,” you murmur, your hands moving from his shoulders to his face—and his skin, too, is warmer now, almost the temperature you would generally expect it would be—until you can drag him into a kiss. The answer, as it turns out, is blood. You taste like blood, although you sort of assume it tastes different to him. Strangely, the flavor isn’t as off-putting as you would assume, especially not when he groans and uses his grip on your hair to tilt your head, kiss you deeper. !You lick into his mouth, tasting your actual, literal blood on his tongue, and you…don’t have the words to describe how absurdly hot it is.  

He’s not careful with his fangs, not really, lets them catch on your bottom lip and draw out pinpricks of blood that he soothes with his tongue. It makes the whole thing a little messy; he’s got blood smeared over his lips when you pull back to breathe. Your eyes track his tongue as he licks it up. 

His hand, the one that’s not braced on the back of your head, brushes against the skin of your waist under the hem of your shirt. “Is this okay?” he asks quietly, still so close that you can feel the words on your lips. 

Is this okay? You almost have to laugh at the question. As if you hadn’t wanted him since the first moment you saw him. “Yeah,” you tell him, a little smile tugging at your lips. “It is so absolutely more than okay.” 

At your confirmation, he smiles too, and his hand rests more firmly on your waist, almost grounding. “Well, I didn’t buy you dinner first. Wouldn’t want you to think I was ungentlemanly,” he says, drawing a soft laugh from you. 

“Aw, well. You did try.” You press forward, leaving a short kiss on his lips as your hand shifts from his face to tangle your fingers through his hair. “Plus, I mean…technically, I—”

Sam cuts you off with a kiss, but you can feel his grin against your mouth. “That does not count,” he protests.

“I dunno,” you say, a little sing-song in your voice as you grin at him. “I did quite literally just save your life. I think we might be a little past dinner.” 

He scoffs, shaking his head at you. He’s not annoyed though. You can tell, because his fingers flex on your waist and then move, brushing up your side. “Uh-huh. Sounds to me like I’m slacking.” He ducks his head and presses two short, soft kisses to your neck, right on top of the pinprick aches. “I’ll have to repay you. You did just save my life, after all.” 

Almost subconsciously, your fingers tighten in his hair. Anticipation settles in the small space between you, a space that grows even smaller when his hand presses against the small of your back and tugs your closer. “I did just save your life,” you repeat, your voice significantly breathier than it was before.

He laughs, a little puff of breath against your skin, and his lips drag down your throat in a line of open mouthed kisses until it lands at your pulse point. You swear to God, time slows down as he breathes in, slow and deep like he’s smelling your blood beneath your skin, and then presses his teeth to it until you can feel the points of them, precarious like water pooled on top of a penny. He doesn’t bite down, doesn’t break the skin, but fuck, you almost want him to. It seems like he wants to, too, as he closes his mouth with a snap. “Fuck…” He pulls back and lifts his eyes to yours. “Can I taste you? Please?” 

It takes you a second to understand what, exactly, he means. He’d already tasted you; if he wanted more blood, he could’ve just bitten you again. Then, it clicks, and you…well, what are you supposed to say to that? Sam Winchester, all big, cow eyes and mouth smeared with your blood, so politely asking to eat you out, like you’d be giving him a gift. How could you possibly turn that down? “Yeah. Yeah, fuck, that’s—yeah.” 

You only see his answering smile for half a second before his lips are on yours again, kissing, biting, while his hand caresses over the bare skin of your stomach. His kiss, his touch, is almost overwhelming, doesn’t leave you much room to think about anything else but him. Not that you really want to. He tugs at the hem of your shirt, pulls back just far enough from you to speak, and even then you can feel his lips move against yours as he asks, “Can I take this off?” 

You really do laugh this time, drawing your hands down his neck and over his shoulders. “I appreciate the whole gentleman thing, I really do, but Sam, baby, I’ve wanted you since before I even knew your name. So let’s just assume that whatever you wanna do, I really fuckin’ want it, too.” 

His eyes flick over your face, and you can literally feel the cocky ass grin he gets at that. It is, unfortunately, like everything else he does, ridiculously sexy. “That long, huh?” He’s such a dick. You want him more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your entire life. He tugs back and drags his gaze down your torso, his hand leaving your hair to join the other in toying with the hem of your shirt. “Guess I shouldn’t keep you waiting any longer, then.” His hands brush against the skin of your stomach as he pulls your shirt up and over your head before tossing it aside, not caring where it lands. You’ll find it later. Or you won’t. 

His eyes lave over your newly bare skin, his hands following shortly behind. “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, pressing his palms flat against your stomach and dragging them up your ribs. “Can you lay back for me, darling?” he asks, even as his hands press you back against the mattress before you can respond. 

You go easily, not in the least because the name knocks the breath out of you. “Darling?” you echo, shifting until you’re resting comfortably against the nest of pillows at the head of the bed. 

Sam climbs over you, his knee nudging yours until you spread your legs to make room for his hips to settle between your thighs. “Is that alright?” he asks, ducking his head to press his lips to the hinge of your jaw. 

More than alright, if the fluttering in your stomach is anything to go by. “It’s fine,” you say, playing it cool. Then, because his hands are rubbing up and down the bare skin of your sides and his teeth (the blunt ones, not the fangs, because he has much more self control than you do) are nipping at the skin of your neck, you play it decidedly uncool and continue, “Darling.” 

You feel his answering smile against the skin of your collarbone as he and his kisses and his teeth travel down the line of your neck and chest, pausing at the edge of your bra. He lifts his eyes to meet yours through his lashes as his lips press the softest of kisses there. “‘M gonna take this off, now,” he tells you, his voice deep and rumbling. His hands move up your back, and you arch your spine to allow him room to do so. He undoes your bra clasp without removing his lips from your chest, tugs the garment down your arms and tosses it vaguely in the same direction as your shirt without a second thought. 

“I thought about this, you know,” he says, softly, against the skin in the valley of your breasts. “Getting my mouth on you. How it would feel.” He shifts his attention, his lips closing over your nipple while his hand palms your other breast. It draws a soft gasp from your lips, your fingers twisting in his hair. “How you’d sound,” he continues, his voice a little cocky now. 

“Sam…” His name falls from your lips on an exhale, like you’re breathing him in, like he’s pumping through your veins the same way you’re now pumping through his. 

He smirks. If you thought he was cocky before… “Yeah, pretty much—” He presses that smirk against one nipple and brushes his thumb over the other, and while your head is dropping back onto the pillows with a moan, he laves his tongue over it to make you moan even louder— “just like that.” He's got you so distracted, you almost don't notice his free hand trailing down your stomach, brushing along the waistband of your jeans, not until his fingers undo the button with practiced ease. 

“Oh, God, you are so unfairly hot.” You lift your head to watch as he kisses his way down your stomach until he finally reaches your waistband with his mouth, too, and leaves a nippy little bite there. 

He laughs, glances up at you with that fucking smirk as he drags your jeans down your hips. “Unfair to who? You?” The two of you maneuver a bit until he can tug your pants off your ankles and toss them aside, another clothing casualty lost to the war on your sanity led by the swooping in your gut whenever Sam looks at you like that. 

“Not me,” you elaborate, although it’s hard to do so when Sam’s hands are settling on your hips and his thumbs are rubbing slow circles on your skin and dipping just so under the elastic of your panties on every other pass. “But, like, every other guy. How is anyone supposed to compete with…this?” 

This being Sam motherfucking Winchester, who had spent months shyly testing the waters and cautiously flirting so subtly that you were terrified you’d read him wrong, suddenly suave and confident and practically begging to eat you out. Oh, and also being, objectively, the hottest monster. This man has been terrorizing the dating pool for maybe centuries. You shudder to think how many women’s standards he has completely obliterated. 

Continuing the streak of obliterating your standards, he ducks his head, that shy smile on his lips again. “I mean, I should hope no one is competing with me in this particular instance,” he says, voice hesitant as if there’s a chance on Earth you’d ever turn him down. 

You shake your head, and honestly, you can’t help but laugh because a literal vampire is about to go down on you, and somehow the most unbelievable part of this situation is that he thinks he has an ounce of competition. “Are you actually asking me if I want to be exclusive right now?” you ask, drawing a hand up and through his hair, brushing his fringe off his forehead. “Because I feel like I made it so obvious how much I like you. Obviously, there is no competition.” 

You have the honor of watching Sam blush for the first time, and knowing that you made it possible. Your blood flushes his cheeks, makes his face go the prettiest shade of pink you’ve ever seen. 

 “Obviously,” he echoes, his words brushing against the skin just above your panties. His hands brush down your thighs, and he pulls one of your legs up and over his shoulder so your heel rests against his back. He turns his head, and with your thigh now bracketing his head, it’s easy for him to press an open-mouthed kiss there, and then another, and then another until he’s brought you back practically to panting again. 

“‘M gonna make you see stars,” he tells you, his lips pressed against the crease where your thigh meets your hip. “And then, because I am a gentleman, I’m going to buy you dinner. And I’m gonna be thinking about this—” He nips at your skin, bares his fangs this time and draws a well of blood and a gasp from you simultaneously— “The way you taste; the way you feel—I’m gonna be thinking about it the whole time.” He draws his hands back up to your hips just to tuck his fingers under the elastic of your panties, lifting his eyes to yours as he tugs on it. “Can I take these off?” 

You think you might die if he doesn’t. “Please.” 

His fangs seem to glint in the light when he grins, but he ducks his head before you can look again, a sort of hyperfocus to his posture as he shifts your hips and legs until he can pull your underwear off your ankles, and finally, finally, leaves you bare to him. He doesn’t waste a second, his hands dragging up your thighs and then spreading them further, his eyes roving over you like you’re the most beautiful work of art he’s ever seen. “Gorgeous.” His voice, breathy and sweet, washing over you is the only warning you get before his lips press against you in a surprisingly gentle kiss. 

Your lungs expand on a gasp, and then deflate on a moan as he laves his tongue between your folds, the muscle pressed flat and soft like a tease. Or a preview. You’re not totally sure you’re going to survive this actually. You might die with Sam’s tongue licking over your pussy, and honestly, what a fucking way to go. 

“Taste so good all over, huh?” Oh, holy fuck, he’s still talking. His lips brush over your skin and make you whine, and you’re pretty sure you can feel the vibrations of his voice better than you can hear him. “Feel like I should thank you. Letting me feed from you, and now this?” He makes it sound like it’s some sacrifice to let him go down on you, like you’re not gripping his hair so tight you’re surprised you’re not pulling it out. “You’re perfect.” 

“Oh, my God,” your voice comes out high and tight as he closes his lips over your clit and sucks. Your back arches off the bed, but as your hips shift to press up against his mouth, you find his hand pressed low on your stomach, pinning you down. “Sam—oh, my God.” 

You can feel as much as hear the soft, contented hums he’s making, like he’s never wanted to be anywhere more than with his head between your legs and his tongue drawing circles over your clit. His fangs, sharp and dangerous, are almost artfully pressed against your skin, just barely enough to feel the points of them. His free hand, the one not pressing you down against the mattress, keeps trailing up and down the outside of your thigh, making you shiver and press your heel into his back. And it’s so obvious he’s loving this maybe even as much as you are, his whole body shifting as he grinds down against the mattress, and God, that feels almost as good as his mouth on your cunt does. He’s getting off on the taste of you, on making you squirm and whine and moan.

It’s over the second he presses his tongue against your entrance and his nose smushes against your clit—everything after that is a jumble of sensation. The feeling of his tongue fucking in and out, his nose rubbing against you with every movement of his mouth, his hand grabbing at your thigh and holding your legs open when your muscles go tense and tight and anticipatory. 

He draws his tongue out of you with an obscene slurping sound that just has you hurtling even faster towards the edge, your hands grabbing at his hair for dear fucking life, white knuckled. “Are you gonna come?” he asks, his voice low and gruff and almost fucked out. You squeeze your eyes shut, nodding as if it wasn’t obvious from the constant stream of noises spilling from your lips. “Yeah? Go on, come on my tongue. Give it to me, darling, let me taste it.” 

How could you resist that? His words and his stupidly talented mouth draw you over the edge, your pussy spasming as you do exactly as he asked and come on his tongue. True to his word, he does, in fact, make you see stars, lights sparking behind your eyelids. His mouth works you through it until you’re whining and using your grip on his hair to tug him away, oversensitive as you come down from an explosive fucking orgasm. 

He presses kisses on your inner thigh as he shifts it off his shoulder, your body loose and pliant now. “There you go, good girl.” The words make your cunt give a valiant twitch, even as he draws himself up your body until he’s laying beside you and pressing kisses over your face. “Was that good?” 

You peek one eye open to look at him, incredulous. “Was that good—you’re so ridiculous, c’mere.” You turn your head to draw him into a slow, lingering kiss. Much like the taste of your blood in his mouth, the taste of your pussy on his tongue is, frankly, life-changing. You’re addicted already. 

He draws back with a soft laugh, his eyes traveling over your face with such obvious fondness that you have to press another quick kiss against his lips. “Okay, understood.” He brings his hand up to brush over your face, soft and gentle and such a contrast to the obscene pleasure he’d taken in going down on you that it makes your cheeks go warm. “So when can I buy you that dinner?” 

The question gives you pauses, and your eyes flick down his body, curious. “Did you not want me to…” 

You watch your blood, again, flood his cheeks as he laughs and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “That’s not—I really like giving head,” he explains, as if that is not literally the hottest thing he could’ve possibly said. 

Fuck dinner, you wanna go five rounds with him back to back right now. “Okay,” you say, because he’s very sweet and he wants to be a gentleman and who are you to take that from him? “You can take me to dinner, if you swear you’ll let me suck you off when we get back. Deal?” 

The way his face lights up is worth having to wait. “Deal.”  

“And,” you continue, your hand smoothing over his hair where your grip had mussed it up, “next time you need blood, let’s just skip the whole ‘I’m a monster’ thing. I am more than willing to supply you; I have a vested interest in keeping you around.” 

He rolls his eyes, but the way he kisses you, fangs and all, tells you he gets it.

[c1eepypas1a]

Love it

↳ ˗ˏˋmasterlistˊˎ˗ ↴

✩ all my one shots, drabbles and fluff pieces ✩

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dean winchester [ supernatural ]

— one shots

⭑ dean winchester and his sweet little angel gf 18+

⭑ dean being a sub with his gf for the first time 18+

⭑ dean fucking you with sam asleep in the same room 18+

⭑ sleepy motel mornings with dean

⭑ sub!dean needing to taste your pussy 18+

— drabbles

⭑ opposites attract 18+

⭑ deepthroating dean 18+

⭑ dean winchester finding out you got a new tattoo 18+

⭑ dean winchester kink headcanons 18+

⭑ dean winchester x chubby!reader 18+

⭑ random dean and sam headcanons

soldier boy [ the boys ]

— one shots

⭑ combat knife 18+

⭑ soldier boy can’t keep his hands out of your pants 18+

⭑ soldier boy finding your onlyfans 18+

— drabbles

⭑ “you like fuckin’ a supe?” 18+

⭑ just more one 18+

⭑ soldier boy taking your virginity 18+

⭑ soldier boy’s birthday 18+

⭑ “say it, baby. words.” 18+

⭑ soldier boy x chubby!reader 18+

alec mcdowell [ dark angel ]

— one shots

⭑ heat 18+

— drabbles

⭑ “fuck me like you hate me” 18+

other

— one shots

⭑ sam winchester aftercare 18+

@ figthoughts, 2024. please don’t steal, reupload or take credit for my writing.

thank you for reading! reblogs are appreciated! mwah!

[c1eepypas1a]

Going back into my moon knight faze and loving this!

𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐊𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫-𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝙎𝙩𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙂𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙩

𝙈𝙖𝙧𝙘 𝙎𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙤𝙧

𝙅𝙖𝙠𝙚 𝙇𝙤𝙘𝙠𝙡𝙚𝙮