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c1eepypas1a · 1 month ago

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𓉸 I'm bad, he's worse. 𓉸 (we're already dead)

SUMMARY: dean never thought he'd ever enjoy killing, until his dark queen showed up and made blood taste like a goddamn aphrodisiac—quite literally. 4.9k

WARNINGS: death!dean. smut (mdni). blood and gore. explicit violence. unprotected piv. disgusting sex. very literally. they're gross, and insane. mentions of cannibalism (i'm sorry). depictions of torture.

NOTES: take this offer as a late 800 followers celebration. ⛧playlist

Dean never expected to become a horseman.

He already had enough on his plate—being a hunter, Michael’s vessel, and apparently the chosen one to fight every single big bad villain and apocalypse that threatened the earth. He didn’t need to add another thing to the fucking list.

But then Sam had gone to the cage, and there were only two beings in this world who could save him. God, of course—and another creature just as ancient and powerful, if not more: Death.

Dean still had the ring, the small silver hoop burning in his pocket, calling to him. The Pale Horseman had never reclaimed the artifact, and Dean would be damned if he let such a valuable object out of his sight.

It was hard to decide whether he should use it or not. There was no guarantee the ring wouldn’t make him combust the moment he slid it on—or that it would summon Death, who would then make him combust. It was risky, dangerous, and, like everything he did, incredibly idiotic.

But there wasn’t a single thing in this world Dean wouldn’t do for his little brother.

So Dean Winchester—the boy who had died and come back more times than he could count—became Death.

He brought Sam back. Every part of him. His body, and heart, and soul. But when he tried to take off the ring—eager to get away from the electricity running through his veins, the hypnotic whisper of the shadows all around him—it wouldn’t budge. No matter how hard the brothers tried, no matter how many spells Bobby gave them or how much lube they used—

“Ew, Dean. Don’t you have something else we can use?”

“Do you wanna get this off me or not, Sammy? Suck it up. Plus, it’s blackberry flavored.”

“You’re so fucking disgusting.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk. Now stay still before I decide to just chop off your finger.”

It just refused to come off.

And Sam had, actually, tried to chop off his finger. They summoned Castiel—the angel reassuring them, “Yes, Dean. I will regenerate your finger if you decide to amputate it.”

So Dean had drunk almost half a bottle of whiskey in two long sips before placing his hand carefully over the wooden desk in Bobby’s study, forcing himself to stay stoic as Sam quickly lowered a machete toward his finger.

But before the blade could even make contact, Sam and everyone else in the room except Dean were flung across the space, slamming into the walls—a bright, pale halo of light erupting from the ring and shielding Dean from harm.

The next morning, the scythe appeared beside the guest bedroom at Bobby’s house.

It was obsidian black, and seemed to draw in the shadows, fog pooling around the heavy silver. When Sam tried to pick it up, he couldn’t move it an inch. Bobby tried, then Castiel, and then all three men at once. The fucking thing wouldn’t budge.

But the moment Dean wrapped his hand around the long handle, it felt as light as a feather.

So, just like he always does when weird shit happens to him, Dean took a deep breath, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and rolled with it. He picked up the scythe, went out into the salvage yard, and started to practice with his new abilities. He let the instinct in his chest—that same pale light burning inside of him—guide him. And because he’s Dean fucking Winchester, he got the hang of it in a few weeks.

Something had begun to settle in him—slow, relentless, vast. It wasn’t evil. It wasn’t even angry. It was ancient. Inevitable. Like frost creeping over glass, or flesh rotting under rich soil. It moved through him not with malice, but with purpose. And Dean realized, with a kind of reverent dread, that it was Death. Not just the concept—the force. As real and raw as the blood in his veins, as steady as the air in his lungs.

Everything that lives has to die. Everything that starts has to end. That’s the way it’s always been.

Death isn’t wicked. It isn’t cruel or violent. It simply is. It’s not punishment—it’s gravity. The final hush. The closing of a door. Eternal rest.

Dean doesn’t fight nature anymore. He doesn’t recoil at blood, or shy away from righteous violence. He doesn’t pretend he’s something he’s not. The shadow inside him has a name now, and he’s not afraid to speak it. He wears it like a second skin. Understands it down to the bone. It’s not heartlessness. It’s balance.

And whatever tattered, mortal understanding he once had of life and death—of right and wrong—has been torn wide open and replaced with something colder, older, and far more honest.

He doesn’t flinch when he kills anymore. He doesn’t hesitate. He knows.

And if the monsters used to be afraid of him… they should be fucking terrified now.

Yes, having to kill some people—the innocent ones, the sweet and pure ones—still makes him feel a little sick. And reapers aren’t exactly the best subordinates—always either too brown-nosing or defiant as fuck. And now Crowley thinks they’re coworkers or some shit. But this might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to Dean.

Because now Sam will never die again—and if he does, Dean will bring him back with a snap of his fingers. Because this power that he can’t even begin to describe—one that ignites every cell in his body and turns everything in him to light—means he’ll never feel insignificant and helpless again. Because now Dean can kill a whole fucking den of werewolves with a touch of his fingertips, not even bothering with silver. Because now he’s almost invincible. And finally, he has enough power to do more good than bad.

Because the scythe is fucking badass.

Because he had met you.

It’s another day at the office—no hunting today, just Death duties. Dean is going through a long list of people he has to touch and let die, wait for a reaper to show up and guide them to their resting place, and then repeat. It can get tedious sometimes, but he manages.

“No, no!” the guy in front of him screams, hands shaking and body curled in a small, pathetic ball against the brick wall of an old building.

In reality, it’s not. His body is still lying in that dank back alley, unmoving and slowly cooling. Dean can see it under the last few rays of sunlight, just a few feet away—the guy’s black suit and perfectly gelled hair, the bloodstain on his crisp white shirt already drying where it lies, right over his heart. His now-empty wallet—real leather, limited edition—thoughtlessly discarded beside the corpse.

A robbery gone wrong.

“Please, I have a daughter! Have mercy, please!”

Oh, how Dean hates it when they beg.

He’s just leaning in, ready to brush his fingers against the man’s temple and put him out of his misery, when everything suddenly stills.

“Wait.”

The air gets colder, and there’s suddenly a faint scent of black satin dahlias and clove—something citric like blood orange mixing with incense and graveyard dirt. The world around Dean darkens, and there’s a buzz under his skin that he can only describe as instinctual.

There’s a slow, deliberate tap of footsteps getting closer, and Dean sighs in apparent aloof resignation as he keeps staring down at the man—who now looks a hell of a lot more confused than scared—but there’s an undeniable flutter in his heart and a string of murderous affection tugging at his chest.

“What are you doing here, darlin’?”

That’s when you finally walk into view. Your skin glows like the moon, your dark hair framing your face like the midnight sky. There’s a wicked smile on your lips, and your black dress looks as if it’s made of shadows—hugging every curve of your body before melting into nothingness at the hem, showing off chunky black heels that make the ground shake with every step you take.

The flowers blooming from cracks in the asphalt darken around you—they don’t wither, they look more alive than ever, but their colors shift to deep shades of red and purple. You fix your gaze on the phantom of the man still trembling on the ground before turning to Dean, and he sees that unhinged glint in your dark, fathomless eyes.

“Are you not happy to see me, my love?” you pout, your words as sharp as knives and smooth as silk.

Dean gives you a deadpan look—one that keeps his Death image up for the public, but you know it really means, of course I’m happy to see you, gorgeous. But what the fuck are you doing here?

Still, he leans in and kisses your cheek reverently.

You sigh, roll your eyes, and turn back to the man. Your lips reset into that crazed smile, and the poor guy shivers—both from fear and lust.

Dean doesn’t blame him. But he’ll kill him for it anyway.

“I’m here, my Lord—” Dean wants to roll his eyes at the nickname he’s told you to drop a hundred times, but he can’t deny the way it makes something inside him heat up. “—because I’m feeling… playful.”

You kneel in front of the guy, grinning as you pinch his chin between your thumb and pointer finger, studying his face with sadistic amusement.

You had first shown up one random day during Dean’s first week as Death.

It had been a normal day—a vampire nest cleaned out before doing some reaping. Dean had just been learning how to teleport without hurling into the nearest trash can, and he was sending off a reaper when the air stilled and that scent of grotesquerie and eroticism filled his nose. He turned around, scythe in hand, ready to slash you to bits.

But you just laughed, circled his dumbfounded form with confident, cheerful steps—and disappeared into the shadows again.

Ever since, you started showing up at reapings, hunts, and even in the backseat of Baby. You’re not a reaper, and none of Dean’s subordinates know who or what you are. At first Dean thought you’d be a problem—some maniac goddess trying to steal his position or simply cause chaos.

But he was wrong. Not completely—but still wrong.

You do live for the chaos, and you are maniacal and utterly insane, but you’re not after the Horseman job. You started helping on hunts, saving Sam’s ass more than once when Dean was too distracted trying to master his new powers. You’d occasionally help with research—spitting out half-assed facts before melting into the night. But mostly, you showed up to rile Dean up and then disappear with a cackle.

Between snarky remarks and teasing words, you taught Dean how to handle his abilities. You slid your hands up his arms, nails digging into his skin as you positioned his grip on the scythe. You whispered in his ear—glossy lips brushing his lobe—how to make a death fast and painless or slow and agonizing. You laughed at every insult he threw your way and replied with something just as venomous.

You liked to play with the dead—mostly the bad ones. Drawing shapes on their skin with knives, licking their splattered blood off your lips, threatening them with grotesque medieval tortures Dean had never even heard of—and he called you a monster for it every time.

But then, one day, Dean had been late for a reaping—too busy hooking up with some occult chick thrilled by the sight of his scythe—and he found you already there.

It was a little girl. Small, young, with dirty clothes and blue lips. She was malnourished, clearly neglected, and left for dead in the backyard of some filthy old trailer park. Her heartbeat was faint—even Dean could barely hear it—and he knew the body was just waiting for his touch to finally shut down. The spirit was nowhere to be seen. Probably scared. Hiding.

At first, Dean was afraid you were desecrating her corpse—but then he saw what you were doing. Your hand brushed her cold cheek delicately, and your lips moved in a silent prayer. A send-off. A blessing. All the dirt and bruises disappeared from the girl’s skin, her clothes freed of their tears, and her hollow cheeks filled out slightly.

You moved your hand again, and flowers bloomed all around her. Dark red and purple blossoms tangled in her curls, formed a bed beneath her. A bouquet grew between her hands, folded gently over her chest, and you leaned down to kiss her forehead before murmuring something in what sounded like an ancient dialect of Latin.

A second later, the phantom of the little girl appeared beside you, her sad gray eyes focused on your face. You picked a soft lilac flower—contrasting gently with the wine-colored blooms—and tucked it behind her ear before pointing at Dean.

The kid turned to him, and with one last encouraging nod from you, she approached. Dean offered a soft smile, and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. Immediately, her body gave out—and a reaper appeared to guide her away.

Dean stayed frozen, staring at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

You rose to your feet, your expression bittersweet but still formidable. You wouldn’t look at him directly. You stared down at the little girl’s body instead.

“I’m not the monster you think I am, Dean Winchester,” you muttered.

Then you vanished—only to reappear a week later in a Washington basement, studying the torture chamber of a psychopathic wraith Sam and Dean were hunting. You floated around the moldy room, picking up every ancient tool and laughing like a lunatic when the wraith (still alive) started sobbing the moment you suggested using them on him.

That day, Dean took in your devilish grin and felt nothing but twisted, macabre fondness. Maybe you weren’t so bad after all.

“You know I don’t like when you interrupt reapings, doll,” he lies through his teeth.

He loves it when you show up. When you curl around his side as he sends off some poor soul. When you offer to help him relax after a hard day. Every time, his imposing façade crumbles, and he feels a little like Cerberus when his owner comes home. Suddenly, souls and duties and the natural order mean nothing—the only thing that matters is the swing of your hips, the press of your mouth, the gleam of your blade.

He tries to keep his nonchalant expression, but he knows he’d evaporate every ocean and implode every planet if you asked—if you looked at him with those starry eyes and your sharp teeth biting down on your lip.

You don’t even dignify his words with a response, still carefully studying the man in front of you.

“Your guy here,” you murmur, gripping his jaw a bit harder, “doesn’t deserve a quick death.”

Dean sighs, rolling his eyes, but an enamored smile still creeps across his face. He was hoping this would be a quick gig—snatch the guy’s soul, hand it off to a reaper, then go home to fuck his girl on a bed of bones and velvet.

But he recognizes that look in your eyes. Whatever you’ve planned, it won’t be quick.

Dean’s eyes follow you carefully as you rise from the ground, the way one can’t keep their eyes off of a shooting star. And when you get within reach, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you against him.

You giggle—and it would’ve made him smile if you didn’t immediately smack his hands away and step back. He grunts, reluctantly letting go.

You have him wrapped around your blood-stained finger.

“Our dear Isaiah was a supposed man of God, weren’t you, Isaiah?”

You circle Dean until you’re behind him, your hand crawling up his arm as you stare down the almost-dead man.

Isaiah nods frantically, pressing himself back against the wall, trying to escape your gaze.

“Yes! Yes, of course!”

Wrong answer, Dean thinks. Dumbass.

“But you had a special… appetite, didn’t you?”

Your face is tilted down, eyes hooded and seductive in that way he knows is only caused by bloodlust. Your lips settled in a pout, hand resting possessively on his shoulder.

Dean wonders how mad you’d be if he killed the guy now and teleported you to a motel.

Isaiah’s face pales, and he tries to run. Dean snaps his fingers—his eyes never leaving your gorgeous face—and the man is slammed back against the wall.

You laugh against Dean’s back, and it makes him smirk. You glance at him—eyes vicious and undeniably horny—then kiss him.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision. Sudden, messy, violent. Your tongue slides into his mouth and Dean lets it. You taste like pomegranate and carnage. One of his hands leaves the scythe and grips your nape—but you pull away.

He growls, chasing your lips, but you just laugh and turn back to the guy.

Right. The guy. He’s supposed to be killing that guy.

The bastard looks more terrified than ever.

“Our boy here liked to sink his teeth into girls and consume them—quite literally.”

Dean’s brows raise. His eyes snap back to the man.

“P-please,” Isaiah begs. “I’m sorry. Please don’t hurt me—”

“Is that how they begged, Isaiah?” you murmur, your grin as sharp and cruel as ever. “The girls you ate. Is that how they pleaded to go home? For you to stop?”

He sobs, you ignore it. But it all fades to nothing when your lips brush Dean’s ear.

“He deserves some punishment, don't you think, my Lord?” you whisper, like the snake whispering in Eve’s ear. “Let me make him bleed a little, hm?”

As if Dean could ever say no to you.

And you know it, you know just how irrevocably devoted he’s to you, because you don’t even wait for an answer. You already have your dagger. Dean just watches.

From there it’s laughter, slashes, bloodshed.

You carve him up like a banquet. Every slice accompanied by a wicked giggle. Every plea met with a kick of your heels. Every sob answered with a threat pulled from some unspeakable era.

His body will show no signs. But his soul will remember.

Dean stays back, observing like he’s watching the rise of a goddess—fascinated, bewitched, worshipful.

Your blood-splattered face is the most beautiful sight he’s ever witnessed, the way your tongue curls around every insult you callously throw at the cannibal is hypnotic, the way you lick your dagger clean after you're finished is the most erotic thing in this and every universe.

Dean doesn’t even flinch when your blade finally stops moving.

What’s left of Isaiah is unrecognizable—just a twitching, oozing echo of the son of a bitch he was. You stand over him, chest heaving, the blade slick with viscera and your eyes glassy with something holy. Or unholy. Maybe both.

“All done,” you whisper sweetly, wiping your knife on what’s left of his slashed-up tie.

Dean exhales, low and long. “You always make such a mess, darlin’.”

You turn to him slowly, your teeth and hands still stained crimson. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy the show.”

And he did. He thinks he never really understood desire until he saw you rip your way through a body like this.

But something in him wants more. Something deeper. Something filthy.

With deliberate slowness, Dean steps over the broken pieces of Isaiah and kneels beside the wrecked corpse. He presses two fingers to what used to be a chest, his hand ghosting over shattered ribs and pulped lungs. Then—

With a grin full of sin, he digs his hand into the man's chest cavity and rips out what’s left of his red, mutilated heart. It's barely hanging together, still warm and dripping between Dean’s fingers.

Your chest heaves, and your pupils dilate until all Dean can see is black.

“Oh,” you mutter, eyes wide and shining like a dying star, “do it again.”

Dean’s head tilts back with a laugh that sounds like thunder and hunger. He swiftly gets up from the asphalt—then crushes the heart in one hand.

You lick your lips slowly, lewdly, and take a few slow steps toward him.

Your hand finds his waist, then slides down, further south until you grip his clothed cock. Hard, rabid, almost painful.

“Have I corrupted you enough that killing makes you hard now, my Lord—?”

A snarl is torn from his throat, and then he’s shoving you against the wall, your heel digging right into the man’s eye socket.

Dean’s hands are everywhere on you—your thighs under your shadow dress, squeezing your perfect fucking tits, wrapping around your neck. His tongue digs into your mouth, tasting nothing but metallic and you. His teeth bite down onto your lip until your blood mixes with Isaiah’s between your tongues, and he moans at the taste, his hands ripping your dress half-off until it’s nothing but a bunch of magic fabric bunched around your waist.

You’re not wearing anything underneath, of course.

His touch is brutal—but you’re right there beside him. You pull at his hair until he groans, your hand cups his jaw until his face is smeared with blood and gore, your long nails leave angry red lines all over his chest as you tear his black long-sleeve shirt open.

In a smooth movement, Dean’s hands slide under your thighs, and he pulls you up until your legs wrap around his hips and he has you completely entrapped between his body and the brick wall.

“This,” he presses his clothed cock against your bare cunt—glistening under the slowly rising moon, fucking dripping with need. It makes you throw your head back, and Dean takes the opportunity to fill your long neck with his teeth marks. “Isn’t because of him, doll. This is all because of you.”

You moan, crashing your lips together again. Your hand finds his pants and quickly unbuttons them with the expertise that only comes from being in this same exact position almost every day.

You pull his dick out, fisting it with such ferocity Dean hisses. “Always so fucking hard for me, baby,” you laugh against his lips, sharp and almost mean in a way that makes him twitch. You start to move your hand up and down, the slide wet with the man’s blood. “Fuck, I need your cock inside of me.”

Dean grunts, his chest stuttering with how bad he wants it. It doesn’t matter how many times he fucks you—it feels like paradise every time. His movements are desperate as he aligns his dick with your entrance, and you laugh—arrogant and downright pornographic.

But it’s quickly turned into a moan when Dean buries himself all the way to the hilt with one swift thrust, your head thrown back with a loud bang against the wall, your nails digging into his shoulders—deep enough to draw blood.

“Fuck, Dean. You’re so fucking big,” you moan, your lips wrapping around the words obscenely.

Dean doesn’t miss a beat, hips pistoning against you with feral frenzy. His head gets fuzzy at the way you feel around him—so fucking warm, so goddamn tight. His lips latch onto one of your nipples, one of his hands finding the other, rolling it between his fingers. He sucks and bites devotedly, leaving purple bruises all over your sweet skin. His.

“So deep, Dean—I can feel it in my fucking soul.”

When Dean looks up at you, your eyes are rolled back in your head. Your mouth is parted open, and when Dean slides his fingers—previously wrapped around Isaiah’s heart—between your lips, you mewl and start sucking all the blood off like it’s the sweetest of elixirs.

Your tongue brushes his ring, the one that marks him as a Horseman, and you grin at the taste of silver. At the taste of Death.

“You like it, darlin’?” You nod, throat contracting around his long fingers. Dean keeps his ruthless pace, the sound of his hips slapping against your thighs echoing through the alleyway. “You fucking love it when I fill you up? When you can feel me in here?”

His hand moves from your mouth to your stomach, pressing. It makes you gasp, spine shooting up. Dean presses harder, and you spasm around him in a way that makes him groan. Your whole body shakes with the force of your climax, and your smart mouth is fucking useless as it hangs open, drool dripping down your chin.

It’s then that a reaper shows up. Dean can barely feel their presence over the way you’re wrapping around his cock, fucking dripping like crazy, the little noises leaving your mouth the most beautiful song he’s ever heard. He fucks you through your orgasm, not paying his subordinate any mind, and it’s goddamn sacred.

The reaper doesn’t say anything, only stares for a second too long at the crude scene—their boss and his lover, slick with sweat and blood and viscera, fucking like rabid animals—before dragging what’s left of Isaiah away quietly.

You laugh at the sight—breathless, but still fucking wicked. Dean’s thrusts become erratic, pounding into you like sin. He can’t keep his eyes off of you—your sharp teeth glistening with blood, your eyes glossed over and dark, your hair all messed up and cheeks flushed, your perfect body under his hands. It’s too much. You’re too perfect. And Dean craves you.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he grunts, licking a stripe from your collarbone to your jaw. You taste ambrosial. “Prettiest fuckin’ sight when you’re all fucked out. My perfect little psycho.”

Every thrust is so deep that he’s pretty convinced he’s hitting your cervix—hitting that spongy, glorious spot inside of you every time. It’s almost too much. The way you kiss him—all tongue, spit, and blood. The way your heels dig into his ass, pulling him impossibly closer. The way you whisper against his lips.

“Fill me up, my love. Make me yours. Mark me inside and out.”

Dean growls, cock throbbing inside your raw cunt. His fingers find your clit, rolling the small nub between his calloused fingertips. You cry out, loud and sanguineous, and you come again. You bite down on his neck, cunt spasming around Dean’s cock, thighs trembling around his middle.

Dean can’t hold back anymore, and with one last roll of his hips that leaves him nestled right against your insides, he lets go. His cock twitches as he fills you up, painting your walls with hot, thick cum.

You mewl at the sensation, clenching around him, sending shockwaves down his spine and making him hiss. He wraps a hand around your throat, squeezing slightly in warning. Don’t.

You look at him through hooded eyes, skin glistening under the moonlight and that godforsaken smug smirk. What are you gonna do about it, my love?

Nothing. He would do absolutely nothing. Because you could stab him with one of your many knives, and he’d throw himself further down the blade just to be a little closer to you.

Still inside of you, refusing to pull away from your warmth, Dean nuzzles into your neck. You smell like blackberries and red roses and vice. He kisses over every bruise, he licks over the blood now drying on your skin, and he chases your lips like a feral dog chasing a bone.

“I adore you,” he murmurs against your bloody teeth, keeping you rightfully plastered against his chest. And your expression softens up. “You’re the best goddamn thing that has ever happened to me.”

Dean loves every version of you—the unhinged psycho killer, the ungodly sex goddess, the melancholic dark angel. But this one has to be his favorite.

When Dean says just the right thing—when he compliments a part of you you consider way too rotten, when he notices the small things you try to hide from everyone, when he makes you feel loved, actually loved—you melt.

Like right now, when your cheeks flush underneath all the gore, and your eyes turn almost heart-shaped, and you hide your face against his chest because you don’t like being vulnerable like this.

Still, Dean knows. Still, Dean loves you.

“Just take me home, my love,” you murmur against his naked chest, before biting the skin there—right over his beating heart. “We can wash this asshole’s blood off of each other, and then I’ll suck your soul out of your fucking body.”

Dean laughs, pressing you harder against him with one arm as the other reaches for his scythe. He starts summoning his powers, willing them to take you home—or what Dean eloquently calls his own personal Batcave.

Dean knows you could just teleport yourself with your powers—you’ve been using them a lot longer than Dean. You could be snuggled in bed in the blink of an eye. But you’ve told Dean you like when he does it.

“It feels like we’re melting into the shadows—melting into each other, intertwined together.”

You played with his fingers as you spoke that night, fidgeting with his ring as you two lay in bed.

“I like when I can’t tell when I end and you begin.”

Dean almost cried that day. Instead, he fucked you so hard you passed out—which is basically impossible, with your powers and all.

“La petite mort,” you grinned up at him minutes after, boneless and satiated, eyes shiny with adoration. “Parfaite pour mon roi de la mort.”

So yeah, maybe Dean doesn’t know why you even know French. He doesn’t know the extent of your powers, or even exactly what you are.

But he knows who you are.

And that’s all he needs—to know he’d follow you to the deepest pits of the underworld. To know he’d fucking die with you. Die for you. Kill for you.

To know that he loves you.

His beautiful fucking psychopath.

NOTES: this is for all my perverts out there, I love you all<3. I still cannot write smut for the life of me, but pls appreciate the fact that i'm trying. I know this isn't an amazing celebration for 800 followers but I wanted to at least ut something out. Thank you for all your love and support, I ADORE you guys<3

TAGS: @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @h8aaz @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @blossomingorchids @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @that-stanford-girlie @immodestly-marina @angellust333 @cupidzbunny @mimiimmii @scatorcciosbabe @angrydragon90<3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

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c1eepypas1a · 2 months ago

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Smash

You (Sam x Reader)*

Summary: Sam has been watching you for quite some time now and one night he gets his opportunity to have you.

Characters: Stalker!Sam x Reader, Dean x Reader (AU, Sam and Dean don’t know each other)

Rating: 18+

Chapter Warnings: Angst, stalking, dub con at the very least, non con beginning, p in v, protected sex (kind of) :), crying, oral (fem. receiving), talk of rape, implied attempted date rape (not from Sam), hand job ish, blowjob ish, rough sex, breeding kink ish, hair pulling. I think that’s it.

W/C: Well over 10,000 :) I got carried away in the story lol.

A/N: Inspired by ‘You’ because I love crazy psycho people and it makes me more than happy to pretend that Sam could be like that too. Let me know if you want this to be a series ;)

Masterlist

Keep reading

#sam winchester #supernatural #fanfic #oneshot #jared padalecki #sam winchester smut

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c1eepypas1a · 2 months ago

Text

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.

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c1eepypas1a · 2 months ago

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DAMN THIS IS GOOD

ɴᴏᴡ ʀᴇᴄᴏʀᴅɪɴɢ ... 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚕

♫ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: 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..)

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c1eepypas1a · 4 months ago

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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

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c1eepypas1a · 5 months ago

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

#dean winchester #mafia au #mafia dean Winchester #janitor ai #janitor bot

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c1eepypas1a · 7 months ago

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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.

#todoroki shouto x reader #todoroki x reader #shoto smut #todoroki shoto smut #todoroki smut #shouto smut #shouto todoroki x reader #mha x reader #mha headcanons #todoroki shouto #shouto todoroki #shoto todoroki x reader #mha smut #mha todoroki #todoroki x you #todoroki shoto x reader

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c1eepypas1a · 7 months ago

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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...

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c1eepypas1a · 7 months ago

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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 😜

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c1eepypas1a · 7 months ago

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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

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c1eepypas1a · 7 months ago

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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.

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c1eepypas1a · 8 months ago

Text

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.

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c1eepypas1a · 8 months ago

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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

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c1eepypas1a · 8 months ago

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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.

#carbonrambles #logan howlett #wolverine #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett smut #wolverine smut #deadpool and wolverine #logan howlett x reader smut #oldman logan howlett #old man logan #dofp! logan #origins logan howlett #worst logan #smut

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c1eepypas1a · 9 months ago

Text

┌── ˚*❀*̥˚ ─── ˚*̥❀*˚ ──┐

✐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.”

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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

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Other works: The Boys Masterlist

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