#my nextdoor neighbor apparently | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

xxxsweetdreamzxxx · 3 years

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warnings/tags: dom!wonho sub!reader, fluff, smut, fanfic; cursing, railing, unprotected sex, hook up, size kink, other types of filth

summary: your first encounter with your new nextdoor neighbor turns steamy

word count: 2k

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Had this dream and decided that Wonho was a good fit to replace the rando my mind made up. Didn't require much editing, so this is straight from my messed up subconscious. Hope you enjoy!! ;>

and yes, I am a certified Wonho simp. (′ꈍᴗꈍ‵)

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You glanced up past the tops of the skyscrapers of Manhattan at the gray sky and sighed, pulling your coat tighter around you in the cool air. Seeing the older structure that was your apartment building in front of you, waves of relief washed through you. Getting excited to head inside and warm up a little, you thought: 'Another day of work over, time to relax.' But as you neared the entrance, you heard a voice behind you.

"Goddamn." A man muttered under his breath. "What's your name?" He said a little louder so you could hear, his tone indicating obvious interest.

Fighting back a sigh and without looking his way, you replied: "Sorry, I'm not interested."

Despite wanting to desperately go inside, you turned and headed back the way you came, thankful he didn't follow. You figured it wasn't a good idea for him to know where you lived. Once out of sight of your building, you decided it was probably safe to head back.

Approaching your building for the second time, you could see no one stood outside the building, so you entered. Heading up one flight of stairs onto the second floor, you made your way into the hallway and to the second door, reaching into your pocket for your keys. Unlocking your apartment door, you went in and closed the door behind you.

Glancing around, you could see your bed in the corner, the small two-person couch against the opposite wall, and the kitchenette near the door that consisted of only a mini fridge and tiny stovetop. The wall furthest from the door had a window with it's curtains drawn to the sides, letting natural light in. A door along the wall with the couch lead to your bathroom. You didn't mind living in a one room apartment much, its location was amazing - and something you cared more about then the square footage.

Setting your keys down on top of the mini fridge, you changed into some more comfortable shorts before moving towards the couch, reaching for the remote that was on the armrest as you sat down. Flipping on the TV situated across from you, you turned on the show you were watching last night before bed. Taking place in the 1920s or so, it was about some rich influential family and their daily lives. Of course, more drama filled than it would've been in reality. One of the younger couples in the family had been slowly growing closer, and you were just waiting for them to hook up. You secretly hoped today's episode would deliver.

To your delight, it didn't take long for the episode to go where you wanted, with the couple locking themselves in a bedroom late at night and climbing onto their canopy bed. The girl's soft moans made you turn down the volume and pray to god that no one could hear anything through your thin apartment walls. It began to pour outside your window, thankfully drowning out some of the noises coming from your TV. You curled yourself up in a ball and watched the semi-pornographic scene play out, feeling satisfied in the direction the show was going.

You were so wrapped up in the show that it took a second for you to process that the sound you heard was a knock at your door.

"Fuck." you hissed under your breath, scrambling to pause the show on a frame that wasn't too suspicious.

You left the remote on the seat you'd been sitting on and hurried over to the door, which didn't have a peep hole so there was no way to see the person on the other side.

"Yes?" You question through the door.

A man's voice answered. "Sorry to bother you, but I forgot the key to my apartment nextdoor and got caught in the rain on the way back from work. I don't have anything out here to dry off with and my roommate doesn't get back until a few hours from now. Could I please borrow a towel?"

He sounded familiar somehow, you felt like you'd heard his voice recently but couldn't place where. He did sound desperate...

You opened the door. The poor guy was drenched and shivering, and looked at you in embarrassment. His expression then seemed to turn to recognition of some kind. Even though the way he carried himself seemed sweet and innocent, he was tall and you could tell that under layers of winter clothing was nothing but muscle. Despite feeling a little uneasy being alone with such a large man, you beckoned him to come inside.

You took in his appearance further as he hesitated a bit before doing so. His wet dark hair was plastered flat across his forehead, his equally dark eyes looked tired. His red cheeks and nose stood out against his pale skin, and you wondered how long he'd been out in the cold. Even in such a disheveled state, his perfect visuals made you feel flushed in the face. He was prettier than any man - no, person - you'd met before.

"I- I'm y/n by the way." You wanted to slap yourself for stuttering. "You can stay here until your roommate gets back, I'd hate for you to be standing in the hallway the whole time."

"I'm Hoseok," The man replied, "and I can't thank you enough." He smiled gratefully at you, making your heart skip a beat.

You averted your gaze to quickly duck into the bathroom, getting him a towel. You gave it to him and showed him where he could sit on your couch, the seat next to where you'd been sitting before. You could notice he was still shivering after sitting down.

"Would you like some hot tea to warm you up?" You asked.

He gave you another grateful smile. "Yes."

You headed over to the kitchenette to heat up some water, pulling out two mugs for your tea. You continued the conversation, talking about work, the weather, city life, etc. until before long you'd finished making the tea and headed back to the couch to keep talking, sitting down next to him.

You learned he was a mailman of all things, and funnily enough he delivered mail to the building you both lived in. He'd moved in with his roommate only recently, an old friend from high school. You'd met the roommate a few times, out in the hallway and such. You had no idea a second person had moved in.

Then there was a pause in the conversation, and his eyes drifted over to the TV. He noticed that it was on, but paused.

"What you watching?" He asked in a teasing tone.

"Oh, ummm," you trailed off, "It's nothing."

"Can I see?" He teased further, a slight smirk on his lips. "Its nothing bad is it?"

"No, I just forgot to turn it off." You say quickly.

At that, you went to grab the remote where it lay, on the opposite side of you than he was. A bit surprised by your quick motions, he tried to reach over you to grab it and press play, curiosity overtaking him. Trying to reach that far caused him to lean over quite a bit, too much. Nearly collapsing on top of you, the weight of his body pushed you down onto the couch underneath him. You yelp in surprise.

Completely engulfed in his shadow, you look up at him, who seems equally surprised by the awkward position he got you both into. He held himself up with his arms on either side of you, but didn't climb off. You can see blush across his cheeks, your own face feeling hot. Something in his previously sweet and tired eyes changes, and his eyes move down to your lips.

The next thing you know, your lips are crashing against his, and he pulls you into an upright position, placing you on his lap. He runs his fingers through your hair; neither of you stopping to take a breath. You can feel your panties already starting to get damp, clinging to your clit. Moaning softly against his lips, you began to grind your hips against his, feeling a growing bulge underneath you. Seeing this as an invitation, he swiftly picks you up and starts moving you across the room in the direction of your bed.

Without unlocking his lips from yours, he splayed you out across your bedsheets beneath him. The feeling of being trapped under him only makes you wetter. He begins to grind his hips in rhythm with yours, the fabric of your shorts and his pants brushing against each other. His hands begin to feel you up, finding every curve on your body through your clothes. He then takes them down to the waistband of your shorts, wasting no time in using it to pull them off, along with your panties.

He then tugs impatiently at your shirt, and you help him to remove it before placing your hands on his belt, fumbling with the clasp. He tugs his shirt over his head before helping you to remove his belt and then his pants. You use your own hands to explore his abdomen, feeling his hard abs between your fingertips. He definitely worked out a ton.

You then felt his erection brush against your inner thigh, more apparent through the much thinner fabric of his boxers. Although, you wanted to feel it without the boxers. Your hands drifted lower, letting him know to remove them. He did so without hesitation, groaning in satisfaction now that his cock was freed from any restrictive fabric. The pace of your kisses slowed down a little as he spread your legs a bit more, then teased your folds with his tip. The contact with your dripping pussy caused you to moan louder than before.

He moved his lips onto your neck, marking you as you waited for his next move - which apparently was slamming into you hard like a truck. You sharply sucked in a breath and unintentionally clenched your walls around his dick, causing him to moan against your neck. Tears rolled down your cheeks, caused by momentary pain. Relaxing a bit, you tried your best to match your thrusts with his again. He pushed in forcefully until he was balls deep. He was so large, he filled you up completely.

Seeing your sweat and tears, he looks into your eyes with slight concern and speaks for the first time in minutes. "You okay?"

"Mhmhmm." Is all you can reply. In reality you were much better than okay.

He presses his lips back onto yours before pulling out and ramming back into you aggressively several times, causing lewd noises to escape you both. Feeling his orgasm approaching he pulls out quickly, leaving you a sweaty mess. Only seconds later hot strings of cum splash against your inner thighs, spilling onto the bedsheets. Squirming a little at the tenseness there, you begin to move your hand down but he pins it to the bed, making you whine.

"So needy." He comments before using his own fingers to rub fast circles on your clit.

You arch your back - somehow him doing that feels better than you could ever make it feel. It doesn't take long before a feeling near your tummy begins to build up, your hips grinding a little faster. Before you can remove your lips from his to warn him, you release onto his hand, your nerves relaxing as you ride out your orgasm beneath him. He pauses to lick you off of his fingers, causing you to blush.

"Fuck, you taste so good."

After finishing every last bit, he lies down next to you onto the bed, snuggling you up against him. All of the sudden it seems he's gone back to his sweet and innocent self, despite what just occurred. Your kisses become softer until you eventually stop, he wraps his arms around you, and you bury your head into his chest. After a while, he speaks out in a soft and quiet voice.

"So, what was it you were watching?"

You smile bashfully. "It was a sex scene in a show I've been watching."

He chuckles and pulls you closer. "You're so cute y/n."

#monsta x #mx wonho #wonho #fanfic #kpop imagines #kpop smut #kpop fluff #kpop fanfic #smut #fluff #imagines #wonho imagines #wonho smut #wonho fluff #kpop

276 notes · View notes

larkandkatydid · 2 years

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Willie is staying at my Aunt’s house while I’m on vacation and is making friends, slowly, with the large, extremely poorly socialized dog nextdoor. They’ve been sniffing/ running the fence but whenever the neighbor dog growls or barks in an aggressive way, Willie runs to my aunt and demands to let back inside*. This is apparently teaching the neighbor dog, whose name is Joey, better manners because he wants to keep playing and just doesn’t understand how to act because his humans suck.

Anyway, I’m very proud that my smoothbrained yak of a son knows how to set healthy boundaries.

*my aunt has a dog door but Willie doesn’t understand it.

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pallasperilous · 4 years

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Boneless Wings

{AO3 version}

So, blah blah blah, it’s their standard-issue disaster: pack of dumbass witches (always with the dumbass witches. Where do they find the time for this shit? Somebody get these women signed up for a Peloton subscription or a macramé class or a vibrator of the month club, seriously, whatever it takes—), ancient curse, Castiel being the actual angel of stepping in it, nobody cares.

The point is, two hundred and forty-one hours of binge-worthy drama later, Dean and Cas are living in a semi-detached just a short thirty-minute commute to somewhere equally lame, Castiel has two literal-ass wings, and yes, Susan, they kiss now.

The neighbors are weirdly cool with it.

For those of you perving along at home, Dean could absolutely provide a list of the hundred or so ways that having a boyfriend* with giant fucking actual wings is super hot and/or awesome.

This is not that list.

(*you can just shut right the fuck up , Sam, because it’s either this or Dean will start saying lover. And nobody needs that. Nobody wants that.)

1. Bird mites. Holy shit.

2. Sharing a bathroom. The shower curtain rod, and consequently the security deposit, are early casualties. The medicine cabinet follows swiftly behind. Shower hijinks are not even an option.

3. Dean comes home one day from a gig and there is a giant plastic green turtle in the backyard. A closer inspection reveals that the turtle is actually a mule for about half a truck bed of industrial dust ‘n grit. It is, in fact, a kiddie sandbox. Dean points out that they do not, in fact, have a small child (FINGERS CROSSED), so...?

Cas then earnestly shows him an entire playlist of exotic birdy dust bath videos on Youtube.

Dean then earnestly shows him the garden hose.

4. The down just gets, like...everywhere. EVERYWHERE. How many times have Sam and Dean practically sold their kidneys for a single angel feather for some dumb spell to solve some pointless Occult McProblem? And now Dean is picking them out of his damn teeth every morning. (No, gross, not because of... Jesus, no, that is not a thing.)

On the upside of this one, Dean finally has an excuse to buy a Dyson, which he’s secretly always thought looked awesome. It is.

5. When Dean is scraping out the umpteenth canister of fluff he jokingly suggests they use some of it to supplement the tragically flaccid down comforter currently shaming their bed, and Castiel pitches an existential fucking sulk. Dean wants to experience happiness again, so he does not point out that it get ass-bitingly cold here this time of year, and decent bedding is not exactly inexpensive, and the Dyson kind of maxed them out on household purchases.

But whatever.

6. Castiel is indulging in what Dean thinks of as a sky pout when he flies right into a head-on with li’l Timmy NextDoor’s new Christmas surveillance drone. It dings the shit out of one of Cas’s left primary feathers (the scientific term is “those big motherfuckers”), which apparently hurts like a bitch. Cas is grounded for a few weeks after that and is cutely pathetic about it and at first Dean is absolutely down to kiss it better. By the end, Dean is almost ready to strangle Cas with his own necktie, but he has learned a lot of surprisingly interesting stuff about ancient Mesopotamia, like that it was super horny.

7. After the snow melts, Dean starts finding shit on the front step with the morning paper. It’s not even a good newspaper; Cas signed them up for the local fish-wrapper (or maybe it was Sam, before he fled for the hills— he occasionally breaks out in a “support local journalism” rash). The crossword puzzle is insulting, but the paper does at least syndicate Carolyn Hax, whom Dean secretly suspects of being an absolute wildcat in the sack, so he grudgingly expends the calories to bring it in every morning.

Anyway, at first the stuff he discovers crapping up the welcome mat is just shiny bits of trash — couple granola wrappers, some MGD pull-tabs, a few field-stripped twisty-ties. Probably just windblown, and he tosses it in the garbage can.

Then a couple weeks in, things start getting...grisly? It escalates real slowly, from a variety platter of mouse bits to squirrel à la power line and then half of a dry-aged raccoon and an opossum that has recently graduated from playing dead to professional dead-being. The neighborhood crows obviously love that their front step is now a roadkill café; Dean has to bat increasing numbers of them away with the kitchen broom in order to relocate their horrible snack to the edge of the nearest storm drain.

Then one morning there are like twenty crows and they’re in just the cutest little football huddle-up around what turns out to be a human fucking finger with a retro-fun mood ring still on the knuckle (it’s feeling: Sad) and Dean fully loses his shit.

Cas hears him freaking out and comes whomping out of the garage ready to, whatever, flap somebody to death maybe, but as soon as he establishes that Dean doesn’t need anything more than a fresh pair of boxers, he de-poofs a bit and assesses the whole human finger/crows situation in his usual infuriatingly unrushed way. The crows had mostly bounced up to the cable line over the house, safely out of brooming range, but one by one they start to drop down and hippity-hop back towards the world’s tiniest crime scene.

If Dean were five percent less freaked he’d be tempted to go inside and find out how much of a dent he can make in a six-pack before Castiel finally dings and spits out his results, but he isn’t, so he just stands there in silence clutching the broom like it’s a shotgun.

Eventually Cas says “hm,” and then he looks at the crows and makes some noises that sound like a spoon caught in a garbage disposal, and the crows make some scrawps and chuks back, and then one of them delicately noodges the tip of dead finger with its beak and then hippity hops back a foot or two, bows, and then they all fly away over the shitty little beige duplex across the street like they’re running ten minutes late to an important bird appointment.

Castiel stands up (Dean reflexively backs up into the doorway, as this involves Cas bomfing out his wings a bit for ballast and Dean has caught a blow to the nuts on more than one occasion), dusts off his goddamn slacks, pulls a plastic evidence baggie out of thin goddamn air or maybe his socks, and casually bags the finger like they’re doing a standard FBI wheeze. “So what,” Dean says, as Cas diligently zips the baggie, “the fuck?”

“Oh,” Cas says, blinking in surprise that Dean is still there and interested, “they think I’m their god.”

Dean kind of stares back at him, the six feet of dude and like sixteen feet of bird, and thinks sure, okay, but his face must still be stuck on “Tippi Hedren attic scene” because Cas puts a reassuring hand on Dean’s shoulder and adds “Don’t worry. I’ve told them I don’t require further offerings, and I reassured them that you’re my consort and were simply jealous of other potential mates.”

It takes Dean two weeks to come up with a response to that, but by then it’s become evident that no bird is ever going to shit on the Impala again, so he decides to just chalk it up in the win column and move on.

You know. The family business.

8. No matter how tightly he folds them, Cas can’t fit his wings through the definitely-not-up-to-code doorway of the wood-paneled family rec room in the basement, so Dean claims it as his man cave and dubs it the “No Fly Zone.”

Castiel doesn’t find this funny, but Dean really only uses it to fold laundry.

9. Transpo is an obvious issue. Cas can almost stuff himself into the Impala if he sort of reverse-cowgirls the back seat, but then the wingtips smoosh up against the windshield and Dean’s visibility is approximately zip. And, sure, Cas could fly himself anywhere they really needed to go, he’s basically a Chevy Of The Air, but sometimes it’s raining, and the seraph Castiel — Shield of God, Heavenly Soldier of the Lord, multidimensional wavelength of celestial intent, will smell like a wet fucking chicken for days afterward. Febreze does not help.

Dean spends a few nauseating weeks contemplating the purchase of — and here he learns that the human gag reflex can be conditioned, but never truly eradicated — a convertible. Once Cas brings up the possibility of a minivan or perhaps a station wagon (he’s taken to studying family motor vehicles with all the intensity of a birder with a life list) and Dean makes him sleep on the couch.

Dean gets his own living room rotation after he shows Cas a Craigslist posting for a very reasonably priced horse trailer. Castiel points out that it’s used and Dean notes that neither of them is exactly mint in original packaging either. Castiel points out that he’s not a horse, and after a few necessary but admittedly unoriginal jokes, Dean pulls up a website with an exhaustive photographic tutorial on how to convert a horse trailer “for the safe and sanitary transport of ostriches, emus, and/or cassowaries.” Cas points out that he’s not an ostrich, emu, and/or cassowary, and Dean counters that he clearly isn’t, because an emu would probably show a little more gratitude, and that’s how Dean learns that the couch has a broken spring under the left cushion. The transpo issue remains unresolved.

10. Dean keeps a pair of shop-grade safety goggles by his side of the bed. It’s not the sexiest look, but it turns out feathers are stabby as hell when encountered at a particular angle. Cas can do the healy thing, of course, but they learn the hard way that cornea perforation is not really a mood enhancer. On the bright side, Castiel accidentally corrects Dean’s incipient presbyopia, which means Dean doesn’t have to hold the newspaper at arm’s length anymore when he’s idly speculating what Carolyn Hax looks like below the neck. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.

11. You’d think that, when you’re coming down from a time-limited but incurable curse that makes you feel like every cell of your body has its own cute little individual headcold — because you missed a hex bag due to the fact that you were preparing your legal response to Sam turning up to the hunt wearing a goddamn hair scrunchy, as if he were fresh off the set of a very special episode of Clarissa Explains It All — anyway, you’d think that being wrapped in the warm embrace of an angel’s wings would be nice.

But you would be wrong, because apparently your boyfriend has been out communing with the bees again, and those feathers pick up ragweed pollen like it’s their goddamn job, and guess what else angels can’t cure? Dean will take Motherfucking Seasonal Allergies for 600, Alex.

12a. One of the neighbors has that homesteading hippie brain disease that drives an otherwise normal-seeming person to brew their own beer and raise a bunch of chickens despite living within five hundred yards of a fully functioning Hy-Vee. There’s a week where one of the wee little velociraptors seems to be processing some kind of trauma because it starts yelling at dawn and keeps going until well past the hour that swearing is allowed on network TV.

When Dean finally hammers on the front door the next afternoon the neighbor apologizes with some extremely nasty home-brew (HIPPIES) and some absolutely devastating weed (HIPPIES!) and explains that “Ginger is going through a rough molt” and then he kind of nods his head towards Dean’s side of the fence where Cas is futzing around in the squash plants and stage whispers (this is a direct quote) “You know how they get.”

Dean is about to rip the dude a new one for comparing his immortal space-kaiju lover to a fucking Australorp yard pullet when Castiel pops his head up over the white pickets and breezily contributes “Bad molt, yes, those are terrible, Dean can tell you all about how insufferable I am those weeks,” and sometimes Dean just doesn’t know why he even tries.

12b. The less said about angel molt, the better.

Seriously, the freakin’ eyes-on-his-hands naked mole rat dude from, whatsit, Pan’s Labyrinth of Subtitles, would run screaming from this shit.

13. There’s a 4th of July BBQ Potluck Block Party and Dean’s inability to stand idly by while good meat is abused ( shut up Sam ) means he winds up manning the grill and dismissing the pretenders to set some strictly inedible things on fire. Cas hangs out next to him and uses his flappers to kinda whupf the smoke away from Dean’s eyes now and then, which rules. It’s actually a pretty chill event until Sharon and Don From Number 4267, The Green House With The White Trim, turn up with a giant Pyrex full of naked, still-marinating teriyaki wings.

Sharon And Don look down at their wings and then up at Castiel and then down at the wings and then up at Castiel and they are clearly teetering on the edge of a Midwestern politeness failure-based nervous breakdown. But then Cas, smooth as a margarine commercial, gently takes the dish from Sharon’s frozen hands, examines the contents for a silent moment, and says “it’s alright. They weren’t personal friends.”

He gets an extra burger for that one.

14. Cas keeps absent-mindedly trying to groom Dean — who, in case it still needs to be said at this point, possesses zero-point-zero feathers of his own — so he goes after Dean’s hair, instead. Dean has to stop him after his second hour of trying to straighten out a cowlick. “I don’t understand how you can steer properly with this deformity,” Cas says, as if it’s a genuine miracle that Dean isn’t constantly careening over ottomans like Dick Van Dyke. He’s even more horrified by Dean’s (frankly minimal) use of hair gel. “Jesus, Cas, it’s not like I’m drinking it,” he says, but then one time they have an epic make-out session shortly after Dean performs his masculine beauty rituals and there’s some smearage of various types of Product (tm) on the flappy areas.

And, sonuvabitch, for the next six hours Cas is spirographing around the house like he has a heavenly inner ear infection, and he only stops veering into the doorframes after Dean wipes down every. Single. Feather. With mineral oil and about eighteen clean shop cloths. Dean switches to something called hair wax, which costs thirty zillion times more per ounce and makes him smell vaguely like church, but is a lot less gloppy. The things we do for love.

15. Seating inside the house is a bit of a conundrum, too. Cas can kind of flop his wings out to the sides if he sits in the middle of the couch, but then Dean’s stuck on the recliner, which is basically in the next county. Bar stools are disastrously tippy, Dean’s lower back and hips have not endured mumble-mumble years of hunting just to be subjected to a damn beanbag chair, and, after a brief flurry of optimistic excitement, Dean determines that they’d have to take the front door off to get a massage chair in. He finds a swing online that if, he can get the hardware properly installed in the crossbeam, is rated for up to 500 pounds, so he texts Cas the URL so he can check out the specs. After half an hour he writes back —

CASTIEL: Dean

CASTIEL: I believe this swing is intended for sexual congress.

DEAN: ...

CASTIEL: I can infer from the ellipsis that you have spent several minutes attempting to draft a response.

DEAN: ...

CASTIEL: Dean

DEAN: it’s multipurpose

16 . On the plus side, though, big-ass wings make for a pretty good drying rack. He can get every sock in the house laid out on those suckers in a single round and, one episode of Dr. Sexy later, they’re perfectly dry and toasty warm, without any of the pair-busting casualties Dean has learned to expect from the apparently socknivorous dryer in the basement.

Dean assumes it’s just the product of good air circulation and body heat until he realizes that he hasn’t had to toss a pair for being too worn out in...maybe six months? So he asks Cas “Are your wings... healing the socks” and after an entire Abbott and Costello routine centering around heal versus heel, Dean determines that the answer is: yes, his boyfriend’s wings are channeling the almighty power of Heaven to magically repair the socks Dean buys at Target in twelve-pack bags. On sale.

This is actually kind of sexy, if Dean is being perfectly honest, so, you know what? It doesn’t belong on this list.

16. So nobody really freaks out or bursts into tears or calls the news or the FBI or anything when Cas goes out in public with him, which Dean is secretly a little disappointed about, because come on. (Maybe giant wings just reads as a gay thing? Was there an episode of Will and Grace about this that Dean missed back when he was ass deep in wendigos or something?)

But no. Dudes tend to just glance at them across the Home Depot parking lot, throw them the Mutual Dude Acknowledgement Nod, and say some shit like “Comic-con,” or “nice anime” in a knowing tone. Then they go back to rolling their carts full of gaskets or hammers or whatever back to their mom’s station wagon.

Little girls tend to go googly-eyed — Castiel seems to fall into the same category as a Disney princess, despite the stubble and the drabcore wardrobe, and Dean can’t count the number of times some mom has approached Dean at the grocery store (like he’s Castiel’s manager?? Which, okay...yeah, actually) and asked if they do birthday parties. The money would actually be pretty tempting if Dean weren’t five thousand percent sure that Cas would get them both arrested by launching into an anatomy lesson about duck sex or how God is a loser who favors relaxed fit jeans and Wild Turkey.

The worst is white ladies of a Certain Age, and it always seems to happen in the pudding aisle, for some reason. They either go cross-eyed with horniness and become indiscriminately handsy (Dean can’t blame them for the impulse, but also back off, Karen), or ask Cas for prayers for their cat’s chronic asshole problems (which Castiel WILL take seriously).

Worst of all is when some hippie spinster clocks them. This woman inevitably reaches right for the feathers and asks in a willowy voice if they’d ever consider turning some of them into dreamcatchers to sell at her studio, which is literally always named The Faerie’s Glen. Then Cas gets confused about why, exactly, a sixty year-old WASP in a peasant skirt would need to call on the infant-protection powers of an Ojibwe spider goddess, while Dean just wants to bite the lady’s fingers off.

Either way, it’s always a bad scene, and many fully loaded grocery carts have been lost to the fallout.

17. For some metaphysical reason Dean is too dumb to suss out but also too smart to question, lugging a pair of Cessna-sized flappers around this mortal dimension actually seems to tucker Cas out. He doesn’t need to zonk out every night, but he semi-regularly throws in the towel and actually crawls in with Dean for the duration.

This would be swell in theory, but the guy absolutely cannot settle the fuck down in less than three (3) human hours, which is the exact amount of sleep Dean requires to maintain his famously sunny demeanor. It’s not just ye olde tossing and turning — Dean can handle that, sharing a bed with Sam is like sleeping next to a kangaroo with restless leg syndrome — no, it’s a nonstop parade of little flippy-flappies and shiffle-shuffles and spontaneous outbursts of preening.

So Dean makes him a Baby Sleep Sack.

This is something Dean knows about due solely to one super dumb hunt involving a banishing sigil that had to be drawn in — he still feels like this had to be a misprint — human breastmilk, and that was obviously not happening. But the monster of the week wasn’t going to banish itself, so they wound up at the nearest Walmart, at 4am, picking up what turned about to be an unnecessarily generous supply of baby formula, along with a fresh box of shotgun shells because God bless America*. It doesn’t work, although “lots of stabbing” turns out to be a solid fallback plan, but the point is that while Sam was debating between Digestion Support or Neurological Development, Dean acquired an unprecedented familiarity with some of the products currently available to the sleep-deprived parent. So Dean finds some DIY Baby Sleep Sack knockoff patterns online and determines he can replicate and scale up the concept with some beach towels and duct tape, and the next morning he presents the lumpy but totally functional prototype to Castiel.

Initially Cas thinks it’s a sex thing (reasonable, it probably is), but once they clear up that misunderstanding, he’s obviously a little peeved by the concept of being swaddled as if he were a gassy baby instead of a deathless sky monster in a sexy dude-shaped can. But Dean must be giving off some serious man on the edge vibes because Cas grudgingly agrees to let Dean tape him up the next time he’s feeling dozy.

It’s real awkward and takes forever to get Cas bundled up right, and then he’s just kind of lying there on top of the sheets, like an enormous, grumpy baked potato.

“I could easily break out of these restraints,” he says in a pissy tone after Dean has crawled in and turned off the light, and Dean rolls over to tell him “no shit”, but then he has to stop himself because the guy is already asleep.

Eventually they upgrade to a version made out of some of those trendy weighted blanket things, a few yards of parachute silk, and a whole lot of velcro. The dude looks so damn peaceful that Dean is honestly a little jealous.

*he doesn’t, actually.

18. There’s a sunny afternoon that isn’t the usual Kansas is trying to murder you level of humid so Dean rolls the Impala out into the street for a wash. Cas helps him out a bit initially, although tragically not in a way that involves removing any unnecessary articles of clothing, but Deans sends him to grab a new tub of wax from the shed and he never comes back. After half an hour Dean needs a beer break and goes looking for him, expecting to find Cas lost in thought over whether Turtle Wax is made of actual turtles, or is made to put on actual turtles. Instead he finds Cas crouched on the shimmering pavement at the back of the driveway, sun beating down on him like it has a personal vendetta, and he’s got both wings stretched out real low above the ground. Dean kind of flips out because it’s the type of pose that just screams “stabbed in gut by angel blade” or “migraine from Hell, literally.”

Then Cas looks up, which pulls his wings up a smidge too, which in turn reveals that fully half a dozen neighborhood cats are lounging in the shady patch beneath his wings, spread out on the concrete like blobs of furry peanut butter. No, it’s actually eight cats. There are eight cats.

“Ling-Ling was feeling a little overheated,” Cas says, as if this explains everything.

And, you know what, at this point, it does.

19. Dean has faith that eventually Sam or Cas or the third demon from the left in the second row will turn up a solution for the whole business. Castiel will get to tuck those bad boys back into the secret wing-closet dimension and he won’t have to worry about getting stuck in stairwells anymore, or being reported to the FAA (again). Then they can finally pack up the house, plaster over the more egregious spots of drywall damage, and go back to killing things outside of the tri-county area. The whole thing has been a pretty embarrassing interlude for a couple of dudes who’ve kicked Satan’s ass multiple times — Sam is probably telling other hunters that they’ve been deep undercover to take out a nest of suburban vampires, or a pack of ghouls with mortgages, instead of vacuuming angel down out of the AC unit and considering a Costco membership.

And sure, there have been some...serious pluses to the situation (see: the other list), but, in his weaker moments, Dean has to admit that he’s kind of going to miss some of the goofy, irritating shit, too — like finding a six-inch feather in the veggie crisper (how? why?), or watching Cas fwap his wings out just in time to accidentally clothesline a jogger, or even the strangely compelling, sorta cheesy smell that starts to float around the house if Cas goes a little too long between hosedowns.

He has actually grown fond of this shit. Which is 100% the least sexy thing on earth, it’s some genuinely, seriously pathetic goo goo crap, and that’s why nobody will ever hear a fucking word about it. People will ask “so what’s it like, with the wings” and Dean will waggle his eyebrows suggestively and review the highlight reel over an inadvisable amount of rail whiskey. His secret’s safe with, well. Him.

20. Seriously though, the bird mites.

Gross.

#deancas #destiel #dean winchester #castiel #wingfic #or maybe...#wingsquick #spn fanfic #spn fanart #spn crack #sorry everybody #now with pictures!#pallasperilous art #pallasperilous fic #pallasperilous crack

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cole-winchester · 3 years

Text

SNEAK PEEK

'Scars That I'm Hiding'

Bishop x Reader

⚠️ Angst, Violence, Abuse ⚠️

A/N : here's a little smidge to get you all riled up cuz I'm a monster like that 😈🙃🤷‍♀️

Release Date : TBD but soon!

Tags: this is my first Mayans fic so hit me up below if you want in

🖤-🖤-🖤-🖤-🖤

You opened the tailgate of your Wrangler, leaning in and stacking a couple boxes together to take inside your new apartment. You'd managed to snag the house rental for a song and a dance and you couldn't be happier. The landlord didn't ask questions, didn't have you fill any form out and seemed content with the cash deposit...perfect! Santo Padre was, in every way, the furthest thing from your past life, which made it the perfect place to start over. New ID, new home...new life.

You eased back out of the Jeep and bumped into the tailgate. The top box slid and you attempted to counter, but it was no use. The box dropped to the driveway and spilled your sketchbooks and drawings across the pavement.

"No! Shit shit shit!" You placed the boxes back into the Jeep and dropped to the ground, desperately trying to collect books.

---

Bishop stepped down from the porch to the driveway, the bright morning sun glinting off of his bike. He scanned the neighborhood, as he always did each morning before he left for the day. Being El Presidente came with its own heat and he made the habit of being on top of his surroundings.

His gaze landed on the black Jeep in the driveway nextdoor. Guess Juan finally managed to find someone to rent the place. Wonder what fucker he swindled-

Bishop's breath hitched as you moved into view from around the Jeep. Holy shit... you were absolutely gorgeous...and definitely not from around here. No way in hell he would've missed seeing you in town.

He watched as the box you were carrying crashed to the driveway, you cursing trying to collect the books.

Bishop moved and quickly snatched up the flyaway papers, gathering them neatly together.

A page caught his eye and he glanced over them as he stepped to you. Graphite potraits and city scene sketches adorned the papers.

"Impressive." He smiles, handing the stack to you. "You've got quite the gift."

"Thank you." You return his smile, placing the papers back into the box.

"Sorry," Bishop shakes his head, smiling in apology. "I'm next door." He motions with his thumb over his shoulder before holding out his hand to you. "Bishop."

You took his hand and eyed him...leather kutte...patches.... El Presidente. Your eyes flicked behind him to the bike in the driveway next door. Might not be a bad idea to have the President of the local outlaw bikers in your pocket.

"Y/N" You smiled warmly.

Bishop returned your smile, not missing the guarded, calculated once over you gave him.

"Nice to meet you, Y/N. Need some help with all this?" He motioned to the boxes in the hatch of the Jeep.

"Gosh, that would be awesome-" Your phone rang, interrupting you. "Sorry, one sec." You set the box down, retrieving your cell from your back pocket.

Bishop averted his gaze from you and quickly took stock of the items in the Jeep. Five -not entirely large- boxes and one back pack. This wasn't a premeditated move...you were running. The question is, from what?

"You don't have a spare truck?...but I already paid for everything to be delivered today....I can't-" The line clicked as the department store hung up on you.

"You've gotta be kidding me" You sighed and ran your hands through your hair. "Shit."

You looked up to Bishop, his questioning gaze meeting yours. "The department store's truck is down and they don't have a spare. Said it'll be another week at least or I can rent a truck.....guess they expect me to be able to move everything by myself. " You sighed angrily.

"The one in town?"

You nodded. "Yeah," as you hauled a box out of the Jeep and began walking towards the porch.

He followed suite with another box as you entered the house, taking note of the few other boxes you must've moved in before he'd come out this morning. Still no where near enough to be all of someone's possessions. "I'll have the guys go pick everything up for you." He set the box down against a wall where you'd motioned.

You spun around to him. "Bishop, no. I can't ask you -"

He smiled, holding up his hands. "You're not asking, sweetheart. What type of neighbor would I be if I didn't help when I could?"

You eyed him... gauging if he was doing this to pull the card later if he wanted something. "I don't want to be in debt to anyone."

He smiled softly, reading your apprehension. "It's not like that at all, querida. No strings."

-----

Hours later, after thanking the men for all of their troubles, you'd attempted to hand Bishop a wad of cash but he gently placed his hand over yours and refused. That warm smile assuring you that no payment was needed.

You'd decided that you were not going to be in debt to this man. He may not see it that way, but you did. He'd been so generous, you had to do something as a thank you. You'd made your rounds to the grocery store and the butcher shop (that one the guys insisted on - the owner, apparently, was the father of two of the men) and you had just now finished making a heavenly lasagna. Making a plate, you wrapped it in foil and headed toward the door. You checked out the window to see if his bike was still in the drive before heading over.

You footsteps faultered as you stepped on his porch.

What if he has a wife?

He didn't have a ring, no other car in the drive... And so what if he did? This was a simple neighborly thank you... you're literally just dropping off a plate of food. You straightened your shoulders and rapped on his door.

Your heart pounded lightly in your ears as you waited, hearing heavy footsteps approaching. You smiled as he opened the door, his eyes taking you in as he returned your smile.

You held up the wrapped plate. "A token of my gratitude for all of your help today."

His gaze flicked briefly to the plate before returning to yours.

"I didn't know if you'd eaten yet so I - I just wrapped it up. Homemade lasagna." You held the plate out to him as you rambled. He waited a moment before accepting it, his warm gaze never leaving yours.

"Y/N, you didn't have to--"

You put your hand up, halting his words. "Please... let me do this?"

He smirked, dropping his gaze a moment before meeting yours again. "Thank you, sweetheart."

----

And that... was how it all began.

Moving in next door to Bishop Losa.

That one fateful moment sparked a fierce protective love with the Mayan President... and as a result, you found your new family within the club.

But now....

Was the club even aware of your kidnapping yet?

How long had it been since you'd been taken and where the fuck were you?

More importantly....was Bishop still alive?

Images of his broken body bleeding onto the living room floor flashed across your mind.

This was all your fault. You should've known better than to think you could run from your past.

Sobs broke from your chest as you violently fought against the metal wrist restraints, screaming into the darkness.

🖤-🖤-🖤-🖤-🖤

#bishop losa #bishop losa x reader #mayans fanfic #mayans x reader #bishop losa x you

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