jollyhunter

[jollyhunter]

"Love me the way you need me" - Part 1.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ COUPLE BadWolf!Dean x SweetVixen!Reader 🍓🥃 -> MASTERLIST

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WARNINGS Special Forces AU, SquadLeader!Dean, age gap, vulnerable!Dean, angsty!Dean, mention of blood, cuddly fluff, angst.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ NOTE This is the first part of two, starting off with fluff and angst. The second part's smut with fluff (and a tiny bit of angst in the end). I had originally intended to post them as a one shot, but separating them feels better to me since this one's pretty laden with angst and it didn't feel right to cut right to the spicy part after that lol. Hope y'all enjoy it <3

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY Dean returns home from a mission - a simple hunt, supposedly, until everything had gone to Hell real fast. As it often did. But this time he's shaken up more than you've ever witnessed him before.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 2,7k

The sound of boots clonking up the stairs echoes through the tranquil apartment complex. It’s early. Maybe 4, maybe 5 am. Dean couldn’t tell when he passed by another pair of identical doors on his way up.

His mind didn’t pay any attention to the names neatly placed next to every entrance. He genuinely couldn’t care less about all the John Smiths and Jane Does - the only thing that matters to him is the nameplate he’d always return to.

The one that reads your name right before ‘& Dean Winchester’.

Grunts and groans stir the serene atmosphere.

Dean came stumbling through the front door and into the corridor of your apartment. His feet shuffled underneath his swaying body, heavy from the effort to not keel over.

The moment he'd entered your home, everything smelled like you. Like his. Like the life you two have carefully built – built to last.

His stomach suddenly twists. The reminder that he had been no more than a hair's breadth away from getting sent to kingdoms come today – less than a goddamn blink of an eye from losing this all – hit him again.

He drags a heavy hand down his face, stopping it mid-way to rub the spot between his eyebrows and a cut on his nose which had dried by now. He tries his best to pull his attention away from the scene replaying in his very own 4D private mind-cinema. A groan drops off his busted lips. His head’s pounding from an impending headache. How does one turn this damn flick off?

Dean takes a step and – trips up. His shoulder bumps into the wall, but he manages to catch himself thanks to his quick reflexes in spite of being through the wringer. The wood and glass shudders next to him – his eyes snap sideways and his arm darts up to steady it.

For a moment, he allows his heavy eyes to settle on the frame that held one of your most recent memories;

In front of a summer field he’s leaned against the hood of Baby, you perched on his shoulders. Arms outstretched like some goofy kid. Beaming. Above it is your handwriting, in arched font, reading ‘Mama, Papa + Baby’.

A pun - you weren’t pregnant. Of course. But whenever he'd walk past the picture, he likes to let his dreams wander for a foolish moment and imagine what it might be like if you did start a family.

His index brushes along the frame before his hand drops down to his side with a heavy sigh. Damnit. Now there's a small stain of blood from his tainted fingerpad.

At least he didn’t send it to the ground. His presence was already enough of a crack in this perfect apple pie life.

He thinks for a moment, his eyes trailing off the wall and along the cutesy decorated corridor.

Picturesque. Yeah. That's how he'd call the home you two shared.

Your word, not his. He just picked it up over the months.

If it was up to him, he’d just describe it as the perfect apple pie life. Minus the white picket fence. You both could have one of those ridiculous fences, but for some reason you had been very adamant about staying in your apartment and him moving in with you.

For now, he’d call your apartment his new home. But he’d get you a house one day or another. He wanted that damn white picket fence, alright? It just comes with the apple pie life package.

Dean shuffles further inside, silently shutting the door behind him. Locking it. Once. Twice. The security chain clicked.

He turns to face the light at the end of the corridor. "Sweetheart?" His voice sounds hoarse. After a moment of silence he calls your name, this time with underlying worry evident.

Wait – it's like 5-friggin-am – why would you be up at this ungodly hour? He scolds himself mentally. After a beat, his shoulders slump.

Why did he suddenly feel so... lost.

Whenever he came home, he always felt like stepping into one of those ridiculously perfect and 'aesthetical' (whatever the hell that meant) pinterest pictures you’d show him.

If it wasn’t for you, he’d feel utterly out of place.

There’s a ridiculously stark contrast between his broad, rugged figure and the way he's surrounded by nothing but objects and furniture he was sure he’d find in pinterest’s ‘cozy’ section.

The morning sun peers past the gaps between the curtains, their golden rays flooding the living room, at the end of the hallway. The soft light doesn’t dare to enter the corridor he’s in, though, leaving him in the dark.

He looks down at his beat up form. Probably for the best he can’t see the entire extent of it.

He kicks off his worn out black boots and pulls off his socks. A sharp exhale leaves his battered nose as his feet sink into the soft carpet that looked like a poodle flattened by a truck.

You’d fought him tooth and nail when you clutched the damn thing under your arm on one of your rare shopping trips. “Dean! Warm homes need a warm welcome!” You had explained to him as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “And I want you to feel warm and fuzzy the moment you return home.” What could he say? He couldn’t argue with that. Thank God he didn’t.

His aching feet felt like stepping onto clouds – in fact they felt numb, now that they were freed from his boots and planted into the familiar soft underground for the first time for what felt like weeks. But it's the good kind of numb.

His eyes note the faint red stain forming on the curly fur that tingles his toes.

Huh, now it looks even more like a steamrolled poodle.

He begins to undo the straps of his tactical suit, his movements sluggish no matter where his limbs go. Then he slips out of his vest, discarding the heavy gear on the floor of the entrance.

He’d police up his shit later. For now he just wanted to strip himself of this damn job.

Next, his coarse fingers start to fumble with the zipper of his jacket. It takes him a moment to unzip the damn thing with the fabric still sticking to his sweat-soaked skin. With a heavy breath, he leans against the wall, shedding the tactical gear off his shoulders. He unbuckles his belt and continues to strip himself of the rest of his suit, layer after layer. The black fabric pools at his feet, along damp clothings, leaving him in just his boxers and a white shirt.

He combs his fingers through his matted hair, ruffling it and ridding himself of some leftover dirt from when he’d been dragged across a gravel path. Multiple times, actually. But he’d keep that information to himself. A hiss comes through his gritted teeth when his hand accidentally rubs over a bump.

Yeah. He was sure he looked bad enough without the additional details.

His worn-out body pushes through the pain of his aching muscles with every shaky step. The familiar smell of your favourite tea hangs in the air when he rounds the corner to the living room.

His eyes dart around the four walls in search for his safe haven. Like a ship in distress. Heart swelling when he spots a curled up form on the leather couch across the room, illuminated by stray rays. The mug's sat on the coffee table, next to it a favourite book of yours, open and turned over like you'd just placed it down a second ago.

Did you wait for him last night and fell asleep on the couch?

When he pads over to you, he can't help but smile softly at the way you had nestled up like a kitten. Cozy blanket wrapped around you like a tortilla with only your face sticking out. Eyes shut closed, breaths slow and expression peaceful. Face dipped in a warm colour by a streak of light from the window next to him.

For a moment he just stands next to the couch, watching your soft puffs of breaths play with some stray hairs of yours. He then crouches down next to you, careful to not wake you. The yellow sprinkles across the emerald glades of his eyes turn them whiskey coloured in the golden morning light.

"Hey, love." He murmurs under his breath, the sound of it almost reverend. His hand moves to brush back a stray hair behind your ear, but he stills mid-air.

His fingers shake. His jaw clenches as his focus shifts to his knuckles. Battered, still bloody. Worst was, he couldn't even tell whether it was his own or of one of the damn things that tried - and failed - to kill him.

A soft noise leaves your parted lips and thankfully draws Dean's attention back to you.

God, you're so peaceful. Is this what peace looks like?

His hand drops down to his thigh. He'll never know.

Drained of energy, he pushes himself to his feet and carefully crawls over your body where he collapses down next to you.

You feel a heavy blanket envelop you from behind. A content hum and you shift in your sleep, instinctively nestling into the warmth. Soon the blanket begins to tickle the side of your neck with tingling bristles brushing your soft skin. Then a warm waft of air licks at your cheeks, enough to make your face scrunch up.

Wait – why does your blanket smell like sweat and musk?

It takes you a moment to register the familiar scent, and just when your eyes flutter open, you feel a deep chuckle rumble against your back.

“Dean..?” You mumble, your mind still catching up with your words.

“Yeah,” He nuzzles his nose into your hair, inhaling your soothing scent before he continues in a raucous voice, “’s me, sweetheart. I’m back.”

You hum, your lips melted into an affectionate smile, “I missed you.” And you attempt to turn in his arms to face him properly but he stops you before you get to roll over, his arms tightly locked around your chest and his forehead pushed into the back of your head.

He doesn’t say anything, just holds you tight with your back pressed into his chest. You feel how his heartbeat thuds in a steady rhythm and smell the hint of smoke that still sticks to his skin.

Hm, a simple salt and burn job, you conclude.

Oh if only it had been just that.

“I missed you too,” he murmurs your name into your hair, the sound of it gravel and low. Exhausted. Relieved.

The tone of his voice has you perk up. Your sleep-addled mind instantly kicks into action and you manage to angle your head enough to get a glance at his face despite his protests.

Your breath hitches at the sight.

That was not a simple salt and burn.

Dean winces at the way your eyes widen in shock.

“I’m fine,” he quickly reassures you. The words raspy when they tumbled off his split lip.

You wanted to believe him, you truly did.

But it was hard to believe that he wasn’t just trying ease your worries when all you could see was streaks of crimson framing his tired eyes. Between them, dark sprinkles mixed with his freckles. The cut across the bridge of his nose had crusted, so has the blood that covered parts of his left cheekbone and temple which ended somewhere in his stubbles. Clearly, a reminder of whatever had almost slashed his face. Almost. Your stomach twists at the thought.

“...Dean, you-”

“Hey, hey, I said I’m fine, sweetheart, don’t worry.”

No joke. No cocky smirk. No chuckle that turns into a cough halfway.

Panic begins to rise inside your chest.

“We gotta clean you up, I’ll get the emergency kit-” You twist and turn in his arms but when you realize he’s still not easing up, you suddenly understand Dean’s not holding but clinging to you. That’s also when you notice his hands are shaking. The same moment his fingers quickly bury themselves in the fabric of your pyjama, making you question whether you’d just imagined it.

“Baby, c’mon, listen - hey –” he husks out your name, his hands now all of a sudden steady and firm as they catch yours to intertwine your fingers with his. “Just- just believe me for a sec, okay?”

You still. Your eyes search his, then trail off to his injuries again, taking note of the exhaustion that’s carved into each of his features.

You nod. Although on the inside you shake your head violently.

Dean’s jaw tenses under your intense gaze. Every muscle in his face is fighting to keep it together. He manages to pull a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. And you're both aware of it. Damnit.

His eyes dart to the ground.

It’s right about now, he wished he’d been more careful to not wake you. Should have resisted the urge to feel close to you. Shouldn’t give in to the pathetic need to just hide in the safety of your innocent presence.

Dean startles when your hand suddenly comes to his face, cupping it and gently stroking below the bruised cheekbone. His eyes snap up to meet yours again, where he can see the worry still stinging your eyes. And it’s too much.

His eyes flutter closed and he drops his forehead to your shoulder, making you startle in his embrace.

You both stay silent for a while. Your hand went back to interlace your fingers, thumb caressing the coarse skin of is tainted knuckles. The only sound that's filling your ears being his ragged breaths right next to you. Worry begins to gnaw at you.

But then thankfully Dean moves a few inches before he mumbles into your shoulder, muffled slightly by it.

“Can we just stay this way..?”

Your heart drops. But you catch it again, for his sake.

“Of course, baby,” you whisper, lips pressed to his hair with a tense smile. And even though you wanted nothing more than him to look at you, you were grateful he couldn’t see your expression right now, because every fibre inside you screamed at you to get up and tend to his wounds before they’d get infected or –

“Just… Need to feel you… please.” he interrupts your thoughts with his husky admission.

Your heart clenches at the sound of his voice. His words. The tiny ‘please’, barely audible.

Fingers still intertwined with his, you give him a gentle squeeze before you tilt your head to nuzzle it against his, careful not to irritate any of his injuries.

“You promise, you’ll let me fix you up first thing before I make us breakfast in the morning?”

“Hm,” he grunts weakly into the crook of your neck.

“That’s my good boy.” You praise him, trying your best to lighten the mood.

And if the circumstances would have been any different, you were convinced this would have earned yourself a moan of his. At least it managed to draw a short sound out of his throat that didn’t make you wince inwardly.

You lower your head to place a gentle kiss onto his forehead, your voice dropped to a soothing murmur as you continue, “I’m here, Dean… I’ve got you…‘M not going anywhere, promise.”

With his head buried in the safety of your neck, he pulls you further into his chest, his arms tightly wrapped around you as if he was a drowning man, clinging onto the only piece of wood in the entire ocean.

It makes breathing harder on your end. But you don’t protest, realizing this is what he needs now.

You’re his lifeline.

You feel his lips move against the skin of your exposed shoulder again.

And even though you can barely make out anything he’s mumbling, you just manage to catch the sound of a broken ‘thanks’ right before he goes silent for the next hours.

“The Bad Wolf & The Sweet Vixen” + Dean Tag List @aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @champagnepoets @livya99 @salemslostwitch

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[jollyhunter]

Ayyy Sailor Moon Sword !!! 🗣️

Thanks for the fun tag, @bettystonewell ! <3

Thank you for tagging me, @arcane-vagabond !! 🩷🩷 I wanted my sword to look like it could cut the very sky itself 🌌

no pressure tags: @whatever-lmaoo @treatbuckywkisses @writing-for-marvel @humanwip @elvenrin

[jollyhunter]

Okay… and now it alllllllll makes sense. Good call on breaking this in two!

Thanks again for your help 😉 Yeah, in hindsight the decision to break it in two was what lead to a much more fleshed out first part. It was originally meant to be just a smut 😆, but then things took their own path and well, vulnerable Dean just took over.

I can just picture this perfectly, and my heart is breaking for him. You can just feel the way he’s trying to hold himself together and battle whatever he’s done at work in this paragraph alone. The visuals on the hallway and the apple pie home he’s made with his girl

Oh Beth! Thank you so much! I'm so happy I could convey how much he struggles. I just feel like Dean - no matter which AU - always struggles with the fact that he wished for nothing but the perfect apple pie life and at the same time always feels like he's just not made for it and feels out of place. ❤️‍🩹

It’s hard to believe that this is the big strong, badwolf!Dean, but it’s perfect. He’s vulnerable and he knows he can get what he needs through her. What an image!

Haha right?? I love writing tough characters in those rare vulnerable situations, it just hits even more when they break down.

I hope you'll enjoy it as well! 🧡🧡🧡 After vulnerable!Dean, we'll get to see his other side in the next part 🤭

"Love me the way you need me" - Part 1.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ COUPLE BadWolf!Dean x SweetVixen!Reader 🍓🥃 -> MASTERLIST

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WARNINGS Special Forces AU, SquadLeader!Dean, age gap, vulnerable!Dean, angsty!Dean, mention of blood, cuddly fluff, angst.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ NOTE This is the first part of two, starting off with fluff and angst. The second part's smut with fluff (and a tiny bit of angst in the end). I had originally intended to post them as a one shot, but separating them feels better to me since this one's pretty laden with angst and it didn't feel right to cut right to the spicy part after that lol. Hope y'all enjoy it <3

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY Dean returns home from a mission - a simple hunt, supposedly, until everything had gone to Hell real fast. As it often did. But this time he's shaken up more than you've ever witnessed him before.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 2,7k

The sound of boots clonking up the stairs echoes through the tranquil apartment complex. It’s early. Maybe 4, maybe 5 am. Dean couldn’t tell when he passed by another pair of identical doors on his way up.

His mind didn’t pay any attention to the names neatly placed next to every entrance. He genuinely couldn’t care less about all the John Smiths and Jane Does - the only thing that matters to him is the nameplate he’d always return to.

The one that reads your name right before ‘& Dean Winchester’.

Grunts and groans stir the serene atmosphere.

Dean came stumbling through the front door and into the corridor of your apartment. His feet shuffled underneath his swaying body, heavy from the effort to not keel over.

The moment he'd entered your home, everything smelled like you. Like his. Like the life you two have carefully built – built to last.

His stomach suddenly twists. The reminder that he had been no more than a hair's breadth away from getting sent to kingdoms come today – less than a goddamn blink of an eye from losing this all – hit him again.

He drags a heavy hand down his face, stopping it mid-way to rub the spot between his eyebrows and a cut on his nose which had dried by now. He tries his best to pull his attention away from the scene replaying in his very own 4D private mind-cinema. A groan drops off his busted lips. His head’s pounding from an impending headache. How does one turn this damn flick off?

Dean takes a step and – trips up. His shoulder bumps into the wall, but he manages to catch himself thanks to his quick reflexes in spite of being through the wringer. The wood and glass shudders next to him – his eyes snap sideways and his arm darts up to steady it.

For a moment, he allows his heavy eyes to settle on the frame that held one of your most recent memories;

In front of a summer field he’s leaned against the hood of Baby, you perched on his shoulders. Arms outstretched like some goofy kid. Beaming. Above it is your handwriting, in arched font, reading ‘Mama, Papa + Baby’.

A pun - you weren’t pregnant. Of course. But whenever he'd walk past the picture, he likes to let his dreams wander for a foolish moment and imagine what it might be like if you did start a family.

His index brushes along the frame before his hand drops down to his side with a heavy sigh. Damnit. Now there's a small stain of blood from his tainted fingerpad.

At least he didn’t send it to the ground. His presence was already enough of a crack in this perfect apple pie life.

He thinks for a moment, his eyes trailing off the wall and along the cutesy decorated corridor.

Picturesque. Yeah. That's how he'd call the home you two shared.

Your word, not his. He just picked it up over the months.

If it was up to him, he’d just describe it as the perfect apple pie life. Minus the white picket fence. You both could have one of those ridiculous fences, but for some reason you had been very adamant about staying in your apartment and him moving in with you.

For now, he’d call your apartment his new home. But he’d get you a house one day or another. He wanted that damn white picket fence, alright? It just comes with the apple pie life package.

Dean shuffles further inside, silently shutting the door behind him. Locking it. Once. Twice. The security chain clicked.

He turns to face the light at the end of the corridor. "Sweetheart?" His voice sounds hoarse. After a moment of silence he calls your name, this time with underlying worry evident.

Wait – it's like 5-friggin-am – why would you be up at this ungodly hour? He scolds himself mentally. After a beat, his shoulders slump.

Why did he suddenly feel so... lost.

Whenever he came home, he always felt like stepping into one of those ridiculously perfect and 'aesthetical' (whatever the hell that meant) pinterest pictures you’d show him.

If it wasn’t for you, he’d feel utterly out of place.

There’s a ridiculously stark contrast between his broad, rugged figure and the way he's surrounded by nothing but objects and furniture he was sure he’d find in pinterest’s ‘cozy’ section.

The morning sun peers past the gaps between the curtains, their golden rays flooding the living room, at the end of the hallway. The soft light doesn’t dare to enter the corridor he’s in, though, leaving him in the dark.

He looks down at his beat up form. Probably for the best he can’t see the entire extent of it.

He kicks off his worn out black boots and pulls off his socks. A sharp exhale leaves his battered nose as his feet sink into the soft carpet that looked like a poodle flattened by a truck.

You’d fought him tooth and nail when you clutched the damn thing under your arm on one of your rare shopping trips. “Dean! Warm homes need a warm welcome!” You had explained to him as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “And I want you to feel warm and fuzzy the moment you return home.” What could he say? He couldn’t argue with that. Thank God he didn’t.

His aching feet felt like stepping onto clouds – in fact they felt numb, now that they were freed from his boots and planted into the familiar soft underground for the first time for what felt like weeks. But it's the good kind of numb.

His eyes note the faint red stain forming on the curly fur that tingles his toes.

Huh, now it looks even more like a steamrolled poodle.

He begins to undo the straps of his tactical suit, his movements sluggish no matter where his limbs go. Then he slips out of his vest, discarding the heavy gear on the floor of the entrance.

He’d police up his shit later. For now he just wanted to strip himself of this damn job.

Next, his coarse fingers start to fumble with the zipper of his jacket. It takes him a moment to unzip the damn thing with the fabric still sticking to his sweat-soaked skin. With a heavy breath, he leans against the wall, shedding the tactical gear off his shoulders. He unbuckles his belt and continues to strip himself of the rest of his suit, layer after layer. The black fabric pools at his feet, along damp clothings, leaving him in just his boxers and a white shirt.

He combs his fingers through his matted hair, ruffling it and ridding himself of some leftover dirt from when he’d been dragged across a gravel path. Multiple times, actually. But he’d keep that information to himself. A hiss comes through his gritted teeth when his hand accidentally rubs over a bump.

Yeah. He was sure he looked bad enough without the additional details.

His worn-out body pushes through the pain of his aching muscles with every shaky step. The familiar smell of your favourite tea hangs in the air when he rounds the corner to the living room.

His eyes dart around the four walls in search for his safe haven. Like a ship in distress. Heart swelling when he spots a curled up form on the leather couch across the room, illuminated by stray rays. The mug's sat on the coffee table, next to it a favourite book of yours, open and turned over like you'd just placed it down a second ago.

Did you wait for him last night and fell asleep on the couch?

When he pads over to you, he can't help but smile softly at the way you had nestled up like a kitten. Cozy blanket wrapped around you like a tortilla with only your face sticking out. Eyes shut closed, breaths slow and expression peaceful. Face dipped in a warm colour by a streak of light from the window next to him.

For a moment he just stands next to the couch, watching your soft puffs of breaths play with some stray hairs of yours. He then crouches down next to you, careful to not wake you. The yellow sprinkles across the emerald glades of his eyes turning them whiskey coloured in the golden morning light.

"Hey, love." He murmurs under his breath, the sound of it almost reverend. His hand moves to brush back a stray of hair behind your ear, but he stills mid-air.

His fingers shake. His jaw clenches as his focus shifts to his knuckles. Battered, still bloody. Worst was, he couldn't even tell whether it was his own or of one of the damn things that tried - and failed - to kill him.

A soft noise leaves your parted lips and thankfully draws Dean's attention back to you.

God, you're so peaceful. Is this what peace looks like?

His hand drops down to his thigh. He'll never know.

Drained of energy, he pushes himself to his feet and carefully crawls over your body where he collapses down next to you.

You feel a heavy blanket envelop you from behind. A content hum and you shift in your sleep, instinctively nestling into the warmth. Soon the blanket begins to tickle the side of your neck with tingling bristles brushing your soft skin. Then a warm waft of air licks at your cheeks, enough to make your face scrunch up.

Wait – why does your blanket smell like sweat and musk?

It takes you a moment to register the familiar scent, and just when your eyes flutter open, you feel a deep chuckle rumble against your back.

“Dean..?” You mumble, your mind still catching up with your words.

“Yeah,” He nuzzles his nose into your hair, inhaling your soothing scent before he continues in a raucous voice, “’s me, sweetheart. I’m back.”

You hum, your lips melted into an affectionate smile, “I missed you.” And you attempt to turn in his arms to face him properly but he stops you before you get to roll over, his arms tightly locked around your chest and his forehead pushed into the back of your head.

He doesn’t say anything, just holds you tight with your back pressed into his chest. You feel how his heartbeat thuds in a steady rhythm and smell the hint of smoke that still sticks to his skin.

Hm, a simple salt and burn job, you conclude.

Oh if only it had been just that.

“I missed you too,” he murmurs your name into your hair, the sound of it gravel and low. Exhausted. Relieved.

The tone of his voice has you perk up. Your sleep-addled mind instantly kicks into action and you manage to angle your head enough to get a glance at his face despite his protests.

Your breath hitches at the sight.

That was not a simple salt and burn.

Dean winces at the way your eyes widen in shock.

“I’m fine,” he quickly reassures you. The words raspy when they tumbled off his split lip.

You wanted to believe him, you truly did.

But it was hard to believe that he wasn’t just trying ease your worries when all you could see was streaks of crimson framing his tired eyes. Between them, dark sprinkles mixed with his freckles. The cut across the bridge of his nose had crusted, so has the blood that covered parts of his left cheekbone and temple which ended somewhere in his stubbles. Clearly, a reminder of whatever had almost slashed his face. Almost. Your stomach twists at the thought.

“...Dean, you-”

“Hey, hey, I said I’m fine, sweetheart, don’t worry.”

No joke. No cocky smirk. No chuckle that turns into a cough halfway.

Panic begins to rise inside your chest.

“We gotta clean you up, I’ll get the emergency kit-” You twist and turn in his arms but when you realize he’s still not easing up, you suddenly understand Dean’s not holding but clinging to you. That’s also when you notice his hands are shaking. The same moment his fingers quickly bury themselves in the fabric of your pyjama, making you question whether you’d just imagined it.

“Baby, c’mon, listen - hey –” he husks out your name, his hands now all of a sudden steady and firm as they catch yours to intertwine your fingers with his. “Just- just believe me for a sec, okay?”

You still. Your eyes search his, then trail off to his injuries again, taking note of the exhaustion that’s carved into each of his features.

You nod. Although on the inside you shake your head violently.

Dean’s jaw tenses under your intense gaze. Every muscle in his face is fighting to keep it together. He manages to pull a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. And you're both aware of it. Damnit.

His eyes dart to the ground.

It’s right about now, he wished he’d been more careful to not wake you. Should have resisted the urge to feel close to you. Shouldn’t give in to the pathetic need to just hide in the safety of your innocent presence.

Dean startles when your hand suddenly comes to his face, cupping it and gently stroking below the bruised cheekbone. His eyes snap up to meet yours again, where he can see the worry still stinging your eyes. And it’s too much.

His eyes flutter closed and he drops his forehead to your shoulder, making you startle in his embrace.

You both stay silent for a while. Your hand went back to interlace your fingers, thumb caressing the coarse skin of is tainted knuckles. The only sound that's filling your ears being his ragged breaths right next to you. Worry begins to gnaw at you.

But then thankfully Dean moves a few inches before he mumbles into your shoulder, muffled slightly by it.

“Can we just stay this way..?”

Your heart drops. But you catch it again, for his sake.

“Of course, baby,” you whisper, lips pressed to his hair with a tense smile. And even though you wanted nothing more than him to look at you, you were grateful he couldn’t see your expression right now, because every fibre inside you screamed at you to get up and tend to his wounds before they’d get infected or –

“Just… Need to feel you… please.” he interrupts your thoughts with his husky admission.

Your heart clenches at the sound of his voice. His words. The tiny ‘please’, barely audible.

Fingers still intertwined with his, you give him a gentle squeeze before you tilt your head to nuzzle it against his, careful not to irritate any of his injuries.

“You promise, you’ll let me fix you up first thing before I make us breakfast in the morning?”

“Hm,” he grunts weakly into the crook of your neck.

“That’s my good boy.” You praise him, trying your best to lighten the mood.

And if the circumstances would have been any different, you were convinced this would have earned yourself a moan of his. At least it managed to draw a short sound out of his throat that didn’t make you wince inwardly.

You lower your head to place a gentle kiss onto his forehead, your voice dropped to a soothing murmur as you continue, “I’m here, Dean… I’ve got you…‘M not going anywhere, promise.”

With his head buried in the safety of your neck, he pulls you further into his chest, his arms tightly wrapped around you as if he was a drowning man, clinging onto the only piece of wood in the entire ocean.

It makes breathing harder on your end. But you don’t protest, realizing this is what he needs now.

You’re his lifeline.

You feel his lips move against the skin of your exposed shoulder again.

And even though you can barely make out anything he’s mumbling, you just manage to catch the sound of a broken ‘thanks’ right before he goes silent for the next hours.

“The Bad Wolf & The Sweet Vixen” + Dean Tag List @aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @champagnepoets @livya99 @salemslostwitch

❀ꗥ Want to join my TAG LIST? Fill out this form!

[jollyhunter]

"Love me the way you need me" - Part 1.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ COUPLE BadWolf!Dean x SweetVixen!Reader 🍓🥃 -> MASTERLIST

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WARNINGS Special Forces AU, SquadLeader!Dean, age gap, vulnerable!Dean, angsty!Dean, mention of blood, cuddly fluff, angst.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ NOTE This is the first part of two, starting off with fluff and angst. The second part's smut with fluff (and a tiny bit of angst in the end). I had originally intended to post them as a one shot, but separating them feels better to me since this one's pretty laden with angst and it didn't feel right to cut right to the spicy part after that lol. Hope y'all enjoy it <3

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY Dean returns home from a mission - a simple hunt, supposedly, until everything had gone to Hell real fast. As it often did. But this time he's shaken up more than you've ever witnessed him before.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 2,7k

The sound of boots clonking up the stairs echoes through the tranquil apartment complex. It’s early. Maybe 4, maybe 5 am. Dean couldn’t tell when he passed by another pair of identical doors on his way up.

His mind didn’t pay any attention to the names neatly placed next to every entrance. He genuinely couldn’t care less about all the John Smiths and Jane Does - the only thing that matters to him is the nameplate he’d always return to.

The one that reads your name right before ‘& Dean Winchester’.

Grunts and groans stir the serene atmosphere.

Dean came stumbling through the front door and into the corridor of your apartment. His feet shuffled underneath his swaying body, heavy from the effort to not keel over.

The moment he'd entered your home, everything smelled like you. Like his. Like the life you two have carefully built – built to last.

His stomach suddenly twists. The reminder that he had been no more than a hair's breadth away from getting sent to kingdoms come today – less than a goddamn blink of an eye from losing this all – hit him again.

He drags a heavy hand down his face, stopping it mid-way to rub the spot between his eyebrows and a cut on his nose which had dried by now. He tries his best to pull his attention away from the scene replaying in his very own 4D private mind-cinema. A groan drops off his busted lips. His head’s pounding from an impending headache. How does one turn this damn flick off?

Dean takes a step and – trips up. His shoulder bumps into the wall, but he manages to catch himself thanks to his quick reflexes in spite of being through the wringer. The wood and glass shudders next to him – his eyes snap sideways and his arm darts up to steady it.

For a moment, he allows his heavy eyes to settle on the frame that held one of your most recent memories;

In front of a summer field he’s leaned against the hood of Baby, you perched on his shoulders. Arms outstretched like some goofy kid. Beaming. Above it is your handwriting, in arched font, reading ‘Mama, Papa + Baby’.

A pun - you weren’t pregnant. Of course. But whenever he'd walk past the picture, he likes to let his dreams wander for a foolish moment and imagine what it might be like if you did start a family.

His index brushes along the frame before his hand drops down to his side with a heavy sigh. Damnit. Now there's a small stain of blood from his tainted fingerpad.

At least he didn’t send it to the ground. His presence was already enough of a crack in this perfect apple pie life.

He thinks for a moment, his eyes trailing off the wall and along the cutesy decorated corridor.

Picturesque. Yeah. That's how he'd call the home you two shared.

Your word, not his. He just picked it up over the months.

If it was up to him, he’d just describe it as the perfect apple pie life. Minus the white picket fence. You both could have one of those ridiculous fences, but for some reason you had been very adamant about staying in your apartment and him moving in with you.

For now, he’d call your apartment his new home. But he’d get you a house one day or another. He wanted that damn white picket fence, alright? It just comes with the apple pie life package.

Dean shuffles further inside, silently shutting the door behind him. Locking it. Once. Twice. The security chain clicked.

He turns to face the light at the end of the corridor. "Sweetheart?" His voice sounds hoarse. After a moment of silence he calls your name, this time with underlying worry evident.

Wait – it's like 5-friggin-am – why would you be up at this ungodly hour? He scolds himself mentally. After a beat, his shoulders slump.

Why did he suddenly feel so... lost.

Whenever he came home, he always felt like stepping into one of those ridiculously perfect and 'aesthetical' (whatever the hell that meant) pinterest pictures you’d show him.

If it wasn’t for you, he’d feel utterly out of place.

There’s a ridiculously stark contrast between his broad, rugged figure and the way he's surrounded by nothing but objects and furniture he was sure he’d find in pinterest’s ‘cozy’ section.

The morning sun peers past the gaps between the curtains, their golden rays flooding the living room, at the end of the hallway. The soft light doesn’t dare to enter the corridor he’s in, though, leaving him in the dark.

He looks down at his beat up form. Probably for the best he can’t see the entire extent of it.

He kicks off his worn out black boots and pulls off his socks. A sharp exhale leaves his battered nose as his feet sink into the soft carpet that looked like a poodle flattened by a truck.

You’d fought him tooth and nail when you clutched the damn thing under your arm on one of your rare shopping trips. “Dean! Warm homes need a warm welcome!” You had explained to him as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “And I want you to feel warm and fuzzy the moment you return home.” What could he say? He couldn’t argue with that. Thank God he didn’t.

His aching feet felt like stepping onto clouds – in fact they felt numb, now that they were freed from his boots and planted into the familiar soft underground for the first time for what felt like weeks. But it's the good kind of numb.

His eyes note the faint red stain forming on the curly fur that tingles his toes.

Huh, now it looks even more like a steamrolled poodle.

He begins to undo the straps of his tactical suit, his movements sluggish no matter where his limbs go. Then he slips out of his vest, discarding the heavy gear on the floor of the entrance.

He’d police up his shit later. For now he just wanted to strip himself of this damn job.

Next, his coarse fingers start to fumble with the zipper of his jacket. It takes him a moment to unzip the damn thing with the fabric still sticking to his sweat-soaked skin. With a heavy breath, he leans against the wall, shedding the tactical gear off his shoulders. He unbuckles his belt and continues to strip himself of the rest of his suit, layer after layer. The black fabric pools at his feet, along damp clothings, leaving him in just his boxers and a white shirt.

He combs his fingers through his matted hair, ruffling it and ridding himself of some leftover dirt from when he’d been dragged across a gravel path. Multiple times, actually. But he’d keep that information to himself. A hiss comes through his gritted teeth when his hand accidentally rubs over a bump.

Yeah. He was sure he looked bad enough without the additional details.

His worn-out body pushes through the pain of his aching muscles with every shaky step. The familiar smell of your favourite tea hangs in the air when he rounds the corner to the living room.

His eyes dart around the four walls in search for his safe haven. Like a ship in distress. Heart swelling when he spots a curled up form on the leather couch across the room, illuminated by stray rays. The mug's sat on the coffee table, next to it a favourite book of yours, open and turned over like you'd just placed it down a second ago.

Did you wait for him last night and fell asleep on the couch?

When he pads over to you, he can't help but smile softly at the way you had nestled up like a kitten. Cozy blanket wrapped around you like a tortilla with only your face sticking out. Eyes shut closed, breaths slow and expression peaceful. Face dipped in a warm colour by a streak of light from the window next to him.

For a moment he just stands next to the couch, watching your soft puffs of breaths play with some stray hairs of yours. He then crouches down next to you, careful to not wake you. The yellow sprinkles across the emerald glades of his eyes turn them whiskey coloured in the golden morning light.

"Hey, love." He murmurs under his breath, the sound of it almost reverend. His hand moves to brush back a stray hair behind your ear, but he stills mid-air.

His fingers shake. His jaw clenches as his focus shifts to his knuckles. Battered, still bloody. Worst was, he couldn't even tell whether it was his own or of one of the damn things that tried - and failed - to kill him.

A soft noise leaves your parted lips and thankfully draws Dean's attention back to you.

God, you're so peaceful. Is this what peace looks like?

His hand drops down to his thigh. He'll never know.

Drained of energy, he pushes himself to his feet and carefully crawls over your body where he collapses down next to you.

You feel a heavy blanket envelop you from behind. A content hum and you shift in your sleep, instinctively nestling into the warmth. Soon the blanket begins to tickle the side of your neck with tingling bristles brushing your soft skin. Then a warm waft of air licks at your cheeks, enough to make your face scrunch up.

Wait – why does your blanket smell like sweat and musk?

It takes you a moment to register the familiar scent, and just when your eyes flutter open, you feel a deep chuckle rumble against your back.

“Dean..?” You mumble, your mind still catching up with your words.

“Yeah,” He nuzzles his nose into your hair, inhaling your soothing scent before he continues in a raucous voice, “’s me, sweetheart. I’m back.”

You hum, your lips melted into an affectionate smile, “I missed you.” And you attempt to turn in his arms to face him properly but he stops you before you get to roll over, his arms tightly locked around your chest and his forehead pushed into the back of your head.

He doesn’t say anything, just holds you tight with your back pressed into his chest. You feel how his heartbeat thuds in a steady rhythm and smell the hint of smoke that still sticks to his skin.

Hm, a simple salt and burn job, you conclude.

Oh if only it had been just that.

“I missed you too,” he murmurs your name into your hair, the sound of it gravel and low. Exhausted. Relieved.

The tone of his voice has you perk up. Your sleep-addled mind instantly kicks into action and you manage to angle your head enough to get a glance at his face despite his protests.

Your breath hitches at the sight.

That was not a simple salt and burn.

Dean winces at the way your eyes widen in shock.

“I’m fine,” he quickly reassures you. The words raspy when they tumbled off his split lip.

You wanted to believe him, you truly did.

But it was hard to believe that he wasn’t just trying ease your worries when all you could see was streaks of crimson framing his tired eyes. Between them, dark sprinkles mixed with his freckles. The cut across the bridge of his nose had crusted, so has the blood that covered parts of his left cheekbone and temple which ended somewhere in his stubbles. Clearly, a reminder of whatever had almost slashed his face. Almost. Your stomach twists at the thought.

“...Dean, you-”

“Hey, hey, I said I’m fine, sweetheart, don’t worry.”

No joke. No cocky smirk. No chuckle that turns into a cough halfway.

Panic begins to rise inside your chest.

“We gotta clean you up, I’ll get the emergency kit-” You twist and turn in his arms but when you realize he’s still not easing up, you suddenly understand Dean’s not holding but clinging to you. That’s also when you notice his hands are shaking. The same moment his fingers quickly bury themselves in the fabric of your pyjama, making you question whether you’d just imagined it.

“Baby, c’mon, listen - hey –” he husks out your name, his hands now all of a sudden steady and firm as they catch yours to intertwine your fingers with his. “Just- just believe me for a sec, okay?”

You still. Your eyes search his, then trail off to his injuries again, taking note of the exhaustion that’s carved into each of his features.

You nod. Although on the inside you shake your head violently.

Dean’s jaw tenses under your intense gaze. Every muscle in his face is fighting to keep it together. He manages to pull a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. And you're both aware of it. Damnit.

His eyes dart to the ground.

It’s right about now, he wished he’d been more careful to not wake you. Should have resisted the urge to feel close to you. Shouldn’t give in to the pathetic need to just hide in the safety of your innocent presence.

Dean startles when your hand suddenly comes to his face, cupping it and gently stroking below the bruised cheekbone. His eyes snap up to meet yours again, where he can see the worry still stinging your eyes. And it’s too much.

His eyes flutter closed and he drops his forehead to your shoulder, making you startle in his embrace.

You both stay silent for a while. Your hand went back to interlace your fingers, thumb caressing the coarse skin of is tainted knuckles. The only sound that's filling your ears being his ragged breaths right next to you. Worry begins to gnaw at you.

But then thankfully Dean moves a few inches before he mumbles into your shoulder, muffled slightly by it.

“Can we just stay this way..?”

Your heart drops. But you catch it again, for his sake.

“Of course, baby,” you whisper, lips pressed to his hair with a tense smile. And even though you wanted nothing more than him to look at you, you were grateful he couldn’t see your expression right now, because every fibre inside you screamed at you to get up and tend to his wounds before they’d get infected or –

“Just… Need to feel you… please.” he interrupts your thoughts with his husky admission.

Your heart clenches at the sound of his voice. His words. The tiny ‘please’, barely audible.

Fingers still intertwined with his, you give him a gentle squeeze before you tilt your head to nuzzle it against his, careful not to irritate any of his injuries.

“You promise, you’ll let me fix you up first thing before I make us breakfast in the morning?”

“Hm,” he grunts weakly into the crook of your neck.

“That’s my good boy.” You praise him, trying your best to lighten the mood.

And if the circumstances would have been any different, you were convinced this would have earned yourself a moan of his. At least it managed to draw a short sound out of his throat that didn’t make you wince inwardly.

You lower your head to place a gentle kiss onto his forehead, your voice dropped to a soothing murmur as you continue, “I’m here, Dean… I’ve got you…‘M not going anywhere, promise.”

With his head buried in the safety of your neck, he pulls you further into his chest, his arms tightly wrapped around you as if he was a drowning man, clinging onto the only piece of wood in the entire ocean.

It makes breathing harder on your end. But you don’t protest, realizing this is what he needs now.

You’re his lifeline.

You feel his lips move against the skin of your exposed shoulder again.

And even though you can barely make out anything he’s mumbling, you just manage to catch the sound of a broken ‘thanks’ right before he goes silent for the next hours.

“The Bad Wolf & The Sweet Vixen” + Dean Tag List @aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @champagnepoets @livya99 @salemslostwitch

❀ꗥ Want to join my TAG LIST? Fill out this form!

[jollyhunter]

"Love me the way you need me" - Part 1.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ COUPLE BadWolf!Dean x SweetVixen!Reader 🍓🥃 -> MASTERLIST

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WARNINGS Special Forces AU, SquadLeader!Dean, age gap, vulnerable!Dean, angsty!Dean, mention of blood, cuddly fluff, angst.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ NOTE This is the first part of two, starting off with fluff and angst. The second part's smut with fluff (and a tiny bit of angst in the end). I had originally intended to post them as a one shot, but separating them feels better to me since this one's pretty laden with angst and it didn't feel right to cut right to the spicy part after that lol. Hope y'all enjoy it <3

⋆ ˚｡⋆ SUMMARY Dean returns home from a mission - a simple hunt, supposedly, until everything had gone to Hell real fast. As it often did. But this time he's shaken up more than you've ever witnessed him before.

⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS 2,7k

The sound of boots clonking up the stairs echoes through the tranquil apartment complex. It’s early. Maybe 4, maybe 5 am. Dean couldn’t tell when he passed by another pair of identical doors on his way up.

His mind didn’t pay any attention to the names neatly placed next to every entrance. He genuinely couldn’t care less about all the John Smiths and Jane Does - the only thing that matters to him is the nameplate he’d always return to.

The one that reads your name right before ‘& Dean Winchester’.

Grunts and groans stir the serene atmosphere.

Dean came stumbling through the front door and into the corridor of your apartment. His feet shuffled underneath his swaying body, heavy from the effort to not keel over.

The moment he'd entered your home, everything smelled like you. Like his. Like the life you two have carefully built – built to last.

His stomach suddenly twists. The reminder that he had been no more than a hair's breadth away from getting sent to kingdoms come today – less than a goddamn blink of an eye from losing this all – hit him again.

He drags a heavy hand down his face, stopping it mid-way to rub the spot between his eyebrows and a cut on his nose which had dried by now. He tries his best to pull his attention away from the scene replaying in his very own 4D private mind-cinema. A groan drops off his busted lips. His head’s pounding from an impending headache. How does one turn this damn flick off?

Dean takes a step and – trips up. His shoulder bumps into the wall, but he manages to catch himself thanks to his quick reflexes in spite of being through the wringer. The wood and glass shudders next to him – his eyes snap sideways and his arm darts up to steady it.

For a moment, he allows his heavy eyes to settle on the frame that held one of your most recent memories;

In front of a summer field he’s leaned against the hood of Baby, you perched on his shoulders. Arms outstretched like some goofy kid. Beaming. Above it is your handwriting, in arched font, reading ‘Mama, Papa + Baby’.

A pun - you weren’t pregnant. Of course. But whenever he'd walk past the picture, he likes to let his dreams wander for a foolish moment and imagine what it might be like if you did start a family.

His index brushes along the frame before his hand drops down to his side with a heavy sigh. Damnit. Now there's a small stain of blood from his tainted fingerpad.

At least he didn’t send it to the ground. His presence was already enough of a crack in this perfect apple pie life.

He thinks for a moment, his eyes trailing off the wall and along the cutesy decorated corridor.

Picturesque. Yeah. That's how he'd call the home you two shared.

Your word, not his. He just picked it up over the months.

If it was up to him, he’d just describe it as the perfect apple pie life. Minus the white picket fence. You both could have one of those ridiculous fences, but for some reason you had been very adamant about staying in your apartment and him moving in with you.

For now, he’d call your apartment his new home. But he’d get you a house one day or another. He wanted that damn white picket fence, alright? It just comes with the apple pie life package.

Dean shuffles further inside, silently shutting the door behind him. Locking it. Once. Twice. The security chain clicked.

He turns to face the light at the end of the corridor. "Sweetheart?" His voice sounds hoarse. After a moment of silence he calls your name, this time with underlying worry evident.

Wait – it's like 5-friggin-am – why would you be up at this ungodly hour? He scolds himself mentally. After a beat, his shoulders slump.

Why did he suddenly feel so... lost.

Whenever he came home, he always felt like stepping into one of those ridiculously perfect and 'aesthetical' (whatever the hell that meant) pinterest pictures you’d show him.

If it wasn’t for you, he’d feel utterly out of place.

There’s a ridiculously stark contrast between his broad, rugged figure and the way he's surrounded by nothing but objects and furniture he was sure he’d find in pinterest’s ‘cozy’ section.

The morning sun peers past the gaps between the curtains, their golden rays flooding the living room, at the end of the hallway. The soft light doesn’t dare to enter the corridor he’s in, though, leaving him in the dark.

He looks down at his beat up form. Probably for the best he can’t see the entire extent of it.

He kicks off his worn out black boots and pulls off his socks. A sharp exhale leaves his battered nose as his feet sink into the soft carpet that looked like a poodle flattened by a truck.

You’d fought him tooth and nail when you clutched the damn thing under your arm on one of your rare shopping trips. “Dean! Warm homes need a warm welcome!” You had explained to him as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “And I want you to feel warm and fuzzy the moment you return home.” What could he say? He couldn’t argue with that. Thank God he didn’t.

His aching feet felt like stepping onto clouds – in fact they felt numb, now that they were freed from his boots and planted into the familiar soft underground for the first time for what felt like weeks. But it's the good kind of numb.

His eyes note the faint red stain forming on the curly fur that tingles his toes.

Huh, now it looks even more like a steamrolled poodle.

He begins to undo the straps of his tactical suit, his movements sluggish no matter where his limbs go. Then he slips out of his vest, discarding the heavy gear on the floor of the entrance.

He’d police up his shit later. For now he just wanted to strip himself of this damn job.

Next, his coarse fingers start to fumble with the zipper of his jacket. It takes him a moment to unzip the damn thing with the fabric still sticking to his sweat-soaked skin. With a heavy breath, he leans against the wall, shedding the tactical gear off his shoulders. He unbuckles his belt and continues to strip himself of the rest of his suit, layer after layer. The black fabric pools at his feet, along damp clothings, leaving him in just his boxers and a white shirt.

He combs his fingers through his matted hair, ruffling it and ridding himself of some leftover dirt from when he’d been dragged across a gravel path. Multiple times, actually. But he’d keep that information to himself. A hiss comes through his gritted teeth when his hand accidentally rubs over a bump.

Yeah. He was sure he looked bad enough without the additional details.

His worn-out body pushes through the pain of his aching muscles with every shaky step. The familiar smell of your favourite tea hangs in the air when he rounds the corner to the living room.

His eyes dart around the four walls in search for his safe haven. Like a ship in distress. Heart swelling when he spots a curled up form on the leather couch across the room, illuminated by stray rays. The mug's sat on the coffee table, next to it a favourite book of yours, open and turned over like you'd just placed it down a second ago.

Did you wait for him last night and fell asleep on the couch?

When he pads over to you, he can't help but smile softly at the way you had nestled up like a kitten. Cozy blanket wrapped around you like a tortilla with only your face sticking out. Eyes shut closed, breaths slow and expression peaceful. Face dipped in a warm colour by a streak of light from the window next to him.

For a moment he just stands next to the couch, watching your soft puffs of breaths play with some stray hairs of yours. He then crouches down next to you, careful to not wake you. The yellow sprinkles across the emerald glades of his eyes turn them whiskey coloured in the golden morning light.

"Hey, love." He murmurs under his breath, the sound of it almost reverend. His hand moves to brush back a stray hair behind your ear, but he stills mid-air.

His fingers shake. His jaw clenches as his focus shifts to his knuckles. Battered, still bloody. Worst was, he couldn't even tell whether it was his own or of one of the damn things that tried - and failed - to kill him.

A soft noise leaves your parted lips and thankfully draws Dean's attention back to you.

God, you're so peaceful. Is this what peace looks like?

His hand drops down to his thigh. He'll never know.

Drained of energy, he pushes himself to his feet and carefully crawls over your body where he collapses down next to you.

You feel a heavy blanket envelop you from behind. A content hum and you shift in your sleep, instinctively nestling into the warmth. Soon the blanket begins to tickle the side of your neck with tingling bristles brushing your soft skin. Then a warm waft of air licks at your cheeks, enough to make your face scrunch up.

Wait – why does your blanket smell like sweat and musk?

It takes you a moment to register the familiar scent, and just when your eyes flutter open, you feel a deep chuckle rumble against your back.

“Dean..?” You mumble, your mind still catching up with your words.

“Yeah,” He nuzzles his nose into your hair, inhaling your soothing scent before he continues in a raucous voice, “’s me, sweetheart. I’m back.”

You hum, your lips melted into an affectionate smile, “I missed you.” And you attempt to turn in his arms to face him properly but he stops you before you get to roll over, his arms tightly locked around your chest and his forehead pushed into the back of your head.

He doesn’t say anything, just holds you tight with your back pressed into his chest. You feel how his heartbeat thuds in a steady rhythm and smell the hint of smoke that still sticks to his skin.

Hm, a simple salt and burn job, you conclude.

Oh if only it had been just that.

“I missed you too,” he murmurs your name into your hair, the sound of it gravel and low. Exhausted. Relieved.

The tone of his voice has you perk up. Your sleep-addled mind instantly kicks into action and you manage to angle your head enough to get a glance at his face despite his protests.

Your breath hitches at the sight.

That was not a simple salt and burn.

Dean winces at the way your eyes widen in shock.

“I’m fine,” he quickly reassures you. The words raspy when they tumbled off his split lip.

You wanted to believe him, you truly did.

But it was hard to believe that he wasn’t just trying ease your worries when all you could see was streaks of crimson framing his tired eyes. Between them, dark sprinkles mixed with his freckles. The cut across the bridge of his nose had crusted, so has the blood that covered parts of his left cheekbone and temple which ended somewhere in his stubbles. Clearly, a reminder of whatever had almost slashed his face. Almost. Your stomach twists at the thought.

“...Dean, you-”

“Hey, hey, I said I’m fine, sweetheart, don’t worry.”

No joke. No cocky smirk. No chuckle that turns into a cough halfway.

Panic begins to rise inside your chest.

“We gotta clean you up, I’ll get the emergency kit-” You twist and turn in his arms but when you realize he’s still not easing up, you suddenly understand Dean’s not holding but clinging to you. That’s also when you notice his hands are shaking. The same moment his fingers quickly bury themselves in the fabric of your pyjama, making you question whether you’d just imagined it.

“Baby, c’mon, listen - hey –” he husks out your name, his hands now all of a sudden steady and firm as they catch yours to intertwine your fingers with his. “Just- just believe me for a sec, okay?”

You still. Your eyes search his, then trail off to his injuries again, taking note of the exhaustion that’s carved into each of his features.

You nod. Although on the inside you shake your head violently.

Dean’s jaw tenses under your intense gaze. Every muscle in his face is fighting to keep it together. He manages to pull a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. And you're both aware of it. Damnit.

His eyes dart to the ground.

It’s right about now, he wished he’d been more careful to not wake you. Should have resisted the urge to feel close to you. Shouldn’t give in to the pathetic need to just hide in the safety of your innocent presence.

Dean startles when your hand suddenly comes to his face, cupping it and gently stroking below the bruised cheekbone. His eyes snap up to meet yours again, where he can see the worry still stinging your eyes. And it’s too much.

His eyes flutter closed and he drops his forehead to your shoulder, making you startle in his embrace.

You both stay silent for a while. Your hand went back to interlace your fingers, thumb caressing the coarse skin of is tainted knuckles. The only sound that's filling your ears being his ragged breaths right next to you. Worry begins to gnaw at you.

But then thankfully Dean moves a few inches before he mumbles into your shoulder, muffled slightly by it.

“Can we just stay this way..?”

Your heart drops. But you catch it again, for his sake.

“Of course, baby,” you whisper, lips pressed to his hair with a tense smile. And even though you wanted nothing more than him to look at you, you were grateful he couldn’t see your expression right now, because every fibre inside you screamed at you to get up and tend to his wounds before they’d get infected or –

“Just… Need to feel you… please.” he interrupts your thoughts with his husky admission.

Your heart clenches at the sound of his voice. His words. The tiny ‘please’, barely audible.

Fingers still intertwined with his, you give him a gentle squeeze before you tilt your head to nuzzle it against his, careful not to irritate any of his injuries.

“You promise, you’ll let me fix you up first thing before I make us breakfast in the morning?”

“Hm,” he grunts weakly into the crook of your neck.

“That’s my good boy.” You praise him, trying your best to lighten the mood.

And if the circumstances would have been any different, you were convinced this would have earned yourself a moan of his. At least it managed to draw a short sound out of his throat that didn’t make you wince inwardly.

You lower your head to place a gentle kiss onto his forehead, your voice dropped to a soothing murmur as you continue, “I’m here, Dean… I’ve got you…‘M not going anywhere, promise.”

With his head buried in the safety of your neck, he pulls you further into his chest, his arms tightly wrapped around you as if he was a drowning man, clinging onto the only piece of wood in the entire ocean.

It makes breathing harder on your end. But you don’t protest, realizing this is what he needs now.

You’re his lifeline.

You feel his lips move against the skin of your exposed shoulder again.

And even though you can barely make out anything he’s mumbling, you just manage to catch the sound of a broken ‘thanks’ right before he goes silent for the next hours.

“The Bad Wolf & The Sweet Vixen” + Dean Tag List @aylacavebear @jc-winchester @ambiguous-avery @bettystonewell @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @v1v1-3 @maddie0101 @champagnepoets @livya99 @salemslostwitch

❀ꗥ Want to join my TAG LIST? Fill out this form!

[jollyhunter]

Last photo & Song 🎶

Ahhh @ambiguous-avery and @bettystonewell , thanks boopsies for the fun tag 🫶

You're starring in a movie with the last person saved in your camera roll and the last song you listened to is the title...who/what is it?

What a match, I ain’t gonna complain 😂🧡🥃

In my defense, I’m writing a one shot atm (maaybe it’ll be two parts, we’ll see) with that picture of Dean as inspo and I am listening to my BadWolf!Dean x SweetVixen!Reader story moods playlist. So not gonna lie, the chances of a good combo was pretty high lol 🤭

I think all of my moots have been tagged at least once before so I’ll just leave this open for anyone! 🫶

last photo & song ✨

you’re starring in a movie with the last person saved in your camera roll and the last song you listened to is the title…who/what is it?

Thank you for tagging me @arcane-vagabond !! 🫶🏼

So…um…I can explain 🫣 I’m listening to Tate McRae’s new album while working on making gifs for my blurb requests, and now I have ended up in a movie that is most certainly way out of my comfort zone 😅🩷

no pressure tags: @whatever-lmaoo @flowersforbucky @writing-for-marvel @marvelstoriesepic @elvenrin @thereoncewasagirlnamedjane

[jollyhunter]

This is so cute and adorable ahhh and the dialogue’s just *chefs kiss* 🫶

“Prove It.”

Prompt:  kissing each other to prove there’s nothing there, even though it’s a lie, and the kiss proves it

Pairing: Din Djarin/Reader

Word Count: ~2200

Warnings: potentially ooc, reader is shorter than Din, idk please please please lmk if i’ve missed something that you feel needs a warning!!!

Summary: Peli’s meddling leads to some kissy kissies. Shy Mando. Giving me season one vibes honestly??? Imagine season one setting (literally just the Razor Crest) with season 3 relationships. Hope y’all enjoy!!!

Weiterlesen

[jollyhunter]

Everyone knows (and agrees with me, I'm sure) that the one episode concept we really missed out on was a Sam and Dean body swapping. What do you think they would do if they did body swap for a day OR (alternative or additional question) what's the episode concept that would magically exist in your perfect Djinn reality? <333

Okay, not gonna lie. I had to think about this for a while. Thanks for the question friend 😏

Now, I gotta put a disclaimer here first: I haven't watched all the seasons yet, so if I'm getting things wrong or something like this does actually exist as an episode please just ignore my rambling. <33

Sam and Dean body swapping would have been interesting and hilarious! I to be honest think they'd have a strict 'no touching my body' rule and they sure as hell would both follow it. Because - I don't have any siblings so correct me if you think I'm wrong - I strongly believe that you wouldn't want to touch your dongle when you're in your brothers body since that's basically just like touching them and we don't go down that lane. Nope - nuh -uh.

Despite that, I feel like Dean would enjoy being taller and would constantly be like "huh, so that's the view you have of me. thank god I only date shorter girls than me". He'd probably hit his head at least a dozen times on door frames, or when sliding into the seat of Baby or when he whips his head around to look after a lady just to get slapped in the face by Sam's long ass hair and he slams into a pole half-blinded by them 😂 Also bowlegs. They’d both walk funny. Dean stumbling around not being used to the long stalks and Sammy trying to make the bowlegs work.

Sam would probably hover over him the entire time and tell him to stop messing with his body because oh this is going to be a field trip for Dean. He'd shove any food down that hatch that makes Sam pull at his - well - short Dean-hair. Speaking of hair. Dean would absolutely get a hair cut just to piss Sammy off. He might even get some stupid unamoosed-tat on his ass cheek (the pain's worth Sam's reaction). Basically, I'd imagine this episode when they're older version prank day where they'd both act like stupid teenage boys again 😏

ALRIGHT SO. NEXT QUESTION. (Sorry I'm just rambling at this point)

About the episode concept that would exist in my perfect Djinn reality? Let's just say I'm super torn between 'I just wanna see my boy(s) happy' and 'I'd love to see how they're in our world with no angels, no lucifer or apocalypse, no monsters, but they still do their job - but wait, there are no monsters? Oh but yes. They still kill.

But as two unhinged contract killers who are known as "The Brothers" or "The Winchesters" with their own twisted set of morals who always get the job done' (guess this is more of an alternate universe oopsie - sorry!)

Imagine something like Dexter, or “The Twins” (Lemon and Tangerine 🫶) of Bullet Train for the vibe. 🤭

Oh and how could I forget the good old angst-version:

I've always wondered what Dean's and Sam's life would look like if their birth order was switched. Meaning, Dean was the little brother and Sam the older one.

Dean's entire personality is built on the fact that he's 'the older brother'. Not just literally but also figuratively speaking. The moment Dean had to carry baby Sammy out of the flames with his innocent 4 years and was told to "look after his little brother", his role was set in stone. He has to be the strong one, the one who protects and looks out for Sam - and basically anyone but himself.

This just makes me wonder what would he be like if their roles were switched? What would Sam be like? Would he have dealt differently with the responsibilty? Just gonna throw this out there. What do you think? 🥺 And what would be your favorite magical Djinn reality? 👀

[jollyhunter]

BETH I KID YOU NOT I'M WHEEZING - PLEASE 🤣

Despite the fact that I - of course - agree on everything, I cannot - the descriptions - "his twig and berries throbbed" - the metaphors just sent me - and the cherry on top is the poor old lady trying to save us sinners in the end (it's a lost case, I'm afraid). Did you tell her about the twigs and the berries? 😂

The fandom needs to know - does Dean like to be slapped in the face during sex by a girl wearing a Zorro mask? xx

Short answer:

But because I can, I’m gonna elaborate with a theory I came up with in the first five minutes of reading this, and turn it into a very rushed headcanon that will not be proof read or make much sense.

MASKS ARE HOT, BUT BEING SLAPPED BY SOMEONE WEARING ONE IS HOTTER: DON’T JUDGE HIM (or my head canon on how the whole Zorro mask thing came about) MDNI 18+

Pairing: Dean Winchester x a couple of random fem OC’s.

NOTE: You know I LOVE to swear, but I’m going to replace any naughty words I’d normally use because I think it will be funnier. Apologies in advance.

It was the summer of ‘69 1999, and our young Dean was off to the theatre, a girl under his arm, his hand rather close to her jubblies. As a man of twenty, he was still exploring his manly urges. There was just something about the smell of stale popcorn and sugary drinks that did it for most guys like him, you know? Or was it the normalcy?

Whatever.

His date was hot. Hotter than Rhonda Hurley or that chick from Titanic. No, not the old lady. Her younger self, Kate Winslet, who made out with Gilbert Grape’s brother at the end of the ship.

You see, Rhonda may have had the pink thong, which yes, did feel rather nice (he still had it hidden under his cassette tape collection that no-one would ever touch), but this girl had just blown him in the back seat of Baby. There was no comparison in the moment, and she was more than willing for him to return the favour in the theatre, because why not?

They settled in their seats, the back row of course, in the closest to midnight session as possible, perfect for its lack of other people. His hand still rested over her shoulder, slowly working on sliding her bra strap down so he’d get better access…when the opening credits started rolling.

This was supposed to be an extended make out session, but Dean was hooked from the moment he saw Zorro stride across the screen and swish his sword into the air, forming the fire-laced Z.

“Oh hell yes,” he muttered. The sounds of clicking hooves and soft ringing of bells had his inner child heading straight back to its love of cowboys. He hadn’t expected what had been presented to him as a romantic movie to actually be so cool.

Antanio Banderas

Anthony Hopkins

Catherine Zeta-Jones

The names flashed across the screen as the story of young Zorro played, and Dean all but forgot about the ample bossom just below his reach.

That is until his date started running her palm over his thigh midway through the film, and whispered in his ear, “I thought we were going to continue where we left off, babe?”

And Dean was torn. He wanted to watch the movie. The guy had a sword! But he also had the opportunity here to taste some kitty, and maybe get his own sword wet after the fact.

What was he to do?

He was a young buck, always thinking about what happened on that black casting couch he’d heard so much about, more than once a day. He couldn’t let the opportunity pass itself up. So, after more coaxing from her hand, which wasn’t all that much, reaching higher up his leg to get him interested, his own hand reciprocated.

Fingers trailed soft skin. They pushed the hem of a very short skirt up higher to tease the lace beneath, and the mound beneath that again, and to his surprise, it was very damp. He himself had raised to attention, straining against the seam of his pants.

To cut a long-short story shorter, Dean and his date got their rocks off whilst watching Zorro. She didn’t even need to touch him, because he learnt how hot a guy in a mask could be thanks to the way she coated his fingers and the seat below. And Dean? He was left with a rather big mess, that was made bigger when he accidentally spilt his remaining soda in his lap to cover up the special sauce that stained it.

So Beth, how the hell does being slapped come into it? you might be wondering.

Right… Well, um, that first bit took me longer than I thought, and I really should be getting to work… So let’s just say, to the poor sod who read through all of that (I’m not judging, I wrote the thing), it was all thanks to a case involving a costume shop, a display of masks, and Dean purchasing one that suspiciously looked like Zorro’s.

He remembered his time in the theatre all too well and knew it had the potential to be a mighty turn on. He just didn’t consider that it might’ve been one girl’s preference and not everyone else’s.

Turned out, for once, he was actually right.

It stayed in Baby for a good time after that with Rhonda Hurley’s thong that was moved from the box of cassettes after Sammy almost found it while bitching about Metallica and mullet rock. They both lived together in the crack between the back rest of the back seat, and the bench below it. Somewhere Sam would never find, unless he wanted to risk finding other things. I’ll leave that up to your imagination.

Cue a new hot date and Dean getting lucky again many years later. The car was rocking, and Dean was having a great time. Her thighs hoisted her up and down with the help of Dean’s grip on her hips, perfectly taking his sword all the way to her hilt. Hitting the little nub situated at the edge of her sheath.

This girl was bendy, and her hands little, and one slipped right through that crack when she leant over to trail hot kisses on his skin, finding both the mask and the underwear.

Did I mention she was an aspiring actress? Becuase she was. How convenient.

She sat up, threw that thong to the side, giddy with excitement of Dean still ploughing into her and put that mask on. It made her look hotter.

She continued to ride his saddle, one hand keeping the mask in place, the other flailing where it could to hold on as Dean picked up the pace.

She was wetter, his twig and berries throbbed, and when he gave a particularly sharp slap to her rear, in the moment, she gave him a playful one back, and it felt good. Too damn good.

“Do it again,” he said through an animalistic groan he’d be embarrassed to admit later, and she did, with a wicked smile that caressed her face until he begged her to do it harder.

She did. And while Dean didn’t make a mess in any jeans that evening, he did in fact blow harder than he was used to in his older age. It came thick and strong, curling his toes and pounding his heart, rapid in his chest.

That mask no longer sits in the crack between the seat. It has a special place in his duffle, goes with him whenever he leaves the bunker, and on the off chance he ever meets another aspiring actress or someone adjacent to the field, maybe a flight attendant or a yoga instructor, the mask slips into his jacket pocket, ready to be used again.

So yes, Dean definitely does have a Zorro mask/slapping thing going on in that head of his! I hope that answers your question?

PS. I wrote this in the shopping centre where I’m working today, and was interrupted by an old lady, wishing to tell me about the bible, twice… it’s like she knew or something.

[jollyhunter]

[Gotta comment; I LOVE the gif of the Mentalist. How I miss that guy- Oh Patrick 🧡] "Whole milk, whip cream, the whole nine yards."

I'm nodding so violently right now - I agree absolutely!! I strongly believe Dean's a damn sweet tooth when no one's watching, and his drink's no exception.

An the matcha latte for Sam fits SO WELL. (I tried to find a gif in my collection but damnit- I couldn't find any either! Except for this one with his teeny-weeny cuppa 😂)

Sam & Dean's coffee order? (in excruciating detail, pls, thank you <3)

They're both also at least 50% caffeine (plus the other part ;))

Oooh this is a great question!! And I definitely have put way too much thought into this. My caffeine addict side is showing.

I think they would each have different orders depending on if they’re ordering together or separate.

Dean: if he’s with Sam (or anyone for that matter) he’s definitely just gonna order a black coffee with an added shot of espresso. Plain, simple, manly. Enough caffeine to keep him awake and alert but not too much to make him jittery. The jitters are bad to have when you need to make a clean shot.

HOWEVER! If Dean is ordering by himself, I cannot be convinced that he wouldn’t want to try the seasonal drink. I am a firm believer that Dean would be a pumpkin spice fan. And anything you can put in that sucker that makes it taste like a pie? It’s going in the cup. Whole milk, whip cream, the whole nine yards.

Sam, on the other hand.

In early seasons, I’m pretty sure we hear him order a vanilla latte, and Dean gives him shit for it. I think earlier seasons Sam, he’d also stick with something simple. Either black coffee with a sugar and cream or a latte like he ordered. I think that Sam has spent so long under the toxic masculinity ideas that it almost feels taboo to branch out beyond that.

Later seasons, though, when Sam starts being more conscious of what goes into his body (don’t get me started on my thoughts on that because I have some feelings there haha) I think he would definitely cut way down on caffeine as a whole. I think he would make the switch to a chai latte with oat or almond milk. Personally, I’m a fan of oat milk because I like the body of it, so I’m biased.

If he absolutely needed some caffeine to keep him going, I wouldn’t put it past Sam to go with a matcha drink. But simple, all around. The less ingredients, the better. So chai or matcha latte for Sam.

(There are seriously no gifs of Sam drinking anything so this will have to do 🤣)

Thanks for the question!! Definitely didn’t focus on this instead of work stuff lmao 💜💜💜

[jollyhunter]

[Me watching the entire scene from the sidelines.]

Nervous Din just makes me want to hug the poor lad - like - please, he just needs some love and gentle touches 😭

What Is This Feeling?

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!reader, Din Djarin/The Mandalorian POV

Summary: Din can't seem to stop running in to you, and he can't figure out why he likes it. Takes place after Season 3 when Din and Grogu have been living in their cabin on Nevarro. This is the second fic in my Sugar, Spice, and Starlight Series!

Tropes: Fluff, Bakery AU, Grumpy vs. Sunshine

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings: I don't think there's really any? The reader is really soft and likes to bake? Din being a little bit self-deprecating to himself? Din kinda simping and not understanding that he's simping? Din might be a little bit OOC. It's mostly just fluff.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! This is my second time writing for Din, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

A/N: I really just wanted to write a little fluffy thing from Din's perspective because I can't stop apparently. 🤣

The Mandalorian/Din Djarin POV

"Mando, I don't know why you always seem so upset whenever I ask you to do a small favor for me." Greef Karga says with a chuckle. "I thought you liked being busy."

"Maybe it's because you never bother to return any of the favors I do for you." Din sighs, leaning back against the cool solid wall of the building behind him masked in shadow.

The sounds of the city rattle outside his armor: the vendors who line the crowded streets calling out to the people who walk along the dirt road, the low hum of speeders as they muscle down the street and split the masses of pedestrian, and up ahead Din can hear the happy giggles of children scream and giggle while avoiding the chilling spray of the new fountains in the town square.

Din supposed that Karga put them in to make Navarro more "family friendly," an odd concept given it's colorful history, but Din admitted to himself that it did seem to have a more "comforting" effect on the small city. Every time Din came to town he'd see a new shop, new face, or new addition being added on to the growing sprawl of buildings.

"Oh don't-" Karga begins to reply, but Din hears a laugh ring above the cacophony of sounds and the rest of Karga's statement is lost to the wind.

Din's eyes search for the source, the sound of the laugh vibrating through his bones, familiar, until he finds you. You're sitting on a stone bench just outside where children are weaving through the clear streams of water erupting from the ground in crystal blue arches while parents watch.

There's a book perched on your knee and the sunlight drags across your skin in luminous wave, while the breeze teases through your hair, but you're smiling down at the pages. Today you're wearing a teal-colored dress that reaches your ankles and your arms are covered by a small floral shrug that drifts with each gentle gust of wind from the East. A laugh escapes your parted lips as you turn the page, eyes following the text, each soft exhale of your breath moving your shoulders, oblivious to the world around you, and oblivious to Din's watchful eye.

Din's throat tightens, the sound of your laugh sending a warm feeling he couldn't name swirling in his chest. It was an odd feeling, something that makes his heart thud an extra beat, and something that makes a smile twitch on the end of his lips in the dark beneath his helmet.

Meeting you had been unexpected and although Din hated when Grogu would sneak away from him, he couldn't be upset with Grogu over wandering into your shop, not when it meant that Din got to meet you.

Truthfully, Din would have never set foot in it. He liked living outside of town, liked the quiet it brought, the peace he thought he'd never have after years of fighting and years of looking at his blood stained hands and wondering if there would be rest, if there could be for someone like him.

Of course with that peace came an emptiness that Din had felt before in the years before he'd taken in Grogu, that somehow found him in the cold reaches of space when all was silent, but Din never expected it to return. Not when he was spending his time living with Grogu in the small cabin on the outskirts of town and felt closest to happiness than he ever had.

You laugh again, lips arching in a smile as you read the book in your lap, the sound of it floating through the air above all the other noises in the town square.

Din forgets how to breathe.

It had been a week since he'd met you. Din didn't need to go into town often and didn't like to, but as the days stretched longer and longer he found himself wanting to return.

He didn’t know why that was. He had spent most of his life being self-sufficient and distancing himself from other people, but today when he'd woken up, he'd been unable to stop himself from making the trek back to Nevarro City.

Odd given that fact that Din knew no one wanted him here.

He knew what the residents whispered about him when they thought he couldn't hear, saw the way mothers clutched their children tighter against their chests and walked in a different direction or crossed to the other side of the street when they saw him approach, and felt the stares of people who shrank back into darkened corners to avoid the flash of silver from his Beskar as he walked the streets. Din never used to care about that sort of thing, in fact he was used to it. As both a Mandalorian and a bounty hunter, Din was acutely aware of how people responded to him…

But not you.

Instead of the fear other shown him, you smiled, gave him free pastry, made him feel… seen. It was one thing for someone to gush over Grogu and give him pastry, but you’d done it for Din. The Mandalorian who lived outside of town and who Din was sure you'd heard all about through the gossiping inhabitants of Nevarro.

Din had only met one other who treated him with such kindness, Omera. But Din hadn't felt this when he'd been around her.

He hesitated on the thought, watching you turn another page, and smile at what you found.

You were different than her. You were unlike anyone else that Din had ever met.

You were soft, hands rubbed smooth from kneading pastry and smelling of fresh baked bread. You reminded him of the warmth of the morning rays from the twin suns of Tatooine before they kissed the sands that shifted like an invisible ocean.

Looking at you made the rest of the world feel like it was holding it's breath. Din didn't want to look away. He wanted to study the subtle quirk of your lips, trace the smile lines on your cheeks, and watch the subtle rise and fall of your chest as you read.

Din didn't think people like you existed, let alone to find one on Nevarro of all places. He didn't understand why you'd chosen here to open a bakery, on a planet made of sand and rock, and populated with people Din wouldn't trust for a milli-second.

Well… he didn't really trust anyone anyway.

Din thought he'd imagined you, that's why he'd come back the second time to your shop when Grogu was asleep. He needed to see if you really existed, if the woman he remembered was real flesh and blood and not some figment of his imagination.

But you were there, cleaning, and then when you'd noticed him, you'd smiled at him again as if he wasn't who he was, as if he was your… friend.

He could count the number of friends he had on one hand and none of them made him feel the way you did whenever you smiled at him.

"Mando?"

Din doesn't look away from you, still reveling in these few moments. It was the first time that he'd seen you since he'd visited your bakery a week ago, and Din had been wrestling internally with himself thinking of a reason to stop by. Instead he'd bumped into Greef Karga. 

"Mando!" Karga says again and this time Din turns to look at him.

"What?" He gruffs in the buzzing monotone of his helmet, annoyed that he'd had to look away.

"Did you hear anything I said?" Karga raises an eyebrow with a dubious look.

Din thought about lying. "No."

"What am I going to do with you Mando? You always-"

Din lost whatever Karga was saying again as the memory of you saying his real name washes over him in a soothing wave. He'd been hesitant to tell you, he didn't like telling anyone. He let everyone call him Mando and he didn't mind.

But the moment you'd spoken his name, let the syllables roll from your mouth like running water in a cool pool, Din could feel his body underneath his Beskar relax.

What is wrong with me? She's just someone I met. She probably doesn't even remember-

"Din!"

He'd know your voice anywhere, but he wasn't expecting his body to respond to you the same way it had the moment he met you.

Din looks up over Karga's shoulder again to watch your approach. The book you'd been reading is clasped in your right hand, and you're smiling at him in a way that makes him want to forget everything he'd done.

Forget the work worn hands from years of bounty hunting, forget the scars that covered his body, and forget that he's him.

Your face is crinkled with your smile, eyes bright while the sunlight catches along your skin and hair to make you seem as if you'd floated down from above for just this moment. The teal dress you have hugs your body as if it were made for you and in a way that makes Din's throat tight and makes all other thoughts evaporate from his mind.

You wave with your free-hand while you get closer to where he and Greef Karga are standing as if the smile isn't enough and as if you want him to know that it is him he's talking to. Again, Din is struck with the melancholic feeling of something he can't name pricking in his chest.

"Hey stranger." Your smile wider up at him. "Haven't seen you in a few days. Thought maybe you were sleeping off a sugar coma somewhere."

Din's mouth is dry, he can't think of a way to respond, his hands suddenly sweaty beneath his thick leather gloves-

Din didn't understand why that talking to you made him feel more anxious than when he was facing down Moff Gideon or why whenever you laughed Din felt the same way as when he bit into one of the sweet and tangy squares of Uj'alayi that you'd made.

A warm, melancholic feeling of something that he knew before and something that he thought he'd never have again.

Your eyes shift to where Greef Karga stands, stunned at your friendly words and casual joke towards Din. "Mr. Karga." You nod in greeting. "It's wonderful to see you again. I was hoping you would stop by for your usual Ansionian tea this morning?"

"The day is still young." Greef Karga says, recovering from his shock. "I didn't know you'd met our resident Mandalorian."

"I have." Din watches your eyes drop to where Grogu wriggles in the bag at his side while squealing happily. "And I couldn't forget about my favorite customer."

Grogu wraps his hand around your outstretched fingertip and earns another smile from you. Din feels something inside of him break open. Seeing you with the kid, treating him as if he were your own, made Din feel almost uncomfortably hot.

Din is happy that he's wearing the helmet because there's something akin to a blush on his cheeks that he's not sure where it came from.

"Hey buddy." You giggle softly, before raising your gaze to Din's once more. And even though Din knows he's wearing the helmet there's a part of him that believes you can see through the forged metal and where his face rests within. Your gaze seemed to lay him bare in front of you, and Din didn't understand why he liked it.

Grogu releases your finger and your hand drifts to Din's left forearm laying just over the gauntlet.

As soon as your hand touches his arm, Din feels his cheeks flush while electricity pops and tingles over his skin starting where your hand is laying on his arm. You're not even touching his skin and Din feels like every nerve ending in his body has activated somehow.

You give him another encouraging smile. "You guys should stop by later. I felt like adding a few savory things to the menu and made some Corellian Meat Pies. I'll put together a package so y'all can take some home if you want." You squeeze his gauntlet once so quickly that he thinks he missed it, before dropping your hand to your side.

Din watches your cheeks darken slightly, embarrassed by what you did, but he's not upset that you touched him. It's quite the opposite. He's acutely aware of the part of him you touched, could still feel the pressure of your gentle squeeze through the metal and leather covering on his forearm.

His tongue feels like a wet rag in his mouth, lifeless. He can't think of anything to say or how to find his voice.

You wait a minute for Din's response, but when it doesn't come you give the child a pat on the head stepping closer to Din in the process, so close that the smell of vanilla, fresh bread, and brown sugar comes in through the filters in the bottom of his helmet. "It was nice to see you Mr. Karga." Your eyes flick upwards to where Din suspects you believe his eyes are. "Good to see you too Din."

He can't help, but notice what almost looks like disappointment in your eyes as you turn to go.

Din hates it, but at the same time he's confused as to where it came from.

As you begin to float away from them, Din realizes that he hasn't said a single word since you walked over, he hadn't even waved in your direction when you waved at him, he was too busy feeling like his tongue wasn't more than dead weight in his mouth and surprise at how friendly you were to him again.

"Wait-" Din shouts your name above all the noise, finding his voice at last.

You turn to look at him, eyes wide in surprise. The wind picks up, flickering through your hair and sending the strands forward into your face, while your dress and shawl billows around your body, the sunlight behind you imprinting your figure in Din's mind. He was sure that if he shut his eyes right now, he'd see you on the inside of his eyelids.

"We'll-" Din clears his throat. It was harder for him to find his words when you were looking at him like that. "We'll come by later." Even through the buzzing monotone of the helmet it comes out hesitant.

What is wrong with me?

The smile you have when he says that to you, makes Din forget where he's standing. Everything else on the street fades away, all other sounds rising from the crowds ebbs away, all he can see is you, smiling at him like he wasn't who he was.

Your cheeks darken just a smidge with a blush, both of your arms tightening on the book clasped to your chest. "I’ll look forward to it."

Din watches you walk away through the crowd, his eyes automatically scanning the outskirts of the streets for potential threats. It was a habit of his, but now he didn't do it for himself or for the kid, he did it for you.

There was some primal part of his mind registering that you shouldn’t be left alone in a universe like this, that someone as kind and soft as you needed to be protected.

Protected from people like me.

The thought comes through before he can stop it. Memories of his life before he met the kid playing through his head on a sickening reel. His time with Ran and Xi'an, the early years of his life when he took jobs no matter the cost to keep his belly full and all he had were the clothes on his back. The faces of the people who stood in his way flashing through his mind when he closed his eyes at night.

Din knew he wasn't a good person, not after all the things he'd done. He didn't deserve your kindness or your care. He didn't deserve you.

"Well, well, well." Greef Karga chuckles under his breath. "Mando, didn't know you-" Greef Karga begins to say.

"Shut up." Din clips, his body still turned in the direction of your shop, eyes flicking through the crowds trying to see one final glimpse of you before you vanish into the multitude of people going about their day. "I should go."

He knows he should. He should turn around and go back to his little cabin on the outskirts of the city, go back to the quiet, and to the empty feeling that comes with it. The same feeling he didn't feel when he spoke to you.

But instead of turning back to go where he believes he should, Din begins to walk in the direction of your shop with Grogu cooing in the bag at his side, and Greef Karga watching Din go with a knowing smile on his lips.

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! If you'd liked to be added to my taglist for fics in this universe please let me know!

Taglist:

@jollyhunter @scoliobean @pressedwater @littlebear423 @bookloverkat

[jollyhunter]

casually gonna tag you for this bestie 👀 @ambiguous-avery

[jollyhunter]

GOOD GRACIOUS - LIANE THIS WAS SO GOOD - when he fucking whined and then snapped the handcuffs?? GOODBYE

Sensory Deprivation

SUMMARY: When you negotiate trying out new kinks with Ben, who is he to say no to a little fun? It takes more than being tied up and blindfolded to put him in his place, or does it?

SHIP: Soldier Boy x AFAB!Reader GENRE: Smut (18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI) TO NOTE/WARNINGS: Ben being his own warning, cursing, porn without plot, porn with feelings (if you squint), unprotected p in v (wrap it up), trying out new kinks, Soldier Boy gets blindfolded, Soldier Boy gets tied up, Bottom!Ben (yes, you read that right) WORD COUNT: 2.9k A/N: Another entry for the @jacklesversebingo challenge! Initially, Alec popped into my head for this prompt, for similar reasons that made me go with Ben. I thought it would be interesting to see what happens when someone with enhanced abilities/superpowers has part of those restricted. Funnily enough, I couldn't do it to Alec, but Soldier Boy deserves to be humbled, lol. PROMPT: Sensory Deprivation CREDIT & LINKS: header gif by ladyalatariel ─〃★ dividers by cafekitsune ─〃★ jacklesversebingo 2024 masterlist

Ben doesn’t know how the hell you managed to make him agree to this.

Now, as Herogasm’s co-founder, as one of America’s most famous sex-symbols, he has seen and done things that would make poor virgin nuns and well-experienced hearthtrobs alike combust on the spot. He’s not the kinkiest son of a bitch alive, but definitely experimental.

Maybe that’s what made him give in so easily.

Ben, insatiable as ever, doesn’t turn away from a chance of steamy, filthy fun. He’s not a pathetic limp-dick, either. No way he’d chicken out. It would definitely go against his principles.

And, fuck, how can he say no to a pretty little thing like you when you bat your eyelashes so expertly and look at him like you want to swallow him whole? When you crash your mouth into his, all tongue and teeth, the heat of your kiss makes him think that’s exactly what you plan on doing.

Ben returns the favor, pulling sweet gasps from your lips that sound so sinful they melt on his tongue. Only when you run out of breath, lungs aching for oxygen, you pull back and give him a smirk that makes his head fucking spin.

Your eyes, dark and hungry, trail over all of him as you admire your handiwork so far. You’ve already turned him into putty, chest heaving, plump lips swollen and glistening with your spit. You know exactly how to wrap him around your little finger to the point of driving him absolutely insane.

The sight of you, straddling him in thin straps of lace that leave nothing to the imagination, is worth every hassle.

Although, he has to admit your idea sounded way better in theory.

He thought he could handle it. Handle you.

But, Christ, he’s left groaning in frustration as his hands twitch behind his back. His muscles strain against the fabric around his wrists and as the restraints bite into his skin, he’s once more reminded of his predicament.

His instinct tells him to tear the flimsy, stupid handcuffs to pieces. Right along with your damn lingerie, so he can flip you over and pound into you into the mattress until the bed breaks beneath you.

He certainly could. Of course he could, he’s fucking Soldier Boy, after all. The one and only, his supe-strength matched only by his own impatience.

And when you shift on top of him, slowly grinding your hips against his, he swears a piece of his soul is leaving his body. Your barely clothed cunt drags right over his achingly hard length, teasing, testing.

It takes everything in him to keep his promise, though he can’t stay entirely still. His hips buck up, desperate for more of that delicious friction, but you deny him the satisfaction. A grunt bubbles from his throat and he narrows his eyes at you.

“Damn minx. You’re lucky I have a soft spot for you,” Ben gruffs, voice as tense as his self-restraint. “Going for the fuckin’ kill, aren’t you, angel?”

Yet, there’s nothing holy about the way you lean in, or the way your fingertips brush against the stubble on his jaw. Your thumb traces his bottom lip and your warm breath tickles the corner of his mouth. Your voice is as thick as the tension in the room, promising him all the pleasure of the world as you breathe his name.

“You said I could be in charge tonight,” you remind him, your tone dripping with sticky, sweet honey.

“Said I’ll let you try, sweetheart,” Ben corrects smugly, though a sharp twist of your hips against his almost has him stutter over his own protest. “Christ on a cross, you’re a menace.”

“You like it,” you giggle softly, and can you blame him when you sound so perfect?

“You know damn well I’d like my hands on you even more,” he grumbles, only for you to lean back again.

“On me, huh?,” you hum as you arch your back and reach behind yourself, unclasping your bra and sliding it off agonizingly slow. His gaze sharpens as he watches your delicate fingers run along the curve of your breasts. You squeeze your soft tits and pinch your nipples. "Like this?"

It’s so unfair how you’re close and out of reach at the same time.

Still, he leans back, enjoying the show.

“Gotta say, there’s worse problems to have than watching you play with yourself,” he grins.

Your hands travel lower and lower, over your middle, to your hips, between your legs. Ben’s eyes are glued to your fingers and his hips arch in anticipation, waiting for you to pull those damn panties out of the way and sink yourself down on him already.

You don’t.

“So impatient,” you sigh, feigning disappointment.

“C’mon, dollface,” he grumps, “Enough teasing.”

“Nuh-uh,” you pout, leaning in once more, this time until your lips are a hair’s width apart from his. “The fun’s only just begun.”

Your hands, their softness a stark contrast to his rough skin, cup his face. Then they travel lower, down to his broad shoulders, across his firm chest. You’re mapping out his body like you’re following the adrenaline pumping through his veins.

His arms involuntarily flex again, the edge of the handcuffs stopping him in his tracks. They’re not too tight, almost too loose, even. But you both know that. They’re not actually meant to hold him back, you’re sure nothing ever could. They’re just part of this little game, this play with power.

You know it’s something Ben greatly enjoys about sex, the aspect of power behind it. You don’t hold it against him, now that you’re getting a little taste of it yourself.

Honestly, you’re just as surprised as he is that he let you go this far. Tying his hands behind his back, taking the reins, practically ordering him to sit back and let you take over. In the back of his mind, he probably still relies on his powers, knowing he could get out of this whenever he wants to.

Still, even if it’s just some of it, the fact that he’s giving up any control at all makes your heart swell.

You figure it’s not easy, especially not after what he’s been through. Not that Ben would ever confess anything of the sort — that would be like admitting he has weaknesses.

This is enough. More than enough. Him sitting here, hands still behind his back, allowing you to take care of him, is proof enough.

Regardless, you ask, just to make sure he’s still on board: “Do you trust me?”

Ben scoffs shortly, but then stops to mull over your question. Trust is a heavy word, laden with so much. You don’t know what you’re doing to him, asking that. Or maybe you do, which is somehow even more dangerous.

His eyes flicker from your eyes, down to your lips, then back up.

“Yeah, ‘course I do,” he answers at last, dryly, as if masking the fact that he’s a bit nervous with non-chalance.

“I mean it, Ben,” you purr. Your fingers dance across his pecs, the gentle pattern as soothing as it is sensual. “Can we keep going?”

At that, he really snorts. Nothing he can think of can make him chicken out now. Not when he has the opportunity to feel all of you. But you’re serious, he can tell by the earnest look in your eyes.

“Sweetheart,” he chuckles. “You gotta pull out some real big guns to even make me think of stopping now.”

Your soft giggling fills his ears, which don’t fail to pick up on the hesitation. Even as you reach over to the nightstand, you stay close to him, one hand still splayed across the middle of his torso.

“No guns,” you mumble, almost shyly as you reluctantly pull something from the drawer. “Just this.”

You hold up a black band of thick velvet, the material dangling between the two of you.

Ben’s eyes wander back and forth between the item and you, before his eyebrow quirks up. Along with one corner of his lips.

“A blindfold?,” he chuckles, then lets his gaze drop to your naked form, your bare skin, every inch of you splayed out for his eyes to feast on. At least for now. “You wanna deny a man this amazing view?”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” you smile teasingly, the offer sounding like a devil’s deal. “Promise.”

Ben tilts his head, giving your delicious looking body a thorough up and down. Ultimately, he sighs and lifts his chin again. “Do your worst, then.”

The spark of excitement in your wide doe eyes is the last thing he sees, and cherishes, before you position the blindfold over his eyes. He holds his breath and focuses on the sensation of your fingers tying the blindfold together at the back of his head. Said breath gets stuck in his throat anyway as he feels your lips nip at his ear.

“I promise you’ll like this,” you whisper, breath hot and heavy against his skin.

With his ability to see stripped away from him, Ben’s other senses are immediately heightened. There’s no way of anticipating your next move, but he feels you shifting on top of him briefly. That thrill has his stomach flip when your touch lands on his abdomen.

“Fucking hell,” he exhales, shakily. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Quite the opposite,” you muse, your husky voice suddenly elsewhere than before. Before he can guess, your lips lock with his in a chaste, sweet kiss. You murmur sweet nothings, making his skin prickle all over. “I’ll make you feel so alive, Ben.”

He’s definitely made the right decision letting you spoil him.

As a supe, pumped full with hero-drug-juice, his senses are sharper than any ordinary’s person. By tenfold. Thanks to Compound V, his sharp eyes are — usually, at least — able to decipher the smallest details. His nose can pick up the faintest smells from huge distances. His ears don’t miss the most quiet of whispers. You get the gist.

Having one of these senses put to momentary rest, his body instinctively zeroes in on the rest.

On the scent of your perfume surrounding all of him. On the thick smell of sex and arousal, heavy in the air.

On the taste of your skin whenever you sprinkle in a kiss to his lips. Or, when your fingers replace your mouth, your thumb pushing against his tongue for him to nurse and suckle on.

On the steady, but quickened heartbeat — both yours and his own. He listens to every sharp inhale of yours, every little whimper that escapes your lungs as you grind your wet folds over his throbbing erection.

You must’ve taken off your panties before and somehow the mental image in his mind fires him up more than actually seeing your pretty pussy could.

The sensation is almost unbearable. You’re dripping over him, moving as if you’re using him to get off without him being able to either watch or lend you a helping hand. It’s embarrassing how fast you manage to push him to the edge.

“You’re already so tense, so close for me,” you tease him, earning yourself a deep rumble from his chest and a warning bite on your thumb. Not enough to harm you, just enough to show he doesn’t appreciate the condescending tone.

Or, at the very least, to pretend he’s not head over heels in love with the feeling.

“It’s okay,” you hum softly. “I’ve got you, you’re doing so perfect.”

Ben swallows thickly, doing his best to not fucking whimper at the praise. If you keep this up, he’ll explode. Figuratively and literally.

Your warm lips are on his throat, drawing a deep moan from him. You shush him gently when he squirms under you. His hands curl into tight fists behind his back and he writhes.

“Want me to stop?,” you ask.

“N-no, dont’cha dare stop” Ben whines. Fucking whines.

You don’t think you ever heard him make such noises, but you’d be pushing your luck if you called him out for it.

You turned him into a sensitive, whiny mess, trapped under the palm of your hands. And he can’t even bother to be mad about it. All he can focus on is everything of you, your smell, your sounds, your warmth, your fucking touch. It’s driving him to the cusp of insanity.

Throwing him a bone, you finally wrap your fingers around him. The sudden contact makes him nearly jump, and he has to bite his lips, hard, to prevent a sharp yelp from rolling off his lips. He throbs and twitches in your hand and Ben squirms as your thumb swipes over the precum that’s already leaking.

“Please,” he rasps, shocking even himself. It certainly makes you pause, too.

“What was that?”

He groans, skin flushed, warmth spreading from his neck to his face. No way is he going to repeat his pathetic slip-up of a plea.

“Don’t make me freakin’ beg for it, you damn—”

You interrupt him with a sudden jerk of your hand. It’s enough to make him shut up right away. Ben throws his head back, making it thud against the bed’s headboard.

While you wish you could push his buttons even more, you know about the fine balance of teasing and overdoing it. Ben’s already at his limit, his hips trying to rut up into your touch, but blindly missing the aim.

“Relax,” you coo gently, continuing your mouth’s path down his jaw, across his throat, over his chest. “I’ll give you what you want.”

Bracing yourself, you shift in his lap. You sit up, position his cock right at your center, and slowly sink down on him. Your own breath hitches, your nails digging into Ben’s shoulders.

His muscles go taut all the same. His head drops forward, forehead landing on your collarbone as your heat envelops him completely. Incoherent curses are all you can decipher from him.

The familiar stretch of his cock has you whimper. As you steady yourself, you roll your hips. Back and forth and up and down. Your skin sticks to his, both of you sweaty and feverishly heated up, as you rock your body against his.

“So fucking tight f’me,” Ben rasps, his own mouth managing to find your skin. He latches onto your shoulder, moaning when he somehow finds the soft swell of your tits. Licking and biting, he slams up into you until you gasp. But it’s not enough.

“Fuck this,” Ben growls and straightens up, his impatience finally getting the better of him.

Within a split second, the handcuffs snap apart and his large hands grasp you by the waist. You yelp in surprise, barely managing to tighten your grip on his shoulders. He lifts you and slams you back down on him as if intending to split you apart.

“Ben,” you cry out and fuck it if that doesn’t do it for him.

Ben rolls over, pinning your body beneath his. His hands are everywhere, your chest, your hips, your ass, your thighs as he pulls you closer. He’s still nestled between your legs, thrusting in and out of you at a relentless, animalistic pace.

His face is neatly tucked in the crook of your neck, mouth claiming your throat lovebite for lovebite. The soft material of the velvet blindfold presses against your ear. He never takes it off, moving on pure instinct over relying on his eyes.

“Teasing me non-stop,” Ben speaks lowly, tone laced with something downright primal. “I should get back at you for this, sweetheart, fuck you until you’ll be walking funny tomorrow.”

His grip is so tight, you’re sure aching legs won’t be the only problem you’ll face tomorrow. Your skin will be marked, covered in his prints, hands, teeth, hickeys.

You sob, unable to form a coherent response as your body shakes underneath him. He presses into you, hard and fast, again and again, until you see stars and you shatter. Falling apart under him, his name the only thing you can chant and scream, you come hard around his cock.

With you squeezing him like a vice, the movement of Ben’s own hips falters. He stills within you, spilling his seed deep into you with a deep, guttural growl.

It takes both of you several seconds to catch your breath.

Ben stays for a moment, before he slides out of you and rolls onto his back. He lazily removes the blindfold, huffing out a weak chuckle as he blinks his eyes open again. Within an instant, his arm around your waist pulls you closer to his side.

“Christ, babe, that was something,” he hums, his smirk way too self-sufficient and satisfied for someone who was a whimpering mess just mere moments ago. Still, you let him have this, and it’s not like you don’t agree.

“Incredible,” you nod with a tired grin, melting when he tucks your sore form into his chest.

“I always knew I could satisfy you blindly,” he boasts proudly. “Guess I just know your body inside and out by heart, dollface.”

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[jollyhunter]

OH YEAH That's the perfect final addition. The show's complete now, got nothing to add 🤣

You know I need to ask about Promise Not to Fall in Love with Me. I will take anything you got cuz I'm so excited ;)

Ahh! Thank you for asking me about that one because I am really excited too 😆

That fic has definitely become a favorite! I really love the fake dating trope in general and because I loved the dynamic of the reader and Ben in Promise Not To Fall In Love With Me, I am very excited to turn it into a full blown series!

So far I have maybe 9ish chapters planned out for it, but the way the neurons in my brain are firing at the moment I feel like it could be more!

Promise Not To Fall In Love With Me

Chapter 2: The Rules

Synopsis: After Soldier Boy agrees to help you make Butcher jealous, you want to make sure that Soldier Boy understands the terms of engagement.

Just A Little Something 😉

"So, what were you grandpa talking about?" Butcher asks in his swoon worthy accent. Sweat dripped from his hairline down his cheeks and he raised a hand to wipe away the drops before they could roll down the rough contours of his face and catch in his thick beard.

The small kitchen seems to grow even smaller with his presence and the open window above the sink does little to cool down the wave of heat that travels through you at Butcher's close proximity to you.

"What?" You ask a little bit out of breath and a little squeaky. It was difficult to talk to him when he was standing so close that you could smell the hypnotic musk of his skin from working outside.

The thud of your heartbeat thunders in your ears as you scramble for some lie, anxiety bubbling in your stomach the longer you look at Butcher.

Eye contact is a bad idea. Why is he so damn handsome?

"Well-" Butcher starts again.

Ben's arm comes around your waist so fast you don't have time to wonder how he snuck up on you. He tugs you back easily against his warm chest, still wet from his shower, and presses a kiss directly under your right ear, lingering a little bit too long to be friendly. His beard scrapes against the sensitive skin of your neck while his wet hair falls forward to tickle against your ears with the movement, leaving the spicy scent of his shampoo under your nose.

"Showers free." He smirks at Butcher, before dropping his gaze to you, green eyes locking on yours and his lips pull up in a mischievous smirk. "You ready for bed doll?"

"Um-" You clear your throat, face quickly flushing with your blush, the stutter working it's way back into your voice. "I'm not really tired-"

"Good." Ben murmurs leaning closer to you, his smirk widening as his fingers begin to rub circles into your hip directly where your shirt has pulled up from your jeans. "I'm not either. Figured we could wear each other out first."

Butcher's body goes stock straight and he looks from Ben to you for some kind of explanation….

If anyone else would like to ask me about my current WIPs for WIP Folder Game please feel free! 💗

[jollyhunter]

*hrm* Can I request an eagle hat for the little future worm? (to match grandpa's energy)

(@lamentationsofalonelypotato and @reidtomewinchester, you two are killing me 🤣)

Soldier Boy x Antihero!Reader - INTRO / TEASER

“So, what you’re sayin’ is, all we ‘ave to do, is keep the cunt from nuclear energy? Well that sounds easy peasy, doesn’t it?” Butcher grins smugly while his eyes flicker from the screen back to M.M.. He sighs and drags a frustrated hand down his face. “Except that she’s after Soldier Boy as we speak. And he’s a fuckin’ a-bomb on two legs. Who the hell knows what happens when those two clash?”

You’re an A-class supe. A Russian high value asset. And you’re anything but a hero.

May I introduce? Your identity - or what's left of it:

Project “Ground Zero” - 1981 Codename: Ashfall

Civil Name: 🆈🅽 🆈🅻🅽 Origins: ███████ Sex: Female

Height: ███cm Hair color: Varies | natural █████ Eye color: █████ | (powers activated) turquoise-green glow Age: N.A. | appears early 30s Connection to Tgt.: CLASSIFIED (See File of Jan.24,1986) Supe class: A+ (Do not engage! Inform a superior with access to the asset’s A.W.) Supe powers: CLASSIFIED Activation Words: CLASSIFIED Mission Priority: Retrieve Experiment ███████ ███

“I have long forgotten who I am. And I am sick of being told what I am.”

What to expect?

It’s obviously inspired by the Winter Soldier - You’ll be the Bucky to his Captain America 🫶

Potential TW: Canon violence, canon strong language, (fuckin’ diabolical, I’m warning ya), use of drugs, Soldier Boy is a warning himself I mean-, also smut at some point. I’ll try and keep it pretty similar to the show in style. So definitely 18+, Minors Do Not Interact!

A/N: I started watching The Boys like a week ago and I'm almost done with season 3. So naturally I am going crazy about everything right now and I NEED a damn Soldier Boy x Antihero!reader so I can have them corrupt each other in the most beautiful way. // I KNOW I'M LATE TO THE PARTY

If you’d be interested, please let me know!! ❤️

[jollyhunter]

Ancient SPN fans, where are you?

I need more 25+ fans to follow because I'm starting to feel like Steve Buscemi in 30 Rock.

[jollyhunter]

Creative Spotlight Challenge 📝✨

Thank you three lovelies, @zepskies , @ambiguous-avery and @bettystonewell so much for tagging me!! 🧡 And @cheynovak I'll make sure to check out Buckle Bunny Blues! (Western story, yess💗) @zepskies The Midnight Espresso series is literally a forever open tab along some other series and stories I can't wait to read! I didn't know about The Honorable Choice // Outlander but it sounds super intruiging (love Western and the fact that your OFC is Lakota is so interesting!). I guess I'll have to add that to my to read list as well 😉

@ambiguous-avery Again a series in my forever open tabs! I love what I've read so far from Chasing Shadows and I'm super curious how her journey continues and to learn more about her Touched "condition". 😳 @bettystonewell Not gonna lie, I am still miffed that I had to stop halfway through Snickerdoodle & Special Sauce because I realized I need to catch up with the SPN seasons first. I want to read it so bad, I love your aussie humour 😭 ONE DAY! ...okay so... this is the first time I'm showing this lil (planned) series cover I've been holding onto for ages, but I thought this might just be the sign to reveal it? ☺️

THE BROKEN CIRCLE is one of the projects that's just special to me. It was my very first time writing for a different character than Dean and first time I wrote a very angst heavy story. It also holds a special place in my heart because I wrote this a day after I (accidentally) read about Dean's ultimate fate (I haven't watched it yet) and at the same time I had started to watch Big Sky.

Naturally, I was devasted after knowing the ending of Supernatural (and I still refuse to accept it lmao). So, I sat down that night and poured my broken heart into that story. A sort of "fix" for the ending we all can't deal with... but with a bit of a bitter twist. It's a crossover between Supernatural and Big Sky, set after Season 15 of SPN. I was extremely surprised about all the positive feedback I had gotten for it, I would have never expected it to be honest and I am so incredibly grateful for each and every one! I've got the ending for this story but not every chapter inbetween yet, since I've decided to post it as a series one day. But first I'll want to rewatch Big Sky for that hehe. 🤠

Edit: I had to run - adding the tags now! 💕

No pressure as always: @the-potato-is-lonely @chevroletdeanwrites @honeyryewhiskey @maddie0101 @aylacavebear

✨ Creative Spotlight Challenge! ✨

Hey Tumblr creatives! Let’s spread some love for the stories, fanfics, and art projects that deserve more appreciation. 💖

📢 The Challenge: Tell us about a story, fanfic, or art project you’re really proud of—new or old! Maybe it didn’t get the attention you hoped for, or maybe you just poured your heart into it and want to share it again. Whatever the reason, now’s the time to give it some love!

📌 How to participate: 💫 Reblog this and share your work! (Link it, describe it, scream about it—whatever feels right!) 💫 Tag your favorite writers and artists to lift up their work, too! 💫 Use #CreativeSpotlightChallenge so we can all find each other’s amazing creations!

I'll share my story: buckle bunny blues ( which is very new and hope some people might read it, it isn't as popular as my fanfics, but I'm very proud of it!)

Let’s celebrate creativity and support each other! 💕✨ No pressure tags:

@winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @mostlymarvelgirl @suckitands33 @cevansbaby-dove @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @zepskies @lila-lou @lamentationsofalonelypotato