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howdoyousleep3 · 2 months ago

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Pairing: Daddy Steve/Baby Bucky Rating: E (Explicit) Word Count: 4.4K Tags: Porn Without Plot, Established Relationship, Drunk Sex, Daddy Kink, Light Dom/Sub Relationship, Brat Taming, CNC (Consensual Non-Consent), Dirty Talk, No Prep (there is an obscene amount of lube though lol), Spanking, Anal Sex, Manhandling, Feminization, Rough Sex, Light Exhibitionism, Light Subspace, Breeding Kink, Size Kink, Spitting, Coming on Face, Ruined Orgasm A/N: It's about time. The current state of my life and my mental health called for a mean and selfish Daddy Steve who doesn't give a fuck. In this fic, these two rely on their established relationship and deep understanding of one another. Daddy Steve has never talked or acted like this. Bucky loves it even if he is frightened by the thrill of it. I hope you trust them and love it too. ❤️

Read here on Ao3

“Listen, Buck— I’m going out to dinner with my friends and that’s that.”

Bucky isn’t used to being told no.

“I don’t know what else to tell you. You’re just going to have to deal with it, baby. I’ll be home later tonight.”

Bucky doesn’t react well to being told no.

“I love you,” Steve had told him to obviously end the conversation, something akin to annoyance evident in his tone, digging into and burning at Bucky’s skin. Being told no feels like rejection, feels like betrayal, feels like nothing his Daddy should be forcing him to feel.

So, Bucky hung up without another word, without a proper response.

Without giving Daddy his “I love you”.

If Steve wants to be mean, Bucky can be mean too. He can be mean even through the tears and through the sting of rejection and through his admittedly unnecessary pouting. So, he ignores Steve’s calls, ignores his texts, ignores his warnings.

Buck…

Don’t do this. You know this won’t end well.

Pick up the phone, Bucky.

He goes about his night alone at home, ignoring Steve’s attempts at communicating, at apologizing, at getting back onto Bucky’s good side. He orders takeout and ignores the immediate urge he’s met with to order Steve’s meal of choice as well; he doesn't deserve it. He drinks half a bottle of red wine as he scrolls through Instagram, watches reruns of Real Housewives of New Jersey, and waits for his food to be delivered.

By the time he’s done with his meal, he’s finished off the bottle of wine and ignored three more of Steve’s texts and two more calls.

Why are you being such a brat?

Pick up the damn phone.

You’re fixing to piss me off, Buck.

Daddy’s been drinking.

Bucky decides to shower. He takes a long, hot, luxurious shower. He shampoos his hair twice, uses his expensive body wash that smells like pumpkin cinnamon rolls. He drenches himself in the matching body oil once he’s done showering, takes the time to put on his best skincare, his favorite oil for his hair.

He feels like he’s floating on a cloud as he falls into bed naked and wraps himself up in their flannel sheets and heavy duvet. He doesn’t even bother going in search of his phone; he has no plans to respond to whatever Steve sends him anyway.

Steve can kiss his ass.

Bucky is pulled slowly from his sleep.

It isn’t in an instant or a sharp awakening; it feels like he’s being pulled slowly through syrup from his dream-riddled sleep by something curious.

Bucky furrows his brow. Is that—?

It’s a noise, a consistent noise.

A familiar, wet noise that immediately sets Bucky on fire from the inside out.

The recognition of that noise forces his body and mind into a state of almost panicked awakeness then. A sharp wave of premature arousal wracks his body, something of a Pavlovian response, and it sends his heart pounding against his ribs. He opens his eyes and blinks a few times in order to help adjust to the darkness of the room, the lights from the city just outside their windows helping to keep the room not fully encased in darkness.

Once his eyes adjust, he finds the source of the sound immediately.

He was right.

Steve stands within reach of Bucky’s bedside, close enough to touch, his cock pulled through the zipper of his pants and held in his hand.

Fisting it.

He doesn’t even say anything when he locks eyes with Bucky, his mouth slightly dropped open and a sharp gleam in his eyes just past his glasses that leaves Bucky on edge, curious and hesitant and hot. He tries hard not to let his eyes drop back down to the sight of Steve’s impressive cock, digs his fingers into the mattress in an attempt to ground himself, but it’s useless. It’s always useless.

He loves his Daddy’s cock.

Bucky doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. He watches on as Steve reaches for an open bottle of lube he must have pulled out of Bucky’s bedside table, watches on as he squirts some messily into his palm before reaching for his cock again. He tosses the bottle onto the bed carelessly.

Something deep, deep within Bucky begins to grow restless.

“Still ain’t got nothin’ to say to your Daddy?”

Steve’s voice cuts through the air and the tension like a hot knife through butter. Bucky feels the bass of it in his toes, the bite of Steve’s growl curling around his neck.

He curses himself for once again not thinking his tantrums through to the end, for thinking he ever stood a chance against his Daddy.

“Yeah, forgot how much of a fuckin’ punk you can be when you don’t get your way.”

Oh.

That’s how it’s going to be?

The thrill of uncharted territory skirts up Bucky’s spine, the nervousness of the same curling into a ball in his belly.

“Maybe you shouldn’t spoil me so much then,” Bucky weakly tries, but Steve only scoffs and strokes his cock harder, the girth of him making Bucky’s mouth traitorously water.

“I’m not responsible for your fuckin attitude, Buck,” Steve bites out in a tone Bucky has only heard a few times before. It nearly forces tears to spring to his eyes, nearly pulls a whimper from the back of his throat. It also makes his balls begin to ache.

He chooses not to say anything in response, but Steve fills the silence after a minute or two.

“Thought about comin’ home to just blow my load all over your pretty face while you slept before crawling into bed, but…don’t know. Think I want you to be awake when I take out my anger on your pretty body.”

Jesus.

“Andy said I should do it, mark you up all over your face, maybe smack you around a little. But James said I need to take it out on your ass. And I gotta say…I’m keen on taking it out on your ass.”

Bucky’s head spins. He grows dizzy from where he lays, his jaw going slack as that dizziness morphs into fuzz, into familiar heaviness. The erotic image of Steve sitting amongst his friends and discussing Bucky’s punishment pulls his hips into the bed beneath him, forcing his next few breaths to grate against the front of his throat. His dick fills out, chubbs up, fattens between his legs and in the sheets.

Steve talking about him, about something so sexual, seeking advice from his friends on how to handle his baby— it’s all far too much to process at once.

The added layer of them all drinking, of knowing what Steve gets like when he has amber liquid slipping through his system, intensifies Bucky’s reaction.

He’s certain Steve was spewing filth, was sharing intimate details of their relationship. He was surely discussing Bucky, what he likes and dislikes, how he reacts to Daddy’s decisions and hand.

Fuck, Bucky shouldn’t find it so hot, but he’s damn near drooling for it.

“Yeah, that’s right— it was a group decision. Had to tell ‘em all how bad you were bein’, had to explain why I was so fuckin’ fired up when I got there. You don’t even want to know the fucked up shit Levinson and Walker said I should force you to do. So, we decided on your ass, that your ass deserves the punishment.”

Bucky will never be able to look Steve’s friends in the eyes again. Or maybe he will, but he’ll surely pop a boner the moment he does.

Steve’s groan is somehow thunderous yet low, long and drawn out, as he resumes stroking his cock, as he reaches into his pants and pulls his balls out. Bucky barely has time to whine at the sight before Steve is speaking again.

“But that works out ‘cause if I’m making you fuckin’ take it, I’m gonna be selfish about it. Yeah sure, I’m your Daddy and I’m supposed to teach you a lesson and make you aware of the consequences of your actions, blah blah blah—”

Bucky’s not once heard Steve talk like this.

“— but not everything has to be a fuckin’ lesson. Sometimes I just wanna…just wanna make it hurt, lay you out a little bit. Don’t wanna make your punishment about you; I want it to be about me.”

Bucky thinks for a moment that he has no footing, has nothing to grasp at to ground himself in the slightest. But Steve is his safety, is his other half; he’s safe here. He’s safe with Steve and he doesn’t need to question that. And because of that, because of the foundation of trust and love they share, Bucky comes to the decision that this?

This is hot.

It’s hot as fuck.

“Roll over,” Steve sharply and suddenly demands. “I wanna see that boy pussy I’ve been thinkin’ about fucking all night.”

Bucky whimpers, his legs spreading on instinct, his next few breaths shaking loose from his lungs. His noises sound almost like a hiccup, like a set of sobs, and he’s rising up onto his knees before he can think twice about it.

Where he’d normally receive a noise of praise or appreciation, he instead receives a bark of, “Turn the fuck around, show it to me the way I deserve.”

Bucky scrambles. At least he feels as if he’s scrambling, as if he’s moving quickly and awkwardly, but if the thickness of his thoughts and the difficulty of thinking a second ahead is any indication, he probably looks as if he’s lazily moving through molasses.

Bucky still doesn’t get the noise or words of praise he’s used to when he’s finally turned around, when he’s got his back in a deep arch and his cheek pressed against the sheets as he faces away from Steve. He instead soaks in the noises of the sound of Steve beating himself off, the slick noise of his fist as he drags it up and down his—

“You’ve been a little bitch tonight. The guys made me promise them I wouldn’t give into you the moment I saw your pretty hole, but fuck me— that’s a pretty fuckin’ pussy.”

Bucky does moan this time, loud and ragged with tight emotion. His dick hangs heavy between his legs, achy from the suddenness and surprise of his arousal, and his hole clenches easily and involuntarily at the compliment.

“Fuck, look how small it is, look how little that fuckin’ hole is. It’s a miracle I can fit my dick in there, my big fuckin’ dick. Your Daddy’s got a big dick, doesn’t he?” Goddamn. Bucky wants to shuffle around on his knees so he can choke on his Daddy’s big dick. He wants it in his mouth, on his tongue, in his throat. He wants—

“I asked you a fuckin’ question,” Steve damn near growls, and the sharp sting of a slap on the meat of his ass shocks Bucky’s answer from him.

“D-Daddy’s got a big dick.”

“Yeah, that’s right— say it again. Tell me again.”

Bucky tucks his arms under his chest, spreads his legs even more, offering himself up.

“Daddy’s dick is so big.”

Steve chuckles into his next groan. “Fuck, I love hearin’ that.”

He listens as Steve moves next, hears him take a few steps, hears him shuffle around before Bucky then feels a cold glob of liquid hit his ass cheek. He gasps, jumps even, but Steve just moans and spreads the liquid across Bucky’s ass with his hand.

Bucky doesn’t even have time to ask questions or think of how messy or obscene smearing his ass in lube is when Steve’s hands are on him like this. It’s as if Bucky isn’t there as a person, as if Steve is alone in this room with his ass, as if he were a toy. Daddy’s hand rubs the lube into the cheeks of his ass carelessly, smearing it around and covering him in the slippery liquid simply for the selfish enjoyment of seeing Bucky’s ass oiled up.

So much for his luxurious, self care shower.

Bucky’s head is so far in the clouds that he barely registers more of it being squirt onto his ass, the feeling of Steve’s hands rubbing and moving almost hypnotizing, but then Steve is rubbing it over his hole, circling it with his fingers and thumb, pressing his thumb into his hole as he moans.

Bucky squeals.

These touches are indicative of Steve meaning what he said about this punishment being for him; these are selfish touches.

The slap of Daddy’s big cock right over his soaked pussy makes him whine. But the feel of Steve then resting his cock between Bucky’s cheeks, of pushing his hips forward in a rhythmic motion draws his whine out further.

“I’m gonna be mean about it because it’s what you deserve. What I deserve. M’gonna fuck this little pussy the way I want to, for me— don’t give a shit about you right now. You wanna come? Fine. But this ain’t about you.”

Steve pulls his hips back in order for his hand to come down over Bucky’s wet hole hard, just the once and then three more swift times, spanking it and forcing another squeal out of Bucky’s mouth.

“Fuck…!”

He’s barely able to jump away from the sting, barely able to feel the burn of such a harsh touch, before Steve is stepping close again and pressing the fat tip of his cock back against Bucky’s soaked hole.

“You better bear down on it, baby— didn’t spend my sweet time training this pussy for nothin’.”

Bucky’s body and mind come together for a moment of panic, mesh in an effort to preserve what they perceive to be Bucky’s safety that is in danger. It’s too fast, too quick; it’s not what Bucky’s used to. He gasps as he shrinks away from Steve’s touch, his thoughts getting the best of him and—

Steve’s strong hand on his nape is like a warm blanket, like an off switch, even when it’s a touch that makes it difficult to breathe.

“None’a that now. Bear down, here we go…”

Claiming.

Breeding.

Steve’s always shown mercy, is in tune with Bucky’s mind and body, holds Bucky as a priority in life and in the bedroom; that is what Bucky is used to. But that Steve is nowhere to be found in their bedroom shrouded in darkness tonight. That Steve has been pushed past the brink of the vast amount of patience he holds, has been filled with amber liquid that takes away his softness. He’s nowhere to be found as he spears Bucky open on his cock, as he uses his big hands to press into the deep arch of Bucky’s back and use it as leverage to fuck into him faster, harder.

Bucky tells himself it’s a lot, that it’s overwhelming, but that it doesn't hurt. He’s used to sex; they have sex frequently. His body doesn’t need to be warmed up to taking Steve when he takes Steve on the regular. But rarely does he take Steve’s cock this fast, this quick, this harsh. His stream of noise is constant, is veering on feral in nature, and he all but thrashes underneath Steve’s hands and on his cock in response to being split open.

“This is my fuckin’ pussy,” Steve grounds out between what sounds to be gritted teeth, and Bucky can’t tell if it’s a reminder for Bucky or filth for himself.

Bucky can’t breathe. He chokes on his breaths, on his noises that won’t stop pouring out, his breaths caged up in his chest. Steve has his waist in a brutal grip, pressing his body further into the mattress, and with Bucky’s arms trapped under his chest it makes it cages his breaths up further.

He wills himself to breathe, begs himself to focus and to open up his willing body to his Daddy. It’s not difficult for him to want this, even as they tread new waters together, but he is quick to come to peace with his body taking the brunt of this…whatever type of punishment this is.

The only moment of mercy Bucky is shown is when Steve’s hips meet the curve of Bucky’s ass, and even then Steve only stills long enough to press and grind his cock impossibly deeper into Bucky. It’s as if he wishes to crawl inside of Bucky with a growl, as if Bucky’s body taking the entirety of his cock isn’t enough and he needs more than Bucky can give him.

Bucky feels drool on his chin.

His blinks are slow and lagging, or maybe that’s his eyes rolling back into his head.

“God fucking damnit,” Steve groans, his tone showing evidence of both relief and frustration, the smack he gives Bucky’s ass driving that frustration home. He jerks his hips back, pulls out of Bucky halfway before filling him up to the brim again. The lewd, wet noises of his pussy makes his cheeks burn in embarrassment, makes him moan at the easy slide and overwhelming sensation of stretch.

Bucky doesn’t know why he pretends to be a brat. A few harsh words and a smack on his ass and here he is face down, ass up for his Daddy.

Steve pulls his hips back again, is quick to slide them back home, beginning to fuck Bucky in earnest.

Bucky’s head spins.

“Pretty fuckin’ pussy for a pretty fuckin’ boy,” Steve tells him in a rumble, rubbing his thumb around Bucky’s stretched and wet rim.

On the other hand, maybe he should be a brat more often.

Steve fucks him without mercy.

Bucky is used to mercy.

He’s used to eye contact and pauses and little, “You good, baby”s. He’s not used to feeling the entirety of Steve’s strength pressed into his body, not used to feeling bruises form in the moment. He’s not used to feeling like Daddy is simply using him for his hole, for somewhere wet and warm to stick his dick and fuck into.

This is different.

This feels so good even if it is a lot.

It has his emotions twisted up in his stomach.

The way his body rocks forward with every brutal thrust, the force of the stretch of his pussy, the feeling of spreading his legs and being bent over for his Daddy; he’s almost embarrassed he can very realistically come from this kind of treatment.

He doesn’t realize he’s saying things until Steve is laughing, groaning, the noise of it swirling around Bucky’s empty brain like a marble.

“Oh sugar,” he moans long and slow, his hands coming down to cup Bucky’s ass as he fucks it, spreading it wide. “You got nothin’ to apologize for— none of that fuckin’ matters now that I’m inside’a you.”

Was he apologizing? He can hear himself now, the drawn-out, almost mournful noises he’s making as spit pools into the sheets underneath him. It’s all nonsense; he can tell that even though his brain is having a hard time processing his own words.

“Stretch me out, Daddy,” he hears himself whine. “I’m sorry— M’so sorry! Make it better, Daddy.”

Steve only fucks into him harder, the slick smack of his groin and his heavy sac slapping against Bucky’s lube-covered ass adding to the cacophony of noises swirling around the room and muddying up his brain.

“Whatever you say, baby.”

“Daddy…”

“Of course I fucking am. Who’s your Daddy?”

“You are…you’re my Daddy.”

Bucky feels a hand wrap roughly around his nape. His face is shoved further into the mattress. The force of the touch and the angle of his body makes him sob.

“Yeah? And whose pussy is this? Whose fuckin’ pussy is this?”

Bucky hiccups, sputters.

“Daddy’s! S’Daddy’s!”

His balls begin to tighten then, his groin stirring, the moment his hole relaxes and embraces the obscene stretch of Steve’s cock in full. Steve has always told him he has a sensitive sweet spot, a sensitive pussy, and this example is his Daddy’s checkmate.

He bucks against Steve’s harsh touch and thrusts when he feels his orgasm rapidly build and stir.

“M’gonna come, m’gonna…come,” he hears himself slur, a pitiful warning that he’s almost certain Steve can’t hear.

“I don’t give a shit.”

Oh.

He was wrong.

Bucky says the only thing that makes sense to him in this moment—

“Come in my pussy, Daddy.”

Steve roars, shoving at Bucky’s nape before letting go and reaching for his hair, all without pausing his thrusts.

“Don’t you fucking do that. You motherfucker. Don’t do that, Buck.”

His orgasm must possess him, push him into doing things Daddy said not to do, because he’s immediately defying his Daddy and pouting out, “Come in my pussy, Daddy. Fill my pussy up,” just as his first spurt of come hits the sheets.

It’s the only moment of his orgasm he is allowed to enjoy.

He’s still coming, dick continuing to shoot off and body continuing to ride the waves of a shattering orgasm, when Steve pulls out of Bucky’s body and drags him to the floor by his neck.

He hits the carpet with a thud and a shout, knees knocking and hands flying out to catch himself. He whines, cries, at losing such a memorable orgasm, at being pulled out of the experience of such, and tucks his chin to watch himself experience the end of his climax between his legs.

“Open your fucking mouth. Look up at me.”

Even with his ruined orgasm, he listens easily. He’s slow to do so. He turns his head up to do his best to look up at his Daddy, but the tears in his eyes make it impossible to see Steve.

He can see his fist though, see his cock as he uses his fist to fuck himself as they nearly come full circle for the night.

“You don’t let me come on your pretty face enough,” Steve accuses, voice hot and low, labored and barely audible over the ringing in Bucky’s ears and the sound of Steve aggressively jerking off above him.

Bucky doesn’t respond, can’t bring forth any words in his brain. He sits there with his tongue out, tears in his eyes, hips doing what they can to rock from the aftershocks of his shattering yet unenjoyable orgasm.

Steve groans and the noise hits Bucky right in the balls. He feels the result of it in his bloodstream, in his being, a noise that, at its core, is centered around Bucky being good. It’s gluttonous and selfish and sexy and Bucky could weep hearing it.

He thinks he is weeping at this point.

When he opens his eyes again, Steve is coming on his tongue.

And then his cheek.

And then over his other cheek, onto his forehead.

All Bucky can do is sob and moan, an odd combination that makes it sound like he’s begging for his life while also in heat.

“Fuck, that’s good. Fuck yeah, look at’chu. Look at my fuckin’ baby. My baby…”

Steve’s come feels as if it scalds his skin, the warmth of it both a shock and a comfort to him. Bucky lets it slide from his tongue, down his chin, has to close one eye in order to avoid a painful mess.

He does nothing to fight against the urge to pout when Steve feeds him the last bit of come from the swollen tip of his cock, letting it fall onto his bottom lip. Steve’s fingers immediately follow it, two of them reaching forward to rub the mess into his lip, then across his chin. Bucky watches from the floor as Steve’s chest heaves up and down underneath his crisp dress shirt, his thick fingers pressing and smearing his warm come into Bucky’s skin.

Bucky chases after his Daddy’s fingers like a starving animal, gasping and groaning, tongue lapping up whatever Steve has to offer.

Does he have no pride?

Daddy answers that question with two fingers shoved in his mouth, stroking the back of his tongue so harshly Bucky’s left with no choice but to gag loudly.

He still moans.

Steve lets out a long, happy noise that sounds like a sigh but feels like another groan in Bucky’s balls. It’s akin to the noise he lets out when he stands to stretch as the halftime show begins during the football games he watches on Sundays, deep and satisfied. He follows the noise up with a tight grip on Bucky’s jaw from the inside of his mouth, a hold on his teeth as he pulls Bucky further towards him.

Where Bucky expects a kiss, he instead gets no warning of Steve spitting down between his open lips.

“Fuck yeah…”

He uses his fingers to spread that around as well, allowing for the combination of his come, his spit, and Bucky’s spit slip over Bucky’s bottom lip and slip down his neck before letting Bucky go with a bit of a shove.

Bucky’s not used to this.

Bucky thinks he’s fallen in love with Steve all over again.

His spent and heavy cock still hangs from the open zipper of his pants, framed by thighs that Bucky swears are the size of tree trunks from down here, when Steve lets out one last, resigned groan.

“That was exactly what I fuckin’ needed,” he casually tells Bucky with more than a tap on his cheek. He turns on his heel and begins to walk away from Bucky and towards their shared bathroom.

Bucky can barely follow him with his eyes, can barely hold his head up.

Steve’s sharp whistle rings in his ears.

“C’mon, sugar— let’s see if you can wring another one outta me,” he hollers from over his shoulder, not bothering to look back at Bucky. Steve almost sounds like himself again, as if he hadn’t just hate fucked Bucky to the brink of psychosis. Bucky thinks he hears the shower.

Maybe that was all Steve needed to get out of his system.

Bucky begins to maneuver himself to stand, ass already sore and come still covering his face, when Steve snaps from the door of their bathroom.

“Nuh-uh— you crawl to your Daddy, kid.”

Maybe not.

#my writing #stucky fanfic #daddy steve and baby bucky #howdoyousleep #take a shot every time Steve says a variation of 'fuck' lol #(don't bc you'll end up in the hospital)#take a shot every time Steve drunkenly calls Bucky 'pretty'#(you may not end up in the hospital but you'll definitely get sick lol)

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hyunsvngs · 11 months ago

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hi frennn I can’t stop thinking abt reader and jisung dry humping while making out and both needing and pee so y’all just piss on each other while kissinggg!!!! 😵‍💫😖‼️ this sounds very hawt to me so I jus wanted to share with youuuu<3 also you awakened a hidden piss kink within me lmaoo😭 ty😘

🌙anon

i’m stoned but this has been sitting in my askbox and now this feels like the fucking time.

“i- mm, sung, sung-ah, kiss me,” you whine, hips drilling upwards into his. it’s messy and you’re so wet you’ve leaked through your panties by now, on your second or third orgasm since you’ve started clumsily rutting your hips together like horny virgins. it always gets like this when he gets back from tour - you get too het up while he’s gone and he gets even worse.

his lips messily drag from your neck to kiss you, and his tongue swirls around yours. jisung’s drooling, you realise, and he’s started to release those throaty whines you love. he attempts to keep up the pace of his hips but he can’t, too desperate for your mouth, so you suck on his tongue until you’re satisfied and let him kick his rhythm up again.

“my baby’s pussy’s so wet,” he coos, hands moving to your hips. he’s essentially pinning you down to grind against you but it doesn’t work - you wriggle and writhe while he speaks filth in that slurred voice. “i c-can - fuck, baby, stay still, lemme- fuck, i can feel how wet you f-fucking are, baby.”

“yeah, m’ wet, jisungie, fuck!” you whine, clit throbbing dully, and jisung’s hips halt against yours again. you want to kick your feet and throw a tantrum, but suddenly he’s looking at you, dark eyes pleading.

“i gotta piss,” he mumbles, nose brushing against yours. his cock is hard against your pussy and you realise he’s probably finished already too, with how wet they are on the front, but he still wriggles desperately between your thighs. you don’t even realise what he’s said, cheeks flushed, and he huffs out a laugh. “i g’ta piss, like, now. i’ll go-“

your legs wrap around that slim waist before he can move an inch. “no! no, jisungie, here, here, do it here, and-“

his eyes widen, but he’s nodding, his hips kicking up slowly. “h-here? fuck, fuck, yeah! baby, baby, you’ll let me? fuck, let me piss here, baby, please.”

and you nod, whining. jisung’s still nodding and you see his jaw clench as he lets go. his own head ducks down to watch it spread through your sleep shorts, his boxers positively drenched in it, and he huffs out a moan. when his hand moves down to wrap around his dick, just barely pumping it a few times while he pisses, you think you might cum from the sight alone.

when he’s done his knees slide in it in his haste to get back to you. jisung keens when his cock makes contact with your cunt again - through fabric still, but now so wet it doesn’t matter, the slide so slick it has you seeing stars.

“f-fuck! fuck, yeah baby, this is so- so fuckin’ hot, shit,” he huffs, and you giggle, nodding deliriously. “it’s- it’s like i’m markin’ you as m-mine, baby, all mine.”

#juno’s asks ♡#🌙 anon 💌#asks: jisung #PISS!

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hellfirecvnt · 9 months ago

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Hellfirecvnt Masterlist

List Started: 5/12/24

Last updated: 1/31/25

Total Works: 29

Fandoms: Stranger Things, Vice Principals, The Righteous Gemstones, Fallout, Dinner in America, The Passenger

Stranger Things- (I no longer write for ST.)

Eddie Munson:

Y'know I Knew a Guy Like You. (Eddie x Y/N, but Y/N talks like Theo Von) A silly adventure. No smut.

"Your Sister is Hot." (Eddie x Fem!Harrington!Reader) You're Steve's hot sister and Eddie is down bad. Yes smut.

...Yet (Eddie x Fem!Reader) A pool hangout feat. the whole gang turns steamy after a few shots and a game of Two Truths, One Lie. Yes smut.

Second First Time (Eddie x Fem!Reader) You lost your virginity to a guy who couldn't make you cum. Eddie can fic that. Yes smut.

She's Got a Boyfriend, Anyway. (Eddie x Fem!Reader) Your friendship dynamic changes when you start dating Billy Hargrove. Yes smut.

Let Me See You (Sub!Eddie x Fem!Reader) Eddie's got a kink you didn't know about. Yes smut.

Finish What You Started (Perv!Eddie x Fem!Reader) A night of truth or dare awakens a need in Eddie that his pervy little heart will do anything to satiate. Yes smut.

Where Have You Been All My Life? (Dom!Eddie x Fem!Henderson!Reader) You're Dustin's beloved big sister who happens to be a perfect parallel of his friend, Eddie. Yes smut.

You're Mine (Eddie x Fem!Reader) Eddie goes with you to get a tattoo. He's horny. Yes smut.

Claimed (Eddie x Fem!Reader) You're new at Hawkins and Eddie has already made his claim, you just don't know it yet. Yes smut.

Innocence Lost (Eddie x Fem!Reader) Corruption kink type beat. Yes smut.

Innocence Lost Pt. 2 (Eddie x Fem!Reader) Part 2 of 2. Yes smut.

Steve Harrington and Eddie Munson:

Interruption (Steve x Fem!Reader x Eddie) Eddie barges in on your time with Steve. Yes smut.

People Pleaser (Steve x Fem!Reader x Eddie) Eddie likes to see how far you'll go for him. Yes smut.

Billy Hargrove:

It's Personal (Billy x Fem!Reader) Billy's been an ongoing bully/ nuisance in your life since you met. He's acting a little different after finding out you've been hurt. No smut. (Part 2 coming soon)

Billy Hargrove, Steve Harrington, and Eddie Munson:

What are You Thinking Drinking About? (Billy, Steve, Eddie x Fem!Reader) You and your friends hang out pretty regularly. You've known each other for a long time and have a lot of history since meeting in high school. Some of the group can't make it to the hang out one night, and there's a weird tension between you and the ones who do show up. Yes smut.

Vice Principals-

Lee Russell:

•••Series 1:

First Trip (Lee x Fem!Reader) (Pt. 1) You're the new secretary at NJH. You've caught Lee's eye, but disaster strikes before anything can be done about it. No smut.

The Foundation of Learning (Lee x Fem!Reader) (Pt. 2) A dream changes things and Lee plots Belinda's downfall by framing a teacher. No smut.

Teacher Work Day (Lee x Fem!Reader) (Pt. 3) "Is that bitch pissing on that cop car?" No smut.

Preoccupied (Lee x Fem!Reader) (Pt. 4) A plan is hatching, sure. You and Lee can't stay focused. What are you two thinking about? Yes smut.

Light my Fire (Lee x Fem!Reader) (Pt. 5) Your plan goes awry. Tensions are high. What's everyone gonna do about it? Ooh. Yes smut.

•••••

•••Series 2:

Subordinate (Lee x Fem!Reader) (Pt. 1) North Jackson High has a new principal and your coworkers are not coping well. XOXO. No smut.

Subordinate (Lee x Fem!Reader) (Pt. 2) Something goes wrong at the pep rally. You and Lee get closer. Yes smut.

The Righteous Gemstones-

Baby Billy Freeman:

Hallelujah, What a Payday (Baby Billy x Fem!Reader) Baby Billy's on the search for his next co-star. Yes smut.

Fallout-

Prewar Cooper Howard:

Hard to Get (Cooper x Fem!Reader) It's been a new experience being cast in the lead of the latest Hollywood movie. What's even more nerve-wracking is your far-more-famous-than-you co-star. After you can't seem to sell the chemistry between you to the director, you're pushed to spend more quality time with your cohort. Yes smut.

Dinner in America-

John Q. / Simon:

Don't Piss Me Off (Simon X Fem!Reader) (Pt. 1) You're back in your hometown for a few weeks to house sit for your parents. A rivalry dating back to your high school years makes an appearance, but this time, he's met his match. No smut.

Don't Piss me Off (Simon X Fem!Reader) (Pt. 2) You still can't stand sticking around your parents for too long, but you stay in town for a while longer just to see him play. Yes smut.

The Passenger-

Benson:

I've Got My Eye on You (Benson x Fem!Reader) (Pt. 1) Benson's displeased with your inability to stand up for yourself. You're the distraction he needs to keep him from snapping. No smut.

You're Just Drunk (Benson x Fem!Reader) A story about hidden feelings, bad brains, and probably blossoming alcoholism. No smut.

110 notes · View notes

talltalesandbedtimestories · 2 years ago

Text

Five-Finger Discount (Dean/Reader)

Title: Five-Finger Discount

Characters/Pairing: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Dean x Female Reader

Summary: It's supposed to be a simple case. A little undercover. A little burglary. A little spell. Dash of salt and burn. No muss, no fuss. So, why the hell are you getting these uncontrollable thoughts about Dean's... hands?

Word Count: 10,300

Tags: Hand & Finger Kink, Dean Winchester is a Scoundrel, Dean gets a Manicure, Fluff and Humor, Shameless Smut of the Finger Variety, Dean Winchester Talks Dirty

Notes: Because Jensen just can’t keep his hands to himself. See notes on AO3 for the offender/crime in question.

A persistent tapping on your bedroom door awakens you. It could be late evening or early morning in the windowless bunker.

Before you can check your phone for the actual time, Dean’s voice calls your name from the other side of the door.

You groan. Whatever time it is, it’s not ‘wakey wakey eggs and bakey’ time. “What?”

“Got word from Sam. He’s figured out what’s been killing the inmates in NSP.”

You sit up and feel for the lamp switch. After a turn and snick , you mumble, “Let there be light.” Your voice raises in answer to Dean. “That’s great.”

“Well, not that great.” The conversation is still happening through the closed door. “Sam figures it’s a ghost of a prisoner that died behind bars in 1870.”

“Why not great? Did you want more of a challenge? Ghosts are a milk run.”

You can hear the dramatic sigh, picture the tilt back and forth of his head, and the way his mouth mimics either you or Sam when the sarcasm leans on the excessive. Which is kind of ironic coming from the King of Snark. “Can I come in? You decent?”

“Yes.”

It’s definitely the middle of the night when you get a look at him. Dean’s hair is mussed. There are cheek and chin creases from scuba pillow diving when he sleeps on his stomach. “You got something formal to wear?”

“Huh?”

“A gown, dress, something promish or wedding worthy?”

“Promish?” That question reply to his question earns you a broad stance with hands on hips like a superhero as Dean stares you down. You twirl both hands around to remind him of the non-existent storage space in the bunker. Which should not be a thing in such a huge fortress where men dressed in three piece suits on the daily. “Sure. I have a whole rack of them hanging in my walk-in closet.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, smart ass. Well, we’re gonna have to go do this thing in less than twenty-four hours that needs you in a dress and me in a tux.”

You suck in your lips and try not to laugh at how pissed Dean appears at the thought.

“It’s a charity fundraiser in Lincoln,” he continues. “We have to act like a couple of out-of-state spenders with deep pockets to get our hands on the Hand of Glory that belonged to this ghost.”

“What about Sam? I bet he’d look much better in a dress than I would.”

Dean shrugs. “He’s got the hair for it. But we can’t risk somebody making him.”

Of course. The one time Sam goes investigating on his own. He posed as an FBI agent and poked around too many people.

You and Dean are going to have to go shopping. The all-out kind. Max out a stolen credit card at the mall kind.

Dean is gonna be miserable. You can’t wait. Grumpy Dean, for some reason, is very entertaining.

“How about you in the dress and me in the tux?” you offer.

“I don’t have the legs for it.” Dean shakes his head. “Get a few more hours of sleep. Gonna be a busy day.”

You’ve been around Sam and Dean for a long time. Long enough to have gotten a little numb and even blase regarding certain things.

The dangers of a hunt. The stench of death. The amount of blood a beheaded vamp body can ooze.

As you tick the tasks off for the heist with a trip to a dress shop earlier and currently helping Dean pick out a tux, another thing you’ve become indifferent to smacks you right in the goddamn face.

The hotness of the Winchester brothers.

You were talking with the owner of the suit store when Dean parted the curtains of the fitting booth he’d been in for five minutes.

And there it was, dressed to the nines, cutting a fine figure in a black tuxedo.

The plain as day fact of how unfucking-believably gorgeous Dean Winchester is.

Stephen, well-dressed and highly animated, claps hands in front of his face. “Oh. Wow, that is, it’s like you stepped right off the cover of GQ magazine,” he gushes at Dean. “Turn around, turn around.”

Dean blushes, spins on his heels, and averts your and Stephen’s gaze. You’re glad because you can feel the warmth racing over your own cheeks.

“Sir, that is screaming perfection. I don’t even think it needs to be taken in. It’s like a second skin.” You’d think Stephen was buttering him up for a sale if he was overexaggerating. But, he wasn’t.

“Well, good, cause it’s not like we’ve got time for a tailor,” Dean huffs. Then, you hear, “You’re awfully quiet. What do you think?”

“I-yeah-it’ll do.”

After Dean swipes the key card, he steps aside and lets you pass the threshold first.

“Holy shit,” you whisper.

The suite is swanky. No motels for you on this trip. You’ve got to keep up appearances, after all.

Windows that meet the ceiling give you a sweet view of downtown Lincoln. It’s not the New York skyline, but everything looks impressive from a higher vantage.

Dean pushes the squeaky luggage cart. The door clicks closed solidly behind him. “Alright. We got a few hours to get ourselves presentable. Then we head on over to the Sheldon Museum of Art.” He hangs the garment bags containing his tux and your dress in the closet. The duffle bags each get a chuck onto the king-size bed.

You nod at the reminder. Sam will be at the fundraiser as well. Between the ruse of you and Dean as the wealthy Mitchums from Kansas and Sam’s Agent Dion, you’re confident the case will be resolved before another not-so-innocent victim dies. “Too bad we can’t really enjoy a stay at a place like this.”

“Eh, overpriced. I can’t wait to get home to the bunker. It’s a lot nicer.” He rolls the cart back toward the door. “I’ll be back in a few.”

He’s gone before you can quibble with Dean over your and his idea of luxury. But yours does have windows, excessive amounts of pillows, and room service.

Dean returns to find you’ve commandeered the entire vanity counter with makeup. He chuckles. “Never seen you put any of this crap on before. Do you even know how?”

“Asshole.” You thwack his tummy, but clenched stomach muscles anticipated the retaliation. “I’ll wear makeup for this case out of necessity. I don’t believe in going into debt to keep up with the latest beauty trend. This stuff costs a fortune.”

Dean picks up a packet of press-on nails and looks at the price tag. “Well, hopefully, it’s all worth it.”

As Dean inspects your haul, you notice the dirt under his own nails. “Your hands,” you state.

“Huh?” Dean’s brow furrows. He puts down the box and stares at his fingers.

“Those aren’t the hands of a millionaire.”

He smiles. “I’ve got a great rags to riches story I can use. You see, one day I was shootin’ at some food, and up for the ground came a bubblin’...”

“Ooor, you can look the part.” You cut off his recounting of how the Beverly Hillbillies came to be and sweep a hand in his direction. “Hurry up and shower. I’ll do your nails.”

His eyes bug out. “Do my nails?”

“Relax. Just gonna tidy them up. No polish. Although there’s nothing wrong with a little color on a guy’s nails. But maybe not for this event. We don’t need you to stand out too much.” You think about how he looked in that tux and realize how much he will stand out already at least in your mind. He’s still blinking at you, processing what’s about to happen. “Well, hurry up, Jeb. That oil ain’t gonna find itself.”

You gulp at the sight of a freshly scrubbed, washed, towel-dried Dean. It shouldn’t be affecting you like this. You’ve seen him just out of a shower with his white t-shirt and sweatpants when you’ve been hunting on the road.

Maybe it’s the change of scenery. No motel. No mildew smells. No obnoxiously loud wallpaper to mask the soot and stains. No revving engines or wheels peeling right outside the door. None of the things that usually overwhelm and distract your senses.

His entire face is scrunched up in confused awe. Tools are neatly lined atop a towel on the small island by the kitchenette. Not the usual gun-cleaning ones, though. You clear your throat and pat the breakfast stool beside your seated frame.

“Is this gonna hurt?” he asks.

“Just a little detailing is all.”

He sits and eyes you warily.

A gimme gesture requests his left hand. He provides it, resting his fingers over the bridge of support yours creates. You try not to flinch in surprise at the warmth and weight. It’s not like you’ve never touched him before. But, you’ve never had the opportunity for contact to linger.

You lean down and in, lifting his fingers in inspection and deciding your plan of attack. Damn. They’re, well, you wonder how you haven’t noticed how big they are. His entire hand dwarfs yours in comparison. Dean’s a big dude. He is not as tall as Sam, but considering they’re both over six feet, you shouldn’t be surprised that his digits are substantial. You picture Sam’s hands in your mind’s eye in the usual situations. Tapping away on a keyboard. Flipping through their dad’s journal pages or some gigantic volume of lore in the bunker. Those fingers are long, but their slender and taut, proportionate to Sam’s body type and size. Jolly Green Giant size.

Dean’s? Well, it’s not that they don’t match Dean. They’re beefy, thick, and solid. All the things Dean is. But they’re more like a jumbo sausage sandwich than a hot dog that’s a little too big for the bun. Even the width of his palm seems way above average.

“What’s wrong?” Dean’s question calls out and you wonder how long you’ve been staring at his freaking hands.

“Nothing,” you mumble.

You get to work, using a nail brush that’s been soaking in a bowl of warm, sudsy water. A sturdy grip wraps around two of Dean’s fingers - it’s all you can comfortably manage - and the bristles scrub back and forth in quick passes.

Dean chortles. His fingers pull back slightly. The look on his face is one of surprise. You grin and ask, “Did that tickle?”

He snorts. “What? No. I’m not ticklish.”

“Mm-hmm.” You tug his fingers toward the brush. “Hold still then.” You continue the process. Dip the brush in the water bowl. Play Dean’s fingers like a washboard. And you delight in how his jaw clenches and body squirms. He does an adorable shimmy shake that starts at the shoulders and ends with an ass cha-cha. But you only let the torture go on for a minute or two. “Okay. Give them another wash. Then we’ll clip ‘em, file and buff, and these nails will scream private prep school and ivy league polo.”

He rises. “As long as there’s no more brushing.” He punctuates how serious he is about that with one of those fingers right at your mouth.

You swallow the urge to bite that finger.

For someone who was uncertain about the thought of a manicure earlier, Dean is back in a hurry to continue the process. You exaggeratedly shake the nail brush out of the soapy water bowl and softball it into the stainless steel sink a yard away. It clangs about like a noon bell. You raise both hands, “I’m unarmed.”

He snickers, “Not so sure.” He skirts his gaze over the remaining items. “Sharp and stabby things.”

“You have used clippers before. You’re not an actual Cro-Magnon that drags knuckles on the ground and runs nails along some flint.” You grab one stool and carry it to the other side of the island, settling into position for the next step. “Sit and stop acting like a baby.”

“Damn,” he murmurs, following orders and taking his seat from before.

“Hands,” you request.

He harrumphs and splays his fingers atop the terry towel, like a cat stretching and digging in with their claws. His hands are creamy colored and speckled pink from the washing and scrubbing. Ten digits tap along the cloth in wait. And you stare, longer than you should.

What in the holy hell is going on? They’re fingers for chrissakes. The same fingers you’ve seen on Dean all the time, day after day in the bunker or in the car or on a hunt. It’s not like he got a hand transplant or something.

“Come on, Madge.” Dean snaps two of those fingers together. “This is where you’re supposed to tell me I was soaking in it.”

“Huh?”

He rolls his eyes. “Softens hands while you do the dishes?” He adds to the dramatics and unhinges his jaw. “Come on, we’re the same age. You gotta remember that commercial? Palmolive?”

“Oh, right.” You feign recollection, inhale to steady yourself and grab his left hand. It’s down to business time. “I’ve only lost five of my last six clients. Nothing to worry about.”

“Quite the comedian,” he razzes back.

“I am. Apparently you could learn a thing or two from me. The first? A punchline isn’t funny if you have to explain it.”

“Yeah, well…” He begins.

“Maybe come at me with ‘your face is a punchline’?” you suggest.

His lids blink in confusion. “It’s not, though.”

For some reason that shuts you both up.

You spend the next minutes manipulating each of Dean’s fingers, one by one in your palm as you clip. Tick, tick, tick. You give the nails a nice straight edge and round out the sides. His nails are stumpy, boxy and twice the width of yours. His skin is calloused, toughened in the spots you expect. From the thousands of hours he’s gripped Baby’s steering wheel, handled a shotgun, cranked a wrench, slid into the trigger of his Colt. But they are soft in other spots. The patterns of lines criss crossing and connecting like a terrain map enthrall you.

He’s quiet. Watching you work. You’ve forgotten to be mouthy for this bit. It’s hard to focus on anything but this and his breathing. You’ve forgotten the basic steps of inhaling and exhaling.

It’s when you’ve moved on to filing that Dean remembers how to word. “You’re good at this.”

“I should be,” you croak out then clear your throat. “I did my older sister’s nails all the time growing up.”

“Hm, I guess Sammy didn’t get the little brother memo about doing my nails.”

I grin up at him. “Maybe you should have had him watch that Palmolive commercial.”

His laugh is soft. His eyes gleam with that hint of mischief he dons when there is no imminent threat. When life is as close to normal as possible. You wonder what it would be like to take those hands and place them around your waist. Guide him to hold you steady, secure.

He opens his mouth, stops to lick his top lip.

It’s taking everything in your power to not catapult over the island and slam your lips against his.

He finally speaks. “We should get ready.”

And your daydreaming dissipates just like that.

Two hours later, you and Sam wait outside the St. Charbel Chapel in Calvary Catholic Cemetery. It’s the closest church and holy ground from the museum Sam had found in his research.

A fire truck zooms down a nearby street, siren wailing.

You wait for Dean.

Things had not gone according to plan.

At the fundraiser, Sam got cornered near the crudités by a Lancaster County Sheriff’s Office deputy. From what you overheard, Sam’s cover had been blown. He was in imminent danger of being arrested by Deputy Dickens for impersonating a federal agent. Dean was off in one of the acquisition storage rooms searching for the Hand of Glory.

You all were SOL.

You did what any hunter interested in self-preservation would do. Walked over to the nearest fire alarm and inconspicuously pulled the lever. Alarms went off. In the chaos of disgruntled partygoers filing out of the building, Sam dropped the deputy to the ground with a combo shoulder check and leg sweep. You were down on the floor in a flash, asking the lawman if he was alright. Before he could reply, you held a handkerchief doused with your travel-size bottle of chloroform to his mouth and nose. A clutch could only hold so much—such an inconvenience.

Sam pushed the passed-out deputy under the appetizer station’s floor-length tablecloth. You both did a hurried power walk past the crowd gathered in front of the museum. Sam tried his best to slow down his stride enough for you to keep up wearing heels. At least you only had four blocks to cover to end up at the cemetery, the agreed-upon meetup location.

You pace in wait. “He’ll be here,” Sam states with conviction.

You never want to leave a man behind. Especially not Dean.

Sure enough, Dean’s shadowed figure jogs up the cemetery walk in the dark minutes later. You recognize his panting first.

Sam shines a light in Dean’s direction. He’s a bit disheveled from whatever he had to do to skip out of the museum undetected. The hair, styled in a neat part earlier, is now askew.

“Guessing I have you two to thank for having to hop out a bathroom window and into thorny rose bushes.”

You shrug. “Sam was about to get handcuffed.”

Dean ponders for a moment. “Context is important to determine whether that’s good or bad for Sam.”

“Dean, come on, did you get it?” Sam asks with an impatient wave of his hand.

Dean pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and flaps it open with a wrist snap. He pulls out a gnarled, desiccated object under his jacket's lapel. “I did get it, using my five-finger discount.”

The burning ritual had at least gone smoother than the rest of the evening. Sam dropped the two of you around the back of the hotel in his rental car. You both had left Baby in the connected garage and taken a cab to the museum.

“See you all at the bunker.” He smiles, energized, and pumped from a successful hunt. He’s glowing and adorable. You realize you have gotta dial back the internal ogling of your hunting partners and quick or it’s gonna get all kinds of uncomfortable in your head.

“See ya, Sammy.” Dean grins and salutes.

“Don’t take too long to get out of town.” Sam advises, flicks his bangs out of his eye line with a shampoo commercial head whip, then peels off with a wave.

The key card lets you sneak in through the poolside.

The ride up the elevator starts quiet. You spend the time zoning out and staring at the tapered triangle of shoulder and back that makes up Dean’s tuxedo jacket.

So, dialing back the ogling is going great.

“You looked really good tonight,” Dean murmurs. You catch his gaze in the door’s reflective surface. “I mean,” he clears his throat, “you still look really good. I never got the chance to tell ya earlier.”

The attention straightens your posture. You adjust the spaghetti strap of your little black dress. “Thanks.” It’s all you can think of to respond. You tear your focus away from the eye crinkles, now the newest sexy thing you’ve failed to notice. It’s safer to inspect the corners of the floor for dust. The small enclosed space heats due to Dean Winchester occupying it.

The elevator dings and you hold in a sigh of relief. You exit first, then halt so he leads. You trail behind him in silence to the room. He opens the door. Your steps scoot past his body.

“Got time to change?” Hopeful, you’re already rifling through your duffel for your jeans and flannel.

“Sam’s right. We should probably bolt.”

You groan.

“Let’s put some miles between us and Lincoln.” It’s not really a suggestion.

“Fine.” You give in, knowing he’s right.

You aren’t tired on the drive back. The sense of accomplishment after a successful case turns most hunters into live wires, you included.

You and Dean have been chatting about the hunt. The lackluster food at the fundraiser. Sam’s impressive Latin skills. An apparent millionaire whose breath stunk like a month old convenience store burrito. And you knew what one of those smelled like from unfortunate firsthand experience. The conversation switches to some repairs that need to be done around the bunker. A casserole recipe on Pinterest you want to try. Who’s going to get the treat of washing all the MOL classic cars in the garage. The topics pogo all over the place. You love these moments with the brothers.

You’re an hour and some change out from Lincoln, halfway to Lebanon, when Dean has an idea.

His finger wags at a mile marker. “There’s a decent bar in Bruning. Wanna grab a drink to celebrate?”

You stare at his unbuttoned tux jacket, then your dress. “Like this?”

“Sure. Why not?” It’s not really a question as he takes the exit.

You drew the line at wearing heels in the bar. Dean grabbed your worn cowboy boots from Baby’s trunk. He leaned against the car beside your open passenger door. You tugged on boots, leaned forward, giving any passersby a free show down the front of your dress. Arms folded, Dean scowled and puffed out his chest to any male who dared to glance in your direction.

A minute later you both entered the bar and did the usual routine without speaking. Head to respective bathrooms. Clean up and make yourselves respectable looking. But as you blotted your foundation and appreciated the staying power of your makeup in the mirror - okay, maybe that setting spray was worth the price - you considered who you were making yourself respectable for?

It’s not like either one of you were expecting to get lucky tonight. The bunker was less than two hours away. No one was gonna pick up a local and take them back to their motel room.

You applied a fresh coat of red berry lipstick.

So, that left only you and Dean freshening up for… each other?

You scoffed at the ridiculous idea, ran fingers through your hair.

A drink. One drink. To celebrate a job well done.

“That’s all it is,” you mumble.

You’ve played darts for an hour. Dean’s on his third whiskey. You’ve downed four fruity rum concoctions, mainly because you loved hearing Dean order the drink.

Entertainment was the least he could do after beating you for the sixth time.

The waitress stops at your high top and grabs the empty plates and glasses. “What else can I get you two?”

Dean clutches a dart, deep in focus, squinting at the target board. “You wanna nother Bahama Mama?”

You suppress a giggle and smile at the waitress. “Just more water. Thanks.”

“We should probably load up on the grease before we head home.” Dean peers at the waitress over a shoulder. “Maybe some fries, darlin’, to go along with one last shot of whiskey?”

“Sure thing, sugar.” She smiles, then waits for Dean to turn around before eyeing his backside in approval. With a grin, she taps your bare forearm. “Lucky you,” she whispers.

You are lucky. But not for the reason the waitress thinks. Being around Sam and Dean means safety and security. The eye candy is merely a bonus. One you are debating if you should indulge in more often or continue to restrict your caloric intake.

After all, there’s nothing wrong with appreciating a work of art.

Dean had flung his necktie in Baby’s backseat and unbuttoned his collar during the drive. The casual way he now wore the tux was even more attractive. “Probably a good idea if you lay off the alcohol. It’s definitely affecting your game tonight.” He grins.

You lean your heavy weighted head against a palm for support. “Yeah, must b’it,” you slur, more than you like. Your gaze zones in on his fingers gripping the dart. Those damn fingers have been a distraction all night. He has to be unaware he’s sabotaging any ability to focus. Dean is an outright flirt with his targets. You’ve seen him lay on the charm thick and sticky the same way he slaps peanut butter and jelly on white bread. Subtlety has never been his thing.

Speaking of targets. The dart launches out of his hand and lands dead center. “That’s what I’m talkin’ bout.” Dean performs the ka-ching motion for what feels like the hundredth time that night. Normally, it’s annoying, but you battle your lids open to stare at his clenched fist in awe. Again. He slides onto the bar stool and inspects you with a concerned smile. “You usually drink me under the table. Sure you’re okay?”

“Fine.” You hum.

The waitress whizzes by and deposits Dean’s shot and a basket of fries. Dean’s voice floats in the air expressing his thanks to, you think he says, Linda. Then a pointed order hits you right in the face. “Hey, eat something. I ain’t carrying you to the car like some swoony duchess on those shows you binge.”

“They’ve got carriages, not cars.” You blink over and over and straighten up. A handful of fries fill your mouth. Your brain hasn’t caught up in time to tell you to shut up and chew. “Yud make a ghood ake.”

“What?” Dean smiles at you like he’s happened across his favorite Scooby-Doo episode while channel surfing.

You gulp down the gluey mashed goodness. “You’d make a good rake.”

“What’s that? Some kind of man servant? I was a handmaiden once.” He indulges in some of the fries before you eat them all. Those fingers push them past his lips.

“No. A rake’s-” You huff at the gall when he attentively licks the grease off his thumb. His tongue is quite, um, “Nimble.”

He frowns, obviously confused. “A rake’s nimble?”

You shake out the cobwebs in your brain, tripping you up with a collision of thoughts. “A rake’s a ladies’ man,” you mutter.

His spine stiffens, shoulders pop back in pride. “I do try to please the ladies every chance I get.”

“We are all well aware.” More fries thankfully save you from saying anything that may humiliate.

“Guess those aren’t your favorite characters. You probably like the stuffy types that are all serious, with their noses up in the air or stuck in a book.”

You shrug. “Nah, I go for the rogues.”

One of Dean’s brows quirk up. “The dangerous type?” One side of his mouth lifts as well.

“Yeah, a scoundrel. You know, the one you can’t quite figure out. They’ve got this bad reputation or some sordid past. But, they go after what they want. Take what they want.” You hum again and close your eyes. You can still see Dean’s grin in your mind’s eye.

“Too bad I don’t fit the bill.”

You freeze. Eyes still closed. He didn’t just… did he?

“I mean. It’d be all kinds of wrong. Me going for something I wanted, damn the consequences.”

You inhale and grip the curve of the table top. You open your eyes to find him sipping at his whiskey. “Don’t fuck with me,” you whisper.

He gives you a toe curling smile now. The glass clinks onto the table. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’m not your type.”

“I-wh-” It’s too late. You’ve never been on the receiving end of what is most definitely Dean Winchester flirting. “What makes you think that?”

He leans in. His breath meets your inhale and you take in all the spice and warmth. “I wouldn’t do a thing to mess this up. Not unless, you know, I knew.”

You nod, dumbstruck. “Yeah, that makes sense. I mean, yeah.” A whoosh of fatigue makes your head spin.

Dean smiles. “We live together, hunt together. Packed like sardines together twenty-four seven sometimes. Wouldn’t want to mess any of that up. Unless I knew, you know?”

“Knew what?” Your chin drops to your chest despite your best efforts. The weight of your body gets ready to do a face plant on the table top. You squish your lids shut tight and groan in horror at the inevitable.

But, Dean is there to save you. Again. His fingers swoop in to cradle your jaw and lift up your head. The embarrassment and alcohol finally overtake you. As you fade, you hear, “Maybe I’ll tell you when you’ll remember the answer.”

You woke up in your bed, back at the bunker. Again, with no idea if it was morning or night. No idea how much time had passed since…

You spring upright to sit. And, yeah, that was a mistake. Your head pounds. Your mouth is dry and tacky. Your stomach feels like it got turned upside down. Not that much time has passed since…

You groan and lay back down, slow and gentle. You piece the last snippets of memory together.

You stare up at the ceiling, grateful for the darkness. You want it to suck you up whole.

Did you pass out in the middle of Dean hitting on you? Did Dean end up swooping you up and putting you in the Impala? Driving you home passed out in the back seat - or God forbid the front passenger seat with you lolling about, mouth probably open and drooling - then carrying you throughout the bunker to your bedroom? Did he…?

You pat your chest and feel the spaghetti straps and silky fabric of your little black dress. You sigh. He had taken pity on you and only stripped you of your cowboy boots.

There’s a soft tap on your bedroom door.

“Oh no.” You pull the blanket over your head, mortified. You don’t think you can face him.

But it’s not Dean that says your name. It’s Sam.

“You alright? I heard you… uh… moaning.”

“Yeah,” you squeak. “Hungover.”

You think you hear Sam snicker. “Dean said you outpaced him by a mile. In darts and drinks.”

That makes you pause to recall. No, you definitely don’t think any of that’s accurate.

“He made some breakfast before he went out, if you’re hungry.”

Great, he can’t bear to face you, either. “Thanks, Sam.”

“If you’re up for it later, I could use some assistance researching.”

You take a measured breath to quell the nausea. “I’ll let you know.”

You’d chewed some aspirin and drank glass after glass of water from the sink in your room and somehow passed out for a few more hours.

You drag yourself out of bed around noon and shower in an effort to resemble something close to human. The stomach growls lead you to the bunker kitchen. At first, you smile at the plate of pancakes Dean covered with a clean kitchen towel for you. A frown follows at the odd shape of them. They aren’t his usual silver dollar pancakes stacked six high.

You tilt your head, attempting to figure out what Buttermilk Banksy was trying to create. The two pancakes, side by side on a large plate, obviously started out as circles. But then, four long tendrils were added along the top of each and a little offshoot one on the side. A turkey? Why the hell would Dean make turkeys? It wasn’t anywhere near Thanksgiving time.

“‘Bout time, sleepy head.” Dean’s voice wafts in from the doorway. He strolls in without a care in the world. There’s no hesitancy to lock eyes with you. Which is good. That has to mean you didn’t make more of a fool of yourself than you remember. He tugs on the fridge door. “Do you want something else or those pancakes enough?” He’s asking the interior of the refrigerator more than you, his head circling the shelves. “Was gonna pile on the grease but thought you might need to take it easy after last night.”

“No, this is great. Thank you.” You keep your voice low, hoping he’ll get the hint and not make too much noise.

He seems to, clicking the door shut softly after grabbing a cold slice of pizza. “Oh, I thought we’d do a movie night in the Dean cave. I bought angus ground beef for burgers. I’ll make some potato wedges. Grabbed your favorite microwave popcorn, movie theater butter.”

The menu, miraculously, doesn’t make your stomach lurch into panicked somersaults. “None of that sounds Sam approved.”

“He’s got that author signing book store thing in Stockton tonight.”

Oh, right. You’d forgotten for a moment how excited Sam was to listen to some guy read a chapter from his book on the evils of the Federalist Society.

“Think you’ll be up for it?” Dean asks, brows raised hopeful.

You smile. “I think I will.”

“Good.” He captures a third of the pizza slice in one bite. After four chews and a swallow he finishes with, “I’ll go easy on you.” The grin he flashes catches you off guard. It’s that one that if Sam saw it, he’d suspect you and Dean had a secret.

Problem was, you didn’t know what the secret was.

“We got weapons to clean in an hour. No matter what Sam says about research.” Dean taps the door sill on the way out of the kitchen. “Meet you in the library. Don’t be late.” He disappears.

You stare down at your breakfast, which is now technically lunch, and a queasy feeling erupts. But not from the hangover or the thought of eating.

The pancakes Dean made. You think you know what the shapes are now.

A pair of hands.

Time in the library with Sam and Dean is pure torture.

You’re sat equidistant between the two of them, in the middle of one of the long massive wooden tables. Sam is on one end, flipping through page after page of a volume on corporal punishment. He’s trying to work out an easy cheat sheet - a work flow chart - that you all can use in the future. If you can identify what crime someone was charged with committing way back when, you’d have a better idea of the dismembered mummified appendage to track.

Dean occupies the other head of the table. A worn cloth laid out in front of him, all manner of weapons lined in a neat row atop it, awaiting his hands.

His hands. God, you hope the pancakes were merely a cheeky, inside joke on Dean’s part. Maybe it was a reminder about your insistence on the manicure. Or the friggin’ Palmolive commercial that, thanks Dean, you can’t get out of your head either. Because now all you can think about is Dean’s massive fingers dipped in a teeny tiny glass bowl filled with sudsy dish detergent.

Between Sam’s page turns and Dean’s clink of weapons your brain can’t settle or calm down. You’re also trying to appease both hunters. You’re reading through a book on your right and sharpening a machete on your left.

“That jugglin’ act might leave you with more than a paper cut if you aren’t careful,” Dean chides.

You swallow down the urge to quip something back. It’s only when the whetstone clears the curve of the machete and halts at the tip that you tear your gaze from the task and stare at Dean. “I can handle it.”

He smirks. “Oh, I’m sure you can HANDle it.” He shrugs. “Just wouldn’t want you to lose a FINGER.”

“How about you quit distracting her? She’s doing you a favor.” Sam’s brows lift pointedly at Dean. “And besides, why do you insist on cleaning weapons here when you could literally be doing it anywhere else in the bunker?”

Dean curls up the fakest smile at Sam. “Cause I love your company.”

The boys settle after a few more grunts and scoffs at each other. You plunge nose deep into lore and wish the pages were waves pulling you out to sea.

There’s no way Dean’s emphasis on “hand” and “finger” were accidental. Dean’s pretty intuitive. But you are a pretty good actor in your own right when you need to be. However, there’s still a chance that you said or did something when you were too intoxicated to remember.

It’s not helping that Dean’s performing his weapon cleaning like a goddamn seduction. Mr. Hand Model takes apart the sawed off, cleans the inside of and around the barrel, reassembles, and clicks all the pieces back into place. His nails look perfect, shiny and slick with the gun oil. His beefy fingers curl around the wood and steel in a way that makes you want to trade places with the firearm.

You somehow endure for 45 minutes. Last night’s indulgences are blamed in an excuse to head back to your bedroom. As you preemptively wish Sam an enjoyable outing later, Dean reminds you to rest up for dinner and a movie.

Ugh. You know how Dean gets when he won’t let something go that he finds hilarious. This could go on for a while.

It’s a trap. It’s gotta be.

Dean’s lowering your defenses with good food and good company.

It all started in the kitchen where dinner was served. He wasn’t kidding about the burgers. He made quarter pound medium rare works of art with cheese and all the toppings. The bun was Texas Toasted out. The guy even used the air fryer to produce ridiculously addicting potato wedges with a spicy paprika and chili powder coating.

Then, it was Dean cave time. No beer in sight, you were given pop to drink, with an offhanded “no repeat performance of last night” remark. You slid down the couch, groaning, pulling the hoodie over your face for dramatic effect. He grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl sitting between you on the couch and added, “You know, so you don’t pass out midway through the movie.”

You inhale the buttery goodness beside you and relax, popping back up in your seat. A swig of sugar wakes up your lethargic post-meal brain and settles the nerves that Dean is up to something. “So, what masterpiece do you have for us tonight?” you query.

He presses a button on one remote and the lights dim. Another remote in hand, another button press, and the television screen blares with an all too familiar soundtrack.

“The Empire Strikes Back.” You nod. “Good choice.”

“It’s your favorite one,” Dean reminds you.

“Yeah. Yoda. Duh.”

Dean chuckles.

Things fall into that easy going movie commentary that you and Dean are so fond of doing. It drives Sam crazy when he's watching stuff with the two of you. You’re spouting behind the scenes facts you know you’ve told Dean a half a dozen times already (like how the puppeteer who’s voicing Yoda also voices your favorite muppet, Fozzie Bear). Dean adds his own sound effects when the AT-ATs are firing, points out every Wilhelm scream, and helps Harrison Ford out by quoting all of Solo’s lines.

Leia is fixing some equipment on the Falcon and you comment, “I like the braid updo more than the cinnamon rolls.”

“Eh, I don’t know. The combo of beauty and baked goods is pretty hard to beat.”

Solo walks in and tries to help. Leia pushes him away. You sigh. “Here they go.”

Dean turns to you and raises an eyebrow. In perfect sync with Solo’s dialogue he utters, “Hey Your Worship, I’m only trying to help.”

You eye roll. “Would you please stop calling me that?” If it's a quote battle Dean wants, it’s on. If Sam were here, he’d be so done with the both of you right now.

“Sure, Leia.”

A huff for good measure. “You make it so difficult sometimes.”

Dean leans in. “I do, I really do. You could be a little nicer, though. Come on, admit it. Sometimes you think I’m all right.”

Wait. Wait. Oh no. You don’t have to be looking at the screen to know what happens next. Leia hurts her HAND trying to turn a lever. You clam up at all the fucking context this scene now holds for you and Dean. You can’t say the next lines. Because you know that Solo grabs Leia’s HAND as she says, “Occasionally, maybe… when you aren’t acting like a scoundrel.”

That’s when last night’s rum-infested confessions cut to the front of the memory queue. You adore scoundrels, rogues.

Dean doesn’t miss a beat, though. He even gazes down at one of your HANDS. He continues the performance. “Scoundrel?” Face half cast in shadow, his lids widen, irises still manage to catch the light and entrance you. “Scoundrel?” A huge grin emerges. “I like the sound of that.”

Solo is massaging Leia’s HAND the whole time.

Leia whispers, “Stop that.”

Dean replies, “Stop what?” Though he’s not questioning the screen. He’s locked eyes with you. Daring you to break away first.

Leia answers, even softer. “Stop that. My hands are dirty.”

Dean tilts his head, uncaring. “My hands are dirty, too. What are you afraid of?”

“Afraid?” Oh, Leia, Don’t egg him on.

“You’re trembling,” Dean’s voice is softer. He’s edging closer, but there’s only so much distance he can cover with the popcorn bowl in the way.

You decide now’s as good a time as any to try and act your way out of a paper bag. “I’m not trembling.” You coat your response with steel.

Dean is only encouraged by your participation. “You like me because I’m a scoundrel. There aren’t enough scoundrels in your life.”

You ponder for a moment. “I happen to like nice men.”

“I’m nice men.” Dean offers with complete sincerity.

You scoff. “No, you’re not. You’re…”

The music swells. Solo and Leia kiss.

But, you and Dean just stare at each other, for what feels like an eternity. You know C3PO is gonna interrupt the lovebirds at any moment. It’s the only lifeline you have, so you wait for the robot with the worst timing in history to save you from embarrassment.

“Guys?” Sam’s voice calls from the hallway.

You snap, stick straight, your back pressed against the seat. Sam must have come in through the garage.

Dean sighs. “Yeah, Sammy. Come on in. Back so soon?”

The door flings open. Warm ceiling lights from the hall halo Sam’s figure. “You know how they say, never meet your heroes? Totally valid advice tonight.” Sam stumbles into the room, all lanky limbs, and sinks into the cushy side chair. He runs fingers through his hair, his profile scrutinizing the screen. “Jedi?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Seriously, dude, how are we related?”

The three of you watch the rest of the movie without much commentary.

And you and Dean do not quote any other lines.

You cleaned up the dinner mess, alone, in the kitchen. You insisted it was the least you could do and Dean didn’t put up much resistance.

You find Dean’s bedroom door open on your way to your own for the night. You stop in the doorway to thank him again.

He’s putting away some shirts in his dresser, back turned. He looks comfy, cozy, showered, and perfect. You compose yourself in a split second when he senses you and cocks his head to the door. “Hey, everything okay?”

It’s his usual question, always assuming something needs fixing or solving. But, you sense extra concern in the tone this time.

You nod, wanting to ease the tide of Dean Winchester’s worry. “Thank you. Tonight was fun.”

“Yeah, even with Chewbacca?”

You chuckle. “Be nice.”

He waves you in as he wraps up his laundry. You oblige and sit by the tiny corner table. “Yeah, you’re right. Solo actually wouldn’t mind Chewy hanging out with him and Leia.”

You smile. Apparently, it’s Star Wars character dissection time. “So, if Sam’s not Chewbacca…”

The drawer squeaks closed. “Luke.”

“Han doesn’t mind Luke. Annoyed, sometimes. But, everyone annoys Han at one point or another.”

Dean sits at the edge of the bed, facing you. He stretches, hands entwined and arms raised overhead. A white t-shirt hugs his form here and there. You get a glimpse of perky nipples pressing against fabric. “Luke was competition. Before the brother-sister bombshell,” Dean states.

“Yeah, guess so.”

“But, the three of them, they made a good team,” Dean continues.

You nod, deliberate and slow.

“It only takes one person to start getting feelings for another one in the trio and then the whole galaxy is in jeopardy.” Dean taps the pads of his fingers together.

You sigh. You didn’t want to have to rat yourself out. But, Dean’s got a point. So, how do you go about telling him you’re finding him unbelievably attractive all of a sudden? And how do you ease his apparent worry? What, you’ll do your best to keep it in check? It won’t interfere with the work you do?

“We’re a good team, right? You, me, Sammy?” Dean cuts through the silence with the questions. He scrubs at the nape of his neck.

“I-I’d like to think so. But, you’re right, Dean. It can throw the whole balance off in a good working relationship if someone starts to catch feelings that aren’t reciprocated.”

His eyebrows form a distraught mountain peak. “So, it’s true?”

He looks so unhappy at the possibility, but you’ve gotta be an adult about it. “It just started happening during the last case.” You shrug. “But, I don’t have any intention of acting on them.” A hand raises. “Don’t worry.”

His lips purse tight. Nostrils flare. He’s deep in thought. Finally, he says, “But, you won’t know if you don’t act on it.” He nods more to convince himself now. “You should talk to Sam about how you feel.”

You blink, dumbfounded. “Huh?”

“Hey, I gave it a ‘good ole high school dropout that earned his GED’ try. We have established that I am not your type.”

“Wha-?”

“I’ll be fine with the two of you being a thing. I want to see you and Sam happy. If that means you both, together, that’s great.”

Your hands circle in front of you. “Whoa, whoa. Back up a minute.” Suddenly, your heart is racing.

“What?” He’s got that vacant puppy dog expression, every muscle in his face relaxed, wide open eyes.

You steady your breathing. “What made you think you were my type?” You can’t help the question. You only hope it doesn’t sound belittling or sarcastic. Right now, it’s your last defense of self-protection and attempt at fact finding. You gotta know if you are misinterpreting the revelation that Dean may in fact be upset if you and Sam were an item. Because… he wants you two to be an item?!

“You were acting… weird… ever since Lincoln and the manicure.” He twiddles his fingers. “I was picking up signals that weren’t there, I guess.” He shakes his head and mumbles. “Or, I probably was looking too hard to find something that wasn’t there. Like those times you tell me I’m sniffing around the wrong dog’s butt.”

You squish your lids at how crass you can be. It’s giving you less reasons to think he could find you attractive in any capacity. “Okay, but why was that so important to know?”

His arms extend from side to side. He’s getting riled up and more than a little miffed. But, you know that might work in your favor. His mouth tends to run on autopilot and the truth comes flying out. “Our, I don’t know, petri dish of co-existing in this jack-in-the-box wouldn’t get fucked up. I wouldn’t go off half-cocked and do something I’ve been wanting to do for a while unless I knew, for sure, that you felt the same way I did.” His hands retract and fall in his lap. He’s not looking at you, instead staring at his socked feet. “But, you don’t.”

You’ve got actual fucking butterflies beating their wings like bongo drums in your stomach. “What have you wanted to do for a while?”

His eyes track up to you. He’s inspecting you, hard. That’s doing nothing to quell the excitement inside. “What’s the point in telling you that now?”

“Because, maybe… you’re wrong and… you are my type.”

Dean’s lids lift a quarter of an inch. It’s a minute, micro reaction. But you catch it.

“Maybe I’ve been ignoring it for a while, because, like you. I didn’t want to mess things up. I love Sam.” You swallow, ready to bare all. “But, I haven’t been thinking about what his hands could do to me,” you whisper.

Dean inhales, sharp and quick through his nose at that confession. He exhales, adding, “Don’t fuck with me.”

You can’t do anything but grin in a way that you’re sure makes you look like a goddamn idiot. “I should have said that to you numerous times today. The pancakes. The gun cleaning. Freakin’ Han massaging Leia’s HAND!”

His lids widen. “Hey, it was me testing my theory. Like when we gotta douse someone with holy water to make sure they aren’t possessed. All but the movie, though. Swear I did not remember that scene until a few seconds before it started happening.” He sits up, rubs palms on his sweatpant clad thighs. “Well, okay, I didn’t remember the hand thing, but I wanted to see how you reacted to like THE best scoundrel ever.” Now, he’s grinning. “Been thinkin’ about my hands, huh?”

You roll your eyes merely to play along. “Alright, don’t get a big head.”

He cocks his head like a devilish rogue. “No need for a big head when I’ve got big hands.”

The giggle escapes before you can lasso it.

Dean slides his gaze up your seated frame. It’s a filthy, seedy expression. And hot as fuck. He stops to stare at your mouth, then licks his own. When his eyes meet yours, he commands, “Come on over and show me what you’ve been thinking of.” He pats his thighs. “I’ve got a nice warm seat for ya.”

He’s kidding, right? He wants you to sit on his lap. As if you’d even consider it.

And, yeah, you aren’t considering it. There’s no time for consideration when your legs have already propelled you out of the seat. You give his bedroom door a swing in a passing thought about closing it for privacy.

You can see the look of surprise on Dean’s face as you march over to the bed. But it’s mixed with want and eagerness. He opens his arms in welcome.

Warmth prickles your cheeks at the forwardness you display in accepting the invitation. One knee props up on the bed beside him. You anchor hands onto his shoulders, feel those fingers fan and lock onto your waist, and you bring the rest of your body up to straddle his lap.

You sigh, staring down at that kid in a candy store grin of his, and marvel at how very right it all feels. You settle, your ass firmly atop his thighs. The heat of him is immediate.

“Been wanting you like this,” he whispers, his nose brushing the skin exposed around your collar. A hand molds to the side of your neck, holding you in place. You shiver at the lips skirting upwards along the channel of your throat. “Now who’s ticklish?” It’s meant to tease, but his voice has lost that hint of mirth. It’s deeper, daring you to deny his observation as anything other than fact. “Maybe you aren’t ready for my hands. All.” A kiss at the juncture where your lobe meets your jaw. “Over.” A peck at the tip of your chin. He threads his fingers into the base of your hairline. He eases your head with a smooth tilt down. You lock eyes with his green ones once again. “You.”

The only response you can give is to connect your lips to his. Feeling the pliant, soft give of his mouth against yours. Then his insistent lean up and forward, forcing you to stand your ground while seated on his lap. You have to demonstrate your want is equal to his.

And you want. You so want.

Whatever you’re doing, his approving moan eggs you to continue. With each swipe and dip and dive of your lips, your mouth opens a bit more. The access encourages Dean’s tongue to taste. He laps at you gently, swirls around just enough that your core begins to ache. He pulls away and you groan. You’re drunk with desire, heavy and heady.

Your lids blink open slow and sleepy. Thankfully you find Dean’s looking as blissed out as you feel. He’s inspecting your reaction through a hazy gaze. His hand captures the side of your face. Five pressure points sink into your skin. His eyes flicker to your mouth to watch his thumb outline the curve of your lip. The pad tugs and drags at your skin.

It’s only a second of wordless communication between the two of you. He asks with a lifting of his lids. You agree with an affirmative blink.

His thumb delves into your mouth, up to the first knuckle. You wrap your lips around. Suck with the gentlest of pressure.

His mouth lifts into a slight smile. “Good girl,” he whispers.

And, fuck if that doesn’t open your floodgates. You’re slick and ready.

Dean’s other hand runs along the waistband of your yoga pants. “You been thinking about my hands all over you…” His thumb glides under the fabric of your panties. “Taking you apart, piece by piece.” He delves farther down, until he taps the top of your mound. His jaw clenches at your gasp of anticipation. His thumb hooks under your tongue against the floor of your mouth to express just how in command he is right now. “You gonna do what I say, Your Worship?”

You nod. You’ll don a pair of cinnamon buns if he tells you to right now.

He smirks, cocky and full of confidence. “The better I make you feel down here...” He works his thumb between your folds and presses against your clit. You squirm in his lap. “The better you suck with that beautiful mouth, yeah?”

You nod again. He releases the pressure in your mouth, circles your bundle of nerves. He slips and slides while his fingers splay over your stomach to anchor in place. You latch onto his thumb again and suck on it like a straw

“Pretty sure this isn’t as wet as you’re gonna get,” he comments like a fucking weatherman. After only a few seconds, he sighs and shakes his head. “Too many fucking clothes.”

You’ve only sparred with Dean a handful of times. Every time, he’s bested you with graceful movements and quick action. He disengages from you for what must have only been seconds, spinning you around in his grasp and pinning your back to the mattress. He’s whipping off your t-shirt, pants, and underwear. Leaving you in only your bra.

He leers over you, hands running up the underside of your thighs. He kneels onto the bed, all of his clothes still on, to wedge against your ass. All of you is on proper display for him. And he takes it all in.

“Right, Gorgeous. Where were we?” One hand rides its way up your chest back to your mouth. You accept his index finger between your lips this time. His other hand resumes playing with your clit. “Hm. Much better.”

A gasp escapes from your mouth. Your tongue ejects his finger so you can point out, “Who’s the one with too many fucking clothes on now?”

“All good things come to those who wait, darlin’.” He settles further, criss crossing over top of your flesh. His legs sandwich your right thigh while he strums your pussy. The hope of what else is to come pokes into your side through his sweatpants. He doesn’t give you a chance to reply, slipping his finger into your mouth again. The pull of his left hand guides you to lean your head toward the right. He settles his beefy forearm onto the mattress above your shoulder.

His chest pins you down in a kinky wrestling move. Teeth snag your ear lobe. He applies pressure to the swollen flesh over a ridge of bone, then uses a flicking motion that makes your thigh twitch in delight.

You're sloppy with your technique of licks and sucks as he feeds you another digit. But, really, how is any gal supposed to mind their manners with Dean Winchester fingering her? You groan, helpless, as he explores your folds, finds your entrance with two tips. “I know you got a thing for my hands,” his hot breath tunnels into your ear canal, “but, if you want, I can fill you up real good with something else.”

You can’t reply with any actual words, only moans of agreement. The erection pressing into your hip bone sure does feel substantial. If it’s anything like his fingers - two fingers are currently surfing around your tongue and rubbing against your palate - he’ll have no problem filling you up.

To ground yourself in the reality of the situation, you snatch at the hem of his shirt and tug. Your pelvis tilts up at the slow insertion of one of his other fingers down below. “Damn,” he pants into your ear. “How long’s it been since someone took care of you, all nice and proper? So- so tight and wet.” He hums. “And warm.” A languid slide out with one finger, only to be accompanied with another when he pushes back inside. “Feel so good. Gonna feel even better around my cock after I make you come… Princess.”

You will not ever admit to the fact that you squealed with Dean’s fingers in your mouth. That you convulsed after only seconds of him playing with your clit and stretching open your hole.

Fireworks continue to skyrocket in your head. Your body tipped into the oversensitive zone. You’re aware of every bit of him plastered against you. He’s made you slick with arousal and sweat. Layers of fabric cling to skin. You should be suffocating with him laying atop you, but he feels like a weighted blanket. Warm, secure. Dean’s fingers don’t retract from your mouth or pussy. They are frozen in place. Your teeth nibble one set. Your muscles spasm around the other.

He hasn’t moved. Hot breath huffs hard into the crook of your neck with an occasional sharp inhale and hold. You close your eyes. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that you could fall asleep like this.

“Was that… too much?” He deep-throat whispers in your ear now. “I may have gotten a little carried away.”

“N-mph-,” you chortle around his fingers.

“Shit, sorry.” He pulls his hand away from your mouth, the other slowly out of your hot core. Matching sighs release from you both.

“No,” you heave, and his chest rises up and off. “It was… awesome.”

He’s in your face now, all green eyes and pink lips, a veil of freckles along the bridge of his nose and forehead. “Yeah?”

You squint, trying to focus on all the glorious aspects. He’s studying you. You get the feeling he’s really not sure. “Why is the ladies man doubting himself all of sudden?” you tease, rocking to shuffle him out of the daze.

A shrug. “It’s you. I don’t always read you right.”

You lean your head back into his memory foam in an attempt to make full eye contact. “I don’t know how many ways you can misread giving me a mindblowing orgasm.”

He blinks, cautious. “Is what I did going to… you know… change things between us?”

“Oh.” You stop, dart your gaze to the ceiling past his shoulder for dramatic effect. “Oh, absolutely. I mean,” you pause, “how could it not?” You shake your head and feel his entire body go rigid. “It’s gonna be so awkward and uncomfortable around here.”

When you dare to look at him, there’s a hint of something you don’t see often on Dean’s face. You think it might be fear.

You can’t bear it any longer. “I mean, I can already imagine the disgusted look on Sam’s face when we start making out right in front of him.”

Within seconds, the expression turns to one of relief and amusement, accompanied by the charming cockiness that’s gonna turn you to goo at the most inopportune moments from here on out. “Well, we don’t have to tell him right away. It might be fun to, you know, sneak around right under his nose.” He relaxes, sinks into you again. “I could have you all sorts of ways, in all sorts of places, doing our best not to get caught.”

You smile. “Don’t want to tell your brother you’ve stolen my heart with that five-finger discount of yours?”

He chuckles, rolls his eyes, then cups the heat of your folds again. “I mean, I sucked at Biology, but pretty sure this ain’t your heart, darlin’.”

“You’re wrong, you know?”

He blinks, all sass and spectacle, “This IS your heart?” He squeezes.

You peck his lips, roll your eyes, and curl arms around his waist. “No. Solo’s got nothing on you. YOU are the best scoundrel.”

A breathtaking kiss makes you all lightheaded. When he finally pulls away and allows you to exhale, he lifts one side of his mouth into a confident grin. “I know.”

THE END

#dean x reader #dean winchester smut #female reader #dean x you #spn fanfic

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olderthannetfic · 6 months ago

Note

oh good we're talking kink awakenings? i've wanted to tell this story for aaaaages.

cw: piss kink. just getting it out there now

ok so when i was in middle school, like 11ish? i think? i read... a lot of books from the school library. like i made it through most of the ya section by the time i graduated. one of the books i read, i do not remember the title, but the plot was this foster kid runs away to track down who he thinks is his bio dad except it ends up being his grandpa (mom's dad) (NO INCEST, bio dad ends up being one of his employees). none of that is important though, the important part was that his shitty foster parents always made him sleep on a plastic sheet because they were convinced he would wet the bed even though he never did. and their son made fun of him for it. so the night he runs away, he tries a thing he'd heard of: put a sleeping person's hand in warm water to make them wet the bed. he tries with a cup but his hand is too big to fit in the cup so he ends up just pouring the water on his crotch and it works and shitty foster brother wets the bed. and idk why but that scene stuck in my brain. fast forward to freshman year, i started reading fanfiction and read a fic involving heavy ageplay and it made me feel. weird. i thought i had to pee but i later realized it was the first time i was turned on. still didn't successfully masturbate until 2 years later but yeah, sexual awakening and kink awakening, all going back to that book i read in middle school.

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deathsimage · 2 years ago

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Awakening (part 3)

Ghost x Reader (18+ / NSFW)

Part 2: here

Description: essentially Ghost obviously hasn’t been intimate with anyone for a long time, until now. With you. You awaken a beast in him, practically turning him into a hungry alpha that can’t keep his mind off of you.

Content: cock warming, piss kink, fingering, over stimulation, squirting

Note: this is by far the nastiest part so get your pearls to clutch (last part btw)

Grasping a glass of bourbon in his hand with his mask pushed up just above his nose to toss back the burning liquid down his throat to extinguish the fury in him; but it wasn’t working.

You knock on his door, only hearing silence. He’s ignoring whoever is at the door, assuming you, Soap, or Price. You just knock harder, practically beating on the door. “Simon! I know you’re in there! Talk to me!” Still nothing. Thankfully you’re trained in breaching so you just kick the door open since it was locked. Obviously surprised, Simon turns to see you, silently staring at you.

“Simon what the hell was that?” You slam the door shut behind you. He’s still silent. You walk up to him and punch him in the chest. “Simon talk to me!”

He glares down at you, completely unfazed by the hit to his chest. “you didn’t hear what they said..”

“So? You’ve never cared what people say before”

“It was about you.”

“So? I don’t care.”

“I do!” He snapped

“..why?”

“No one talks about my girl.”

Silence..

You smirk up at him “..your girl?” You say as you step up closer to him, placing your hands on his chest.

His chest is rising and falling with deep annoyed breaths, but within a second his glass of whiskey is thrown to the floor and his hand is around your throat, his foot sweeping your feet from under you in one swift motion, pinning you back against the couch. His mask is moved up just above his nose from where he was drinking, now only inches away from your face.

“Yes. Mine.” He practically growled, causing you to shiver

“Yeah…yours.” You look up at him with longing, waiting for him to kiss you. “I’m all yours Simon..you can have me.”

His lips finally crash into yours, his hand leaving your throat to help the other hand working on your pants to get them off. Within a few minutes the only sound to be heard is the squelching of your pussy against his fingers as his two middle fingers slam into your cunt. “Your pussy belongs to me. Understand?” He growled

“Yes Simon!” You’re practically shaking, back arching off the couch as he holds your chest down with the other hand, his hips between your legs to keep them open while he fingers you relentlessly.

“uh uh. Yes, what?”

“Yes sir! My pussy is yours Lieutenant!”

“That’s my good girl”

The sensation of his palm smashing against your clit every time his fingers slammed back into you made stars spark in your blurred vision. Your toes curled as your legs were forced open by his hips that your knees were bent over. Back arching up off of the couch, your nails dig into the skin of his biceps as your body shakes, high pitched whimpers coming from your lips as you feel yourself reach your orgasm.

He’s chuckling, looking down at his hand that’s glistening even more than it would be normally from just the slick of your cum. Your brain isn’t processing what happened yet, your mind still foggy from the world shattering orgasm you were coming down from.

“Simon?..” you say breathlessly, confused as to why he’s chuckling. Does he find your dumb fucked state cute or someth- oh..oh, you feel it now.

“tt, tt, tt.” He clicks his tongue as he shakes his head “such a bad girl, squirting all over daddy’s couch and even my jeans.”

You- you squirted on him.

You feel your face heat up with embarrassment until his fingers leave your pussy, making you whimper at the empty sensation. Watching him lick his hand clean like he was savoring the most heavenly taste to ever touch his tastebuds, made you blush even harder if it was possible.

“Im sorry sir..” you whisper

He chuckles and looks down at you until he realizes you’re actually embarrassed. “Oh baby doll, no it’s perfectly okay. In fact, I love it.” He gets up off of the couch, kneeling down and pulling your hips to him, pulling your legs open to lick up between your folds, slurping up all of your juices. This made you yelp at the overstimulation, and just from the pure lewdness of the sound from his lips and tongue attached to your soaking pussy.

“Such a good girl for me..” he says as he gets up, lightly tapping the inside of your thigh. “But you still threw a punch at your superior officer. So, in the floor, on your knees. Now.” he commanded, his erection obviously painfully pressed against the zipper of his jeans.

He won’t let you put your panties back on or go clean up, he loves the sight of you like this, especially knowing it’s from him just makes him higher than any drug ever could.

You’re on your knees in front of him with his cock in your mouth, your cheek laying on his thigh as he just watches tv. It’s been an hour or so of him just making you hold his cock in your mouth, not allowing you to do anything else or he yanks your hair and lightly slaps your cheek. He stretches his arms and he groans, looking down at you as he moves to grab the back of your neck. “Sorry love..but I gotta piss.” You start to pull yourself off of him so he can go to the bathroom but his grip tightens, making you look up at him confused with your mouth still stuffed with his cock.

“I didn’t say you could move.”

Your eyes widen, a deep blush on your cheeks as you know where this is going, but the little purr you give against his cock gives him the green light. Letting himself release inside of your mouth, the liquid draining and dripping from your mouth that’s suctioned around his cock, running down the base of his cock and down his balls. Your eyes watered a bit at your mouth and throat being so full, but your eyes fluttered up to his, his palm pressing against your cheek. He lets out a small moan at the sight, wishing he had recorded it to save it forever, but that’s okay, because this wouldn’t be the last time. He exhales deeply at the release, his palm resting on your cheek, his thumb softly rubbing over the soft skin.

“Good girl..you can get up now. Let’s go clean up. You’ve earned it.”

#ghost #simon riley #simon ghost riley #cod #cod ghost #simon ghost riley smut #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley smut #simon riley imagine #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod smut #cod x reader

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ghoulfuckersincorporated · 1 month ago

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Okay so... I know you like unhinged asks and you are actually kink positive so I'm going to say it....

I want Roy Phillips to let me hold and aim his dick while he pisses on the corpse of Allistair Tenpenny.

*nodding along, knowing full-well that if I had a dollar for every time I "jokingly" asked my husband to let me do this I'd easily have a crisp $10 bill*

Answering the piss kink ask I got a few months ago really awakened something in me, Anon, so I see the vision.

I see the vision.

#click the link #you know you wanna #also the allegations about me liking unhinged asks are completely founded and true #roy philips #allistair tenpenny #fallout 3 #submission

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ghoultrifle · 1 year ago

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Hello! Can I request 108 from the smut prompt thing? Any pairing!

108: “come to my room there’s this thing i wanna try”

Dew/Phantom virginity kink with a bit of praise thrown in for good measure (2.2k words)

Hello anon, thank you for the request! I transmasced your Dew for you (clit, cunt, tiny dick, cock used), hope that’s ok! Also an homage to the sexual awakening that was the sex workers in GTA V. (and while I refer to Phantom as young, he is of course a ghoul of age)

“Hey sweetie, want a ride?” Phantom overheard from the TV’s speakers. Dew was playing a video game about stealing cars, he thinks. “Fuck yeah I do!” The fire ghoul responded in anticipation as he pressed the controller and an uncanny woman with a robotic walk climbed into the car on screen. There was some shuffling as the woman climbed atop the character Dew was controlling and they started to moan. The camera cut to a view of the car rocking while the screen continued to emit the most egregious sounds. Phantom was otherwise occupied trying his best to read The Very Hungry Caterpillar, “He ate how many oranges on Friday?!” But he never found out what else the creature ate as he began to focus on the lewd sounds now blaring in the room. The quintessence ghoul shifted in his seat. Looking down he could see, and feel, his trousers beginning to tent. Phantom was very new to his topside vessel and wasn’t exactly in tune with all the appendages. Unlike the others, he was the only male spawned in his summoning so there was no one else to experiment and learn with.

Sure his dick had kicked up in the morning, and sometimes it was wet but it never happened during the day and it never felt like this. The idea of sexual organs being one and the same with organs excreting waste was not one that existed in the pit; sex didn’t involve specific parts and it sure as hell didn’t involve the piss organ. Phantom couldn’t decide if what he was feeling was pain or pleasure, surely his brain got fried during his summoning because his body must be telling him something’s wrong yet he wants the feeling to continue.

The nervous ghoul’s voice betrayed him as he half-moaned half-hissed when his hand brushed over the sensitive, clothed cock. The sex scene long gone, Dew looked over from the tank he was driving into traffic to see a whimpering, dishevelled Phantom looking horrified at his very noticeable erection. The older ghoul knew the other had been struggling to adjust topside but thought someone must’ve shown him the ropes of his new vessel by now, clearly he was mistaken and what a beautiful mistake it was.

Dew was the one shifting in his seat now, feeling a damp spot starting to form; he so desperately wanted to show Phantom the time of his life, show him just how much fun human bodies are, work him all the way up and watch him blissfully come down. “Hey Ant, you OK?” he asked with just a tinge of an ulterior motive. The quintessence ghoul whimpered in reply, covering his eyes in embarrassment and pointing at the bulge, he sulks, “‘m I dying, Dewy? It feels so weird.” Dew shudders at the nickname, no longer able to debate the ethics of what he’s about to do.

“Come to my room, there’s this thing I wanna try.” Dew offered, grinning at the new summon. Phantom was confused, Dew closely guarded his room as a temple for lovers and nothing else. In Phantom’s first days topside, he had accidentally entered the fire ghoul’s room (Swiss was not the best at teaching him how to read) and was met with a ferocious roar to get out! So why Dew would invite him to his room was a mystery, perhaps Aether left a healing remedy there?

Phantom nervously followed Dew to his room, wincing with each step providing the friction he felt so guilty about enjoying. The fire ghoul’s room was a sight to behold, dark walls illuminated by candles the ghoul no doubt lit with his magick, and a large bed that carried a sense of grandiose with its ebony headboard; red sheets contrasting with the dark wood. Dew asked the quivering ghoul to lock the door behind him, now Phantom was really worried, scrunching his eyes in concern: Was he possessed? Was Dew about to perform an exorcism? What was so bad that he had to be locked in a room?

Upon opening his eyes he was met with a stark naked fire ghoul stepping into a harness of some sort. I hope we’re not about to go rock climbing, Phantom thought to himself, still scared of heights after his summoning went awry. His eyes went wide when he saw Dew attach what looked like a dick to the harness, it looked so realistic; perhaps they were meant to be detachable and that’s why Phantom’s is feeling so odd. The young ghoul’s cock was still kicking in his trousers, forming a barely noticeable wet spot at the front. Whatever Dew was about to show him, he hoped and prayed to Satan below that it would fix his problem.

“What are you waiting for, baby bat? Clothes off and come over, need to show you a good time.” Phantom only tilted his head in response, prompting Dew to explain. “Has this really never happened before, bug?” He shakes his head, tears forming as the worry builds, “You’ve never hooked up with anyone topside, or even tugged yourself off?” Phantom gives another look of bewilderment and Dew can only respond with a look of hunger tinged with sympathy, tonight is going to be mind-blowing for the young ghoul.

Dew walks over and waves vaguely at Phantom’s boner then back at his strap, bobbing from the movement, “This is what happens when human vessels are horny and they want to make love. It’s completely normal and I’m going to take care of it for you, if you don’t mind?” he asks lovingly, gently cupping Phantom through his trousers as his own strap knocks into the taller ghoul’s thighs. Phantom nods as he moans into the touch, a sense of relief at the friction and Dew finally telling him everything’s alright. He also feels a hint of apprehension; what if he’s not good enough, what if he doesn’t know what to do, what if this is some big joke by Dew to rile him up and leave him high and dry?

The fire ghoul can sense his worry and reaches up to kiss Phantom, neck craning up as he tenderly strokes him through his trousers, determined to make his first orgasm his best. Phantom nearly doubles over at the stimulation, Dew catching him and guiding him towards the bed, “Undress and lay down for me, honey, on your back. Want to see your beautiful face.” The fire ghoul whispers as he positions himself at the bottom of the bed, popping open a bottle of lube and warming it with his ever-fiery palms, the last thing he needs is to scare the newbie away.

As Dew slicked up a finger and slowly teased Phantom’s exposed ring, the younger ghoul mewled, impatient and once again confused that his other waste organ was being used for sex. Confusion quickly melted into pure desire as Dew let a finger slip in, curling it and exploring the walls of the writhing ghoul. It wasn’t long before Phantom was a whimpering mess as Dew had two, then three fingers inside him, scissoring and occasionally brushing just past his prostate. The quintessence ghoul keened under the touch whining for more as he pushed back into the fire ghouls hot fingers. Dew could feel his own slick running down his legs as he took in the sight before him, writhing like a wild beast to be tamed, for Dew to own. He not-so-gracefully ground his dick against the mattress, anything to get some friction on his rock-hard clit.

“Such a good boy for me, Ant, taking my fingers so well, aren’t you hmm?” Dew whispered into his ears. Phantom cried out as Dew realised he’d found exactly what makes the new bug tick and boy was he happy to indulge. He pulled out, the young ghoul whining at the cold air now hitting his hole. “Gonna put my cock in you now darling, be a good girl for me and take it, yeah?” Phantom nodded like a puppy as Dew lined his sizeable cock up with the winking hole and pushed in inch-by-inch. When he bottomed out he reached forward to pull Phantom into a tantalisingly hot kiss, moving down to mark the young ghoul as his.

Dew begins to thrust into Phantom at a steady pace, his own cunt dripping now as the toy rocked against his tiny dick. The quintessence ghoul looked down at Dew, moaning as the cock hit his prostate over and over again, sweat running down the fire ghoul’s face, silky blond hair sticking to it, looking thoroughly fucked out. Phantom is unsure what to do with his hands, previously lying by his side, he’s too pent up to keep still now.

Dew thinks Phantom is just being a good boy for him, waiting for permission to touch himself, until he remembers, he’s never touched himself, he doesn’t know how to do it. The thought has him thrusting even faster as Phantom cants his hips up so Dew hits the spot that makes him feel so fuzzy inside.

The fire ghoul grins as he sputters out between moans, “Ah fuck, Phant you know you can touch ahh your dick, right?” Phantom begins to poke himself exploratively almost as one would knead focaccia, and yeah it feels alright but, “What’s all the fuss about, Dewy? Doesn’t feel as good as you do.”

“Oh baby bat you really are clueless, aren’t you?” Dew grunts staving off his orgasm in the pursuit of Phantom’s own, “Here, like this. Put your hand over mine OK?” Dew asks so sweetly one could forget he was balls deep in the younger ghoul, as he clasps a fist around Phantom’s weeping cock, applying just the right amount of pressure to make him whine a litany of ghoulish expletives. Phantom’s eyes glaze over as Dew guides his hand over his own, fist moving up and down in time with the fire ghoul’s thrusts.

Now Phantom gets it, this is what the piss organ was really made for, the piss bit was just an accessory (it was, in fact, not just an accessory, as he later found out in a very wet session with Rain). He could feel something building, the pleasure increasing and he kinda did need to pee, why are humans so weird? he thought. Looking down he could see his cock continually leaking a slick, whitish fluid as both of their hands worked him up and down, “Fuck Dew, stop, needa aahhh, needa pee.” Phantom hurriedly said, worried for his bladder. “It’s alright baby, you’re not gonna piss yourself, just keep going and I promise what’s coming is so much better.” Dew hinted lovingly as he continued to jackhammer into Phantom, close himself.

It doesn’t take much, Dew’s surprised the new ghoul has lasted this long with the pressure of two hands stroking his cock and a dick in his pretty little ass. “You’re nearly there my brave boy, you can take it from here, just keep going.” The fire ghoul encourages as he cautiously removes his own hand from Phantom’s dick, instead placing the quintessence ghoul’s nipple between his finger and thumb deftly rolling it beneath them.

Phantom feels it, he’s going to piss himself. He decides to trust Dew, why would he lie to him after being so tender all evening? So as the older ghoul pinches his nipple, he continues to stroke himself, gasping at the feeling of his own cock beneath his calloused fingers. Almost in an instant it hits him, divine pleasure. Phantom scrunches his eyes shut as he writhes and shouts, cum spurting from his spent cock onto his stomach as he works himself through it, Dew still thrusting albeit at a slowed pace. The fire ghoul eventually slows to a stop, as does Phantom’s hand, overstimulation quickly setting in as the younger ghoul whines.

“You did such a good job for your first time, such an amazing fuck,” Dew giggled as he pulled out, “stay there, I’ll be right back” he promised as he walked over to the bathroom undoing the harness as he walked, quickly reappearing with a wet rag in his hand.

“Mmm that was so good, thanks Dewy.” Phantom called out. “See, bug, you didn’t piss yourself, huh?” Dew chuckles as he brings a washcloth to Phantom’s midriff, “Although if you’re into that I’m sure Rain would indulge.” He smirks. The new ghoul’s interest is piqued, but that’s a thought for another time.

Once Dew had delicately cleaned every inch of his and Phantom’s body, he joined the quintessence ghoul in bed, curling himself around Phantom's back. Suddenly a realisation hit the inexperienced ghoul, “Dewy, you didn’t spurt out the white stuff, did you not get the good feeling like I did?” He asked worriedly, how could he have been so selfish? “Oh bug, my anatomy isn't quite the same as yours, but no I didn’t have an orgasm. That doesn’t matter though, I got to see you have your very first and that means so much more to me than you could ever imagine.” Phantom can feel the older ghoul smiling into his shoulder, “You can always pay me back another day, hmm? Let’s call it a date!” He continues, genuinely enamoured by the younger ghoul’s self awareness, “But I’m sleepy now and I’m sure you must be too.” Phantom can only manage a hum of approval and a nod before he’s dozing off with Dew’s arms wrapped around him, his personal hot water bottle.

Just felt like putting winking hole in there to piss people off :) /lh

Speaking of piss, phantom is definitely into it and will find that out another time but for the minute let’s just revel in the bliss of him getting the piss/pleasure wires crossed during his first time and how that shapes his entire sexual identity for the rest of his life.

Also the tenses are almost certainly all over the place but just roll with it ok?

(requests are open if you want more or if you have any other ideas!)

#whoever coined baby bat i love you so much #phantom is clueless #dew has a thing for the inexperienced #it's a match made in hell #phantom never got to finish reading the very hungry caterpillar :(#piss boy phantom #trifle writes #the band ghost #nameless ghouls #dewdrop ghoul #phantom ghoul #dew/phantom #spicy tag #thank you anon #virginity kink #trans ghouls #trans dew #trifle answers

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