#he needs your soft pliable skin and big trusting eyes and the way your pretty mouth shapes doctor

[wri0thesley]

thinking about dottore’s sharp sharp teeth, biting into the soft flesh of your shoulder, your neck, your thigh - and how he uses a kamera to take photographs of your skin beading blood, kissing and licking and soothing the wounds afterwards, murmuring that he’s just taking notes on how well you heal. more photographs as they bruise, as they fade - delighting in the soft whimpers of pain you make when his surgical gloved fingers press down on tender healing skin. just a test subject, he tells himself, flicking through the photographs and replaying your pained moans in his head. with his still gloved hands wrapped around his cock and the taste of your blood still lingering on his tongue and the sharp points of his teeth: just his very favourite test subject.

[dontshootmespence]

Cherry Red

Summary: Ness says they can’t do anything about Chronos until the morning, so what should Dean do all night in 1944?

Pairing: 1944 Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1,900+

Warnings: Spanking, p in v, girl on top, come, arousal from pain. 

A/N: For those of you 18 and over! This fulfills my @spnkinkbingo square for spanking. Gonna tag @impala-dreamer​ because I’m proud of this one. 

“Kid, we got nothing to kill the bastard and we can’t get it till mornin’, so why not go get some sleep?” Ness asks, deftly flipping his hat onto his head with the flick of his fingers.

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

He bids Ness goodnight with strict instructions to be back at 5 AM. Even though he feels like he’s in The Untouchables, he needs to get back to Sam as soon as possible. That being said, there’s no way in hell he was going to sleep his way through his free time in 1944. Something tells him there’s some good strong whiskey and a beautiful dame out there somewhere.

As he saunters down the block (he’d say he wasn’t sauntering, but the 1940s garb had him feeling some kind of way), he grabs the brim of his hat and tips it in the direction of anyone and everyone he comes across. He’s so outta place but he plans to play it up for as long as he’s here.

Under his feet, water splashes from freshly fallen rain. The streets around him smell of rain with tinges of cigar smoke, which happens to be coming from a bar named Cahoots.

Opening the door, the bell above it rings, alerting everyone in the bar to the out of place “cop” that just walked in. Deep brown wood is bathed in low light, bottles glistening on the simple shelf before the fellow patrons.

Dean starts to pull up a seat, seeing mostly men around him, but through the fog of cigar smoke he sees her. She scowls at every man who comes near, though most of them are acting like they’d never seen a woman before, coming on too strong thinking they were meat or not coming on strong enough. Sure, Dean had gone to bed with his fair share of women, but he was big on willingness. Their willingness was pretty sexy.

He strides over and gently pushes through the throng of men, ordering a whiskey neat before turning his attention to the woman at his side. “So what’s a beautiful dame like you doing at this bar all alone? Are you rationed?” He asks, feeling every inch Humphrey Bogart.

“How d’ya know I’m alone, g-man?”

Her hair is pinned in waves, perfectly framing her doe eyes - not innocent ones though, they held much more than most would think he’s sure. She’s decked in cherry red, a black belt cinching her waist and matching black heels showing every inch of her beautiful calves. He’s used to seeing more skin on a woman, at least one in a dress, but something about the way she’s dressed intrigues him. He wants to know more. Maybe Sammy had the right idea going after the classy girls.

Dean smirks and glances around at the other men in the bar; they’ve started to dissipate after realizing that the g-man had her attention. “Well, you aren’t wearin’ a wedding ring, so you’re not hitched and in the two minutes I’ve been here, I’ve seen you wave on about five others who’ve been desperately trying to make a pass at the doll in the pretty red dress.”

She blushes and glances down at her glass. “You got me, g-man, I am here alone. I’ve recently lost 180 pounds. I’m here to celebrate.”

He cocks his eyebrow, a little confused.

“Just dumped the cheatin’ bastard,” she laughs.

Dean extends his hand and introduces himself, learns her name is Y/N. Apparently, she’d only been going steady with the guy for a few months. “He seemed a decent guy, you know. A real dreamboat, but then I caught him in bed with another woman so I got rid of his ass. What about you, Casanova? What brings you here?”

Loaded question.

“A little time off before I meet up with partner to finish this case we’re working on,” he says. Technically true, but way off the mark. As per usual in his life. “Can I buy ya another drink?”

“With a face like that, why not,” she replies with a smile. It’s the kind of smile that can ruin a man like Dean.

But what a way to go. “Well, excuse me for a bein’ a little doll dizzy, but would you wanna take this somewhere else?”

“You take me for a charity girl?”

He assumes that means an easy woman, so he chooses his words wisely. “Definitely not. But maybe one who’s looking for a good time.”

“And you think you can show me that?”

Dean bites his lip and slips his hand over hers. “Absolutely.”

Placing money on the counter to cover both their tabs, he escorts her out of the bar and into the cool night air. “My motel is just done the block. Kinda here from outta town.”

“Well, as long as you can show me a good time anywhere, I’m good to go, dreamboat.”

He could get used to her calling him that. But he shakes that thought away and picks up the pace. Though there aren’t many people on the street, those that walk by seem impressed with the woman on his arm. As they approach the motel room, she leans into him, her eyes swirling with mischief. “How do you feel about a lady takin’ charge?” She asks, her cherry red lips forming a smirk that makes him feel things he definitely shouldn’t be feeling. “Lemme show you a good time.”

The key fumbles in the lock, but he manages and when they cross the threshold, she pins him to the wall, peeling the pinstripe suit jacket away from his shoulders. “Oh, the gun holster does things for me Dean.”

“Take a picture in that pretty little head of yours, because I need to take it off to do what I want to do. Need free range of motion.”

His hands skim up the backs of her thighs, gathering the material of her dress so that he can grab what he really wants. “I might be taking off this dress, but that doesn’t mean something else can’t be cherry red.”

Dean kisses her hard and starts to unbutton her dress, pushing it down to reveal the era’s lingerie. He had to admit that modern era lingerie had his approval over this, but if anyone could pull this off it was her.

Hungrily, they cover each other in love bites and kitten licks as they remove the remainder of their clothing. “Alright, doll, get on your hands and knees on the bed and I’ll give you what you need.”

She giggles as she crawls onto the bed, wiggling what is quite possibly one of the perfect asses he’s ever seen. When he rakes his fingers up the right side of her ass, she shivers and leans into the bed. “Trust me?” He whispers.

For some reason, she does. “Spank me, Dean.”

A guttural grunt gets caught in his throat, his cock straining against the boxers he’s still wearing. His hand comes down on her ass, the resounding sound of the smack making him even harder. She whimpers and looks back at him. “Harder.”

He does as she asks, a faint imprint of his hand forming on her soft skin before he moves to the other side. “Have to make sure they match.”

She snickers, crawling backwards and standing bare before him. “Sit,” she says quietly. He stares up with rapt attention, watching the curve of her body as she places herself over his knee; he’s pretty sure he’s died and gone to heaven, but he’s been to heaven before and it ain’t this fun.

A peace falls over, his mind going blank once she sinks into him, her body pliable and ready for whatever he touch he intends to give. He runs his pinky over her slit, she’s already wet. “Already?”

She senses the teasing note in his voice. “Absolutely. I can never seem to find a guy who’ll do this with me.”

Dean’s in awe and then he remembers when he is. “Everyone insist on treating you like a proper lady?”

“And I am,” she says. “I just like it rough.” She gasps the last of her thoughts when his hand comes down on her again. “Fuck.” Each successive slap brings warmth to her already heated skin. Her nerves are alight, the contrast of sharp smacks and his soft touches sending her body into overdrive.

With each hit, she moans, squirming against his clothed cock. “Dean, more, please.”

“Count them. Five each.”

“One, two, three, four,” she counts out in quick succession. “Oh fuck.”

He’s entranced by how wet she is, her juices slipping down the side of her leg. He has six more hits to go but all he can think of is being buried inside her. After one more hit on her right side, he switches to the left, giving her two before stopping himself, allowing her to stew in her own anticipation. 

During the in between beats, he watches how her body reacts, goosebumps prickling her soft skin, arousal dripping, muscles shaking. With the final slaps, she slips to the floor, her body pooling at his feet. She reaches up and pulls his boxers down, allowing his cock to spring free, already dripping with pre-cum. 

When her mouth slips over the tip of his cock, he moans, but even her mouth isn’t enough right now. He crawls backward onto the bed, silently inviting her up to join him. 

The bed dips under her weight, her tongue running up the length of his cock before she straddles him, her legs on either side of his hips. “Want this pretty pussy?”

“Doll, you have no idea.” 

She sinks down onto his cock and whines at the stretch. She’s only been with a couple guys, but none have felt like him, velvet soft and insistently hard. The way his mouth drops open makes her smile; she’s never had this kind of power over a man before, and it’s intoxicating. 

Reaching up, Dean grabs her by the back of the neck and brings her body flush against him. “Right here, doll. Move that ass for me.”

She moans into his neck, crying out when he grabs the flesh of her ass, the sting from his hands blooming anew. 

Dean moans. “Fuck me.”

Her body moves of its own volition, the pain of his grasp spurring her on. It’s frenetic and driven. And she starts to lose control. He steadies her hips above him and commands her not to move. He wants to watch as he pumps in and out of her. “Look.” He needs her to see it too.

As his cock thrusts upward into her, her breasts bounce with the force. He can’t take it. She’s completely blissed out and it’s all him. Keeping her steady with one hand, he moves the other to her pussy, massaging her clit with his thumb. “Oh hell, Dean. I’m gonna-”

She can’t complete her thought. Her head drops back, mouth agape as she cries out and her walls constrict around him and he’s not far behind. 

Pushing her back, he pulls out and pumps himself roughly, her body still shaking when he comes on her stomach. “Doll, you have no idea what you do to a guy.”

She dips her finger into his release and sucks it off, moaning at the taste. “I have some clue, sugar.”

[dumbsadlesbian]

Sick To The Stomach

Jack has no problem admitting he's fucking a student. Rhys, however, prefers not to be stared at by his rather petty peers. Shit happens.

"Just a few more documents, babe."

Rhys sighs, dangling Jack's mask from his fingers. He studies it; smooth, pliable. Enough to allow basic functions. Rhys wasn't sure how a mask drew less attention than a scar, but he wasn't one to speak. People had scars- it was fine.

He draws a line across it with his index finger, where Jack's scar would be. It's not the same. The fact that Jack couldn't even go outside without it broke his heart. On the other hand, Rhys knows that he can't change how Jack feels, no matter how hard he tries. Jack is stubborn. He's just happy Jack trusts him enough to take it off around him, to let Rhys play with it and look at it with wonder and curiosity. It's like a child with a new toy.

Everyone knew Jack anyway. On the other side, Rhys supposes that Jack could ask why he wore long sleeves so often, or what the point was to wearing both gloves on a cold day, considering he has a robot arm. It isn't that Rhys is ashamed- it's pretty cool. Sometimes Rhys just wonders what it would be like if he still had all human parts instead of a robotic arm and eye, a USB port in his skull.

Then again, there are also aliens and small, raging psychos existing, so nothing was really surprising anymore anyway. Normal? Rhys knows of no such thing.

"Booorrreedd," Rhys drags out every syllable in a whine that's almost pitiful. He sets the mask down on the bedside table. He's lying on his back in Jack's soft bed, legs crossed and propped on the headboard, a pillow proudly displaying a pattern of the Hyperion 'H' supporting his head.

Rhys instead focuses his attention on Jack's real face, which he much preferred to a mask. Sometimes, if he was gentle about it and had Jack in the right mood, Jack would let Rhys touch his scar. It was a thick, smooth line. The edges were ragged but still just as soft. And even after all this time, the damaged skin stayed an angry pinkish-purple, instead of fading into a soft silvery-white like the rest of the scars that claimed his skin. Jack didn't want Rhys to look at it as awesome or cool, and more than once Rhys has had to promise, "It's just another part of you, Jack. I love it just like I love everything else about you."

Rhys really did love every part of him, too. The way his hair was so messy in the mornings. Rhys would play with it and Jack would complain about him messing his hair up but never actually stop him. How he always smelled nice and never complained about Rhys taking his clothes. Jack couldn't fit into Rhys' clothes, but even now, Rhys was nestled into Jack's soft, yellow Hyperion sweater that he'd come home in last night. It was a little too big- the sleeves kept going even after his fingertips stopped. Rhys didn't care, and it left Jack without a shirt on and something for Rhys to look at, so it was a win in his eyes.

His eyebrows were furrowed as he expertly scanned through the papers in his hand, leaning his back against the headboard, his legs crossed under the blanket. One arm was wrapped around Rhys' legs, devoting its time to caressing Rhys' thigh, tracing fading dark marks and faint bites leading further up. It gave Rhys butterflies thinking about it, despite having been with Jack for quite some time.

Jack wanted to show Rhys off- Rhys refused, afraid of unwanted attention. Everyone knew Jack. He had fans. It made Rhys uncomfortable seeing students, even other professors approach Jack on campus, trying to strike up a conversation. Though Rhys knew it made Jack uncomfortable too, he couldn't help but wonder whether or not he secretly enjoyed the attention. He was *the* Handsome Jack, you know. Rhys preferred not having the rage and drama of a bunch of upset fan people following him from class to class. So they kept it a secret, despite whatever suspicions others might have.

Rhys was drawn out of his wandering thoughts as Jack's light, wandering fingertips trace around a particularly tender bruise. Rhys shudders without thinking.

Jack turns to look at Rhys, whose eyes are scrunched tight. Maybe in embarrassment, maybe to keep from saying something he doesn't want Jack to hear. In reality, Rhys wants to tell him, "Do that again."

Jack releases an exasperated breath, dramatically putting the papers down. "However can I grade papers," he jokes, "if this horny bastard never lets me?" Jack crawls out of the blanket and over to his boyfriend, where he slowly straddles Rhys.

It reignites the giddy feeling swirling in his stomach. Rhys opens his eyes. Now that Jack is hovering right above him, he can see the small, purple 'decorations' scattered lazily about Jack's collarbone. Rhys feels heat against his cheeks and his hands itch to touch them. He curiously wonders that if he touched them like Jack did, would he react in the same manner?

"I call it the lack of willpower," Rhys' voice catches in his throat instead. No matter how he tried, he always felt helpless against Jack, not that it was a bad thing. Every touch felt new, every hug and kiss emitted a strike of electricity and he never grew tired. The first time Jack had touched Rhys had changed him. He'd become insatiable, and Jack often made it his duty to point it out and use it to his advantage.

Jack had no issue keeping up-or far surpassing Rhys' appetite, for that matter.

Jack chuckles, nuzzling his nose against the crevice between Rhys' neck and shoulder. The scruff on Jack's jaw scratches his skin, but he doesn't mind. Rhys would tell him he needs to shave, but he's already having trouble keeping his thoughts straight- forming a coherent sentence might be out of question.

Jack snuggles closer, pressing his chest to Rhys' and bringing his arms close. "So help me," Jack whispers against the crook of his neck, "the persistent shit-dick strikes again."

"Oh my God," Rhys' voice is shaking, unstable because of Jack practically laying on him but he brings his arms up to hold Jack anyway, who's freakishly warm against him. "You love my dick."

"Mm," Jack lifts his head and touches his nose to Rhys'. He pretends to think, like it's even an actual question. He lightly bumps their foreheads together.

If Rhys wasn't already pitifully melting in Jack's arms, he totally would've whispered 'boop'.

"That is information I cannot rightfully disclose," Jack smiles brick brightly.

They break into laughter. Rhys loves it when Jack smiles, he loves everything about it. A face that goddamn handsome has no place being so serious all the goddamn time.

In fact, Jack has no right to do a lot of the things he does to Rhys, intentional or otherwise. The way his heart thrums in his chest and it feels like a heart attack, or when his breath catches and halts and he feels like he understands what asthma feels like, and it's all without his permission. It's so terribly unfair, and Rhys can only hope that he makes Jack feel the same way. Jack has always had an incredible reserve of confidence and resolve, and he'd hardly if ever seen it waver. He's far too good at picking and choosing what emotions he allows to be read and yet Rhys can't bring himself to care all that much. Jack could probably play Rhys as much as he liked, and though he knows that Jack is far too kind to do that to him, he can almost certainly assure that he would let Jack do it regardless. Rhys loved Jack. What could he do?

"How rude," Rhys manages as their laughter slowly ebbs. His hands run across Jack's spine, dotting the points where he can feel each vertebra rise against his skin. He feels weirdly proud when it's Jack's turn to shudder- though Rhys isn't sure if it's because of his touch or probably that his robotic arm is just cold.

"Okay, okay," Jack concedes. "I admit that your d-game is pretty great."

Rhys snorts and receives a playful nudge in return.

Jack tugs at the hem of Rhys' sweater. Rhys gives him a questioning glance. "I want to hear better." Jack holds Rhys up as he tugs it over his head, throwing it halfheartedly across the room, laughing when Rhys' teeth chatter at the sudden chill. Jack places his head on Rhys' bare chest. "See, this is better." He listens for a moment, comforted by the gentle, even lull of Rhys' heartbeat. The sound of him breathing, the buzz of blood flowing beneath his flesh, it reassured Jack. Rhys was here, he was alive, it was all real and he was happy. Jack had gone through obviously rough things and having Rhys was more assurance than he honestly deserved. "Your heartbeat sounds amazing."

Rhys smiles, eyes squinting at the warm intensity of emotion Jack brought him. He brings Jack up, coercing him closer until they were face to face. Rhys props himself on his elbows, earning a curious gaze. He leans forward, kissing each dark bruise that smattered Jack's neck from the night before. "You're the amazing one, you handsome douchebag," Rhys whispers against his flesh, one hand grazing up the side of his ribs.

Jack shivers again this time, making a frustrated expression- he felt control slipping through his fingers, useless as trying to catch water. This was entirely new, unfair, and Jack didn't like it.

Rhys smiles, because this time he knew Jack wasn't acting because of the cold.

Since when did Rhys become the one in control?

Rhys grins. "That was frickin' hilarious. Especially 'cause I'm even on the bottom right now."

"Don't push your limits, Rhysie, baby," Jack sighs. He doesn't know where this feeling originated from- but it makes him uncomfortable. He'd always been in control. He'd seen Rhys loose control countless times during...activities. He'd seemed flustered afterward but in the moment he'd enjoyed it. Jack enjoyed watching that. But to lose it even momentarily- especially over something so small as to Rhys' touch was strangely shocking.

"I like pushing limits, *cupcake*," Rhys grins. He knows that's Jack's nickname for him. He also knows that he liked seeing Jack react involuntarily.

Jack was unsure of how to cope. Following his first instinct, he straightens himself, the soft, light atmosphere draining from the room. Instead, it fills with tension, dread.

Rhys' chest feels full- he might've had his moment, but he gets the feeling that he could not stand up to Jack's anger, his aggression. It was embedded within his very personality.

"I'm not the submissive type, pumpkin," Jack takes Rhys' wrists in his hands. His grip is tight enough to bruise, but it's what Rhys liked. Despite that little blip of dominance, the anxious flipping of his stomach, the question of what Jack was going to do, it was enough to remind him that this was definitely what he preferred. Rhys knew Jack was like an unstable shotgun- he went off at the strangest things and times- perhaps it was his past that allowed him to transform from sweet to dark-eyes-and-brooding within a spare minute.

"You win," Rhys utters.

Jack proceeds to free Rhys' hands, the real one tingling at the return of blood flow. Instead of pinning Rhys, Jack leans down to kiss across his jaw. Rhys wants to give in. Instead, he glances at the clock and whistles. "You sure you want to start this?"

Jack looks up from his canvas, already guaranteeing new art to replace the old. Rhys observes the blooming red momentarily. Jack works quickly. He gives Rhys a look that almost scares him.

"Really, Rhys?"

Rhys shrugs sheepishly."Twenty minutes until your first class, is all I'm saying."

Jack bares his teeth.

"Not that I want you to go or anything," Rhys breathes, craning his head back and baring his neck to Jack, utterly vulnerable. "For Christ's sake, please don't."

"I need a helluva lot more time than that, knowing you," Jack rolls his eyes and continues letting his lips roam.

Rhys runs a hand through his own hair, smoothing stray tangles. He's shaking again, and he doesn't know why he submits himself to such a man. It's absolute torture.

"May the Lord have mercy on my soul."

Rhys can feel Jack smirk against his throat. "You don't deserve my mercy, princess."