𓍯𓂃 all the things i wish i could do if i could have you (p2) || dean winchester x fem!reader 𓍯𓂃
➶ warnings: 18+, MOC!Dean, angst, pining and possessiveness and perversion, fingering, oral sex (m!receiving), making out, sexual fantasies, dean grappling with actually feeling emotions, light alcohol consumption, violent/dark imagery, best friends to (technically) lovers, slow burn, porn with plot -- please let me know if i miss anything!
➶ summary: it’s Dean’s birthday. He knows he’s meant to be having a good time and focusing on all his friends and family celebrating him, but all he can seem to think about or see is you. Especially what he would do if you were his.
quick note: hello folks! so, i decided to split part two (so there's one last part to come!!) because otherwise it was going to be like 25k and that just felt a bit silly. enjoy <3
(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ find part one back here
(☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞ read part three here
Make no mistake, Dean has thought deeply and thoroughly about the first time he makes you his and he yours. Many times before.
But tonight... tonight feels different. It feels certain.
It’ll all start at the end of the night. When everyone’s said their final goodnights and happy birthdays to Dean and left the bunker. You and him are cleaning up after the party, the music’s still playing but it’s much quieter now. Dean’s told Sam not to worry about helping clear the mess of dirty plates, finished bottles, and half-eaten food because he really should get some well needed beauty sleep.
Sam rolls his eyes from the hallway passage, tilting the right side of his head towards his brother with an annoyed huff before throwing his left hand in the air and walking away. Dean can hear you behind him, over by the wooden table in the middle of the room, fail to stifle a chuckle.
He carefully watches Sam walk down the bunker’s corridor and disappear around a corner, and when he hears his brother’s footsteps fade to nothing and the door to his bedroom shut, Dean can’t help the guileful smile painted on his face as he turns 180 towards a preoccupied you, his feet carrying him to your left side without a second thought. You’ve got three stacked plates in the crook of your right forearm against your chest, your left arm reaching out over the table for another plate.
Dean reaches you in six steps.
His feet plant him half a step away, his front facing your side. “Thank you,” he says, your name lingering in the air.
You’ll flick your head towards him with that warm smile, your cheeks full and eyes crinkling, that sends soft waves over his chest. “I didn’t do anything, Dean,” your face and eyes shift back to the table, scanning for any other plates to grab, “Not really.”
He’ll be quick with his response, not allowing the air from your self-effacing to settle, “You did everything, sweetheart.” And you’ll tilt your head, your face in a dubious scrunch. He won’t let you challenge him – not right now, at least. “You are everything,” he counters, low and firm.
That makes you pause, your breath hitching, left arm hanging mid-air.
Your voice is slightly hoarse when you speak again, big soft eyes with a glint, as you turn your head to look up at him, “Dean...”
He’ll take the final half-step towards you, and the tip of his shoe will bump the side of your own. He’s looking down at you and he can see the complete change in your breathing. Just how he likes it. Your mouth has parted, chest rising and falling in weighted movements.
You blink twice – not breaking eye contact with him – swallow, and then put the four plates nestled in your right arm back on a small cleared space on the table in front of you. They’ll clatter a little. Then you turn fully to him. Tilt your chin up.
There’s a little bit more space between your shoes and bodies now – maybe a finger apart – because of the shuffle of your feet to make sure you’re giving him your full attention.
And he doesn’t need The Mark to tell him.
But Dean’s right hand will flex in anticipation first, then he’ll raise it from his side to cup your face, the pad of his thumb resting on the top of your cheekbone while his folded index finger sits just behind the hinge of your jaw, near your ear. He starts to rub his thumb back and forth, impressing the skin, yet still soft with the touch. Measured. Tender.
A little sound escapes your mouth, and it’s almost a whimper.
Oh, darlin’, the sounds I’m gonna pull from you.
You lean lightly into the side of his palm, and he’ll take a deep inhale in return. Because you didn’t flinch or look disgusted. You didn’t pull away from him. You lent further into him. You want him to touch you.
He’s always wanted to feel your head tilt into his hand.
Despite the bunker’s usual prickling coldness, your cheek feels so warm – lush and beautiful and everything that Dean isn’t against his rough and battered hands. Although filtered by the yellow hue of the lamp-lit room, the rosy haze across the tops of your cheeks is blooming again.
The eye contact connecting you both is heavy. Your eyes are big. Puppy-like. Long electrical currents pulse between your bodies, and there’s a soft golden gleam in your eyes from that very same lighting that makes Dean’s stomach flip. Like he’s riding the downhill dip of a rollercoaster.
Your right arm moves to touch Dean – and he can’t wait for this part. Your fingers start at his left rib set, slowly sliding up his chest over his dark checkered flannel, and he can feel the fabric run against his heated skin as your hand glides upwards, before finally stopping over the spot where his heart is beating. Fast. So fast he thinks his sternum will crack open.
But his body is relaxed. Not tensed. He knows he’s about to be yours, and you be his. At last.
His eyes will drop to your lips. But instead of moving between each of your own eyes – calculatedly pausing just like he had earlier in the night – his gaze will run up to the dip of your cupid’s bow, then to your nose, and finally lock back onto both your eyes.
A ragged breath falls from you, your right fingers bunching his shirt, and then you pull him down slightly as you lean up. To kiss him. Dean’s never sure if his mouth will dry or pool with saliva in anticipation of this touch.
In most of his fantasies, Dean likes to think you’ll be the first one to close your eyes when you first kiss – because you’ve been waiting for this just as long as he has, and needed it just as badly. And he needs to see that look on you.
No, he’ll be the first to close them. Because this clawing precipice of longing is killing him and he needs it to happen now.
So he goes to close his eyes to make the moment real and now. But when your lips don’t meet his within two heavy breaths, he opens them just a little. Confused. And when he looks down at you, searching, your eyes are watching him, half-lidded. A soft grin twitches over your lips, your nostrils expanding as a small satisfied huff of air ghosts Dean’s lips.
He smirks back. The touch from his thumb and index finger shifting to just the slightest grip. Christ, you make him hard.
And then you both close that final distance in an insisting motion that makes Dean’s heart lurch as his lips meet the softness and wetness of yours.
This, Dean thinks, is the good moment.
It’s slow, so slow. And warm. Deep. Open-mouthed but no tongue.
And it’s not tentative. It’s charged. A reclaiming. Like you’ve done this together a million times before. Because he’s yours. And you're his.
He can taste the last wisps of alcohol you were drinking earlier, and he wishes he could just drink in every single inch and strand of you.
The Mark buzzes. Euphoric vibrations travelling across his right forearm. A white-hot tingle washes through the muscles and tendons of his back, down each vertebrae of his spine. The tip of your nose is brushing the dip between his own nose and cheek, and he can feel your slowed exhale fanning his face. There’s an unmistakable relieved tension dissipating between you both with each heartbeat and languid movement of lips against one another’s, the mortar binding together Dean’s withholding, self-loathing, and unworthiness crumbling to let himself have you.
A quiet, warm hum sounds in your throat, and it redirects all the blood coursing through his veins to his head and heart in a thick, sweet rush; a smooth burn like a slow savouring sip of scotch whiskey, running from his tongue down his throat to his chest, with a mingling malted edge. The warmth doesn’t finish when it pools in his stomach – it flutters down the back of his thighs, down his calves, and through to his toes to make him feel like his entire body has dissolved into the air.
He can’t help but groan lowly into you – you’re too divine to not touch. Taste. Feel.
Dean brings you in closer. His fingers slide across the underside of your jaw to the line of your neck, fingertips just reaching your nape while his thumb rests hungrily on the hinge of your jaw. He can feel your pulse thrumming. It’s just as quick as his.
Rising from his side, his left arm snakes around your waist, bypassing the curve (that he reminds himself to come back to later) to splay and push his big hand into the dip of your lower back so that you’re pressed firm against him. The swell of your breasts is soft against his chest, making a full-body shudder run through Dean at the sensation.
You gently break the kiss, panting hot little breaths, but Dean immediately chases the warmth and softness of your lips and pulls you back in. Because finally. Finally he’s getting to kiss you. To know and savour you.
And he doesn’t want to stop.
He’ll feel you smile against him when his lips meet yours again, and you moan, dark but sweet, and he’ll swallow it like it’ll be his last meal. This time, he starts lightly biting your bottom lip. And with each kiss, the way you move against each other quickens and heats. Moulding to each other. Devotion and desire beginning to blur.
A huff of air leaves you with a whine, and your right hand unbunches from the middle of his shirt to slide up to the hollow of his neck before moving to grip his hair at his nape, your forearm against his clavicle. Your left hand runs purposely up the side of Dean’s waist – goosebumps rising with each clothed touch – reaching out to feel the taut muscles and curving of his back as your arm hooks under his upper arm to grip tightly onto his shoulder.
He feels like he’s going to pass out. You’re hungry for him. He doesn’t know when his dick became rock-hard (again, or did it ever stop being hard?), but the throbbing between his thigh and jeans is now achingly undeniable.
“Dean...”, you mumble heatedly, intoxicatingly into his mouth, wet lips gliding heavily against his. Your right hand is raking through his short hair, teasing his scalp with each curling of your fingers and scratch of your nails. It’s almost torture. “Take me to my room.”
And when he stops, not wanting to pull back – because he needs to keep kissing you, but doing so because he has to make sure that he can somehow protect what little bit he has left of his pathetic self after three decades of perpetual loss, death, and pain, and tell you that he can’t just do this for one night, be something that doesn’t really mean anything to you because you are everything to him – he’ll see a look in your eyes.
The one with a consuming heat that seeps into every pore and crevice of him to draw him into you impossibly further, and he couldn’t tear away from it even if he tried. You’re asking him to touch you. Need him to touch you. And you’re not asking for just one night. You’re asking him for all of them.
All that stupid, backbreaking, and soul crushing fear that ropes constrictingly around his neck and fuses his bones tightly together, that stops him from hoping he might be good enough for you and you might love him the way he loves you, dissolves into nothing.
And this might be the only time you let yourself ask something of Dean. He sure as hell won’t say no.
He’ll grab your right forearm pressing just above his heaving chest, give one last kiss to your lips – this one a little sweeter but just as deep – then down to the skin of your wrist where your veins catch the light, and drag you down the hallway to exactly where you both want to be.
The grey brick and cement bunker walls blur as he pulls you along, arms outstretched, hands clasped tightly together. The biggest smiles on your faces. Panting. Glowing. You giggling. He can’t stop looking at you. But that’s okay. He could run to your room with his eyes closed.
The only thing outside of you that he notices is the corner you pass together, the one that he’d waited for Sam to turn before he hungrily sought you out.
Maybe you’ll want to take control, though.
So he backtracks his daydream a little; you’ll stop him halfway down the hallway, overcome by the need to have his lips, have him, on you.
With both hands (and a slightly impressive strength), you shove him against the wall, the echo of his back thudding into the brick mixed with the sudden loss of air from his lungs, and the impact force against his muscles sending a wave of sickening arousal through him.
The way you’re looking at him – like you’re simultaneously about to worship and devour him – makes his cock twitch violently, and a wrecked sound Dean tries so suck in reverberates off the walls of the empty hallway.
You’re panting, chest rising rapidly and weighted. The tip of your tongue is running along the back and top of your bottom teeth. He can’t wait to feel it in his mouth and suck it.
You almost pounce on him, hands flying to possessively grip each of his shoulders, forearms pressed into his heaving chest. Then your mouth crashes into him, messy and hard, followed by a roll of your hips and chest into his, making his eyes close with a sinful flutter. The coiling wrapping around and pulling his stomach sharpens so tight that he thinks he might go blind with lust. His hands shoot up to your waist, his hold on you only to be described as desperate.
Your left hand pulls the collar of his shirt across his shoulder to expose his skin, your face moving to press a hot open-mouthed kiss to the dip of his left collar bone, and you lick up his neck to his jaw. This time, Dean’s hips jerk uncontrollably forward into you, and he knows you can feel just how badly his taut dick is straining against his jeans.
It’d be impossible not to.
“Dean,” you purr, breathy in his ear, nipping at the lobe. Your right hand's moved from his shoulder to grip his neck with just a hint of pressure, “why’d you make me wait so long?”
It makes him groan into your ear, brows pulling together in searing pleasure and agony, his big hands with a bruising clutch now firm on both your hips, his fingers digging into the plush to centre himself.
I know, sweetheart. I’m so sorry.
The left side of his stubble will scrape deliciously along your jaw as he leans down to return your heated kisses on your neck, lightly biting and sucking spots before he licks them.
His hold on you suddenly disappears as you fall to your knees in front of him, a sexy giggle leaving you and your eyes staring lazily up at him, pupils blown wide and black with need. Your hands slip down his chest to his waist, a wave of heat trailing from your clothed touch as you slowly inch towards his thick muscled thighs before your hands glide behind them, splayed. Dean’s nostrils flare with each pant, and he feels himself salivating. He can hear how loudly the sound of his harsh breathing fills the watching hallway.
There’s no embarrassment or shame to feel about how needy (and maybe a little pathetic) he is. But there is a thrill that rushes through his veins and makes a possessive spark ache in his lungs and bones – a thrill that somebody could see you touching him like this because you just have to. His balls pull tight.
You’ll grab at his flannel, lifting it up a little to touch his bare stomach and rake your nails down his flexing muscles. He really likes the whisper of pain it leaves.
You trail wet kisses across his navel, looking beautifully up at him through your eyelashes. Dean’s hands press against the cold bricks of the hallway, pushing his hips off the wall so he can watch you better, and he sees the sides of your mouth turn in a proud, knowing smile, pricking up at the sides. Each calculated kiss feels like you’re branding him with your mouth. He loves it.
Then you begin downwards, following his snail trail with a suck and a lick, and Dean’s breath stutters when your mouth and hands pause as you reach the waistband of his jeans. Your index and middle fingers run along the top of the denim fabric, nails skimming the dip between his hips. The muscles there twitch as your hot breath fans the flushing skin, and your low-hung eyes drink in how his body is helplessly reacting to your touch.
Your thumbs press into his leather belt, and then your fingers slip in between him and his jeans.
Your fingertips slide along the inside band of his jeans, Dean helplessly bucking his hips in drowning desire, and on your way back to the middle just below his belly button, your fingers dip further down so that your knuckles dig a little into his brief-covered groin.
Your head bobs down slightly, eye-contact breaking only to press a deep kiss into Dean’s prominent bulge. You both moan at the sensation – Dean’s stifled by him biting sharply into his bottom lip while yours is muffled by his jeans.
Your face moves back to be an inch away from his dick, tilting your chin up to look at him. Lust-blown eyes return to his with an erotic smile, and your fingers slip out and begin slowly unbuckling his belt. The metal clink and leather slapping as you draw out the belt from the denim loops makes Dean dig his fingernails into his palms at the sweet torture of your teasing.
“Goddamnit, sweetheart,” he rasps. Over the almost deafening thumping of his heart, he can just hear an echoing clunk down the hallway walls as you drop his belt to the floor.
“You okay, Dean?” you respond, your brows pulling up as you pout, voice laced with fake-concern, hands moving to unbutton his jeans with a pop, “you seem a little...”, your right thumb and index finger pull down the zipper, “tense.”
All he can do is release a gruff, breathy huff in amazement.
In contrast to your earlier movements, you waste no time yanking his jeans down his hips, leaving them to hang just above his knees. His boxers are obscenely tented, and your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip, both of your hands gripping the muscle of his warm, bared thighs, thumbs pressing into the inner sides. Then you wink up at him.
Oh baby, I can’t wait to fuck you.
You rub the left side of your face up and down against his cock straining in his briefs like a cat, your cheek running firm along his length, nose pressing at his tip where there’s most definitely a wet patch you can see and feel. His eyes almost roll to the back of his head, your nose dipping in a half-circle near his balls to press the right side of your face against him, but he’s trying so hard to keep his eyes open and locked on you kneeling in front of him – for him – to make sure he doesn’t miss a second of you.
Your right cheek rubs along him again, and your name falls from his lips in both a trembling and reverent plea and praise. Your head turns up to meet his gaze as you begin placing filthy kisses and mouthing at his aching cock.
He might just come undone from you doing just that.
Then you flutter your lashes with big eyes and take him into your mouth through his briefs. Just the head. You’ll moan vulgarly at the feel of him heavy on your tongue. The taste. And the view Dean has of you is nothing short of holy – plush lips wrapped tightly around the blackened outline of his ridge; fingers kneading deeply into the muscle of his thighs; wide eyes with almost no ring of colour staring up at him through your lashes like he’s something to worship – and his head thuds against the wall, a hot sting flooding his brain that makes him feel fuzzy like he’s drunk.
He can feel how hot and wet your mouth is as you start sucking obscenely on his tip, rolling your tongue flat along the bottom side of his throbbing cock head, and the noise that spills from his own mouth sounds like he’s been sucker punched.
Dean curses, his left hand unclenching from his side to tangle in the crown of your hair. Not forceful, but devotional. To know and feel that you’re real.
Your right hand will move to cup and fondle his balls, your left hand sliding up his thigh to where his briefs finish and back down to his burning bare skin. You start bobbing your head, lips only ever going just past his sensitive ridge each time you take him in deeper, and Dean’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding.
The fingers of his left hand are laced with the soft locks of your hair. Every time your lips run over that bump, he can feel the precum drip from his throbbing slit, his hand squeezing. You hum around him in response, licking at him, and it vibrates up his length, making his groin and stomach coil with an intense, heavy heat.
Both your hands are still on him as you pull your mouth away from his thick cockhead, a filthy line of spit still connecting you both. Dean makes something between a grunt and a whine at the sudden loss of your heat and touch as the cold bunker air replaces you around the now fully soaked outline of him. There’s a smug grin on your face, and with a final, slow lick along his twitching length, your right hand grabbing at the belt by his feet, you begin rising from your knees.
Dean bends to immediately grab your face with both of his hands and pull you up into a messy, teeth-clashing kiss. It’s sloppy, and you grind your hips into him with each sharp heavy inhale, moaning.
He brings your bottom lip in between his teeth to bite as both your own hands reach down to grab the waistband of his jeans. You drag them up to sit back around his hips, but let them hang open, his bulge poking through the gap, your hands gripping at his hipbones. Tongues start licking into each others’ mouths, and he can feel the kiss thickening with saliva and lust and urgency. The warm and wet taste of your mouth is sweet, and Dean thinks he might drown in it. Happily.
Your feet move away from him first, then your hips. Your mouths are still slick and frantic against each other as you hook your right middle finger into one of Dean’s front belt loops and tug him towards you off the wall, his grunt swallowed by your mouth as he walks along with your back stepping. And he follows you like the good dog that he is.
Instead of turning left at the split of the hallway – like he would to go to his room – you pull him right, and he lets out a rough and broken breath. He’s going to your room. Your bed.
Your mouths meet again in short, brutal bursts as you reach your door. You’ll fumble for the metal handle behind you with your left hand, but it’s not quick enough for Dean, so his right hand drops from your jaw to twist the handle and shove the door open. It bangs loudly against the wooden chest of drawers to the right in your room, rattling, as you fall into the room together. He uses the momentum to calculatedly guide and turn your body around with his hips and his right hand on your waist, pushing your frame to slam the door close. His shadow casts possessively over you, drawn by a bedside lamp, and he deliberately ruts his soaked clothed cock into your heat, making you arch into him, whine at him.
Yeah, pretty girl, let me know how badly you need me.
You’re both headily breathless now. The shared air between your bodies losing oxygen with each kiss, your mouth searing against his. Hungry. Filthy. Dean opens his eyes, closes them, then opens them again – he can’t decide if he wants to watch you or be totally consumed by you. He can feel your jaw flexing in the palm and fingers of his left hand in rhythm with the devouring shifting of your lips and tongue. Skin hot and alive.
Your hands are everywhere in his hair, tangled, pulling, scraping, and he knows if he saw himself in the mirror at this very moment, he’d look like the happiest man in the history of every universe who’d just grabbed a live wire from an electric fence.
Dean’s right hand is sliding up and down the clothed side of your waist, dragging and measured squeezes with a lasting burn, the fabric of your top bunching in between his curling fingers. Your top is riding up unevenly at the hem from his touching, and on one particular glide of his hand, his rough fingers meet the soft flesh of your waist and disappear underneath the black material on the slide back up. You make a beautiful high, needy sound.
Both of your hands move to the back of his head, right hand gripping his nape, left palm over the shell of his left ear and fingers reaching to the back of his head, pulling him in impossibly closer. You kiss him hard and long.
Dean’s trying to take in the actual feel of you. Your skin. Your heat. His touch is reverent attention – learning the warmth and shape and movements so uniquely you. Steady yet urgent.
The fingers of his right hand are featherlight as he grazes over your navel, deliberately pausing in the middle to test how little pressure from his touch it takes to make you react, then dragging them slowly down like he’s tracing a river on a map. Down over the start of your skirt – your breath hitching, a shiver, the muscles of your lower stomach twitching – down the middle of the burgundy fabric, over the mound of your core – he doesn’t press, just graces the fabric with his calloused fingertips, making you buck into his touch in desperate want and need. He keeps going to the hem – feeling the heat radiating from in between your thighs – and then his fingers fall briefly to empty space between your legs, before he pushes forward to claim flesh and warmth, slowly lifting the skirt up with the twist of his wrist as his fingers slip behind fabric and move upwards.
When he finally touches the skin of your bare thigh, Dean can’t help the ungodly and low groan that rolls into your mouth, pulling your bottom lip in between his teeth to suck it. Your chest rises and falls with a stuttering heavy weight, breathing sharp and ragged.
He shifts his left knee to sit in between your legs to keep them apart, pressing against the inner side of your right thigh. He’ll let you use your thighs to squeeze him later when you ride him.
The sides of his fingertips and fingernails stroke up the flesh of your inner left thigh, and you’re just so soft and warm.
He should just drop to his knees and absolutely ruin you with his tongue and mouth.
Ruin you for anybody else.
As Dean’s hand continues up, he feels something wet and sticky against his touch. Realisation that it’s your slick dripping down from your cunt sends a hot bolt of pure and unforgiving need straight to his stomach and groin.
Against your lips, eyes shut in dark delirium and rapture, he says your name in awe, “sweetheart, already this wet just from–”
“You can’t talk, Winchester,” you interject with a smug huff. There’s that witty bite of yours that he loves.
And you’re 100% fucking right.
Your words are like oxygen to the fires blazing in his body. A slow, dangerous smile spreads across Dean’s face – his heart surging – and then his mouth is back on yours, kissing you in raw hunger. Almost animalistic.
His long fingers will slip higher, and when he reaches the soft crease between your thigh and pussy, he’ll discover you are, in fact, not wearing any underwear. His face pulls away from yours, just a few inches, and his gaze snaps to where his hand is hidden, a brief impasse of shock, before his eyes return to your glinting ones. Dean will quirk his eyebrows, a dark and predatory smirk breaking.
So he wasn’t imagining it.
His index and middle fingers drift across your heat, and he can feel how puffy and soaked your slit is as your smeared arousal coats his fingertips. Dean’s mouth is watering.
He won’t dip in between your slit – not yet – instead running his calloused fingertips along the outside curves, circling up to where your clit is – but still not touching where he knows you want him most – and sliding along to the other side of your swollen lips. Your fingernails dig sharply into his scalp and the skin and muscle of his neck. Your hips jerking. For his touch.
Oh you’re so beautifully desperate for him. And Dean, even with The Mark, isn’t mean (he is, just not to you) – so he hums with deep indulgence as he slips over your folds – but still with a little teasingly slow shift to really draw you into him – burning fingers sitting right where your dripping entrance is, before he dips in between your puffy lips to collect more of your slick and drag his fingers up to your clit.
Your breath cracks loudly. You stop kissing him; hot, laboured panting replacing the movements of your mouth, fanning Dean’s lips and nose. Your lashes flutter twice, then your black eyes almost snap back up to his. Locked. He can feel your legs twitch, a whole-body shudder, fingers lingering on your pulsing clit.
Dean wears a lazy grin, his forehead dropping to yours with his eyelids hanging low as he watches you, devours your reaction.
The hold his left hand has on your jaw is looser, now. Tender but still with a firm possessive touch.
He circles your clit once, twice, kissing you on the high of your right cheek, chaste but lovingly, then kisses your left one with the same affection. Dean’s gaze returns to yours, burning electricity sparking, and he’ll slide his index and middle fingers back down to your soaked entrance. Then he pushes in.
And the sound that spills from your mouth into Dean’s is a sin.
He begins to pump, slowly, into your heat, just to his mid knuckles, and the wet squelching of his thick fingers sliding against your walls each time he moves in and out of you is already lewd.
“Oh my god...” you moan, your voice failing on the last syllable. Your head lulls back to hit the wooden door. Your hips buck, warm thighs tensing and pushing Dean’s right hand against his knee still pinning you open.
“Yeah, pretty girl?” he hums, his mouth moving down to your neck, sucking and licking at your skin like greedy worship, “Makin’ you feel good, aren’t I?”
And he could almost cum just from the way you nod, frantic, brows in the most beautiful scrunch, “My fingers never feel this good, Dean.”
His hips roll hungrily into yours and stay firmly pressed against you. His face moves back up to kiss you hard, lips meeting with a bruising force, and he thrusts his fingers deeper, to the base knuckles of his hand, into you to reach that deliciously hot and gooey spot deep inside you that makes your knees falter. He chuckles low against your lips at the whorish moan you push into his mouth.
Dean detaches his mouth from yours again, shifting back just enough so that he can look down at you and watch the pleasure building on your face.
He wants to hear how you make yourself feel good, what spots make you moan the loudest, how many times you can make yourself cum.
“You touch yourself, baby?”, he drawls. Your top front teeth are just visible as they bite hard into your bottom lip.
A wrecked mmmhhm is all you can muster.
Dean’ll go to ask what you think about, fantasise about, because whilst he wants to – needs to make sure he makes you feel fucking amazing and blows your mind, he’s also secretly hoping that he already has a special spot in your thoughts – like he’s a photo framed and hung on the wall of your mind you fondly pass every day. He’d certainly carved out a space for you – a big one.
But you’re already a step ahead of him.
“But I always imagine it’s you touching me...your fingers inside me,” you simper, eyelids hung low but staring up at him with that sexy grin again. The sound that leaves Dean’s chest is fucking feral.
Dean’s mouth latches back onto yours, carnal and sloppy. His long fingers are pumping and curling with utter precision and devoted desire, the palm of his hand grinding into your clit with each thrust into your cunt. He can feel you clench around and suck them in as he rubs against your soft, wet walls. Still buried in his hair, your left hand is tightly gripping him, flexing almost in tandem with every thrust of Dean’s fingers. You’re struggling to kiss him back, trying so hard to match his lips and tongue, but you’re too caught up in ecstasy.
Choked gasps swim through the air of your bedroom. Thick with desire. Your hot and frantic panting heats Dean’s mouth, and he swallows every single one of them with pride. A deeply smug and satisfied curve definitely on his lips pressed against yours.
Your right hand drops from its place on his neck to grope at your right breast, squeezing and kneading it, and Dean and The Mark could scream; you’re enjoying this. Really enjoying this. He’s making you feel so good that you have to touch yourself.
Dean knows the pressure must be building in your stomach, that you’re close to cumming, because your pussy is pulsing and gripping him tighter and tighter. He can feel your warm and sticky slick running down his long fingers, pooling in his soaked palm with growing obscenity in sound and sensation every time he pumps into you.
“Good girl, baby,” he purrs, his big left hand sliding down from your jaw to layer and grip your smaller hand squeezing your breast, his face shifting so that his lips sit next to your right ear. His stubble will scratch against the soft, flushed skin of your jaw and cheek, making you whine.
Dean’s still pressed hard against your body, and when you start wantonly rolling into him to meet his hand, he realises he had somehow forgotten about his cock, swollen and stiffly erect, and prodding incessantly at your hip through his ruined briefs, jeans still wide open.
He licks your ear, possessive, keeping his mouth open as he breathes heavy and sultry into you, “Look how responsive you are to me.” Your choked gasps are growing quieter as you keep sucking in air, not breathing out, and Dean thinks you’re about to cum.
As the first wave hits you, your whole body tenses. Dean makes sure to immediately pull his head back to watch you, his lips ghosting yours and trading your air, because he cannot fucking miss this. When the peak finally washes over you, he’s awed and shamelessly gluttonous, committing to memory the way your eyes roll helplessly to the back of your head, only little bits of white visible as your jaw falls blissfully slack and a long, high-pitch moan shatters.
He needs to make you make that sound again.
And pull out all your others, too.
His own helpless groan responding to you slips from his mouth as your body arches off the door, pushing the back of your right hand and chest into Dean’s as your body starts vibrating, your walls clenching and spasming around his fingers still pumping and curling fast into your heat while his palm rubs your clit with primal need to keep you high.
The whole scene is art. And your beautiful face, with your sweet, warm noises and moving body go straight to Dean’s head, chest, fingers, and toes. And dick.
“That’s it,” he cooes sinister and low, deliberately pausing his words for a beat after he says your name, “give it all to me.”
Dean knows from the...long...list of women he’s fucked that they love to hear him say their name during sex with him – he never really understood why – but he realises at that exact finite moment why, and that he’s exactly like them; because he has to hear you moan his name.
He slows the thrusting of his middle and index fingers in and out of you to guide you gently down, delicate kisses placed on your forehead and rosy cheeks, and your soft little whimpers land like a light summer rain at twilight, making everything around you and him glow and blur at the edges with a quiet warmth.
When your eyelids drift back and fully open, Dean stills entirely – save for his slightly choppy breathing – and he can see that your eyes are a little glassy now, but the dark shade of lust and desire for you to have him is still humming.
And then, like a faint halo, there’s a ring cradling that need for him that Dean thinks (and really fucking hopes) is love.
Should I say something now?, he thinks.
His left hand finds a new place, sliding down along your arm to rest on your waist, grabbing carefully, thumb pressed to the front of your frame whilst his fingers sit measuredly behind the curve.
Your arms move to twine loosely and hang over his shoulders, and you tilt your chin up, a little to the side, to capture Dean’s lips in a tender, unhurried kiss. He can’t help but smile into it – a genuine, proper smile – and he can feel you echo him.
He’s been very lucky tonight.
Correction; he will be very lucky tonight.
Dean suddenly becomes aware of just how loud his heart is beating, still a little fast, but more steady. Full and warm. He knows it’s because of you.
He wants to hold your face with his right hand, but he’s still inside you.
“Gonna take my fingers out now, sweetheart.” He mumbles against you before leaving your mouth to kiss the tip of your nose. “That okay?”
You nod, eyes closed again and jaw shifting to chase and keep his lips on yours. When he fully slips his fingers out of you, a small whimper sounds, your mouth faltering briefly against his, brows lightly creasing.
Dean immediately misses your heat.
He can feel the way his two fingers stick together, coated in your warm, milky arousal for him, and he has to bring his right hand up to his face so that he can see it. Revel in it.
He shifts back a little, just so he can study his soaked fingers and palm, and when you try to pull him back in because you have to keep kissing him, he presses his hips firmly into yours to pin you against the door and leans back. You pout, huffing at the space Dean’s created as your arms still wrapped over and around his back extend so that your fingers are only just interlinked at his nape.
His right arm moves in between your bodies, just below his jaw so that you can both look at his fingers. And fuck.
He is glistening. Your slick clings to him as it runs slowly down to his palm. He’s fucking mesmerised, eyes wide and mouth parted, twisting his wrist to watch the light from your lamp catch your arousal. When he separates his fingers, an obscene, long, wet line of slick connects his index and middle fingers. The Mark pulses hot and violently and in primal satisfaction, building along his forearm, rippling up to his hand and bicep.
A smooth breathy chuckle rises from his chest, “Jesus,” he says with your name.
Your right hand moves up the back of his neck to thread in his hair, tugging gently, “What can I say, Dean Winchester”, your left hand slides to his jaw, sparking something low and dangerous in his heart and stomach as your soft and warm palm rubs against his stubble, your thumb running back and forth – languidly yet certain – over his bottom lip, “you get me really fucking wet.”
He’ll look down at you, a little stunned, but with the biggest, smitten grin on his face. And you’re looking up at him, chin tilted in a proud, almost challenging way because you know you got him good with that.
There’s a pulse. A beat. No one blinks.
The air is humming. Heavy and pulling like just before a summer thunderstorm. Your face says it all: You’re move, Dean.
Okay, sweetheart. Let’s play.
Without breaking eye-contact, he slowly raises his right hand to his face, gliding deliberately over your thumb still grazing his swollen lips, and pushes his slick-covered fingers into his mouth.
The instant head rush nearly makes him pass out.
Rich heat consumes him entirely, heady coursing from his mouth through his nose and down his throat, saliva pooling as a taste so unequivocally you melts across and into his tongue with each swirl and suck of his fingers. It’s sweet. Fuck, you’re sweet. It’s like he’s breathing in your underwear again – but it’s so much better than that night. Stronger. Even more drunkening.
And he could almost blow his load right then and there. He’s sure you can probably tell that, too, by the absolute wrecked noise he makes.
But Dean manages to hold himself back – together – keeps his eyes open. Just. Because he needs to see your reaction for what he’s done and is about to say.
So he swallows you down, and his eyes refocus on you; your face, your body, your breathing, carefully tracking every single moment and shift and movement with that particular gaze he wears on a hunt – calculating, dark, unwavering, and completely patient. And you’re already watching him, especially the way his lips are wrapped around his glossy middle and index fingers, just a little transfixed.
Dean (almost reluctantly) pulls his fingers out of his mouth with a lewd smack, dragging the wetness from both you and him down your thumb, now stilled just below his lower lip. “God, sweetheart, d’you know how good you taste?”, he asks, voice rough but laced with guile.
The smart look you were holding fizzles with a catch in your throat, mouth lightly gaping. And you blush. That beautiful pink tinge across your cheeks that makes his heart swell and constrict, that he would die for because he knows it means he got you good. He can see the shift in your legs as you squirm, then try to press your thighs together despite his knee still between them, trying to find some friction. And your eyes that are unable to stay fixed, moving focus between his fingers and mouth and eyes and back? Almost entirely dilated black, again – engulfed by hunger for him – like a cat about to pounce, ready to bite and tear him apart. Exactly how he wants it. Exactly how he wants you.
You don’t let him be cocky for long, though – you never do, if you can help it – playing your next move almost straight away.
Leaving his face, your left hand grabs his right, wrapping around as much of his palm as you possibly can, and he has just enough time to blink only once before you slip the two fingers he’d just had in his mouth past your lips and into your own mouth.
Your eyes roll back, lids deliberately fluttering with careful, sinful intent as you suck hard once, twice on his fingers – hard enough that he can feel a deep pull in his body towards yours, and a warm, sultry moan rumbles from you through his fingers, reverberating over his hand and up his arm. The Mark spasms.
But you don’t give Dean long enough to properly feel it as you pull his hand back, releasing his fingers from your wet and velvety mouth with a slippery pop. Your big eyes return to his, parted kiss-swollen lips shining from the seraphic mixture of yours and his spit, and a burning, unrepentant fervour set across your face that he knows means you know that he’s completely lost to you.
He definitely needs to put his fingers in your mouth again.
SO SORRY this has taken me so long to post. Shits and shenanigans. I think the next (and last) part is probably going to be my favourite for this mini series, so stay tuned!! <3
tag list for attiwicdiichy:
@noisyflowerking @youdontknowmethatwell @kelseaackles @yournaughtyandcutelittlegirl @rach5ive @spectralgalaxygauntlet @slavic-empress @spxideyver @thatonedindjarinfan @moonbakugo050 @logansdollxx @spookyysinsanity @retrobabe8-5 @aniresrene @imarealmermaid777 @k-d--h @swoopyloopy @laniluvsit @jazzz0 @honeyed-hazed @leopardprintlover89 @cndmdzc
