ptoma

and then the clothes you’ve just saved from this “monster” go missing again a measly day later. this time, they’re better hidden. in fact, they’re so well hidden that you still haven’t found them. 

this leads you to the second time that you notice something is up with your werewolf-shifting boyfriend; dean brings you on a hunt. and you know at this point that something has to be up because dean never brings you on hunts and that is simply because you’re not a hunter. 

it all goes wrong. you’re hunting something– a monster with a name you can’t pronounce and lore you can’t remember– and inevitably you end up hiding yourself away in some evergreen and leaving the guys to deal with it. it’s fine. it’s cool. you’re not dead, thank god, but when there’s a rustle from behind you and then a very noticeable presence that you can feel looming over you.. well. you wish you had tried to take a swing at the monster. 

but, even without turning around, you know the presence is none other than dean. except that it isn’t really dean because he’s not acting like dean. he’s quick, holding you firmly to his warm body as he breathing becomes unsteady and his pulse is like a hummingbird, all loud and fast, in your ears. you’re pretty sure you can feel his dick, hard and straining against his jeans, firm against your ass. no wonder your face heats up.

“just– just stay,” he pleads, his voice all strained like he’s in pain. you blink, staring into the darkness ahead of the both of you, tensing a little when you feel his sharp canines on your bare neck. “‘m needin’ you– fuck–” you want to turn around, to face the blood and the gore that’s probably pouring from his body right now, but you don’t. you can’t. dean’s holding onto you so tightly that you can’t move. you can only ask in short questions and a stern tone that he lets you go and does his job. 

he doesn’t let you go. 

so when you finally get him to back off, he sulks away from you for good. you only see him again when you all regroup (well, sam finds you cowered by the side of the impala– who knows how you made your way back, but you did) and he’s in wolf form. and then he refuses to revert from wolf form. 

it’s an awkward drive home. 

(safe to say that castiel was not impressed with having to sit with wolf-dean in the back. and that was only because sam feared that he would try to do.. unsavoury things to you in wolf form).

so, as soon as you can, you decide to confront dean. mainly because his behaviour isn’t just affecting you, but also everyone else at this point. and mainly because you’re not sure if this is a problem that warrants a trip to the hospital or not. 

you’re in your room. the room that you and dean share, together, with the king-size bed that takes up most of the space and your belongings basically everywhere. except for most of your clothes as they’re still missing. but nevertheless, it’s your guys’ space. 

and yet, it’s unnerving– how much space you’ve invaded, become a permanent part of the bunker, and then extended your invasion to the winchesters’ (and cas’) lives. how you’ve invaded dean’s space, and yet, he welcomes it with open arms and an open heart. that’s the unnerving part; how easy it was for him to let you in like that, like you’re the only person in the world who understands him like.. the way he is. that you’re the only person who can love him, just some broken, insane fool who is in love with a werewolf–

the door opens and dean enters. 

“‘m fine, sweetheart,” is what he says, like he can read your mind and know what you were going to ask, before you even have a chance to open your mouth. and you want to believe him, but his words come out like they’re frayed at the edges, all wearing away and old. it’s obvious in his tone and facial expression that he’s tired, that something is bothering him. gnawing away at his insides. and he won’t say anything until it’s too late because that’s just who dean is. “it’s nothin’.”

“oh, it’s nothing?” you echo. “well, i’m no genius, but i don’t think it can be ‘nothing’ when you’re suddenly bringing me on a hunt and then holding me like i might slip away and die if you let me go.”

he’s standing in the doorway still, one hand clenching and unclenching at his side like a spasm, and the other tight on the doorknob. as if he’s debating whether he should make a run or not. but he doesn’t and, whilst huffing and sighing a little, he begrudgingly makes his way into the room.

“what.”

you frown lightly at him. “oh, nothing. just that my boyfriend is acting like i was going to drop dead from a situation he put me in, and right now i’d prefer it if he could give me a proper answer than just some huffing and puffing.”

“‘m not– fucking–” dean stutters, ignoring you as he heads straight for the bed and practically throws himself onto it when he sits down. he’s clearly agitated. “it’s fuckin’ stupid, sweeheart, you don’t need to worry about it. it’s nothin–”

“if you tell me that ‘it’s nothing’ once more, winchester, i swear..” you trail off, crossing your arms over your chest and turning to face him. he’s got his head in his hands. even like this, he’s absolutely massive. “baby, you can talk to me, you know that.” you go over to him and get down onto your knees, hand on his thigh. he feels too warm. maybe you do need to get him to a hospital. 

there’s a pause of silence before dean finally gives you an answer.

“heat,” is all he says.

you almost do a double-take. “uh, what?” your question comes out all excited and breathy, instead of confused like you really are.

“it’s my– shit, this is so stupid– but the werewolf thing makes me go into.. a rut. like a fuckin’ animal,” dean explains, his head still in his hands. but, as if he can sense your confusion (and maybe slight intrigue– just maybe), he finally pulls himself away and looks up at you. he’s got that stupid grin on his face– the one he uses when he’s trying to be nonchalant, but really is (usually) trying to get into your panties– but you can see through it. deep down, whatever this “heat” thing is, it’s tearing him apart. “and– and usually there’s a spell, somethin’ rowena does to mask it all f’me. and f’you. but she’s, well, she’s fuck-knows where right now, and i’m sure as shit not havin’ sammy take a go at attemptin’ it..”

as dean explains.. this to you, you’re trying to take as much of it in as you can, but keep getting lost in the details. like living in the margins of a book and losing out on the important plots of it because nobody thinks to include you in them. then again, you can’t blame him; you know how hard it was for him to bring this up to you in the first place, so you know that he’s only doing this as there’s no other option. and you know that dean would never had wanted to keep you out of the loop on this– well, for as long as he could. and you also know that dean loves you and cares for you. he just keeps his secrets, no matter if they’re perverted or embarrassing, close to him because he thinks that he’s protecting you. this might as well be anything but.

and, sure, you’ve had pets before; cats and dogs (oh, and a series of pet fish that all died because you might’ve forgotten to feed them once or twice), so you’re familiar with the whole reproductive system and the thing– this.. heat– because your family would always forget to neuter them until a few “accidents” came along. you subconsciously shiver– just thinking about it, the heat, makes your stomach tense up and your brain go all fuzzy. but, wait– does that mean that’s going to fuck you until–

“be real nice if you could say somethin’,” dean’s voice, all hard and sharp, snaps through your thoughts, decimating them. you shake your head slightly, and then look up at him. and, if for good measure to attune for his sudden edge, he adds (tackily) on the end, “sweetheart.”

“oh, um– sorry. just.. it’s a lot to process.” you feel your face growing warm. “uh– what did you do, y’know, before to deal with..?”

“before? well, before i just used to tear through the bars and fuck whatever chick i could get my hands on. but then rowena started usin’ that spell on me, and now– now there’s you.” dean tears his eyes away from you for a second, and then comes back to you. your throat feels tight as you notice how his eyes seem so dark, so heightened with something hungry, primal, and all because of an itch he can’t scratch like he used to. because there’s you now. “i just– ‘m not puttin’ you in that position, sweetheart. ‘m just gonna have to do my best to–“ dean takes a deep breath in. “control myself.”

“iwanttohelp.”

once more, there’s a pause of silence before dean finally gives you an answer. but this time, 

“what?”

“i..” you start, taking his face into yours as he pulls you into his lap. you almost want to moan at how hard he is right now. “want to help you.”

“..no.”

you pout. “why not?”

“i– y’really need an explanation on that? no offense, sweetheart, but you cry when i accidentally bite you during sex, and you haven’t exactly got, uh, stamina.” to which your pout only gets sadder. “don’t even give me the face, ‘cause it ain’t gonna work on me tonight. ‘m not havin’ you get hurt ‘cause i can’t control myself.”

you turn your face away, choose to stare at the vacant spot where your favourite pair of jeans once was hanging out of the drawer that doesn’t shut right. they’re still gone, still somewhere in the bunker, and now you know why. 

dean clearly senses your discomfort for his discomfort, and he takes your face into his warm hands. they’re so much warmer than they should be– a blessing, really, considering how damn cold the bunker always is– and you feel yourself melt into his tenderness. 

“this is really stupid,” you mutter, your speech slightly muffled from how he holds you face, squishing your cheeks slightly. “even for you, winchester.”

“im gonna get through without your help.” dean states it like it’s something to be proud of. it’s really not. “you’ve just gotta sit back and watch, sweetheart. be that good girl you are f’me. you’re gonna see that i don’t need your sweet pussy wrapped around me–“

dean cuts himself off, grimacing. you free yourself from his large hands and look down to see his very obvious (very painful, you imagine) boner. 

you sigh. “it’s a bad idea, you know that.. right?”

it might be a bad idea. who knows. live and let learn– or so the saying goes. but you know dean and willpower doesn’t really exist in his vocabulary when it comes to things such as sex. 

but anyway. that night, he holds you so tightly as you sleep that you can already feel the heat practically radiating off of him. 

..this is a bad idea. 

when you awake, there’s a wolf in your bed. 

okay, cool. it’s not like you haven’t woken up to dean having shifted in the night– usually due to a nightmare– but knowing what you learnt last night, you can’t deny the slight pang of guilt in your stomach. to know that he’s already in so much that he’s decided to shift, just so he doesn’t have to deal with the discomfort of it as a human. 

he’s already whining, you realise, all soft and needy. but when you go to reach a hand out to him, stroke his soft fur, he raises his head. he’s glowering, even as a wolf, and low growl emits from his throat. you hesitate. he begrudgingly accepts the head pats. 

even with the early hours of the morning, you can not only feel the literal heat of his rut, but also the scent. whilst it’s not that strong, it’s still strong enough to permeate all your senses. it’s all rich and heavy; enough to basically taste in your mouth. you have to leave him curled up and whining on the bed because it’s too much for you.

time passes, and it’s just past six in the evening when dean finally finds you– alone– in the kitchen. he’s back to looking more like dean; less fur, more scowl. seriously. he looks as if someone took a hit at baby, or you, really. 

“you good?” you ask him. however, he doesn’t respond– just keeps on scowling, practically storming over to you and lifting you up and onto the counter. “i– dean–”

“it’s not me, it’s you,” he interjects, and you almost laugh at how ridiculous that sounds coming from him, like this is a bad break-up and not his werewolf hormones going haywire. you’re about to tell him as such, but he’s already prying open your legs and ripping your panties down. it was an unfortunate time to not be wearing anything under your oversized hoodie. “jus’ gotta do– do this and i’ll be all good, sweetheart.”

it’s another bad idea. 

though, you don’t complain. you can’t complain, actually, not when dean’s got his head buried between your thighs and eating you out like a starved man. the plate you were going to use falls off of the counter from how aggressive he’s being, and you’re grasping onto whatever you can get your hands on for dear life– his hair, the edge of the counter. in fact, you’re tugging and pulling at his hair, almost in tears from how fucking good he is at this, whimpering when he growls and groans. 

you’re a mess by the time you cum (well, for the third time, that is), your arms are so weak as you try to keep yourself up. and it’s then that you resolve to pushing dean’s head away, unable to take anymore. but he stays between your thighs, looking up at you. 

“was it good?” he asks, tone so gritty that it’s like wet sand, his words getting clumped together in your brain (along with all the other perverted things he says to you). “was it good?”

you don’t have the energy to give him an answer, so you nod silently, panting. this seems to be an acceptable answer. 

as dean steps back to grab your panties from.. wherever he threw them to (it was into the sink, making them wetter than they already were), you can see a small, dark stain on the front of his sweats. you bite your lip, knowing exactly what it is. and it takes a lot in you to not tell him to just fuck you, right here and right now, just to alleviate some of his pain. even if it’s just a little bit. 

“dean– no– dean, i swear to god– give it– dean!”

you know you’re dealing more than you can handle on the fourth day, when dean has shifted again as has got you in a tug-of-war for your last bra. you know he’s taking it to wherever he’s stored your other clothes (and also where he goes during the day, it seems, considering you’ve not seen him at all for the past 36 hours or so), but this is your last one. if he won’t give the others back until his rut is over, you can live with that. it’s just that you need this one.

he’s pushing his paws into the plush bedding, teeth clamped tight around one of the cups. he’s biting just as much as you’re pulling. and at this rate, one of you needs to let go before there are any casualties. 

(and by casualties, those are your last– and best– bra being torn or ripped to shreds).

dean snarls, his teeth bared and wet with saliva as he jerks his head to the side. you gasp as you almost lose your footing, your socks sliding against the bare floor. your knees meet the edge of the bed, and you use this as a barrier of sorts to keep yourself upright as you pull once more. harder. harsher. anything to save your damn bra. 

however, it’s a losing fight- for you. in the end, dean makes a pained noise, and you quickly drop the strap you’ve been grasping onto, rushing to him. it’s all a ruse, of course; abusing your own sensitivities towards him in his current state, just so he could take your bra away from you. if he were human right now, you’d scold him (and in turn, he’d probably throw you into the bed, say something like “yeah, but you always look better without ‘em? sweetheart.. without anything,” and then fuck you silly). 

but watching as he settles onto the sheets with the bra between his big paws, carefully sniffing it like it’s an explosive, your irritation melts away. you can’t even remember why you were upset in the first place. 

(but you will remember. dean decides, once the rut is over, that it must become his duty to remind you of this tug-of-war he forced you into, and that more should happen in the future).

sensing something in the open doorway, you practically jump when you turn around and find cas standing there. but before you can say anything, dean’s already off the bed and stalking towards him, growling.

castiel blinks at the wolf-form of his best friend, and then looks back at you. “i don’t think it’s wise to be playing with dean when he is like this. he is highly.. suggestive.”

“great advice, cas,” you reply, smiling awkwardly as dean’s growling gets louder and louder. you bite back a sigh, knowing that this is all just animal intuition– with dean’s protective instincts currently heightened and clearly telling him that castiel is a threat to you. “and you–” you look sharply down at wolf-dean, who just stares up at you like he’s done nothing wrong. “stop that. cas is your friend.”

dean takes no notice of this.

you look back at castiel. “uh– anything else you needed?”

castiel shifts on the spot. “sam and i.. we found your missing belongings.” and you must have a very elated expression or something, because castiel is suddenly talking again before you can ask where they all are. “it’s just that they’ve been.. used.” to which he blanches at dean, who has gone back to being interested in your bra. “we think it’s something for the two of you to discuss.”

this time, you do sigh. “thanks, cas,” you tell him, nodding slightly as he turns and leaves the room. part of you wants to laugh– half because despite how long you’ve known castiel, he still treats you like a stranger, and half because your stuff is now no longer missing. it’s just used. you can already guess what that means.

suddenly, dean’s back at your side, whining again and pawing at your thigh. you look down at him, look down at those needy, forlorn eyes. smiling weakly, you stroke his head. he leans into your touch. 

but you know what you have to do. 

“dean, i need you to take me to my stuff.” and when he doesn’t comply– opting to yelp at you instead, like you stood on his tail or something– you continue, with a stern voice, “dean, seriously. i know this week is really hard for you, but i need my clothes. and i can’t wear yours because i know what that does to you– that definitely won’t help you, considering you won’t let me do anything.”

begrudgingly, wolf-dean gets up and starts walking to the door. he doesn’t look back once. silently, you follow him throughout the bunker to the dungeon– of all fucking places. of course, it’s the one place that dean has banned you from entering. ever.

“clever bastard,” you mutter. even as a wolf, you can tell dean’s got that shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

he stands close-by to you as you collect your stuff from the various corners of the cold room that he’s strategically placed it all; the coldest and darkest areas of the room, as if even the thought of getting caught (again) with your stuff is the biggest sin of them all. as if he needed to keep this a secret, one big enough that he’d spend all week in the dungeon, keeping himself warm and safe with your clothes. 

however, as you gather everything in your arms, you wrinkle your nose. there’s an odd scent, you notice, and you can’t work out where it’s coming from. it’s not the stale stench of blood, sinew and death that lingers in here– as well as the imagined.. situations that sam and dean have probably been a part of when in here– and it’s not the scent of the bitter coldness that permeates your bones. 

though cold doesn’t really have a scent, it does here. it’s like the blood and sinew; all stale and thick, like coagulated blood that you can’t cough up. getting trapped in your throat and travelling down, down into your body and festering there. 

suddenly, you want to get out of here. 

but then, as you head for the door with dean whimpering– as if he can sense your sudden disturbance– and close on your heels, you realise what that scent is. 

because you’re holding that scent. and you wince. your clothes all smell of dean and.. cum.

you’re going to have to heavily sanitise all of your clothes before wearing them again. especially your bras and panties.

you know this idea of dean’s is really bad when you find yourself in his lap on day five, swallowing your moans and allowing vocal protests to become perverted thoughts as his hands roam your body.

this has been the worst day so far. he hasn’t left you alone, not even for a second. and, sure, you could just focus on the fact that this is the first day all week that he hasn’t shifted, but the cons are outweighing the pros– big time. 

he’s been glued to your side all day, never letting you out of his sight. his hands have either been on your body in some way, or simply holding your hand. his eyes have been persistently on you every second of every minute, watching you like a hawk in case you make a run for it or something. and any time you can have alone (dean had the courtesy to allow you to get dressed privately), he’s been right outside the door. so, yeah, it was a surprise you were allowed to go to the bathroom on your own. 

but aside from that, you know that this is the worst day, because dean refuses to go on a hunt with sam and castiel. he’s never done that, not even when you had the flu that time and he was treating you like you were going to die right then and there. 

you’re pulled from your wandering, rather obtrusive, thoughts, when dean’s mouth is suddenly on your chest, his tongue hot on your right breast. you’ve been so lost in your own head that you never noticed how roughly he yanked your top off of you, how hastily he undid your bra, never once fumbling. everything he does– just like hunting– is clean, precise. a lost art.

“dean, please–” you gasp, pushing your chest harder against his mouth when his teeth sink into your flesh. for someone so agitated, he’s surprisingly gentle. firm. however, there’s also some resistant in the action, hesitancy as if he’s afraid to hurt you. and you can tell this is the case when he keeps his teeth in your skin, breathing so hard that you swear he might start to hyperventilate. though his hands still roam your body, it’s nothing but unsettling. “dean?”

like something coming undone in his brain, he suddenly releases your breast from his mouth, looking right at you. his eyes are all blown-out, heady, as he goes in to attack your mouth again. “gotta have you,” he groans against your lips, teeth nipping them. “gotta have you– can’t do it– need you so bad, sweetheart–”

“i know, i know,” you reply, managing to pull him away from you long enough to take his face into your hands. he’s so warm, warmer than he’s been all week, and panting like a wild dog. “i know you need me, dean, but you said–”

“mm, no– fuck what i said. don’t care anymore.” he shakes his head, trying to break away from you and make-out with you again, but you don’t let him. “sweetheart, please, you don’t get it–”

“thought you didn’t need help,” is your interjection. but it leaves your mouth in a tone that leaks uncertainty; doubt spreading into each syllable like you can’t quite believe him. because you don’t. you haven’t believed him this entire week.

“i– fuck it. ‘m asking you– please– i need you to do somethin’ f’me, just this once,” dean begs. like, actually begs. if you weren’t in his lap, you wouldn’t be shocked if he got down on his knees and begged. “or else i’m gonna do somethin’ we both regret.”

you bite your lip. you want to help, obviously, but you don’t know how. you’re not exactly wanting to have sex with him– it feels like you’re taking advantage of him, and, if truth be told, having sex with someone so.. monstrous comes with its own pain; you can’t imagine how he’ll be when he’s in rut– but it’s blatantly clear that he needs some form of sexual relief. lord knows his hands have probably done most of the heavy lifting this week.

and so, you start undoing his jeans and belt (keeping the latter close to you), he’s already so hard beneath his underwear that you’re starting to think that a measly blowjob won’t do much. but, if he won’t fuck you– and you won’t hesitantly let him fuck you– then this will have to do. for now.

you settle yourself on the hard flooring of the bedroom, trying to keep your breathing steady as he partially rips his underwear off to free his cock. and, inevitably, you lose your composure when you see it. sure, you’ve seen his cock a thousand times before, but not like this. it’s thick and veiny, the fat tip already leaking the base has also swelled, but you don’t even want to ask what that’s about right now. though, from years of reading vulgar fanfiction about monsters and whatnot, you’re pretty sure it’s what all internet writers call the knot. you feel ashamed at how wet you get from it. 

and you swear it’s bigger. way bigger than usual.

“uh– hands,” you manage to tell him, to which he tilts his head to the side in confusion. “i know what you’re like when i suck you off. i’m not risking anything when you’re like.. this.”

dean’s taught you before how to tie a knot– a good one, that is. as a ‘just in case’ sort of thing, like if you were to find yourself up against a pack of vampires and you took them all out. you know, the typical things. 

but this time, it’s anything but typical. 

you take his belt from beside him, tightening it around his wrists to keep him restrained. he’s always so touchy-feely when you give him head– maybe a little more brutish than needed– and you’ve never complained about it, but you’re still getting used to this side of him. if dean doesn’t want your help, then this is your shitty alternative. and precaution.

by the time you’re taking his cock into your mouth, he’s bucking his hips forward eagerly, restrained hands inching towards your hair. he’s clearly waiting for the second he feels your tongue on him to haphazardly grab you, keep you on his cock until he’s satisfied.

it’s almost instant that you realise you’re right; he is bigger. he basically takes up all the space in your mouth, and that’s before you can relax your throat and take him all the way. you assume he’s about halfway in, maybe, and you can tell you’re going to struggle with this. persevering, you try to focus on dean’s rather erratic, heavy breathing. 

but he’s already pushing your head further and further forward into his lap, the fat tip of his cock pressing up against the back of your throat. you gag, try to pull back out of reflex, but dean keeps you there. even with his hands restrained, he still finds a way to keep your mouth on his cock. 

“fuck, sweetheart– gonna fuckin’ kill a man, know that?” dean grunts, hands entangled in your hair and dragging your head back and forth over his cock. you try to give him some smart-ass reply, but it comes out all garbled and muffled around him. “shh, don’t– fuck– don’t fuckin’ talk. just keep doin’ what you’re doin’ f’me, okay? be a good girl now, that’s it..”

and so, you do. you be the good girl that dean wants you to be.

you work his cock, eventually managing to get all of him into your mouth. it feels like he’s everywhere in your mouth, as you attempt to swallow around the sheer girth of it all, moaning a little when you feel him pulse on your tongue. you’re also so close to him that your nose is practically nestled in his pubes, and you can’t help but breathe him in. he’s all intoxicating and musky, the slight hint of salt-laced sweat and cum that ends up clinging to your lips like a perverse aftertaste. 

all in all, it’s uncomfortable, more than enough to get you to gag here and there, but you’re determined to make this work. you’re determined to please dean– fuck anything else.

but it’s when your teeth accidentally graze against the knot that he cums. dean grabs your hair so tightly that you whimper around him, tears pricking in your eyes (though, that may just be pent-up, well, agony from this monstrous blow-job), but your noise is drowned out entirely by his groan. in fact, it’s more of a growl than a groan; all animalistic and feral, its urgency infectious and the pay-off delicious. said pay-off is cum, naturally.

you have to pull yourself away from his fat cock a little bit in order to swallow his cum, growing hot and heavy as you feel it go down your throat and settle in your stomach. however, some of it drips from the corners of your mouth and collects with the spit and saliva that’s made a mess on your bare tits. oh– and you’re pretty sure dean’s talking to you (or at you), but you’re stuck in some trance right now, that cum that’s settled in you feeling like poison, all bitter and painful. 

it’s all to do with the fact that he’s still as hard as he was before. you’ve done fuck-all, it seems.

you try not to give into the shame that comes with failure, but you can’t help it. defeated, you rest your cheek against dean’s thigh, hoping he won’t see the pathetic tears that definitely begin to slowly, silently, fall from your eyes.

“fuckin’ sight for sore eyes, sweetheart,” dean tells you, still with his hands in your hair. but now, he’s stroking your hair tenderly, fingers kind against your scalp after he abused it. it’s nice, and yet, it’s wrong. this should be the other way around; you should be comforting and caring for him. and when you start to cry harder, mumbling something incoherent about disappointing him and not helping him, dean’s tone gets so soft as he (again) comforts you. “oh, my poor girl. my sweet baby. shall we get you cleaned up, yeah? want me to run you a bath?”

you’d be a fool to say no to that.

it’s day six when dean really cracks. like, really cracks.

maybe it was you waking up with your body curled tight into his because the bunker was really cold and he’s really hot at the moment; and you just wanted to stay warm, not thinking that he’d most definitely get a boner from the intimacy. or maybe it was sam talking about his date with eileen last night, and castiel getting way too personal with his questions that were so heavily sexual in nature, leading to dean managing to crack his favourite mug in his hands because he’s been so pent-up. 

or maybe he’s at the point where he really can’t do this anymore, and he’s gone to find rowena himself for this spell, because you don’t see him for the rest of the day.

but you do find him in the afternoon in the bedroom, face buried in your pillow with your panties (coincidentally, the ones you put in the laundry just last night) next to him on the bed. they’re clearly wet. they reek of heat and cum. 

at first, you linger in the doorway. you feel like you’ve walked in on something you shouldn’t be a part of. and then, once you slowly, surely, begin to get over it, you make your way over to the bed. hesitantly, of course, because you’re yet to know why dean is lying face-down. like he’s been murdered by your panties or something.  

however, you must make a false step– perhaps too much noise, despite only having socks on– as dean suddenly snaps his head up. he’s immediately glaring at you, for disturbing whatever.. this is, hand making a move to grab your panties but apprehensively hovering above them. he’s challenging you to take them, to prove that he’s not as strong as you think he is. 

you don’t care about any of that. about any of dean’s weird, slightly toxic beliefs about what a man should be– much less a werewolf– or about what type of man you need. you just want him to be okay. and torturing himself like this isn’t helpful, nor healthy. 

for the first time all week, there’s an underlying feeling of fear that suddenly runs through you. like cold water pumped directly into your veins, you go frozen in place as dean continues to glare at you. his demeanour has changed drastically. all week, he’s been trying to maintain some dignity, to look as unbothered (and slightly– a lot pathetic) in your presence. but it’s all been an act. always has. 

and now, he’s sitting up. his hands are planted firmly on the sheets, his eyes dark as he stares at you like a predator staring down its prey. you think you’ve read about this before– animals trying to show dominance by maintaining serious eye contact like this, but you don’t have the strength, nor the dominance in you, to do it. 

you blink uncomfortably. “dean,” you start. his name practically flops from your mouth; all sense of willpower gone, and replaced with such a tone of weakness that it’s like paper all crumpled and frayed. “please, let me help you.”

dean doesn’t say anything. instead, he gets up from the bed, and you realise that he’s naked. well, not naked-naked, but his cock is out, all angry, and red, and swollen with the need to fuck something, to fuck you, and your pulse beneath your skin is going absolutely insane right now. you fear your heart might burst from your chest and run away.

still, you avert your eyes as soon as you notice that he’s bare– a mistake you’ll later regret, but right now, you’re not sure what else you’re meant to do. it’s like this is some fairy tale you read as a kid, and the unsuspecting, slightly naïve heroine is about to get consumed by the big, bad wolf. and shielding yourself from the fact that is cock is out and he looks ready to kill you will be enough to save you. 

as he makes his way over to you, the strong scent of his heat overpowers everything else. you can’t smell the faint scent of booze that always follows him around, or the scent of that bodywash you bought him for his birthday that he uses everyday. all of it, it’s his heat. thick and permeating, so strong that it’s making your cunt ache for him. 

“how bad have you been wantin’ it, hm? ‘cause from where i’m standin’, sweetheart, you’ve not been much of a good girl whilst i’m here, fuckin’ suffering my ass off f’you.” you have no idea what he’s talking about. not really. but he’s standing over you now, backing you into the dresser. “‘s that what you’ve been waitin’ for all week? waitin’ f’me to snap and fuck you senseless? is that it, huh? want the big, bad wolf to ruin that sweet pussy of yours?”

you feel your face burn. “i– dean, baby, i don’t– what are you talking about–”

“c’mon, now.. don’t play stupid,” he interjects. “you know exactly what you’ve been doini without me..” carefully and methodically, he’s reaching behind you, pulling something out from the back of the top drawer. you want to die right then and there when you see what it is.

it’s your dildo. fresh batteries and all.

“been sortin’ yourself out, have you?” dean’s so close to you right now that you can feel his hard cock up against your thigh. “see, ‘m thinkin’ we should play a little game– just you and me. i wanna know what you’ve been doin’ this week ‘cause i wouldn’t fuck you.”

you bite your tongue. you swallow your words– the ones that would come out dripping with neediness and pathetic composure– silently taking the toy with shaking hands. it’s big. of course not as big as dean, and just thick enough to keep you satiated. for a little while, anyway.

dean gives you two commands. “strip; get on the bed.”

needlessly, you oblige. 

you wait there, with legs spread and a mouth full of blood, as dean situates himself between your legs. he’s got the toy in one hand, the other teasing your clit. “jus’ warmin’ you up,” he mutters, face unreadable. you nod, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. “gonna make sure she’s nice and stretched out f’me ‘fore i do anythin’ to her, got it?”

again, you nod. or try to nod, but don’t. and that’s because he’s suddenly pushing the toy into you, burying it as deep as he possibly can. you cry out at the unexpectedness, clenching tightly around it, doing your best to do what dean wanted– for you to be good– but already find yourself struggling.

and this must show in how you look to him, because he’s using his free hand to force your legs to stay apart, almost to a painful extent. “jesus, sweetheart. barely got the thing in you and you’re cryin’. don’t know how you’re gonna take me if you’re whimperin’ like this already.”

you choke out between little sobs, “no, i can– i can do it. please, dean, i can do it–” but you cut yourself off as he pushes the dildo back into you, purposefully angling it so it hits one of your sweet spots. you swear– if you weren’t holding back right now, you’d cum just from that alone. but you don’t. you’re eager to ride this out. 

dean keeps fucking the toy into you, alternating between rubbing rough circles on your clit and pumping himself. the sight of him doing that, along with the perverse knowledge of knowing what he’s been doing to your panties and clothes all week, brings you to the brink of orgasm. watching him do it feels wrong, dirty and sinful, and yet you can’t stop. he grunts your name every now and then, letting it fall from his lips in broken, strained syllables, before going back to circling your clit, pre-cum on his fingers; the toy still goes in and out of you, the squelching audible, just a bit over dean’s groaning. but before you can go falling off said orgasm brink, he’s taking the toy out of you entirely.

and he’s getting on top of you. 

dean’s eyes have narrowed, his mouth slightly ajar and canines looking sharp and wet. one of his large hands has both of your wrists pinned above your head as he presses himself up against your dripping cunt. you breathe in. you’re waiting for the moment that you feel it, feel the slight burn of him pushing in, burying himself right up to your cervix because he loves being so close to you. though, that was the old excuse. you’re not sure what he’ll say now, what bullshit excuse he’ll give you for practically rearranging your insides. 

he’s holding tightly onto your hip as he shoves himself in, his eyes piercing into yours like caught prey– like he needs you to know that because you didn’t listen to him, that you weren’t a good girl, that you didn’t do what he wanted this week, this is your execution. 

and you only call it that, an execution, because you’re not sure what else this is. or if you’ll even live. 

“been a fuckin’ mess f’you all week, sweetheart.” dean lets out a strained, dark laugh as he begins to pull back, before slamming himself deep into you again. you can’t help but to cry out loudly, pulling against the way he holds your wrists and arching your back off of the bed. your breathing goes from still to frantic. “all. fuckin’. week. and you– you have fun without me?”

as he pulls back again, you decided to get a few (incoherent) words in. “but– dean– you didn’t want my help–”

“maybe i didn’t. maybe i did,” he snarls, thrusting into you again, just as hard and deep as before, groaning when you involuntarily clench around him. with him in place, you can feel how violently he pulses against your walls, feel the fat knot bump up against your entrance. if it hurts to take him now, you’re not sure how that will feel in you. “fuck– jus’ so good at follwin’ my orders, aren’t you? like a good little soldier, and all f’me–” he cuts himself off as he licks a fat stripe up the centre of your throat, and across one side of your jawline. he’s still fucking into you as he continues to shame you– all for following his orders– and every now and then his knot gets dangerously close to slipping into your gaping hole. “god, you’re even good when you’re under me like this, not able to go anywhere. ‘s that what you want, baby, wanna stay under me for good, takin’ my orders like a good girl?”

you nod pathetically, not actually taking in anything he’s saying. you pick up on certain words and phrases– how he wants you “under me for good,” and how you’re a “good girl”– but aside from that, you’re too busy, too cockdrunk to focus on anything except the way he fills your tight cunt, the fat tip of his cock kissing up against your cervix. 

you cry out again when his nails dig into the soft skin of your wrists, even though your arms feel slightly numb from lack of blood pressure. there’s the heavy scent of blood in the air, creating a putrid concoction of his heat, salt-laced sweat and your arousal. it’s disgusting, so intrusive that you swear with each gasp you take that you can taste it, drink it in like strong perfume, and you’re sure that you’re getting high off of it. you crave it. 

“jus’ so fuckin’ good f’me, baby,” dean mutters, just as delirious as you are, as he continues to reorganise your guts, with his mouth occasionally meeting yours, but staying close to the wet flesh of your neck. you wince when his teeth catch against the sensitive area, like it’s a game he can play, seeing what it takes for him to “slip”, maybe sink in and take a bite. “fuck– jus’ wanna see what you look like with my teeth drippin’ with your blood.” and when you whimper under him, lose your protest to that idea in between a wanton moan and his animalistic growl, he takes it as encouragement. “shall i do it, sweetheart? yeah? oh, baby, you don’t gotta cry– ‘s jus’ gonna hurt for a sec–”

and then, he does it.

dean’s teeth are in your neck. there’s a second where all there is, is white-hot pain; the type that you’re pretty sure makes people pass out, the type that makes you let out a short-lived scream as you basically convulse under him. but he doesn’t let go. doesn’t pull back. keeps filling your gaping hole with his throbbing cock, teeth practically searing your flesh. the occasional lick he gives you does extremely little to soothe you. 

when he finally does pull away from your neck, dean’s pupils are blown, his teeth stained. milky white turned sanguine. he’s so pretty like this that it makes you nauseous. “gonna fuckin’ put so many pups in you, sweetheart,” dean pants, occasionally growling when his knot manages to slip into you, but then slips right back out again. “fuck– gonna keep you full and happy, and all you’re ever gonna want is me.” and with one final, brutal thrust, the knot is in you. he’s still pushing into you, but they’re more short and careful pushes, because he knows if he does too much now that the knot won’t stay. 

and you? you just whimper and cry under him, maybe utter some unintelligible syllables every now and again, pathetically soak up dean’s condescending love when he licks you, places half-assed kisses to your bruised lips. it’s uncomfortable, you notice immediately, the knot in you; it’s just stuck at your entrance, gaping you, and yet, it’s the thing that send you over the brink and into an all-consuming orgasm. you’re surprised that you survive it. 

you writhe under dean as you attempt to surpass the sheer overwhelm that it takes on your body, suddenly feeling so aware of everything around you; the heady scent in the air around you that is so thick that it chokes you, the vulgar sound of your gaping hole squelching as he continues to shallowly fuck into you, the dull ache in your neck. it’s like an out-of-body experience. 

but then you come crashing back down onto earth, into your body, as dean’s thrusting abruptly stops, his hips stuttering, as he cums deep in you. your sore, bruising walls flutter and spasm around him as he does so, pushed to the limit from his sheer aggressiveness. he’s also got his teeth in your shoulder when it happens, and the strained growl he lets out reverberates against your skin, the vibrations going straight to your core. his fat cock pulses in you. his knot stays inside of you. you’d really like him to stay here, with the two of you like this, forever. 

dean eventually lets go of your shoulder, pressing his face into your sweat-slicked skin. he places kitten-like kisses over all the places he’s accidentally hurt you. he holds you hand, tight, as there’s another flood of cum pumped from his cock deep into your hole. 

after a short, slightly unnerving period of silence, dean pulls entirely away from you; though, he’s still buried in you, his knot refusing to let go of your cunt. he sighs sadly as he gently runs his thumb over the wound on your neck. you turn your face away, ashamed, and then feeling even more ashamed when you hear him let out a slight whimper. “oh, ‘m so sorry, baby. y’know i’d never mean to hurt you like this. oh, my poor girl.”

you silently lean into his caresses, allow him to hold you and mutter sweet praises into your hair as you tremble every now and then. your sex with him has never been this– violent. part of you wants it to happen again– and, if literature has taught you anything– it will– and part of you doesn’t. but it’s also dean. you love him too much.

you love him like it’s stockholm syndrome. 

you’re wincing once more when dean’s forcefully taking himself out of your wrecked hole, and then wincing, again, as warm cum seeps from you, slowly dripping onto the sticky sheets under you. but before you can get too embarrassed, or get up and clean yourself, dean’s repositioning himself, his fingers ghosting over your cunt.

and then, pushing into you.

“dean, what’re you–”

“jus’ makin’ sure it goes where it needs to,” dean replies, shoving two, three fingers into you. and then you’re feeling something that’s way too big– almost fist-like– to be his fingers, and you start to whine and clench around it. “hey, hey. ‘m takin’ care of you, sweetheart. don’t fight it now. jus’ makin’ sure it does its job.”

you don’t argue back. you’re too tired. you simply lie there, allow dean to push his fingers (and his fist, as you come to find out at a much later time) deep into you, making sure his cum stays firmly inside of you. you’re still clamping around him, just not as tight as before, your muscles too aching and sore to put in more than half the effort. and besides, each time you do, dean lets out a little hiss.

and before long, dean’s back on top of you, pushing your legs open again. “‘m sorry, sweetheart. ain’t over yet,” he apologises, but you don’t think he’s that sorry– not with how his tone is too eager, his words like electric; all excited and energised. “gotta keep doin’ this, doin’ you, ‘til i’m done.”

almost instantly, he returns to fucking you. dean’s licking you all over, biting and clawing you in various places. knotting you over, and over, and over again.

by morning, you’re nothing short of sore. you’re also feeling full, your cunt and libido definitely satiated from how many times dean fucked and filled you. you’re not sure of the exact times he did so, but you know it was enough to keep him happy and docile. clearly you were a good girl; he’s still at your side, still human. it’s all you can really ask for at this point.

there’s just today; the last day of his rut. it’s clear that whatever dean said at the start of the week, you being a good girl and not helping him because he didn’t want to hurt you, is long forgotten. abandoned just as quickly as the time sam tried to make him go vegan (or stop drinking). you want to take a shower before dean wakes, get you trapped under him, or on top of him, with his knot firmly inside you.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Most of Ben’s dirty secrets aren’t exactly… secret. He’s tried to fuck you in front of the team multiple times, he always tells you to moan his name loud enough that they’ll hear, and if he can get away with it he’ll make you walk around with his cum dripping out of your cunt. He proudly declared that you gave him your panties to keep, and tell you like it’s romantic that he only jerks off to the thought of you now. If anything, the deepest secret he holds is that he does find it romantic. That he’s capable of that now, with you, and he wants nothing more than to just… be near you. Without sex. To love and touch you like some boring, normal pussy. Maybe a little sex. He’ll probably be able to talk you into it.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Body count rivaling Genghis Khan. He got around in his day, and it’s taught him to know every body almost like he knows his own. You have to give him a rule, that he’s not allowed to say that he did this position with Princess Diana, because you don’t really want to hear it. You just want to see him do the position. He rolls his eyes and calls you a brat, and you smile and say he loves it, and damn him, he does. He loves that he got all that experience, too. Real easy for you to benefit, from all that hard work.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Ben can brag about his past and throw around your panties all he wants, you always get to know the truth. That at the end of it, he’s just a romantic old man who wants to do missionary. He likes being fully wrapped around you, likes how easy it is to manhandle you, like how your eyes roll back and your nails dig into his bicep as you get the air fucked straight out of you. He likes that he can kiss you, open-mouthed and sloppy, and that he can push your knees to your chest and turn it into a mating press, giving him easy access to your swollen, sensitive clit. You only tease him about it a little. The sex is too good to do anything else.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He’s more serious with you, than he ever was with anyone else. Especially at the start, when this was something that mattered, and he’d never had that, and for the first time in a hundred years there was a fist in his gut that was trying to hold onto something. That clenched hard enough to make him sick, that made him paranoid and tense, because what if he lost you. He fucked you like it was a job. Like that would prove his dedication to this, to you, without him having to say it. Over time, he relaxed. Jokes get cracked, and the teasing gets insatiable, and you can’t go a day without something suggestive that makes you laugh, then moan as his hand presses between your thighs.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Ben didn’t bother grooming until you. His actions and face and body spoke for themselves. Whatever was going on down there was what you got, and you’d better be fucking happy with it. And you were. You are. But he saw you taking care of your bush and got curious what the fuck you were doing, and you explained that it was still hair, it needed to be washed, and now he does that for you, then makes you clean him. He gets cocky, his hand in your hair as you lean down, and doesn’t bother to stop himself from getting hard while you touch him. It usually ends with you pressed against shower tiles. You never complain about that either.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He’ll deny it to the ends of the earth and over God’s ballsack, but he’s more romantic than you would’ve ever guessed. Once he learns what that strange, warm feeling he got when he looked at you was, he’s committed to it. It’s annoying, but nice, and he really fucking loves nice things. Just like he loves you. And there’s nothing better than whispering that against your skin, or fucking you nice and slow and loving until you’re sobbing, then making you admit that you love him back.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

If it was a sport, he’d take gold. And silver, and bronze. If someone were to take a blacklight to his bedroom it would look like a crime scene, especially before you got together. He doesn’t deny himself, ever, and that meant stomping away at seemingly random points during the day, just to jerk himself off and moan your name to the walls. Once he did it in a Chili’s bathroom, just because you smiled at him. Not his best moment, but real far from his fucking worst. And you deserve to be worshipped like that, enough that he can’t even control himself. He counts it as romantic, and you never admit it, but you kind of think it is too.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Ben walks a fine line between an exhibitionist and overly possessive. He marks your neck up with hickies and parades you around like his most prized thing, but gets narrow eyed and rigid when people watch for too long. He wants you to scream his name loud enough for everyone to hear, but clenches his jaw at the idea of fucking where someone might actually walk in and see you naked. He records a video of you and puts it in a safe. Fucks you in a bathroom with the door locked, puts you in his shirt and nothing else, but barks at anyone who’s gaze lingers on your legs. You’re his to worship and adore, not some other nosy fucking pussy’s.

He’s only a fucking man. A man who wants things he won’t talk about, like kids and a simple fucking life. If he could he’d knock you up for the rest of your fucking lives, keep your tits swollen and belly round with his kid. Making them is the fun part, breeding you like you’re begging for it—and you are—and then a few times after to make sure it sticks. Then you get all glowy and gorgeous, beaming and fucking Ben’s. Everyone knows it, from that swell of your stomach, and you get so horny you give him a run for his damn money. Perfect.

Pet names are cute, but detached before you. Doll for most women, sweetheart if he’s trying to piss them off, and not much else. But you, you get kid and darling and babydoll and pretty girl falling from his lips without thought. And then there’s the shit you call him. Benjamin when he’s in trouble—which is fucking hot—and Benny when you’re extra fucking needy. If you’re desperate enough he gets sir, and if he fucks you just right, he can pull a daddy from your swollen lips. You flush and get embarrassed and deny it later, but he knows what he fucking heard. And he’s going to get you to say it again.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

As much as Ben loves the bed, or the shower, or the table or the counter or the floor or the dresser, there’s something about the wall and the couch that make him feral. If he’s got you against the wall, he can pin you with your hands over your head and his arm cradling you against him, and he gets to make your whole body bounce with every thrust. Maybe he can even drag you off the wall, and just fuck you standing in the center of the room, his arms the only thing keeping you up right. On the other side of that is the couch. Bending you over it and smacking your ass, pushing you down until you’re limp and dangling forward, stupid moans falling from your lips as he fucks you dumb and pretty. Completely at his mercy, and happy about it.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

It would be quicker to list the things that don’t get him going. Sometimes it’s the way you said a word, a look you gaze him, the way you squeezed his hands or glared at him all hot, and now he needs to be inside of you or he’s going to go fucking insane. Once you screamed about a spider, he killed it, and suddenly you were being fucked into the sofa. More times than you can count he just wants to. No foreplay or real motivation besides seeing you, and deciding you really needed a good fuck.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He makes the list clear, when you get together. He’s tried damn near everything, and he won’t be pissing, shitting, or getting cucked. You can get on top, but he’s in control. You can try and tie him up, but he’s just going to break out of it and fuck you like you deserve. Giving up control isn’t really something he knows how to do, let alone tolerate after Russia. He spent too long in a box, and he’s not fucking letting anyone get one over on him again. You tell him that’s shell-shock. He rolls his eyes and tells you to hire a shrink about it. You do, because you’re the only one who can get away with it. You might be able to get away with anything, around him. He likes finding out.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Of course he prefers fucking receiving, he told you once. Getting a girl with nice lips and a warm mouth around him, fucking her face until she’s choking and still begging for more, nothing fucking better. Of course, your mouth is another story. Almost brings him to his fucking knees, when you get going. He’s broken the kitchen counter three times, to the point that you just leave it wrecked and tell him to grab there. And then he gets between your legs, and works out how all those men he thought were pussies could get off on just this. Tastes like fucking Heaven, gets you gushing and screaming and squirming for him, opens you up like nothing fucking else. You get caught in his beard and he refuses to wash it out. You cum on his face and he rolls on his back, pinning you down until your body gives out and you fold over him like a toy, trembling with the pleasure he’s devoured out of you.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

There aren’t many ways Ben doesn’t like it, but slow and rough is always going to take the cake. Pulling almost all the way out of you before slamming back in, watching your eyes roll back and hearing that perfect little whine. You milk his cock whenever he drives against your g-spot and beg him to go faster, but he holds the pace. Not like there’s much you can do about it, limp and mindless under him. Eventually he’ll take mercy and start to fuck you like you’ve earned, the brutal pace turning into micro thrusts when he falls over the edge with a groan.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

You have to limit him. There are too many times where he’s pulled you into a closet or dragged you off to bed with guests over, just to pull one more out of your greedy little pussy. And you know you’re always going to let him, even when he shouldn’t. Three a day, you tell him, but that quickly becomes four, then five, then six, and then you give up all together. It’s as if he gets energy fucking you. It’s almost scientifically amazing, and it feels like fucking heaven, so there are worse quirks for a boyfriend to have.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

There isn’t something Ben hasn’t done. If risks are being taken, it’s you, trusting him when he says he’s got some shit you’ll like. You believe him—he’s good at knowing about that, and it would scare you how good he was if it wasn’t deeply helpful—and trust him, because he’s your Ben. He’d never hurt you. One time, you do try to suggest something he might not have done, and he laughs in your face and calls you cute. He’s been slinging cock like a gun before your grandparents were alive. You tell him he’s never allowed to say slinging cock again.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Once, you made a bet with him that you could take it until he was out. It was one of the best and worst choices of your life. He came about thirty times, you came so much you stopped counting—and can’t even remember what number made you give up—and it only ended because Ben started to get worried that you would go into sex hibernation. You told him that wasn’t a thing, and tried to tease him that he was just out. He’d been rock hard when he stopped. You have a feeling that he could’ve done that all over again ten times and still be ready for round one thousand, but he let you have the win. It’s the only kind you have, in the sheets.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

At first, he’s offended by the idea that a fucking robot could get you off better than he could. He still is a little offended. If you use your vibrator, he also gets a shot at it, to remind you which is better at knowing you and your body. But then you show him remote control vibrators, and he turns into a monster. He shoves it into your hand and orders you to put it in, and when you laugh you end up pinned to the mattress and kissed everywhere while he slides it in himself. Ben becomes obsessed with it. Making you glare at him while your thighs shake, smelling your arousal, knowing that you’re probably going to climb him like a fucking tree the second you’re alone. Maybe before, if he does this shit right.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Ben has a talent. A gift, even, and it’s going to ruin your fucking life. He thinks of working you up like a sport, trying to you right up to the edge of screaming before he pulls you into his lap and makes you fall apart with a single, light touch. It’s even more fun then, because you’re sensitive after you cum. And that’s just how Ben fucking likes you. Wet and needy and sensitive, all his to ruin however he likes. You thank him after, and he feels about a million feet fucking tall.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He doesn’t see any point in trying to keep quiet. Sex is meant to be loud and raw. Skin slapping on skin, hands grabbing and moans being forced out of your throat for him to swallow. He dirty talks you loud enough for it to be heard through the walls, and groans you name loud enough to be heard from space. He’s proud of it. The way you get all turned on by his moaning, then adorably embarrassed when the team tells you they could hear .

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Ben really fucking loves cock warming. Sitting you on his lap for no reason at all, burying himself in your hot little cunt, and just keeping you there until he’s had his fill. You get so fucking whiny and gorgeous, calling him names when he won’t move and then pleading and sweet talking him when that shit doesn’t work. He gets drunk on it, how you flutter and pulse around his rock hard cock, looking at him with those glossy eyes and whimpering his name. Sometimes he shoves a book into your hands and makes you read it, because you’re always trying to get him to fucking read. When you’re gasping for air and leaking down his thighs, he’ll give in and fuck you. Then, the next week, he’ll do it all fucking over again.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Horsecock. World ending. Tree trunk thick and uncut. Next question.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Of Ben’s many experiments on your body, one of your favorite quickly grows to be somnophilia, simply because he’s a fucking dog. You know he has self control, and he’ll never make you do anything you don’t want to, but he gets twitchy when he’s been pent up too long. And for Ben, too long is about twelve hours. You could give him a whole night before you went on a work trip, and he’d spam call you until you landed and picked up, demanding that you come back now. He’d spend the rest of his life fucking you, if he was allowed. Sometimes he tries to talk you into that, and you flush, because you’d be more “up for it” than you want to admit.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Ben doesn’t sleep much, after Russia. Been asleep too fucking long, he grunts, and you don’t push. But you notice—like you always do—that the rule doesn’t really apply to you. You wake up in the middle of the night, still where you passed out. Held against his chest like a child’s blanket, cradled like a baby bird, both of you bare as the day you were born and completely at peace. His lips brushing your brow and breathing steady. It’s beautiful to see. Almost sacred. You brush the hair from his eyes and kiss his nose. His eyes flutter sometimes, and you just stare at each other in the dark. You press your chin to his chest, and his mouth twitches into something like a smile. You both fall back asleep, and don’t speak of it in the morning. But—just like always—it will happen again.

✦Soldier Boy Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on aO3✦

✦Author's Note: i need him in a way that's concerning to feminism✦

Sam Winchester. The known, and feared demon hunter Sam Winchester was pouting. Dean's eyebrows furrowed "Dude. Are you pouting?" He sounded disgusted

Sam looked over at him like a deer caught in headlights "Wha- no" he denied, but the uptick in his voice said otherwise.

Dean couldn't hide his shocked expression "Yeah, whatever-" he waved it off and returned to his original thought but in the back of his mind he confirmed. Sam Winchester definitely pouts.

Sam let out a released breath because he in fact had been pouting. He hated the thought that you had to go and possibly flirt with an asshole just to get information from the guy.

The next time he's caught pouting it's by Bobby. Which is somehow worse than Dean. This time it was because the two of you had a small disagreement about your capabilities.

At least that's how you'd taken it. Sam had been worried about you being sent off to torch bones on the other side of the large and very haunted estate.

He knew you could take care of yourself he'd seen you smite three demons all on your own just to save his ass. But it never stopped the worry.

You gave him a piece of your mind when he volunteered to go find the newfound missing girl that had just been right behind you, instead of you. And then you went anyway.

While they were waiting inside the salted room, Bobby happened to look over at Sam, noticing how quiet he'd been, and scoffed in disbelief at what he saw.

Sam is sitting with his arms folded and pouting like a child.

"Oh come on she's got you poutin' on the job? What's next you kiss the ground she walks on"

"He already does that. You should see him when she falls asleep with her head on his shoulder. Man's whipped" Dean added his (in Sam's opinion) unnecessary commentary.

Sam rolled his eyes because they were being stupid. Winchesters don't pout. Especially not during a job. But Sam was pouting.

He's a grown, 6'4, widely feared hunter and he was pouting.

What the hell is happening to him?

The last time he had been caught was the worst because it had been by you. Dean had gone out to do whatever Dean does in his free time and you and Sam had stayed in your shared motel.

You were lying in Sam's lap, magazine in hand while Sam flipped through channels on the t.v.

You had been so engrossed in the latest celebrity gossip that you rarely had the chance to catch up on that you hadn't acknowledged when Sam had muttered three heavy words.

There was a pang in Sam's chest when seconds of silence passed after he muttered the words. Which it's not like he hadn't said them to you before. He had, hundreds of times.

But usually, every time you would mutter back 'I love you more Sammy' and the words would ease any doubt or pain that he had been feeling.

But you didn't this time. This time you flipped the page and gasped when you saw that Angelina and Brad Pitt had divorced.

So Sam couldn't help when his lips had downturned, or when his eyebrows found company in one another. As his brain wracked itself to see if he had done something- anything to make you angry.

But when you lifted your head up to look at him, preparing to say something to him your face fell. "What's wrong?" Your voice came out soft and quiet.

Sam felt embarrassed, because he knows you love him. Everybody knows, but he couldn't help it. "You didn't-" he pauses, feeling absolutely absurd, he sighed ticking his jaw. "You didn't say I love you back" he muttered.

You blinked at him once. Twice. Three times.

A hint of a smile began growing on your lips, and Sam's heart dropped. Before you could stop it a full smile grew and you let out a delighted laugh, repositioning yourself on his lap.

You're now sitting up and facing him, a shit-eating smile on your face, Sam groaned his head falling back, thudding gently against the headboard "Oh god" he sighs.

"Aw! Oh my goodness, Sam." You grabbed his face dramatically, punctuating each word with kisses "I'm-" kiss "so-" kiss "sorry!"

Sam's face reddens, but he can't deny the sudden feeling of pleasure that coursed through him. He laughs through the kisses, each one in a different spot. One on his cheek, one on his nose, one on his forehead, a sneaky one on his neck, a final one on his lips.

Sam couldn't stop smiling long enough to kiss you back, and you knew that. Your hands moved to his hair as you separated, you gave him the smile that caught him by his heart "I'm sorry baby. I love you too." you said earnestly.

Sam's head cocked to the side, it was his turn to be a little shit "Are you sure? I'm not really convin-" You shot off of his lap, running to your bag "Where are you going?" He calls after you.

You smiled, "Getting my lipstick, gonna show you my lovin' baby" you joked "you look cute when you pout by the way" you said as you sat back down on his lap.

Sam scoffs watching you apply the bright lipstick "I don't pout"

"You absolutely do, but like I said it's cute. Don't worry I won't tell the ghosts"

When Leon got home, it was already pitch black, the only light that was present was coming from the moon and a few streetlights that were scattered along the street.

As she stood on the porch of your shared home, a late night breeze sent a slight chill creeping under his jacket as he inserted his key into the door's lock.

He entered the home without much noise or fuss, being careful to not disturb you in case  you were already asleep. As he walked further inside, his shoulders relaxed a bit more as a wave of relief finally hit him. He was home from another rather grueling day of work.

Even after years of enduring all sorts of different government operations, his body never truly got used to it. Every muscle in his body ached, and the way his eyelids felt stupidly heavy made him just want to collapse right there on the couch and deal with everything else tomorrow.

But there was another thought on his mind that topped everything else he felt in the moment

and that was…you.

With a long, heavy sigh, he pushed all his troubles from the day to the side and scurried towards your shared bedroom. He was already peeling off his coat and shoes on his way there, throwing them in spots they probably shouldn't be. That would be tomorrow's problem.

As he walked down the hall he heard quiet muffled sounds coming from the room, accompanied by a low laugh between the soft ruckus. That's when he realized you were still awake.

The moment the door opened, you didn't even get much time to really register he was home before-

splat!

He pounced right on top of you like a very heavy weighted blanket, your breath practically fled your lungs.

“hey” he murmured casually with a grin as if he wasn't crushing the soul out of you.

You huffed, patting his shoulder, “Leon- get. Off! You're heavy!” But despite yourself, you let out a laugh as you tried and failed to shove him off

“What? I've been gone all day, and I missed you.” He said as he nuzzled himself into you like an overgrown cat, making sure to take in a deep inhale of your scent. As his nose grazed the skin on the side of your neck, you couldn’t help but think about how he’d always had a thing for your smell. He insisted you always smelled good to him. 

Though you were sure it was probably due to the fact you never really stuck to having one specific "signature" scent.

Maybe it was the surprise of a different scent every time that made him want to breathe you in so deeply every time. Some days you’d smell like vanilla and other sweet notes, and another day you smelled of roses and other floral scents.

“Y’smell so good, sweetheart” he suddenly exclaimed, pulling you in tighter. You were still busy squirming beneath him, which made him lift his head, a mock frown on his face. “you tryna say you didn't miss me?” he asked, tilting his head with a dramatic pout.

“of course I missed you, but you'll soon come to miss me if you crush me to death!”

You retorted but he only shifted a bit and didn't truly try to move…or help

“better?”

“No.”

“Yeah, I think that's better” he decided for you and proceeded to lie on you anyway.

You groaned at his stubbornness. “You’re so annoying,” you complained, but your voice held no real bite, and you didn’t really make too much of an effort to actually get him off.

“You say that, but from what I can see you’re bitin’ back a smile.” he teased, poking your cheek to emphasize it. “I mean if I'm so annoying, why’d you marry me then?”  

His witty remarks made you scoff and push his finger away “what? No im not” you defended, knowing damn well you totally were. “And FYI, I only married you because I got mesmerized by that handsome face and that ridiculous charm you got” you added in a huff.

“Awh, you wound me. Now I really can’t get up, "he retorted.

You just laughed. You really did enjoy these silly little moments with him. They made everything feel normal, even when life was anything but that with him. 

Silence soon settled over the two of you, and that's when you found yourself thinking,

When did he get so…big? 

You began to smooth your hands over his back and arms. He hummed in contentment, now barely awake, and that's when it really hit you. The man in your arms right now was a completely different person from the rookie you’d met all those years ago at what? Nineteen? Twenty?      

At least back then, you were able to handle his weight. Leon had always been strong and had muscle on him, but looking at him now, he was a total tank.

You continued to get sucked further into your thoughts. It was crazy to think you’d watched him grow from that lean, shy rookie to a tough, built, seasoned agent. Now his body didn’t just carry more muscle, but also held the weight of every mission he was sent on, and not just the physical ones that adorned his body.

You couldn’t help but feel so proud of the man you married, even if he tended to be a jackass and a half at times. You were glad you were able to have him by your side, no matter how much you complained or yelled about his antics.

Then, suddenly, you were pulled out of your thoughts when you felt him pressing against you again, his stubble stretching lightly against your collarbone and shoulder.

“You’re s’comfy” he purred into your skin 

It made a smile lightly tug at the corner of your lips. “Yeah? And you’re still heavy” you responded with a soft laugh.

“M’sorry, I just need some good ol’ TLC from ma’ love” he mumbled. There was more of a tired rasp in his voice now as he peeked up at you, a soft pout daring to show across his face. 

“It’s the least you could do after me after my long day” he added 

That successfully made you roll your eyes and shake your head. But you gave into his wishes anyway, hands kneaded into the knots in his shoulders and scratched his scalp. You never said no to that look.  

One thing that never changed was his neediness. It held strong and loud, and never seemed to falter at all over time. Even if he was eons away from the person he was before, he was still that same rookie at heart. You always saw it come out whenever he looked at you, always staring like you hung up all the stars in the sky.

  You also noticed it in that awkward twang he still had, with the way he got all shy and flustered when you got close and teased him while he was trying to focus, or when you grabbed his face to look at him back. No matter if he refused to see that about himself, it was always there, and not even age could make his cheesiness disappear either, it got worse. He was still leon after all.

He was the same boy just…bigger

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I FINALLY DID IT!

I literally finished this at like 1 AM and fought the urge to post right then and there.

This has been pestering my mind since I seen a post by a11ia of Leon and Clair and even more since uploaded the poll, and it stayed half finished for a while since I got busy, but now I should have enough freedom to post a little more until this motivation high goes down, and hopefully I get another fic or two out

I may put up another poll to see what I should go with next because i have yet more ideas and prompts for myself because I consume too much media that ignites little ideas in my brain, so now I have like 6 or so docs with prompts on them waiting to be complete. HOWEVER, I am really slow so sorry if I accidentally keep you waiting for the next...