KEO𓈒⊹　

Dean Winchester 𓂃 Explicit sexual content, NSFW, 18+ only, Sex in the Impala, riding Dean, whimpering, grunting, ass griping, neck & jawline kissing.

The opening chords of "Livin' on a Prayer" crackle through the Impala's speakers, and you can't help the smile that curves against Dean's jaw as you press another kiss there. The leather seat creaks beneath you both, the familiar scent of gun oil and leather and Dean surrounding you completely.

"Fuck," he breathes out, the word barely audible over Bon Jovi's voice, and you feel it more than hear it—the vibration of it against your lips as you trail kisses down the column of his throat.

His head falls back against the seat, exposing more of that beautiful neck to you, and God, he's so responsive like this. So different from the cocky hunter who swaggers through life with that trademark smirk. Right now, with you straddling his lap in the backseat of his baby, he's completely undone.

Your arms tighten around his neck, fingers threading through the short hair at his nape, and you rock against him slowly, deliberately. The friction makes you both gasp, and Dean's hands—those strong, calloused hands that have saved the world more times than you can count—grip your ass hard enough to leave marks you'll feel tomorrow.

"Please," he whimpers, actually whimpers, and the sound goes straight through you. His hips buck up involuntarily, seeking more contact, more friction, more of you.

You kiss along his jawline, feeling the scratch of stubble against your lips, tasting the salt of his skin. "I've got you," you murmur against the corner of his mouth, and his eyes—those gorgeous green eyes—flutter open to meet yours. They're dark with want, pupils blown wide, and there's something vulnerable there that makes your heart clench even as your body moves against his.

We're halfway there, oh-oh, livin' on a prayer—

The music swells and so does the heat between you. Dean's grip on your ass tightens, guiding your movements, and you can feel every inch of him pressed against you through the layers of denim that suddenly feel like too much, too many barriers between you.

"You feel so good," you whisper against his ear, and he grunts in response, the sound raw and desperate. His breathing is ragged now, hot puffs of air against your neck as he buries his face against your chest, and you can feel his lips moving there, kissing, biting gently through your shirt.

You roll your hips again, finding a rhythm that matches the driving beat of the song, and Dean makes this broken sound that's half-moan, half-whimper. His fingers dig into the flesh of your ass, pulling you closer, harder, and you can feel him trembling beneath you.

"That's it," you encourage, one hand sliding from his neck to cup his face, tilting it up so you can capture his mouth in a deep, hungry kiss. He opens for you immediately, tongue sliding against yours, and he tastes like whiskey and want and everything you've been craving.

The Impala rocks gently with your movements, the windows starting to fog up from your combined heat. Dean breaks the kiss to gasp for air, his forehead pressed against your chest, and you can feel his heart hammering against your own.

"Don't stop," he manages, voice wrecked, and you have no intention of stopping. Not when he looks like this—completely wrecked and beautiful and yours in this moment. Not when every whimper and grunt and desperate grab of his hands tells you exactly how much he needs this, needs you.

You kiss his temple, his cheekbone, back down to that sensitive spot just below his ear that makes him shudder. Your arms wrap tighter around his neck, holding him close as you continue to move against him, the friction building and building until you're both trembling with it.

Take my hand, we'll make it I swear—

"I've got you," you repeat, and Dean's grip on you becomes almost bruising as he holds on like you're his anchor in a storm. And maybe you are. Maybe in this moment, in the backseat of the Impala with classic rock playing and the world locked outside, you're exactly what he needs.

His whimpers turn to low groans, and you can feel him getting closer, the tension coiling tighter in his body. You kiss him again—his jaw, his neck, that spot behind his ear—and whisper encouragement against his skin until he's shaking beneath you, fingers digging into your ass as he pulls you impossibly closer.

The song plays on, and so do you, lost in the heat and the friction and the perfect desperation of Dean Winchester coming undone in your arms.

The fact that I just want to sit on his lap and rest my face against his chest… like I’m about to rip out my locs and boil them like noodles.

AND THE BICEPS OMGG?!!!!! Jaareeeddd. 😩😩

I just need a Sam Winchester. Like deadass.

Gurl don’t we all???

I have some serious issues 😭😭😭

castiel 𓂃 explicit sexual content, curvy!thick!reader, possessive behavior, touchy castiel.

Castiel doesn't understand it at first.

He's seen countless humans in his millennia of existence. Bodies are just vessels—flesh and bone arranged in predictable patterns. But then there's you, and suddenly nothing about his understanding makes sense anymore.

It starts innocently enough. You bend over to pick up a book, and his eyes track the curve of your ass like he's hardwired to follow. The way your jeans hug every inch of you, the soft roundness that he wants to grab with both hands. He tears his gaze away, confused by the tightness in his chest, the heat pooling low in his stomach.

"Cas? You okay?"

"Fine," he lies, but his voice comes out rougher than intended.

He can't stop noticing. The plush thickness of your thighs when you sit beside him. How your shirts cling to your breasts, your soft stomach. When you stretch, your body curves in ways that make his mouth go dry. He's obsessed, and he doesn't know why this—why you—affects him so viscerally.

You catch him staring more than once. And instead of being uncomfortable, you smile. Like you know exactly what you're doing to him.

"See something you like, angel?"

He does. God help him, he does.

The tension builds until he can barely breathe around you.

Every casual touch is torture. Your hand on his arm, your hip bumping his, the way you press against him when you lean over to look at something on his phone. You're so soft everywhere, and all he can think about is how you'd feel under his hands, under his body, wrapped around him.

His control is slipping.

"Cas." Your voice cuts through his thoughts. You're standing close—too close. "You've been staring at my ass for the past five minutes."

"I—" He can't even deny it.

You step closer, and his back hits the wall. "If you want to touch me that badly, all you have to do is ask."

Something in him snaps.

His hands are on you before he can think, grabbing your hips and pulling you flush against him. You gasp, and the sound goes straight to his cock. He's never wanted anything as much as he wants you right now.

"I can't—" His voice is wrecked. "I can't stop thinking about you. Your body. I don't understand it, but I need—"

"Then take it," you breathe, and he's gone.

He kisses you hard, desperate, one hand sliding down to grab a handful of your ass. Finally. Finally. You're so soft and perfect, filling his palm, and he groans into your mouth as he squeezes. You moan, grinding against him, and he's pretty sure he's going to lose his mind.

His other hand roams everywhere—your thick thighs, your hips, up to cup your breast through your shirt. Every curve, every soft inch of you that he's been fantasizing about. You're better than he imagined, responsive and eager, arching into his touch.

"Bed. Now," he growls, and you don't hesitate.

He gets you naked and nearly comes from the sight alone. Sprawled out beneath him, all curves and soft skin, looking at him like you want to be devoured.

"Castiel, please—"

He runs his hands up your thighs, spreading them wide, groaning at how thick and perfect they are. "You have no idea what you do to me. How many times I've thought about this. About you."

When he finally pushes inside you, you're so wet and tight and perfect that he has to pause, overwhelmed. You wrap your thick thighs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he loses whatever remained of his restraint.

He fucks you hard, hands gripping your hips, your ass, anywhere he can reach. Watching your body move with every thrust, the way your breasts bounce, the soft jiggle of your thighs and stomach—it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"So perfect," he pants against your neck. "So fucking perfect."

You come around him with a cry, and the feeling of you clenching tight sends him over the edge. He buries himself deep, groaning your name, finally understanding exactly why he couldn't resist you.

He was never meant to.

The way I giggled so loud..YES YES YESSSS!!!

BIRTHDAY SURPRISE

Birthday!Sam Winchester x Fem!Reader 𓂃 Explicit sexual content, NSFW, 18+ only, rough sex, light bondage/restraint, praise kink, size kink, overstimulation, dom/sub dynamics, penetrative sex, oral sex (male receiving), dirty talk, possessive behavior, multiple orgasms, I'm writing this instead of therapy

You've been planning this for weeks.

Sam's birthday always gets overshadowed by hunts, by world-ending apocalypses, by Dean's need to make everything about pie. But not this year. This year, you're making damn sure Sam Winchester feels WORSHIPPED.

His room in the bunker is transformed—soft amber candlelight flickering across the walls, casting everything in warm shadows. You've dimmed the usual harsh lighting, and the air smells faintly of sandalwood and something darker, headier. You're wearing the silk robe you bought specifically for this—deep green, short enough to make your intentions crystal clear, clinging to every curve.

Your heart is POUNDING as you hear his footsteps in the hallway. He's been out on a supply run with Dean, completely unsuspecting, and you texted him twenty minutes ago: Come to your room. Now.

The door opens.

Sam stops dead in the doorway, his eyes going wide as he takes in the scene—the candles, the lighting, and then YOU, leaning against his desk in that barely-there robe with a smile that promises everything. His duffel bag hits the floor with a thud.

"Happy birthday, Sam," you purr, and the way his pupils dilate is IMMEDIATE.

"What—" His voice comes out rough, his eyes dragging over your body like he's trying to memorize every inch. "What is this?"

"Your present." You push off the desk and walk toward him slowly, deliberately, watching his throat work as he swallows hard. "I figured you deserved to feel appreciated for once. Worshipped, even."

His hands flex at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for you. "You didn't have to—"

"I wanted to." You're close enough now to press your palm against his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath the flannel. "Let me take care of you tonight, Sam. Let me make you feel good."

The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and your name, and then his massive hands are cupping your face, tilting your head back so he can kiss you DESPERATELY. It's all heat and need, his tongue sliding against yours as he walks you backward until your legs hit the bed.

"You're incredible," he breathes against your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip your waist. "So fucking beautiful—"

"Sit." You push gently at his chest, and he obeys immediately, sinking onto the edge of the bed with his eyes locked on you. The size difference is even more pronounced like this—Sam is HUGE, all long limbs and broad shoulders, and you standing between his spread thighs makes you feel deliciously small.

You reach for the silk ties you'd laid out earlier—deep burgundy, soft and strong. His eyes track the movement, darkening with understanding.

"You trust me?" you ask softly.

"Always." No hesitation.

You guide his wrists together, wrapping the silk around them with careful loops—not tight enough to hurt, but enough to restrain. Enough to make him FEEL it. You secure the ties to the headboard, and Sam tests them experimentally, his biceps flexing as he pulls slightly.

"Fuck," he mutters, his voice already wrecked. "You're really—"

"I'm really." You straddle his thigh, letting him feel how wet you already are through the thin silk. "Tonight is about YOU, Sam Winchester. About making you feel as amazing as you are."

You kiss him again, slower this time, savoring the way he strains against the restraints like he's desperate to touch you. Your hands map the planes of his chest as you work his flannel open, button by button, revealing golden skin and muscle.

"God, look at you," you murmur, pressing kisses along his collarbone. "So strong. So beautiful. Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

He groans, his head falling back as you work your way down his chest, your tongue tracing the lines of his abs. "Please—"

"Please what, birthday boy?" You're working his belt open now, the clink of metal loud in the quiet room.

"Touch me. Your mouth—fuck, I need—"

You free his cock and it's THICK and hard and already leaking, and the sight makes your mouth water. "Need this?" You wrap your hand around him, barely able to close your fingers around his girth, and he BUCKS into your grip with a strangled sound.

"Yes—god, yes—"

You take him into your mouth slowly, savoring the weight of him on your tongue, the way his whole body goes taut as you hollow your cheeks and SUCK. The sounds he makes are absolutely OBSCENE—broken groans and curses and your name like a prayer.

"So good," he's gasping, his hips jerking despite his obvious attempts at control. "Your mouth feels so fucking good—"

You work him deeper, relaxing your throat, using your hand on what you can't take, and his thighs are TREMBLING beneath your free hand. The silk restraints creak as he pulls against them, desperate to touch you, to grip your hair, to take control.

"I'm gonna—fuck, I'm close—" His voice breaks on a moan and you pull off with an obscene pop, grinning up at him.

"Not yet. It's your birthday. You're getting EVERYTHING tonight."

You strip off the robe, letting it pool at your feet, and Sam's eyes go MOLTEN as he takes in your naked body. "Jesus Christ," he breathes. "You're perfect. So fucking perfect."

You climb onto the bed, straddling his hips, and reach up to untie his wrists. The moment he's free, his hands are ON you—gripping your waist, your hips, sliding up to cup your breasts as he sits up to capture your mouth in a bruising kiss.

"My turn," he growls against your lips, and suddenly you're on your back with Sam looming over you, all that height and muscle and POWER focused entirely on you. "You wanted to worship me? Now I'm gonna worship YOU."

His mouth is EVERYWHERE—your neck, your breasts, sucking marks into your skin as his huge hands spread your thighs wide. When his tongue finally drags through your folds, you nearly scream, your back arching off the bed.

"Sam—oh god—SAM—"

He's RELENTLESS, his tongue circling your clit with devastating precision, two thick fingers sliding inside you and curling to hit that spot that makes you see stars. The size of his fingers alone is almost too much, stretching you, filling you, and when he adds a third you're SOBBING with pleasure.

"That's it," he murmurs against your skin, his voice pure gravel. "Let me hear you. Wanna hear every sound you make when I make you come."

You're already so close, pleasure coiling tight in your belly, and when he seals his lips around your clit and SUCKS while his fingers thrust deep, you SHATTER, coming so hard your vision whites out, your whole body convulsing as waves of pleasure crash over you.

He doesn't stop. He works you through it and PAST it, his tongue gentling but never leaving your clit, his fingers still moving inside you, and suddenly you're coming AGAIN, overstimulated and overwhelmed and absolutely wrecked.

"Sam—too much—I can't—"

"You can." He rises over you, his chin glistening with your arousal, his eyes dark with possession. "You're gonna give me one more, baby. Gonna come on my cock this time."

He lines himself up and pushes inside in one slow, devastating thrust, and the STRETCH is incredible—he's so big, so thick, filling you so completely you can barely breathe. Your hands scrabble at his shoulders, his back, trying to anchor yourself as he bottoms out with a groan that sounds like it's torn from his soul.

"Fuck, you feel amazing," he grits out, his forehead pressed to yours. "So tight. So perfect. Like you were made for me."

"Move," you gasp. "Please, Sam, I need—"

He pulls almost all the way out and SLAMS back in, setting a brutal pace that has you crying out with every thrust. The bed frame creaks, the headboard hitting the wall, and you don't care who hears because Sam Winchester is fucking you like he's trying to imprint himself on your soul.

"Look at you," he's panting, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise while the other slides between your bodies to circle your clit. "Taking my cock so well. So beautiful like this, falling apart for me. You're MINE, you hear me? Mine."

"Yours," you sob, your nails raking down his back. "All yours, Sam—god, you're so deep—so BIG—"

The praise makes him GROWL, his hips snapping harder, faster, the angle shifting until he's hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. You're babbling now, incoherent pleas and his name and broken sounds of pleasure, and you can feel another orgasm building, bigger than the others, threatening to consume you entirely.

"Come for me," Sam commands, his voice wrecked and desperate. "Wanna feel you come on my cock. Come for me, baby, NOW—"

You EXPLODE, your whole body seizing as pleasure detonates through every nerve, and you're dimly aware of screaming his name as you clench around him rhythmically. Sam groans, his rhythm faltering, and then his hands are leaving your hip and clit to grip your waist TIGHT, pulling you impossibly closer as he buries his face in your neck, nuzzling against your skin.

"Perfect," he's gasping against your throat, his hips stuttering. "So perfect—love you so much—fuck, I'm—"

He comes with a broken shout muffled against your neck, his whole body shuddering as he spills inside you, his grip on your waist never loosening, holding you like you're the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

For a long moment, there's nothing but harsh breathing and racing hearts and the feeling of his weight pressing you into the mattress. Then Sam lifts his head, his eyes soft and wondering as he brushes your sweat-dampened hair back from your face.

"Best birthday ever," he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your lips.

You laugh breathlessly, your body still trembling with aftershocks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He carefully pulls out, making you both hiss at the sensitivity, and then he's gathering you against his chest, his huge hands gentle now as they stroke your back. "You're incredible. I love you."

"I love you too." You press a kiss over his heart, feeling it thunder beneath your lips. "Happy birthday, Sam."

He holds you close as the candles flicker around you, and for once, the world outside can wait. Tonight, Sam Winchester is exactly where he belongs—worshipped, loved, and completely yours.

How Supernatural Characters React When They Pound You Senseless (Face-to-Face Position) 𓂃 Explicit sexual content, NSFW, 18+ only, rough sex, penetrative sex, ass grabbing, dirty talk, explicit language, wet sounds, overstimulation, my brain is so freaky.

DEAN WINCHESTER .ᐟ

Dean grabs your ass with both hands the SECOND you're in his lap, giving it an appreciative squeeze before pulling you down onto his cock. "Fuck yeah, c'mere sweetheart," he growls, and then he's thrusting up into you so hard you can barely breathe. Your face is pressed against his neck, your moans muffled against his skin as he absolutely POUNDS you. The wet sounds are obscene—skin slapping, the squelch of how soaked you are, Dean's grunts mixing with your desperate cries. "Listen to that—listen to how fucking wet you are for me. You love getting fucked like this, don't you?" You can only moan in response, your voice high and broken: "Dean—oh fuck—Dean—" He SMACKS your ass while still gripping it, the sting making you clench around him: "Answer me, baby." "Yes! Yes, I love it—" "Damn right you do." His pace is brutal, hips snapping up to meet you, hands controlling your movements as he uses your ass to pull you down harder onto his cock. You're practically SCREAMING against his shoulder, overwhelmed by the friction, the fullness, the way he hits that perfect spot with every thrust. "That's it, let the whole fucking bunker hear how good I'm making you feel." Your thighs are shaking, your whole body trembling as pleasure builds unbearably: "Dean, I'm gonna—I can't—" "Come on my cock, sweetheart. Wanna feel you squeeze me." When you shatter, you're moaning his name over and over against his neck, and he fucks you through it: "Fuck yes, that's my girl—so fucking perfect—" His rhythm starts getting erratic, his breathing ragged, and suddenly his hands leave your ass to grip your waist TIGHT, pulling you flush against him. He buries his face in your neck, nuzzling against your skin, and his cocky facade cracks just slightly: "Fuck—sweetheart—you're gonna make me—" His hips stutter, thrusts becoming desperate and uncontrolled: "So fucking good—you're so fucking good—" He comes with a broken groan muffled against your throat, holding you like you're the only thing keeping him grounded, his whole body shuddering as he spills inside you.

SAM WINCHESTER .ᐟ

Sam pulls you into his lap with those HUGE hands gripping your ass, spreading you open as he positions you over his cock. The moment he pulls you down onto him, you're gasping against his neck—he's so fucking BIG and the angle has him hitting spots that make your vision blur. "That's it, baby, let me hear you," he groans, and then he starts THRUSTING upward and you lose your goddamn mind. His hands grip your ass cheeks hard, using them as leverage to slam you down while he pounds up into you, and the wet sounds of skin slapping skin fill the room. You're moaning uncontrollably against his shoulder, your face buried in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent while he absolutely RUINS you. "Fuck, you're taking me so well—can you hear how wet you are for me?" The obscene squelching sounds make you clench around him and he groans: "That's it, squeeze my cock just like that." His pace is RELENTLESS, powerful thrusts that have you crying out with each one, your voice breaking: "Sam—oh god—Sam, I can't—" "Yes you can, baby. You're doing so good for me. Let me feel you fall apart." His fingers dig into your ass, spreading you wider, and the stretch combined with how deep he is makes you SCREAM against his skin. You're trembling, overwhelmed, your moans turning into desperate whimpers as he fucks you harder: "Please—please—" "I've got you. Let go for me." When you come, you're sobbing his name against his neck, your whole body shaking, and he keeps pounding through it, his rhythm getting erratic as he chases his own release. Suddenly his hands shift from your ass to your waist, gripping you TIGHT, pulling you impossibly closer as his thrusts become desperate. He buries his face in your neck, nuzzling against your skin, his breath hot and ragged: "Fuck—you feel so good—I'm gonna—" His voice breaks and you feel him shudder, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a deep groan muffled against your throat, holding you like he never wants to let go.

CASTIEL .ᐟ

Cas pulls you onto his lap with surprising strength, his hands immediately gripping your ass possessively as he guides you onto his cock. The intensity in his blue eyes is OVERWHELMING as he watches your face contort with pleasure. Then he starts thrusting upward and you're GONE—your face drops to his shoulder, moaning helplessly as he pounds into you with barely-restrained angel strength. "You feel—" his voice is wrecked, "—incredible. So tight around me." The wet sounds of your bodies meeting fill the air, obscene and raw, and you're whimpering against his neck: "Cas—oh god, Cas—" His grip on your ass tightens, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise as he uses his strength to slam you down onto him while thrusting up. The combination has you CRYING OUT, your voice breaking: "Too much—it's too much—" "You can take it. Your body was made for this—made for me." His usual composure is completely SHATTERED, replaced by this feral need as he fucks you harder. You're moaning uncontrollably, the sounds spilling from your lips without permission, your whole body trembling from the intensity. The friction, the fullness, the way he hits so DEEP—it's overwhelming. "I can feel you getting close. Let me feel you come apart." His voice is commanding and desperate at once. You're sobbing against his shoulder, pleasure building to an unbearable peak: "Cas, please—I need—" "I know what you need." He adjusts his angle and you SCREAM, coming so hard you see stars, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He groans your name, his thrusts becoming erratic and desperate, and suddenly his hands leave your ass to grip your waist TIGHT, possessively pulling you impossibly closer. He buries his face in your neck, nuzzling against your skin, and you feel his lips moving against your throat—he's PRAYING, broken fragments spilling out in a wrecked voice: "Please—Father, please—I can't—" His hips stutter, the feral angel intensity cracking into something raw and vulnerable as the prayer dissolves into desperate whispers: "Mine—you're mine—blessed—so perfect—please, please, I—" His voice breaks completely against your throat, spiritual and physical overwhelm colliding as he follows you over the edge, still gripping your waist like he'll never let go, his whole body shuddering as he spills inside you with a broken groan muffled against your neck, your name and fragments of Enochian prayers tangled together on his lips.