Literary Wanders

You are horny, horny as hell. There is no other word for it. Yes, you know it isn’t exactly lady-like to use such a word but who cares? After being on the road hunting for a week, you are craving for just one moment alone, just one moment of relief. Granted, you tried to get relief while on the hunt, using the one night you went to the bar with the boys to attempt to pick up a random guy. But no such luck. Of course, they were both successful, leaving you even more sexually frustrated. You were planning on getting yourself off last night before bed but by the time you got home from the hunt, said goodnight to Sam and Dean, and slid between the covers, you were just too tired. You even tried, your hands roaming your heated body, every nerve on edge. But somehow, in the midst of it, you fell asleep and never reached the moment of climax you desperately need. But it is morning now. The bunker is quiet and you know you have at least an hour before you need to meet the boys down in the kitchen to discuss the next case.

As usual, you slept naked and you can feel the way the soft sheets caress your skin. Everything feels on edge, aroused. You feel the cotton slide over your nipples, instantly making them harden. You groan, needing release. Excited about this rare moment alone, you slide your hand down your body, swirling your finger briefly over your clit before returning to your breasts. You take your time as you give them a gentle squeeze, feeling their weight in your hands. You pinch your nipples, making them even harder. They have always been your most sensitive part. You gently circle around them, avoiding the most sensitive spot, teasing yourself. Then, you give each nipple a hard squeeze, causing you to call out as you almost come right on the spot.

Your body surging with pleasure now, you slide a hand back down to your entrance. Spreading your legs wider, you bring your knees up, opening yourself up, making you feel sexy and exposed. With one finger, you trace up and down your slit, shocked at how wet you already are. But you aren’t ready to fully give over to your orgasm yet. You continue teasing, sliding your hands up and down your thighs, occasionally brushing up and over your clit. When you can’t take it anymore, you begin circling your clit with one finger, using your wetness to glide over it. As you circle, you slide one finger inside, moving it in and out. It feels amazing. Already, you are close to finishing. You slide in one more finger, pumping them in and out as you continue circling that sensitive bundle of nerves. Then something makes your stop completely as your body stiffens in shock.

“Can I have another one?” you ask the bartender, lifting your empty shot glass.

He raises his eyebrow at you but turns wordlessly to grab the bottle and fill your glass again. You almost resent even the eyebrow raise. If a guy were drinking as much as you were tonight, he wouldn’t even question it. It’s only because you are a girl that he is questioning. Well, buddy, this is one girl who can hold her liquor. And after what you endured this afternoon, you are going to need a hell of a lot of it.

You down the shot and set the glass back down on the counter just as another customer sits down next to you. Glancing over briefly, you note he is a decently attractive man with a few days scruff covering his defined jaw, white t-shirt showing off his defined chest, and some nice butt hugging jeans. Of course, you also note the dark circles beneath his hazel eyes. Looks like he could use a few drinks too. As if reading your mind, he signals to the bartender, saying,

“I’ll have exactly what she’s having.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him gesture to the glassware in front of you. You admit it looks pretty bad. Ice is melting in one glass and another is half full. Add that to the empty shot glass and you guess you can understand the bartender’s reaction. Of course, that does draw your attention to the fact that the gentleman next to you just ordered the same thing but all at once.

“Bad day?” you say, knowing how cliche it sounds.

“You could say that,” he replies, downing the shot set down in front of him.

“I know how that goes.”

“I guess you do,” he chuckles, gesturing once again to the glasses, “T.C., by the way.”

You introduce yourself, shaking the hand he offers. Then conversation drops off and you both drink in silence for awhile. It isn’t until a tear falls down your cheek, catching you completely by surprise, that he speaks up again.

“You okay?” he asks cautiously.

“Yeah,” you reply, wiping away the errant tear, “just ex-boyfriend shit.”

“Ah,” he nods, knowingly, “so a man flirting with you tonight is probably the last thing you want.”

You can tell he is trying to lighten the mood and you smile at him, shaking your head.

“Nah,” you reply, “I’m not that kind of girl.”

He gives you a confused look, one almost bordering on the side of offended.

“Not the type of girl who turns into a man-hater once one boy screws her over,” you explain.

“Well that is very rational of you.”

You shrug.

“I have a brother. Plus I have had many guy friends. None of them dicks.”

He laughs again and returns to his drink, taking several long sips. As he does, he notices you finish off your current one. Immediately, he signals to the bartender to bring you another. And you send him a grateful smile.

“So,” he says, allowing you time to take your first sip of the fresh drink, “feel like talking about it?”

You take a moment to ponder his question, something he doesn’t seem to actually mind. To be honest, it would be nice to get some of this stuff off your chest. Who knows? Maybe you were overreacting, maybe you aren’t reacting enough. Either way, it would nice to talk about it.

“Sure,” you finally say, turning to fully face him.

“Where to begin,” you start, “Well, my boyfriend broke up with me today. Same old sob story of most girls at some point in their life. But, in some ways, my breakup is slightly different.”

You pause a moment, searching for the words to say. You aren’t sure what to tell him, what to leave out, what’s important, what’s not. He seems to read your mind and begins prompting you with questions.

“How long were you two together?”

“On and off for about six or seven years. It’s hard to really say because we have broken up a few times. But before today, it had been about three years since the last breakup so I thought things were finally settled between us. All the drama was over, we were finally taking things seriously.”

“Let me guess. He wasn’t feeling the same way?”

“You could say that. He broke up with me because he cheated.”

T.C. seemed to ponder this for a moment.

“What?” you finally ask.

“It’s just interesting, is all.”

“What is?”

“Well, most of the time when a guy cheats, it’s the girl who does the dumping.”

“True. But, most guys don’t knock up the girl they cheat with.”

“Oof,” T.C. says, “that’s rough. So he broke up with you because he got this other girl pregnant?”

“Essentially.”

“And let me guess, he told you he was just doing the right thing and making sure this baby has a father around?”

“You guessed it.”

“How noble of him.”

T.C.’s voice is laced with sarcasm causing you both to laugh.

“Yeah,” you sigh, taking another drink, “he even told me how he still loves me and how he wishes things were different.”

“Wow,” T.C. replies, shaking his head, “he sounds like a piece of work. Tell me he was at least good in bed.”

“What?!” you ask, sputtering on your drink.

“Well, honestly, he sounds like a jerk and I can’t understand another reason to stay with him except for him being amazing in bed.”

You are quiet for a bit, just sipping on your drink, deciding on whether or not to say what you are actually thinking.

“I wouldn’t really know,” you finally admit.

“You guys never?”

“No, we did. But not very often. I don’t know if he was good in bed because we never had enough sex for me to really find out. We hadn’t even shared the same bed for at least 7 months prior to the breakup. His choice. Not mine. Believe me.”

“Well that is a shame. If I had a woman like you, I wouldn’t let one day go by without showing her how much she means to me by making her scream in pleasure. Not that…I’m implying we…that wasn’t what…”

You stop his babbling with a hand on his shoulder.

“No worries. I know what you meant. And thank you. Honestly, if I had a guy like you, especially one who looks like you, I wouldn’t let a day go by either without waking you up in the best way possible.”

“Are you saying you find me attractive?” he asks you, a huge grin on his face.

“I might be,” you reply, grinning and taking a sip of your drink.

He acknowledges the compliment with a sip of his own drink, letting the moment linger between you until you break the silence.

“So,” you say, “enough about my sad story. What’s yours?”

The morning sunlight hits your face and you slowly roll over, attempting to turn away from its evil glare. Your head is pounding and your mouth feels like cotton but thankfully there seems to be no sign of the nausea that usually accompanies your hangovers. Shutting your eyes and pulling the covers over your head, your brain tries to go through the events of last night and figure out what happened. You remember a lot of wine, really nice wine to be fair, but definitely a lot of it. You remember all your best friends there, Peter, El, Mozzie. And you remember your wonderful boyfriend, Neal. You love Neal, a lot. But something is itching at your brain. Why does the term boyfriend suddenly feel so off, so…incorrect? Suddenly a memory shoots through your brain and you pop your head back above the covers. Slowly, as if you don’t really want to see what you are expecting to see, you lift your left hand about the sheets. And yeah, as you feared, on your ring finger, sits a beautiful wedding ring. The diamond glints in the sunshine, mocking you, as you lower your hand to the bed and try to figure out what to do.

Next to you, you feel Neal stir in his sleep, rolling towards you and wrapping his arm around your middle. He pulls you close to him as you instinctively turn on your side to let him spoon you. You’re not ready for him to wake up yet and are trying your best to act natural. But your slight movements wake him up anyway.

“Good morning dear,” he whispers in your ear, placing a line of kisses down your neck.

Normally, a move like this would have you melting into him instantly but his use of the word “dear” simply brings you back to the reality you are facing.

“Good morning,” you say back to him, trying to keep the shaking out of your voice.

He snuggles closer to you and you feel him drift back to sleep. Grateful for the reprieve, your mind sorts back through the memories of last night, trying to piece together what happened. You remember a lot of wine, you remember laughing with everyone, and then, oh god, you remember jokingly telling Neal that you two should get married. How could you be so stupid? You also remember insisting on the issue, then the room getting quiet, and Neal getting down on one knee and asking you to marry him. Right then. The rest of that night is slightly more blurry. You think you recall Mozzie marrying you, because of course he would have the authority to do that. You are pretty sure El was your matron of honor and Peter was Neal’s best man. There was a fancy dress, you aren’t sure where that came from, and Neal was already wearing a suit. And then you vaguely recall the vows, the kiss, and him slipping that ring on your finger. Then, of course, you somewhat recall more wine and definitely a wedding night to remember. At least that part was incredible.

But what about the rest? Are you really married to Neal? It’s not that you hadn’t thought about it before, obviously, or you wouldn’t have brought it up last night. But you didn’t want to bring it up under such circumstances. Honestly, you wanted him to be the first to bring it up. And why oh why were you so insistent? No wonder he proposed on the spot. Wine combined with your begging probably made him feel more than obligated. So what now? Where are you supposed to go from here?

Suddenly the bed feels too confining and you need some space from Neal. Gently, you slide out of the covers and make your way to the shower. The water heats up and you step beneath its welcoming warmth. As the shower begins to melt the hangover away, it allows you to think a little more clearly. You know that Neal is probably slightly hungover too and that isn’t really the best state for either of you to be talking about something so serious. So unless he brings it up, you decide that, at least for today, you will just go along with it and talk about what to do later. Your only worry is that he won’t simply want an annulment and will break up with you altogether. But that is an issue for tomorrow.

Feeling slightly more settled, you slip out of the shower and back into the kitchen. You are expecting to find Neal still asleep but instead he is at the stove, flipping bacon in a pan. His hair is mussed up from sleeping, and other activities, he is shirtless, and his grey sweatpants hang low on his waist, showing off every toned line of his hips. For a moment, you allow yourself to indulge in the fantasy that this incredibly sweet and sexy man is your husband. And a smile crosses your face. But the thought soon becomes too much and you shake it off, choosing instead to simply sit at the table and watch him.

“Morning beautiful,” he greets you, turning around to smile at you.

“Morning,” you reply, smiling back.

Moments later, he is setting a steaming plate of bacon and eggs in front of you. He turns briefly and adds a mug of coffee to the mix before joining you at the table.

“I thought we could use some solid food after all that wine last night.”

“Agreed,” you tell him, biting into a piece of bacon, “thank you for making it.”

“You’re welcome. Although I will admit I was more than tempted to skip breakfast altogether and just join my wife in the shower.”

He beams at you, raising his eyebrows in a suggestive way, and you return the look although you know your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. But Neal doesn’t seem to notice and continues eating his breakfast, pausing to reach over and take your hand in his. The gesture is sweet and makes you feel all warm inside but then your eyes fall to the ring on his finger and the warm mixes with cold, leaving you feeling like a storm is raging inside, about to explode. And you wonder how you will get through the day.

The jazz bar is crowded as you pay your cover charge and enter the room. Thankfully, the bar has quite a few open seats and you quickly select one, settling in and looking over the bottles of alcohol to ponder what you want. As if you really need to think about it.

“Sidecar, please,” you tell the bartender, ordering your go-to drink, “with bourbon.”

The bartender nods and walks off to fix you the drink while you look around the room. But you are soon interrupted by a male voice next to you.

“Sidecar with bourbon. Very sexy order. You know, most women, and most people for that matter, probably don’t even know what that is.”

You are in no mood to be hit on by sleazy New York men and quickly reply with,

“Well, I’m not most women.”

“I can see that,” the male voice replies.

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” you ask, finally turning towards the source of the voice.

“Nothing bad,” the man replies, hands thrown up in self-defense, “I meant it as a compliment. I mean, young woman, alone, wearing a nice dress, but not looking to pick up a guy, clearly. It just says different. In a good way.”

The man says nothing more, clearly feeling no need to further defend his answer as he turns back to his glass of scotch. You are still suspicious as you study him, trying to decide whether or not you are still upset. You take in his nice suit, well-trimmed facial hair, casual attitude, and come to the conclusion that he really didn’t mean it as an insult. You are probably just cranky from the apartment hunting and the stress of starting a new job.

“Thank you,” you finally say, taking a sip from the martini glass that the bartender just set down in front of you.

“What?” the man replies, turning to you again.

“Thank you…for the compliment earlier…about the drink order being sexy. Thanks. And, sorry I was so rude. I’m just tired but I didn’t meant to take it out on you.”

“No harm done,” he tells you, extending his hand for you to shake, “Tony.”

You introduce yourself and take another sip of the drink. The bartender definitely knows how to make a good sidecar.

“So,” Tony says, obviously looking to continue the conversation, “what brings you to New York?”

“What makes you think I don’t live here?”

“You just don’t have the look I guess.”

“Well, you’re right. Kind of. I just moved here. Like, just just moved here.”

“Oh yeah? What for?”

“Got a job as a sous chef at that new Asian fusion restaurant in Times Square.”

“Wow, a girl who orders sexy drinks and can cook. That’s the dream. Albeit, I am impressed with anyone who can cook since I have zero kitchen skills and usually end up burning the ramen.”

You laugh, smiling at him and feeling yourself relax for the first time that week.

“Well,” you tell him, “if you come into the restaurant, I will be more than happy to make you some and show you how it should really taste.”

He laughs at your joke and moves closer to you. Normally, this move would put you on guard but Tony seems like a nice guy, not the usual sleaze that hits on you, and it is nice to actually be chatting with someone outside of work for a change. The two of you sit and talk for awhile, ordering second drinks as the the topic of conversation moves to what he does, a businessman apparently, specializing in technology and customer relations. He asks how you are enjoying New York and recommends a few places for you to check out when you get a chance. As you finish the second drinks, a live band begins to play and soon sultry, bluesy music is filling the bar. Couples move from their seats onto the dance floor, holding each other close and moving with the music.

“Want to dance?” Tony asks you, getting off of his stool and extending his hand.

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You never get tired of the look of impatience that crosses Crowley’s face each time he returns and finds you still seated on his throne. Although nothing really beats the first time. You grin as you remember the way he stalked into the throne room, all cocky and full of swagger, only to stop short as he realized you were occupying his usual spot.

“Who the hell are you?” he growled, his anger quickly rising to his face.

“I’m Y/N. Don’t you recognize me? I worked for you for years.”

“You look vaguely familiar,” he conceded, “but if you work for me, then what gives you the right to sit on my throne?”

“Oh haven’t you heard?” you asked, rising slowly and walking towards him, “I run this place now.”

“Like hell you do!” he yelled, making a move towards you.

But the guards quickly stopped him, stepping protectively in front of you. You smiled and signaled to them that you were okay, sending them back to their places on either side of the throne.

“Actually, I do. You see…you’ve been gone so much, playing with your little human friends, that the power was really just up for grabs. I’ve been running things around here for awhile now actually. You would have known that if you ever cared to come back every now and then.”

Crowley was so angry, he sputtered nonsense out of his mouth as he searched for a solution to this new problem. But just then his phone rang. He glanced at the identity of the caller and promptly turned to leave again.

“This isn’t over,” he threw over his shoulder as he made his way to the door and you made your way back to the throne.

“Oh but it is,” you replied to his retreating back, “I think you’ll find an absent king is no real king at all.”

That was a while ago now and with every infrequent trip back to hell, Crowley continues to search for a way to regain his power and have you out of the picture. But the answer continues to elude him and you find it ever so amusing. Actually, you find him amusing, and, you must admit, quite sexy. It is more than just a few times your mind has wandered to what being with him would actually be like.  

“You’re still here, I see,” he grumps, approaching you.

“Of course. Where else would I be? I have my kingdom to run.”

“No, it’s my kingdom to run.”

“Are you ever going to let that go?” you sigh, “It’s such an old argument.”

“No!” he yells, walking even closer to the throne, “I will never let it go until I am once again king of hell.”

The guards beside you take a step forward but you signal them to remain at ease. You know Crowley won’t actually do anything. And, in fact, you meet his challenge this time, standing up and staring him straight in the eye.

“That will never happen, my dear Crowley. Because, you see, you don’t actually want it back. Oh sure, you were mad at first. But now some time has passed and you aren’t so sure you want your old title. In fact, I think you rather enjoy being free of the responsibility. Not to mention, I think you like seeing me on the throne. Don’t act like I haven’t noticed the way your eyes wander over me whenever you walk in the room. But, of course, you won’t ever do anything about these not-so-subtle feelings of yours. It would be admitting weakness.”

Crowley doesn’t say anything but you can see his chest heaving and you know you have him right where you want him. You take a step closer.

“The fact of the matter is, I happen to like you too. I think we could make a great team. But your pride won’t let you. You are so concerned about what everyone might think about you, giving into a woman, even though we are all aware of your little human-blood addiction, which I think I would be far more embarrassed about.”

His eyes widen and he watches you closely as you take another step towards him.

“So you pretend to hate me, play the strong, wronged, ex-king of hell. When deep down you know what it would be like for us to be together, for you to do the things I know you’re dying to do to me.”

You are less than an inch away from him now. His lips part slightly and he doesn’t back away as you move your face towards him.

“But I guess I could be wrong,” you tell him, leaning in towards him, “maybe you wouldn’t like having me at all.”

“And why is that, darling?” he manages to breathe out.

“I’m not one of your precious Winchesters.”

“That’s the last bloody time I help the Scooby gang,” your boyfriend, Spike, grumps as he walks in the front door of his crypt.

You have the night off work and are simply lounging in his chair, watching something brainless on television. It always bothers you to see your man so upset like that, knowing how stressed he can get sometimes. But you think you have a way of making him feel at least a little better that night. Smiling at him, you immediately get up from the chair and indicate that he should sit down. He does so willingly and you walk over, pouring him a glass of Jack Daniel’s and bringing it over to him.

“Thanks pet. You’ve no idea how much I need to get this night out of my mind.”

“Well,” you say, sitting down on his lap, his arm going around your waist, “I might have a few ideas on how to do that.”

Leaning in, you place gentle kisses on his neck, grinning against his skin as you hear his breath catch and a light groan escapes his throat. Your mouth continues its path up to his ear and you gently take the lobe between your teeth, biting lightly, causing his hips to buck of their own free will.

“Keep that up,” he tells you, turning his face to bury in your neck, “and I won’t be responsible for what I do next.”

You can hear the smirk in his voice and know that this is just the moment you have been waiting for all night. With a wicked smile, you bite down a little harder on his ear.

“Maybe I want to see what happens next,” you whisper to him.

He sets his now-empty glass down on the table next to him before scooping you up in his arms, causing you to squeal as he carries you swiftly over to the opening that leads down to the bedroom. With the ease of a cat, he jumps through the hole, holding you tightly against him as he lands lightly on his feet.

“Well you asked for it,” he tells you, bringing you over to the bed.

He drops you on it, immediately following you down as his mouth meets yours, his tongue pressing past your lips to explore. His kiss tastes like whiskey and you never find yourself sick of the way his mouth feels when it is against yours. You grab at his black leather jacket, pulling him closer to you and at the same time trying to push it off, wanting him less clothed. His fingers tangle in your hair and you hear him moan against your mouth, making you want him even more. Eventually, you push his jacket off and immediately follow it with his button up shirt and t-shirt. You pull away from his mouth, backing off just enough to graze your eyes over his trimmed physique; you will never tire of seeing him this way.

Grinning at your obvious appreciation of him, he leans in, running his teeth lightly over the skin of your next. You even feel his fangs come out briefly, sending a shiver through your body. As he kisses your neck, his hands make their way to the edge of your shirt and he slowly lifts it over your head, revealing a red lace bra beneath.

“This is new,” he says, taking a moment to appreciate the alluring way it accentuates your breasts, “but it really must go.”

He smirks and reaches behind your back, undoing the clasp and tossing the garment gently into the corner. With your chest now exposed, his lips quickly latch on to one of your nipples, drawing it firmly between his teeth and causing your back to arch and a loud groan to leave your throat. Not saying a word, he moves to your other nipple, giving it the same treatment as the first until it is wet and hard, begging for even more touch. A plea Spike eagerly fulfills as his mouth finds yours again and his hands slide up past your stomach to clutch your breasts in his hands.

Your hips thrust upwards and you can feel how hard he already is, straining against the front of his pants. Now, normally, you would unzip those pants, take him in your palm, and make him cum all over your hand. That is what you have been doing for the last month or so. And he would willingly reciprocate, fingering you until you are screaming his name. And it’s not that you haven’t enjoyed either of these activities. And you couldn’t be more grateful that Spike has respected your decision to wait, especially since you are a virgin. But you are ready for more now. And you know he is too. It almost happened last night. He and you were getting hot and heavy in the bed, panting and moaning as hands wandered and tongues slid over each other in a search for dominance. Then Spike’s mouth began following his hands, down past your breasts, to your stomach, to the edge of the skirt you were wearing. And he was just about to slip it off when he stopped himself. At the time, you were both relieved and disappointed. But that mix of feelings soon turned into all disappointment and you began thinking about what you wanted from him.

In fact, you have been thinking about it all day. You love each other; you have both said as much. And it is clear to you that he isn’t using you or just trying to sleep with you. Spike is a straight-shooting guy and not the type to make a girl his prize or goal or anything like that. And he has never pressured you, always letting you lead where things go physically. That means the world to you. Which is why you think you are ready to move beyond simple hand stuff. And tonight is just the night to do so.

YOUR STORY ISN’T STUPID

YOUR STORY IS GOOD

YOUR STORY MIGHT NEED REVISIONS

BUT NOT RIGHT NOW

I’m sorry

I didn’t

realise

that 

was 

a

bad

thing

so sorry

i can’t hear you

over the sound

of me crushing my enemies

was looking

a little

white

so here you go

bodies hit

tha floor

The front door slams against the wall, startling you from your book.  You are in the bedroom, reading, just waiting for your boyfriend, Sam Winchester, to come home. It has been weeks since you’ve seen him and you are eager to wrap your arms around him again, to kiss him, to just have him hold you all night. But you know that slam of the door all too well. You know the angry footsteps in the hall. You know the thunk of his jacket as it hits the wall. It was a rough hunt.

He storms into the bedroom and you feel your heart go out to him as his eyes dart around the room. Whatever he just hunted with his brother has him spooked, stressed. Then his eyes fall to you. And some of the tension eases from his face. It is something only you would notice, the way his shoulders fall ever so slightly. The way his fists unclench. The way his eyes release some of their anger. And the way they fill with lust. It is like this every time he gets back from a really bad hunt. And you know what is going to happen next, the thought of it immediately sending heat to your core.

*killing everybody saying girls like marvel because only the actors are extremely hot, have you seen the female cast of the MCU dude? you’d be fangirling too, and #SorryNotSorry, but Netflix’s series are amazing and enjoyable for everyone*

@ursulaismymiddlename