Call me Heathen. INFP. 18+ Blog. My Tumblr Experience Pretty Much Revolves Around Supernatural. dean!Girl. sam!Curious. Masterlist Mobile Masterlist Much Amused on AO3. Tags Closed
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I’m not saying anything else about AI and the use of it on tumblr. But perhaps learn to engage with everything you read. Reblogging is so helpful for us. Comments. Asks. ENGAGEMENT lets us know that you like what you’re reading. Because right now it all feels futile after so much work.
Popular authors that I’ve seen get thousands of notes are now barely getting anything that feels like it’s worth it. It’s not entitlement either, you don’t see our side where people message us, excited about fics or ideas, but then there’s barely engagement.
Stop expecting authors to pull out 100k words in a week. There are fast writers— I am one— but there are amazing writers that have a different timeline. AND THAT’S OKAY TOO.
AGAIN. PLEASE JUST ENGAGE WITH EVERYTHING. The like button only does so much.
Summary: Russell's been coming to your clinic for months now – always with a charming smile, food in his hands, and a question on his lips. You've always successfully thwarted his advances and stuck stubbornly to your professionalism till one night, he finally makes you listen to your heart.
Warnings: 18+ due to language and smut (oral f, fingering, cardiophilia 🤍), fluff
Word Count: 1.8k
Posted on Patreon June 7, 2026
A/N: Written for one of my sweetest readers and probably the first one who ever commented on a story of mine five years ago. You're one of the biggest reasons I'm still here, and I know tons of other writers in this fandom feel the same way about you!!! Cheers to you! You fully have my heart! @deans-spinster-witch 🤍🤍🤍
Main Masterlist || RS Masterlist || Tag List
You’re already half in love with the rich and deep timbre of his voice – not that you’d ever admit that to him (or anyone else for that matter). Call it professionalism or even self-preservation because every time Russell Shaw strolls into your VA clinic, you feel like you’re slowly losing your grip on sanity.
And it’s not just the voice, either. No, it’s that damn shit-eating smile that would make even nuns sin.
The former soldier has been coming into the clinic for a few months now for sleep therapy sessions – always with a grin and always with a flirtatious glimmer in his mesmerizingly green eyes. You’ve never taken his flirting seriously and always giggled off his advances with heat in your cheeks. But the past few weeks, he’s upped his ante and started bringing you experimental takeout food, asking you out more directly. You’ve always said no, though. And not even that – you usually don’t even take him seriously when he says stuff like that at all.
Why?
Because a guy as handsome and charming as Russell surely couldn’t be interested in someone as simple as you. You’re just a nurse who’s used to eating vending machine trail mix for dinner, drinking awful hospital coffee, and smelling like antiseptic. It’s not exactly what most people would call sexy or desirable.
Tonight, it’s four minutes past eleven o’clock, which means Russell is fashionably late again. Probably because he stopped somewhere to bribe you with more food he either got from a gas station, a questionable food truck, or an obscure friend’s kitchen.
Last week, it was candied jalapeños and a thermos of coffee so strong it could power a freight train. The week before, he brought a peach hand pie from a Mennonite market and something called ‘midnight curry burritos.’
Tonight? You’re bracing yourself.
“Evenin’, Nightingale,” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe with a plate in hand, a smile on his face, and a soft glint in his eyes that never quite leaves.
“Russell,” you sigh – one part exasperation, two parts affection. “You’re late.”
“I was delayed by destiny.” He lifts the plate with a wink that would make your knees buckle if you weren’t sitting. “Beignets. Still warm.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Bribing me with fried dough and powdered sugar?”
He grins broadly. “Tell me it doesn’t help.”
Damn it. It does. You hate how it does.
Still, you give him a flat look, trying not to show the little flicker in your chest that always sparks the moment he walks in.
He saunters closer and sets the plate on the counter in front of you. “I’m just tryin’ to spoil you a little.”
“Russell.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t flirt with me.”
He pretends to look wounded, which makes you want to roll your eyes. “I don’t flirt – I court.”
“You’ve asked me out eight times,” you point out and lead him straight to the examination room.
“Nine,” he corrects with a smirk as he follows and closes the door behind him. It’s routine by now. “I asked you out on that sticky note I left in the breakroom, too. Remember that one?”
“Right,” you snort, shaking your head. "You drew a stick figure of yourself holding a flower.”
“With a heart. Don’t forget the heart.”
You roll your eyes for real this time, picking up the clipboard to start his check-in. “You’re lucky I don’t report you for harassment.”
“You’re lucky I don’t report you for theft,” he counters.
Your brows quirk. “I’m sorry – what?”
“You’ve been stealing my breath since day one,” he replies cleverly. Then his irresistible smile kicks in again, which is way too charming for his own good.
You let out a long, deep sigh.
“I know that one was bad,” he quips. “But I promise I’ve got better material. Just say yes to dinner and you’ll hear it all.”
You turn away before he can see the color rising in your cheeks. “Shirt off.”
“Now we’re talking,” he mutters with a grin, tugging the black fabric up and over his head.
And just like that, you’re confronted with the ridiculous reality that Russell Shaw is unfairly built. Broad chest, warm golden skin dusted with freckles, scars like constellations across the canvas that is him. You try not to stare and ogle him like he’s God’s greatest gift to mankind, but you’ve got a stethoscope in your hand and barely any willpower left.
You place the bell against his sternum and inhale.
Professional. Stay professional.
Truly, that’s been your mantra for months now. Surely, a guy like him only flirts because he can. It’s like second nature to him. But the beat beneath your fingertips is already quick.
lub-dub lub-dub lub-dub
His heart gallops like it’s trying to outrun enemy fire. And God help you – it’s a fucking beautiful sound. It’s raw and real, like something primal is trying to claw out of his chest.
“You always listen longer than you need to,” he says suddenly, his voice softer than before.
You freeze imperceptibly for a half a second. Shit. Did he really notice that?
“I’ve noticed,” he adds casually, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.
“I–I’m just checking for arrhythmia–”
“No, you’re not.”
Well, damn. Now your own heart is beating like it’s trying to outrun enemy fire. Then, he lifts his large hand and gently curls his fingers over your wrist.
And fuck, before you can process it, he leans forward and presses his lips to yours.
A kiss. Slow and damn deliberate. It’s not demanding. It’s not rushed. It’s the kind of kiss that cradles you in softness, somehow still crumbles walls, and rearranges fucking stars into new constellations unknown yet to mankind.
Your heart jumps in your chest so hard the stethoscope nearly flies out of your hand.
He pulls back just enough to smile a little, watching your face closely as he guides your hand back to his chest – right over his pounding heart.
thump-THUMP thump-THUMP thump-THUMP
“See what you’re doing to me?” he murmurs.
And it hits you – he’s not flirting anymore. He’s showing you. This isn’t a game to him. His heart tells the truth.
You close your eyes, your breath stuttering.
Then his fingers slip around the stethoscope, guiding it from his chest to yours. He slips the earpieces into his own and leans in closer, lips brushing your ear.
“Now let me hear you.”
And he does. He listens – carefully and reverently.
And God, your heart is racing wildly and unapologetically, thundering against your ribs like it’s begging to be finally felt.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “That’s the sound I want. God, listen to you. That all for me?”
You whimper – literally. Man, you’re going to die of embarrassment.
But before you can squirm away into the deepest, darkest hole in the floor, he leans in again, kissing down your neck now, murmuring between kisses, “You sit here every night listening to me. You think I wouldn’t notice how you breathe differently? How your cheeks get hot? Your hands always linger right here.” He presses his palm flat to your chest, right over the cool bell. “Like you never want to stop.”
Your thighs squeeze together instinctively before his eyes drop, gaze darkening.
Then, in a smooth, almost graceful motion, he lifts you, spins you, and sets you down on the edge of the exam table. You gasp, your scrubs shifting slightly, body adjusting to the new angle.
He kneels between your thighs, right on the linoleum, forest green eyes solely locked on you like you’re the only damn thing that matters in this world. “Still think I’m not serious?”
You open your mouth, but no fucking sound comes out.
Because his hands? His hands are already on your hips, slow and steady, drawing your scrubs and underwear down with one fluid movement. He doesn’t break eye contact. Not once. And every inch of skin he reveals is worshipped.
“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he says. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
You can barely breathe as his lips brush your knee, then the inside of your thigh. He’s still listening to your heartbeats like music in his ears.
Kiss.
Thump.
Another kiss. Higher. Slower. Warmer.
Thump-THUMP.
“Heart’s racing,” he says, grinning like the devil. “You like me down here, huh?”
You choke on a laugh that melts into a moan as his mouth finally meets the ache between your thighs. He starts slow, agonizingly so, tongue gentle and reverent all at once, each stroke on your clit a new promise.
Honestly, you might be experiencing a heart attack at this point. Luckily, you’re already in a hospital.
Then he speaks again, breath hot against your core. “You know what I’m gonna do?” he murmurs wickedly, two fingers sliding inside your wet pussy without resistance while he still listens. “I’m gonna make you come to the sound of your own heartbeat. I want you to listen to yourself. To what I’m doing to you.”
And just like that, he swaps the stethoscope again, fits the earpieces back into your ears, and places the bell over your chest.
Your heartbeat explodes. It’s fucking deafening.
thump-THUMP thump-THUMP thump-THUMP
Every lick. Every breath. Every teasing pass of his tongue or flick of his fingers – your body, your heart responds like a symphony composed just for him.
He hums against you, the vibration making your thighs tremble like Mount Vesuvius before it took down Pompeii.
“Let go for me,” he says, deep voice velvet-thick. “Let me feel it.”
And Jesus fucking Christ, you don’t need to be told twice. When you come and fall apart, it’s with his name on your lips and your own heart roaring in your ears like a drum of holy thunder.
THUMP–THUMP–THUMP–
He licks you clean, takes every drop of you like it’s the best thing he ever tasted – damn the experimental food he’s brought you for weeks on end.
Afterward, he eases you down gently, kissing his way up your shaking body slowly and goddamn thoroughly. He presses his lips to your collarbone, your throat, your cheek, and then finally to your mouth again.
This time, you kiss him back like you damn well mean it – because you fucking do. God, you do. Word by word. Nerve by nerve.
“You gonna say yes to dinner this time?” he quips, grinning against your lips.
You exhale a breathless laugh. “I think I’d be an idiot not to.”
And Russell? He grins widely, proudly, and smugly in the way only he can.
“Told you. You gotta listen to your heart,” he says with a wink. And because he’s the worst, he adds, “Next time, we’re doing this at my place. With two stethoscopes.”
And your heart skips another beat.
Thump.
Hope you guys enjoyed this heartfelt little one-shot 😉
We're returning to our regular witchy programming next Friday with another interlude of Glitch 🔮 to see what our boys have been up to! Here's a reminder of the schedule for the next few weeks:
Holy hell. I'm dead. 🥵 That was the hottest thing I've read in a LONG time. Hit all my buttons. Pretty please tag me if you ever decide to give us part 2 with 2 stethoscope at Russell's place! 🙏🏼 Thank you for sharing this.
And now I'm supposed to just go back to my day like this never happened? 😜
✧･ﾟ:it looks good on him. The ease of a life without danger, the peace of a world where he sleeps through the night with you tucked into his chest, then wakes up in the morning and makes a real breakfast, in a real kitchen, with a real job and a sense that this isn’t going to end.
✧･ﾟ:there are parts that he resisted at first. The hair was an issue at first. He’d shave every morning with the same military focus he’d had on the road, and make you cut it in the bathroom the same way you used to in the bunker. But then he’d sleep in, snoring and cuddling you like a teddy bear, and the stubble grew, and grew, and grew. You didn’t remind him of the haircuts. He glared at himself in the mirror sometimes and rubbed his jaw, but then you kissed right over his beard and ran your fingers through his hair, and he melted in a second.
✧･ﾟ:“i look old,” he grumbled one morning, holding you over him in bed. You giggled and kissed the tip of his nose. He scowled, squeezing your sides. “I ain’t joking, baby, I look like I’m damn near fifty-“
✧･ﾟ:“that’s because you are near fifty, De,” you murmured. “And I think you look very handsome.” You pet the top of his head, and he leaned into your touch. “Distinguished.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” he grunted, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your wrist, and you raised your brows.
“I think it means I like it, dummy.”
And that had made him falter. He’d looked at you like he wasn’t sure to trust it. And you knew he didn’t. He’d spent too long, thinking comfort was the one sin he wasn’t allowed to afford. So you’d just kept smiling. You kissed him deeply, and he melted, cupping your face and rolling you over with a satisfied half-grunt.
Maybe he was getting old. With the gain of a real grocery store down the street, he’d turned into a little of an obsessive housewife in the kitchen, and you were being served new dishes every single night. Without the hunting, he gained a little weight, but the mechanic work meant he gained muscle with it. You catch him frowning at the mirror after a shower, and you’re sure a part of him doesn’t recognize the man in the mirror.
But you do. It’s the same man you loved when he was sharp and rough like sandpaper. The same man who’s heart you had to spend years unwrapping from the barbed wire, who you loved with every sting and groveling apology and mistake. He seems to think you’re going to leave, now that he’s gone all fuckin’ soft.
You just count it as a long winter that’s thawed. A spring that took a while to bloom, and now, a rich, eternal summer. And you’re not about to run, right when you can start reaping your rewards.
He feeds you better than you’ve ever fed yourself. He holds your hand in the house, like he’s trying to put some claim on you over the walls. He laughs loudly at stupid parties you have to attended, and charms all your neighbors, and stares at babies and cribs when he thinks you’re not looking, his fingers digging into your hip with a quiet, long buried longing.
The nightmares still come, but he slowly talks about what he can. He doesn’t go to therapy—that was a long shot anyway—but he lets you drag him to the doctor, and takes his stupid heart meds with a grumble and kiss of your forehead, as if you’re the only reason he’s bothering to keep himself upright and kicking. He makes friends that aren’t his brother, and doesn’t even fight with Sam anymore. He drinks a little less and drives a little slower. He knocks out watching TV, but still manages to wake up long enough to carry you to bed.
And bed alone is a reason to love him like this, just a little extra. A sliver that grows from the everything about his handsome, gentle face being inches from yours, the scent of his evergreen aftershave surrounding you better than any drug, massive, calloused hands tracing over your body like, even after all this time, he still finds himself awestruck at your beauty.
“My girl,” he rasps against your lips, and you believe it.
You believe it with the way you’re all but consumed by him, drowning you in his weight and heat. Thick biceps keep your legs shoved apart when he buried his face against your drooling pussy, his beard scraping and tickling your inner thighs. His tongue works you open and flicks against your clit. You tug his hair with a whimpering pleas, and he moans, deep and rich and hungry. Your eyes roll back in your head, the vibration against your cunt almost too much before you’re coming apart on his face, and he doesn’t let up until you’re trembling and gasping for air.
Dean kisses you with your arousal still clinging to his beard, and sinks into your cunt with low, strained growl of need. You hug him tight, barely able to do anything but take it. The girth and size of him was always right on the better side of too much. Now, with the extra strength, you fall into a mess with barely a few strokes. Dean handles you like a doll, flipping you onto your stomach and dragging your ass up in the air, folding his body over yours and kissing your open, gaping mouth.
“So fuckin’ perfect, baby,” he grunts, cock drilling into that gooey, needy spot with every stroke. “Takin’ it so good f’ me, my sweet girl-“
“De- Deean-“ You whine. “Please- Need to cum- Need it so bad-“
Dean grabs your neck with one hand and turns your head, kissing you deep and messy. He splays his hand over your tummy, pressing up into where his dick is splitting you in half, and the extra pressure is too much to bear. You cum with a scream, and Dean buries himself deep inside you with a low, rough groan. Sticky ropes of cum paint over your walls, your thighs, the mattress as it dribbles out of your over-stuffed cunt.
Dean kisses you slowly, in no rush to clean, in no rush to move. He rolls onto his back and you curl into his side, fitting against him perfectly and blinking up at him with worshipful, glossy eyes. He swallows, brushes the hair from your brow, and takes your chin between his fingers. He tips it up and kisses you slowly, savoring every time, satisfied hum from your lips.
Sometimes he still thinks he doesn’t deserve this, but he’s certain that you do. And if you’re happy with him like this—bigger and mushy and comfortable—then you can’t possibly be wrong. For the first time in his life, he really has all the time in the world. And he doesn’t plan to waste a second of it. Not when he has you.
✦Dean Masterlist - Main Masterlist - read on AO3!✦
✦Author's Note: request! i would give him such a happy lifeeee put me in coach✦
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
pixelskylines
2087
amandla
snowghoul
discoholicmusic
turnnoffyourmind
blakekathryn
prguitarman
