stelle

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ foreplay is her favorite thing in the world. she loves watching the way you react to her lips pressing against your skin, how you shiver beneath her touch, how your voice gets all breathy when you beg for her to touch you. it's a sight she's enamored with. she'd swear its like being a kid on christmas.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ when she's in a committed relationship, she's sending her girl random erotic pictures throughout the day. if you gone off to work before she wakes up, there's an image of her in bed waiting for you on break. sometimes she's in new lingerie brands have sent her. sometimes it's just her arm across her chest, very distracting messages beneath the photos. you get videos too. usually her breathy voice drifting through the speaker, telling you how you should come to her and take care of the mess between her legs.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she's a switch.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ if she sweeps at an award event, you're getting spoiled. usually on the way back to the hotel. she's got you holding her awards as her fingers drag through your slick folds, fingering you to the brink of your life. her free hand holds you open for her. if you even twitch to close your legs, she lands a little love tap to your thigh.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she's condescending. "look how needy you are for me." or "is this all for me?" or "look at the way you take my fingers. bucking your hips... it feels that good huh, baby?"

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ sabrina absolutely slaps your ass when she walks behind you. the blow gets softened by her laughter, big and loud and music to your ears.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she gives head like a pro. if she could, she's live between your legs. just slurping up your essence and letting it drip down her chin.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she has a drawer full of toys. vibrators, dildos, anything the heart could want.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she's open minded! if you want to try something, she's open to it. her philosophy is to try anything once. sometimes she finds things she really likes, while other times she finds things she doesn't.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she owns a strap. it's a light pink color and glittery.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she's okay with using the strap on you or letting you use the strap on her.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ her favorite position with the strap is prone bone!

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ her favorite kind of sex is when it happens early in the morning, when you're both still sleepy. and the sun is creeping in through the windows, bathing you in a soft golden light. it's magical.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she's into mirror sex. seeing the way you ruin her always turns her on. seeing herself, flushed cheeks and teary eyes, makes something in her mind switch off.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ when she eats you out, she spits onto your clit !!

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she'll add your moans into a song

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ if you can squirt, she makes it a mission to make it happen. she'll spend hours down between your legs if you let her. even if your legs are trembling, cunt puffy and overworked, she'll coo at you asking you to make a mess.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she's into overstim !

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she stuffs her fingers in your mouth. to keep you quiet, give you something to chuck on, or just because she wants to. it turns into a game seeing how far she can stick them down your throat.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ tribbing game is insane.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she'd put you in a collar. preferably something leather or gentle on the skin. the last thing she wants to do is to hurt her baby- well, not too much.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she loves her hair being pulled.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ when she's feeling submissive, she loves being bossed around. in any fashion.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she likes to watch. she'll sit herself in a chair or on the opposite side of h=the bed to watch you play with yourself. even from where she is, not touching you, she's in control. she can tell you when to stop. or where to rub and for how long.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she's an edger.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ she's into bondage ! handcuffs, ropes, spreader bars. the works. the deprivation of being able to run away or push something away is euphoric to her.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ would make a sex tape on one of those mini cameron cameras from the 2000s.

You were the more masculine one in the relationship. The one who'd stand next to Sabrina, arms crossed over your chest, ready to leap over a counter to gut anyone who dared look at your girl wrong.

Well, that's what people thought.

It was true to an extent. You would go to war for your girlfriend. That's a fact. She's the human version of sunshine, practically leaving a trail of flowers in her wake. But... you're not in 'charge'. You get too flustered.

Maybe it could be something to be ashamed of. Though, when it's just you and Sabrina, any creeping thought of shame is tossed directly out the window. Anyone lucky enough to be with her would melt beneath her touch. They could be made of steel and they'd still turn to a puddle. So, there was nothing to be ashamed of.

Especially tonight.

You're standing in Sabrina's dressing room, facing her vanity mirror. Tonight was the last night of Sabchella— as the fans were calling it. She'd spent nights working herself to the bone to prepare to put on an extravagant show. To say you were proud would certainly be an understatement.

Everything the woman touches is magic.

"Baby." Sabrina's voice drifts into your ears, soft like silk.

When your gaze flickers up to meet hers through the mirror, you almost choke. The air in your lungs gets knocked out. It's like getting hulk smashed—fast and harsh. Your pulse skips a beat, diverting from its natural rhythm. She looks like an angel.

She's wrapped in lace. White lace hugs her curves, soft skin on display. She looks like the prettiest flower in the garden. Elegant and ethereal.

Your jaw drops open. Though you're not in a cartoon, your sure your eyes bugged out of your head and they turned into heart shapes. A chuckle leaves her lips when you spin on your heel.

"Holy shit." You breathe out the curse, gaze raking over her outfit.

Your gaze isn't heavy. There's no discomfort that comes with it— quite the opposite, really. Sabrina's chest fills with adoration. You're looking at her like she'd taken the time to hang each star in the sky.

"You like it?" She grins, dimples popping.

She gives a little twirl, slowly turning to show off the back of the outfit. The fabric is cut for just enough of a tantalizing view of the curve of her bum. She leans her weight onto each foot separately, glancing over her shoulder. A mental note gets added to her mind to wear it in a different setting.

"I.." Your voice trails off, the sound of it paper-thin. It feels like you're standing on a mountain. The air was suddenly thin. It was almost painful trying to get a good gulp of air. "Sab, you look..."

Sabrina turns back around, eating up the space between you. She's across the room in three strides. For some reason, you back away. The sheer beauty before you was almost intimidating. But it's short-lived. Her vanity's wooden lip digs into your back, trapping you right where you are.

She's just a few inches in front of you. The scent of marshmallows invades your senses, the smell invading your mind like a delicious poison. It curls around your brain and makes you feel dizzy. There was no way you could make good decisions with her smelling so pretty. Looking it, too.

Especially when she's looking down at you.

The height difference is small—maybe two inches. But it seems astronomical in these moments. When her eyes are sparkling, she smells like a dream, and looks like an angel who's just descended from the Heavens. You feel dwarfed. That feeling only amplified your immediate reaction; to turn to putty in her hands.

"Sorry, hun. I couldn't hear you." She makes a fake pout, corners of her mouth dipping down. The gloss she's wearing shimmers. Her lips look so soft and inviting— like she's daring you to press yours against hers. "Wanna speak up for me?"

She's an evil woman.

Your hands scatter to the back of you, grasping at the wooden lip like an anchor. There wasn't any certainty your legs would be able to keep you upright if you let go.

Heat rushes up the base of your neck. There's no way your cheeks weren't beginning to dust a rosy hue. You were easy to crumble around her.

"Uh," A soft laugh leaves your throat, barely audible. "You look good, Sab."

She cocks an eyebrow.

"No!" You splutter immediately, shaking your head to correct yourself. "Great. I mean you look great— like a dream." Your voice drops an octave lower, gaze flickering around her face.

"I know." She grins, glancing down at your lips. "You gonna let me kiss you?"

It wasn't really a question.

Not one that needed to be asked, anyway. Her kisses were just a small fraction of things about her you'd drop everything for.

When you try to say yes, you find your tongue to be a lump in your mouth. Like it was so heavy you couldn't even open up. The dusty rose quickly goes through the color spectrum, from pink to a deep crimson.

Sabrina watches as you nod your head.

"That's my girl." She muses, moving her hand to cup your jaw.

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The tension between you and Dean is thick enough to cut through with a knife.

"Maybe if you weren't such a self-centered asshole," You grit, letting the motel door slam back in his face. "This wouldn't have happened."

Of course, you're referring to the ache settling in your muscles. There wasn't any pain anymore. Just that weird throb found in the absence of pain. It was from a ghost tossing you down the stairs— like some doggy chew toy. Not your favorite moment on a hunt.

Dean's ring clad hand catches the door before it can whack him, his teeth bearing. A snarl pulls at his lower lip. Anger boils beneath his skin, itching under his knuckles. He's stepping over the threshold of the door and tossing his keys onto the table with straight shoulders.

"Listen, sweetheart." Condescension wraps around his words, dripping from his lips like venom. "I ain't the one who got themselves thrown down the friggin' stairs."

The sound of your feet against the carpeted floor covers your frustration. They were muffled. Despite the pure rage stirring in your gut. Hell, you probably had a big bruise because of this idiot.

"Yeah, and I'm not the one who left even though they were supposed to be back up." The words are grumbled out under your breath.

Dean has no response to that. Just a sharp intake of breath, lodging halfway down his throat. His jaw clenches hard enough to crack bone. Bleached knuckles make fists at his sides. A twitch of his head allows him to hold his tongue.

"Whatever."

Your hands go to your jacket, pulling it off your arms. The action is slow. Your shoulder blades are screaming at you, begging you to stop the agonizing motion. Your eyes pinch in pain. A groan bubbles up in your throat that you will away. It was soreness that would hopefully ebb away after a shower.

The ache lessens when you stop bending the way you had been. Miraculous.

When you pad across the room, Dean glances over to track where you were going. Annoyance flares in his chest when he realizes you're headed to the bathroom.

"Not gonna ask if I have to piss?"

You don't miss a beat. "Nope."

Dean curses you under his breath.

The door shuts, clicking softly. There's an obvious atmosphere change. The bathroom didn't hold the charged energy the rest of the motel room held. Now, it was just you and peace.

Normally, you'd be privy to a bath that's been installed into the floor. This hunt you don't have that luxury. It's an old white basin above ground, rusting at the bottom and creeping up the sides like vines. A maroon curtain hangs over the edge, pushed to the left side of the tub.

It wasn't the worst conditions you've had to shower in.

At least it wasn't a hose.

You inwardly cringe remembering that terrible hunt. The motel's water had been cut off—and a hose turned into a shower. It was cold and.. just terrible. Shaking the memory off, you try and focus on the task at hand.

Showering. Replaying the argument and thinking up things you should have said. Then bed.

Easy.

Well, it should be easy. But your aching body had some better ideas.

Turning the shower on was a breeze. It was just a gentle flick of your wrist, fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the faucet. Adjusting the temperture was just as easy.

The challenge came as a shock.

It burned to raise your arms above your naval. Whenever you raised them any higher, it felt like fire was licking up your extremities. A dagger to the thigh hurt less than this.

Your breath catches in your lungs, a low groan escaping your throat. A curse falls from your lips.

There weren't any scissors in the bathroom. So, cutting your clothes off wasn't an option. Not that you had enough outfits to be ruining clothes. The other option was to just not shower. But you were pretty sure there were monster guts congeiling in your hair. Only one option remained.

You needed help.

The next problem reared its head: Dean was the only one out the door.

You didn't even have the option to (sweetly) force Sam to do it for you. For a second, you turn into a toddler having a tantrum, stomping your foot with a huff. This was the worst day of your life!

Would Dean even help? Did you want Dean taking off your clothes?

Heat rises in your chest. Embarrassment. Yeah, that's what that heat was from. You're stuck in a compromising position. No wonder you feel a little shy. It had absolutely nothing to do with the concept of Dean peeling off your clothes for you.

This sucked.

Like.. a lot.

Your fingers tap at your denim-clad thighs. The idea mulls around in your mind for another few moments. A bruised dignity for thirty minutes of warm happiness… or be deprived from the warmth. The decision was already made.

Turning on your heel, you reach out for the doorknob. There's a moment where you pause. The reason for it was lost on you—but your pulse sped up. You could feel the way it jumped in your throat. The door opened smoothly after that.

When your head pokes out from the door, you see Dean laying outstretched on his bed. One arm behind his head while the other was clutching a beer in hand. He was looking up at the ceiling like something interesting was on it.

"Hey." Your voice wavers at the start, quickly schooling itself.

He glances over at you. Dean's brows furrow, confusion blanketing his expression.

"I need help." Your throat works around a swallow.

"With what? Figuring out the water controls?" He snorts, rolling his eyes.

"No." The word comes out sharp, edged by the concoction of annoyance and fluster in your chest. "I can't… I can't get my clothes off. It hurts."

Dean looks at you like you have six heads.

His head even tilts a little like a dog would when they get confused. Viridian eyes survey your face. He's trying to analyze your micro expressions to see if you were screwing with him. But he doesn't find any artifice. Just a girl grimicing. Truth.

A stuttering noise leaves his mouth, it's throaty and baffled. Dean's mouth opens and closes. His throat works around a swallow.

"Then don't shower."

"Dean."

"Can't you wait for Sam?"

"Dean."

There's something in your voice that makes him soften slightly. Because this is a woman who would first die before asking him for anything. You'd never just ask him for something. Especially when it involved such an intimate setting.

The way your brows furrowed made him crumble. You were desperate.

He couldn't even refute the feeling. Showers were his holy grail after a hunt.

Fuck.

"Alright." He grunts, forcing himself to sit up. "Fine. FIne. Lets go."

His legs swing over the bed, feet falling to the carpeted floor. He walks over avoiding your eyeline the entire time.

Stepping from the threshold of the door, you give him room to come in. Steam is slowly filling the room. It was getting humid. The atmosphere was tight, and the impending actions about to be taken somehow made it worse.

It was getting harder to breathe.

Dean notices that your shoes and socks had already been kicked off. Good. Al least he didn't need to be anywhere near your feet.

"Turn around." He says gruffly, stepping behind you.

The scent of pine infiltrates your lungs. He smelled like the woods, earthy and entirely too strong for your liking. Dean's a damn heater too. His body head radiates from him and bleeds through your clothing.

You almost jump when his skin makes contact with yours.

His fingertips slide beneath the band of your shirt, fingers cool against your hip. Dean pauses for just a second. Just enough time for a breath to release from his lungs. His fingers curl around the fabric before slowly tugging it upwards.

It feels like the air had been punched out of your chest.

This was somewhere you'd never imagine you'd ever be.

Dean, the man who you thought would leave you for dead given the chance, undressing you because of an injury. This was no man's land.

He helps work the fabric over your head. Gently, he shushes you when it's time for your arms to come out from the confines. The fabric snaggs as it gets bunched up and pulled over your head.

It gets over your head and he tosses it to the floor. The shirt ends up in a ball on the floor.

Standing in front of him with just your bra on, it's easy to feel exposed.

His gaze is on you. Despite himself, he can't help but trace the way your shoulders slope. How your hair falls over your neck, soft strands grazing your skin. It hyptnotizes him. You just look so soft—despite his knowledge of how rough you can fight.

"The water's only getting colder." Your voice comes out tighter than you wish it had, frayed at the edges.

But you can feel his gaze on you.

He clears his throat, nodding to himself. "I know." He grumbles. "Makin' sure I don't hurt you, sweetheart."

The nickname surprises the both of you.

There's a moment where you both freeze.

Just listening to the whizzing of the running water.

Your fingertips tap against the tops of your thighs. "Uh… thanks."

Dean shakes it off. "Yeah."

His fingers go to your bra strap, gaze following. You'd be fully exposed once the article drops. Dean blinks, trying to avoid the weird feeling itching beneath his skin.

There's a softness in his movements. He unclips the bra with ease, letting the backs of it unfurl like a flower. His fingers slip the straps down next. You can feel his breath against your shoulder as he focuses on one strap at a time. There's a split second where you swear you can feel hesitancy.

Your back teeth grind. The tendon in your jaw works, being an easy physical tick to keep your anxiety at bay. Your gaze is trained on the curtain in front of you. Maybe if you stare at it hard enough, you can forget the fact that Dean freaking Winchester is taking off your bra. Leaving you bare boobs to the world.

Once it falls to the floor, your arms come up and cross over your chest. Having Dean in here was already overwhelming. Then adding on the fact he was the one who had to take off your clothes, you felt like a bug beneath a microscope.

"You got your jeans?" He asks after a minute, voice low.

His voice is next to your ear. If you focused hard enough, you'd probably be able to feel the vibrations of his chest.

"I'm fine. Thanks."

He nods at your words. Then after realizing you can't see him, he clears his throat. "Alright. Uh.. have a nice shower, then."

"Yep."

He stays rooted to the spot.

But then the motel door opens.

Dean gets brought back to the present, shaking his head and all but running to the door. It clicks softly as it closes.

Leaving just you inside.

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"I don't see why you have to do this." Dean mumbles, words barely audible.

He sits down on the edge of the motel bed as you had just instructed. The mattress dips beneath his weight, creaking softly as he gets himself comfortable. The collar of his jacket was already being moved by his fingers for you.

For someone protesting against it, he's quick to do as you say.

"You know why." Your words are tinged with a hint of annoyance. It was the same conversation each time you went out to a bar with him. "Some girls just can't keep their eyes to themselves."

Dean should have half a mind to find your jealousy seeped words to be off-putting. But, for whatever twisted reason, he can't. It's attractive. For someone to be so protective of him— ready to fight for him in the same way he would for anyone else. He liked being wanted.

His breath catches in his throat, Your fingers grasp onto his jaw, thumb and pointer digging into the soft flesh of his cheeks. His gaze snaps up to watch you leaning down. A haze glosses over his eyes. It's the same look he gets when he's beneath you, withering against your loving hands.

"You know I don't like to share." Your voice has dropped an octave, barely a whisper.

A shiver runs down Dean's spine. Being yours. Something you didn't want to share— to have all to yourself. Dean revealed in it.

A hum is muffled by your tight grip on his cheeks.

He lets you guide his head to the side, exposing the expanse of his neck. Soft skin that was littered with fading marks. Marks you had taken delicate time to leave on him. The fading purple mark against his pulse point was shaped like a heart. You'd have to renew that one. It was the prettiest.

"Please." Dean's muffled whine spills from his mouth, the word sounding slurred.

A smirk fights to tug the corner of your mouth upwards. From protesting to begging for it. Dean really was a walking contradiction— not that you'd ever complain. Watching him squirm for you was a Heavenly sight.

"Stay still f'me, baby."

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