#greaseandzeppelin

/ fAOjisdGLKsjflajsdg

Nicely done.

Send me a ❅ to see what my muse would get yours for Christmas.

It's different with you, you know. It wasn't supposed to be, hell, this was never even supposed to happen. I'm no stranger to sex, but the word doesn't even fit with what we do. Even after a hunt, when you're coiled too tight and need it rough - when the headboard chips the paint at the wall and dents the plaster, when it's less kissing and more biting, when there's more blood than affection, when you score red welts down my skin and leave bruises that'll ache for days. Even then, it's not sex, it's not fucking. It's something else entirely. 

I take care of you, and you take care of me. I get to watch you bend beneath me, utterly pliant and willing - begging in the way you arch for me, the way your fingertips dig into my shoulders. You have to find an anchor, to hold on and keep yourself steady and grounded in the moment. And that, that's the most beautiful thing of all. What am I good for, if not to remind you there's better out there than what we do? That I'm waiting at home, waiting to worship with mouth and hands until you fall apart beneath my touches. Until you forget your own name let alone that you should stifle the sounds lest we wake the neighbors. But damn, I'm glad you don't. I love to hear them, y'know. The way my name trails off, usually into a moan or one of those deep-throated growls you give when you're pissed with the extended foreplay. 

And when we switch... you don't realize it. You don't realize the way you look at me, the way you're never too rough. As if i'll break. As if i'm someone to be cherished and cared for. You're almost reverant in your touches, Vin. I don't need to ask, I don't need to hear the words, because you show it every time. You stare at me, like I'm some sort of-- some sort of /gift/ and it's insane. But when I need it rough, you give me that too. And somehow, even with me pinned and biting bruises and claims into my skin, you still make me feel cared for. There's never enough though, is there? We can spend days in bed, with the sheets all but ripped from the countless rounds, with the dresser stained and with knees too familiar with shower tile to bruise any further, with the kitchen table having a broken leg due to getting too rowdy atop it - we can continue that, but it's never enough. 

Send me § and my muse will react to yours pushing them against a wall and kissing them.

[Nothing and I mean — nothing — is fair when it concerns Dean Winchester, just saying.]