#mortitian.doc

Fuckckckckc just. The rack on that man. Bet he fucks hard. Esp if he hates you or finds you annoying.

You're just some fucking brat. First year college student mucking about, sniffing where you shouldn't be. Looking for some 'scoop' for Beacon Hills University's newspaper. They have a newspaper?? Whatever. You're in the preserve, clearly out of your depth as you trip and stumble over nearly every damn root and branch. Honestly, are you trying to snap your own neck?

You have the gall to get snippy with him when he, rightfully mind you, tells you that you're not supposed to be mucking about in the preserve at buttfuck AM.

Do you care?

No, not at all.

So you whine and kick your feet, resisting him in every way as he all but drags you to your car.

A bit hot, but like. Fucking look at him.

And he's irritated. And pent up. So damn pent up. And fuck, the sweet twinge your scent takes on when he grabbed you by the waist to shove forwards towards your car.. damnit. Fuck. Whatever. He's done.. marginally worse.

Usually when he's up in some guys guts it's to rip them out.

For you, he supposes he could just... rearrange them.

And the way your scent sweetens when he bends you over the hood of your car, well. Derek won't say no to a bit of relief.

Still mouthing off but you shut up quickly when you feel the glide of that Girth between your cheeks..

Dry coughing permeated Bobby singer’s house as you sat hunched over, ignoring Sam’s incessant fussing as he tried to get you to lay down. “fFffuck no, man… I’m so congested I might suffocate and pass if I lay down,” you groan, throat hoarse and voice shaky as you tried your best to glare at him. Sam just stares at you with that look on his face — the one with the pursed lips, raised brows and large eyes — crossing his arms. “You wouldn’t be in this scenario if you had just stood under the bus stop and not three feet away and in the rain for ten minutes.” You just grumble, accepting the tea he offers you. The steam warms your sinuses, providing some relief as you sip at the chamomile and honey goodness. He pulls the mug away while checking the time, placing the tea down on the coffee table as he gets up. “Where‘re you going..?” you call out to him. He returns shortly with a grin, shaking an orange bottle. “Your meds! Left them in the other room.” He shakes a couple pills into his palm, returning the rest as he hands you a tablet of paracetamol. You take it bregrudgingly, placing it on your tongue as Sam lifts your water bottle to your lips, swallowing down the tablet and water. Only once Sam’s forced at least a cup of water down your throat did he relent, placing a pillow by your back, pressing a kiss to your temple, laughing as you bat at him weakly.

You break into another fits of coughs as Sam goes to fetch you your book. By the time he returns, you’re standing, swaying on your feet as you hold your water bottle, staring blankly into space. Sam calls out your name, guiding you back to the couch with a laugh. When you finally sink into the cushions, you feel the lethargy truly kick in. Sam, as always, notices. He presses you down and you finally relent, limp as he covers you with your favourite blanket. “Just sleep, alright? I’ll wake you for your meds in four hours.” You nod, head lolling to the side as he pulls off your glasses. “Kay… Love you, Sam..” “Love you, too.”

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n/a

Being Crowley's, in body, mind, and soul, meant a lot of things. It meant luxury, taste, and culture many dream of experiencing and could never afford to even glance at. Expensive fabrics that hugged or drapes over your form with tailored precision; wines and drink that have such unique flavor profiles older than your great grandparents; delicacies and treats made with an artistry reserved for the elite; Servants to assist your every movement, never letting you strain even a finger. All things Crowley provides with excess, as if it was something normal, the bare minimum, all in exchange for your devout loyalty and belonging. As long as you are his, he is yours.

And you're his as you lay before him in the old money luxury suite he's gotten for you on a golden altar, bare with nothing but a fluffy white hand towel covering your delicate parts as Crowley uncaps a bottle of his favourite whiskey; Craig Scotch. He trails a hand up your pelvis, stopping at your navel as he tips the bottle, cool liquid dribbling onto your skin leaving it glistening and wet. He places the whiskey onto a nearby table, hand drifting down to your thigh as his tongue presses flat against your lower stomach, trailing up to your navel before slurping up the liquid that pooled in your belly button as he gazed up at you with intensity.

You fail to hold back the full body shiver as he picks up the bottle once more, his usual, sleazy grin returning to his features as, once more, he tips the bottle, whiskey once more pouring over your skin. He watches with barely contained lust as he saturates your flesh with the scotch, placing the bottle down once more. The whiskey's dripping down your chest, Crowley's eyes watching each amber bead of alcohol with sharp eyes. He cups your jaw, thumb idling on your lower lip as he guides you to sit up as he pours more of the scotch over you, liquid soaking the white fabric that covered your cock. With a glance you part your lips and he pours scotch into your mouth, pulling the bottle lip away to replace it with his own, swallowing down both the whiskey and your taste until you're both panting and flushed, you moreso than him.

Already you were feeling the alcohols effects as he away, swaying as he pulled you in for another messy kiss; The only thing stabilizing you, the hand on the back of your neck as he pulls you in closer, tongue swiping against your bottom lip. You cling to him as he kisses you silly, gripping onto his suit vest, chest to chest. Then there's a pleasurable grip around your length and you're moaning, high and whiny as he strokes you slowly, trailing his mouth from your lips to your neck, his voice low as he cooes words dripping with honey into your soul, the words muddled and incomprehensible to your mind yet they fill you with warmth all the same.

Your orgasm is slow, delicate, teetering on mind numbing as Crowley brings you pleasure in the way only he can, memorizing every single nerve he knows that will bring you to climax. And as you come down from your peak, as slow and delicate as the crescendo of your orgasm, Crowley's already got you in his arms, a hand on your hip as his other massages your balls, pressing kisses to your neck, littered with hickeys you dont remember him giving you, but knowing they're all his anyway. And when you two bathe together later, lax as Crowley once again dotes on you, truly, you are his, and he is yours.

Taglist (if u wnna be tagged for Crowley fics, just say so!)

@crowleyshunter

Crowley had your legs hitched over his shoulders as he buried his face between your legs, his beard rubbing against your inner thighs as he laps at your slit, thumb circling your tip as his tongue licks up your shaft. You shuddered as the wet muscle pressed flat against your glans, unable to help the high-pitched whine that escaped you nor how your thighs tightened around his head.

He presses a kiss to your tip, suckling on the underside of your cock before moving up your body, his beard rubbing against your skin as he peppered kisses over every bit of skin he could reach. Your pelvis, your stomach, up your sternum, over your chest, sucking hickeys every few kisses. He lowers once again, licking up your chest to your neck, peppering more marks over the expanse of your neck. And you let him, more than willing as he covers you in bruises that blatantly mark you as his.

You’re sure you'd be covered in small rashes from his beard come morning, but as his lips meet yours, the familiar taste of Crowley's favourite scotch mixed with the taste of your own sweat and skin, you decide it’s worth it.

tagged

@crowleyshunter

Your knees were cushioned on a velvet cushion, the silk cover reflecting off your skin. Crowley's fingers carded through your hair, well groomed nails gently running across your scalp as he applied gentle pressure. He pushed your head lower, his girth filling your throat just right, leaving your mind blissfully empty as you drooled around his cock, suckling mindlessly. Your jaw was slack, tongue pressing onto the underside of his length as more slipped deeper into your throat. You were breathing through your nose, lashes damp and clumping together as you inhaled his scent, his musk, nose buried in his trimmed pubic hair.

His voice was washing over you as if through a muffled filter, affection pouring out of his mouth as you swallowed him down. Once you had taken as much as you could fit, the pressure on the back of your head lessened, Crowley's hand moving to your cheek.

Time passed like that, a warm fuzziness filling your limbs leaving you numb and limp, held up by his cock in your mouth and his thighs beside your head. You'd even fallen asleep at some point, mind foggy with his smell.

When he eventually pulled you off him, you couldn't help but protest, yet you were unable to say anything, only able to let out an indignant noise as he stroked himself, his cum splattering across your face. He let out a coo, the words unintelligible as he smeared his release across your cheek down to your lips, pushing the sticky fluid into your mouth and onto your tongue, pacifying you as you began to suckle on that, instead. He simply chuckled above you.

tagged

@crowleyshunter

There you were, sat on Crowley's lap in his empty throne room with your jeans unzipped and tugged low enough for Crowley to fist your weeping length. Your breath stuttered, the air in your lungs punched out as his grip tightened around your base before sliding up to the head to thumb at your slit. His thumb wiped at the precum that accumulated, smearing it across your reddened tip.

“Feels good, don't it, pet?” Crowley grinned, a hand on your hip as you writhed and squirmed. “There we go. Told you, honeybee. Doesn’t have to hurt, does it?” A choked out noise escaped you as he twisted his wrist, nodding quickly. “Mm- mhm- good, rea- ohfuck- really good, Crow,” you stammered, hips involuntarily rutting against his warm hand. He tuts. “Of course. Nothing less for my pet.”

His hand went back down to your base then back up again, tightening his grip at the tip, repeating this motion over and over. His hand was slick with your pre with a wet schlick sound every time he stroked you. Your thighs were tense as you tried not to rut into his hand, shaking when he pulled you closer to rest your forehead on his shoulder to whisper directly into your ear.

“Here we go, dear. That brutish ex of yours didn't have a clue how to touch you, did they?” He crooned, voice warm and low in your ear, his breath fanning against your flesh. You couldnt help how you nodded, agreeing with whatever he said as long as he kept touching you. You were already so close and his voice might just send you over the edge. You're sure he'd love that. Seemed crowley could tell you were near, too. “Going to cum yet, pet?” he chuckled, grip tightening around your base. “Do you think you deserve it, honeybee? Do you deserve to cum?”

tagged (should I make a taglist for Crowley 👀)

@crowleyshunter

Pinned down with nothing but a leather collar and chain leash, you could do nothing but drool into the pillow beneath you as Crowley's body hovered over you, thick cockhead finally popping into your slick hole, red rimmed and twitchy from his fingers and mouth. He wasn't lying when he said torture was how he showed his love. When he finally pushed further, you felt tingles go up and up your spine, sparks behind your eyes as his girth filled you up in a way nothing else had before. “So good f' me, Honeybee,” he crooned in that deep, gravelly voice that always had your lower belly tingly. A whine escaped you as you lifted your hips off the pillow under it, clutching onto anything within your reach on Crowley’s large, red satin covered king-sized bed. “Tut, tut, sweet thing. Just take what your king gives you…” You simply shuddered, aching impossibly for more. More of him in you, on you, whatever he'd give to you and then some. “Crowley,” you'd beg, plead, needing him deeper. His stomach and chest press against your back, pushing you deeper into the soft mattress, the weight settling a bit of the ache in you. He presses a hand against your neck, fingers wrapping around the curve of it with something akin to possession. “Such a pretty thing, you are…” His fingers dug into the flesh of your neck as he pressed his length in deeper, the tip bullying your insides open. His free hand traveled down from your sternum to your hip, pressing you further into the satin as he slowly presses further and further until his hips meet yours, buried as deep as your bodies allowed. You swear you feel him in your actual intestines.