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zepskies · 4 months

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Show Me - Part 2

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Plus-sized Latina!Reader || Sam Winchester x Eileen Leahy (background)

Summary: Dean meets your infamous ex-boyfriend at a fallen hunter’s funeral. You just forgot to mention that he’s a hunter as well. Maybe because he still has the power to get under your skin…in the worst of ways.

AN: I know I said I'd release this on Wednesday, but I thought I'd get this out a bit early. Here’s Part 2! **Read Part 1 here.

Word Count: 5,300

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, angst, body insecurity, hurt/comfort, body appreciation.

☕ Midnight Espresso Masterlist

Part 2: “A Thorough Reminder”

It’s a few hours’ drive back to Lebanon.

Dean stops at one of your favorite restaurant chains for takeout, though he notices how you only eat about half of what you ordered. Even he managed to eat all of his bacon cheeseburger, and that was after an entire afternoon of snacking and day drinking.

“Thought you were hungry,” he says.

You shrug as you package up the rest of your dinner and lean back in the passenger seat.

“I don’t know. Guess I don’t have much of an appetite today.”

You’re normally a stress eater, by trade. But today, a familiar anxiety has crept in, taking root in your chest, and creating a mental block between your throat, your brain, and your stomach.

Despite what some people might like to believe, Dean does notice the small things, when it matters.

He glances at you, catches the way you rub at your tired face and release a small sigh.

“You okay?” he can’t help but ask.

You nod absently. “I’m fine, Dean.”

His lips press together. That doesn’t sound like fine. It sounds a lot like Winchester fine.

“I didn’t know he was a hunter,” he remarks.

You both know who he’s referring to. You look over at him, resigned, and a little annoyed.

Dean’s palms lift halfway off the steering wheel as he shrugs.

“You made it seem like he was a normal Joe,” he says. “Some dude you met in Miami.”

“We did meet in Miami,” you confirm. Part of you falters with another sigh. You don’t want to talk about this, but you suppose you might as well get it over with. Dean deserves an explanation.

“Okay, here it is,” you begin. “Carter came into town on a job. I caught wind of it not long after he did, and when we eventually ran into each other, we agreed to work the case…”

And you and Carter were good together, at least on the hunt. There had been a certain rugged charm and confidence to him that had drawn you in (apparently, you had a type). When he’d asked to stay with you for a few days, you hadn’t been able to say no.

“I thought it was because…he wanted to see more of me,” you explain. Your expression turns dry. “Maybe that was part of it, but mainly, he was broke. He literally couldn’t leave. Not until he scored some cash.”

Dean doesn’t want to think about how that guy charmed you, luring you in with what he thought you might want to hear. Though he processes all this with a nod. You’ve filled in most of the gaps, and he thinks he knows where this part of the story leads to: the one thing you did tell him about your ex.

“So you helped him get a job,” Dean supplies. His wry gaze meets yours. “At the local strip joint.”

“As a bouncer,” you specify. “He wasn’t qualified for much else. As it was, he needed me to talk to the manager for him. It was a Miami club run by Latinos. They weren’t going to hire a random white guy off the street who didn’t even speak Spanish.”

“Not until you finessed them,” Dean smirked.

You flash him a small smile. “I’m good with people.”

You hadn’t realized it at the time, under the haze of a hunters’ romance, but everything with Carter had been at his convenience, and whatever he needed from you. A hunting partner. A bit of money (a loan, he’d claimed). Some good food and a place to stay, free of charge. Not to mention a warm bed.

The giver in you had been all too ready to oblige.

“And when he got enough money to hit the road, he asked me to go with him,” you continue. “My grandma was still alive at the time. I had never left the city for more than a few days before, in case she needed me, but she told me to go. To live my life…so I did.”

You turn to Dean then. You suck in a breath as your eyes begin to sting.

“It’s my biggest regret,” you say. “She was gone by the end of the year.”

Dean sobers. His eyes soften, and he reaches across your thigh for your hand. You lace your fingers with his.

“I told you, she basically raised me,” you say. You brush away a tear from your cheek, sniffling. “…I should’ve been there.”

Dean raises your hand to his lips. “That’s not on you.”

You shake your head instead of answering. You’d been on a hunt with Carter when you got the call from your grandma’s neighbor. For almost a year, you’d lost what you hadn’t realized was precious time.

Meanwhile, you’d become what you’d thought was a partner, both on the Job and in life. Turns out, you’d been more like a sidekick, allowing Carter to tell you where, when, and how. It took your grandmother’s death to snap you out of the trance.

So you went home, picked up the pieces of your life…and you started again, somehow.

“A few months later,” you say, squeezing Dean’s hand. “I met you in a dirty bar in Las Cruces.”

He shoots you a more amused look.

“You mean you tried to hustle me,” he says.

Your lips curve into a grin. “Oh, please. You knew what you were getting into.”

Dean chuckles at that, tossing his head back against his headrest.

“Well, not exactly,” he says. Your hand is still tucked in his, and his thumb draws back and forth across your fingers.

He hadn’t known you were a hunter at first. He’d noticed your curves in those tight jeans and fitted top, your red lips, the shade of your hair, the perceptive gleam in your eyes—he’d liked it all.

Still, after he watched you hustle a guy out of all his money that night, just to give him $30 back so he could afford to get home…he’d known then that there was something special about you.

Then you’d slid into the seat next to him at the bar. Your English had been as smooth as your Spanish, and he’d been all too willing to get hooked into a game of pool with you.

He hadn’t known then that he was staring into the face of his future.

“I knew I wanted you in my bed that night,” Dean says. His easy smile is flirtatious, but his eyes are honest, finding yours. “I just didn’t count on you being even more badass than I took you for.”

Your cheeks warm as you fight a deeper smile, shaking your head.

You lean over as far as you can with your seatbelt on and press a kiss to his cheek. You linger there, with your hand reaching out to caress his face. You don’t want his eyes to leave the road, but you want him to know what he means to you right now.

After you pull away, he gives you one of those grins, and his eyes are dancing. It makes him both a giant dork, and incredibly charming all at once.

Not for the first time, you’re grateful to know this man—let alone be with him.

And yet, Dean knows.

Something’s not quite right with you.

He feels it in his gut when you two get back to the bunker that night. You shower quickly and alone, and you took a change of clothes into the bathroom with you, like he’s never seen you naked before.

By the time Dean finishes his own shower and gets dressed, you’re getting ready for bed as you putter about the room. He eyes your long pants and sweatshirt.

“You cold?” he asks, while digging in his dresser for a clean pair of sweatpants.

You spare him a glance, but you don’t fully turn to him while you go through your skincare routine with your hair clipped up.

“No, I’m good,” you reply.

“So why the long johns,” he quips, gesturing at your pants. He can’t remember the last time you wore anything but a shirt and underwear to bed (or less). He catches the look on your face in the dresser mirror: a slight pause, a press of your lips, but your face is otherwise guarded.

“I guess I am a little cold,” you say. You head to the bathroom again to finish the rest of your nightly routine, but you don’t see the way Dean’s frown follows you.

He later waits for you in bed. He pauses in his iPad scrolling when you slip in beside him under the covers. You've let your hair back down, nice and wild the way he likes it.

You heave a sigh. “Good night.”

“Hold up,” Dean says. With a hand on your shoulder, he stops you from facing away from him. He leans in and caresses your cheek with his thumb. You give him a small smile.

And he gives you a slow, purposeful kiss. He pulls away, just enough to see your eyes, beautiful and warm. He leans in again and angles into a new kiss, one that deepens with a spark of heat. He props himself up with a forearm above your head, digging into your pillows.

His thigh slots between your legs. For a reason you don’t want to name, you fight the instinct to press your center against him. His hand on your cheek slides down your neck, down the front of your close-necked shirt, between your breasts. He finds purchase on your hip and squeezes soft, tender flesh.

That’s when you stop him with a gentle push on his chest.

You slowly break from his kiss and lick your lips. Your eyes are apologetic.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m just…I’m tired,” you say.

Dean nods and lets out a sigh through his nose. He shifts more fully onto his side, lifting his weight off of you, and brushes your hair back from your face.

“You sure you don’t have anything you wanna talk about?” he asks.

You raise a brow at him. “Like what?”

“Like how you’re letting that asshole get back into your head,” Dean replies.

His gaze feels heavy on you, and you pause, staring back at him in soft shock.

“I’m not—”

“Look, I know you. And whatever this is, it’s more than what we talked about in the car,” he says, with a firm, yet gentle gaze. “If there’s something else you need to get out, you can tell me.”

Dean has worked hard to help you through the mental roadblocks you’ve had in the past—about you being comfortable with yourself, and with him. He’s not going to let some dipshit like Carter undo all of that, unraveling you with a single thread.

But your mouth works as you start to get annoyed, and even a bit angry at his accusation.

“Just because I don’t want to have sex, doesn’t mean I’ve got a problem, okay Dean? I just want to sleep,” you say tersely.

Dean’s jaw clenches at your tone. His head quirks, and he nods.

“Fine,” he says. “We’ll sleep.”

He turns around and shut off his beside lamp, casting the room in darkness. You huff and turn onto your side, away from him.

You cover yourself with the blankets up to your shoulders, but the longer you lay there in silence, the more that guilt prickles in your chest, along with the tightness of anxiety that welled up when he started to touch you.

Fuck, what’s wrong with me? you think, trying to work through the emotion clogging in your throat. You haven’t felt like this in years…

Slowly you turn back towards Dean. By now your eyes have adjusted enough to see the outline of his broad back in his gray shirt. You steel yourself with another shaky breath, and you scoot forward across the bed. Your curled hands rest against the middle of his back, where you also press your forehead. You feel his body tense up a little.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper in the dark.

After a beat, you hear him sigh. Dean reaches out to turn the lamp back on, filling the room once again with soft light. He turns and finds you haven’t moved, though you stare up at him with shining eyes.

His own soften. He takes one of your hands and presses the back of it to his lips.

“Talk to me,” he says, and he waits for you to gain your courage.

After another couple of steadying breaths, you begin.

“There’s too many things I didn’t realize at the time,” you say. “He didn’t force me to go with him, to stay with him… Even when I felt like shit inside, I thought he was right about me. I thought he needed me, and that made everything else okay.”

You sniffle, and a tear rolls down your cheek. Dean’s hold on you tightens a fraction. He’s listening intently, but in his silence, there’s anger. He wishes he really had broken that guy’s hand. Or at least his goddamn mouth.

“I mean, what the hell was I thinking?” you ask, laughing a bit through your tears. “I always thought I was stronger than that, you know? I just realize now that…I must not have liked myself very much.”

Dean lets go of your hand, just to dry your face. He’s no stranger to looking in the mirror and not liking the man staring back at him, but he doesn’t think that’s your problem.

He caresses your cheek, shakes his head, and he offers a rueful smile.

“Nah. You just have a habit of fallin’ for poor sons of bitches who don’t deserve you,” he says.

You read between his self-deprecating lines there, raising your brows at him.

“Hey. That might be true, but you better not be lumping my boyfriend in with the rest of them,” you say firmly. Your arms slip around his waist, and you press yourself in close.

Dean chuckles and welcomes you into his arms as well. His hand tangles in your hair, and his lips find your neck with a deep inhale.

He knows what kinds of thoughts are likely plaguing your mind, just like he knows that whatever he says will only go so far. He presses a kiss to your neck that grazes with teeth. You let out a little hum of surprise. He smiles and begins to move down, letting his lips brush across your skin.

“I’ll just speak for myself then,” he says. His hand trails lower and brushes the side of your breast. “If you need me to remind you how beautiful you are, how goddamn sexy…then I got no problem showing you.”

His hand moves down the soft slopes of your body and comes to rest at the curve of your waist. Hearing your faltering breath, Dean pulls back so he can see your face.

“Let me take care of you for a change,” he says. His lips pull at a grin, and it makes you smile in turn.

You take his face in your hands and bring him down to you for a kiss, languid and a bit devouring. It makes heat lick up Dean’s spine.

“Okay,” you whisper, close to his lips. “Show me.”

His grin deepens, teeth shining. “Yes, ma’am.”

This man is nothing if not endearing, and it earns a giggle from you as he moves down your body. First, you help him with getting your sweatshirt up and over your head; the collar is close to your neck and he doesn’t want to choke you (yet).

His gaze focuses on the rise and fall of your chest, the familiar sight of your full breasts, waiting for him to touch and tease.

Before he can start to follow through with his mental plans, you sit up with him and your hands dive under his shirt, both to start inching it up, and to feel him. His stomach clenches under the soft graze of your nails, but he gently pushes you back down onto the bed.

“What’d I just tell you?” he chides.

You give him an incredulous smile. “What, I’m not allowed to touch you?”

Dean reaches up to pull his shirt off from behind his neck. It’s a smooth move, and your eyes roam over his chest, and lower still.

He smirks. “Just be a good girl and wait your turn.”

You bite your lip to stifle a laugh. You let him finish undressing you by peeling off the sweatpants. You were getting hot in those anyway.

He leaves your panties on for now, but he travels back up to slot himself between your open legs. With a forearm braced above you, he starts again from the top.

He caresses your cheek, and begins with a trail of warm, open-mouthed kisses down your neck.

You sigh at the attention, tilting your head to make room for him. The sound of your voice is just one thing that he loves (and you know it), but Dean also loves the smoothness of your tan skin. He doesn’t mind a few faded stretch marks here and there, the lower he gets. He’s got a few scars and worry lines himself.

What matters to him is the sounds he’s able to pull from you as he nips and licks down between your breasts. He massages and teases one with his hand, while his tongue lavishes attention on the other. He earns a breathy sigh, a moan when his lips find the hardening buds, your knees starting to bend and squeeze his waist. He already feels the dampness of your clothed core brushing his sternum.

“Already squeezing on me, huh? I’ve barely touched you,” Dean teases. He nips at a plush spot on your left side, below your breast—something you might’ve been insecure about, if his thumb wasn’t also still distracting you by swirling over a nipple. His hands are sinfully good (something you love).

You utter a small moan and grasp his wrist just for something to hold onto as his mouth continues worshipping every curve of your body. Even the parts you’d usually rather him steer away from.

Dean senses your tension, however, when his teeth graze your soft stomach. He glances up at you, finding a bit of insecurity in your eyes.

“Here’s the thing,” he says, and his lips move against your skin. “You act like I haven’t already seen and conquered every square inch of you. Like I haven’t torn you apart, time after time.”

He sits back up, and his hands squeeze your hips and thighs and ass. He moves up to look down on you with almost predatory focus. Like he’s trying to determine what part of you he wants to devour next.

It’s a look you’ve seen before, though it still makes your face warm and your pussy clench on nothing. Your mouth parts with an unsteady laugh.

“You’ve got a point,” you nod. Dean shoots you a smirk, but he still takes your hand from where it’s been tangled in the sheets. He presses a kiss into your palm.

“You don’t gotta hide from anybody,” he says. “For damn sure, you ain’t hiding from me. You're too damn beautiful for that.”

You smile up at him, softer now as you thread your fingers with his.

He soon lets you go though. Because his hand moves down and down, to brush his fingers along your clothed core. You breathe deeper in anticipation, but his grin tells you that he’s not going to make this quick.

“Dean,” you implore him.

“Yeah, baby,” he answers. The pads of his fingers stroke and press into you. You lean into his touch, wanting and craving more. But he doesn’t give it to you just get.

He keeps teasing you, brushing your clit through the soaked fabric of your panties. It’s sort of what you want, and yet nowhere near enough. You can taste the edge of pleasure, just starting to make you squirm against his hand.

“You’re killing me here,” you whine.

“I’m ‘a need you to be patient,” he says.

You laugh, both incredulous and frustrated. His grin is damn near insufferable now.

Dean’s fingers move your panties aside, but they do no more than brush against the wet seam of your pussy. You hum and try to press into his hand. He doesn’t heed your unspoken demand.

He thinks you’re sexy as hell like this, writhing and waiting for his touch. He just wants to savor that for a bit longer—that he’s the only one who gets to see you like this. He’s the only one who gets to tease you, to be with you, to love you.

You’re getting impatient though. With a ragged sigh, you sit up and hook a hand behind his neck and pull him down into your kiss. He chuckles against your lips when he feels your hand sliding from his chest to the generous bulge in his sweatpants. You stroke up and down the full length of him with a practiced hand.

“I get it, baby. I do,” you pant, “but I need you.”

He falters for a moment, grunting when your hand slips into the front of his pants and boxer briefs and takes his cock firmly in hand. Your touch is soft and warm and you know how to elicit a shiver running down his spine.

Dean has a plan though, and he forces himself to focus through gritted teeth. He takes your wrist, carefully guides it out of his pants, and pins it beside your head, using his strength against you. It’s as frustrating as it is hot, making your skin flush as you stare up at him.

“We’re not there yet,” he tells you. Amusement gleams in his eyes. “But I like the enthusiasm.”

Without warning, he pulls away from you. He sits up on his knees and grabs the nearest pillow. He grasps your thighs and raises you up enough to slide the pillow underneath your ass, which he bares after snatching off your panties. You yelp and the suddenness of your underwear sliding off your legs. He tosses them elsewhere.

“What, now you’re speeding things up?” you remark.

Dean raises his brows at you. “What gave you that idea?”

He shifts down the bed and sinks down between your thighs. You lean up just on your elbows so you can try to figure out what he’s about to do (though you have a pretty good guess). For a delicious moment, you feel his warm breath against your pussy. You clench in anticipation…

Until he veers further down the inside of your thigh. His hand moves smoothly underneath one of your thick thighs and hooks it over his shoulder. He starts with wet kisses from the inside of your knee, steadily moving up your thigh. Your eyes close as your breathing shallows.

You force yourself to take deeper breaths as the gentle feeling of his lips, and a hint of teeth, continues to make your body tingle with pleasure. You feel warmth and wetness pooling between your legs. Your core is already throbbing with need.

Just as Dean draws near to the apex of your thighs…he changes course, starting the same path of kisses up your other leg. You blow out a shaky sigh and have to clench your hands into the sheets. His name falls from your lips, both a reverent sigh and a plea.

You know what he’s doing. He’s worshipping your body in the sweetest of ways. You knew he was going to take his time with you, working you up, but this is both heaven and hell.

“Would you relax?” he says, chuckling into your skin.

You release a breathy giggle. “Yeah, right. I love and hate you right now.”

Dean’s shoulders shake with near silent laughter. His free hand soothes up and down the thigh he holds propped up on his shoulder.

“As long as it’s more of the first one, we’re good,” he teases.

You groan, but eventually you relax against the bed. You realize now that you’re more comfortable, more focused more on the pleasurable sensations he’s giving you than on how exposed you are right now. You smile begrudgingly, as you realize that’s probably what Dean wanted all along.

Just when your body is starting to settle into this, you gasp when you feel his tongue finally lick a warm stripe up the seam of your pussy.

Your head raises, and you see your man’s mischievous green eyes and the edge of his smile between your legs. Your mouth opens to say something petulant, but you cry out when his fingers slip past your wet folds and find your clit.

He knows where you’re most sensitive, what’s going to have you even more slippery and pulsing with need. His tongue replaces his hand, licking and sucking at your clit, while his fingers slip into your tight entrance and fuck into you slowly.

“God, Dean,” you breathe. Your nails dig back into the mattress.

You feel his voice reverberate inside you when he says, “Relax…”

He's already hooked your thighs over his shoulders. The pillow under your raised hips just gives him even more leverage to work you over. His mouth is noisy and makes you blush down to your neck, but you can’t help fisting a hand into his hair and clenching tight as he brings you right to the edge…

And he tumbles you over. His fingers brush deliberately and firmly against that sensitive spot deep inside you, until your inner walls quiver and your legs shake around his head.

Then you’re coming all over his hand. Your whimpers turn into a moan of release as warmth travels from your center, throughout the rest of your body. His tongue doesn’t stop, and your skin tingles, causing a shiver to run up your spine and arch your back as you moan.

He doesn’t pull away until your clit becomes oversensitive, and you start to squirm away from his hold. When he finally gives you reprieve, your body sags on the bed and your head rolls to the side as you try to catch your breath.

Dean’s panting hard too by the time he’s done. He has to wipe his mouth, nose, and hand, but he still strokes your thighs after he guides your legs off his shoulders and back to the bed.

Since you’re incapable of speech at the moment, you tug more gently on his hair to get his attention. He greets you with a grin as he takes in how wrecked you are.

You smile back and beckon him with a curling finger. “Come ‘ere.”

Dean obliges you, moving up your body to prop himself up on a forearm, next to your head. You grab his chin and bring him down to you for a searing kiss. You shudder a little, as you can taste yourself on his tongue. The press of his fingers along the small of your back brings more tingles across your skin.

You feel him hard and heavy against your thigh. You let your hands run down his back as well. Down the slope of his spine, and under the waistband of his sweatpants.

“I need you,” you whisper, in the small space between your faces.

“Yeah?” he pants, though his tone is teasing. “Where?”

“Inside me,” you reply. Your thighs squeeze his hips, pressing his length against your center and earning a groan out of him. “Fuck me ‘til it hurts.”

Dean’s grip on your hip tightens. He drops a biting kiss to your throat and nods. He quickly gets the rest of his clothes off, then he directs you to move onto your side. You’re a bit confused at first, but you oblige him. He kneels between your thighs, straddling the bottom one, then hooking your top leg over his.

He pushes his cock into you slowly, making you both breathe harder as he stretches you and finds his way home.

This angle is different, but it’s good. You feel him bottom out deep and snug inside. Already your inner walls respond to the feeling of him, and you tighten on reflex.

Dean makes a sound of pleasure and presses his forehead against your shoulder for a moment.

“What’s this, like doggy style?” you ask.

“Kind of,” he says, giving you a grin. “This way, I can still see your pretty face.”

You can’t help a giddy burst of laughter, even though your face warms. Yes, he still manages to make you blush when he talks like that.

Dean smirks in amusement. Once again, he swipes a thumb across your cheek and presses a kiss to your lips. You hold him there and lick into his mouth. When he starts to move, rocking out, then back inside of you with ease, you shudder at the feeling of him. Your thigh curls tighter around his hip, and he squeezes your soft flesh there.

“I happen to like a little give,” he says, with a lusty gleam in his eyes. “You know why?”

You’re already panting for breath. His slow strokes make you feel every inch of him, but you lick your lips and meet his hot gaze. You start to smile as you humor him.

“Why?” you ask.

“Call it a ‘soft landing,’” he grins. “Makes it feel that much better when I fuck you good and deep.”

Your mouth falls open, this time more in shock as you blush further and shiver in arousal—not only at his words, but the sound of his voice, and his sincerity. You unintentionally clench on his cock, and he groans. He gives your ass a heavy smack. You jolt with a gasp.

“Keep that up,” his voice deepens, rough with pleasure. “’Bout to fuckin’ wreck you.”

All you can do is nod and hold on tight for the damn ride.

He builds up the pace, until he needs a hand on the headboard for balance. The old mattress creaks to the tempo of his pounding strokes, and he’s hitting your G-spot with every single one of them. Your toes curl and you grab onto his thigh to help keep both of you steady.

You feel that coil starting to tighten, but you’re not quite there. You reach down between your bodies and massage your clit in time with his thrusts. Your eyes close on a gasp.

And the coil eventually snaps. Your inner walls spasm and flutter around him, making his hips stutter.

“That’s it, baby. Let go for me,” he grits out. He chases his own release as well as yours. “So fucking sexy like this, coming apart for me.”

He's spurred on by the way your voice echoes in his ears. A few more hard thrusts, and he’s spilling into you. He fills you up with his warmth and makes a shiver run through your body.

You’re gripping his thigh so tightly you’re probably giving him bruises, but it’s not unlike the fingerprints you often find on your ass and hips (and probably will find tomorrow).

You finally twist onto your back and relax. Dean catches himself against the bed before he crushes you with his weight. You welcome him anyway, with your hand soothing up and down his back.

“You okay?” he asks. Somehow, his gruff voice is still soothing to you.

You smile, giving a teasing squeeze on his arm. “Much better.”

He chuckles at that. His skin is dewy and sticks to yours, but you don’t mind. In turn, he brushes your now frizzy hair away from your face and neck, so it fans out on the pillow instead.

After he untangles from you and rolls onto the bed at your side, he lays there on his back and tries to regain his breath. You turn toward him and press a kiss into his shoulder.

“Thank you…for reminding me,” you say.

For making me feel beautiful, wanted, loved…

You try to blink past the sting of tears, but you know your eyes are shining.

“I love you,” you remind him.

Dean’s face warms and softens. He reaches over and takes your hand. Again, he presses it to his lips.

I love you too, that gesture says. Then he smiles.

“Any time you need a little show and tell, I’m here.”

AN: 😮‍💨 Well then! lol I hope you liked this! For me it was equal parts fun and cathartic, being a plus-size girl myself. 💗💗

I was definitely thinking of that scene in 9.13:

Mala: "What can I say? Sometimes it's nice to feel a little give."

Dean *has an epiphany*: "Oh. Yeah, I get that. A little extra cushion for the, uh..." *fist pounding motion* (lmfao)

Keep Reading:

Next up in this series is "Get Stuffed":

Summary: Dean enjoys the way you cook Christmas dinner with a Latin flair, even if Sam likes to tease him about his insatiable appetite. You remind Sam about the true reason behind one of Dean’s biggest quirks.

▶️ Next Story: Get Stuffed

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@agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @xsophianicolex @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @deanfreakingwinchester @chernayawidow @beskarfilms @mimaria420

#Show Me #Part 2 #dean winchester #dean winchester smut #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female reader #dean winchester x latina!reader #dean winchester x plus sized!reader #dean winchester x plus size!reader #Midnight Espresso verse #dean winchester x you #spn #supernatural #dean winchester x poc!reader #poc!reader #latina!reader #plus sized reader #zepskies writes

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spn-lesbian · 10 months

Text

Dean: I like guys who speak Spanish

Cas: bonjour

#he tried #can’t cas actually speak all languages ever or something #u know what who cares ignore canon for comedy thx #i had it the other way around at first but you know what #WHY DOES TUMBLR KEEP PUTTING LABELS ON MY POST HELP #source: ???#spn #supernatural #destiel #dean winchester #incorrect spn quotes #castiel #incorrect supernatural quotes #dean x castiel #deancas #incorrect destiel

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ktwritesstuff · 1 year

Text

The Professor (Pedro Pascal smut inspired by SNL)

Title: The Professor Fandom: RPF: Pedro Pascal, Hot for teacher AU Rating: Explicit Characters & Pairings: Pedro Pascal (professor of Latin American Studies) x Reader (bedraggled PhD candidate) Word Count: ~2000 Summary: As if that SNL skit wasn't going to launch a thousand smut fics... As always, lovingly beta-read by @bs-fangirl. Additional notes below the cut.

Notes: This is my first "real person fic," may God have mercy on my soul. Additionally, my Spanish is virtually non-existent; I've relied heavily on Google Translate and asking my coworkers questions on the sly, my apologies for any errors! As we all know, this is not a story about actual human Pedro Pascal, but the fictionalized version which lives rent free in our heads. And as proper fan girl culture dictates, we keep this shit locked down. But just in case:

This note is for actual human Pedro Pascal and Pedro Pascal only. I don't know why you would click "Read More" on a post clearly labeled "Pedro Pascal, Hot for teacher AU" but if you have, I beg of you LOOK AWAY, SIR. LOOK AWAY. If you choose to proceed, I will not be responsible for any trauma you may suffer as a result. Thank you.

For everyone else, I give you:

The Professor

Professor Pedro Pascal was the head of the Latin American Studies department at your small college. You had never been in his classes as an undergrad–Latin American Fiction and Poetry, and a special seminar on the Magical Realism of Isabel Allende–but it was well known around campus that his family had fled Pinochet when he was a child, which granted him unsurprising street cred among your communist-leaning circle of friends. He had been appointed the interim director of the campus’s Literary Center–after his predecessor was ousted for exposing himself in a virtual meeting.

As the Center’s Graduate Assistant Director, it meant although he wasn’t technically your boss, you were suddenly spending an annoying amount of time working around the throngs of freshman girls who flocked to his office hours. You couldn’t really blame them. He was, if not an outright heartthrob, a reasonably good-looking college professor. A strong face, with a short, rugged beard, a striking Roman nose, and deep brown eyes with the most charming crow's feet. He had a lean physique, with a hint of softness at the belly, just this side of a “dad bod.”

His modest good looks combined with a cheerful disposition and a penchant for quoting the love poetry of Pablo Neruda were like catnip for liberal arts majors. And although you were a card-carrying bra-burning feminist, you weren’t entirely immune.

“Professor,” his office door was open, but you knocked on the frame.

Pedro looked up from the stack of resumes you had been sent to review before the selection panel for a new director.

“Coffee?”

“Mi angelita,” he sighed, rising from his desk to graciously accept the warm cup from your hands. “What time is the first candidate arriving?”

“Noon,” you said. “You, me, Dr. Monroe, the Provost, and Assistant Dean are sitting on the interview panel.”

Pedro looked at his watch.

“Shit,” he sighed. “I have Intro to Creative Writing at 9:30.”

“I’ll set up the conference room,” you said as he shoved his papers into his messenger bag, slinging it over his shoulder, still carrying the open mug as he raced down the stairs.

“Thank you, Angel. Thank you!”

It was a six month process to find a new director. Six months of staring across the conference table, chewing on the end of your pen, pretending not to be affected by the way he leaned in when you spoke and stroked his thumb across his lower lip in concentration. Or the obscene way he spread his legs in a comfortable chair while speaking with candidates in front of a panel of students.

And having to do it all over again when your first choice–a student favorite–declined the position, to stay in New Jersey of all things. You knew Pedro was relieved to have reached a conclusion; he didn’t care for the administrative duties or politics. He wanted to teach, to be with his students. You admired that about him, he appreciated your organizational skills (and the fact that when you made coffee it counted as a meal.) You worked well together, but now that was coming to an end.

It was past 9pm and you had already closed up the Literary Center for the night, but Pedro was still in his office, reviewing students’ papers.

“I’m done for the night, Professor,” you said. “Is there anything I can do to help you get out of here?”

“That depends,” he said, with a wry smile that had you convinced he was only half-kidding. “How’s your Spanish?”

“Hmm,” you said, stepping into the light of the desk lamp. “¿Dónde está la biblioteca? ¿Como estas? Bien, gracias. ¡Qué lluvia! And that’s all I’ve got.”

Pedro chuckled. “I’ve heard worse.”

“That and un tequila, por favor.”

“Tequila,” Pedro repeated, intrigued. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, pulling out a bottle of Patron. “That I can help you with.”

Your mouth fell open in surprise.

“Professor,” you deadpanned. “I don’t know if you knew this, but alcohol is not permitted in academic buildings.”

"Lucky for me," he said, picking up the bottle. "I have tenure."

You laughed and Pedro laughed; you offered to run downstairs to retrieve a pair of glasses and a salt shaker from the kitchen while he finished grading papers in record speed.

“I worry about these kids,” Pedro said, three shots deep. “I do! The moment they hear something the least bit troubling, they refuse to engage with the material. Our world exists in shades of gray. They want things to be ideologically pure, when what they need is to learn to discern. To question. To decide!”

“I understand what you’re saying, Professor,” you said.

“Pedro, please,” he interrupted you. “Pedro.”

“Pedro,” you repeated. “I agree, but there’s no reason we need to elevate and spotlight the same tired canon of bigots, abusers, and dead white men year after year when there is so much more out there.”

Pedro downed another shot and pointed an accusing finger at you.

“Look who’s talking,” he said. “Your PhD is in Shakespeare Studies!”

“I know,” you laughed, pouring yourself another glass. “I know, I’m a terrible person.”

“You are not,” he said, suddenly serious. “You have an incredible mind and the most beautiful way of looking at the world.”

You felt languid and relaxed and warm. You liked the way Pedro looked at you. There was something undeniably romantic about getting drunk in the richly furnished office, with its leather armchairs and oak bookshelves, debating the merits of Nietzsche and bell hooks.

“Okay,” you broke the silence. “Okay, here’s a fun fact you can pass along to your successor. There are 3 prints signed by Allen Ginsberg in this building, and you can see them all from this desk.”

“There’s the one on the wall,” Pedro said, pointing to the framed portrait hanging above the bookshelf.

“Yes,” you said, rising from your chair and moving to the other side of the desk. “And there in the hallway, on the right, that's an excerpt from "Howl" they set in the printshop downstairs.”

You perched on the arm of his chair to get closer to his eye-level, pointing through the open door. You slipped, nearly falling into his lap and he placed a hand on your back to steady you. He smelled amazing, like old leather and warm spices.

“And there, in the stairwell, you can just make out the top of his head on that linotype,” you explained. “Do you see it?”

“I do.”

When you turned your head, Pedro was looking at you. Perhaps it was the tequila, but you were almost certain he was staring at your lips, his eyes heavily lidded, smiling lazily.

“You look tired,” you warned. You should have gotten up to leave, but you didn’t want to. You didn’t want this warm, lovely feeling to ever end.

“Just thinking,” he said.

“About what?”

“Kissing you,” he said.

You were almost surprised; you had spent so much time trying to convince yourself that your semester-long flirtation was a one-sided puppy crush. You had been so busy with your research and recruiting and planning, you had forgotten somewhere along the way that you were a stone cold fox with tits and ass for days and enough sex appeal to blow the top off Mount St. Helens.

“You can,” you said, turning your body toward him. “I don’t mind.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Fine then,” you turned to stand.

Pedro seized you by the waist, pulling you back into his lap and into a long, slow kiss. His lips were surprisingly soft and his mouth tasted like salt and lime as his tongue brushed into yours with careful, confident strokes.

“That was nice,” your eyes fluttered open as Pedro finally pulled away. “You’re a good kisser.”

“You, too,” Pedro said. “Again?”

You tilted your chin, touching the point on your neck, just below your ear. As Pedro leaned in, working the beginnings of a hickey into your neck, you guided his hands from your waist to your breasts. You pressed against him, moving to straddle his thigh.

“More?” Pedro asked.

“Yes,” you panted. You braced yourself on the back of the chair, one hand on either side of his head, grinding against his leg, feeling hot and wet as he kneaded your breasts with reverent appreciation.

“Mi amor,” he breathed.

“Pedro,” you held his face, nipping at his bottom lip.

“Dime, lo qué quieres.”

“Fuck.” His accent went straight to your cunt. You ran one hand up his thigh, groping at the crotch of his chinos.

Pedro let out an obscene moan and hoisted you up onto his desk. He slid his hands up your thighs, fingers slipping into your panties. He ran his fingertips through your folds, tracing circles around the swollen nub of your clit with an absolute shit-eating grin.

“Qué lluvia.”

You howled with laughter. “I know that one! I know that one!”

“A huevo.”

Pedro rose from his chair, bunching your dress up around your waist. You pulled his shirt free from the waistband of his pants, running your hands up the warm skin of his back.

“Want you,” you sighed. “Want you inside me.”

“Whatever you want, Angelita.”

Pedro pulled your underwear down to your ankles, pausing to retrieve a condom from the wallet in his back pocket, like an over-eager undergrad, pulling down his pants to roll it on. He pressed the head of his cock against your clit. You grabbed him by the ass, wrapping your legs around him to guide him into you.

Pedro flicked his hips into you with short, quick strokes, sending jolts of energy through your core.

“More,” you pleaded breathlessly. “Deeper.”

Pedro lifted your ankles onto his shoulders, pressing into you long and slow until you could feel him bumping against your cervix. You gasped, reaching behind you, scrambling for leverage, knocking the computer monitor off the desk.

“Oh no!” You turned, trying to catch it before it crashed to the floor.

“It’s okay!” Pedro said, taking your face in his hands to guide your gaze back to his eyes. “It’s a shitty computer. It’s fine.”

You moaned, letting your head fall back, grabbing for his chest with one hand as he fucked you.

“So soft,” he moaned against your ear. “So fucking good for me, Angel.”

“Give me your hand,” you said, guiding his fingers back to your clit. “Up and down, right there. Oh God.”

You grabbed Pedro’s shoulder to brace yourself.

“I’m close,” he warned.

“Not yet,” you pleaded. “Just a little more.”

You could feel your own climax building inside you. You just needed a little more to push you over the edge.

“Oh God!”

Pedro came inside you with a gasp as your inner walls clenched around him. He slowly withdrew, supporting your legs, and easing you onto your back, scattering papers and pens onto the floor. He kissed your neck and your breasts as his hands explored the curves of your body.

You woke the next morning on the couch in Pedro’s office. You were lying on top of him; your head on his chest. He had his arms around you, your head was pounding as you squinted into the daylight.

“We got fucked up last night?” you said.

“Yup.”

“It was nice."

"It was," Pedro agreed, kissing the top of your head as you blinked sleep from your eyes.

"What time is it?”

You grabbed his forearm, turning it so you could look at the face of his watch.

“Oh shit,” you gasped. “I have Freshman Seminar in half an hour.”

“I already missed my morning classes,” Pedro moaned, letting his head fall back against the armrest.

“Do you want to explain to Dr. Monroe why I can’t teach her class?” you said, rising from the couch and searching the office floor for your underpants.

“No,” Pedro said. “She scares me.”

You pulled your underwear back on, finding your bag, you used the satin scarf tied around the handle to cover the love-bites blooming on your throat and chest. You dabbed concealer under your eyes and added a fresh coat of red lipstick.

“Would you like to have lunch together? Not at the Caf. Somewhere nice, like a date.” Pedro asked, sitting up. He looked endearingly child-like with his bedhead and giant brown eyes.

You paused, checking your reflection in your compact mirror.

“Can we do that?” you asked.

“I don’t see why not,” he said. “You were never my student and after this week we won’t even work together any more.”

“Oh,” you nodded. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

“I’ll pack things up here and meet you after class.”

You smiled. “I’ll see you then.”

#rpf: pedro pascal #pedro pascal x reader #hot for teacher AU #mr. ben has us in a chokehold #mr. ben snl #pedro pascal x you

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romeulusroy · 1 month

Text

Being Sam's Twin With Your Own Abilities Would Include:

A/N: Based off this imagine :) I really liked the idea and wanted to write more! Contains s1/s2 spoilers! Just writing to write lol I missed it and I'm having fun 💜

Being twins, you and Sammy were always close

Everyone who saw you asked if you were identical. Clearly you weren't, but people asked stupid questions when it came to twins

John had not one to blame, but two, each of you paying in your own way. He could be mean when he wanted, and after it happened, you'd find one another, not really talking about it, just looking for company

"You think all Dads say these things?"

"I don't know, I really don't know."

You and Sam formed your own babble baby language that freaked both John and Sam out. You'd laugh and laugh and it wouldn't make any sense but to the both of you

You don't remember the language, but you two still crack each other up and share these knowing looks that no one else can decipher. You can bicker and yell and laugh and joke just with your eyes

The two of you lived in Dean's hand-me-downs. Sam hated it, but you never minded. Everything was already worn and comfortable. Plus it made you feel special, like you were cool like your big brother

Yelling at you, Dean and John would get your names mixed up and that would just make them angrier

You and Sam would comfort one another when you were scared, hiding under the blankets with a flashlight

Sam learned to read first, he always so smart, so at night he'd read to you what he could so you could sleep. Sometimes he had a real book, other times he'd read the back of a cereal box or (on extremely rare occasion it wasn't glued to his side) he'd read from your fathers journal

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you read to me?"

He never got frustrated or upset, not even when you learned how to read by yourself. There was just something so soothing about his voice

Dean made each of you hold his hands when you were leaving the motel in the middle of the night or crossing the street. He really felt like a dad with too much on his plate, trying to round up the both of you

You both excelled in school

Your father wasn't too worried about that. You made him proud if you could shoot straight and fight off an attacker, whatever the species, not if you got an A+ on a paper or test

You knew this from the beginning, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. You hated seeing the look on Sam's face when he shoved his good grade into his backpack

Learning different languages together. At first, just Latin, but then a little Spanish, French, Russian, sign language, etc. It was like having your own language again, one neither John nor Dean could figure out

"Stop doing that, you two."

"Doing what?"

"English. We speak English in this house."

Neither you nor Sam wanted to be hunters. You were good at it, sure, but you wanted more for your life. You wanted to go to college and parties and go on real dates and be normal people

Together, you applied to universities, both getting into Stanford

When Sam had that big fight with John, you left too. You would always defend Sam. That night, you got in John's face, and you yelled. Screamed. It was brutal. He'd never admit it, but it broke Dean. It had always been the three of you. Now he was alone

You and Sam clung together those first few weeks of the semester

Being around all those strangers, having the upbringing that you did, it made you feel like a freak. Eventually you learned what to say, how to be, and you found your place

You were the Winchester Twins to anyone who knew you. Neither of you minded that title

You met Jessica when they first started dating and instantly loved her. The flings you dated were nothing, but Jess really meant something to Sam, so she did to you, too. Eventually, when he decided, you were the first person he talked to about getting engaged to her. You were ecstatic. You really wished your mom was here to see just how great Sam turned out

Sam doesn't tell you about his nightmares, but you can always tell when something is off. He looks tired. Jumpy. You wish, later on, that you had brought it up

Dean goes to you before he goes to Sam, knowing if you say yes, he will too

Initially, you aren't scared or worried, but the more your brother talks, the more fear you see in him

"Y/n, you're really falling for this?"

"Sam, il est vraiment inquiet. Et si papa est blessé ou mort ?"

"Tu ne peux pas être sérieux. C'est de papa dont nous parlons."

"English!"

Eventually he agrees

You hadn't noticed it back then, but your abilities were appearing, too

You didn't know they were dead, though. Sometimes, you couldn't tell. The newly dead had a way of seeming alive. The longer it's been, the worse their injuries seemed to get

There were no signs. A group of women, all dressed up with bridesmaids banners around them. One dressed in white with a tiara. It was the middle of the day, in the middle of campus, but they all seemed drunk. Still, you didn't question it. The night before, all five of them were on the news. Drunk driving accident, no survivors

You barely gave it a second thought

Like old times, you and Sam fight over whose going to sit in the front seat

You and Sam get pulled back into the lives you left behind. It's nice seeing Dean again, listening to the music your father used to play, etc.

When Dean drops you two back at school, you go your separate ways. All you want to do it take a shower and wash the past few days away

It's not until you see the fire do you run back outside

You run into Jess, though, on the lawn of the house you're staying at. She's freezing, in nothing but her pajamas. You tell her to wait there, knowing Sam would give her his coat if you asked

When you get to him, though, he looks sick. Petrified. Dean tells you the news. Jess was dead, the same way as your mom. You almost object, but when you look back to where you left her, she isn't there

You don't bring it up, not then, not for a while

You try to be there for Sam, but he reteats into himself. He has nightmares, he's antsy, angry. You're not sure how to help, what to say, so you let him feel what he has to feel

Strange things keep happening, especially when you're close to your mothers killer, but you don't say a word

Missouri is the only person who knows, and she's very secretive about it. She tells you not to be afraid of them, to welcome them and your abilities

You want to ask her what it means, but Dean interrupts the conversation

When you and Sam bring Dean to see the healer, you accidentally talk to some of his victims. You warn them that it's not safe for them to be there. They look so sad when you say this, not realizing it was too late for them

After John dies, you run into him in the hallway. You thank God that Dean's okay, telling him he's fine, he's going to be fine. John just stares at you. He opens his mouth to speak, but Sam calls you instead. When you look back, he's gone. You find out he died just a few minutes ago

You don't talk about John with either of your brothers. Dean is angry, and Sam feels guilty for fighting with him, but you just feel crazy. Insane. You truly feel like you're losing it

The more visions Sam has, the more people you see. The worse they get. You visit a few of the people like you, but it isn't until after you encounter Andy and Webber do things start to get scary

Dean basically interrogates you about seeing the future or mind control or whatever it is that you might be able to do given that Andy and Webber had abilities (and were twins) just like you and Sammy

You insisted nothing was happening, you didn't have anything special about you. You knew neither were fooled, but Sam made Dean let it go, for your sake

Still you catch them looking at you strangely every so often, especially when you suspect you've seen another dead person

On the way back from a hunt, you stop at a motel where everything that could go wrong does go wrong

Enter this imagine :)

It takes a lot of coaxing, but eventually, you let Sam in as long as he doesn't turn on the light. You can't bear to look at the hanging man

It all comes out whether you want it to or not

Seeing Jess the night of the fire, and John, and your mom, and all those other people. It was horrible. You couldn't make sense of them. Some were victims, homicides and suicides, some were from your hunts, but others just seemed to be regular people who died

Sam feels so guilty that you couldn't come to him about this, that you had kept such a huge secret from him

Dean is angry. He can't protect you from what he can't see. How can he put a stop to this when he doesn't even know what it is?

They make you promise that when you see something, you tell them. You tell them only when you can't hide your fear or discomfort

Dean cringes every time, especially when they're next to you in the car or at your bedside when you go to sleep/wake up

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"They're back."

"Which one?"

"The man with no eyes."

Sam reads to you when you go to sleep, when they're standing over you

These days it's Wikipedia pages about your latest hunt or things he finds in odd corners of the internet about being able to see the dead. He's constantly looking for more information about you and him

Thankfully the power seems to go away when Sammy's does, but you know long before he's going to get one of his visions or dreams. They always stand outside the windows and wait and watch

#i know these things im a twin lol #sam winchester #sam winchester imagine #sam winchester headcanon #dean winchester #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester headcanon #supernatural #supernatural imagine #supernatural headcanon #ennasfavorites #series

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luxshine · 8 months

Note

hi! i don’t want to be a bother, but could you give a quick timeline on your interview of the “rogue translator”? i’ve seen people say this info first dropped in 2021, but i was really active in the fandom at that time and this is the first i’m hearing about the interview/what the translator said in it. i guess i am just very confused at the moment😅😅😅

They may be confused with the interview I did with Dean's Latam Voice Actor which was a little after The Episode aired, and then another written one with Castiel's voice actor. Both of them were adamant that there couldn't have been a rogue translator for how serious we take our dubbing, but it was not a confirmation that the script said what we heard.

Three months ago, I could talk to him, and while he didn't remember exactly how it went (as this was years ago, he's not a fan, was not aware of the whole controversy that happened and has translated a TON of other series since) he told me that he never adds anything that is not in the script/video he is given to translate.

Hope that clears some confusion, but I am still hunting the dub director to have everyone's stories for you guys.

#Dean Winchester speaks spanish #the rogue translator #that wasn't rogue #Destielgate #Y yo a ti #And I you #Destiel is canon in latam

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leoramage · 8 months

Text

mastermind

⊹ masterlist ⊹ taglist ⊹

⊹⊱ trigger warning - [n/a]

⊹⊱ theme - [university au]

⊹⊱ pairings - [mick schumacher x student!y/n]

⊹⊱ keywords - [mind games and hints. "this is the first time i've felt the need to confess."]

The sun was setting over the sprawling campus of Gran Vincere Academy, casting a golden hue over the campus where dreams of speed and adrenaline took root. Every corner of the school echoed with the roar of powerful engines and the scent of high-octane fuel, but there was more to life than just racing. The academy is a hot pot of talent — a place where exceptional students from various fields came together.

"Miss L/N, are you okay? Class is dismissed." Professor Vowles soft snapped at you, finding yourself daydreaming about the upcoming weekend. The usual group of friends had exciting plans, but this time, it felt different. The classroom was already empty and it was just you and the Professor Vowles who likes to stay behind the classroom even though the lecture is over.

Thinking about your friend group... At first, it was just you and Daniel. Ricciardo is a sunshine over-the-top guy whom you were able to be friends with as you are both sat together in biology class. He hardly shuts up and mutters jokes under his breath or blurts them out loud amid lectures of Professor Abiteboul but regardless, he is always a guy who is down for anything and is known by everyone alongside Lando who is in photojournalism.

Lando has a Spanish friend named Carlos who is a varsity athlete for golfing. Then this Carlos has a Monegasque friend named Charles; who is pursuing a music degree - allegedly a serial monogamist and a heartthrob - targeting friends of his exes to be his next girl. Charles is often confused as a French and is mistakenly friends with the French duo.

Pierre is a varsity player for soccer; who dates high school girls despite him being in his senior year in college. While Esteban is enrolled in aerospace engineering and hangs out with the nepotism babies of the university: Mick and Lance.

Lance Stroll, the young billionaire boy plays for the varsity hockey team. Got into the dean multiple times for instigating fights at the back of the university parking lot.

Mick Schumacher, the charismatic and daring racing prodigy of Michael Schumacher, was part of the friend group, life had a funny way of intertwining paths. He is pursuing medicine to be a pediatrician or veterinarian... You were not sure, everyone just found him attractive nonetheless and he is one of your close friends alongside Daniel.

"Hey, Y/N!" Speaking of Mick, he greeted you with a warm smile. His blue eyes sparkled under the rays of the sun, a hint of his usual playful demeanor. Then there was a lady standing beside him who eyeballed on you before rolling her eyes. You found it odd, was he waiting for you despite being accompanied?

"Hey, Mick," You replied, adjusting the strap of your backpack after walking out of the classroom of Professor Vowles. "Ready for another semester of classes?"

Mick chuckled. "Always! But you know, Y/N, I've got a new strategy this year." He leaned in closer, his voice hushed as if he were sharing a secret and seemed to have forgotten that he was with this girl whom you do not recognize, "I've got a plan."

You couldn't help but laugh at his mischievousness. "Mick, I hope this plan of yours will not involve Lance and Esteban being sent to the Dean's office. You're going to have to do better than that."

He only chuckled and shook his head before muttering softly which sent shivers down your spine, "No it won't. See you soon, Y/N." Just as fast as he came, he left with the lady who seemed to be following him like a lost puppy.

⊰⊹⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋄⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⋯⊹⊱

Weeks passed...

And Mick's plan whatever it was continued. You would walk the hallways of the campus, Mick passing by and greeting you shortly with "hi" and "hello y/n" while he is always accompanied by different girls on every occasion at every opportunity. Your conversations were kept short and awkward which made you feel pained at the fact that you and he weren't as close as it used to be.

"Have I done something wrong?" "Have I said something that offended him?" These were the thoughts that run in your head more than 300 kilometers per hour as it seems. It bothered you - yes. Because of the fact that you do not want to come across as anxious to Mick, you didn't know how to address the issue. What were you supposed to say without making everything look awkward?

As you sat with George and your friends in the school courtyard, he leaned over and whispered, "Have you noticed that Mick is always with unattractive girls whenever you see him?"

This caught your attention, snapping out of your snacks to furrow your brows in confusion at George's question. Even Carmen, George's girlfriend, looked upset at him for describing them as such. You didn't want to speak, you didn't want to sound judgemental by agreeing to the 'unattractive' part.

This gathered attention from Pierre who is closely listening in before butting in the conversation like the typical French tea spiller he is. "You want to know why?" He asks as you nod before the French smirks and turns to George to continue what is boiling under the surface. What was Mick doing all these past few weeks?

"Mick has a crush on you all this time and he's doing this to make you feel jealous - to elicit reaction out of you. He was getting frustrated because you didn't seem bothered at all with his shenanigans with these ladies." The British chuckled as you stared at him with wide eyes and slightly agape lips. Mick was what???

Pierre laughed at your reaction and spoke, "Why do you seem surprised, Y/N?"

Why were they telling this to you anyway? They were probably bluffing and it must be some sort of prank. Lewis only gave you a soft but genuine smile, at some point, it gave you a little sense of security that George and Pierre weren't playing around. So you decided to say something, "Why are you telling me this?" Uncertainty rung in your words still quite doubtful that they were not beating around the bush.

By the devil's name, the blonde German (and a blonde girl) walked towards the table with a smile on his lips and greeted everyone before sitting down, "Hello guys! Hey Y/N." Mick was at his usual antics, leaning in close to the girl, whispering something that made her blush before walking away.

"Y/n, can we talk?"

Those three words made your ear rung and deafen for a second. Finally, the moment of truth arrived as George, Pierre and the rest of the friend group shared looks as some were chuckling softly. So everyone knew while you don't. Did you miss out on a hangout night? Absolutely not.

Daniel looked concerned from the other side of the table as Mick stared at you hoping you'd accept his offer... And you did. With every step you take walking away from that table, your heart beats louder almost as if you could hear it with your ears as Mick leads you into a quiet place on the campus - the school pond & fountain where architecture students hang out. You were happy it wasn't in the parking lot knowing Lance's antics and his battleground was that place.

"Y/N, you're impossible," Mick sighs, leaning against the balustrade.

You raised an eyebrow, confusion etched in your features. "And why's that?"

He was scratching the back of his head, gaze on the ground - embarrassment glimmering in his eyes despite it cast down. "I have to tell you something, Y/N... I was hinting at this girl these past few months. She just doesn't seem to get it that I like her."

"Mick, if you're interested in someone, why not just be direct?" You leaned in, voice sincere. You were confused about how this conversation was going but a slight sting of jealousy sets into your heart. At the same time, you were upset that he was dragging you into this type of conversation and never really explained why he was hanging out less with you which left you dumbfounded for the past weeks.

He smiles sheepishly and all his attention now set into you. His blue eyes were staring at yours, touching every crevice of your own soul. His eyes were telling you something that words couldn't comprehend. "Fear of rejection, I guess. And she's… you're not like anyone else. You're not like everyone else."

"All these months that have passed."

"I planned everything to be close to you and to make you jealous... But it didn't work out." He chuckled awkwardly and lightly bit his lip.

"This is the first time I've felt the need to confess."

"I like you, Y/n."

At that moment, the unspoken truth hung between you both, now as clear as day. Your paths might have been unconventional, but they had led you to something genuine.

Author's Note: This is impulsive writing and this story had been crafted out of my dream. It's an odd dream but hey, I thought about for a moment to share this with you. And no, I wouldn't take requests to write. I do not wish to make a promise and disappoint you all for being slack in writing. I'm not quite sure how this turned out but I hope you guys liked it. 𔘓ฅ[⁠ᓀ⁠˵⁠▾⁠˵⁠ᓂ⁠]𔘓ฅ

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction created by the user in response to a creative writing prompt. Any resemblance to actual events, persons, or entities, whether living or deceased, is purely coincidental. The characters, events, and dialogue portrayed in this fanfiction are products of the user's imagination and are not meant to infringe upon any copyrights or trademarks associated with the Formula One sport or any real-life individuals. This fanfiction is solely intended for entertainment purposes, and the author acknowledges that the depicted scenarios are not endorsed, authorized, or supported by any official Formula One entities or the individuals mentioned.

#formula one #mick schumacher #mick schumacher x reader #Spotify #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader

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genericpuff · 7 months

Note

Hope you don't mind my asking but do you mind elaborating on why you don't like Mongie too much? I know all about why everyone dislikes Let's Play itself. There are various videos and post upon post online tearing it to shreds with criticism but I've not heard much about the creator herself like I do Rachel Smythe. Does she also run into the same issues that Rachel does or is her behavior different but equally questionable/annoying?

It's kinda equally questionable, kinda different. They both have the same issues of like, fetishizing youthfulness and creating unhealthy power dynamics. They also haven't done a great job at depicting POC in their comics, you can tell they're written by white women who don't understand other cultures but are trying to make their series more "progressive" by including stand-ins for representation.

That said, considering Let's Play is set in a real world setting, the POC characters (and the casually racist issues in their writing) are a lot more obvious than in LO (where you have to know the context that the neon-colored nymphs are based on POC to really realize that they're lower class POC people who are getting the shit end of the stick from the rich upper class main protagonists).

And I don't even mean in the usual "there aren't any POC in this comic" or "the POC in this comic are stereotypical/poorly written", I mean in the sort of white-victim-complex "I added in other ethnicities and people got mad at me anyways so what more do you want!" kind of way (paired with the "they're poorly written and stereotypical" aspect).

Dean is a good example of the stereotypical designing and writing, IIRC he's a Hispanic man but he's written like some Spanish soap opera character who flirts with every woman he sees and always has rose petals falling around him.

Even in that sentence he says "part Asian" which is weird because he's looking for Marshall who's supposed to be his best friend and it's been established in the comic that Marshall is half-Japanese, but that brings us to the other instance of mongie being casually (if not directly) racist and even more so than with Dean...

Apparently mongie thought it was a good move to say that it was "more inclusive" to make Vikki only vaguely Asian. Which is just... so not true LOL Asia is an entire continent made up of MANY different cultures and ethnicities and so generalizing all of them to just "Asian" is not a great take from someone who's trying to seem "more inclusive".

But of course, when her community called her out on this and asked her to elaborate, she and her mod team basically dug their heels in and made up excuses that made mongie out to be a victim instead of just acknowledging she made an error that didn't connect well with members of her audience.

And theeen in comes mongie ready to torch the place. Note that up until this point, it's basically been her mod team speaking up on her behalf and giving her benefit of the doubt, so when mongie DID get her chance to speak, she jumped right to:

"FINE, SHE'S HALF CHINESE HALF KOREAN THEN, STFU AND STOP ANALYZING ME WHEN I INCLUDE CHARACTERS FROM RACES THAT DON'T ALIGN WITH MY OWN !!!" (╯‵□′)╯︵┻━┻ is very much the vibe people got from this, understandably so. It's also odd (and extremely privileged) for her to say that she'd "rather focus on a character's personality and not their race" because it's very "I don't see color" which has been proven to be counterintuitive to understanding and celebrating different races.

And then we get a lot of self-victimizing "well I can't win no matter what so you people are ungrateful and actually it's MY feelings that are hurt" excuses:

Again it's weird because she had NO problem specifying that Marshall was half-Japanese and she didn't make him into any sort of weird stereotype like she did with Vikki. So I don't know why she's having such a hard time grasping that being vaguely Asian for Vikki isn't inclusive.

Although, let's be real here, the only reason Marshall is half-Japanese at all is because he's a self-insert of Markiplier, a half-Korean Youtuber who mongie apparently worked for on payroll as a graphic designer prior to Let's Play. Which is just a whole layer of ick that I think surpasses even Rachel Smythe and Mads Mikkelson. Like the Rachel and Mads thing is definitely creepy and weird because she's literally drawn herself - an adult woman nearing her 40's - being swept off her feet by a smoochy-faced Mads. But at least she didn't work for the guy or ever interact with him directly like mongie did with Markiplier. That's a whole separate level of "ew".

That said, mongie continues:

Which is just such a half-assed non-apology. Not "I'm sorry for misrepresenting a culture" or "I'm sorry I didn't do proper research", but "I'm sorry people think I'm being insensitive or that they need specific representation in my work that I'm claiming to be representation to be good". Completely shifting the blame from herself onto her audience for not being happy with the bare minimum that she gave them.

There's more though. Probably one of the worst parts and it's not even her, but one of her mods:

The fact that this is one of mongie's mods telling mongie's audience that her feelings - as a white woman who's just legitimately patronized her audience - are more valid than the people whose feelings were hurt by mongie being so insensitive... it's a real gross move and I can't believe they even pulled that.

Oh, and of course, as people like this tend to do, she goes on about "cancel culture" and how "terrifying" it is to her and then comes up with some imaginary scenario where a kid pays a hitman to kill her ?? as a defense for herself that really just further victimizes herself over her own misled actions ??

And this is something mongie does a lot, at least in this instance - she comes up with justifications for her decisions based on completely imaginary scenarios that she came up with and assumed, rather than just, idk, doing her research and being open to learning new things about cultures she's clearly not educated on. Shit like "well if I do xyz you'll be mad at me anyways so fuck you!"

When in reality? No one would have been mad at her if she didn't have any non-white characters in her comic. Would readers be disappointed? Probably. But - and I can't speak for everybody out there obviously so this is just my opinion - I know I'd much rather representation from someone who wanted to represent my respective groups and identities and put love and effort into it, than get it from someone who was just doing it because they made up a scenario in their head that they would be cancelled for not doing it. No one really has any tangible ground to stand on if they get mad at you for writing a cast of all-white characters you wanted to write, there are plenty of webtoons like that on the platform. We do need more stories that uplift and represent POC voices, but it shouldn't be from white victim complex people who only do it to virtue signal and ensure they don't get "cancelled". You know what WILL get you cancelled? Attempting to write other ethnicities and racial groups purely based on stereotypes for the sake of "representation" and then getting mad when people ask you to be a little more specific than "Asian".

Oh yeah, and then have your mods censor/delete any mentioning of educational resources regarding Asian cultures, and then essentially dox one of your community members by revealing their Twitter to the entire Discord group to boot!

oh boy mongie, if you think THAT'S drama, wait until you see the shit I do here LMAO

#so yeah that's the tea on mongie #don't write characters outside of your own worldview if you aren't prepared to do the research #it's OKAY if you're white and only familiar with writing white characters #just don't go writing POC or other ethnicities and then acting like a martyr over it when people call you out for it being badly done #bare minimum stereotypical vague representation is just as harmful as no representation #webtoon critical #ama #ask me anything #anon ama #anon ask me anything

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marinasmarvel · 9 months

Text

station 19 family headcanons

i’m choosing to ignore the fact that dean is dead and surrera divorced for the sake of my own sanity

all of the station are basically siblings with ben as their father

vic is the baby and everyone is very protective of her

maya is the second youngest but doesn’t let anyone coddle her

(except for carina)

robert actually has a playful side and has pulled a few pranks on some members of the team

travis is a bit of a scaredy cat and robert loves hiding behind corners and scaring him half to death

robert once found vic crying because it was lucas’ birthday, and he was feeling very similarly

they ended up comforting each other and sharing stories about lucas

vic and andy take naps on the hoses during shifts

other team members join them sometimes

during a very slow 36 hour shift, vic took of her shoes and started sliding around the station in her socks

everyone else joined her

travis couldn’t stop falling over and it would make everyone crack up every time

dean tried to slide and look really cool but ended up falling on his ass

little pruitt miller has everyone in the station wrapped around her little finger

like nobody can say no to her

one time when jack was babysitting she had ice cream for breakfast

dean was not happy but couldn’t blame him

nerf gun wars all the time

jack brought a fully automatic machine nerf gun and started shooting

everyone had to duck for cover but theo got hit in the nose

however maya declared carina as a no shoot zone

if they even dare shoot her maya will kill them

with nerf of course

theo is actually a decent shooter, and can hit anyone without trying

jack got hit the most and was forced to clean up

lots of wrestling matches and pillow fights

dean usually starts them

maya finishes them

very physically affectionate with each other, lots of hugs and cuddles

ben always scolds them for misbehaving and causing havoc

he’s just being dad

theo, robert, and andy always speak in spanish when they don’t want anyone else to know what they are saying

carina attempts to do the same with maya in italian but maya is a lost cause with that

everyone always gets so excited when carina comes to the station with food

she’s the best at cooking and everyone knows it

dean wants his daughter to be educated in all cultures, and has andy and theo teach her about latinx culture

he also asks carina to teach pru about italian culture

pru picks up bits and pieces of both italian and spanish languages

maya once again feels outnumbered

andrew deluca’s photo is right next to captain herrera’s in the display case

despite not being a firefighter, he is still just as much of a hero

carina cried when she saw it

the team threw a party for carina when she became head of the OB department at grey sloan

maya and carina both cried

jack is such a deep sleeper that everyone loves putting random things on him while he rests

jack once woke up with everyone’s helmets covering his body

needless to say he was confused

vic put an entire chair on him while he slept

anyways i miss them

#station 19 #maya bishop #carina deluca #travis montgomery #dean miller #jack gibson #robert sullivan #andy herrera #vic hughes #theo ruiz #ben warren #station 19 headcanons

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esoterichistoria · 2 months

Text

Introduction & rules

This is my Nevermore side blog.

This blog will be used for confessions, art, reblogs and analysis posts.

It will mostly be used for confessions though.

Apologies for the long post ahead.

About me

To remind you that I’m a real person.

I’m Soren, I’m nonbinary transmasc and bisexual with a lean for girls. I’m 18, currently in college not sure with what I want to do. I’m Mexican-American.

I enjoy gothic aesthetic and media, as well as comics and art. I write my own stories and have my own characters as well, my favorite Nevermore characters are the Deans

I speak English, Spanish and I’m currently learning Brazilian Portuguese, I think I somewhat understand most of it now.

I don’t really get involved in ships or fics since I don’t really care for romance.

My rules/personal boundaries

How to send one? There is a button on my profile that says “Ask me something” click it, and choose if you want to be anonymous or not.

- Don’t be rude or aggressive to me or other confessors, that will be 10 demerits for impolite tone and 5 more for audacity. (the demerits are a joke)

- Sometimes I may take a while or a couple days to answer yours, this is because I get fatigue easily as well as I have a life outside of this blog.

- That being said, I have every right to not answer a confession or post it, do not bother me about this.

- Please write your confession well, don’t use typing quirks or anything like that since it may be difficult for some to read.

- Try to keep it short, if you can’t, then it’s alright. I just don’t want my posts to clog up tags with lots of text.

- If you would like your confession deleted, then please message me about it and I will remove it.

- Do not get mad at me over a confession you don’t like, those are not my opinions, all I do is post them and sometimes chime in with my thoughts.

- Basically, just be polite and respectful with your opinion and others, you will receive merits for this.

Final thoughts

I created this blog because I got into Nevermore the day it came out, I enjoyed the gothic themes as well as the art and concept of the story.

I started doing “confessions”, because I thought it would be a way to pass time, and because I have friends who have certain opinions about Nevermore, that they would like to say anonymously. I thought about how there could be others that might agree with certain opinions and wanted those people to have a way to express them without the fear of being dogpiled for them. I did not expect this blog to blow up because of it.

That being said, if you do not like seeing these on your timeline or in tags, feel free to block me or to just scroll past if it is bothering you. No one is telling you to look at my blog.

That is all, thank you.

#nevermore webtoon #nevermore #nevermore webcomic #the deans nevermore #intro post #asks #confessions #nevermore confessions

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zepskies · 11 months

Text

Midnight Espresso

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-Sized/Latina!Reader

Summary: You’ve never taken Dean’s flirting seriously…until he asks you for an impromptu Spanish lesson.

AN: The muse hit me hard on this one last night lol. I felt like "Midnight Espresso" was catchier than the working title, "Midnight Coffee Shots."

Thanks for the encouragement and inspo: @deanwinchesterswitch @iprobablyshipit91 @freewastelandstrawberry

Song Inspo: "2 Be Loved (Am I Ready)" by Lizzo

Word Count: 7,000

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, mutual pining, body insecurity, ass appreciation, supernatural shenanigans, naughty language, bad bitch o’clock and thicc thirty.

☕ Midnight Espresso Masterlist

When you spot the caller ID on your buzzing cell phone, you have to smile. You answer the call.

“Well if it isn’t Dean I need a favor Winchester,” you tease. You hear his genuine chuckle, deep and smooth in your car speakers.

“Hey, sweetheart…” He hesitates, which makes your lips curve wryly.

“Yeah, Dean? What’cha got?”

“I need a favor.”

You sigh dramatically. “So fucking predictable.”

“Sorry, but look. We really do need you…we’ve got a situation.”

“Oh, a situation? How specific,” you chuckle.

“All right, smartass,” he says, but you can hear the amusement in his voice. “Just listen…”

When he tells you the lowdown on the case he and Sam are on, you have to change directions—all the way to a dusty little town in the south of Texas.

There you find the brothers Winchester outside La Cantina Libre.

You greet Sam first, stretching up to meet his hug. He’s friendly and warm when he rubs your back.

“Good to see you,” he says.

“You too, lumberjack,” you reply, noting the new layer of scruff he’s sporting on his face. Sam gives a dry chuckle and rubs his bearded chin.

“I keep tellin’ him to shave that ferret off his face,” Dean remarks. You turn to him with a grin just as he pulls you in next.

“Aw, he looks good,” you say, giving Sam an encouraging look behind Dean’s back. The taller Winchester sports a good-natured smile.

But you revel a bit in Dean’s warmth when he holds you tight, then let out a little breath when he pulls away, grasping your arms.

“So do you,” he says with a wink.

You roll your eyes and playfully hit his shoulder. “Right. Eight hours of cross-country grime really becomes me.”

But you can’t help blushing a little at his smirk. Always a fucking flirt.

You turn your head to the bar in front of you.

“What’s the deal with this place?”

“The husband of one of the victims is inside,” Sam explains.

According to the police report, his wife returned home from a night out with her friends three days ago. She sat down in the middle of the living room, on the ground. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t eat.

When Hector Rivera brought his wife to the hospital, neither fluids or medication helped her sleep or retain any nutrients. The official cause of death was starvation and dehydration.

It was a baffling case, both for the doctors and the police, who never found any criminal evidence to support a murder investigation.

“Okay, have you talked to Hector?” you ask. Dean raises his brows at you.

“That’s where you come in,” he says. “The guy only speaks Spanish. Neither me or Sam got the chops to Duolingo our way through.”

You can certainly believe that of Dean, but you still make sure to tease Sam on your way inside the bar. He’d studied Latin in high school, but hadn’t bothered to take Spanish?

“Definitely a white boy move,” you tease, which Sam accepts with a chuckle.

But you realize that the guys really would’ve been at a loss here. Most of the bar patrons are Spanish-speaking Latinos (you are a mere stone’s throw from the border of Mexico, after all).

You ask around for Hector and find him at the end of the bar, drinking alone. He’s early forties at most, dark hair, tan skin mere shades lighter than yours. He has three shots down in front of him, and he’s working on picking up his fourth. Sam and Dean trail after you as you slide into the stool next to Hector.

“Señor Rivera,” you greet him in your native tongue and pull out your fabricated police badge. “Good evening.”

He glances at you, then your badge with furrowed brows.

“What do you want?” he asks in Spanish, just a hint slurring.

“I’m very sorry about your wife. I know you’ve already given your statement, but we’re looking further into the circumstances surrounding Nina’s death,” you explain.

He perks up at that, his brown eyes briefly lighting with something other than cold, hard grief.

“The doctors couldn’t explain it, he admits. “They couldn’t do a damn thing. I just don’t understand…”

He glares down at his hands, at the glass of liquor between them. He fights to control himself, but you can see it’s a losing battle. You rest a gentle hand on his arm, and when Hector meets your eyes, you know he’ll find genuine sympathy.

“I want to help you,” you tell him. “At the very least, I can look for a real explanation on what happened to Nina. Can you tell me what you know?”

A moment later, he pats your hand on his arm. And he tells you.

Dean watches from his spot behind you while he and Sam blend in, each drinking a beer. Dean admires how easily you connect with people. How genuine you are in wanting to help them.

He knows you’ve spent years in this job. Maybe not as long as him, but long enough to get jaded. You aren’t, and you care.

Dean thinks it’s part of the reason why you always answer when he calls. You’ve never said no to him, always been there when he and Sam need you. And that, he somehow feels guilty about.

Because what the fuck has he really ever done for you, other than put you in danger?

“Dean,” Sam says, nudging his side.

It brings Dean back to the present when he sees you’re getting up from the bar. Despite his inner conflict, he can’t help but notice the curve of your ample ass in those tight jeans. An enticing ratio of thick thighs to smaller waist, and generous cup size to match.

But when you turn around, it’s your sad smile that grabs his attention. You draw near, and Dean forces himself to stay relaxed when your warm hand rests on his forearm.

It’s a familiar, comfortable thing for you to be touchy. You’re an expressive person, always talking with your hands, full-body animated when you tell stories.

Sometimes you’ll grab his wrist playfully, or brush your hand along his back when you pass by. Or you’ll grab his shoulder to steady yourself, and lean into him when you’ve had too much to drink.

Dean likes it—all of it. In fact, he finds it endearing as hell.

But it’s also a problem. A unique kind of torture to keep himself in check around you…

Frankly, he doesn’t think you know what your touch does to him.

In fact, he knows you don’t, because while you’ve got your smooth, tan hand on his arm, you’re more looking at Sam when you say:

“I think I know what this is.”

“El Sombrerón,” you repeat yourself as you flip through a book on South American lore.

“Shouldn’t you be an expert on this already?” Dean teases as you rifle through the pages. “I thought Latin American legends were right up your alley.”

The three of you are back at their delightfully crap motel of the week. You and Sam sit at the two-seater table while Dean leans against the wall with his arms crossed.

You shoot him a wry glance. “I’m Cuban, not Guatemalan. Though apparently, El Sombrerón appears in Mexican mythology as well.”

Hector said that the night his wife went to the bar with her friends, her friend Jennine saw a man with a black jacket and a hat to match.

She said he flirted with Nina, a sweet but introverted soul. She turned him down, of course, but he tried to cajole her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and touch her cheek. That’s when Jennine stepped in and cursed the guy out, threatening to break his nose if he didn’t back off.

They didn’t see him again that night, but you suspect the damage had been done the moment he touched her…

“All right, so he’s a boogeyman of sorts,” Sam says, gesturing at the vivid illustration in the book he’s holding. You peer over at the page and nod.

“Yeah, I’ve heard the cautionary tale. A man dressed in black, wide-brimmed hat—”

“Like Zorro,” Dean supplies. You give him an amused grin.

“No, not like Zorro,” you reply. “Instead of being a fine-ass caped crusader with a voice deep and gritty as sin, El Sombrerón likes to lure women into the woods.”

Dean raises a brow at your description (Deep and gritty as sin, huh?), but you continue.

“Specifically, he’s got a fetish for long hair,” you recount. “Here it says El Sombrerón’s voice and touch are a curse, rendering his victims unable to eat or sleep. Eventually, they die.”

That falls between you all like hot lead. Until Sam voices the question you’re all thinking.

“So how do we find him?”

“For the record, I’m against this fucking idea,” Dean mutters to his brother. Once again, they’re patrons of La Cantina Libre, each nursing a beer.

“Yeah, you’ve made that known a few times now,” Sam replies in a low whisper. “She’ll be okay, Dean. We’re right here for her.”

They’re just on standby, watching you ignore flirtations from men with a coy smile. You leave a delicate ring of red lipstick on your straw while you nurse a Tequila Sunrise.

Dean subtly (to Sam, not so subtly) watches you. His elbow rests on the counter, chin in hand, hand over mouth, while his eyes roam down your simple black dress. Your ankles are crossed under the bar counter. The toe of your platform heel bouncing against the foot rail is the only thing telling Dean that you’re a bit nervous.

You’ve let your hair down on purpose, trying to entice the “Zorro” monster with the smooth waves running down your back.

On any other night, Dean might’ve enjoyed this place. He has a good beer in hand. There’s some live music tonight, in the form of a man playing a shiny silver guitar, crooning into the mic. You turn your head to watch for a moment, and Dean sees the way your gaze sharpens on the musician.

The man wears a black dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, tucked neatly into his dark wash jeans. His black hair is long and a little wild, almost brushing his shoulders. While he holds out a smooth note, he looks up and finds your gaze. His lips curve on a smile.

Your face heats up at the attention, but you find yourself captivated by those eyes. They’re intense, almost black under the stage lights. And as the musician’s song comes to a close, you feel a trill of something run down your spine when he sets down his silver guitar.

Then he makes his way toward you.

He settles into the free seat next to you and orders two tequila shots.

“I have a drink, thanks,” you say. The man only smiles.

“You’ve been holding onto that Sunrise for two hours,” he says. “I just thought you might like something stronger, before the sun actually comes up.”

Inside, you want to roll your eyes at the cheesy line.

Instead, you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and his gaze is drawn to the motion. You notice it with mounting suspicion.

“Maybe I do,” you reply. “What’s your name?”

“Miguel,” he says, offering a charming smile. “And yours, amor?”

You consider him with flirtatious eyes and a tilt of your head. You’re fairly certain you have your target.

You lay a hand on his arm, over his jacket. You lean in close enough to whisper in his ear.

“Do you really need my name?” you ask in Spanish.

Miguel smirks when you lean back. He offers you his hand to help you off of your stool. Wary of actually touching his skin to yours, you try your best to be graceful and sensuous as you slide out of your seat and onto your heels without his help. You then walk out of the bar through the back without waiting for him to follow you (hoping that he does).

Your instincts are right, however. When you make it out of the bar, Miguel is indeed closing in behind you. You glance over your shoulder, offering a coy smile. But when you look ahead, you have to utter a gasp.

Miguel is suddenly there to grab you and pull you in by your waist.

“When will your friends be joining us?” he asks, trailing a finger down your cheek. It makes you shudder, but you pretend to be confused.

“Friends?”

“Dumb and dumber, watching you like a hawk,” he says, raising a brow. “Oh, mi amor. I know a pack of hunters when I see them.”

Sam and Dean watch the musician run back for his guitar, slipping it carefully in its case before he takes off after you.

“Get the guitar. Got a feeling about that thing,” Dean says to Sam. “I’ll follow ‘em.”

The moment Dean walks out the back of the bar, he stops short and draws his gun. His body tenses and his face falls into a glare when he sees Miguel holding you close (and against your will). But Miguel catches sight of Dean.

He forcefully turns you around and wraps an arm across your chest, pulling you back as you struggle.

“Good evening,” Miguel greets with a smirk. He nods at the full moon. “Beautiful night for a lover’s serenade.”

His voice alone is a threat, Dean knows. And by the way your eyes widen, so do you.

“Shut the fuck up, Mike,” Dean snarks. “Mind if I call you Mike?”

He raises his gun, but Miguel tsks at him. You grit your teeth as he pulls your hair back away from your cheek. His breath is hot an unpleasant in your ear, causing you to shudder.

“I do wish we had more time, amor,” he says, trailing a hand down your ass and thigh. “I like to play with my food.”

A hot lance of anger runs through Dean, but it runs even hotter through you, igniting your temper and making your patience run right the fuck out. You snap your head back and catch Miguel in the nose. He wrenches back with a pained cry.

You try to ignore the resulting ache in your head and reach for the silver knife in your thigh holster, beneath your dress. But Miguel grabs you by the hair. Suddenly his face has become grotesque, revealing its true form with a mouth filled with sharp, needle-like teeth.

You gasp as a trill of magic runs through your body from his touch. It paralyzes you as he wrenches your neck back and prepares to bite a chunk right out of your neck.

But Dean shoots a warning shot by the creature’s head, all-too close to yours as he approaches.

“Hey!” Sam calls out. He attracts everyone’s attention, even Miguel’s. Sam holds the silver guitar.

“This is what you use to play Pied Piper, right?” Sam asks. Miguel’s face hardens, but before he can do anything about it, Sam smashes the guitar to smithereens on the gravel road.

Miguel lets out an outraged hiss. While he’s distracted, Dean takes another shot that hits the creature in the shoulder. It gives you the opening you need to grab your knife and stab him in the leg.

Miguel cries out in pain, but before you can scramble away, he grabs your face. His sharpened nails bite into your skin, making you wince. You manage to kick out his knee. It forces him to release you, unless he wants to eat the ground hard.

Sam is there to catch you while Dean closes in. He shoots, the creature evades, grabbing Dean’s wrist and punching him across the face. The hunter goes down to the gravel with hands held out to brace himself. But he has a large knife on his belt that he retrieves next, only to be knocked out of his hand when Miguel bears on him.

He throws off Sam’s attempt to pull him off Dean, throwing him hard against the dumpster in the alley.

While Dean grapples bare-handed with the monster, trying his best to evade gnashing teeth in his face, you find his discarded knife and bury it deep into Miguel’s back.

He howls with pain and tries to throw you off. He manages to backhand you in the face and shove you away. You nearly roll an ankle on the small rocks rolling under your heels, and you end up on your back with the wind knocked out of you.

But Dean’s able to kick Miguel off and finish what you started. Dean pins the man on the ground and twists the knife deeper. And he doesn’t let go until the creature below him stops twitching.

Dean takes in deep breaths to account for the way adrenaline has set his blood pumping. He still sits on the ground with the body next to him. But then, he finds you kneeling next to him in your now dusty dress. Your eyes are worried when you grasp his shoulder and lay another hand lightly on his scuffed knee.

Dean reaches for you on reflex, grabbing your arm. Both of you manage to ask your burning questions at the same time—

“You okay?”

“Are you all right?”

You crack first with a giggle. Dean quirks a grin and thumbs at your cheek.

“Yeah, all good,” he says.

Your relieved smile reaches your eyes, and it warms him. “Good.”

Behind you both, Sam hides his own knowing smile.

Sam and Dean invite you to stay over at the bunker after the hunt, instead of making the even longer drive home. You’re too exhausted to say no.

By the time you get to the bunker, you’re dead on your feet, practically swaying down the stairs.

“I’m so fuckin’ tiiiired…”

“Come on, stop whining,” Dean teases as he helps you down. Sam has dropped your duffel bag on the ground floor and gone on ahead to shower, leaving you and Dean to figure this out.

“Why don’t you just take off the heels?” he wryly suggests.

“Hell no,” you refuse with a stubborn shake of your head.

You don’t want to contemplate how much monster guts have glossed the stairs of this bunker, via the brothers’ boots.

Maybe it’s a silly reason to suffer, but is it really suffering if you have Dean Winchester escorting you with both hands down the stairs?

His hands are warm and you trust the strength of his hold, but when your heel wobbles on the edge of a step, you still go for the railing rather than sink all your weight on Dean. He laughs at you, and you maturely stick out a tongue at him.

“At this point, it’d be faster if I freakin’ carried you,” Dean remarks. He reaches for you, but you stop him with a heel in his sternum.

“Eh-eh! Don’t even try,” you laugh. “I totally got this.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but you lower your heeled foot and manage to climb down the last few steps of the rickety staircase…at least, what your exhausted brain thinks is the last one.

You almost go ass over tea kettle when you miss the final stair with a yelp—but Dean is there to catch you.

His arms are like steel bands around your frame, curving around your lower back and pulling you flush against his chest. You gasp and cling to his arms. When you look up at him with wide eyes, you find his amused face…and maybe something else in his eyes. He tilts his head down at you.

“Well, well. Look who keeps falling for me?” he remarks.

You blush at the flirtatious edge of his tone. The gleam in his green eyes; you take it for amusement only, not realizing that he’s barely resisting the urge to claim your lips.

“Right,” you laugh him off with a pat on his chest. “When was the first time again?”

You make sure your heels are firmly on the ground before you push away from Dean. As you thought, he doesn’t try to keep you. He still looks amused as he lets you go.

He flirts with anything, you remind yourself, when disappointment starts to carve a hole in your heart. Don’t take it so seriously.

You say goodnight before you take up your duffel bag and go to find a free bedroom (and a hot shower). All the while, you bite your lip against a deep-seated feeling of uncertainty.

Dean watches you go, and you don’t see the way his mask of a smile fades into a frown.

After a nice hot shower and changing into your pajamas, that moment with Dean has unsettled you enough that you're not quite ready to go to sleep. Maybe you’re in the mood for a midnight snack.

You take out a couple of supplies from your bag and head over to the kitchen. There you set up your little cafetera coffee press with water, and a generous few tablespoons of Café Bustelo grounds of espresso. While that brews on the stove, you make some popcorn in the microwave.

You don’t realize that the rich smell reaches Dean all the way in his room. He sniffs the air in interest, then in confusion.

She’s making coffee at midnight?

He gets up out of bed and pads down to the kitchen where you’ve taken over. A large bowl of popcorn is ready and waiting for him to snatch a handful, while you’re checking the little metal carafe you have going on the stove.

“What’cha up to, sweetheart?” he asks. You greet him with a smile.

“Café con leche,” you reply.

Coffee with milk, he mentally translates. That much, he can work out.

“You drink coffee at this time of night?” he asks.

“My people invented it. I’ve been inoculated to this stuff since I was eight years old,” you quip. “Want some? Believe me, you’ll love it.”

He shrugs. “Sure. But if I end up too wired to fucking sleep, be prepared to suffer with me.”

You laugh. “I’m sure we’ll figure out something to do.”

Dean’s not sure if you meant that as flirtatious as it sounded. But by your briefly widening eyes and blushing cheeks, maybe you just realized it. He smirks and draws closer while you break out two mugs from the cabinet.

He notices your chosen pajamas with secret appreciation (a large threadbare Journey shirt over spandex shorts). You fill the little shorts out well.

Though Dean spots several small holes in the shirt. He teasingly sticks his finger through one in your short sleeve.

“Lose a fight with a pair of scissors?” he jokes.

You shoot him an amused glance over your shoulder.

“You are the reigning king of dad jokes. I’ll have you know, this is my lucky shirt.”

He snorts in response. “What makes it lucky?”

You just bite your lip and focus back on your task at hand. With the coffee done percolating, you measure out two steaming shots of espresso into each mug.

“Hey, you brought it up,” Dean reminds you.

You sigh, and after you pour in the sugar and the evaporated milk into each mug, you turn around and lean against the counter.

“I’ve never had a bad dream while wearing this shirt to bed,” you confess. His teasing gentles at that.

When you turn back around to put the finishing touches on what you’re doing, Dean’s expression becomes more fond as he watches you.

You then offer him his Batman mug with a brighter smile.

“Buen provecho,” you say.

“What does that mean?” he asks predictably, taking the mug from you.

“Enjoy! Like bon appetite, basically.”

“Ah,” he raises his brows before he takes a sip. Then they raise even higher as he hums in pleasure. “Ooh, it’s sweet…and strong. Shit.”

“Very,” you say with a chuckle, taking your own sip. You make a sound of delight, complete with a little “happy dance” shimmy. “Almost as good as my grandma makes it.”

Dean smiles in amusement at your antics. The two of you sit at the kitchen island, where there are three stools and the bowl of popcorn. The salty snack is just the right balance for the sweet coffee.

“She taught you how to make this?” he asks.

You nod. “Yep! She’s an amazing cook too. Learned everything I know from her.”

“Hmm, might need to sample something of yours sometime,” Dean says, peering at you over his mug. His tone is deceptively light, but you read the double meaning in his eyes.

You hide the way your mouth falls open behind your own mug. Instead of answering, you nod and take a delicate sip. Your gaze veers away from his as you blush.

He’s in a good mood tonight, you think in bemusement.

“So tell me. What are the best curse words in Spanish?” Dean asks.

You have to laugh. Your head ducks as you reach for his arm. His eyes briefly go to your hand, and he smirks.

“Of course that’s the first thing you want to know,” you tease. You take back your hand and think about his question. “Hmm…I mean, there are the basics. Coño, carajo. Like 'damn it,' 'fucking hell,' and so forth.”

“Come on, you can do better than that,” Dean says.

“Well, yeah,” you say with a grin. “Comemierda is a Cuban fan favorite.”

“Which means?”

“Literally? Someone who eats shit,” you laugh. “A stupid asshole, basically.”

Dean’s grin deepens. “Nice.”

“The best one of all time is probably…ugh, my mom would wash my mouth out with soap for even saying it.” You cover your face with both hands, but Dean nudges your elbow.

“Come on, give it to me,” he teases. You peek out at him from between your hands. Then you stage whisper to him.

“Hijo de la gran puta,” you say. It rolls off your tongue in such a way that, even though Dean knows it’s vulgar in some way, the ease in which you say it raises the hairs on his arms.

“I like that,” he says.

You giggle at him. “You don’t even know what the fuck it means.”

“Don’t matter. I just like how it sounds,” he says. “Gimme the Google Translate.”

You shoot him a narrowed look for that one. “It means son of the grand whore. Literally, the chiefest of them all. The grand poohbah of whores.”

Dean splutters with laughter. His hand slaps the table, and you shush him, reminding him that Sam is probably sleeping by now.

“It’s literally one of the worst things you can say to somebody,” you say, though you’re also choking on laughter. By the end of it, you and Dean are chortling like fools and getting high on espresso and sugar.

You teach him how to roll his r’s, and at his request, more slang. You explain how certain Hispanics and Latino cultures use different words for the same thing (at times, very confusing), and how something innocent to an American, like a papaya fruit, means something very different for Cubans.

For Dean’s part, he’s genuinely interested in what you have to teach him. But he also just likes hearing you speak the language. It rolls off your tongue gracefully, effortless and sensuous without you meaning to. He likes it enough that he tells you his honest thoughts.

“It all sounds incredibly hot, I’m not gonna lie,” he says with a chuckle. You blush at that, something he finds endearing.

“You sound like my ex,” you say in amusement. “He only went out with me to help him with his Spanish.”

Dean sobers a bit at that. “What?”

“Yeah.” You chuckle dryly. “He was trying to land some job as a strip club bouncer, but we were in Miami at the time. They needed someone bilingual.”

Dean doesn’t like the resigned tone of your voice.

“Yeah well, the bouncer?” he remarks, trying for a teasing bump of his hand against yours. “Come on. You should at least be aiming for the owner.”

You flash him a brief smile and nod. “Ah, so I set my sights too low. Got it.”

It’s then that Dean starts to wonder about the kinds of guys you’ve gotten with in the past. Not that he has room to judge, but he can see that there was no love lost there for you.

Dean has a thought, deep in his bones, that you deserve someone who sees how special you are. How kind, funny, loyal, caring…

“Seriously,” Dean says. “You can do better.”

“Right,” you laugh. But he’s not laughing. You raise a brow at him.

“What?” you ask.

His lips purse, but he thinks better of what he wants to say.

“Nothing. ‘S none of my business,” he says.

You stare back at him and frown thoughtfully. You think you’re lucky to get a date, the way you constantly move around.

You don’t have stability, and even though you try to keep in shape, try to avoid the shittier fast food, it’s been a challenge to maintain yourself. You worry that you’ve gained five pounds in diner food alone in the past couple of months…

Okay, mostly, you’re happy with your curves. But the way Dean’s looking at you now, you can’t help a flutter of hope that rises in your chest, making your heart beat faster.

Maybe you’re finally ready to know how he really sees you.

“Talk to me, Dean,” you nod, and you reach out a hand to grasp his wrist.

He looks down at your hand. After a moment, he sighs and lays his own over yours. He meets your gaze.

“Look, I think I hear what you’re not saying,” Dean says. “And you’re sellin’ yourself short, sweetheart. That’s all.”

It takes you a moment, but a soft smile spreads across your face. It warms him in a way he doesn’t expect, but maybe he should.

Biting your lip with a bit of embarrassment, you squeeze his hand before you get up to take the two empty mugs with you to the sink.

“Que hombre tan pendejo, hermoso,” you mutter. “Ni siquiera sabes lo que me haces.”

You don’t realize that Dean actually hears you. He perks up, standing from his seat and approaching you from behind.

“What was that?” he asks.

You jump slightly, and a blush burns down your neck as you turn off the sink and spin back around. Dean is there, crossing his arms and staring you down with a raised brow. A hint of a smirk begins to edge around his mouth.

“What?” you ask.

“Oh, no. You said something just now,” he says. Like a dog with a bone, he’s not going to let this one go.

Your lips threaten to smile, but you shake your head stubbornly. “You’ll just have to invest in that Duolingo subscription.”

Dean joins you by the sink. His hand braces on the kitchen counter.

“Well, either you’re insulting me, or you’re flirting with me,” Dean says.

His lips then edge into a smirk. “The first one I could forgive, but the second…might require some retribution.”

Your eyes slowly widen. “What, why?”

Dean has to chuckle, because your expression is all but an admission of guilt. It’s too damn adorable.

“Because you can’t flirt with me without me knowin’ about it,” he says. “That’s just rude.”

His hands brace the counter on either side of you, trapping you in. The only way to get through him is to tell him the truth, or suffer the consequences.

You gaze up at him with wide eyes and a full flush across your tan skin. Is he actually doing this right now?

Your heart beats loud in your ears like conga drums.

“So which is it, sweetheart?” Dean asks. His playful, but singularly focused green-eyed gaze tells you he really does want an answer.

“Well, it was kinda both,” you say with a shy, but mischievous smile. Dean’s smirk deepens.

He tucks a finger beneath your chin and lets his thumb brush your full lower lip…

Then he leans down to kiss you thoroughly. His plush lips move over yours, hot, wet, and sinfully good.

But it’s also short—much too short for your liking when he parts from you to gauge your reaction. He seems to like what he finds in your eyes.

“Was that the punishment?” you tease. “Kinda weak.”

Dean raises a brow. “Consider it a start.”

He pulls you into him by your waist and continues where he left off, with another searing kiss. You hum with pleasure against his lips as your fingers delve into his hair.

His hands move down your back, making a shiver of delight coarse through you. They land on cradling your ass, squeezing and pressing you into him.

You gasp into his mouth. You can feel his length already hard against you. That alone trills anticipation down your spine, and a dizzy feeling, the fact that your touch is turning him on. You nip at his lower lip in response, licking into his mouth. It elicits a sound deep in his throat as his touch becomes more demanding.

He then bends down to reach behind your thighs, and before you know what’s happening, you squeal when he lifts you up on the counter.

You grab his shoulders like a cat clinging to the edge of a bath.

Damn, he’s strong!

“What’s the matter?” he laughs.

“I’m just not used to being manhandled,” you quip. “These hips don’t lie, but they definitely don’t fly.”

Dean snorts. “Says who?”

“My ex, for one thing,” you joke again. Though it isn’t actually a joke.

Dean, again, isn’t laughing.

His hands aren’t large enough to span your thighs, but it’s not for lack of trying. His firm touch burning up your parted thighs are distracting, warm over your skin, and over your thin shorts. His thumbs dip between your inner thighs, making you breathe a bit more shallowly.

“I get the feeling that you’ve been with some ain’t shit guys,” Dean says. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t lump me in with the rest of ‘em.”

Your eyes widen. Dean grins down at you and takes the opportunity to kiss you again. His hand disappears in your hair and he presses kisses down your neck. A pleasant tingle breaks out across your skin as you tilt your head for him, giving him access.

Your fingers begin toying with his collar and glide down his chest. Unlike you, everything about him is firm, you think. But you start to think that he likes your softness, the thickness of your curves.

You didn’t take him for an ass man, but he seems very happy to get a fistful of it. It’s as flattering as it is arousing.

“I’ve wanted to get this perfect ass in my hands since the day we met,” he says. His voice is deep, full of grit and desire, but what he says next surprises you even more.

“Wanted to ask you out that night,” he confesses.

You pause at that. You met Sam and Dean two years ago already. The fact that he’d wanted to ask you out was one thing, but he’d been holding onto this for two years?

“Really?” you ask.

Dean reads your incredulity, huffing a laugh. “You’re really finding that hard to believe right now?”

He rocks against your clothed core so you can feel his reaction to you. You instinctively gasp and hold onto him. You slide your arms around his back to keep him close, even though you’re blushing. He holds you back, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

“Well, why didn’t you then?” you ask. But he hesitates to answer you.

“Dean?” you press.

“It…never seemed the right time,” he says. “And to be honest, you didn’t seem all that interested.”

Until now, goes unspoken. But you frown up at him.

“You don’t really believe that,” you say.

Dean leans back a bit, so you move your hands to his chest, gripping the fabric of his undershirt to he doesn’t go too far. He looks down at you, a bit uncertain for the first time. You can’t believe that he could possibly be insecure about your interest and affections.

“I attract a lot of crap in my life,” he admits. “Shit you want no part of.”

You soften further at that. Someone who was just going to hook up with you once and never call you again didn’t consider things like that. You grab onto the lapels of his plaid shirt and press a soft kiss to his jaw.

“Well, that’s a stupid reason,” you say. Is this the real reason he only calls you when he really needs the help?

Maybe it’s his convoluted way of protecting you…while maybe, still wanting to see you.

“It’s really not,” Dean shakes his head. “Truth be told…I’m no good for you either.”

That disheartens you.

You’re in this job too. And while you know that Sam and Dean are often at the center of a lot of Apocalypse-level shit, you still don’t think it’s an excuse to keep both you and Dean from possibly…being happy.

His gaze is steady, until it starts to lower away from you. You take his face in your hands, picking him back up to meet your eyes. Your thumbs caress the prickly stubble along his cheeks.

“Apparently I get with a lot of ain’t shit guys,” you reply, “but you’re definitely not one of them, Dean.”

He flickers at a smile, but he still isn’t convinced you two should do this after all.

So it’s up to you, you realize.

You bring him down to you for a kiss. It’s slow at first. You ply him with short, sweet presses of your lips to his. But then you both inhale as you deepen the kiss, tilting your head and prying his lips with your tongue. He can’t help but welcome you in, and he takes you back into his arms.

You smile against his lips, letting your hands run down his chest and under the top layer of plaid. He shrugs out of it, then the undershirt as you help him tug it up. It falls in a heap on the floor, followed closely by your hole-ridden Journey shirt, then your little shorts.

Dean takes in the sight of your flushed skin, the rise and fall of your breasts, and even the hesitant downturn of your lips. You’re a bit self-conscious, bared for him for the first time, but he doesn’t give you a reason to have any reservations.

His hands cup your breasts, squeezing and kneading, rolling his thumbs over the hardening buds. You let out a shaky breath against his lips, and you veer away from his mouth to burn a hot, wet trail down his neck. His voice rumbles, and you smile, nipping playfully and touching him wherever you see fit.

“Tell me what you said before,” he rasps into your ear.

You remain playfully tight-lipped as you continue to shower his bare skin with affection. But your breath hitches when a hand leaves your breast to once again slide up the inside of your thigh.

“You’re so fucking sexy, you know that?” he says. “That’s why I need you tell me…”

You lean close to his ear and whisper. “Nope.”

Dean’s chuckle shakes his frame. His other hand cups your cheek, slipping into your hair. You hold him to you, and for the first time it’s skin to skin, with your breasts pressing against his chest.

“All right…you sure I can’t convince you?” he asks. There’s a note of warning that you’re just a bit too slow to detect.

His fingers swiftly bypass your panties, pushing them aside so he can tease the seam of your pussy.

You bite your lip and lean back enough to see his face, to see the mischievous edge of his smirk. You inhale sharply when two of his fingers slip in and probe in your wet heat, but don’t go further than your entrance.

“Dean,” you whine. “Please…”

“Tell me,” he insists, “what you said.”

His lips graze your cheek, down the column of your neck. You feel the rasp of his stubble against your skin. Meanwhile, your pussy is pulsing with need, all but chasing his fingers that do no more than brush and tease. Your nails accidently bite into his shoulders in frustration.

He sucks in a pained breath. You gasp and apologize, soothing over his skin.

Dean just laughs and noses along your throat. He knows exactly what you need, but he wants to win the game.

At this point, you just want him.

So finally, you admit it. You confess into his ear the things you whispered in your mother tongue.

“I said, you dumb, beautiful man,” you say, smiling with your cheek pressed against his. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Dean grins into your neck. You really don’t realize it. But to him, your voice is rich as black velvet, and sexy as hell. Doesn’t matter what language you’re speaking.

Two of his fingers sink deeply into your pussy. You whimper, squeezing gratefully around his hand.

“Please, Dean…”

“I got you, baby. Just relax,” he says with a grin.

He explores your inner channel and begins to discover what you respond to, what angles make you grip onto him tighter, make your voice keen higher, especially when his thumb circles over your clit.

You cling to him for dear life, gripping his hair, uttering encouragements (not all of them in English), and finally praises when that hot coil within you snaps and releases.

Dean holds you while you come over his hand. You’re squeezing the shit out of him, really, in every way possible. But when that dam breaks, all you can do is lean against him and try to catch your breath.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he chuckles. He rubs your back, pets your hair.

“I’m…” you trail. You lean back and take his smug face in your hands, and you kiss him. You put into that gesture what your voice fails to confess.

And when both of you run out of breath, Dean pulls back just enough to see your eyes.

“We’re not done, by any damn means,” he says. That coffee still has him wired. And at this point, his cock is throbbing with need. “But let’s head over to my room.”

“Yeah, I think I need to help you with this before you implode,” you tease him with a gentle hand along his rock-hard length. He utters a strained sound that makes you sympathetic.

But before anything else, you caress his cheek fondly. Tonight matters to you, and you think it matters to him too. Dean flashes you a rare, boyish grin that has you smiling even harder.

Damn it. You might just love this man.

He helps you down from the counter, though his arms stay wrapped around you because of your jelly legs. His resolution is to pick you up over his shoulder.

“Let’s fly, baby!” With a swift spank of your ass, he carries you the rest of the way to his room. You squeal and try to stifle your giggles all the way there.

One thing’s for sure. Sam is going to hate you both in the morning.

AN: 😂 Well, that was fun! Please let me know what you thought.

**Just to preface, I am in fact a plus-sized Latina (Cuban, Puerto Rican and Dominican)! 🌶️🌶️

And I just want to say, I wrote a specific plus-sized body type here, but we're all different and equally beautiful in our shapes, skin tones, and otherwise outward trappings.

I like to think of us as a box of lovely assorted chocolates (not the cheap factory-made bullshit either. The chocolatier, handmade assortments that cost an arm and a leg, shipping not included).

Each delectable and unique, with something extra special inside. 😘

Keep Reading:

Yes, this has become a series! Next up is "Devour Me":

Summary: When you and Dean start to press each other’s buttons, both of your tempers ignite. To make up for it, you give him an impromptu salsa dancing lesson…one he didn’t exactly ask for.

▶️ Next Story: Devour Me (Part 1)

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