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Bits of Stuff 3

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Sam once let it slip that the hottest sex he and Jess ever had was when she put on her stockings/pantyhose and gave him a slow footjob that ended with him fucking her feet. Dean takes note of this, but doesn’t do anything with it for years. Not until they find and move into the bunker. 

Then one day, Sam comes home and heads to his room after a hunt to find Dean lying on his side in his bed with nothing on but a pair of black pantyhose. “Hiya, Sammy!” 

“Dean, wha--are you--” Sam stammers, open mouthed for a while as his cheeks flush and he realizes what Dean is wearing. His eyes are glued to his brother’s legs, his stockinged feet. 

Dean is laughing at his awestruck brother patting himself on the back for a job well done. He swans over onto his stomach waving his feet up in the air like a pin-up girl or a pornstar. “Does this make my ass look fat?”

Sam turns a deep shade of red, aware that he’s been staring. He gulps and clears his throat. “So, uh, what’s, uh, what’s going on?”

“Just thought I’d do something nice for ya, Sammy,” Dean proclaims. “Figured the guy that shot God deserved a treat. We’re servin’ up the works, tonight! Whattaya say, Sammy?”

“I can’t believe you remembered,” Sam mutters unable to process the sight of his macho brother in nothing but pantyhose. “Did-did you...shave your legs?”

Refusing to answer the question, Dean slides down and sits on the edge of Sam’s bed with his legs crossed. “Why don’t you come over here and find out...bitch?”

“Jerk,” Sam returns automatically with a relieved smile on his face. He indeed walks over and drops to his knees in front of his brother. He raises his eyebrows. Dean grins and nods. 

Tentatively, Sam reaches out and traces his fingers up his brother’s calf. They both shiver. Dean is smooth under the nylon, not a single hair. “How did you--when did you--?”

“I’ve got ways, egghead,” Dean jokes. He brings his foot up to Sam’s crotch and presses his toes against Sam’s bulge. He smiles as Sam gasps, instinctually bucking into his foot. Dean retracts his foot. “You ready to go, Sammy?”

Sam can only nod. 

“Grab a chair,” Dean suggests and Sam is on his feet dragging his desk chair over towards his bed. He sits down. Dean goes for it, dragging his stockinged toes up his brother’s calf and over his knee, just to see Sam squirm. He tickles his toes against Sam’s erection and Sam grabs for him. 

“Whoa, easy there, tiger. Hands off,” he instructs. Sam reluctantly grips the armrest on both sides. “You’re in my world, now.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Sam taunts. 

“Ridiculously sexy,” Dean corrects. He presses the heel of his foot along the bulge in Sam’s jeans. Sam sharply inhales, knuckles going white on the armrests, but he doesn’t touch. “Right, Sammy?”

Sam stares at his brother through half lidded eyes already gone on how hot this all is. “Dean...”

“I gotcha, Sammy,” Dean replies, kneading his brother’s dick through the denim with the balls of his feet. Sam shudders, head lolling back. He’s panting. “You’re in good hands. Feet.”

That pulls a laugh out of Sam and they go from there. 

Dean has him pull down his jeans. 

Dean teases him for awhile bringing Sam to the edge a couple of times before he even lets him take off his underwear. The boxer briefs stick to the head of his cock, leaking as he is. They go down on top of his jeans, pooling around the tops of his boots. 

Then Dean really gets started.

He hits him with the dirty talk because he knows Sam’s got a weakness for it. Saying things like, “You gonna come on my feet, Sammy? You gonna fuck my feet, Sammy? You gonna shoot your load all over my toes and lick it up?” 

Sam is basically losing his mind at this point. Barely coherent, pretty much focused solely on his brother’s surprisingly dexterous feet. The noises he’s making turn on Dean like nothing else, so he’s got a hand down his pantyhose, stroking his own erection while he teases his brother to the brink. “Do it, Sammy,” Dean mutters breathless himself. “Come for me, little brother.” 

“Dean!” Sam wails. He shoots his load all over his brother’s feet, easily soaking through the thin nylon material. 

“Jesus, Sammy,” Dean swears, jerking off furiously to his brother’s primal orgasm. Sam comes down enough to watch Dean through hooded eyes. Now that the game is done, he gingerly picks up Dean’s foot and brings it to his mouth, never taking his eyes from Dean’s gaze. He licks the sole from heel to toes and Dean tenses, his come oozing out of the crotch of his pantyhose. He never knew his feet could be erogenous like that. 

They sit and catch their respective breaths. “Tell me those aren’t the only pair you bought.”

“I’m not gonna keep buying them just so you can ruin ‘em, Sammy,” Dean retorts. Sam hits him with the puppy dog eyes and Dean grins. “I mean you got jizz everywhere, dude!” 

Sam huffs through his nose and stands up. Stepping over to his brother, he kneels and sucks the come trapped in the nylon fibers near Dean’s crotch. Dean sighs, his hands threading through Sam’s long locks. “Think we could go again?”

Dean shrugs. “They’re already ruined.”

And so it goes.

Chapter Text

Who makes friends with the neighbors?

Scott is the more outgoing one, so he is definitely the one most likely to make friends with new people the soonest. Boyd makes friends too, but he usually goes at a slower pace. It takes time for him to trust and open up to new people. In the end, though, both of them are equally loved by their neighbors because they’ll help their friends and neighbors out anytime, with anything. A true, softhearted power couple. 

 

Who stays up to 2 AM reading?

Scott will do this if he’s really caught up in something, but Boyd is usually the culprit since he’s the bigger reader.

 

Who is the cuddler?

They both love to cuddle. Scott is more affectionate in public while Boyd prefers cuddling up with his bae when they’re alone or among close friends. 

 

Who does the cooking?

Both of them cook on occasion, but neither of them does it regularly. They like to eat out.

 

Who does the decorating?

Scott and Boyd are hopeless when it comes to decorating their living spaces, so they usually end up with their friends coming over to do the decorating for them. Lydia, Erica, Isaac, and Stiles handle all their home décor (and a large part of their wardrobes).

 

Who wants or mentions kids?

Boyd wants a large family. Scott for a while was on the fence. He wants kids too, but he wants to make sure they’re ready to handle being parents. To that end they’ve babysat for their friends as much as they can, which they’ve both loved, and have had talks with parents, so they could ask all their burning questions. After all that, they decided to wait a little bit longer before having kids until they’re in a better place financially. Erica (offered) and agreed to be their surrogate, so when the time is right Jackson will draw up the papers (since he is the group’s lawyer).

 

Who plans date nights?

Since they’re both romantic people they take turns planning dates. From the start of their relationship they made an agreement to have at least one night a week with just the two of them for the health of their relationship.

  

Who fell in love with whom first?

Scott always falls in love hard and fast. He told Boyd that he loved him within months of officially dating. Boyd didn’t begrudge him, but he didn’t say he loved Scott until they had been together for nearly a year. 

 

Who sings in the showers?

Scott. Loudly.

 

Do they keep the lights on or off during sex?

On. Boyd loves how expressive Scott is in general, but especially in the bedroom, so he likes to have the lights on. Plus, they’re both givers, so they like seeing how much/how well they’re pleasing each other. Scott can be a little self-conscious sometimes, like when he feels he’s put on weight after not hitting the gym enough, so sometimes he likes to do it with the lights off, but typically he’ll defer to Boyd’s wishes cause no matter what Boyd makes him feel like he’s the most attractive man in the world.

 

Do they ever fight?

Sometimes. They’re both passionate people, so sometimes they do clash, but whatever they argue about is usually resolved before too long because neither of them like the tension. Scott typically leads off the reconciliation since he’s the peacemaker. 

 

How did they meet?

They knew each other in high school and became friends their junior year. They didn’t start dating until they were in college.

Chapter Text

Crop top, no bra... 

Oh, you little skank. 

I smile as you walk through my door, backlit by the afternoon sun. Your top isn’t thin enough to see through, but even the stripes aren’t enough to hide the curves your so proud of. You’ve got great tits, babe. I can practically feel their fullness in my hands already. Good heft, perky. My hands itch. 

I want you. 

Want to touch that soft skin. All those curves. 

You’re not the kind of girl I usually go for. Those petite, slim girls with little bird bones. You are solid. A real Earth Mother vibe with your black and white striped crop top and flower print skirt that hugs your round hips. I’ve caught you in the sweet spot between virgin and mother when you’re still young enough to be skanky, but old enough not to be a whore. You don’t pop your cork for every guy you see, no matter what your bralessness would make them believe. 

I like your confidence. Fearlessness. Are you wearing panties, babe? You probably are, but for me when we’re together you won’t. I am going to take you, have you, fuck you everywhere and anywhere. In my scenario you’re always prepped for me. Underwearless and shameless. I’d love to shove you against the stacks and have you right here, right now. 

You’d fight me. You’d go down swinging, but you’d still go down with me on top of you and inside you. Yes, it would be rape, but we could get passed that. In time, you’d learn to love it. You’d learn to take it happily, whether you were wet or not, whether you wanted it or not. My hands clench into fists.

You’ve got spirit, babe. I can tell just by looking at you while you glance around the shelves. That fire, that spark. It calls to me, babe. You call to me. You want this. You want me to see you, to notice you, to want you. 

And I do. 

You little skank. 

I can’t wait to chase you.

Relaxing my hands, I help out some loser. He doesn’t make small talk thank God, but he does have this awkward, twitchy I-need-to-crawl-back-in-my-hole-and-jerk-off-to-tranny-porn kinda vibe and I am so glad he’s gone before you arrive. 

You come right up to me, books in hand, ready to purchase. 

You smile at me. 

I smile back.

So far, so good, babe.

You have a beautiful smile, babe. Not too many teeth, not too shallow. You mean it. You like to make people smile, to make them happy. Oh, baby, am I going to have fun with you. Opposites attract they say. And you are proving the rule. With that smile…

Yeah, you want this. You want it bad. 

How long has it been, babe, since you’ve been satisfied by a man? Earth Mothers are always hungry. Voracious. I like that. You got a little pudge, but I can work with that. You may not be a supermodel, but you’re no fat cow either. You take care of yourself and that’s good, babe. Means you’re ready. 

But when you’re with me, you won’t need to worry. I’ll take care of you. 

I’ve never tried an Earth Mother before, seemed like too much work. But, you’ve made a convert out of me, babe. Bet you got a great-tasting cunt. I’m so hard right now thinking about your cunt, while I’m ringing you up. Staring down your shirt at the top of your pale tits, imaging your pussy all wet and bittersweet. Thank God for the counter between us. Don’t want to spook you. Not yet. 

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo , a popular book for chicks. Not enough sex or action for me, babe, but go for it. A girl your age needs to be up on the ‘faves’. You’ll read it, like it, and talk about it with your girlfriends. It won’t rock your world, not like I will, but you’ll enjoy it. 

“This is a good book,” I tell you, as I scan the barcode. “You’ll like it.”

“That’s what I hear,” you say. What a tease. You’re one slight breeze away from flashing your tits at the world and you won’t give me more than a throwaway affirmation. 

God! Raping you would be so much fun, babe. 

Don’t worry, though, I know you’re not that kind of girl.

You are not the one-and-done, use’em up and dump’em type. Some girls that’s all they’re good for. One-hit wonders. You though, you got more to give. Hidden behind your showy smile and your awesome tits there’s a whole world in there waiting for me to plunder. And I will, babe. You can count on that. 

If We Were Villains ? Pretentious, Shakespeare crap. Babe. Seriously? Were you a fat theater kid in school? Did one of your English teachers touch you in a bad place? I mean murders are exciting and all, but you can do better, babe. This is tame shit. Literary thriller shit. 

“Are you into Shakespeare?”

“Not really,” you admit with a shrug, grinning like you’ve been a naughty girl who’s been caught sneaking cookies. “Some of his stuff is okay, but I actually have to read this for a class.”

Class, huh? You’re too old to be in high school. Not that you look old, babe, but a girl your size can only pull off seventeen for so long. You’re not some skinny, stick of a thing that could pass for twelve under the right conditions. You, babe, are a woman. My woman. “College?”

You nod. “Parttime.”

“Gotta work, huh?”

“Yeah, don’t we all.” Blue collar roots. I can hear it in your voice. The bitterness of not being able to afford the latest thing growing up, of working over summer breaks, of missing out on vacations and trendy clothes and concerts. I know how you feel, babe. I really do. And when you’re with me, I’ll make sure and get you pretty things from time to time. When you’re a good girl. 

Your third book, I haven’t read. Don’t recognize the title or the author, couldn’t care less. I ring it up all the same. Obscure. You don’t mind searching, trying out new things. That’s good, babe. So many chicks are close-minded, scared of the world, and they’re not wrong to be, I’m proof positive of that, but not you. 

You are curious. A small risk taker. Nothing too extreme. Just an odd book here, a stolen lipstick there. Maybe a little flirting to get out of a ticket. You’ve certainly got the rack for it. Man, I can’t wait to get my hands on you! Your tits were made to be played with, babe. I mean it. You’ve got a body meant to be used. And I’ve got dibs.

When you’re mine, I’m going to leave my mark. Bites on your tits, bruises on your thighs, handprints on your ass. And you just begging for more like the painslut you are. Or will be, at any rate. You’ll learn to love the pain, babe. I’ll teach you. After all, pain and pleasure go hand in hand like life and death. You can’t have one without the other. And I promise to show you just how good all of it can feel! 

You pay with your debit card like a good girl. Guine Roots? Wow. Guinevere would be an odd enough name for a white girl, but to shorten it to Guine and not Gwen? Your parents are assholes, babe. No two ways about it. “Guine. Cool name.”

“Oh, thanks,” you say, the surprise clear in your voice. Poor thing. Do people call you Gwine like wine or Gweene like green? Most people are idiots. Forget them, babe. Me? I’m not an idiot, which you’ll discover for yourself soon enough. “I think you’re like the third person ever to get it right on the first try.”

I shrug, playing it cool. “You see a lot of names in retail,” I explain. I tear your receipt free and bag your books, handing them over to you with a flirty wink. 

You blush, just a bit. Pretty and pink. “Thank you, Ramsay,” you tell me after reading my name tag. It’s a nice change of pace for someone to read it without immediately yelling for a manager. You got class, babe. And none of that self-righteous, entitled bullshit that so often goes with it. 

“Every time,” I reply. That makes you chuckle. “You’re welcome, Guine.”

“See you around,” you offer as you take your new books and head out. There’s no doubt: you want me. Of course you do. I know how hot I am. Plus, I got your name right and made you laugh. I’m in. 

I watch your little ass swish side to side. The little bell above the door dings and you are gone, but I’m still hard as a fucking rock, babe. You got me so hot, I ditch the register and instantly head to the far back corner where all the reference books are kept. 

I rub one out into the ST through SY volume of one our dictionary collections. I do this a lot when I’m bored. I’ve busted a nut into each volume of every single dictionary on these shelves.  I figure any dumbass stupid enough to buy a physical dictionary deserves to find semen-spots on their pages. 

Today’s selection is from shelf three out of five. I’m halfway through our stock and it’s only March. But today, right now, I bust my load in record time because of you, babe. You’ve got me going, Guine. Had me hard just looking at you, just imaging hearing you moan and scream my name while I’m buried inside your sweet cunt. 

Streptococcus has never been so sexy, babe as it is with my jizz all over that page with thoughts of you running around my head. 

You are going to be so much fun.

Chapter Text

For all the trouble they had moving it into the Bunker, the couch did fit perfectly in the space Dean had made for it in his room. Sam sat in the middle, legs spread wide, hands clutching the soft, well-loved cushions on either side as his brother--his brother knelt on the floor in front of him, his head bobbing up and down while his hand stroked his shaft. Sam’s eyes drifted listlessly around the room, always falling, always returning to Dean, his brother. His brother!

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or scream or growl. His mind whirred a million miles a second, unable to process what he was seeing and feeling: his brother’s plush lips stretched thin over his dick, his brother’s flushed cheeks, the tip of his cock repeatedly hitting the back of his throat never quite going past that point until…

Sam mewled, hands clenching the cushions too tightly. His bit his lip, stifling himself, unwilling to break the surreal energy in the room by being too loud. Dean gagged and pulled off with a wet slurp. He sniffled, wiping the wet corners of his eyes with the back of his hand while Sam sank back into the couch. 

“Gotta real jawbreaker, there, Sammy,” Dean quipped, his voice a little ragged around the edges despite his attempt at humor. 

Sam blushed. “You don’t have to--”

“I want to,” Dean interjected, looking Sam dead in the eye. Sam’s mouth quirked into a weak smile hearing that defiant, decisive Dean-in-charge tone of voice again. It had been too long. Sam released the couch cushions and wiped his sweaty hands on his jean clad thighs. “Just lemme catch my breath.”

Dean began stroking his shaft again and Sam tensed, hands grabbing his knees. Clearing his throat Dean sniffed a few more times and looked up at his brother. Gently, he smacked the tip of Sam’s dick against his cheek the way they do in porn, the way some girls had done to him over the years. 

Sam’s hands balled into fists which tumbled off his knees and back down to the cushions under him. He held them for dear life. A small moan escaped him. Dean grinned, smug, smiling up at his slack-jawed brother. “Always knew you were big down here, Sammy,” he teased, using both hands now to work Sam’s erection. “But Jesus!”

“Dean,” Sam grumbled, eyes squeezed shut as he bucked his hips into his brother’s familiar, calloused grip. Redness returned to his cheeks. 

“Hey, look at me, Sam,” Dean demanded. Sam peeked at his brother out from under his bangs. “Your dick is beautiful.”

Incredulous, Sam huffed, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth despite his intentions. “Dean--”

“Seriously, dude,” Dean continued. “We’re talking Heidi Klum levels of pretty. Would I waste my time on an ugly dick?”

Sam let himself smile and shook his head. “No.”

“Damn straight.” Dean skimmed his hands along his brother’s dick like a sculptor molding clay: trying to memorize every inch, every weak spot, every vein as to better work the piece. 

“Now, lemme get back to making you feel good,” Dean murmured, lowering his head. His eyes snapped back up to his brother. “Is it feeling good, right?”

Sam stared at his brother in disbelief. “Yeah,” he replied. “It feels good, Dean.”

That was all Dean needed to hear. He flicked his tongue around the leaking slit, causing Sam to shiver and moan under his breath before diving in again working the shaft with his mouth and his hand in tandem. “You feel...amazing,” Sam admitted, his head plonking backwards onto the backrest of the couch. “Oh my G--!”

Chapter Text

He should’ve shot him when he’d had the chance. That’s all he can think about when Stiles brings his new boyfriend around. Or manfriend or whatever other weird name his son gives his way-too-old-for-him partner. Peter Hale is the worst. 

Rich? Yes. Handsome? Sure. A decent person? No. A good match for his son? Absolutely not. But Noah bears it as well as he can. He threatens Peter with wolfsbane-infused bullets and makes it clear that he will murder him if the werewolf does anything to hurt Stiles in any way. 

Being the asshole he is, Peter just smiled and made some backhanded remark about him seeing where Stiles got his temper from. Noah nearly shot him right then and there, but he gritted his teeth and held back. Because, and only because he hadn’t seen Stiles so carefree and stable and well-rested since back before all the supernatural crap began. Since before Claudia...As long as Peter keeps it that way, he’ll keep his gun holstered. Or at the very least not pointed directly at Peter’s temple. 

A man can only take so much.

He does his best not to think about them as a couple. It's better for his heart and blood pressure and general health not to think about the two of them being intimate and together and everything that that entails. Peter Hale is garbage, but his son is a grown man and can make his own decisions. If he wants to be with a man old enough to be his uncle, then alright. Maybe it's just a phase. Maybe it’s just one of those reactions to all the awfulness, the trauma. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t always been the best father. 

Whatever the reason, he has to stand by his son and trust in him. Otherwise he’ll end up committing murder every time he catches Peter ogling his only child like he’s a tasty snack. But, oh boy, do the murder scenarios get more and more vivid every time he sees them kiss or cuddle or call each other disgusting pet names. 

And they get especially violent when Stiles and Peter make jokes about their love life. 

He contents himself with the knowledge that some day Peter Hale will die. Once and for all. Permanently. Forever. And as he stuffs his face with whatever healthy nonsense Stiles shoved at him, he prays that he will be alive to see it. The end of Peter Hale. That’s something worth giving up hamburgers for.

Chapter Text

Shivering…

Simultaneously feverish and chilled, Dean gripped the motel sheets beneath him tightly while the two hellhounds continued pumping him full of their come. Black spots danced in his vision with Cavall’s cock still lodged against the back of his throat, his lips stretched wide around the hellhound’s knot. He was drowning. His dick valiantly twitched, trying to harden, but since he had already come so many times in a row he couldn’t get it up again. Yet.  

A key entered the lock to their room. Dean’s eyes snapped to his left, but he could barely see the door in his periphery. He hoped to God it was just Sam. The door opened. 

“Hey,” his brother called. Dean instantly relaxed, sinking into the sweat-damp, come-stained bedspread. “I brought lun--Whoa...”

Dean made a strained, choked noise, cheeks flushing bright red. He flailed his arms trying to communicate his lack of control over the situation. Sam cleared his throat and Cavall, loyal pup he was, turned his ass to Dean, the move enough to free the hellhound’s cock from his throat. Dean gurgled, panting harshly through his nose for his long awaited, long needed breath. 

Sam chuckled dropping the bag of hamburgers and fries he had bought onto the motel table. “You know one of these days you’re going to suffocate on a hellhound’s knot and no one is going to save you.”

Shrugging, Dean kept gulping down Cavall’s thick, spicy load. Not that he had much choice: swallow or drown. Excess come leaked out from the corners of his mouth, leaving faintly warm dribbles of jizz running down his chin. 

With a quiet sigh, Sam strolled over to the bed, petting his hellhound fondly around the ear. Cavall’s tail thumped against the mattress. “I can’t believe you,” Sam complained, catching some of Cavall’s run-off with his thumb. “Here I was actually working the case while you stayed behind and had sex with the dogs.” 

Orthus barked at being mentioned. Sam sucked his thumb clean, his cock hardening in his slack almost immediately as the unique flavor hit his tongue. Orthus barked again and instinctively Sam began scritching Orthus behind his ear too. Both hellhounds beat their tails to a happy rhythm. 

Panting, Orthus licked the sweat from Dean’s neck, his warm tongue leaving goosebumps on his owner’s skin. Sam huffed and stopped petting the dogs. Orthus turned now, his knot rubbing against Dean’s battered prostate as his orgasm slowed. Dean groaned, his hand automatically going to his spent cock by habit. 

“You are such a knotslut,” Sam quipped while loosening his tie. He pulled the blue fabric off over his head and tossed it behind him onto the table. He undid his collar button and a couple others before removing his suit jacket. He stepped away to drape his jacket on the back of one of their motel room chairs and Cavall followed, his knot wilted enough to pull free of Dean’s mouth. 

With a sigh, Dean delicately thumbed the corners of his overworked jaws. “Not my fault,” he hoarsely insisted. He cleared his throat and sniffled, wiping the tears from his eyes, the sweat from his forehead, and the come from his chin with the back of his hands. “It was the dogs, Sammy. The minute you left, they showed up. Horny as hell. What was I to do?”

“Maybe not have sex with them,” Sam suggested. He sat down in the rickety motel chair and pointedly began taking out the fast food he had brought for lunch. Not that his brother would be willing or able to eat for awhile. “You know that is an option right?”

“Not really,” Dean airily replied.

“You’re ridiculous.” Cavall dug his snout into Sam’s groin, startling a gasp out of his owner. Caught off guard, Sam watched his dog sniff eagerly at his erection before he gently pushed Cavall away. 

“As if you’re any better,” Dean shot right back. He groaned unhappily, his hands going to his distended stomach. He could feel the heat of the hellhounds’ come through his skin. He let out a sulfuric burp and waved the stink away.

“They kept taking turns,” Dean half-explained, half-whined, tenderly rubbing his bloated stomach. “So full, Sammy...”

Right at that moment, Orthus pulled away, leaving Dean’s red hole, puffy and gaping. Sam stared at his brother’s wrecked ass dripping a steady stream of watery hellhound jizz. He licked his lips, his cock throbbing in his slacks. Cavall nosed his crotch again, flicking his warm tongue at Sam’s slit through his pants. Sam shuddered, his cheeks going pink.

Without even thinking, he got to his feet, the casefile and the food forgotten. Cavall barked cheerfully, hopping on his front legs with excitement. Sam walked over to his overburdened brother. Cavall yipped, following Sam’s footsteps, headbutting him along his way. “I want a taste.” 

Dean nodded, pulling himself fully upright with the help of the motel headboard. Sam crawled onto the bed and laid on his back, scooting towards Dean until his face rested beneath his brother’s messy, dripping hole. Warm drops of jizz splattered onto his forehead. Sam groaned as the stuff rained down in warm, heavy drops. 

He smeared the jizz into his skin and brought his fingers to his mouth. Brimstone and ash and sulfur exploded on his tongue, sharper and more intense than his earlier taste. Dean’s stomach audibly gurgled. 

“Oh, God--”

Sam barely had time to open his mouth wide enough to seal his lips around Dean’s loose hole before a flood of jizz erupted, thick and hot with a kick that made his eyes water. It hit his system like a ton of bricks. Sam gasped, his head plopping into the soiled sheets. His cock pulsed, almost painfully, from the rush. Sam moaned, shuddering as Cavall just then resumed licking at his leaking slit through his slacks. “Good boy,” he panted, blindly reaching out to pet his pet. 

“Sammy...” Dean warned a moment too late. He farted and a deluge of come erupted from his hole with surprising force, coating Sam’s torso in jizz. 

Jesus ,” Sam groaned as the still-warm come soaked through his suit like tissue paper. He leaned upwards, swiping his tongue around his brother’s slick hole and into it, digging for more. Hellhound jizz didn’t taste good per se, and it was always unnaturally hot no matter how much time had passed since it had been ejaculated, but he still couldn’t get enough of the thick, hellish stuff. He grabbed his brother’s hips and seated Dean firmly on his face. His brother whimpered. 

Shaky and sensitive, Dean tugged his worn out cock back to hardness in search of relief.  

Having been largely left out up to this point, Orthus returned to the bed where all the action was taking place. He sniffed the mix of come absorbed in and sitting on Sam’s clothes and then searched lower with his snout. He passed by Cavall who growled to keep away from his owner’s erection, and ended up between Sam’s legs trying to nose his way to Sam’s covered hole. 

Automatically, Sam raised his legs into the air to give Orthus better access. He shivered as the hellhound’s warm, almost too-hot tongue, swiped repeatedly over his clothes-covered hole with perfect aim. The dog was nothing if not single-minded. Of the two, Orthus almost always exclusively liked ass, while Cavall was more variable in his preferences.

With his hole being stimulated, and his cock being licked like an ice cream cone, and his mouth full of hellhound jizz it didn’t take long for Sam to reach his first orgasm of the day. He spurted, heavily into his underwear without a care. His suit was ruined already anyway. There was no point in being precious about it. 

Lifting up off his brother’s face, Dean whined softly as he shot his meager load. The first couple spurts landed on Sam’s forehead while the last few drizzles ended up in his open mouth. Sam swallowed his brother’s load, practically tasteless compared to that of the hellhounds. 

Officially done, Dean heaved a sigh and plopped onto the bed beside his brother, his head by Sam’s feet. The dogs moved away and Sam let his legs drop as the two humans caught their breaths. Dean burped again, longer this time and then blew the stench away in a puff. “Their trying to knock me up, Sammy,” he tiredly mumbled. “I swear to God. I think they’re like in heat or whatever.”

“Rut,” Sam corrected. 

Dean rolled his eyes. “They knotted my ass so many times I thought I was gonna burst. Something is definitely up.”

“No, you’re just a knotslut.”

“Jealous bitch,” Dean playfully sneered, bumping his brother’s middle. 

“Jerk,” Sam returned. Cavall came forward, licking at Sam’s come-covered face and into his open mouth. Sam sagged, letting his pet do what he liked. Orthus in the meantime tentatively flicked his tongue slowly along the dip of Dean’s spine all the way down to his abused hole. 

“Oh my God!.” Dean shook, but still bent his leg so his dog could get his scraping tongue back into his hole. “See what I mean? Horny.”

“Insatiable,” Sam agreed. He kicked off his dress shoes and fumbled with his belt. The dogs seemed game for another round. Dean, despite his quiet moans, was down for the count, but Sam wasn’t. 

Pushing down his tacky, soiled boxers and his slacks, Sam wriggled them out from under him and Dean helpfully yanked them off. His bottom half exposed now, Sam slathered the insoluble jizz still pooled on the surface of his dress shirt onto his fingers and raised his legs back into the air. He painted his rim with the stuff and slid two fingers inside. “Here, Orthus,” he commanded, turning his head to the side. “Come here, boy.”

The bigger of the two hellhounds didn’t need to be told twice. Deserting Dean, he ambled to the foot of the bed and leapt onto the mattress his cock already unsheathed. Dean groaned at the loss of sensation yet shimmied lower. 

Reaching into his gaping hole he dug the last bits of come out and smeared it into his brother’s hole. Orthus wasn’t enormous by human standards, but he certainly was bigger than the average man. Plus, he had a knot. Taking out another handful, Dean gripped Orthus’ cock and coated the length, slowly guiding his dog into his brother. 

Breached, Sam moaned, his dick which had started to harden now wilted. Torn between his owner’s sticky face and equally sticky junk, Cavall alternated between the two while Orthus fucked into Sam leisurely. The damned dog was taking his time. 

Now that Sam was being taken care of and generally being taken, Dean rolled onto his side and then onto his feet. He swayed, groaning at being vertical. He walked towards the bathroom even more bowlegged than usual with nearly his whole fist up his ass to keep from making too much of a mess. “You be their bitch for awhile,” he grumbled. “I’m taking a bath.”

Sam didn’t respond. 

He was much too busy getting deep-dicked by a hellhound to form sentences.

Chapter Text

On his first night back in town, while patrolling-slash-strolling through the Preserve, Scott came across a foreign scent he couldn’t place. Floral, but with musky undercurrents and a dash of something spicy that made his mouth water. Curious, he tracked the scent hidden deeper between the trees and carried on the wind. He came to a small clearing.

In the dark, he could just make out what looked to be an enormous flower growing in the middle of a tree trunk on the other side of the grassy area. It looked something like that flower that was supposed to smell really bad. Like a corpse, but this one smelled good

A warning went off in his brain and Scott glanced around. He closed his eyes. All he could hear were the usual sounds of animal life in the Preserve. All he could smell was That Smell that made him think of sunlight and skin and men. Biting his bottom lip, Scott moved in closer just to be sure the smell was in fact coming from the weird flower and not something else in the clearing. That’s reasonable. Right?

He followed his nose and it lead him straight to the tree with the giant flower growing out of its trunk. Up-close the smell was even stronger, more concentrated. The flower reeked of men and...sex. Scott blushed, his dick twitching in his jeans. 

The five petals were large and red and there was a cavity in the middle of the flower. Scott peeked inside and then did a double take. Something inside was iridescent, glowing in the moonlight. Scott shuffled closer--

A puff of pollen engulfed his head and Scott stepped back sputtering. He waved his hands in front of his face to clear away the spores, coughing. His eyes watered, he swallowed to clear away the lump in his throat. Wiping the tears from his eyes he studied the flower silently. 

Nothing had changed. 

Except the iridescence was gone. 

Scott shook his head, heat suddenly rushing to his cheeks. 

Below the flower, lower down on the trunk, something began to unfurl. Scott watched, rapt. His knees began to shake, his heart pounded in his chest, and his dick throbbed against the seam of his pants. The new flower was shaped like a spigot with a small slit on the underside of the tip. Almost like...Scott flushed. 

The iridescence returned, this time peeking out of the slit in the new flower. Scott moaned as a wave of that scent washed over him, leaving his head pounding and cottony. His knees gave out. Panting harshly he stared at the bright glowing drop of whatever, mouth hanging open, dry and wet at the same time. 

He leaned forward and swiped his tongue over the slit to catch that delicious smelling...nectar? The taste exploded on his tongue, better than anything he could put a name to. Crawling forward on his hands and knees he suckled the tip for more. The ribbed, satiny texture of the petals felt strange in his mouth, fragile, but as he sucked out more of that mystery fluid the petals went rigid and warm. 

A sudden flood of nectar erupted into his mouth, overflowing down his chin. Scott swallowed. And swallowed. And swallowed. The flooding never stopped. He was drowning in it. Thick, creamy, and savory. Scott couldn’t stop. 

His cock was hard as a rock and ached in a way Scott couldn’t believe. Claws out, he tore the crotch of his jeans and boxers away, the cool night air hitting his overwarm skin like a ton of bricks. It did nothing to help the pain, in fact it made it worse. Scott stroked his cock desperate for relief. It helped a little.

But then, something moved down there near his crotch. Scott craned his neck to try and look down but he couldn’t take his mouth off the leaking flower. He groaned as something cool and velvety engulfed the head of his dick. Nothing had ever felt so good. Digging his claws into the trunk of the tree, Scott hauled himself closer burying his cock in the soft whatever. 

The thing seemed to welcome him in, a strange, rubbery suction pulling him deeper. Like how a bounce castle shifts you around. The inside of the thing was wet and warm and instantly relieved the ache. Scott grinded his hips into the feeling. 

The front of the thing around the base of his cock seemed to swell, locking him in place. Scott whined. His eyes rolled back as something began to undulate around his sensitive glans. He squirmed, but the plant held his dick too tightly for him to move it. Something in there pricked him, and he stilled, going boneless almost instantly. He was floating on a warm current. The nectar slowed to a more manageable trickle and he knelt there in the grass drinking every drop. 

The plant wrapped around his junk never let up. He shivered as he came, but he was already in the endorphin high. The ride never seemed to end. He lost all track of time. He shuddered and moaned with every orgasm, but they seemed small compared to his overall satisfaction. He floated. 

He floated.

He drank.

He came.

He floated.

A cycle with no end and no beginning. 

Scott woke up in the morning, exhausted and sated, in a pile of denim tatters. He brushed an odd, bluish green crust off his lips with the back of his hand. He stood a bit unsteadily and felt something wet between his cheeks. He reached down and found some sort of clear slick back there. 

He stumbled home and slept the rest of the day. 

Every night for a month, that scent followed him. Inside, outside. At home, at Stiles’, at the school. No matter where he went, the scent of that flower tracked him and called to him. 

And every night he wandered into the Preserve again and again. 

With a smile and a hard-on.

Chapter Text

So...

 

Vampires exist. Homo Sapien Nocturnus.

 

Like werewolves one can be born a vampire or turned, but unlike werewolves a Turned or Made vampire will never be as powerful or live as long as a Born vampire. Also unlike werewolves, vampires have been known to the world for much longer and have often been subject to violence and oppression due to their nocturnal existence and need for blood (human or animal). Stiles' grandmother was Made back in the day in Poland and banished to a settlement where she met and fell in love with a mortal man. She gave birth to Claudia, a dhampir (a half-vampire.) As a family they moved to the USA and she eventually fell in love with a mortal man as well. Stiles was born a dhampir, only 1/4th Vampire. As he is only a quarter Vampire he does not possess the same supernatural strength and agility as most Vampires do. Nor is he strictly nocturnal or reliant on blood, though he does drink [animal] blood from time to time for his health.

 

Blood drinking is highly regulated in the USA.

1) Vampires must be registered with the federal government [and depending on the state they must be registered there as well].

2) Vampires must have valid IDs which list their species. 

3) Vampires are not allowed to drink human blood without previously-written consent legitimized by a notary and approved by a judge.

4) Vampires must fill out paperwork annually to gain access to small amounts of anonymously donated human blood.  

 

Because Stiles is only a quarter Vampire he can function in the daytime pretty easily, but is still something of a night owl. Also because of his status he is able to attend the regular public school system rather than the nighttime classes. He is still friends with Scott and they are both nerds. 

 

Life for Stiles is difficult after his mother dies since she was one of the few Vampires he knew/was close to. Though he does (loosely) befriend Lydia Volesus Martinus aka Lydia Volera Martin, a Born Vampire blueblood: a descendent of an ancient Roman Vampire bloodline. He is close to the Hales who are the only family of werewolves nearby.    

 

Eventually, supernatural shenanigans ensue and Stiles gets hurt. He winds up in a hotel bathtub with Scott, Peter, and Derek dying and in need of blood. He can't drink Scott's since he's human/mortal, so instead he drinks Peter's blood. Which is allowed since Peter is a werewolf and thus not legally protected from being bitten by Vampires. A legal loophole they both rather appreciate. 

 

At first taste he doesn't care for it. "No offense, dude, but your blood tastes kinda...burnt."

 

"Burnt?"

 

"Like coffee," Stiles describes. He heals. 

 

I don't have any particular ship in mind besides maybe Steter, but this would be more a slice of life story rather than a smutty shipfest like I normally write. 

Chapter Text

“God, you’re so stupid,” Jackson groused. Reaching out, he grabbed Scott by the sides of his face and hauled him into a kiss. He sighed, just a little, as Scott’s soft lips finally brushed against his own. Feeling better than he ever imagined.

Goal achieved, he allowed himself a few more moments of satisfaction before the lock in his mind clicked into place. He pushed Scott away more gently than he meant to, leaving him far too close for comfort. 

“Wha--”

“Don’t get any ideas, McCall,” he insisted, slipping back into his arrogant posture. “You’re still just a dumb--” 

“Will you shut up?” Scott growled. He took him by the neck and yanked him back into another kiss. Longer, fiercer, deeper. Jackson whimpered softly, his face flushed red now as Scott kissed him back properly: nipping at his plush bottom lip as if he owned it. 

Unclenching his fists, Jackson gingerly let his hands slip onto Scott’s hips. He felt Scott smile against his chin. And then they were kissing.

Again. And again.  And again. 

Until they were dizzy from the lack of air, drunk off the taste of each other.

Chapter Text

After hanging a new painting beside her door, she stood in her open doorway to catch a glimpse of her new neighbor as he carried a box into his apartment. Human male. Starfleet. Tall, pale. Good hands. And a cute little ass. 

Easily a vast improvement over her last neighbor: The Bolian, who like most of his species, had been much too chatty, much too cheerful and deeply, deeply grating. She had done her best to avoid that bothersome little alien and apparently had succeeded beyond all her expectations. She hadn’t even known he was moving out. She applauded him in her mind for leaving quietly. For doing anything quietly. 

The new man reemerged and she got her first look at his front. Long face with cheekbones that could’ve been cut from marble. Eyes of blue. A neutral expression that hid the raging fire inside. Passionate, yet simultaneously composed. He’d make a wonderful subject. So structural and poised. So primal. He met her gaze and for a few moments they simply stared silently at one another from across the hall. 

He made the first move by stepping properly into the hall. Now his eyes looked green. Different lighting, different color. They’d be a challenge to capture. Even strictly from a compository, technical point of view. On top of that how would she manage to paint their intensity, their unflinching hardness, their pain, their cunning? 

Here was a man who understood the savagery of loss. He knew brutality firsthand. There was a darkness lingering behind his uniform’s blind hopefulness. A knowing that went beyond books, beyond theory. 

That cinched it. His portrait would be one of her best works. He could be her David, her Mona Lisa. She smiled. “Welcome to the building.” 

“Thank you.” She did her best to suppress a shiver. His voice was smooth as velvet. Precise and low with an unmistakably English accent. She looked him over from head to toe. He had no overt reaction to her scrutiny, but she got the feeling that he was pleased. Something in the set of his shoulders, the slight softening of his stony exterior. 

“Everyone calls me Mara.” She held out her hand to shake. 

He examined her as thoroughly as she had studied him. She let him have his look. Her hand still extended, head up, a sly smile. His eyes met hers once more and he stepped forward taking her hand in his larger one. Smooth skin, warm and solid. A strong, controlled grip. 

They would feel amazing on her hips.

Trailing along her thighs. 

Her smile turned genuine. Who doesn’t love a man in uniform? 

“John.” A lie. “John Harrison.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Commander.”

The corner of his mouth turned upwards ever so slightly, clearly amused. His bottom lip was invitingly plump. “Very astute,” he said, his tone a mix of surprise and condescension and something else she couldn’t quite decipher. Satisfaction? An expectation met? Her chest filled with both annoyance and pride. She didn’t care for being treated like a ditz, but she had impressed him in some small way and he didn’t seem the type to be easily impressed. 

“Oh, yes, I’m known far and wide for my astuteness,” she quipped. Another little smile. “Section 31, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Simple deduction,” he asserted, not at all concerned with his privacy.

“Why on Earth would an agent want to move-in here?”

“Why indeed?”

She flashed him a smile that said, ‘Alright. Keep your secrets.’ 

Minutely, he nodded his head as if to say, ‘I will.’ 

She pulled her hand away from his; long overdue. She could get lost in those eyes of his, in his stoicism and wit. Aloof and unattainable. She liked a challenge. She changed the subject. “Have you ever had your portrait painted?”

“A long time ago,” he replied. 

“Have any interest in sitting for another?”

He arched his brow. “Are you any good?”

“Decide for yourself.” She shrugged, nodding her head in the direction of her newest creation hanging on the wall. While not galactically-renowned, she did fine work. It would be easy enough to research her catalogue, so there was no need for her to boast. Her work could stand on it’s own two feet. “Mara McGovern. Look me up.”

“I will,” he promised. 

“I’m free Wednesday afternoon.” Her offer laid out, she whirled around on her bare feet and swanned into her apartment giving him ample opportunity to get a look of her backside. Seemed only fair. 

She turned her face back to smile at him over her shoulder. She caught him openly staring and a warm thrill bloomed in her chest and spread quickly downwards. He couldn’t be described as traditionally beautiful, but he certainly possessed a gravitas to match his intense features. Her smile turned hungry. 

It wouldn’t be the first time she slept with one of her models. Plus, she had the sneaking suspicion that having sex with him would be a night for the record books. Her door whooshed closed on his superior, satisfied face. 

Oh, how she hoped he showed.