Remember When Your Were My Girl? ( Dean/Meg, NC-17)
Not exactly what I meant to do today, but, look, SPN fic, for the first time since February. All thanks to the awesome feverish!Dean meme going on over at hoodie_time. Of course, it turned out to be kinky het porn, but there you go.
Title: Remember When Your Were My Girl?
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Meg
Spoilers: nothing past S5
Warnings: dub-con/non-con, gender play, pegging, crude language, fever!sex
Word count: ~1.2K
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit.
a/n: for this prompt from vie_dangerouse: Dean has a high fever. Meg finds that it really, really turns her on. The heat reminds her of home, and things that she and Dean used to get up to down there.
a/n: also for the "gender play" square on my
kink_bingo card.
Summary: “Why’d you leave us?" asks Meg. "Why’d you come out here where it’s cold?”
“You?” he says, or squawks. His voice has been gone for days; the word’s just a raw drag in his throat. “How?”
But Meg seems to understand. She smiles, tender, sharp, shakes her head down at him. “You’ve got a scent, Dean-o. Find you anywhere.”
The lamp is on, though he doesn’t remember flicking the switch, and he’s sitting up, hand going for the knife under the pillow. It’s not there. Not that it would have done any good anyway, not with her.
And then she’s straddling him, limbs smooth, cool, against his overheated, clumsy ones.
“You’re like a homing beacon,” she purrs. “All the time. And when you’re like this, you’re like the fucking Montauk light.”
She twines her arms around him and they’re so strong and cold he imagines them slipping out of human form, scaled, like a snake.
She moves her mouth close to his but he turns away.
“Don’t be like that, sugar.” She’s crooning now, sweet and high. “It’s so cold out here-so cold-just wanna warm up. Wanna be inside you. Remember that? Remember how good that was?”
She makes a sound, an animal whimper like a dog shut out at night, and buries her face in his neck.
He twists, thinking he’s twisting away from her, but somehow he’s moved towards her instead and they’re kissing, her tongue in his mouth, probing, plundering, and he hates it, he does, but his dick is filling anyway, and he moves his arms up her lithe, narrow back.
She’s naked now though he doesn’t remember taking off her clothes.
He tries to keep his eyes open, keep a bead on her, but she’s shifting, round-faced and blond, sharp and brunette. Only her eyes stay the same, flat and black, no whites, but he can’t look at those, so he shuts his, lets her take what she wants. Grinds back against her because she’s cool, like silk sheets, and he’s burning, burning, been so hot for days.
She pulls back, and now it’s him who whimpers, though he doesn’t mean to.
“Wanna be inside you,” she says again. “Remember when you were a girl for me, Dean-o? You loved being my girl. The tits I gave you, Dean? Fucking gorgeous tits.”
She slides her hands down his chest, he opens his eyes, and they’re there again, full, heavy, cupped in her palms. He gawps, and then gasps at the sensations she wrings from him just by brushing her thumbs across his nipples. They rise to points, dark pebbles under her touch. She takes one into her mouth, sucks, and he arches towards her, can’t help himself.
She releases his breasts, and he moans a little at the tingling, yearning weight of them, wishes she’s come back. But she’s moving her mouth lower, murmuring “wanna be inside you,” like a mantra against his skin.
She opens his thighs, and he wonders for a moment whether she’s changed him there, too, but no, that’s her cheek brushing his rock-hard cock, her fingers in his asshole. He feels a weird stab of disappointment-he’d never say it aloud, but he’s wondered sometimes what it would be like to have a clit, a cunt, that deep secret space. Would it feel the same, to be filled there?
But she never gave him that, and she doesn’t now, always kept him half-man, like she needed something to taunt him with, to tempt him.
Then he forgets what he was thinking as her fingers probe into him, so cold they almost burn, stretching him expertly, and then even that is gone in the white flares of ohshityes as she hits the sweet spot. She crooks her fingers just so and his hips buck up of their own accord.
“So warm,” she says, tonguing around the head of his cock. “Like a fire, like the fires back home. Turn over for me, sugar, let me in.”
She’s got her hands under his hips, urging him, and he wants to say, no, no I can’t, I’m sick, I’ve got the flu, but he’s got no voice, and she wouldn’t listen anyway, never listened to any of the excuses he came up with in the pit.
She’s wearing a strap-on now, the elaborate harness dark against her pale skin, the molded dick black, shiny-made of no substance known to man, he’s willing to bet-and it looks huge, crooked a little at the end, and no way, no way, no way--
He turns over. He’s sweating now, shaking, though whether from fear or desire or just the fever, he can’t tell. He doesn’t think his hands and knees will hold him.
She soothes along his sides, smoothing out the tremors. “That’s it,” she whispers. “That’s my girl.”
Then she spreads him and pushes in-more gently than he expects, and at least she’s bothered to slick the thing with something, he can feel it slippery against his cheeks. But it’s cold, as cold as her hands, and it hurts, like she’s splitting him open, like she’s breaking him apart from the inside. She pulls out and thrusts back into him, harder this time.
With a sharp little grunt of pain his arms buckle, face and breasts hitting the damp sheets. But Meg, it appears, is prepared to hold him up. She’s strong out of all proportion to her size, of course she is, and somehow she can be inside him and jack him one-handed at the same time, while the other hand fondles his impossible, aching, breasts.
“Dean,” her voice is ragged now, her breath coming harder as she rocks into him faster and faster, “why’d you leave us? Why’d you come out here where it’s cold?”
He has an answer for her, he knows he does, but he can’t find it as the pain turns into something brighter, fiercer, a thrum of ecstasy finally dispelling the unnatural cold, the unnatural heat, and then he’s coming, and he thinks maybe she is, too, or at least they’re collapsing together onto the bed, the feathery, not-quite-human sounds of her pleasure in his ears.
And then blackness.
“Hey,” someone is touching his shoulder. “Dean, baby, wake up, you’re dreaming.”
It’s a woman’s voice. Not Meg.
He opens his eyes, but it’s still dark. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, but he can’t make out her face, just the smooth curve of her chin and the fall of her long hair.
“Lisa?” he tries to say, but his voice is still gone, his throat scraped raw.
Her fingers trace across his forehead, card through his hair. “Poor thing. Fever’s gotta break soon. You just hang in there, try to get some rest.”
“Am I me?” he wants to ask. “Touch me, and tell me what you find.”
But he slides back into sleep instead.
And wakes with a start in a dark motel room, the sheets over him soaked with sweat. He shoves them off and flicks on the light, rucks up his soggy t-shirt and finds nothing but flat planes of muscle, the ladder of his ribs. He falls back on the pillow with a groan half relief, half loss.
In the other bed, Sam stirs.
“You alright, man? You still sick?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Dean rasps, unreasonably grateful that finally, finally, he can talk. He forces his breathing to settle. “Fever dreams, y’know?”
“That sucks.” Sam rolls over. “Take some more Tylenol-be better in the morning.”
end
Title: Remember When Your Were My Girl?
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Meg
Spoilers: nothing past S5
Warnings: dub-con/non-con, gender play, pegging, crude language, fever!sex
Word count: ~1.2K
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit.
a/n: for this prompt from vie_dangerouse: Dean has a high fever. Meg finds that it really, really turns her on. The heat reminds her of home, and things that she and Dean used to get up to down there.
a/n: also for the "gender play" square on my
kink_bingo card.
Summary: “Why’d you leave us?" asks Meg. "Why’d you come out here where it’s cold?”
“You?” he says, or squawks. His voice has been gone for days; the word’s just a raw drag in his throat. “How?”
But Meg seems to understand. She smiles, tender, sharp, shakes her head down at him. “You’ve got a scent, Dean-o. Find you anywhere.”
The lamp is on, though he doesn’t remember flicking the switch, and he’s sitting up, hand going for the knife under the pillow. It’s not there. Not that it would have done any good anyway, not with her.
And then she’s straddling him, limbs smooth, cool, against his overheated, clumsy ones.
“You’re like a homing beacon,” she purrs. “All the time. And when you’re like this, you’re like the fucking Montauk light.”
She twines her arms around him and they’re so strong and cold he imagines them slipping out of human form, scaled, like a snake.
She moves her mouth close to his but he turns away.
“Don’t be like that, sugar.” She’s crooning now, sweet and high. “It’s so cold out here-so cold-just wanna warm up. Wanna be inside you. Remember that? Remember how good that was?”
She makes a sound, an animal whimper like a dog shut out at night, and buries her face in his neck.
He twists, thinking he’s twisting away from her, but somehow he’s moved towards her instead and they’re kissing, her tongue in his mouth, probing, plundering, and he hates it, he does, but his dick is filling anyway, and he moves his arms up her lithe, narrow back.
She’s naked now though he doesn’t remember taking off her clothes.
He tries to keep his eyes open, keep a bead on her, but she’s shifting, round-faced and blond, sharp and brunette. Only her eyes stay the same, flat and black, no whites, but he can’t look at those, so he shuts his, lets her take what she wants. Grinds back against her because she’s cool, like silk sheets, and he’s burning, burning, been so hot for days.
She pulls back, and now it’s him who whimpers, though he doesn’t mean to.
“Wanna be inside you,” she says again. “Remember when you were a girl for me, Dean-o? You loved being my girl. The tits I gave you, Dean? Fucking gorgeous tits.”
She slides her hands down his chest, he opens his eyes, and they’re there again, full, heavy, cupped in her palms. He gawps, and then gasps at the sensations she wrings from him just by brushing her thumbs across his nipples. They rise to points, dark pebbles under her touch. She takes one into her mouth, sucks, and he arches towards her, can’t help himself.
She releases his breasts, and he moans a little at the tingling, yearning weight of them, wishes she’s come back. But she’s moving her mouth lower, murmuring “wanna be inside you,” like a mantra against his skin.
She opens his thighs, and he wonders for a moment whether she’s changed him there, too, but no, that’s her cheek brushing his rock-hard cock, her fingers in his asshole. He feels a weird stab of disappointment-he’d never say it aloud, but he’s wondered sometimes what it would be like to have a clit, a cunt, that deep secret space. Would it feel the same, to be filled there?
But she never gave him that, and she doesn’t now, always kept him half-man, like she needed something to taunt him with, to tempt him.
Then he forgets what he was thinking as her fingers probe into him, so cold they almost burn, stretching him expertly, and then even that is gone in the white flares of ohshityes as she hits the sweet spot. She crooks her fingers just so and his hips buck up of their own accord.
“So warm,” she says, tonguing around the head of his cock. “Like a fire, like the fires back home. Turn over for me, sugar, let me in.”
She’s got her hands under his hips, urging him, and he wants to say, no, no I can’t, I’m sick, I’ve got the flu, but he’s got no voice, and she wouldn’t listen anyway, never listened to any of the excuses he came up with in the pit.
She’s wearing a strap-on now, the elaborate harness dark against her pale skin, the molded dick black, shiny-made of no substance known to man, he’s willing to bet-and it looks huge, crooked a little at the end, and no way, no way, no way--
He turns over. He’s sweating now, shaking, though whether from fear or desire or just the fever, he can’t tell. He doesn’t think his hands and knees will hold him.
She soothes along his sides, smoothing out the tremors. “That’s it,” she whispers. “That’s my girl.”
Then she spreads him and pushes in-more gently than he expects, and at least she’s bothered to slick the thing with something, he can feel it slippery against his cheeks. But it’s cold, as cold as her hands, and it hurts, like she’s splitting him open, like she’s breaking him apart from the inside. She pulls out and thrusts back into him, harder this time.
With a sharp little grunt of pain his arms buckle, face and breasts hitting the damp sheets. But Meg, it appears, is prepared to hold him up. She’s strong out of all proportion to her size, of course she is, and somehow she can be inside him and jack him one-handed at the same time, while the other hand fondles his impossible, aching, breasts.
“Dean,” her voice is ragged now, her breath coming harder as she rocks into him faster and faster, “why’d you leave us? Why’d you come out here where it’s cold?”
He has an answer for her, he knows he does, but he can’t find it as the pain turns into something brighter, fiercer, a thrum of ecstasy finally dispelling the unnatural cold, the unnatural heat, and then he’s coming, and he thinks maybe she is, too, or at least they’re collapsing together onto the bed, the feathery, not-quite-human sounds of her pleasure in his ears.
And then blackness.
“Hey,” someone is touching his shoulder. “Dean, baby, wake up, you’re dreaming.”
It’s a woman’s voice. Not Meg.
He opens his eyes, but it’s still dark. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, but he can’t make out her face, just the smooth curve of her chin and the fall of her long hair.
“Lisa?” he tries to say, but his voice is still gone, his throat scraped raw.
Her fingers trace across his forehead, card through his hair. “Poor thing. Fever’s gotta break soon. You just hang in there, try to get some rest.”
“Am I me?” he wants to ask. “Touch me, and tell me what you find.”
But he slides back into sleep instead.
And wakes with a start in a dark motel room, the sheets over him soaked with sweat. He shoves them off and flicks on the light, rucks up his soggy t-shirt and finds nothing but flat planes of muscle, the ladder of his ribs. He falls back on the pillow with a groan half relief, half loss.
In the other bed, Sam stirs.
“You alright, man? You still sick?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” Dean rasps, unreasonably grateful that finally, finally, he can talk. He forces his breathing to settle. “Fever dreams, y’know?”
“That sucks.” Sam rolls over. “Take some more Tylenol-be better in the morning.”
end