fic: One man's trash is another man's treasure
So wincon holds a Badfic Idol every year, which is pretty much the best idea in the universe, and I won! I knew I had a skill. You will note that it resembles most other fic I write.
mistyzeo was at my elbow helping plot~ at a table with cherie-morte, oddishly, and lazy-daze (I'm sure I forgot someone! The whole thing was crazy and I don't remember who was where when) I did writing sprints in person with people I usually hit up online (actually I think cherie-morte and I met about a year ago in a writing sprint through mistyzeo??)
There are some warnings I feel I should give here: Don't read this if you wish to feel okay about life. It's pretty gross and also horrifying and features Dean and a tentacle living in a trashcan, also a lot of adverbs and some disturbing themes. I'm so sorry /o\ Also this is all well-meaning, no offense meant to anyone who writes about tentacles, I actually feel like it's a great art that's been around for thousands of years.
Title: One man's trash is another man's treasure
Pairing: Dean/Trashcan tentacles
Author: cellophane_177
Rating: NC-18 for Voyeur!Sam and wantonactuallydirty!Dean trashcan self-insert
Warnings: Don't like it don't read it
A/N: thank you to my spirit love wifey, I_JuSt_LoVe_CaTs. I don't own anything other than these beautiful words. If I did own the boys I would do dirty bad wrong things with them all day.
One afternoon, Dean was jauntily leaving a bar where he'd hit on multiple chicks with his only his swagger. Sam was behind him, walking too close and suddenly Dean heard a noise from the alley.
"What was that?" he quieried interestedly. The trashcans in the alley were strangely alluring.
"What," Sam said. For he couldn't hear Dean past his enormous hair. His sideburns were such that they eclipsed his ears. But they were magnificent.
The balder man usually thought so, but now his attention was directed toward the row of surly and menacing trashcans, some of which were missing lids, all of which bespoke a health hazard which seemed to already have swept the downtown of Chicago.
Sam's huff said it all but Dean was sick of Sam's shit. He'd fought physically as well as figuratively (although not metaphorically) for Sam to go out to the bar in the first place, and now Sam was dragging him back to the motel where he'd probably want to watch romcoms and paint eachother's nails like every other night. Booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh-ring.
Suddenly, there came a clatter of a trashcan lid and out from the can came what could only be a tentacle!
It had the girth of a cucumber and the veins of a dick. Dean knew suddenly he needed it bad, right then and there.
He stepped forward, no other thought on his mind. Now, normally Dean's ass was self-lubing, a side-effect of being a for-hire breeding puppy when Dad had been away too long. But he'd wrongly cleaned himself out that morning because silk panty wetspots made him too hot.
“Sammy,” he breathed, watching the tentacle wave like a faceless rattlesnake.
“Yeah?”
Dean undid his pants jerkily. They fell to his knees. He put a leg in beside the tentacle. Sam's fingers felt his hole.
“So dry, Dean,” he groaned.
“Need-“
“Okay.”
There was no lube nor motel lotion to be had, so Sam scoooped out three fingers full of something brown-orange from a trashcan. Dean bent to rest on the adjacent lid and presented himself for Sam's fingers to probe, which they did.
Dean was lulled into bliss with Sam's ministrations before his calls of surprise echoed down the alley when the tentacle thrust into his wanting hole. Sam jumped aside. Dean throatily moaned as he knocked violently and relentlessly against the next can.
He writhed with pleasure and abandon, boot crunching who knows what horror, the blunt tentacle twirling inside his dirty wetness. He'd never been so thoroughly filled, so judiciously fucked.
This went on forever, at least two minutes. Dean found that on the trashcan Kinsey scale he's a solid 6 with spare change and a banana peel.
After dumping his load, he was assisted in vacating the can. Dean yanked up his leather pants, and couldn't help but lean back into it when the tentacle curled about his waist, fingering his bellybutton, though Dean wasn't a cuddler.
“I can't fuck and run,” he said to his brother.
What before looked like moonlight, Sam realized was sincerity gleaming in Dean's emerald orbs.
He thought, not all stories had to end.
“You don't have to,” he placated, groping Dean's recently probed area.
So they shoved the shiny trashcum receptacle into the car and absconded like the hoodlums they were.
~fin
mistyzeo was at my elbow helping plot~ at a table with cherie-morte, oddishly, and lazy-daze (I'm sure I forgot someone! The whole thing was crazy and I don't remember who was where when) I did writing sprints in person with people I usually hit up online (actually I think cherie-morte and I met about a year ago in a writing sprint through mistyzeo??)
There are some warnings I feel I should give here: Don't read this if you wish to feel okay about life. It's pretty gross and also horrifying and features Dean and a tentacle living in a trashcan, also a lot of adverbs and some disturbing themes. I'm so sorry /o\ Also this is all well-meaning, no offense meant to anyone who writes about tentacles, I actually feel like it's a great art that's been around for thousands of years.
Title: One man's trash is another man's treasure
Pairing: Dean/Trashcan tentacles
Author: cellophane_177
Rating: NC-18 for Voyeur!Sam and wantonactuallydirty!Dean trashcan self-insert
Warnings: Don't like it don't read it
A/N: thank you to my spirit love wifey, I_JuSt_LoVe_CaTs. I don't own anything other than these beautiful words. If I did own the boys I would do dirty bad wrong things with them all day.
One afternoon, Dean was jauntily leaving a bar where he'd hit on multiple chicks with his only his swagger. Sam was behind him, walking too close and suddenly Dean heard a noise from the alley.
"What was that?" he quieried interestedly. The trashcans in the alley were strangely alluring.
"What," Sam said. For he couldn't hear Dean past his enormous hair. His sideburns were such that they eclipsed his ears. But they were magnificent.
The balder man usually thought so, but now his attention was directed toward the row of surly and menacing trashcans, some of which were missing lids, all of which bespoke a health hazard which seemed to already have swept the downtown of Chicago.
Sam's huff said it all but Dean was sick of Sam's shit. He'd fought physically as well as figuratively (although not metaphorically) for Sam to go out to the bar in the first place, and now Sam was dragging him back to the motel where he'd probably want to watch romcoms and paint eachother's nails like every other night. Booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh-ring.
Suddenly, there came a clatter of a trashcan lid and out from the can came what could only be a tentacle!
It had the girth of a cucumber and the veins of a dick. Dean knew suddenly he needed it bad, right then and there.
He stepped forward, no other thought on his mind. Now, normally Dean's ass was self-lubing, a side-effect of being a for-hire breeding puppy when Dad had been away too long. But he'd wrongly cleaned himself out that morning because silk panty wetspots made him too hot.
“Sammy,” he breathed, watching the tentacle wave like a faceless rattlesnake.
“Yeah?”
Dean undid his pants jerkily. They fell to his knees. He put a leg in beside the tentacle. Sam's fingers felt his hole.
“So dry, Dean,” he groaned.
“Need-“
“Okay.”
There was no lube nor motel lotion to be had, so Sam scoooped out three fingers full of something brown-orange from a trashcan. Dean bent to rest on the adjacent lid and presented himself for Sam's fingers to probe, which they did.
Dean was lulled into bliss with Sam's ministrations before his calls of surprise echoed down the alley when the tentacle thrust into his wanting hole. Sam jumped aside. Dean throatily moaned as he knocked violently and relentlessly against the next can.
He writhed with pleasure and abandon, boot crunching who knows what horror, the blunt tentacle twirling inside his dirty wetness. He'd never been so thoroughly filled, so judiciously fucked.
This went on forever, at least two minutes. Dean found that on the trashcan Kinsey scale he's a solid 6 with spare change and a banana peel.
After dumping his load, he was assisted in vacating the can. Dean yanked up his leather pants, and couldn't help but lean back into it when the tentacle curled about his waist, fingering his bellybutton, though Dean wasn't a cuddler.
“I can't fuck and run,” he said to his brother.
What before looked like moonlight, Sam realized was sincerity gleaming in Dean's emerald orbs.
He thought, not all stories had to end.
“You don't have to,” he placated, groping Dean's recently probed area.
So they shoved the shiny trashcum receptacle into the car and absconded like the hoodlums they were.
~fin