Drummer!rafe And The Girl He Met At A Concert He's Playing...

drummer!rafe and the girl he met at a concert he's playing...

it was during one of the periods where jj—the lead singer—was giving a small speech to the fans and where everyone gets to rest a bit when rafe cameron himself saw you on the front row, looking dolled up as ever.

with your hair in an absurdly gorgeous blowout—and your white top that had thin straps that clung to your body, and fuzzy shorts littered with rhinestones, rafe cameron was sure he went to heaven and back.

so, imagine your surprise when he walks off stage during said break and then sprinted towards you like his life depended on it. "hey miss," you were met with a sweaty, masculine mess which was rafe—and the distance between you two closes the more he stepped towards you further.

the girls around you screamed and shouted—practically begged—for rafe's attention, but his main focus was you; and to have you for at least a while on stage with him.

"i'd love it if you got on that goddamn stage and... well, y'know, show the world how stunning you are."

you couldn't even process the fact that the rafe cameron himself asked you to get on stage with him, let alone look your way. so you did what most girls he met do—which was to nod and follow him on stage.

he hoisted you off the floor and carried you bridal style, then got on the stage with you. the crowd erupts into loud cheers and screams at the sight of you and rafe.

he gets back on the drums and then faces to turn you while he grabs your waist and sits you down on his lap. you stared at him wide-eyed, with your cherry-red lips parted while you sat on his lap, face inches away from each other.

jj finishes his speech and looks back at you with a wink. rafe does the same, then. his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and then he whispers to you. "just sit still and look pretty f'me, alright?"

with that, you wrap your arms around rafe's neck, and then bounce on time with the beat of the drums.

you were living the goddamn life by that very moment.

you threw your head back and laughed, feeling carefree—as if you were the main character and all eyes were on you. and for a fact, of course it was true.

rafe's focus was on you—and only on you—without you even realizing. you were too busy enjoying the concert (and sitting on rafe's lap) to even notice the way he eyed you.

"oh my god, this is so fun," you look back down to meet rafe's eyes, and he replies with a soft chuckle. "damn right it is, doll. glad you're enjoying yourself."

tonight had been the best night of your life. you caught the attention of your favorite band's drummer, and had your main character moment for at least a while.

you're headed towards the exit when a guard stops you from leaving. he hands you a folded piece of paper without a word, and you open it in front of him while you eyed the paper cautiously.

'hey, angel. so glad you attended the concert tonight—thought i laid eyes on the prettiest girl i ever saw. what do you think about a little backstage tour?'

you don't even need to know who sent the note, since you interacted with only one of the band members for the night. the guard clears his throat after he sees you read the note, then he points behind you.

you see rafe—now in a black leather jacket and a tight white shirt, but with the same ripped flared jeans he had on earlier, and a cigarette tucked in his ear.

he eyes you up and down while walking towards you, a smirk plastered on his face while he did so.

"so..." he says, tucking a strand of your hair once he's finally in front of you. "how about that backstage tour, angel?'

what i would do to experience that istg. yeah anyway this is just a drabble so pls excuse my messy-ass mind

taglist: @jadastarkey @tillysslife @hrtsforstrkysblog @hoefordrewstarkey

drew / rafe's masterlist

Little Glimpses (2)

Igor (Anora) x F!Reader

Word Count: 1.4K

Warnings: insecurity; alcohol consumption; fluff

Part One

Ou Need More Igor X Reader… In A Drought

You couldn’t shut your brain off, you’d been tossing and turning all night. The noises of the city outside would distract you when it became too loud and then you longed for it when it fell silent. You became fixated on the little bit of light from the street lamp that shone in through the blinds. You were so tired and your body ached for sleep. You felt like you were so close, but no matter what- you remained restless.

“You okay?” Igor stirs awake beside you. You feel immensely guilty for waking him up- even though it was unintentional.

“Can’t sleep,” you grumble, trying to burrow into your pillow, shifting your body once more to find a comfortable position. You glanced over at the red numbers on your alarm clock face, suddenly feeling like the light from it is too bright. 3:23 AM You were fucked for how early you needed to get up for work.

He’s always so good at reading you- anticipating your needs, sometimes before you even know the problem yourself. He rolls onto his side so he’s facing you and he strokes your hair softly. It does wonders for you. You yawn softly, feeling your eyes finally get a little heavy. He kisses your forehead, and then the tip of your nose, and then your cheek, until he places a soft kiss on your lips. His large hand runs along the length of your side before settling on your waist.

He closes his eyes again, and pulls your body in closer. Your face rests against his strong chest and his chin rests on the top of your head. Like this, the outside factors that were bothering you had deafened. You felt grounded when he would hold you like this.

You’re snoring softly almost instantly, and he makes sure you’re up in time in the morning before he leaves.

You love him, you love him so much that it hurts when he’s not around, and it fucking scares you. Everything you have with him is so goddamn wonderful that it’s maddening. You get in your own head. You haven’t loved anyone like this before, and you are so scared of fucking everything up. You can’t tell him- it would just ruin everything. It makes this beautiful little thing suddenly something so painstakingly real. He’s been so patient with you- letting you take this at your pace. You feel like eventually you will get in your own way and fuck everything up.

He’s so nonchalant about it that if you didn’t need that from it, you’d find him infuriating. You’re sitting on the front steps of his grandmother’s house, waiting for him to get home from his shift. You anxiously tap your foot against the pavement. You needed to tell him before it completely tore you up from the inside out. When he pulls up to the curb, he gets out of the car- surprised but still very happy to see you.

“Hey you-“

“I love you!” You blurt, panicked and wide eyed. You shouted it before you lost your courage. It was not ideal, but you give yourself credit for doing it. You feel yourself spiral, trying to gauge his reaction as he says nothing the first few agonizingly long seconds. He smiles. How dare he.

“I love you too,” he states, crouching down to be eye level with you seated on the first step. He holds your face with his hand and kisses you. It’s so absolute, he says it like it’s just a fact. It is, in a way, really. Of course he loves you, he loves you every day. He shows you every day. He’s so sincere with his affection for you that you should know how much he loved you without needing to hear him say it. But he loves to say it just the same.

When you’re at the bar together, he doesn’t take his hands off you. It’s not in a douche-y possessive way like one would assume. He just loves being near you, and touching you helps keeps him grounded from his own anxieties. He doesn’t love the bar scene, never has. He deals with it all night when he works. But, he’ll go with you when you need a night out.

His hand will stay on the small of your back. Or, he’ll keep his arm wrapped around your shoulder or your waist, rubbing small circles on your skin. He’ll wrap both of his arms around you from behind and kiss the exposed skin of your shoulder before resting his chin there. He’ll hold your hand, or even just link his pinky with yours. He’ll kiss your temple as you catch up talking with your friends.

As you’re sitting on your bed, he’ll take care of you when you’re too drunk when the two of you get back. Kneeling between your legs, he bites his lip in concentration as he takes off your makeup gently with your pack of makeup wipes. He’s so focused and all you can do is stare at him, awestruck at just how pretty he is. He helps you out of your heels, kissing your sore ankles. He helps you shimmy out of your dress and into your most comfortable pajamas that you love. He has you sit up, your back flush to his chest, and he’ll brush out your hair and he can mimic how you get it ready for bed having watched you do it a million times.

In the summertime months, when its too hot to even think straight- you’ll go to the beach. Sandy towels laid out next to one another and you both just lay in the sun for hours. The sun is the kind of bright that makes it feel like your sunglasses are doing nothing. If you didn’t have them on, maybe you would have noticed the way his back was beginning to burn. He has to drive in such a way that his back doesn’t rest back against the driver's seat.

He’ll lay on his back, shirtless and miserable, spread out on your bed. You’ll be slow and methodical, rubbing the cooling aloe vera across the expanse of his back trying to be as gentle as possible. He softly groans in relief as he feels your hands run down and up his skin. If the burn didn’t hurt so bad, maybe this would’ve led to something more.

You’d been feeling insecure, down on yourself, and you couldn’t shake it. You know he loves you, you trust him more than anyone, yet your mind isn’t always your friend. He’s still working as a bouncer- and you know he hates it- can’t stand working nights. You get in your own head when you think about how many girls he sees every night. How many of them must flirt with him to get in when the line is long? What if he ever met someone else? He’s done nothing to make you think that has happened or would ever happen. It doesn’t make it bother you any less.

It stings when he pulls away from cuddling with you on your couch when he needs to go to work. He hated leaving, he’d much rather stay with you than stand outside in the dark and the cold for the next several hours. He’s been dreading having to leave, seeing if he can push it back one more minute, two more minutes before he absolutely has to leave. You pout and if he could skip his shift he would. He kisses you, pulling you in for a kiss that’s so sensual and sweet- like sealing a promise for what’s to come when he returns.

“I’ll be thinking about you the whole time,” he admits, and you smile ear to ear because you know it’s true. You’ll be here, waiting for him, but he knows you’ll probably be asleep. That’s alright, he’s got his own key now. His shift will end at 2 or 3 in the morning, and he’ll come right back to you- feeling completely drained.

Someone tried to give him a hard time, arguing or trying to fight for god knows what reason. It doesn’t matter, he’ll forget all about it the second he’s able to just walk back up to your apartment. He knows the door creeks, so he does his best to open it slowly not to wake you. He’ll find you asleep on the couch, movie or show playing on the tv- he can tell you tried to wait up for him. He’ll shrug off his jacket and leave it on one of your kitchen chairs before joining you back on the couch. He’ll lay down behind you, and pull you close against his chest. He moves the blanket to cover the two of you, and he’ll drift off to the sound of the TV.

308 notes View Post

writtenbyhollywood

1 month ago

𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

— a rafe cameron one shot (1 of 2) part one • part two

✰ rafe and barry were on their way back from handling business when they come across someone stuck on the side of the road — that someone being the richest kook in town’s daughter, y/n.

rating: sfw — cw: very suggestive/graphic language

“i don’t give a fuck what he said,” barry grumbled as he leaned back in his seat, “he’s payin’ by tonight or we’re bustin’ his fuckin’ head in, alright?” rafe nodded dismissively, unaffected by the graphic comment as his blue eyes were lazily focused on the road before them, a singular hand resting on the wheel as he steered the old truck. the following moments were silent, only filled with the soft hum of the engine and low buzz from the radio before something — or someone — caught rafe’s eye.

“oh, shit,” he whispered to himself, gradually lifting his foot from the gas as he peered out the dirty window. barry perked up at his utterance and followed his gaze, his eyes landing on a girl in the near distance sat perched on the curb, a hand in her hair as she held a phone to her ear. beside her was a pearly pink bronco, slightly tilted forward on it’s front, right side — flat tire.

“who the fuck is that? you know ‘er?” barry wondered aloud, his dark eyes flickering between rafe and the girl outside. “nah… i mean, yeah, kinda… that’s—uh, she’s grant mason’s daughter,” rafe mumbled, feeling sudden waves of internal conflict wash over him.

he’d seen her insanely expensive car before, perched in the long winding driveway of the mason’s mansion whenever he’d drive past — it was unmistakably of mason property. he’d also seen her face before on a company advert pamphlet in his fathers office: her mother, father, sister, dog and her — a perfect family.

“mason?” barry began with rafe quickly answering his unspoken question, “yeah, mason manufacturing.” barry laughed, a small smile pulling at his lips leaving his his shiny silver tooth on full display, “aw shit, lil’ kook princess done fucked up her ride.”

rafe bit the inside of his lip in a moment of contemplation, unsure of whether he should slam on the gas or the break. a beat passed as the cogs in his brain began to turn before he let out a defeated sigh, abruptly twisting the wheel and averting the truck onto the opposite side of the road.

“aye, fuck're y'doin’? you’re not about to go play bob the fuckin’ builder, are you?” barry gripped, sitting up in his seat with thick, furrowed brows. “relax,” rafe reasoned in annoyance, “i know what i’m doin’.”

and that, he did — rafe wasn’t one to do favors for people, especially for someone he doesn’t know, but this time was different. he’s learned over time to always keep your friends close and your potential assets closer; the daughter of the grant mason was simply a door he needed opened to fully set foot inside — to give himself and his father an upper hand.

barry scoffed and leaned back in his seat once more, resting an elbow on the passenger door before resting his forehead in his hand. “right — know what y’doin’ like y’always do,” barry muttered dismissively, “jus’ make it quick.”

“could go faster if you helped, y’know,” rafe murmured sarcastically, causing barry to let out an even more sarcastic laugh, saying, “yeah, ain’t shit in that for me, country club — you got it.”

and with that, rafe begrudgingly exited the truck with a light slam of the door, preparing himself to feign the fakest, most well-rounded persona he possibly could in order to make, what would hopefully be, a lasting impression.

the girl on the curb’s head perked up at the sudden noise, her eyes slightly widening at the stranger rapidly approaching. rafe noticed, forcing a smile across his face before speaking. “hey! you alright?” he asked as ‘warmly’ as he could, jogging across the road before stopping a mere few feet away.

“uh, hi — yeah, i’m good, i just— i got a flat,” she explained bashfully with a smile, gesturing to the leaning bronco. it was immediately evident to him that photos simply didn’t do her justice, the sight of her alone unexpectedly making his stomach do a flip, taking him by surprise.

“ah, that sucks,” rafe forcefully sympathized, “y’got a spare, right? i could change it for you.” her face lit up at the proposition, and she quickly mutter a few words into the phone before hanging up and shoving it in her pocket, quickly standing and dusting off the back of her denim shorts.

“would you really?” she beamed, her hopeful eyes glistening as she gazed at him. rafe nodded, his blue ones scanning over her face as he felt a weird stitch of something in his chest. “yeah, it’s no problem — i’ve got some tools in my truck,” he assured, motioning behind him.

“thank you so much,” she breathed out in relief, abruptly holding out a small, manicured hand in his direction, “i’m y/n.” rafe was taken aback by the sudden gesture, reluctantly encasing her palm with his own — her’s was soft, undoubtably the softest he’s ever felt.

“rafe…” he reciprocated before remembering the entire purpose of this interaction, “cameron — rafe cameron.” her brows furrowed, the name tumbling through her mind before realizing it was rather familiar.

“like, cameron development?” she wondered aloud, her hand still absentmindedly resting in his, though rafe was all too aware of it. “uh—yeah, yeah, m’ward cameron’s son,” he muttered, feeling almost awkward at the prolonged contact.

“no way! i’m grant mason’s daughter — our dad’s are friends!” she gasped, and rafe almost scoffed bitterly at the loose, frankly false, title — friends? sure.

“really? small island,” rafe forcibly laughed, internally puking at the sound of his own voice and the cliches he was spewing, and y/n replied with a sweet, “yeah!”

“hey, so, i’mma go get some stuff from my truck so we can get you back on the road, yeah?” he offered, pulling his hand from hers and pointing a thumb behind him. “yeah, okay, thank you again,” she called out as he spun on his heels before briskly crossing the road.

“yo, you trynna hit that or what? what’s with all that chummy shit?” barry snickered as rafe approached the truck, having overheard the entire conversation. “shut up,” rafe groaned, completely unamused as he reached into the bed, fishing around before retrieving a rusty jack and lug wrench in either hand.

“can’t lie, she kinda fine,” barry projected, ensuring rafe could hear him from outside. “she can probably hear you,” the taller man muttered in annoyance. “shit, let her,” barry exclaimed carelessly, “if you don’t tap that, i will.”

“look, can you just—just chill out for like ten minutes? i’m changin’ her fuckin’ tire then we’re goin’, alright?” rafe snapped in agitation, now standing by the car door and of course, the other man only found it comical. “alright — whatever you say, babyboy,” barry mused, feigning surrender with a sly grin before rafe trudged his way back across the road.

“hi,” y/n grinned, her arms crossed lightly over her chest as she ceased absentmindedly twisting her shoe in the dirt. “hey,” rafe reciprocated, tossing the jack onto the concrete with a loud clank, “i’ll get the tire.” y/n nodded, watching as he took the wrench to the back of the car and began twisting at the lugnuts before casually joining him there.

“so, how long have you guys lived here?” she questioned sweetly as she leaned against the bumper, attempting to make conversation as if he wasn’t preoccupied. rafe peered down at her out the corner of his eye, a twinge of annoyance sparking in his chest that was somehow extinguished when he noticed the small smile on her lips as she gazed at him expectantly.

“uh, m’whole life,” he grunted as he twisted at a rather difficult fastener, “you? never seen you ’round before.”

“i’ve only been here a a couple months, actually — we move alot for dad’s work so we’re never really in once place for long,” she explained, distant sadness evident in her tone. “yeah? you likin’ it so far?” rafe asked as he pulled the tire down with ease, finding himself to actually be somewhat interested in the answer.

“uhm—yeah, yeah, it’s nice. i mean, m’always going back home to visit and haven’t been anywhere on the island besides the elementary school,” she explained. “s’that where you were headed?” rafe wondered as he rolled the heavy wheel towards the front of the car, y/n following close behind.

“yeah, i was going to get my sister before the tire busted — was calling the school to let them know i’d be, like, really late,” she sighed. “your dad couldn’t get her?” rafe questioned, admittedly asking a question that may have been a little intrusive. "i— uh, no,” she laughed awkwardly, tucking a loose strand behind her ear as he began to crank the jack, “he’s always so busy.”

“and your mom?” rafe breathed out as he stood to his feet, dusting his hands on his pants before wiping the sweat from his forehead. y/n couldn’t help but shamelessly ogle at his biceps as they flexed with each movement, her eyes flickering up and down the length of his tanned arms in awe.

“she’s— uh, she’s pretty busy, too,” y/n shrugged, her small smile faltering — this piqued rafe’s interest. “yeah? what does she do?” he asked casually, playing off his prying as casual conversation as he began to remove the damaged wheel from the car.

“she used to be an accountant,” y/n murmured, staring off into space down the road, watching as a car drove by. “used to?” rafe chimed in, rolling the busted tire into the grass before beginning to mount the new one.

“yeah, before my sister was born,” she affirmed.

“what’s she doin’ now?”

“she’s retired,” y/n muttered, causing rafe to furrow his brows to himself — retired mother who’s somehow too busy to pick her kid up from school?

“she-uh… she drinks sometimes,” y/n answered quickly, having noticed the expression on his face, “she’s usually too hungover in the mornings to drive… and afternoons.”

hardly a moment passed as rafe was processing her words while simultaneously fastening on lug-nuts before she spoke up again. “i— i’m sorry,” she laughed nervously, squeezing her eyes shut as she mentally kicked herself, “i’m absolutely oversharing.”

“no,” rafe promised casually with a shrug, fastening the last bolt in it’s place, “i asked.” it was a simple statement, though it sent a wave of warmth throughout her chest, the simplicity of reassurance being comforting and seldom.

“what about you?” she asked as he began to lower the car back to the ground, the new tire now in place. “what about me?” rafe rebutted, standing to his feet once more with a huff, the beaming sun beginning to take a toll.

“i— i just mean… what’s your family like?”

“uhh, well, my dad runs a business, and-uh, got a step-mom ‘n two sisters,” rafe explained, though he was never fond of talking about himself or his family.

suddenly, a loud honk sounded out from across the street, causing them both to turn their heads towards the source. “aye, country club, let’s go!” barry called out, rafe’s good deed of the year being noticeably completed and his patience having worn thin.

“whose that?” y/n wondered, a small smile pulling at her lips when rafe sighed in annoyance and ran a hand down his face. “he’s my-uh… friend,” rafe answered, though truthfully, he’s wasn’t sure he’d call him that.

“i think your friend is ready to leave,” she laughed lightly, rafe nodding in agreement as his eyes then found their way to hers, suddenly finding themselves stuck there. she didn’t notice until then just how blue his eyes were, nor did he notice how big and doe-like her’s were. seconds passed that felt like minutes, neither of them in any position to break the eye contact for a reason they couldn’t explain.

inevitably, the horn was honked again and jolted them both from the stalemate, causing rafe to cough before scratching his neck. “uh, so, i’m gonna get going,” he announced, grabbing his tools from their places on the curb, “tire’s all good ‘n i can get rid of the old one if y’want.”

“thank you, rafe — seriously, it means so much,” y/n sighed out, eyes glistening with gratitude and rafe’s stomach did that same, stupid little flip as before when she said his name and he wanted it to fucking stop.

“yeah, no worries,” rafe grinned, though he tried to hide it, actually feeling somewhat good about himself, “you should-uh… probably head out, too, yeah?”

“shit, yeah,” y/n swore, quickly pulling her phone from her pocket and checking the time, “hey, so-uh, my dad’s having a little business dinner type-thing next weekend — food ‘n music and all that if you, maybe, wanted to come?”

rafe froze at the mention as he recalled a conversation with his father from not too long ago. they had spoke about that very event, rafe wanting to accompany his father in order to learn more about the mason’s business, though his wish was denied due to ward only being allowed to bring one guest — his choice being his wife, rose.

“i’m— i’m sorry, you don’t have to, i just figured as like a ‘thank you’ i’d—,” y/n rambled, feeling as though rafe’s lack of response and blank stare was an answer within itself, but he quickly interrupted.

“nah, nah, i’ll—,” he paused, blue eyes flickering across her now hopeful face, his heart doing a little skip at the sight, “yeah, i’ll be there.”

“awesome, yeah, here — put your number in, i’ll text you the details,” she smiled, handing her phone over to who rafe dropped his tools to the ground before accepting it. their hands grazed one another for a moment, somehow feeling different from the first time they touched.

he obliged, quickly typing in the digits and saving the contact before handing it back. “cool, so, i’ll see you then?” she smiled, watching at rafe gathered the tools from the ground once more. “yeah,” rafe nodded, quickly swiping his tongue over his lips before a soft smirk overtook them, “unless i find you on the curb with another flat before then.”

“with my luck,” she laughed, and rafe couldn’t help but let out a soft, genuine, chuckle. “thank you again,” she continued, her tone sincere, and rafe could tell just how genuine it was, giving her a small nod in return, “i’ll see you.”

and with that, she climbed her way into the ridiculously large car, giving rafe one last glance with a smile before disappearing down the corner and around the bend. rafe finished loading everything back into the truck, including the flat wheel that he planned on abandoning in some unfortunate pogues yard, before rejoining barry inside.

“the fuck’re you so happy about?” barry mumbled, loathing the fact that after waiting in a hot truck for ages, rafe comes waltzing in with a grin.

“told’ya i know what i’m doin’.”

611 notes View Post

writtenbyhollywood

4 months ago

being lee byung-hun’s controversially young girlfriend

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yourusername

Being Lee Byung-hun’s Controversially Young Girlfriend

liked by byunghun0712 and others

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view comments

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liked by byunghun0712 and others

yourusername look at the pictures I found guyss ( little gift at the end 🫣)

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🎀YOU AS PADMÉ X HAYDEN CHRISTENSE: THE LOVE STORY🎀

synopsis: in the bustling backdrop of a New York casting call in 2000, you meet Hayden Christensen, an enigmatic young actor vying for the role of Anakin Skywalker. A shared screen test ignites an undeniable chemistry, blurring the line between performance and reality, and leaving you both with a lingering sense that this is only the beginning of something extraordinary.

words: 1.1k

warning: not based on real events, fluffy, hint of romance

a/n: hello there, I was SO hyped when I read your idea—it’s seriously brilliant and such a vibe! ✨ Honestly, I’m super honored you trusted me to write this with you 💖. IDK if you were thinking of a one-shot, but I was imagining turning this into a mini-fanfic (like 10 chapters or so?) to really explore all the phases of their relationship—the tension, the feelings, the growth, all of it 🫶.

I hope you love what I’ve written so far, and PLEASE feel free to share your comments or opinions—they’re totally welcome and super important to make this story the best it can be for everyone! 🥰

CHAPTER ONE: CASTING

The sun was beginning to dip behind the Manhattan skyline as you stretched in your chair for the hundredth time that day. You’d been at this since the early morning hours, reading the same lines over and over again with a rotating cast of hopeful actors vying for the role of Anakin Skywalker. George Lucas had been clear about what he was looking for—a young man who could embody Anakin’s volatile mix of rebellious passion and burgeoning darkness. But after dozens of auditions, no one had quite nailed it.

Some actors were technically good but lacked the raw, unpolished edge George wanted. Others had the right look but couldn’t summon the emotional depth required for the role. And as the hours wore on, your excitement for the project was slowly being drained away by the monotony of the casting process.

You exhaled heavily, flipping through the well-worn pages of the script in your hands, your mind wandering to thoughts of escaping the stifling audition room and stepping into the brisk New York air. That’s when you heard his name.

“Hayden Christensen.”

Your eyes snapped up as a young man walked into the room. Honey-blonde hair framed his face, and his quiet confidence filled the space effortlessly. He wasn’t overly polished like so many of the others. There was an air of authenticity about him, as though he didn’t need to try too hard to be noticed.

Your gaze lingered on him as the casting director pointed out where he should stand. He nodded, offering a small, polite smile to the room before taking his mark. There was no unnecessary bravado, no nervous fidgeting—just a focused calm that intrigued you instantly.

When he began his lines, it was as though the room shifted. His voice carried a raw vulnerability, his delivery perfectly balancing Anakin’s simmering anger with the aching, earnest desire for connection. It wasn’t just an audition; it was as if he was Anakin Skywalker.

For a moment, you forgot you were supposed to be evaluating him. His intensity drew you in, his words lingering in the air long after they were spoken. You found yourself leaning forward in your chair, captivated. It was the first time all day you’d felt the spark of something real, something electric.

“(Y/N), are you ready?”

Your name snapped you out of the trance. You blinked, momentarily disoriented, as one of the assistants handed you the pages for the scene. Your heart was racing, and you didn’t know why. All you knew was that you were about to step into that scene with him.

The moment you walked up to Hayden, he looked at you, and for a split second, the rest of the room seemed to disappear. His eyes, an arresting shade of blue, locked onto yours, and you felt a spark—like the ignition of a lightsaber. He smiled, a small, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips, and suddenly, the world felt different.

When the scene began, your eyes darted to the script once or twice, double-checking your lines to ensure everything was perfect. But as the words fell from your lips and his presence seemed to pull you in, something shifted. The boundary between reality and performance blurred, and suddenly, you were no longer reading lines—you were living them. The emotions, the conflict, and the forbidden pull between your characters surged through you like a tidal wave.

“I can't. We can't. It's just not possible,” you murmured, your voice trembling with the weight of the words. It wasn’t just Padmé speaking; it was you, every syllable laced with an ache that felt startlingly real. Your heart, unbidden, protested against the logic of the line, just as hers would.

Hayden’s blue eyes locked onto yours, their intensity almost startling. They were so bright, so alive, but within them swirled a mix of hurt, longing, and something deeper—something that made the air between you feel impossibly charged. His voice was low, thick with a quiet desperation as he stepped closer. “Anything’s possible. Padmé, please listen…” His hand extended toward yours, trembling slightly, as though he couldn’t help but reach for you.

For a moment, you forgot to breathe. The warmth of his hand brushed yours, and an unfamiliar spark danced up your arm. Your fingers almost curled instinctively toward his before you pulled back, forcing yourself to remain in character.

“You listen,” you countered, your voice soft yet firm, filled with a mix of resignation and sorrow. “We live in a real world. Come back to it. You’re studying to become a Jedi Knight. I’m a Senator. If you follow your thoughts through to conclusion, they will take us to a place we cannot go… regardless of the way we feel about each other.”

The words came effortlessly now, as though they belonged not just to Padmé but to you. And as you spoke them, you noticed the way Hayden’s expression shifted—how every ounce of his being seemed to pour into the scene. He didn’t just act. He felt. And in his eyes, you saw it too—a connection, an unspoken understanding that transcended the lines on the page.

With each passing moment, the distance between you closed, not just physically but emotionally, spiritually, as if this moment was fated—destined to unfold exactly this way. By the time you finished your last line, the silence in the room was almost deafening, the air charged with something unspoken but undeniable.

The sound of applause jolted you from the trance-like state, breaking the fragile spell that had wrapped itself around the two of you. You blinked, stepping back instinctively, though your chest still felt tight, your heart still racing. George Lucas and the rest of the team stood clapping, clearly thrilled by the chemistry that had just unfolded in front of them.

You forced a smile, stepping back farther to give Hayden the moment he deserved. He was speaking with George now, his body language a mix of excitement and relief. He was the chosen one. Everyone in the room knew it. He had just won the role of a lifetime.

Yet, even as you lingered in the background, trying to focus on the buzz of conversation around you, you felt it—him. His gaze. It burned softly, like sunlight warming your skin even when you weren’t looking. Over the shoulders of directors and producers, he stole glances your way, as if drawn to you in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

And then there was you. A strange, unfamiliar feeling settled in your chest, making it harder to think clearly. You couldn’t quite place it—was it admiration? Excitement? Curiosity? It felt like all those things and more, tangled into a knot that you didn’t want to unravel just yet.

You didn’t know where this would lead, or why you felt so certain that this was only the beginning of something bigger. All you knew was that, somehow, you were eager to find out.

102 notes View Post

writtenbyhollywood

1 month ago

More teen!dean please ?

⋆˙⟡ milkshakes & car dates,

summary. skipping school with dean is always a great idea

pairing. teen!dean winchester x reader genre. fluff

wordcount. 895

notes / warnings. teen dean!!! that's the warning

The school day drags like wet paint.

Your math teacher’s droning on about parabolas or something equally tragic, but all you can focus on is the folded piece of paper tucked into the corner of your notebook. Ink smudged in the corner, slightly torn — unmistakably written in Dean Winchester’s messy, all-caps scrawl.

WANNA DITCH LAST PERIOD? I GOT THE CAR & A KILLER MIXTAPE

You glance up. Two rows over, he’s slouched in his chair like he owns the school — that cocky grin barely hidden behind the tip of his pen. When you meet his eyes, he winks.

You nearly drop your pencil.

Dean Winchester is trouble wrapped in a leather jacket and dimples. He doesn’t do straight A’s or science fairs. He does engine oil and motel beds and smuggles candy into class like it’s contraband. He’s also the only person who’s ever made you laugh so hard you snorted soda through your nose — and then offered you his flannel to wipe it off.

You don’t even remember agreeing to date him. It just sort of… happened. Between one prank war in history class and that time he walked you home in the rain with only his jacket and zero umbrella. He never actually asked, just kissed you one day after detention and said, “Guess you’re stuck with me now.”

And honestly? You are.

“You sure your dad won’t freak?” you ask as you slide into the passenger seat of the Impala, the vinyl still warm from the sun.

Dean smirks, throwing the car into drive with one hand, the other already reaching for the cassette deck. “He’s in another state and doesn’t know what day it is. We’re golden.”

The Impala purrs to life, and so does the music — loud and unapologetic, something with guitars and drums that make your heartbeat speed up even more than it already is.

“Where are we even going?” you ask, half-laughing, wind tossing your hair as he rolls the windows down.

Dean shoots you a look. “You ever had a chocolate shake from that diner off Route 17?”

“No?”

“Blasphemy,” he says, slamming a dramatic fist on the steering wheel. “Guess I gotta change your life.”

And weirdly… you kind of think he means it.

The diner is straight out of a movie: neon signs, checkerboard floors, waitresses who call you “hon” like it’s your actual name. Dean orders two shakes, extra whipped cream, no hesitation. You try to pay. He blocks your hand with a french fry.

“Not a chance,” he says, grinning. “My girl doesn’t pay.”

Your girl. Your stomach flips.

You sip your milkshake, cheeks warm, watching the way the sunset paints gold into his eyelashes. He’s telling some ridiculous story about Sam trying to iron a flannel while wearing it, and you’re laughing so hard you almost choke on your straw.

Dean reaches over, wipes whipped cream from your lip with his thumb, then licks it off like it's nothing. Like it’s not the most casually intimate thing anyone’s ever done to you.

“You’re staring,” he says, cocking an eyebrow.

“No I’m not.”

“You totally are.”

You throw a napkin at him. He catches it mid-air, winks. God, he’s annoying. And you want to kiss him so bad.

He leans in just a little. “You gonna kiss me or just keep drooling over that shake?”

You raise a brow. “Don’t flatter yourself, Winchester.”

He laughs, low and warm, and you swear it vibrates all the way to your spine.

It’s dark when he parks the Impala outside your house. The porch light is still on. Your heart’s racing.

Dean walks you to the steps, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. He’s quiet, but not in a bad way. It’s like the night slowed him down a little. Let him breathe.

“I had fun,” you say softly.

He shrugs, eyes soft. “You always make it easy.”

There’s a beat of silence. The kind that buzzes with something new. Something gentle and real and teenage and too big to name. He reaches out, tugging a lock of your hair behind your ear, then just lets his fingers rest there — along your jaw, like he wants to remember how your skin feels.

“You make me wish we didn’t have to leave,” he says, like it’s not a big deal. Like it doesn’t make your heart ache in a way you don’t have words for.

You lean up, brushing your lips against his. It’s slow. Soft. Barely-there at first, until he kisses you back like he means it — like he doesn’t want the night to end either.

When you finally pull away, breathless and warm, he smiles like he’s just won a bet.

“Best. Shake. Ever,” he says.

“You didn’t even finish it.”

He grins wider. “Didn’t need to.”

You laugh, swat his shoulder, and turn to head inside. But he calls your name — soft, unsure, almost shy, and when you glance back, his voice catches a little.

“Hey… you think about the future? Like, what happens after this?”

You pause. “Yeah. You're there, without a doubt.”

“You too.” His hands are back in his pockets. “Just… makin’ sure we’re on the same page.”

You are. Even if you don’t know what the page says yet.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say.

He smirks. “Not if I see you first.”

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504 notes View Post

writtenbyhollywood

2 months ago

Hiiii! I hope you're doing great <3 would you please write something platonic, when Dean and Sam were children (or teenagers, it's up to you), and John were to leave them with an ally/friend of his, and she's very attentive, caring, loving, patient, and understanding with them? I deeply enjoyed that our boys had mother figures in their adulthood, that genuinely cared of them, but I would have had loved if they would have had some type of caring figure when they were younger, bc they deserve the entire world :')

Ofc if you don't feel comfortable writing about this or you just simply don't like the idea, pls feel free to ignore it :)

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ safe haven,

summary. john's out for another hunt and the boys get dropped off with a trusted friend

pairing. sam & dean winchester x mother-figure!oc

wordcount. 435

notes. love this concept and they definitely would've needed this! hope you like it hon

John doesn’t say much before he leaves. Just a gruff “You listen to her, alright?” before he’s out the door, duffel slung over his shoulder, truck rumbling down the dirt road.

Dean watches him go, jaw tight. He’s used to this—watching his dad disappear, knowing it’ll be days before he comes back, if not longer.

Sam, though—Sam still watches the taillights until they’re gone, small shoulders sagging.

“Well,” a voice hums behind them, warm and light, like a quilt fresh out of the dryer. “I don’t know about you boys, but I’ve got a roast in the oven that’s about to fall apart if we don’t dig in soon.”

Dean turns to look at her—the woman John dropped them off with. He doesn’t know much about her, just that her name is Annie, and their dad trusts her.

That’s rare enough.

She doesn’t look like a hunter. No scuffed-up boots, no haunted eyes. Just soft curves, an apron dusted with flour, and a smile that reaches her eyes.

She looks like a mom.

Dean doesn’t trust it.

But Sam—Sam is already inching toward her kitchen, nose scrunching as he sniffs the air. “Roast?” he asks, tentative, like he’s afraid he misheard.

Annie’s eyes twinkle. “With potatoes. And homemade bread. You eat bread, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Sam nods quickly, and Dean huffs, nudging his brother. “Dude, act like you’ve been fed before.”

Annie just chuckles, ruffling Sam’s hair. “Come on, then. Wash your hands first.”

Dean hesitates, lingering in the doorway as Sam beelines for the sink.

She’s too nice.

Nice people don’t last long in their world.

But the kitchen smells amazing, warm and buttery, and his stomach betrays him with a loud growl.

Annie turns, raising a brow. “Well?” she says, gentle but firm. “You coming, or am I gonna have to carry you?”

Dean snorts, shoulders easing just slightly. “I’d like to see you try, lady.”

She grins. “Careful what you wish for, kid.”

That night, she tucks Sam in first, smoothing his hair back, humming something soft. Sam’s out within minutes, relaxed in a way Dean hasn’t seen in years.

And then it’s just him.

Dean is sitting stiffly on the bed when Annie turns to him.

“You don’t have to, you know,” she says softly.

He frowns. “Have to what?”

She smiles, but there’s something sad in it. “Be on guard. Take care of everything. Just for tonight, sweetheart, let someone take care of you.”

Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything.

But when she pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, when her fingers brush against his hair—

He finally relaxes.

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writtenbyhollywood

2 months ago

undercover dancer

dean winchester x reader

synopsis while working a case with the winchester, you go undercover at a strip club to track down a siren, but things don’t go as planned.

warnings mdni, porn with plot? (pwp), oral sex (m rec.), missionary, pet names (sweetheart, baby), fem reader, breeding kink (if you squint), light d/s dynamic, no use of y/n.

word count 6.5k

working a case with the winchesters meant long nights, bad coffee, and sifting through endless lore. the three of you were holed up in a rundown motel, buried in research about sirens. three men had murdered their wives, all while insisting they were in happy, loving relationships. something wasn’t adding up.

sam had bobby on speakerphone as the older hunter explained an old piece of folklore—sirens could be killed with a bronze dagger dipped in the blood of one of their victims.

“alright, thanks, bobby. we’ll call if we need anything else,” sam said, snapping his phone shut.

you sighed, leaning back in your chair across from him. “okay, but how exactly are we supposed to get the blood of an infected victim?”

sam thought for a moment before suggesting that the doctor who performed the autopsies might still have blood samples from the victims.

as the boys geared up, putting on their usual fbi disguises, you made no move to change. noticing this, dean shot you a look. “what? you’re just gonna sit this one out?”

“no,” you replied smoothly, standing up and grabbing a duffel bag from under the bed. “while you two are handling that, i’m going to see if i can get a lead on who the siren might be.”

sam and dean exchanged confused glances but didn’t question it. they had learned to trust your methods—even if they didn’t always understand them.

as soon as they left, you dug through your bag, pulling out a dark red costume. undercover work had its perks, but being a woman in the hunting business often meant playing into certain expectations. and right now, that meant infiltrating the strip club where you suspected the siren was hiding.

after a quick shower, you grabbed a fresh razor and got to work. if you were going to sell this, you had to look the part. you remembered the club owner’s strict policy—pretty faces and smooth bodies only.

once you were done, you pulled out your small cosmetic kit and carefully applied your makeup, matching it to the deep red of your outfit. a final swipe of lip gloss and a touch of glitter later, you gave yourself a once-over in the motel’s long mirror.

damn. you looked like an expensive stripper.

the two-piece outfit was a dark red sequined swimsuit, just a size too small, leaving very little to the imagination. perfect.

packing a change of clothes and slipping a pair of heels into your duffel, you hopped into your camaro and drove to the club.

pulling into the back lot, you wrapped yourself in a long trench coat and slipped inside through the rear entrance. in the changing room, you stashed your bag, swapped your boots for heels, and took a moment to observe the other women.

they moved in and out, chatting and adjusting their outfits, but none of them immediately screamed “siren.” the only clue you had was that sirens tended to work alone.

you adjusted your stance, getting used to the ridiculous height of your heels. with one last check in the dingy mirror, you stepped out onto the club floor.

the heavy bass of electronic house music pounded in your chest, the flashing led lights momentarily disorienting. you focused, forcing yourself to move with the rhythm, blending in as you made your way toward the bar.

“well, aren’t you something,” a voice drawled behind you.

you turned, slipping effortlessly into character, flashing a sultry smile as you took in the man eyeing you. mid-forties, salt-and-pepper beard, expensive watch—if you weren’t here on a case, you might have been a little more interested.

smirking, you sauntered closer, batting your eyelashes. “what can i do for you tonight, handsome?”

“how about something special?” his voice dipped, gaze never leaving your body. “one of those private rooms in the back?”

shit.

if you left the main floor, you’d risk losing sight of your real target. you needed a way out of this—fast.

glancing around, you spotted the upstairs balcony overlooking the club. if you could get him up there, at least you’d still have a vantage point.

“i don’t have all night, sweetheart,” the man said impatiently, waving a wad of cash. “you want this or not?”

plastering on a flirtatious smile, you grabbed his hand and led him toward the stairs. he chuckled behind you. “aren’t you an eager thing?”

this was probably a bad idea.

as you reached the top, your attention flicked to a nearby table where two men in suits sat across from each other. the back of one of their heads looked disturbingly familiar. short hair, slightly spiked—no way.

then you heard it. that familiar gravelly voice, thick with a kansas drawl.

dean.

what the hell was he doing here?

panic kicked in. you needed to get past him before he saw you in this very compromising outfit. you picked up the pace, walking past as quickly as you could.

just when you thought you were in the clear—

a low whistle pierced the air.

fuck.

the whistle came from dean.

fuck. fuck. fuck.

you could’ve kept walking. you should’ve kept walking. just pretend you didn’t hear it. play dumb, keep moving, disappear into the back rooms before this whole thing spiraled into something worse.

but, of course, the man you were leading had to open his damn mouth.

“hell of a body, huh?” he slurred, clearly buzzed and feeling bold. “bet she’s worth every damn penny.”

your stomach dropped, then it got so much worse.

“hey, buddy,” the man continued, elbowing dean like they were old friends. “why don’t you come with me? we can both get a little taste.”

you clenched your jaw. this fucking guy. not only was he disgusting, but now he was trying to bring dean into this?

“hey, sweetheart!” he called, motioning for you to come back. “c’mon, don’t be shy now.”

you stayed still, facing away from the table, hoping—praying—that dean would just ignore him. maybe he hadn’t recognized you. maybe he was just reacting to the fact that you looked wildly out of place in a club like this.

maybe pigs could fly.

because you felt dean’s eyes burning into your back, and you knew—this was about to happen.

your breath hitched as you forced yourself to turn around.

and the second your gaze met dean’s, his jaw literally dropped.

eyes wide, mouth hanging open, pure shock written all over his face. like he’d just been smacked in the head with a crowbar.

you saw the exact moment realization hit. the way his gaze flickered down—taking in the too-small, blood-red sequined outfit, the heels, the sheer ridiculousness of what you were wearing—before snapping back up to your face.

his lips parted, but no words came out. just a stunned, incredulous stare, like his brain had short-circuited and he couldn’t even begin to process what he was seeing.

you wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

dean winchester—your hunting partner, your friend, the guy you spent way too much time with—was seeing you like this.

and he wasn’t looking away. dean blinked. once. twice. then his jaw clenched

in dean’s mind, this was not what he expected when you said you were going to get a lead on the siren.

a lead? sure. maybe some surveillance, some questioning—hell, even some light flirting to get information if needed. but this?

his brain had completely short-circuited.

for a few crucial seconds, he forgot where he was. forgot the case, the siren, the fact that there was a real fbi agent sitting across from him. forgot that he was supposed to be an fbi agent, too.

because fbi agent dean winchester wasn’t supposed to know a stripper.

you weren’t supposed to know him.

you were just two strangers existing in the same space—passing glances, exchanging pleasantries, nothing more. that’s what this cover was supposed to be.

but instead, you were standing there, looking like that, and dean was sitting here, looking at you.

the noise of the club, the flashing lights, the pulsing music—it all blurred in the background. the only thing in sharp focus was you.

and then, of course, the drunk asshole had to make it worse.

“so, what do ya say, man?” he gestured sloppily between you and dean, slurring his words. “you in or what?”

dean blinked, jaw tightening.

this guy had no idea. no idea that the woman he was treating like an object was actually a badass hunter who could take him down in a heartbeat. no idea that dean wasn’t some random customer, but someone who knew exactly what you looked like covered in blood and sweat, tearing through monsters like it was second nature.

but more than anything, he had no idea how much dean didn’t want to share you with him.

dean finally closed his mouth, schooling his face into something more neutral. his grip tightened around the glass in his hand, but he forced out a smirk, leaning back in his chair.

“tempting,” he said, voice low, edged with something dangerous. “but i think i’ll pass.”

he saw the way your shoulders subtly relaxed, the way your fingers twitched like you were seconds from reaching for a weapon you weren’t carrying.

the guy huffed, shaking his head. “your loss.” then he turned back to you, giving you a sleazy grin. “guess it’s just you and me, sweetheart.”

dean barely restrained himself from breaking the guy’s nose.

this was a case. you were undercover. you had a job to do.

but damn if dean didn’t want to burn this whole place down just to get you out of here.

after that incredibly unfortunate turn of events, you decided to call it a night.

you led your drunk, handsy gentleman away from prying eyes, coaxing him into a quieter, less crowded hallway. the second you were sure no one was watching, you turned on your heel and decked him—one solid punch right to the jaw.

he crumpled like a sack of potatoes.

rolling your shoulders, you exhaled sharply and stepped over his unconscious body. he’d wake up with a hell of a headache and probably no memory of what happened. good. you didn’t have the patience for anything else.

when you walked back onto the main floor, you instinctively glanced toward where dean had been sitting—only to find his chair empty.

of course.

you didn’t have the energy to deal with that right now.

navigating through the club, you made your way back to the dressing room, grabbed your trench coat, and threw it over yourself. no time to change. you just wanted to get out of here and back to the motel.

enough undercover work for one night.

but as soon as you stepped outside into the cool night air and headed toward your car, you stopped dead in your tracks.

because parked right in front of your camaro, like a goddamn roadblock, was the impala.

and leaning against it, arms crossed, expression unreadable, was dean. there he stood—still in that goddamn suit, still looking good as ever.

the neon lights from the club flickered against his face, casting sharp shadows across his jaw. he was staring straight at you, and even from a distance, you could feel the weight of it.

yeah. you definitely weren’t getting out of this conversation.

you wished you could just ignore him, pretend you didn’t see him, slip into your camaro, and drive the hell away from this whole mess.

but dean obviously had different plans.

his arms were still crossed, his stance casual, but there was nothing relaxed about the way he was watching you. his sharp green eyes followed every step you took, unreadable yet intense.

you swallowed hard and kept walking, forcing yourself to act like you weren’t dying inside from sheer embarrassment. maybe if you just made it to your car door without saying anything—

“hey, sweetheart,” dean called, voice smooth but edged with something else.

you closed your eyes briefly, exhaling through your nose.

slowly, you turned to face him, plastering on your best unimpressed look. “you waiting for someone, winchester?”

dean huffed out something between a scoff and a laugh, shaking his head slightly. “yeah. you.”

of course.

you shifted your weight, gripping the edges of your coat a little tighter. “well, you found me. so what do you want?”

dean pushed off the impala, stepping closer—just enough to make your pulse spike. he tilted his head, studying you like you were some kind of puzzle he was trying to piece together.

“what the hell was that back there?” his voice was low, curious, but definitely not amused.

you lifted a brow. “i was working the case.”

dean’s jaw ticked. “that’s what we’re calling it?”

you crossed your arms. “got a problem with it?”

he scoffed, looking away for a second before his eyes flicked back to yours. “yeah, i got a problem with it. watching you prance around in that getup, having some drunk asshole treat you like—” he cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “what the hell were you thinking?”

you rolled your eyes. “i was thinking that someone had to actually get close enough to find the siren. and considering i didn’t see you shaking your ass in sequins, it had to be me.”

dean made a face, clearly not a fan of that mental image. “damn it, you know that’s not what i mean.”

you shrugged, pretending like your stomach wasn’t twisting at how tense he was. “relax, dean. i had it under control.”

dean let out a humorless laugh. “oh yeah? looked real under control when that guy was trying to buy a damn two-for-one special.”

you bristled but kept your face neutral. “i handled it.”

dean stared at you for a long moment, jaw still tight. then, finally, he shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face. “you’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

your lips twitched. “that sounds like a you problem.”

dean exhaled, then gave you that look—the one that always made your chest tighten. a mix of exasperation, concern, and something else. something you didn’t have the guts to name.

“get in the car,” he muttered, nodding toward the impala.

you frowned. “i have my own car—”

“yeah, and it’s staying here.” dean’s voice left no room for argument. “you’re riding with me.”

you opened your mouth to protest, but the glare he shot you made you shut it just as quickly.

fine. whatever. if it got you out of this conversation faster, you’d deal with it.

sighing, you walked past him, letting him open the passenger door for you. you didn’t miss the way his gaze flickered over you again, how his fingers twitched like he wanted to do something but held himself back.

you slid into the seat, crossing your arms as dean shut the door behind you.

as he walked around to the driver’s side, one thought ran through your mind—

this was not how you expected tonight to go.

the car ride was quiet.

the tension, while still there, had stopped being suffocating, allowing you to relax a little. you leaned into the familiar comfort of the impala, the soft hum of the engine settling something in your chest.

which meant, unfortunately, you forgot what you were wearing underneath your trench coat.

as you shifted in your seat, adjusting yourself for a more comfortable position, the movement caused the coat to gape open slightly, revealing slivers of bare skin and dark red sequins.

dean only glanced over at first, probably just checking why you were moving—

but then he saw.

his grip on the steering wheel tightened.

a quick flash of your thighs, the curve of your waist, and the unmistakable shimmer of the too-small, too-revealing getup you still had on underneath.

dean immediately snapped his gaze back to the road, jaw clenching so tight it could crack a molar.

but it was too late.

because now the image was burned into his mind.

you, in that tiny outfit, all legs and soft skin, sitting right there next to him like it was no big deal. like it wasn’t driving him insane.

he exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders like it would somehow shake the thought loose.

you didn’t seem to notice his sudden shift in posture, too caught up in getting comfortable. you adjusted again, crossing one leg over the other, which caused the coat to part just a little more—

dean did not look.

he was not looking.

he was absolutely not going to look.

but then the impala hit a small bump in the road, jostling you slightly—and out of sheer reflex, his eyes flicked over.

fucking hell.

he gritted his teeth, forcing his focus forward. “jesus, could you—?” he cut himself off, inhaling sharply. “do you wanna maybe, i don’t know, close that thing?” he flicked a pointed glance at your coat, then back at the road like his life depended on it.

you blinked, glancing down—and finally realized what he was talking about.

oh.

a slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. “my bad,” you said innocently, making zero effort to fix it.

dean shot you a look. “not funny.”

you bit your lip, suppressing a laugh. “kinda funny.”

“not funny,” he repeated, gripping the wheel tighter. “you’re gonna give me a damn heart attack.”

you chuckled, finally tugging the coat closed—not out of modesty, but because you were pretty sure dean was about three seconds away from swerving off the road.

“relax, winchester,” you teased. “it’s not like you haven’t seen a woman in less before.”

dean made a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a strangled groan. “yeah, well, i don’t usually have to drive them back to a motel after watching them hustle some drunk asshole in a damn strip club.”

you snorted. “please. like you weren’t enjoying the view.”

dean didn’t say anything.

didn’t even look at you.

and that was interesting.

your smirk widened. “oh my god,” you drawled. “you were enjoying the view.”

dean clenched his jaw, eyes locked on the road. “you done?”

you hummed, pretending to think. “not really.”

“too bad.”

you laughed, finally letting it go—for now.

dean just exhaled, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe this was his life.

and for the rest of the ride, he did not look over again.

finally.

for dean, the ride was over. they made it to the motel.

he could get away from you and that damn outfit without feeling like he was losing his goddamn mind.

but you? oh, you were not letting it go.

stepping inside, you took a quick scan of the room. no sam. he was still off doing whatever research he had gotten sucked into, which meant it was just you and dean.

perfect.

you kicked off those ridiculous heels with a sigh of relief, shrinking down several inches in the process, and tossed your duffle bag onto the bed. dean did the same, loosening the tie on his suit with a grumble, ready to just shower this night off and forget it ever happened.

but then he looked up—

and oh, god.

you were shrugging off your trench coat.

right in front of him.

and you weren’t doing it quickly, like someone exhausted after a long night.

no.

you were doing it slowly.

tantalizingly.

dean didn’t know if that was just his brain making it seem like slow motion, or if you were actually torturing him on purpose—

but oh, god.

the way the coat slipped from your shoulders, revealing the smooth stretch of your skin, the way the deep red sequins shimmered against the cheap motel lighting—

dean felt like he’d been hit with something.

his mouth went dry. his brain stopped working.

all he could do was stare.

and you knew.

he could see it in the tiny smirk playing at your lips, the way you tossed your coat onto the bed like this was all totally normal. like you weren’t standing there, still in that tiny little outfit, acting like you didn’t just completely wreck him.

dean swallowed hard, forcing himself to snap out of it. he turned away quickly, scrubbing a hand down his face, trying to gather whatever frayed pieces of self-control he had left.

“you are killing me,” he muttered under his breath.

you laughed, low and amused. “something wrong, winchester?”

dean let out a humorless scoff, not daring to look at you again. “yeah. you.”

you just grinned. “aw, poor baby.”

dean clenched his jaw, staring very intently at the wall.

this was not how he expected his night to go.

especially when you were right there, looking at him like that—like you knew exactly what you were doing to him?

when his eyes couldn’t help but drink you in, no matter how hard he tried to not look?

that stupid, stupid red sequined outfit stretched over the swell of your breasts, hugging every curve, glinting under the dim motel lights like it was taunting him.

the bottoms—if they could even be considered bottoms—barely hid anything. just thin strips of fabric teasingly covering your most intimate parts, leaving long lines of bare skin on display.

dean was screwed.

his jaw was locked so tight it ached. his fingers twitched at his sides, itching to do something—grab you, touch you, tear that damn outfit off just to put an end to this torture.

but he didn’t move.

didn’t say a word.

because if he did, if he let himself react at all, there was no coming back from it.

you tilted your head slightly, watching him with amusement, curiosity, and something dangerous.

“you keep looking at me like that, dean,” you mused, voice dripping with mischief, “people might start to think you actually want me.”

dean exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his gaze to the floor, the wall—anywhere but you.

“you really don’t know when to quit, do you?” his voice came out rougher than he intended.

you stepped closer—too close. close enough that he could feel your body heat, smell the faint traces of perfume and sweat lingering on your skin.

“not when i’m having this much fun,” you admitted with a smirk.

dean clenched his fists.

he had two choices.

get the hell out of this room right now—

or finally give in.

of course he gave in. one second, he was standing there, fists clenched, trying so damn hard to hold himself back.

the next, his lips crashed against yours, hungry, desperate, like he’d been starving for this and just now realized how badly he needed it.

you gasped softly against his mouth, but you weren’t surprised. not really. you knew exactly what you were doing, how to push him just far enough until he snapped—and now, here he was, grabbing onto you like he’d lose his mind if he didn’t.

his hands found your waist, rough fingers gripping tight as he pulled you against him. the thin sequined fabric did little to separate the heat of his body from yours, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

you barely had a second to breathe before he was kissing you deeper, tongue sliding against yours, teeth nipping at your bottom lip like he was trying to devour you.

and god, you loved it.

you tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging slightly just to hear that low, frustrated growl rumble from his chest. his hands slid lower, gripping the backs of your thighs, and before you could even process what was happening, he lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.

“fucking tease,” he muttered against your lips, walking you toward the bed with no hesitation.

you smirked, breathless. “took you long enough.”

dean let out a low, dark chuckle.

“oh, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice thick with want as he dropped you onto the mattress, climbing over you with a dangerous glint in his eyes—

“you have no idea what you just started.”

your hands roamed over dean’s suit-clad body, feeling the heat beneath the fabric, the tension coiled tight in his muscles.

you pulled him closer by his tie, tugging just enough to make him groan against your lips. his weight pressed into you, his body solid and strong, like he was trying to get as close as physically possible—like even that wouldn’t be enough.

his big, calloused hands slid down your sides, rough fingers trailing fire along your bare skin until they found the thin ties of your bottoms.

with practiced ease, he tugged at the delicate knots, the flimsy fabric loosening instantly. his lips never left yours, too caught up in the way you felt, the way you gasped softly when the last knot came undone.

meanwhile, you worked fast to undo your top, the sequined fabric falling away as your fingers fumbled at the clasp.

dean pulled back just enough to look down at you, his pupils blown wide, his expression dark and unreadable.

“jesus,” he muttered, voice rough, like he couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

you smirked, reaching up to tug at his tie again. “took you long enough, winchester.”

dean’s lips curled into something between a smirk and a snarl.

“you’re gonna regret saying that,” he warned, voice dripping with promise.

and then he kissed you again—harder, deeper, like he was determined to make up for every second he’d spent holding back.

separating to catch your breath, your chest heaved as you watched dean make quick work of his clothes.

and god, was he a sight.

his toned stomach, the ridges of muscle shifting with every movement, the broad expanse of his chest—every inch of him was built for this. his strong arms flexed as he tossed his shirt aside, and for a second, you were too distracted to do anything but stare.

dean smirked, catching the way your lips parted, your eyes dark with something between hunger and awe.

“like what ya see, sweetheart?” he teased, his voice dripping with cocky amusement.

you swallowed hard, dragging your gaze up to meet his, refusing to give him the satisfaction of flustering you—even if you were absolutely drooling inside.

with a smirk of your own, you tilted your head and let your fingers trail slowly down his chest, feeling the heat of his skin, the solid muscle beneath.

“i don’t know,” you mused, lips curling as you leaned up, voice dropping into something sultry, “guess i’ll have to touch to be sure.”

dean let out a low chuckle, but the way his breath hitched when your hands slid lower?

he wasn’t laughing anymore.

your hand trailed lower, teasing, until your palm pressed against the hard length straining through his unbuttoned trousers.

dean sucked in a breath, his body tensing under your touch. his head tilted back slightly, jaw clenched, as if he was trying to keep himself from completely falling apart right then and there.

“fuck,” he muttered, voice rough, gravelly, like the word had been dragged out of him.

you smirked, feeling the way he twitched under your touch, the heat of him even through the fabric.

god, you had to feel him inside your mouth.

with slow, deliberate movements, you slid off the bed, sinking to your knees before him. your fingers made quick work of his zipper, tugging his pants and boxers down just enough to free him, and fuck.

dean winchester was big.

your mouth practically watered at the sight, your fingers wrapping around his thick length, giving him an experimental stroke.

dean let out a low, wrecked groan, his hands automatically flying to your hair, his fingers curling at the roots as if he needed something to hold onto.

“jesus christ,” he muttered, looking down at you with blown pupils, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths.

you just smirked up at him, pressing a teasing kiss to the tip before licking a slow, deliberate stripe up his length, making sure to keep eye contact the whole time.

“fuck,” he cursed again, his grip in your hair tightening slightly. “you’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”

you only hummed in response, lips parting as you finally took him into your mouth—

and dean completely lost it.

his hands flew to your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he held on—not forcing, just holding, like he needed the anchor while you worked him over with that sinful mouth of yours.

dean’s head fell back for a moment, eyes squeezed shut as a deep, guttural groan ripped from his throat.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he rasped, looking back down at you, watching the way your lips stretched around him, the way your head bobbed up and down at a steady rhythm.

the slick, filthy sounds of you gagging on his cock filled the room, mixing with his grunts and sharp exhales.

“jesus—look at you,” he muttered, breathless, his grip tightening just a little when you hollowed your cheeks, sucking him even deeper. “taking me so fuckin’ good.”

your eyes flickered up to meet his, glossy and dazed, and that—that look on your face, the way you were so eager, so desperate to take all of him—had him teetering on the edge.

“shit,” he groaned, one of his hands trailing down to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin in contrast to how filthy this all was. “goddamn mouth of yours—feels so fuckin’ good, baby.”

you hummed at the praise, sending vibrations through his length, and that—that nearly broke him.

“oh, fuck,” he growled, hips jerking slightly despite himself. “keep that up, and i’m not gonna last, sweetheart.”

but that only made you want it more.

so you sucked harder, hollowed your cheeks even more, letting him feel every inch of your tongue, every bit of heat and wetness—

and dean absolutely wrecked.

before he could finish, dean suddenly jerked you off his cock, a slick pop sounding as he pulled free from your mouth. his chest heaved, pupils blown wide, lips parted in a mix of pleasure and frustration.

“shit,” he muttered, breathing heavy as he cupped your jaw, wiping away a bit of spit from your swollen lips with his thumb. “as much as i wanna come down that pretty throat of yours, i need to feel you first.”

his words sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling deep in your stomach.

dean didn’t give you time to process before he hauled you up effortlessly, his hands gripping your hips as he practically tossed you onto the bed.

you barely had time to gasp before he was on you—pressing you down into the mattress, kissing you deep, his tongue sliding against yours like he was trying to devour you.

his hands roamed your body, squeezing, exploring, before settling between your thighs. his fingers teased at your slick folds, making you whimper against his lips.

“fuck, you’re soaked,” he groaned, dragging his fingers through your wetness before pressing one thick digit inside. “was sucking me off that good for you, sweetheart?”

you whined, hips bucking into his touch, gripping at his shoulders. “dean, please—”

he chuckled darkly, adding another finger, stretching you slightly as he watched you, drinking in the way you squirmed. “oh, i got you, baby,” he rasped, voice thick with promise. “gonna give you exactly what you need.”

and with that, he lined himself up, teasing the tip against your entrance—

then thrust inside, burying himself to the hilt in one slow, deep stroke.

dean was relentless.

his hips snapped against yours, the sheer force of each thrust making the bed creak beneath you. his grip on your hips was tight, holding you down, keeping you exactly where he wanted—like he needed to keep you in place while he fucked you deep.

“fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, jaw clenched, eyes locked onto where your bodies met. “so goddamn tight—taking me so fuckin’ good.”

the stretch was intense, overwhelming in the best way, and all you could do was moan, gripping onto his arms, his back, anything to ground yourself.

then—he shifted.

one of his hands dragged down your leg, rough fingers tracing your skin before he hooked it over his shoulder, pressing in even deeper.

“oh, fuck—” you cried out, back arching as he hit that new angle, that devastatingly perfect spot that had your vision going white.

dean felt the way you clenched around him, heard the way his name spilled from your lips in a wrecked, breathless moan—and he lost it.

“that’s it,” he growled, his pace somehow getting rougher, each thrust harder, deeper, sending a shockwave of pleasure up your spine. “this what you wanted, huh? needed me to fuck you like this?”

you could barely form words, too lost in the blinding pleasure.

“dean—please—!”

he grunted, leaning down, pressing his forehead against yours even as he kept up his punishing rhythm.

“i got you, baby,” he panted, voice rough, lips brushing against yours. “not stopping ‘til you come all over my cock.”

one of dean’s calloused fingers dragged down your body, rough and deliberate, until it found your achingly sensitive clit.

a sharp cry tore from your throat as he pressed down, rubbing slow, teasing circles that contrasted the relentless snap of his hips. the combination had your entire body trembling, pleasure winding tighter and tighter inside you, coiling like a spring ready to snap.

“that’s it,” dean groaned, watching your every reaction like a man possessed, his finger working you over with precision. “so fuckin’ perfect—gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

you were already there, so close you could taste it, every thrust, every roll of his fingers sending you spiraling closer to the edge.

“dean— oh my god—” you gasped, gripping onto his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

he growled at that, his rhythm stuttering for half a second before he doubled down—hips slamming into you, fingers rubbing tighter, faster, overwhelming you with everything.

“come on, baby,” he panted, lips brushing your ear. “let me feel it—let go for me.”

and then—you snapped.

your orgasm ripped through you, body arching, legs shaking, a desperate, wrecked moan of his name spilling from your lips as waves of white-hot pleasure crashed over you.

dean groaned at the feeling, the way you clenched down so tight around him, the way your body trembled beneath him, and it sent him tumbling right after you.

“fuck— fuck,” he choked out, burying himself deep as he came, his own release spilling inside you as he gasped your name like a prayer.

dean slowly pulled out, a low groan leaving his lips as he watched the way your body trembled beneath him. his eyes darkened when he saw the mess he made—his release spilling out of your wrecked little hole, glistening against your flushed skin.

his smirk was downright wicked as he dragged two fingers through the slick mess, gathering up every drop before pressing them right back inside you, pushing deep, so slow.

“don’t want it going to waste, do we, sweetheart?” his voice was gravelly, teasing, full of satisfaction as he watched you squirm, still sensitive and wrecked from your orgasm.

a whimper slipped from your lips, your overstimulated walls fluttering around his fingers as he gently fucked them into you, as if he owned you—like he could still feel every aftershock running through your body.

“fuck, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your thigh, his breath hot against your skin. “look so damn pretty like this. completely fucked out.”

he finally pulled his fingers free, but not before bringing them up to his lips, smirking as he licked them clean, groaning low in his throat.

“taste so fucking sweet.”

dean’s smirk softened as he took in the sight of you—your body still trembling slightly, chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. your skin was flushed, glowing in the dim motel light, and fuck, if you weren’t the prettiest damn thing he’d ever seen.

but as much as he loved seeing you like this, spent and wrecked from him, he also knew you needed him now just as much as before—just in a different way.

with a deep breath, he leaned over, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before slipping off the bed.

“be right back, sweetheart,” he murmured.

you barely had the energy to respond, only humming in acknowledgment as you stretched across the sheets, already feeling the exhaustion settle in.

dean moved around the room quietly, grabbing one of his clean shirts and a warm, damp washcloth before returning to your side.

“hey, baby,” he said softly, brushing your hair back before running the cloth between your thighs, being so careful, so gentle as he cleaned you up. “still with me?”

“mhm,” you mumbled, sighing at the warmth of his touch.

once he was sure you were all cleaned up, he tossed the cloth aside and helped you into his shirt, the fabric drowning you, but he couldn’t help but grin at the way you looked in it.

“there we go,” he murmured, pulling the blankets over you before sliding in beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you against his chest.

the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart was soothing, his body warm and solid against you.

“you good?” he asked, voice softer now, rough edges smoothed over with something gentler.

you nodded, nuzzling into his neck. “yeah… ‘m good.”

dean pressed a kiss to your temple, rubbing slow circles into your back.

“get some sleep, sweetheart,” he whispered. “i got you.”

just as you were getting comfortable, wrapped up in dean’s warmth, the motel door slammed open, making both of you jolt.

“what the hell—” dean started, reaching for the gun under his pillow, but then—

“where the hell have the two of you been?!”

it was sam.

standing in the doorway, pissed, arms crossed, eyes darting between the both of you—dean half-naked under the blankets, you drowning in one of his shirts, curled up against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

your face burned.

“uh…” you started, scrambling for some kind of excuse, but what could you even say?

dean, ever the smooth talker, just cleared his throat and smirked, stretching an arm behind his head. “y’know, sammy… you could’ve knocked.”

sam’s expression darkened. “are you—? oh, come on!” he rubbed a hand down his face, looking genuinely distressed. “i’ve been out chasing a damn siren while you two were—” he gestured wildly. “—doing this?!”

you bit your lip, shrinking under his glare, but dean?

dean just grinned. “hey, don’t get all worked up, man. we got plenty done tonight.”

“yeah, i bet you did,” sam deadpanned.

the silence was painfully awkward.

finally, sam just let out a long, exhausted sigh and muttered, “i don’t even wanna know.” he turned on his heel, grumbling something under his breath as he walked to his bed, clearly done with both of you.

you and dean exchanged glances before cracking up, muffling your laughter into the blankets as sam shot you both a glare.

“idiots,” he muttered, flopping down onto his bed. “absolute idiots.”

still grinning, dean pulled you closer, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “totally worth it,” he whispered.

and honestly?

yeah. it was.

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