1 - 20 of 31 Works by lighthearted
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It hurts. Always does. Each time a little bit more, a little bit harder, the link weaker and weaker, but…
He’s here.
His brother’s rough hands on his face, thumb into his chin, beard prickly. Smoke’s weight on his thighs, Smoke’s breath on his own, soft lips on his. Finally. Finally, home.
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A bottle already gone between them, heavy crystal tumblers and lounging around. Another is almost halfway through, amber swirling in dad’s glass as he laughs deeply and lays his head back on the couch seat. They’re both slurring and laughing at nothing, sprawled on the bearskin between the wide mahogany coffee table and the low soft couch. Dean can feel his head buzzing, his eyes a bit blurry, movements languid and slow, like moving under water. Dad’s no better – his hands heavier than usual, muscles relaxed, voice deeper. Something impish in his glazed eyes. Stunted and telegraphed but thick rough movements.
Exhilarating as far as Dean’s concerned.
Series
- Part 4 of Magic
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Dean has a birthday and John has a lot to make up for... and also a deep desire to get pegged.
Series
- Part 3 of Magic
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After a witch helps them out with a case that required them to alter their bodies, Dean and John indulge in their new assets.
Series
- Part 2 of Magic
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They’ve been… messing around for a while now. Messing around but never getting quite as far as Dean wants to, physically.
He knows it’s up to him to push harder, lead the way to where he wants it to go. But there’s something bothering him about it, no matter how much he wants it.
Something the solution to which comes unexpectedly, but definitely very effectively.
Series
- Part 1 of Magic
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Weirdcest snippets of domestic life in which John Winchester realizes there might be something going on between Dean and himself.
Aka Dean boiling his father over slow fire like a lobotomized frog until even he admits it might be fine if they just made out.
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John’s eyes are heavy, muscles way overworked, finally allowed to relax. He slips right along, nose in Dean’s hair, his scent lulling him in deep restful sleep. Always cozy like this. Close. Together.
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Collection of snippets, mostly outsider POV on Dean and John's weird habits.
A sweet two-parter of John's artistic abilities and Dean's childhood gifts to wrap them up.
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“Am I being a bad boy?”
He pushes his ass right back into John’s hand, rubs into the soft mattress underneath him. John cannot suppress the laugh, his desire to nuzzle into him, give into his teasing, hums an mmhmmm into his hair. Dean is pushing against him harder, wiggling a little, whispers with a side glance What happens to bad boys, daddy?
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Dad almost whimpers as he straightens up and presents his throat again, chin high. Dean goes slowly, gently, admiring as much as he’s careful. Dad’s eyes are doe wide and wet, breathing already heavy. Dean coos at him and pets him, fastens the collar loose and runs his fingers over heated skin and soft leather. “Look at you…”
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5 + 1 times John Winchester lies in bed with his son
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Dean is evasive about showing off anything romantic between them in public. John tries to figure out why, since he's so pushy in private.
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Dean figured air outside the car would be fresher at least, got out to stretch his legs, get some water outta the trunk. The air is just as stale and humid, tree shade doing barely anything against heated ground and overwhelming sunlight. He stayed out for the view. Dad’s tanktop soaked with sweat and too small on him at this point, biceps and pecs poking out, hairy chest dewy and tangled against the low neckline. He’s running his hand through his sweaty hair, flushed forehead, muscles flexing and body jiggling.
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Not like this. He’s not like this. Some kinda demanding beast, no better than the claw toothed sea monster. He’s meant to provide, to please, to indulge. Not to ask, not more than he has already, not this. He’s meant to enjoy what he’s given, not lust after more.
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The damn dress is too tight on him, he reasons. Dean is running his hands up and down his sides, taking steps back to appreciate the sight. John can’t quite believe he’s much of a sight with his hairy chest and belly poking out of the thin cotton but who is he to judge his kid’s tastes. Maybe could’ve taught him better but it seems listless now.
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He missed him. Missed this. Cuddled together with no subconscious thoughts of how Dean’s too old for this now, and how teens shouldn’t be that eager to climb in their fathers’ laps. Missed enjoying the physical presence of his kid, petting him, hugging him, kissing him. With no sense of ruining him with affection. Making him vulnerable.
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Dean is right behind him the second he stands tall before the giant mirror, wraps his hands around his middle, grins at him over his shoulder – chin digging into muscle and bone. “Well, this place has some benefits” his voice is low and cheeky as he grabs at his belly, hands digging into soft flesh over his shirt, under his jacket.
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John can feel his own face burning, his mouth unable to close, mind unable to focus on anything but the lead ball in the back of his skull. Damn kid and his toying, his little requests John can never deny. His chest hair is catching onto Dean’s cock, being pulled and matted with precum. This can’t feel good he tells himself and chances a look down to see how bad it is… A mistake, probably.
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Dad tried to make himself useful while Dean pretty much put on a show of soaping up Baby’s front and sides, her top on his tippy toes and ass stuck out ripe for ogling. Dad looked, he did, passed behind him with a hand firmly on his waist and not lower, with a kiss on his bared shoulder, with a small grunt and a soft scold to pull his pants up…
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Dean wakes up and dad is still there, holding him close, snoring softly, the bed dipped to his side. He snuggles up closer, sleepy and warm, soft from the night before. He cranes his neck, snuggles between dad’s cheek and the pillow, goes to kiss him, wake him up, note how good this morning… As his lips touch the corner of dad’s he freezes, goes stiff, sweat on his back, buzz in his mind. A dream. It was a dream in his father’s arms, convincing enough to cloud his cotton mind. And he’s almost kissing him in reality, jostling him enough to wake. He retracts just a bit, hands shaking on dad’s sides, his face burning. Dad grunts and pulls him back in his embrace, grumbles a “Morning, puppy” and “Cuddly today?”, kisses his forehead with a hand on the back of his head.