Unrelatedly, the following is a comment!fic some anon wrote. Apparently that anon can't do anon, though; it made me feel weird. Considering how much effort I've put into being brave enough to be myself and to post things and whatever, the anonymity felt more like a retreat than an escape. Plus I figure I already posted that ridiculous necrophilia fic so really, I have nothing to hide.
This was written for take_the_knot and its first comment!fic meme. Many thanks to all the members of that comm, whose fics I read so I could figure out what knotting was. This particular kink and genre as a whole is new to me, so please be lavish with your concrit!
Title: night without a name
Genre: horror, kink (knotting)
Word Count: ~500
Warnings: sexual violence, double dub-con (Dean non-cons himself, and Lisa changes her mind halfway through?), feralism/transformation
PROMPT: Dean gets cursed so he develops wolf like characteristics when it comes to sex, and of course a dick with a big knot. While visiting Lisa he can smell that she is ovulating, and his urge to breed kicks in.
September. She'll always remember that. It was September.
"Halloween's not 'til next month," she'd said. So close her lips brushed stubble, burned red.
"Not exactly a seasonal gig." Pained. His expression. Hot, hungry, wanting. He'd turned away from her lips. "We can't, not until--" Not until it's safe.
Lisa doesn't want safe; not tonight. She's been courting safe for almost thirteen years, but sometimes you just gotta pull down let loose hold on fuck. Safe is thirteen years in a good school district, a project two-story, suburban Indiana--borrowing her sister's money and paying it off at the speed YMCA rec pay allowed. Safe is a so long and fuck off to biker joints and musty tables, hard drinks and a hell of a lot of unexpected one night stands. Safe is goodbye Dean Winchester.
But then, there really isn't any getting out, not really. He says it every night in his sleep. She knows.
There's never any out.
Fingers can be claws in the dark. Breathe.
Nails, shoulders hips locked between knees blood blood and Dean's dick and and and
(Halloween's not for another month, she thinks she would have thought. In retrospect, she would have thought it. In the moment she thinks fuck fuck and now now and Jesus goddamn Christ, because sex is beautiful and eloquent. Sex is always eloquent.)
"Stop," she says finally. (Eloquently.) Dean doesn't stop. He doesn't hear. A wolf's hearing and it just sounds like blood blood blood, fuck fuck fuck, now now now--there isn't even a Jesus goddamn Christ. "Stop."
Dean doesn't stop.
They lie together for hours after. Lisa's sore as all fuck. The way his claws fingers his entire arms twitch she knows part of him's still screaming fuck fuck fuck--sound vibrating against nerves and reaching a fever pitch and resonating deep and jarring in the wide open hollows of his stomach and his lungs and his bones. The guilty part of him controls nothing but his lips and his heart. "Fuck fuck fuck," he says. And, "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry."
When the sun rises he slips his pants back on--he's afraid to touch his belt; he leaves it--ignores his discomfort and under the power of that guilt he leaves.
Lisa's fingers whisper against her thighs. She tries to massage away the bruises that rip across her groin like deep September shadows. That's the last she'll see of him, she knows. Until he breaks that curse. That's Dean Winchester. That will always be Dean Winchester.
Lisa's alarm clock rings 7:30. Her sliding door rings broken glass.
"Lisa," he says.
She can see his nails. Teeth. His pained expression. Hot, hungry, wanting. He drops his pants.
There's never any out.
Originally posted here.
...Imma go write saccharine Winchester H/C gen now kthxbai.