John/Jo | Those Roadhouse Blues | NC-17
Title: Those Roadhouse Blues
Words: 1600
Warnings: daddy issues/kink
Summary: Jo hates hunters. But John likes blondes.
Notes: Written for 2015 spn_masquerade, for the prompt: Maybe Jo never really minded that her father died on that hunt cause she found John suited her needs just fine.
on AO3
“How long are we gonna dance around this?”
John looks over his shoulder while his hands move over the sawed-off shotgun, rubbing grease into the action and clearing away filth and grime.
Jo smiles when she sees his hands slowing over the barrel. Just like that, she thinks, leaning against the corner of the bar. She stretches to her left with her elbow at the edge of the bartop and knows her thin tank top rises to show off more skin than her mom would like to see here.
He grunts and turns back to his work, quickening the rag on the barrel until she takes a few steps closer. The heels of her boots thump on the wood floor and echo throughout the place as they’re now the last two in here.
It’s well beyond closing time; Mom would never approve of a hunter hanging around after hours, but there’s always been something about Winchester. Jo still doesn’t know what it is: there’s been a soft spot in their tiny family that John seems to slide right into whenever he walks through the door.
She does know there’s something that makes his jaw go tense whenever she or Mom talk about the olden days with Dad. Knows he’s got his own demons somewhere else, not far from here, that he likes to ignore. Knows that he’s not her daddy, never will be, and for that she’s grateful. She’s sure she shouldn’t be growing hot and sweaty at the thought of his rugged beard scraping against her skin, or his calloused hands tugging her in tight.
Still, she knows there’s something wrong with her wanting him so badly. And she kind of likes that.
Dad always said she was a spitfire, intent on taking what’s hers.
Jo doesn’t like disappointing her daddy.
“How long …” she draws out with her finger dancing through the air, “are we going to ignore this?”
“I’m not ignoring nothing,” he mumbles.
Jo takes a deep breath and sets herself to a new tactic. She grabs a nearby rag and snaps it in the air as she approaches the table just in front of John’s view. Leaning over, she wipes down the tabletop, all while tightening up her thighs, arching her back, making her ass stick out just right. She even wiggles her hips a little as she tries to reach further away, humming a little ditty from the jukebox that Johnny Whitters likes to play after four whiskeys.
His chair shrieks against the floor and Jo knows he’s pushed it away from the table. She figures he’s out the door to that big muscle car that’s got more guts than he does right now. She rolls her eyes and straightens up, but not soon enough because John is right there with his chest pushed tight against hers.
It reminds her of the big bear hugs Daddy used to give when she came running in the front door after school. John’s meaty hands grip at her hips, and she thinks about warm air and sunshine in her face when Daddy would lift her up into the air.
Jo always side-eyes the hunters, but there’s a dark streak running far beneath the surface that likes having old men surrounding her, watching her, intent to will their authority over her. And now she’s got John doing just that when he tugs her off the ground and slams her back down on the table she’d just gratuitously cleaned. She huffs with the hard hit and bites her lower lip. Stray hair whips across her face when he grabs her upper arms and shakes her.
“What’s the matter with you, huh?” he demands. “What kind of trouble you looking for?”
Jo simply stares in return. She maintains a steady, dark look as she slowly licks her lip. Her stomach burns with excitement when she sees the pupils of his eyes swallow up any color they once had. Then she opens her legs and arms when he rushes closer, as he fists his hands into her hair and tugs in all directions, as he ravishes her mouth, shoves his tongue deep inside as if he’s about to swallow her whole.
She whimpers and shakes against him, but in all the right ways, because she wants him to take her, command her, show her who’s boss.
When he doesn’t go any further than diving into her mouth, she fiddles with his belt to get it open. His fingers land heavy on her hands, toss them aside, then push her back on the table. Her legs kick open wider on impulse, and she presses her shoulders into the surface so her breasts pop up and out. She even shakes her head to flip hair in all directions then combs through it, slowly, surely.
John reaches for her neck and squeezes for a quick, terrifying second, before he runs his hands down her chest, fingers tucking tight against her breasts, trapped by a thin cotton bra and even thinner tank top. He rubs back and forth over her peaked nipples while slowly rocking against her groin. His erection is hard against her, even through their jeans, and she moans with the feeling of it pushing against her every time he shuffles closer.
His hands suddenly move to her waist and he blinks. John glances away then at a spot just to the left of her head. “This ain’t right.”
“I know,” Jo murmurs, bites her lower lip, and tucks a hand behind her head.
“You hate hunters.”
“I do.” She shuffles closer to him, presses her pussy against his dick. “But I heard you like blondes.”
He doesn’t speak for the rest of the night, but he does move swiftly to pop open her jeans and yank them down her legs. The denim snaps off her ankle just before he buries his face in her wet folds and sucks at her lips.
Jo feels it right down to her toes. Little fires flare all over, pricking her skin until she can’t stop squirming on the table. She digs her hand into his hair and holds him tight against her, wiggling into his mouth as he licks and sucks and bites at her wetness.
His hands curl around her hips then lift her up as he stands a little straighter, gets a tighter hold against her cunt. His tongue is even hotter than she swears she is, stroking up and down her clit, playing at the underside again and again and again. She feels the wetness grow just before she can hear it as he laps at her lips and then digs closer to kiss at her hole. His mouth smacks against her, lips pop when he sucks tightly at her clit, and then he tongues at her opening once more.
She cries out in ecstasy, moans and groans broken words, all while he eats at her from the inside out. He shoves his tongue inside her just as he had in their rough kiss, but this is even better as his beard scrapes at her thighs and at her cunt, and his head finds its home at her core.
John pulls off and she’s cold with the absence. She can feel her pussy clench with want, though he doesn’t disappoint for long. He drops her to the table then yanks open his jeans just enough to get his dick out and push his way into her wet, dripping hole.
She stretches above to grab hold of the table’s edge as he fucks into her swiftly, punching little whimpers out of her throat. He thicker than she’s had before, but just as aggressive with the pinching hold of her hips. He tugs her down just as hard as he fucks into her, no longer caring about how she’d felt when he was eating at her, now just chasing his own orgasm.
And Jo relishes this, the animal inside all these hunters. The meaty menace waiting to take what they want as theirs, to use her as their escape from the everyday messes that live just outside the Roadhouse door. John does exactly that as he pounds into her and gropes her belly, scrapes his nails across her pale, tight skin. He leaves a dozen marks on the outside, and another handful within as he strikes harder and faster.
She brings her legs up towards his chest to open wider, and he wraps his arms around them to jackhammer the last few minutes. Her shame spirals into something dark and needy. It’s something she shouldn’t want, yet begs for in the middle of the night. Just like right now.
“Fuck me, yes, fuck me, give it to me,” she pants.
Like a young schoolboy wanting to please the nuns, John does exactly as she asks. He fucks her harder, plays with her clit, twists and scrapes at her nipples.
He even calls her sugar. Just like Daddy always did.
And that is exactly what tips her over. The blunt thumbnail digging into her nipple; the rough, throaty growl calling her sugar; the twisted, unwilling smile … it all does her in and her cunt clenches around him, vibrating with her orgasm as she cries out in pleasure and pain because he beats into her long after that, not until he finally comes a few minutes later.
There are no parting words. John keeps quiet most nights anyway; she’s not hurt.
Though she sure is happy, and definitely doesn’t mind wiping down the table for the second time tonight.
Words: 1600
Warnings: daddy issues/kink
Summary: Jo hates hunters. But John likes blondes.
Notes: Written for 2015 spn_masquerade, for the prompt: Maybe Jo never really minded that her father died on that hunt cause she found John suited her needs just fine.
on AO3
“How long are we gonna dance around this?”
John looks over his shoulder while his hands move over the sawed-off shotgun, rubbing grease into the action and clearing away filth and grime.
Jo smiles when she sees his hands slowing over the barrel. Just like that, she thinks, leaning against the corner of the bar. She stretches to her left with her elbow at the edge of the bartop and knows her thin tank top rises to show off more skin than her mom would like to see here.
He grunts and turns back to his work, quickening the rag on the barrel until she takes a few steps closer. The heels of her boots thump on the wood floor and echo throughout the place as they’re now the last two in here.
It’s well beyond closing time; Mom would never approve of a hunter hanging around after hours, but there’s always been something about Winchester. Jo still doesn’t know what it is: there’s been a soft spot in their tiny family that John seems to slide right into whenever he walks through the door.
She does know there’s something that makes his jaw go tense whenever she or Mom talk about the olden days with Dad. Knows he’s got his own demons somewhere else, not far from here, that he likes to ignore. Knows that he’s not her daddy, never will be, and for that she’s grateful. She’s sure she shouldn’t be growing hot and sweaty at the thought of his rugged beard scraping against her skin, or his calloused hands tugging her in tight.
Still, she knows there’s something wrong with her wanting him so badly. And she kind of likes that.
Dad always said she was a spitfire, intent on taking what’s hers.
Jo doesn’t like disappointing her daddy.
“How long …” she draws out with her finger dancing through the air, “are we going to ignore this?”
“I’m not ignoring nothing,” he mumbles.
Jo takes a deep breath and sets herself to a new tactic. She grabs a nearby rag and snaps it in the air as she approaches the table just in front of John’s view. Leaning over, she wipes down the tabletop, all while tightening up her thighs, arching her back, making her ass stick out just right. She even wiggles her hips a little as she tries to reach further away, humming a little ditty from the jukebox that Johnny Whitters likes to play after four whiskeys.
His chair shrieks against the floor and Jo knows he’s pushed it away from the table. She figures he’s out the door to that big muscle car that’s got more guts than he does right now. She rolls her eyes and straightens up, but not soon enough because John is right there with his chest pushed tight against hers.
It reminds her of the big bear hugs Daddy used to give when she came running in the front door after school. John’s meaty hands grip at her hips, and she thinks about warm air and sunshine in her face when Daddy would lift her up into the air.
Jo always side-eyes the hunters, but there’s a dark streak running far beneath the surface that likes having old men surrounding her, watching her, intent to will their authority over her. And now she’s got John doing just that when he tugs her off the ground and slams her back down on the table she’d just gratuitously cleaned. She huffs with the hard hit and bites her lower lip. Stray hair whips across her face when he grabs her upper arms and shakes her.
“What’s the matter with you, huh?” he demands. “What kind of trouble you looking for?”
Jo simply stares in return. She maintains a steady, dark look as she slowly licks her lip. Her stomach burns with excitement when she sees the pupils of his eyes swallow up any color they once had. Then she opens her legs and arms when he rushes closer, as he fists his hands into her hair and tugs in all directions, as he ravishes her mouth, shoves his tongue deep inside as if he’s about to swallow her whole.
She whimpers and shakes against him, but in all the right ways, because she wants him to take her, command her, show her who’s boss.
When he doesn’t go any further than diving into her mouth, she fiddles with his belt to get it open. His fingers land heavy on her hands, toss them aside, then push her back on the table. Her legs kick open wider on impulse, and she presses her shoulders into the surface so her breasts pop up and out. She even shakes her head to flip hair in all directions then combs through it, slowly, surely.
John reaches for her neck and squeezes for a quick, terrifying second, before he runs his hands down her chest, fingers tucking tight against her breasts, trapped by a thin cotton bra and even thinner tank top. He rubs back and forth over her peaked nipples while slowly rocking against her groin. His erection is hard against her, even through their jeans, and she moans with the feeling of it pushing against her every time he shuffles closer.
His hands suddenly move to her waist and he blinks. John glances away then at a spot just to the left of her head. “This ain’t right.”
“I know,” Jo murmurs, bites her lower lip, and tucks a hand behind her head.
“You hate hunters.”
“I do.” She shuffles closer to him, presses her pussy against his dick. “But I heard you like blondes.”
He doesn’t speak for the rest of the night, but he does move swiftly to pop open her jeans and yank them down her legs. The denim snaps off her ankle just before he buries his face in her wet folds and sucks at her lips.
Jo feels it right down to her toes. Little fires flare all over, pricking her skin until she can’t stop squirming on the table. She digs her hand into his hair and holds him tight against her, wiggling into his mouth as he licks and sucks and bites at her wetness.
His hands curl around her hips then lift her up as he stands a little straighter, gets a tighter hold against her cunt. His tongue is even hotter than she swears she is, stroking up and down her clit, playing at the underside again and again and again. She feels the wetness grow just before she can hear it as he laps at her lips and then digs closer to kiss at her hole. His mouth smacks against her, lips pop when he sucks tightly at her clit, and then he tongues at her opening once more.
She cries out in ecstasy, moans and groans broken words, all while he eats at her from the inside out. He shoves his tongue inside her just as he had in their rough kiss, but this is even better as his beard scrapes at her thighs and at her cunt, and his head finds its home at her core.
John pulls off and she’s cold with the absence. She can feel her pussy clench with want, though he doesn’t disappoint for long. He drops her to the table then yanks open his jeans just enough to get his dick out and push his way into her wet, dripping hole.
She stretches above to grab hold of the table’s edge as he fucks into her swiftly, punching little whimpers out of her throat. He thicker than she’s had before, but just as aggressive with the pinching hold of her hips. He tugs her down just as hard as he fucks into her, no longer caring about how she’d felt when he was eating at her, now just chasing his own orgasm.
And Jo relishes this, the animal inside all these hunters. The meaty menace waiting to take what they want as theirs, to use her as their escape from the everyday messes that live just outside the Roadhouse door. John does exactly that as he pounds into her and gropes her belly, scrapes his nails across her pale, tight skin. He leaves a dozen marks on the outside, and another handful within as he strikes harder and faster.
She brings her legs up towards his chest to open wider, and he wraps his arms around them to jackhammer the last few minutes. Her shame spirals into something dark and needy. It’s something she shouldn’t want, yet begs for in the middle of the night. Just like right now.
“Fuck me, yes, fuck me, give it to me,” she pants.
Like a young schoolboy wanting to please the nuns, John does exactly as she asks. He fucks her harder, plays with her clit, twists and scrapes at her nipples.
He even calls her sugar. Just like Daddy always did.
And that is exactly what tips her over. The blunt thumbnail digging into her nipple; the rough, throaty growl calling her sugar; the twisted, unwilling smile … it all does her in and her cunt clenches around him, vibrating with her orgasm as she cries out in pleasure and pain because he beats into her long after that, not until he finally comes a few minutes later.
There are no parting words. John keeps quiet most nights anyway; she’s not hurt.
Though she sure is happy, and definitely doesn’t mind wiping down the table for the second time tonight.