genderfuckery. again.
I don't know what my fetish is with changing my favourite characters into girls. Can someone tell me what this means?
the moments in between, BtVS/SPN cross.
[girl!Dean/Buffy, nc17ish?, 820wds]
A/N: started as something for the Porn Battle, for the prompt "a moment's piece".
It’s in Nebraska that she sees her first, sleek blonde hair and bruises down her cheek. She comes into Ellen’s new Roadhouse looking for info, an angry twist to her mouth and a pinched look in her eyes.
Dean knows what it means. It means someone died.
Dean’s just back from a hunt herself, a new scar down the right side of her ribs. It’s puckered and red, and the neat stitches itch like crazy. Dean had poured whiskey down her throat while Jo held her flesh together with a needle and thread, pulling out the old, jagged stitches Dean had to do herself before she passed out.
Dean watches the woman from the shadows of the hall behind the bar. She’s more graceful that Dean will ever be, and she sweeps out in a twirl of hips and hair.
~~~~
The second time is a bit of a misunderstanding.
She’s straddling Dean, her thighs pinning Dean’s upper body in a hold that Dean can’t budge. The blonde’s got moves, Dean realizes too late.
“But you’re just human,” she says.
“Hey,” Dean says. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Do you think you could?”
“Oh, sure,” the woman says, and lifts the steel from Dean’s throat. She twirls the knife easily, tucking it into her waistband, although it doesn’t erase the feeling that Dean’s at her mercy.
“Sorry,” she continues, but doesn’t look it. She looks pissed, if anything. “I was looking for whatever took the children.”
Dean looks toward the corner of the warehouse, at the scorchmarks up the wall.
“Damn,” Blondie says. “I was looking forward to killing something.”
Dean knows the feeling. “Want to get a drink?” she offers. She licks her lips, smiles a little. “As a truce?”
The stranger rolls off Dean with a grace that’s a little unhuman, her sneakers barely making a sound against the concrete of the floor. She doesn’t offer to help Dean up, but stands with her arms crossed, hip cocked.
“Fine,” she says finally. “But I’m no good at alcohol.”
She doesn’t prove herself wrong.
~~~~
“It’s Buffy,” she says.
“No, really,” says Dean.
She has scars over her knuckles that exactly match Dean's.
~~~~
It’s not until the third time they meet that they have sex. Neither of them are bruised or bleeding, or have demon ichor matted in their hair.
“We should stop meeting like this,” Buffy says, her hair brushed and coiffed. She has a dress on.
Dean grins, holds out her hand. She’s wearing her least ripped pair of shorts, and Buffy smiles back like she appreciates the effort.
~~~~
Dean finds out that Buffy bends in increasingly impossible ways.
“Nnngh,” she says after her first orgasm, her cunt still tight around Dean’s fingers. There’s a red blush down her chest, her lacey white bra still straining to cover her nipples. She spreads her legs wider than they ought to go, urging her hips up.
“Again? Already?” Dean says, because she thought she had a good refraction time.
Buffy might have nodded, but Dean missed it because her mouth was over the curve of Buffy’s stomach, making her way down to the dark patch of hair between Buffy’s thighs. Even in bed, she’s such a bossy bitch, her hands tight in Dean’s hair, and Dean can tell what she likes by the cries she makes, the way she tugs and pushes at Dean’s head.
She likes a hint of teeth, her hips bucking up when Dean grazes over her clit, and Dean just lets her move how she wants because she knows there’s no use holding her down.
Dean makes her come three times, each coming faster than the last, before Buffy sighs, pulling Dean’s wrist away.
“Show me how you like it,” Buffy says finally, linking her fingers with Dean’s.
She curls her fingers inside Dean’s pussy, rubbing and sliding until Dean can’t stand the friction, and Dean’s fingers push Buffy’s over her clit.
Dean can feel Buffy against her thigh, the heavy slickness of her rubbing against Dean’s skin, wetter and wetter with each of Dean’s moans. It doesn’t take long for Dean to shudder apart, open-mouthed, with three fingers stretching her cunt and two hands joined at her clit.
Dean’s eyes are almost closed by the time Buffy’s worked her through the tremors, almost to the point where it’s uncomfortable, but Buffy goes for a fourth, her fingers spreading her own pink flesh, fingers flashing inside to rub herself. Her nails, painted a glossy pink for the occasion, shine with their combined come, and Dean takes a moment to watch through heavy-lidded eyes.
Buffy gasps, her breasts pressed against Dean’s side.
“I’m just gonna.” Dean says, but she’s already asleep.
~~~~
“Man, I’m bushed,” Dean says after they’ve saved the world.
“Come see me after your eleventh apocalypse,” Buffy replies.
the moments in between, BtVS/SPN cross.
[girl!Dean/Buffy, nc17ish?, 820wds]
A/N: started as something for the Porn Battle, for the prompt "a moment's piece".
It’s in Nebraska that she sees her first, sleek blonde hair and bruises down her cheek. She comes into Ellen’s new Roadhouse looking for info, an angry twist to her mouth and a pinched look in her eyes.
Dean knows what it means. It means someone died.
Dean’s just back from a hunt herself, a new scar down the right side of her ribs. It’s puckered and red, and the neat stitches itch like crazy. Dean had poured whiskey down her throat while Jo held her flesh together with a needle and thread, pulling out the old, jagged stitches Dean had to do herself before she passed out.
Dean watches the woman from the shadows of the hall behind the bar. She’s more graceful that Dean will ever be, and she sweeps out in a twirl of hips and hair.
~~~~
The second time is a bit of a misunderstanding.
She’s straddling Dean, her thighs pinning Dean’s upper body in a hold that Dean can’t budge. The blonde’s got moves, Dean realizes too late.
“But you’re just human,” she says.
“Hey,” Dean says. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Do you think you could?”
“Oh, sure,” the woman says, and lifts the steel from Dean’s throat. She twirls the knife easily, tucking it into her waistband, although it doesn’t erase the feeling that Dean’s at her mercy.
“Sorry,” she continues, but doesn’t look it. She looks pissed, if anything. “I was looking for whatever took the children.”
Dean looks toward the corner of the warehouse, at the scorchmarks up the wall.
“Damn,” Blondie says. “I was looking forward to killing something.”
Dean knows the feeling. “Want to get a drink?” she offers. She licks her lips, smiles a little. “As a truce?”
The stranger rolls off Dean with a grace that’s a little unhuman, her sneakers barely making a sound against the concrete of the floor. She doesn’t offer to help Dean up, but stands with her arms crossed, hip cocked.
“Fine,” she says finally. “But I’m no good at alcohol.”
She doesn’t prove herself wrong.
~~~~
“It’s Buffy,” she says.
“No, really,” says Dean.
She has scars over her knuckles that exactly match Dean's.
~~~~
It’s not until the third time they meet that they have sex. Neither of them are bruised or bleeding, or have demon ichor matted in their hair.
“We should stop meeting like this,” Buffy says, her hair brushed and coiffed. She has a dress on.
Dean grins, holds out her hand. She’s wearing her least ripped pair of shorts, and Buffy smiles back like she appreciates the effort.
~~~~
Dean finds out that Buffy bends in increasingly impossible ways.
“Nnngh,” she says after her first orgasm, her cunt still tight around Dean’s fingers. There’s a red blush down her chest, her lacey white bra still straining to cover her nipples. She spreads her legs wider than they ought to go, urging her hips up.
“Again? Already?” Dean says, because she thought she had a good refraction time.
Buffy might have nodded, but Dean missed it because her mouth was over the curve of Buffy’s stomach, making her way down to the dark patch of hair between Buffy’s thighs. Even in bed, she’s such a bossy bitch, her hands tight in Dean’s hair, and Dean can tell what she likes by the cries she makes, the way she tugs and pushes at Dean’s head.
She likes a hint of teeth, her hips bucking up when Dean grazes over her clit, and Dean just lets her move how she wants because she knows there’s no use holding her down.
Dean makes her come three times, each coming faster than the last, before Buffy sighs, pulling Dean’s wrist away.
“Show me how you like it,” Buffy says finally, linking her fingers with Dean’s.
She curls her fingers inside Dean’s pussy, rubbing and sliding until Dean can’t stand the friction, and Dean’s fingers push Buffy’s over her clit.
Dean can feel Buffy against her thigh, the heavy slickness of her rubbing against Dean’s skin, wetter and wetter with each of Dean’s moans. It doesn’t take long for Dean to shudder apart, open-mouthed, with three fingers stretching her cunt and two hands joined at her clit.
Dean’s eyes are almost closed by the time Buffy’s worked her through the tremors, almost to the point where it’s uncomfortable, but Buffy goes for a fourth, her fingers spreading her own pink flesh, fingers flashing inside to rub herself. Her nails, painted a glossy pink for the occasion, shine with their combined come, and Dean takes a moment to watch through heavy-lidded eyes.
Buffy gasps, her breasts pressed against Dean’s side.
“I’m just gonna.” Dean says, but she’s already asleep.
~~~~
“Man, I’m bushed,” Dean says after they’ve saved the world.
“Come see me after your eleventh apocalypse,” Buffy replies.