CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS // UNDERAGE Prompt Post // February 1-15
This post is for ANY AND ALL UNDERAGE PROMPTS. This means any pairing where one or both persons are under the age of 18.
PROMPTS AND FILLS MENTIONING REAL PERSONS CURRENTLY UNDER THE AGE OF 18 ARE BANNED.
They can not be aged up or mentioned in passing. Use OCs or someone else to fill the void.
ART DEPICTING UNDERAGED PERSONS IN ANY SITUATION IS ( Read more... )
PROMPTS AND FILLS MENTIONING REAL PERSONS CURRENTLY UNDER THE AGE OF 18 ARE BANNED.
They can not be aged up or mentioned in passing. Use OCs or someone else to fill the void.
ART DEPICTING UNDERAGED PERSONS IN ANY SITUATION IS ( Read more... )
John unties his boots, steps out of his jeans, and eases himself
down on the sofa. This close, John can smell him-warm and musky, like a man, not Sammy’s sweet shampoo smell at all. He moves slowly, so as not to disturb Dean, but the kid is out like a light. He stirs once, stretching that long new body, licks his lips, and then settles into sleep again without ever open his eyes. He’s flung one foot out over John’s leg and John is preternaturally aware of that single point of contact. Dean’s like Mary, warm-blooded, always ten degrees hotter than anyone else in the room. After all, he’s sprawled out in a t-shirt and boxers while Sammy’s bundled up against the March chill, comfortable in his skin. In the dark, John feels Dean’s ankle against his calf, hot like a brand.
Sometime later, John wakes up half-hard, his hips falling into that old, old rhythm before he even realizes what’s happened. What’s happened is that Ellen’s soft old mattress sags in the middle. He and Dean have rolled towards each other in their sleep and now he’s got Dean plastered against his back. His son’s hips are rocking against him insistently. Dean’s breath is hot and damp against John’s neck and John can feel his son’s hard, hot dick practically pulsing through the thin cotton of his boxers. Hell, he can feel the boy’s tight little nipples.
This is not the first time. No, the first time, in a motel in Texarkana nearly three weeks ago, John had tried to chalk it up to teenage hormones. He’d woken with an armful of Dean, panting and squirming in his sleep. Then a minute later, Dean had rolled away, muttered faintly, and gone still, evidently fast asleep. Boys will be boys, John told himself. Granted, Dean’s wet dreams seemed a little more…intense than John remembered, but nothing out of the ordinary.
But then there had been a second time. John had finished his research but gave into Sam’s pleas for just another half hour in the little Carnegie library four or five towns over from Ellen's place. (“All right, but just a half hour. I mean it, Sam. Don’t care if they have signed copies of everything Tolkien’s ever written. Thirty minutes, and we’re leaving. I’mma go find your brother. Meet us at the car.”)
Dean, uninterested in libraries, had parked the Impala in the far corner of the library lot and taken the opportunity to nap in the backseat. He'd been slumped in the bench seat, leaving just enough space for John to settle in and review his notebook, the door open to catch the early spring breeze. At some point, Dean’s head had come to rest on John’s shoulder and then, so gradually John hadn’t even really looked up from his notes, Dean had curled against him. He’d been flush against John’s side when his breathing had gone shallow, each exhale a little whimper, and his hips had rolled--once, twice. John had been able to see the muscles of Dean's thighs move under his threadbare jeans. And then, with a sleepy little sigh, Dean had settled back against John’s shoulder, mouth open a little but eyes still closed, lashes dark and lovely against his cheek.
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“Never mind, kiddo,” John whispers. He lets his thumb trace Dean’s mouth. He likes how Dean wriggles, too sensitive, when his softening cock brushes John's hip. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
Already, Dean’s eyelids are drooping, worn out from his exertions. John waits until the close completely and then, one arm around his sleeping son, he brings his other hand down to his own diamond-hard dick.
They don’t talk about it in the morning, though. John is up and has the Impala packed before either of the boys wake. Dean seems a little subdued over breakfast, doesn’t flirt with Jo as much as he usually does. Twice, John looks up from his work to see Dean watching him, but clearly he doesn’t quite know how bring up the topic. Once, John catches his eye deliberately and Dean flushes such a lovely pink that John’s breath catches in his throat.
When Ellen recruits the boys to mow the back lot, John sits in her parlor and considers his position. It’s been a long time since he’s done anything with another man; he’d put all that away when he’d married and then hunting’s meant opportunities have been precious few and far between. He shouldn’t, of course, feel this way about his own family-and he doesn’t. Not about Sammy, anyway, nor about Ash or any of those other boys Dean’s age. But there’s something special about Dean, always has been. John hadn’t been around for such long swathes of his childhood, and when he had, Dean had always been like another parent, a lieutenant. Never just a kid. Someone John could trust.
But who can Dean trust? John glances out the window and sees the shirtless teenager hacking away at some undergrowth with an old rake, his shoulders gleaming with sweat. He thinks about how that body shook next to him in the dark, and feels his dick start to fill. Who can Dean trust to show him what that glorious new body of his can do?
When they leave the Roadhouse, Sam stays behind, happy as a clam because he’ll have an extra week with Jo’s little library of cast-off paperbacks. Dean mans the radio. John drives, and keeps his eyes open. Ellen has given him a fine idea. He won’t be going to Roberta’s, of course, because it don’t do to shit in your own backyard, but there are plenty of similar establishments in the world.
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“Sorry! Sorry,” Dean had mumbled immediately, blushing with embarrassment, trying to extricate his limbs from John’s.
“Don’t worry about it,” John had said, casually, as though Dean had been worried about over-sleeping. “We don’t have anywhere we have to be.” Dean had looked at him then, his green eyes watchful, waiting for John to say something else, finally relaxing when it became obvious that no one was going to tease him.
Wednesday night, as they got ready for another night in another motel king, John had tugged at Dean’s undershirt. “You don’t have to wear that if you’d rather not.” He’d let his hand slide down Dean’s back to rest on the curve of his ass. “I know sometimes you get hot at night.” Dean had given him another challenging look, and then stripped off the t-shirt. That night, while he’d been shuddering with aftershocks, John had blown a thin, cool stream of air over the naked, super-heated skin of Dean’s shoulders. “Feel good?” he’d asked, and Dean had replied with a sleepy moan.
The following afternoon, Dean had scrambled into the backseat of the Impala after lunch.
“I think,” he announced a little self-consciously, “that I’ll take a nap.”
“Sleep tight,” John had replied. Forty-five minutes later, he’d pulled over to watch his sleeping son in the rear-view mirror. Dean’s eyelids flutter more than usual when he finally climaxes--John should know, he’s now observed a half-dozen performances--and John wonders if he was meant to be watching.
“Aren’t you going to take off your shirt?” Dean had asked that night. And John had smiled. “Good idea, baby boy.”
The next morning, they’d woken up skin to skin. John knew Dean was awake, he’d felt the shift in his breathing, but he didn’t say anything about getting up. Didn’t say anything at all, just let his fingers drift up and down the boy’s back.
“Dad?”
“Hmm?”
“Uhm. Isn’t there-I mean, when you…isn’t there supposed to be. Uh. Stuff?”
John walked his fingers over the puckered skin of a scar on Dean’s shoulder. (Selkies had a vicious bite)
“Cum? When you orgasm?” he clarifies
Dean squirms, adorable with embarrassment, but he doesn’t move away. “Yeah.”
“Sure. When you’re a little bit older.” John’s hand slips…casual, so casual…around the cut of Dean’s hip. “Actually, probably really soon, for you. I bet that’s why you’ve been having some of your dreams.”
Dean rolls over to face him, flushed, and the bravery of it makes John’s heart flip. “Will it happen if… I mean, with a girl?”
“It might. Would you like to try, sometime? With a girl?”
That had been too much; Dean had ducked his head into a pillow, beet red. But John could still make out his muffled, “Yeah, maybe.”
So John Winchester, the hunter, had gone out to find a girl.
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Some of the girls are still in their work clothes--why else wear tube tops and hot pants to get coffee at 10:00 AM on a Sunday?--but the girl John’s got his eye on is wearing jeans and a tank top. She’s sitting at a table with the strippers, nibbling on a coffee stirrer. John wonders if she likes to have something in her mouth. He watches her so intently that some of the other women notice; he sees them elbow her, tip their heads in his direction. She looks back, blinks big blue eyes, and then gets up to walk over to the trashcans and pitch out her coffee stirrer. He watches her the whole way: fine bones, small tits, narrow hips that switch like she knows she’s got an audience.
Seeing her move, John realizes she’s younger than he’d thought. Leaving the motel this morning, he’d figured this might be a job for someone with a little…experience. Not like he needs Jenna Jameson; a mid-twenties small-town hooker who knows her way around the block and doesn’t know anything about the Winchesters would’ve suited him fine. But now, though, he’s suddenly taken by the idea of finding someone a little--God help him--a little closer to Dean’s own age.
John stands and picks up the bag from the mini-mart next door. There are several trash barrels by the door, but he goes out of his way to throw his paper coffee cup into the one where the girl is still standing. She doesn’t move out of his way, so he has to lean around her, too close.
“’Scuse me, ma’am,” he says, when his coat sleeve brushes her bare arm.
John is unlocking the Impala and beginning to think he’s misjudged when he hears her call, “Hey! Hey, mister!”
He turns and she jogs across the small parking lot. She’s not wearing a bra, and if there’s no one in her life to tell her that she should be…well, that’s good news for John. The good news for Dean is that she really, really should wear a bra. Those nipples on an early spring morning could put someone’s eye out. John’s mouth floods with spit.
She stops in front of him. “You need something? You lost or something?” Christ, she could almost be a waitress at some road-side diner. Well, except for those tits.
“Or something,” John agrees, and she smiles at him.
“Got a name, sweetness?”
She looks up at him coyly through her bangs. “My name’s Angela. Angie.” she says, finally, and John had been expecting Kaylee or Candi or Brittany, so maybe it’s even true.
“John,” he puts out his hand and she shakes, awkwardly, not used to formal introductions. “And, let me guess, you here with your, uhm, colleagues…?” He nods towards the mini-mart.
“Yeah, we work down the highway a piece. I’m a hostess. At a…at a club.”
And that explains a lot. Clothes, for one: her work uniform is probably a skimpy cocktail dress that belongs to the establishment. Her bangs are teased and hair-sprayed, but the rest of her hair is up in a messy knot. She’s still got glitter on her collarbones and lipstick red enough to stop traffic, but her nail polish is chipped.
“Just got off work. Today’s my day off. Got the whole day free,” she says. And God bless America, where the strip joints close on Sundays. John can’t decide if she’s trying to let him know she’s available or if she’s just nervously trying to make conversation. Either way is good.
“How old are you, Angela?” John asks, and he can practically see her withdrawal. Her eyes scan him--clothes, car--trying to decide if he’s undercover. “I know it’s rude to ask a lady’s age,” he says quickly, teasingly, “but I got a son, figure he’s about your age.” Now her suspicion changes, she stands up a little straighter. Angela doesn’t like to be anybody’s stand-in. John smiles: good for her.
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Angie doesn’t startle at his touch. In fact, she tips her head a little to let his hand move down her throat. “I got lots of friends.”
John leaves his hand on her shoulder, runs his thumb along her collarbone, slow and hypnotic. Her lips part unconsciously, like she needs more oxygen. He can see she’s got a little gap between her front teeth--no braces when she was a kid--and he likes that she wears bright lipstick anyway. “I just bet you do, pretty girl like you. Lots of boyfriends?”
That demure upward glance again. “I like boys,” Angie allows.
“I think you’d like my boy,” John says, his voice low. He steps closer; now she’s pinned between his body and the Impala. “I think you and Dean could be good friends.”
“Uh-huh.” Somehow, Angie’s fingers have twined themselves into his belt loops.
John can feel how rapidly she’s breathing. “We’re in the motel in town. I’d pay for your time, of course.”
“Three hundred dollars,” Angie says. So quick and such a round number that he can tell she hasn’t done a lot of these negotiations. He imagines her colleagues, the strippers, giving her advice. A young business woman, looking to maximize her assets.
She’s staring at him fiercely, refusing to break eye contact, expecting to have to argue him into her price. John can’t resist. She tastes positively creamy when he kisses her, and he’s not surprised she doesn’t drink her coffee black. He’d bet the Impala that she’s not 21, maybe not even 18.
Angie just…opens for him. There’s no other way to describe it: one moment they’re standing six inches apart, his hand on her shoulder. The next he’s got his tongue in her mouth and her hands in his hair, her breasts flattened against his chest and one knee hitched around his thigh. She whines a moment when he breaks the kiss and looks up at him, shameless, like she’d let him fuck her right here in the parking lot. And maybe she would. He touches her smudged lipstick and she opens her mouth around his finger just like-oh, Lord, just like Dean. “Angela, I’m sure you’re worth every penny.”
“How do I know you’re not a crazy psycho ax-murderer?” she asks when they’ve caught their breath.
“I’ll pay up front,” John says, pulling out his wallet, “and you can tell your friends we’re going to the motel by the interstate exit.” He’s counting on the fact that she’s still got enough modesty not to tell the other girls. Her accent places her three or four states further south than where they are. He imagines she’s on her own.
He holds out the money and she turns, leans against the car, presents her jeans-clad ass so he can tuck it in the back pocket. He leans in, pressing her body to the metal, kisses the back of her neck, bare and vulnerable where the blonde hair has been twisted into a topknot. He can feel her whole body when she shivers. “I’ll even let you drive.”
“You don’t even know if I have a license!” she exclaims, like offering his car keys is the most reckless thing he’s done this morning.
“Angela, darling, if you’re too young to drive,” John breathes her in, coffee and cigarettes and floral hairspray, “If you’re too young to drive, I don’t even want to know.”
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