June 9, 2024 | Dubcon: the Musical

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐃𝐔𝐁𝐂𝐎𝐍

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐒𝐋𝐔𝐓-𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆

 

“ENOUGH!” The acoustics aren’t great, but my voice manages to reverberate. I grab your throat and slam you against the wall. That echoes, too. “I have had it up to HERE with your fucking GAMES, CASTIEL!” It comes out as a bellow of rage and despair ripping its way from my chest through my throat, passing through my lips, feral and guttural. You see my eyes flash with pain-fueled fury in the dim lighting. You glare back at me, your hands prying at my wrist. I squeeze your throat and press you harder against the wall. Your eyes are beginning to water and it makes me… Not 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘺. More frustrated. More desperate.

 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯?

 I silently beg of you not to make this about 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 pain. I will more than happily balm your wounds and soothe your ego, once I’m sure you 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘪𝘵.

 My voice is shaking as I tell you, “I don’t give a good goddamn what demons lurk in your past. We’re so far past that point.”

 Your scowl deepens. “What,” you manage to choke out, “would you have me do?”

 I laugh bitterly. “It’s not a what,” I snarl. My fingers tighten again, this time involuntarily. “It’s a who. It’s 𝘮𝘦. You know what’s ironic? You’re so willing, so 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 eager, to spread those angelic legs of yours for everyone else on this godforsaken planet, but oh no, there’s something defective about me, is that it?” Your fingers keep scrabbling at my hand. I’m hurting you. I don’t want to, but I’ve been patient and kind and all that crap for too long. “You take me for granted, Cass, and I’m sick of it!” It comes out as a strangled whisper, as if you were the one choking me. I’m choking on the feelings I’ve tried so damn hard to repress. I watched you sleep with anything that moved and some that didn’t, only for you to panic, flat-out fucking 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘤, when I made the tiniest suggestion that maybe, just maybe, you consider granting me the privilege of treating me the way you do 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 else!

 “I don’t—” you protest. I loosen my grip. I want to hear what you have to say for yourself, what gaslighting or self-deluded explanation you come up with. But you don’t finish your thought. I wait for eleven tense seconds. It’s a shame. I’d almost allowed myself to hope you’d list all the ways you don’t take me for granted, all the ways you appreciate me. I’m the villain here, 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘩, 𝘐'𝘮 𝘶𝘯𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥. I’m ambivalent, actually, about whether or not I blame you.

 “You 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 take me for granted?” I laugh bitterly again. When you answer, your voice echoes the irony in mine.

 “I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”

 You don’t have to. I’ve done that all by myself. My grip slackens. If I were a better man, I’d let you go, but I can’t. I want you too much. I 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 you too much.

 “It’s sacred to me,” you continue, massaging your throat.

 “Only the sacred things are worth touching.” A hedonist quoting another hedonist. My defiant eyes dare you to tell me Lord Henry Wotton and I are wrong.

 You blink, caught off-guard. “𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘷𝘦 read Oscar Wilde?”

 I blink back dumbly. “I heard it in a movie,” I reply. “Didn’t know it was based on a book.”

 You nod, slowly, the gears turning in your mind. Then, without warning, you kiss me, hard and fierce and everything I’ve ever dreamed. I bite your lip with a growl, rewarding you for 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 making a move, and punishing you by drawing blood for taking so damn long, you squirrelly son of a bitch! Our tongues tango, 𝘳𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳, coming apart only as long as it takes for us both to strip off. We wrestle to see who gets to pitch. I win. Part of me suspects you 𝘭𝘦𝘵 me win. I like that idea, so I roll with it. I reach into your discarded trench coat’s pocket and pull out a travel-sized squeeze bottle of lube. I’d only half-expected to find one on you, but expedience triumphs over my jealous indignation. I lube up and stuff myself more or less—okay, a little 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 gently inside of you. Our groans of satisfaction mingle and echo harmoniously. I’ve wanted this for so long, craved your body and your love. Spooning behind you like this, we could almost have just woken up. I breathe in the scent of your hair and bite your shoulder savagely, making you cry out. Music to my ears. You arch so nicely as you grasp your 🐓. As your head presses back, I take it as an invitation to choke you again. I squeeze the sides of your throat and you move sinuously with a wildness I didn’t expect.

 As one, we shift position, you now on your stomach and me pressed on top of you. I pause, reach for our clothes, and clumsily bundle them into something for you to put under yourself for support. You slide it under, raising that perfect ass of yours, making yourself even tighter and I almost fucking lose it. A few more thrusts and I do, all sense of rhythm going right out the window as I pound into you as if my life depends on it, because it 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴. I knew I’d never get enough of you, knew it from the instant I let my guard down and allowed myself to fall for you. The line between love and lust has never blurred for me so much as it does with you. Sure, I want all that cutesy domestic crap, to have and to hold and all that, but I also want 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, raw animal passion. I won’t fuck you like you’re made of glass because you’re not. You’re strong, supple, resilient, responding so beautifully to my every touch. I play your body like a guitar and you make such gorgeous music for me. Just for me.

 “You’re mine,” I growl into your ear. You whimper something that sounds like assent. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩. “Say it,” I rasp. “Say, ‘I’m yours, Dean.’” You whimper again and moan something unintelligible. I stop moving; you give a little whine of protest. It sounds like you’re biting your pretty lip. “Say it or you don’t finish.” The command is quiet, whispered like the autumn wind through rustling deciduous leaves.

 You nod faintly. “I’m yours, Dean,” you sigh. The sweetest, most beautiful surrender. As promised, I resume pleasing you, learning the language of your body, deciphering your every tension, every moan, each of which electrifies me. We ascend to our peak simultaneously, as one, one quivering, panting, helpless, needy mess. I love you so much, 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩, and I think I may have said so. Once we’re cleaned up, I hold you close, caging you in my arms.

 𝓘'𝓵𝓵 𝓷𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓵𝓮𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓰𝓸.