moz fans

finswolfhard  asked:

I really hope you feel better, and I hope whatever is causing the cloud of negativity to clear up soon. I'd hope you'll do the prompt "fuck off...I mean it" with a readerxDean please! Thanks so much!

Thank you, babe, it comes and goes to be honest. You just gotta grin and bear it until things clear up. But I’m feeling much better. 

This got a bit away from me.

Dean watches from across the bar, he watches as she throws her hair over her shoulder, watches as she bites into the full plump line of her bottom lip. Dean watches some asshole sidle up to her only to place his hand low on the curve of her back, and he can feel the fury burning along his skin, can feel the air leave his lungs.

“You gotta breathe, dude,” Sam tries to calm, taking a long pull from his beer, but Dean finds it hard to hear his brother over the ringing in his ears, finds it hard to concentrate when some dick is whispering something that has y/n’s cheeks reddening in response.

Dean watches her throw her head back, soft delicate hand going to her cleavage, a trill superficial laugh falling from her lips. The sound reminds him that this is all fake, helps him pull it all together, because that is definitely not an authentic y/n laugh. The man talking to her right now, he goes to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, hand stopping to thumb just below her lip and Dean catches her eye when she turns to look at him over her shoulder.

She winks at Dean, smiles this tight-lipped smile and Dean tips his beer in her direction, mouths ‘You’re doing great.’ And she visibly relaxes into the man before her.

It pleases Dean beyond belief to know that he can ease her worries with just a look in her direction, but it doesn’t change the fact that he thinks this was a bad idea. In fact, Dean is 100% sure this is the worst of ideas. They don’t do baiting, they don’t like risking the life of someone they care about just to catch some monster. But she had been ready to volunteer, had been gung-ho to play damsel, and Dean didn’t have it in him to argue with her against it.

And while Dean is nervous about whatever sick monster is out there hunting women in bars, he’s even more terrified about the possibility of her being swayed into the arms of some lecherous asshole.

“Dude,” Sam chances and Dean’s head swings in his direction. “There’s no way we’re gonna catch the guy if you spend the whole night eyeing the low hanging fruit.”

Dean doesn’t like that analogy, doesn’t like the ease in Sam’s voice when he says it. “She’s not low hanging fruit,” Dean snaps, words sharp and forceful as they push past his lips. “She’s our friend, and she can be in danger.”

Sam chuckles from beside his brother, lets the sound fall from his lips, disbelief so evident that Dean can taste it on the tip of his tongue. Dean shoots him a look, daggers pinging from within the forest green of his eyes.

“I’m getting another one,” he throws at Sam swirling his empty bottle around, ignoring the look Sam sends him as he pushes up from the barstool.

Dean doesn’t need Sam’s judgement, doesn’t need his knowing glances and snide remarks. Dean needs liquor and the scent of her smooth skin to calm him down.

The chair next to her opens up just as Dean gets to the bar. If asked later on, Dean will deny with all his might the fact that he sprinted to catch it before someone else did. But nonetheless, Dean gets his hand on the cracked leather of the stool before someone else does, slides into it casually as he signals for the bartender.

The low rumble of voices makes it hard for Dean to catch the whole conversation, but he hears y/n giggle, hears her laugh before telling the man, “Oh stop, I am not pretty enough to be a model.” Dean can’t hold back the cackle that flies out of his throat, can’t keep it in, and y/n whirls around to catch his eye.

He pales at the fire in her eye, freezes under her glare.

“Something funny there, mister?” She asks him, and Dean most definitely does not shiver at her tone. The man over her shoulder eyes the back of y/n’s head for a moment, watches intently as Dean looks her up and down.

“Nothing, sweetheart,” Dean throws back, “Just, this asshole has been chatting you up for so long that I assumed he’d be past the point of pickup lines.”

Y/n’s jaw ticks as she narrows her eyes at Dean. She’s mad at him, probably because Dean interrupted whatever type of game she had going, but this guy isn’t who they’re looking for. He didn’t react to the liquid silver in her nail polish when she ran her fingers over the back of his hand, didn’t recoil at the holy water slipped into his gin and tonic; not a demon, not a shifter. He’s useless, but that doesn’t lessen the burning fire in y/n’s gaze.

“Who says it’s a pickup line? You don’t think I could be a model?” Dean wants to reach across the small distance the bar has put between them, wants to wrap the waves of her hair around his fingers, but he thinks better of it, settles for hiding his wide grin behind the lip of his beer. She huffs at his silence, the guy behind her reaching out to gently wrap his hand around her exposed elbow. Dean watches her pull out of his grip, watches her lean onto the sticky wood of the bar, crowding into Dean’s personal space, “Hang on–” she’s telling this to the man behind her–“Seriously, am I not pretty enough to be a model.”

Dean places his beer back on the paper coaster laying before him, smiles this warm charming smile before meeting her in the middle. “Sweetheart, you’re the most beautiful thing in this room right now, the most beautiful thing in most rooms, I’m sure.” Y/n’s eyes widen at his words, a soft gasp rolling off her lips and right into Dean’s mouth.

The man behind her calls her name, says it in this nasally whiny manner that has he rolling her eyes. “Fuck off, yeah?” she throws over her shoulder and Dean smiles out of victory and complete self-satisfaction.

“Seriously?” he questions, like he can’t believe for one minute that she’d walk away from whatever he was offering her. But Dean doesn’t doubt for one moment that he can give her everything that dude has to offer and a million things more.

Seriously. Fuck off…I mean it.” The man scoffs at her words, sends her a nasty glare mixed an even nastier comment, but neither Dean nor y/n seem to care, seem to pay attention. All Dean can see is the glint of something fierce in her eyes, something primal and inviting.

He watches as she climbs off the stool next to him, watches as she slides between the gap he’s left between his body and the bar. “So…you think I’m beautiful?” She asks and Dean settles for nodding his confirmation, settles for threading her hair through his fingers until he can tilt her head up and back.

“God, yes,” he breathes against her mouth, nose nuzzling against hers, the smile on his lips so wide that he can feel the soft skin of her cheek against them.  

“Fuck off,” she laughs against his mouth, and Dean pulls on her bottom lip, “You mean it?” she questions and Dean can’t find words strong enough to confirm, can’t find it in him to say it, so he presses forward instead kisses the breath right out of her. He figures fair is fair, she takes his breath away so he’ll take hers.  

now that i’ve had time to properly digest the fact that i saw morrissey in concert i’m gonna share some more details that i enjoy looking back on:

first off, i’ve never seen a musician in concert who’s so good at interacting with the audience. like ofc he’s really into letting fans put their hands all over him but also just the sheer amount of eye contact he made? was outstanding. some artists drift off into nothingness when they sing but despite me being like 30 feet away i still blushed every time he looked in my direction. yes i’m a huge fan who gets flustered easily but i felt like this dude was staring straight into my soul and i was super into it! i would’ve fuckin fainted had i been any closer.

i’m also amazed at how little respect for the man’s personal space that moz fans STILL have despite him being 58 years old. there were at least 3 people who had to be pulled off stage, it felt like i was at a smiths gig in the mid-80s.

FLOWERS! somebody passed forward a bouquet and by the time it reached the front another person had started waving it around, once again like an old smiths gig. i remember moz ducked out of the way because he thought the person was gonna chuck the bouquet at him, lmao.

also nearing the end of the concert morrissey was doing that thing he does where he just plays with the mic chord as a substitute for dancing, and he whipped the chord around really hard and straight up threw the mic from his hands. it wasn’t a big deal but after he picked it up he mumbled “professional” into it which made me crack up.

for-the-love-of-dean  asked:

"Do it... I dare you" with Dean

Sorry for the delay, babe. I’m not one for following my own deadlines, apparently.

As far as romantic escapades go, Dean has had both better and worse than this one. Granted, they haven’t been much worse, but they’ve been worse none the less, and he hopes that later when he recounts this story that he remembers to include that fact; for reference and comparison. Sam’s never been one to see the bigger picture when it comes to things like this, and really, in the grand scheme of things Dean is not at fault in the slightest for where his night has ended up.

Dean takes in a shuddering breath, raises his hands higher as he watches her climb onto the mattress—legs muscles tight, thighs begging to be held on to—gun still held high, finger itching to grip on the trigger. She’s hesitant in her movements, careful not to do anything rash…or more rash, Dean supposes, but her eyes are trained on him and he’s at least a little worried about what she’ll do next.

Dean follows her movements, watches closely as she weighs all her options in her head. She’s still mostly bare, skin a beautiful canvas of muscle and battle wounds that Dean can’t stop thinking about running his tongue along, can’t keep his mind from wandering to an absolutely filthy place. But she can’t make a run for it, not like this, unless she’s desperate, and Dean thinks she just might be.

“Are you listening to me?” she questions, words steady and firm, remarkably level—Dean notes—considering the circumstances at hand.

Dean blinks lazily at her, eyes traveling up her body, lingering for one long moment on the bruise blooming on her left breast.

In the back of his mind he wishes his hands were still on her skin, wishes he still had her pressed along his front, moaning something filthy into the place where his neck meets his shoulder, but the whole being held at gunpoint thing is kind of a mood killer.

“I’m all ears, sweetheart,” he promises, a half smirk dancing at the corner of his mouth. He’s not all ears technically, but she’s well aware of that fact so there’s no need to tack the comment on. But she’s so much smarter than he gave her credit, and Dean can’t help but chuckle when she rolls her eyes at him.

“Seriously? With the sweetheart, bull? Enough. You’re name’s not really Barnes, and your partner’s name sure as hell isn’t Rogers. You think I’m the lone person in this world who hasn’t seen the Captain America franchise.” Dean laughs again, taking one cautious step forward.

“Listen,” he starts, feet shuffling along the shag carpet. “Why don’t we both just calm down. Climb off the bed, give me the gun, and we can have a nice little talk about keeping our wits about us.”

Her eyes narrow, lip trembling just the tiniest bit. If he gets close enough, he can probably overpower her, sweep her legs out from underneath her and pull her down to the bed. But that’ll only work if he somehow finds a way to be faster than her ability to pull a trigger. He steps forward, arms lowring from their raised position.

“Don’t” she orders, thumbing the hammer of the gun in her hand. Her voice is shakier than her hands, and Dean feels just the tiniest bit uneasy about that fact. “Take one step closer, and I swear I’ll shoot.”

“Do it,” he challenges. “I dare you.” Fear clouds her eyes, and Dean knows now’s his chance. He lurches forward, hands reaching out to grab her by her calves, yanking forward until she loses her balance and falls backwards.

The gun flies from her hand, landing on the ground with a hard metallic clang, but no shots fired. The clip must be empty. She’s got a great poker face, he muses, but the thought quickly flies from his mind as she struggles against his hold.

“Shoulda took your shot when you had the chance,” he teases, pinning her arms above her head, his hips keeping her body flush to the bed beneath her.

“Fuck you,” she spits back, legs wrapping around his waist to leverage her weight against his, rolling until she gets Dean on his back. From this angle—pressed beneath a beautiful woman, her breaths short and fast, chest heaving—Dean finds it hard to remember why they’re fighting in the first place. But then she leans forward, biting into his earlobe and Dean hisses in pain. “What’s your fucking real name?”

“Why do you wanna know? Need something to scream when I fuck the sense back into you.”

“You’re a lotta talk for a man who doesn’t currently have the upper hand.” She rolls her hips for emphasis, clenches her thighs tight around Dean’s waist and he can’t hold back the moan clawing its way out his throat.

“Oh, kid. Don’t for one second think that I’m not right where I wanna be.” He sends her a cheeky wink as the words slip out of his mouth, distracts her with his charm and the deep bass of his voice. Her eyes widen when he thrust up into her, her jaw going slack at the firm press of his cock against her clothed cunt, and Dean lets go of her wrists, choosing instead to grab onto her hips.

He holds steady to her as he rolls their bodies one last time. He lands on his knees hovering over her, her body spread out beneath him, the cups of her bra barely covering her chest. Dean wants to fuck all that fight right out of her, wants to make her cum so hard that she forgets about the anger and secrecy.

“Do it,” she urges, eyes trained on his mouth, “I dare you.” Dean doesn’t need to be told twice, doesn’t need to be egged on. He leans forward, pressing his chest to hers, lips aligning perfectly. She moans into his mouth, her tiny hands pulling hard on the short hairs at the nape of Dean’s neck. Dean lets his hand wander, fingers blazing a heated trail down her bare stomach until the can dip into her panties. He’s greeted by hot, wet skin, and he returns the moan right back to her.

As far as romantic escapades go Dean has had worse, but he’s not too sure if he’s had any that much better.