Destiny Interrupted

Written for the original blindfold_spn, for the prompt: Dean non-con, any kind of supernatural creature EXCEPT werewolf/vampire/demon possessing a human body.

Supernatural. Dean/Pixies. NC-17. 600 words. Non-con. Xeno. Restraints. Size-difference. Not particularly serious in tone.

There are few things Dean hates more than pixies.

Never Gonna Live this Down

There are few things Dean hates more than pixies. They’re nasty little fuckers, buzzing around and divebombing your face while you’re busy trying to torch the hive.

This is the worst infestation he’s had the misfortune to stumble on, and the air is thick with them, iridescent wings clicking like beetles. Tiny little claws scrape at his face as they grab with miniature hands to pry the goggles off his face.

Dean smacks the most tenacious out of the air. “No such luck, pipsqueak.” The torch he’d brought is keeping them out of his way so he can breathe, but there are enough of them that he can’t shrug off the threat of inhaling dust. Dean tightens the spare shirt he’d wrapped around his face and waves the torch wildly as he wades deeper into the swarm of tiny, naked limbs.

Fishing lighter fluid out of his coat pocket, Dean’s pretty sure by the tone of the shrieking and the renewed assaults on his protective gear, that he’s found the source tree.

“Peskipiski pesternomi,” he mutters, aiming a stream of lighter fluid directly at the hive.

He’s about to toss the torch in after it, only his sleeve gets caught on a branch. Or, rather, he’d thought it was a branch until he turned to see that the fuckers had learned how to cooperate. What he imagines to be their ringleader is grinning at him.

Jesus Christ, he hates pixies.

When he comes to, he hates them even more.

The dust in his eyes burns, and it takes him a few minutes to blink away the pain. As his vision returns, his nerves busily sort out the influx of sensations crashing in from the rest of his body.

“What the-” Tiny hands clamp down on his lips, crush them together and smear his words. Dean spits, trying to dislodge the pixie from his face. Not really wanting the visual proof of what his sinking stomach was telling him, Dean squints and peers down. He screws his eyes shut immediately, throat swallowing hard. His skin is crawling with them, their limbs and wings brushing along his body. His very naked body.

Dean struggles against the candyfloss strands holding him pinned, and prays that the wetness on his mouth is his own drool and not anything related to what some of the other dirty hedonistic bastards were doing.

Like the one which has its arms and legs wrapped around the head of his dick, giggling and pumping its tiny little cock into his fucking slit. If he hadn’t taken a piss, he’d blast the thing into the dirt. Dean struggles harder, but having spent any amount of time thinking about his dick (regardless of it being raped by a perverted winged imp) causes it to rise up involuntarily in twitching jerks. The pixie keeps jackhammering away at his slit, and if it weren’t for the prick of claws on the crown, and well, everything about the situation, it might even feel kinda good.

Dean spends a few seconds thinking about Margaret Thatcher naked on a cold day, because when Sam finds him tied up and naked and covered with pixie spunk, he’d better not be sporting wood.

It’s kinda hopeless when a couple more attach themselves to his dick and a few clamber up his legs to cling to his balls, all of them busily rubbing their tiny naked bodies against him.

If Sam doesn’t hurry the hell up and the orgy happening in his crotch makes him come, at least he can hope to drown a few.

*

End