#they don't talk they just sort of hiss

[cogentranting]

Swan Lake adaptation where Odette and her assorted other maidens are cursed same as always (swans during the day, human again between midnight and dawn) BUT there's also just some random wild swans caught up in the curse and they are their normal swan selves during the day and turn into humans at night, but still with swan brains.

So the plot is basically the same except that there's a couple of these humanized swans hanging around most of the time who A. see Odette and the maidens as part of their flock and are protective B. are swans and therefore crave violence at all times

[byanyan]

i think byan might be the sort of person to walk their cats on cute little leashes ngl

[araneitela]

Jace: Sends a meta ask about combat preferences Me: Okay, okay, let me make this short and touch on just the katana... The equivalent of piles, and piles of paperwork in my OneNote and FF tabs: 🤔

[scribblestatic]

Shen Yuan is, of course, a sweetheart of a cat that is totally, entirely, wasted on that acerbic Peak Lord who named him.

That is, of course, until a demon attack on the sect includes the use of True Heart Vial Rose and shows exactly what Shen Yuan is thinking.

Which happens to be rampant and increasingly creative expletives as he hisses, batting fiercely at the downed demon.

"Fuck your mother!" the cat yeowls, scratching at the demon's eyes. "You dogshit, peh! Curse your family! Your ancestors and descendants should feel shame having you in their bloodline!"

He quickly changes gears as he runs over to Shen Qingqiu, rubbing against his legs. "Jiu-ge, Jiu-ge~ That thing is filthy! Hurry and salt this wretched corpse lest it spreads some sort of miasma!"

Shen Qingqiu is, of course, more than a little pleased to do exactly that.

Shen Yuan, it seems, is utterly unaware of the fact his thoughts are understood. It doesn't help that he doesn't actually understand much of human speech (yet), so even if he's understood, he can't do the same for them. And that means he's very honest about whatever he thinks at all times.

"Is this supposed to be a gift? It's crude. It's bloody. It's exactly the kind of thing that dogfight Bai Zhan Peak would consider a prized possession. Its liver should be impeccable for qi restoration, and its bones, once in a fine powder, can help heal meridians. It's a good gift. Jiu-ge should take it." It's that commentary over the large corpse sitting outside the bamboo house that A) helps Shen Qingqiu realize it's not a threat and B) realize who it came from.

Also, apparently the cat has some sort of instinctual knowledge of beasts like itself. How curious.

"Going out of their way to misunderstand. Hmmh. Don't mind them, Jiu-ge. They aren't worth the effort. A waste of space and breath, they are."

The Peak Lord can't help a little laugh as he agrees, watching the cultivators accosting him turned red in the face at being dismissed by a cat.

"Aiyah, what am I going to do with you..." He purrs softly as he helps Shen Qingqiu calm from another, increasingly infrequent qi deviation. "You can't keep getting hurt like this. If you can't stop, I guess this Yuan will have to watch over you for as long as I live."

If Shen Qingqiu starts looking into how to help a cat become a spiritual beast after that, well, that's no one else's business.

"Jiu-ge cultivated demonically first. Of course cultivating the spiritual way only will cause an imbalance! Qi is qi, none is good or evil on principle, just like people and demons. Jiu-ge should keep using demonic cultivation to balance his energies! Fuck Wu Yanzi, there's tons of demonic cultivators better than even those from 'righteous' sects!"

If Shen Qingqiu begins improving in leaps and bounds, well, that's also his own business.

By the time Luo Binghe arrives, Shen Qingqiu is much more settled in himself and doesn't bother spiting Liu Qingge by taking a promising, fluffy-looking child on the day to pick new disciples. Though, Shen Yuan starts trailing over to Bai Zhan to go stare at the child, and in turn, Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge end up spending more time around each other...gross.

"Aaa Jiu-ge, don't be so shy. You clearly brought that Thousand Silver Teardrop Tea to help Qingge-ge through his bottleneck. Why act like this, ah? You're so hopeless. I suppose this cat will have to keep you company forever. Haaah."

Well, there are times he mildly wished A'Yuan would shut up. But his thoughts do end up getting the other peak lords to relax more around him.

Liu Qingge, having heard the cat's thoughts time after time, starts talking to Shen Qingqiu and treating him better. Repulsive. Do it more.

--

Anyway, I just thought this would be cute.

[savanir]

Finding Andy (Curry)

Danny zips around the massive dark aquarium with a net carefully snatching up all sorts of colourful marine life before going up and gently depositing them in smaller tanks that Sam prepared.

"You do realise this is extremely illegal, right?"

"Taking these poor endangered fish from their homes is extremely illegal. We're righting a wrong here Danny, and you still owe me one"

Danny sighs and goes back down but keeps talking.

"I just don't want to be accused of stealing again"

"Tucker got us covered, we'll be fine. You just keep fishing Danny, I think we're almost done. "

Danny carefully goes through the dark depths of the aquarium again and it's then that he sees a much bigger shape dart away from him.

Sam said this entire thing was filled with poached endangered marine wildlife so everything in it needs to be retrieved. Aka, Danny goes in pursuit.

It takes some doing but eventually Danny gets a hold of it and it's worryingly little girl shaped.

He holds the little girl in front of him and just kinda looks for a second at this squirmy child that can apparently breathe underwater.

"Sam! Sam, holy Fffffffuudge"

"What!? What??"

"There is a baby in the aquarium!" He holds up the squealing little red head who has apparently decided what's happening now is funny actually.

"A baby!?"

"In the aquarium!" He points down at the water.

"Why is there a baby in the aquarium!!?"

"How am I supposed to know?! Maybe these weirdos accidentally fished up one of Aquaman's people?"

"Oh my god, we need to bring her back!"

"How the ff-frick-" the little girl giggles and goes, "Fik!" Making Danny wince,  "-are we supposed to do that, I don't know where Atlantis is at Sam"

"Call the justice league?"

"Didn't they disband again not too long ago?"

"... shit, you're right"

Danny rushes to cover the little girls ears while hissing, "language" and Sam slaps a hand over her mouth.

"Sorry..."

Danny floats in a circle above the water bouncing the child who seems fascinated with his glowing white hair, "Okay, okay, here's an idea. Jazz has her drivers license. We'll do an impromptu road trip to the east coast"

"... yeah, sounds good, let's go"

Sam holds the little girl as Danny stacks up all the tanks filled with fish and they quickly leave the premises.

"Can I just say I love you hair little miss, Naturally dark red? if only I was that lucky."

The now empty tank is surrounded by a gaggle of awkwardly shifting henchmen.

"So who is gonna tell the boss we lost the princess?"

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

don't tell him. l Joel Miller

Summary: you tried to hide an unpleasant situation from Joel

Warnings: angst, attempted sexual assault, aggressive behavior, Reader feels guilty, violence, swearing; Ellie, Tommy, Ann, and Elliot appear

A/N: .

your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

short stories from life. [masterlist]

Your footsteps echoed quietly in the hallway of the building that served Jackson as a sort of town hall. You knew you would find Tommy there and you were right. When you pushed open the door, he looked up from the map and was surprised. He wasn't expecting a guest and your appearance gave him the impression that something was wrong.

"What’s up?" he asked, "Patrol went wrong?"

You adjusted the strap of your rifle that was still hanging over your shoulder and bit your lip, feeling your heart still pounding. Eventually, though, you nodded. “I don’t want to go on patrol with Elliot anymore. I’m sorry, Tommy, but I refuse.”

He frowned and looked at you carefully, getting up from his chair. "What happened? This was your third patrol together. Did he do something irresponsible?"

He noticed you looking away, but after a moment your eyes landed on him again. “Yes, he did.”

The third patrol with Elliot was no different. All patrolling personnel had to be able to cooperate with each other, so partners were swapped from time to time. Shane took on another partner for a while, and you agreed to take Elliot. It was fine. Until that day.

You should have set the boundary from the start, but this time your faith in people failed you. Comments that seemed strange to you and made you feel uncomfortable kept falling from Elliot's lips.

"They're just compliments, honey." he said when you gave him a warning look. "Anger hurts beauty."

Neither Joel nor Shane had ever spoken to you that way. But patrol was the most important thing and that was what you decided to focus on, so you ignored the red flags that were popping up in the back of your head. And he probably didn't like it.

“Listen,” he began as you put the thermos away after your meal and slowly prepared to return to Jackson. “I know you know I like you. I saw the way you looked my way.”

"What?" you looked at him surprised. "I didn't..."

"You did. At the bar or when we saw each other in town." he stepped closer.

"Listen, I think you misunderstood me." you replied trying to turn it all into a joke. "You know perfectly well that me and Joel..."

"Joel." Elliot snorted. "Please, will he protect you? Will he keep you safe?"

The words died in your throat as you noticed the change in the man's eyes. The gentle gaze darkened. Instinct told you that you should back off, not provoke him, because that was apparently how he perceived every reaction you made to his words.

"Let's go back to Jackson." you said trying to ignore Elliot's strange behavior. You threw your backpack over your shoulder when you felt him grab your arm tightly.

"I'm serious, honey." he hissed. He was standing close enough to make you feel threatened. "You're pretty and smart, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Here-" he looked around the forest surrounding you "Here everything will stay between us and..."

"Let me go." you interrupted him sharply. "You have no right to talk to me like that! I don't know what you've got in your head, but it's fucking sick!"

"You keep tempting and provoking me, don't tell me that..."

You yanked your arm away and stepped back abruptly. Elliot had barely taken a step when you pulled a gun from your belt and aimed it at him. "Give me a reason." you said.

You were terrified, but you didn't want him to see it. Eventually, he just shrugged, muttered, "Bitch!", and picked up his backpack, then started walking without even looking back. It was only then that you realized you were holding your breath.

Tommy looked at you with a mixture of disbelief and anger, but he didn’t doubt any of your words. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered when you told him everything. “I wanted Shane to go with him, but Elliot asked you to. He said you liked each other and he’s already talked to you about it.”

"He said that? Jesus."

Tommy walked around the desk and approached you. Concern was written all over his face. "I'm sorry, he'll never go on patrol with you again. I'll talk to him. Fuck! When Joel finds out..."

Your eyes widened in an instant. That was why you came straight to Tommy.

"You can't say anything to Joel." you said, and seeing Tommy's surprised look, you added "You know what he can do. Joel... That guy you caught when Sam and Anthony died... I don't want him to do something like that again because of me." 

You didn't know what Joel did back then, but you weren't stupid and you weren't fooling yourself. That man disappeared without a trace. You didn't feel any regret about it. Were you a bad person? Probably, but you didn't want Joel to get furious and do something stupid.

Tommy leaned in slightly toward you. "He's my brother. I should keep you safe."

"Nothing happened. Just make sure I don't have to see Elliot on patrol anymore."

Tommy shook his head, but eventually sighed in resignation. "Fine. I won't tell him. What about you? How are you feeling?"

"Better now."

You had your reasons for keeping Joel out of what happened. It was between you, Elliot, and Tommy, and you just tried to forget about it. Things were really good between you and Joel, and you didn't want something unpleasant to happen to change that, and Elliot definitely could.

For a few days you wondered if maybe you had actually done or said something that would make him feel like you were interested in him, but you had found nothing. Nothing beyond the normal greetings or exchanges of words that you had with other residents of Jackson. But the guilt quietly churned in the back of your mind.

Tommy, as he promised, moved Elliot to other duties and soon you went back to patrolling with Shane, which you welcomed with great relief. You were ready to forget about everything.

For the past few weeks, Joel had seemed worried about something, but every time you asked him about it, he would say, “It’s nothing, honey. Just… thinking.” And then he would kiss your forehead or temple and pretend nothing was wrong. You asked Ellie and Tommy about it too, but they would just shrug—for them, everything was normal.

"Maybe he's getting more grumpy with age?" Ellie once said, so you dropped the subject before she could say anything more. Things were good between you, so you didn't want to look for problems.

However, when Ann showed up at your door that evening, you knew something was wrong. She had a flushed face and seemed very concerned about something.

"Something with Elijah or Shane?" you asked, getting up from the couch and putting the book aside.

"Why didn't you tell me?" her voice was shaking. "We're friends after all."

"Ann, I don't understand." you replied, walking up to her "What happened? Where's the baby?"

"With Shane." she threw out casually, but her hand quickly grabbed your arm. "Shane told me. About Elliot and what happened. Why didn't you tell me?"

Shit. In an instant, you felt like the ground had dropped from under your feet. Tommy had promised you. Did he really...

But Ann must have noticed your surprise and calmed down a bit, or at least enough to speak a little quieter. “Shane was at the Tipsy Bison today. Elliot and a few other guys were there too. He…” she took a deep breath. “He said some really nasty things about you. Shane wanted to react, just tell him to shut up, but then he heard him talking about your last patrol…”

"What did he say?" the words just poured out of your mouth.

“Nothing specific.” Ann frowned, trying to remember her husband’s exact words. “Something about how you’d been seducing him for so long that he’d suggested a quickie but you got scared. That you and Joel were bullshit and you’d come to him soon.”

"Asshole!" you groaned, feeling tears welling up in your eyes, and the lump in your throat hurt more and more.

“I know!” Ann groaned, folding her arms across her chest. “Shane didn’t believe it either, he thought Elliot was just talking nonsense. But then… He remembered Tommy telling him that you asked him to so you wouldn’t have to go on patrol with Elliot, and he got a little scared. Honey, what happened?”

How were you supposed to tell her? You didn't want to go back to it, you wanted to forget, but at that moment you felt like you were really to blame for everything. Ann was looking at you, waiting for some kind of answer, so you gave it to her.

But as the words left your mouth, and her face grew even more terrified, you told her the same thing you had told Tommy. "I beg you, don't say anything Joel. He can't..."

Ann's eyes widened and her face tensed as she looked over your shoulder. You had no chance of hearing Joel's footsteps. You were so focused on your friend that you didn't hear him come in through the back door. He must have heard it all because when you looked at him, you were terrified. Eyes darkened, his jaw tensed. He looked at you in a way that made you feel like your legs were about to give out.

“Joel…” he moved, but it looked more like a wild animal preparing to attack. This wasn’t your Joel. “Joel…” you repeated, trying to touch him, but your fingers only grazed his shirt as he quickly walked past you, running out of the house and slamming the door.

Tipsy Bison was filled with people. Conversation and music filled the air, and almost no one noticed when Joel entered. He wasn't thinking. Emotions had completely taken over his body and he wasn't going to fight it.

When he got home he wanted to speak, but he heard Ann's worried voice so he just went to the door. What he heard completely shocked him.

Elliot. The same guy he had talked to a few times, the one he had seen in Jackson. The same one who seemed to be just polite to you. Joel didn't see him as a threat. Were his instincts starting to fail?

Joel's brain was producing visions of what could have happened, and it only made him more furious.

He swept his gaze around the inside of Tipsy Bison and soon spotted his target. Elliot was sitting at one of the tables with a few other men. The man didn't notice him, and when Joel reached him, he had no chance.

A strong hand gripped his shirt and pulled Elliot, forcing him to stand up. "What the hell?" escaped him, but he didn't even hear the answer as something hit him hard in the face.

The force of the blow was so strong that he tripped over a chair and fell to the floor with it. His companions stood up, surprised by what had happened, but Joel was already leaning over him. More blows fell, splitting Elliot's eyebrow and breaking his nose. Blood began to pour from his mouth. He had no chance to defend himself when Joel attacked with such force and fury.

"Enough! Enough!" a scream rang out.

Three pairs of male hands grabbed Joel, with difficulty tearing him away from the man lying and whimpering on the floor. Tommy looked at the bloodied Elliot in horror, and then at his brother. "We're leaving. Now!"

Joel didn't even protest. Adrenaline was pumping in his ears, his heart was pounding in his chest. He knew that if it weren't for Tommy and the others, he probably would have beaten that guy to death. He could do it. He wanted to do it.

The cold air swept over his face as they exited the building. "What was that?!" Tommy growled. "What are you-"

"I know what he did to her." Joel interrupted, noticing his brother's hesitation. "You know what I'm talking about, right?"

Not without hesitation, Tommy nodded. "I know. She told me. That same day."

Joel's blood began to flow faster again. "Why didn't she tell me? She should have!" he growled.

"That's exactly why!" his brother gestured to the Tipsy Bison door, where people were probably trying to help Elliot. "She wanted to avoid this! She was thinking about you!"

Tommy knew that Joel's head must be a real mess right now. He didn't hide the fact that he supported what he had done, Elliot should be happy that they managed to get Joel off of him so quickly. But Tommy felt sorry for him too, and for you. He loved you both, and his heart broke when he saw how this world treated you.

"How did you find out?" he asked, a little calmer now.

Joel sighed. "By accident. I heard her talking to Ann."

"You talked to her?" Joel shook his head. "Then do it. Damn it, she loves you and I know you love her too. She was the victim, don't forget that. She didn't tell you about Elliot to protect you. Even then, she only thought about you."

Joel didn't answer. Something tightened painfully in his throat, and his right hand was starting to hurt. Tommy didn't stop him as his brother started walking towards the house.

When the door opened again, you instinctively stood up. You didn't know what to expect. Joel left in such a state that you were afraid of every possibility. Ann wanted to stay, but you convinced her that it was pointless, she couldn't help you, she couldn't do anything.

"Come here." he said quietly, and when you came closer he just spread his arms.

You snuggled into his chest, hugging him tightly. Tears were pressing to your eyes, but when Joel hugged you, you felt safe. The steady beating of his heart was soothing, his warmth enveloping you. "You should have told me, baby." Joel didn't sound angry, rather sad and worried. "I should have known."

"I didn't want to worry you. I thought if I solved it myself, I'd forget about it..."

“And that didn’t happen?” He held you tighter. You sank deeper into him. You’d never needed anyone as much as you needed Joel. The silence was enough. His chest heaved with a deep breath. “It wasn’t your fault, baby. That asshole got lucky anyway, because if it wasn’t for Tommy…” he sighed. “Elliot will never look at you again. I promise you.”

And you knew that Joel Miller always kept his word.

She quietly closed the door and took off her shoes so as not to make any noise. But after a few steps that Ellie considered unusually quiet, she heard a familiar voice coming from the kitchen. “Good thing you know where you live, huh?”

The girl sighed and followed Joel's voice. The kitchen was barely lit, and he was finishing a glass of water he'd come down from his bedroom to get. It was almost midnight. Joel had never told her to be back at a specific time, only to make it a reasonable hour.

Ellie leaned against the doorframe and shoved her hands into her pants pockets.

"What?" he mumbled, looking at her sly smile.

"Nothing." She shrugged. "I heard what you did. Good job, dude."

Joel rolled his eyes. Ellie snorted.

"He deserved it. And it was your duty, after all." Joel frowned. "You're her man, right? You're supposed to defend her honor or something."

He nodded. "Sometimes I wonder how to protect you both, you know. This world is so fucking messed up."

“What if things were like they used to be?” Joel looked at Ellie in surprise, but she just smiled. “If things were like they used to be. Without the infected and the Riders and all that crap? Do you think you and her would meet? Or the two of us? I don’t think so.” Ellie yawned and stretched. “I’m going to bed. Good night!”

"Good night, kid." Joel mumbled.

He stood in the kitchen for a moment longer, listening to her slow footsteps as she climbed the stairs, then the slam of the door. In the room across from Ellie’s, you were sleeping peacefully in your shared bed.

For a moment, he felt like he was truly home. And even though deep in his heart he still mourned the life he had, this new life was with him and he wanted to be a part of it. Joel felt better as he lay down next to you, put his arm around you, and snuggled against your back, kissing your shoulder.

"Ellie's back?" your voice was quiet and sleepy.

"Safe and sound, baby." Just like you.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

taglist, i think: @picketniffler @orcasoul @bbyanarchist @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @somedayheaven @underneath-the-sky-again @callmebyyournick-name @hiroikegawa @

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

katsuki is and forever will be a massive baby.

and it’s all your damn fault, so he says.

you hadn’t even said anything bad. all you'd said was that he looked even more handsome today then he usually did. and he'd looked at you like you grew an extra head, and now he's like this.

you don't even really know what did it, but then again it could've been anything with katsuki. too much eye contact, too long eye contact. your hands lingering a little too long on his face or your fingers rubbing at the crease of his eyebrows.

you don't know what it is but he won't remove his head from your neck now, grumbling about how stupid you are.

"katsukii.."

"shut up." he hisses through gritted teeth like he's angry, and he is. look at what you do to him ! it drives him crazy. you drive him crazy.

yet you giggle, rubbing softly at his hair and he shoves his head into you harder, the angle he's forcing your neck at is awkward but you don't mind, you'll let him have his little tantrum as you stroke his blonde messy tufts of hair tickling your chin.

"all i said was that-"

"i heard you. the first time. shut the fuck up." his grip on your hips tightens to the point you think he'll make indents in your skin. hands practically steaming and boiling hot to show you the embarrassment he refuses to let show on his face. your smirk grows wider, god you love messing with your boyfriend.

"i don't get why you're so angry, baby." you coo sweetly and he growls from the deepest part of his throat. he squeezes at your waist, clearly wanting you to just stop talking. but of course. you don't.

"it's cus you—you fuckin'—" he splutters and cuts himself off, not finding a proper way to convey how much you make his skin burn and prickle and itch. how you have his heart buzz and beat so loud against his ribcage he's sure you can hear it. and how much he fucking hates it. (he doesn't)

so he does the next best thing.

"ouch !"

he bites you. the asshole.

you're such an asshat !" you whine, pushing at his shoulders, and he grumbles when he pulls away. he lightly nuzzles against the mark he's left into your skin as a sort of apology, you don't deserve a kiss right now. (he'll give you one later) then he pulls away to look at you.

"s'your own fault," he huffs, cheeks less bright then they first were when you'd made the irreparable mistake of complimenting him (in his eyes, you regret nothing) but still with a nasty scowl on his face.

"ya keep sayin' dumb shit so now you deal with the consequences," he presses his nose against your pulse point as he huffs hard into your neck to annoy you and it works because you grumble, you feel him smirk proudly.

two could play that game.

"what dumb shit ? the fact that you're handso-" you cut yourself off with a giggled squeal as katsuki drops you backwards onto his bed with a snarl. you snort and giggle when he blows raspberries and softly bites into your neck, helplessly trying to push him away with your limp arms.

"you just can't help yourself, can ya.." he tuts, grabbing your arms and pushing them against his bed, barely suppressed smirk on his face as he sees your eyes prick with tears, leaning back in to blow into your neck "think you’re funny ? hah ?!"

he ignores your giggled plea's and bites at your fingers when he leans back enough for you to push at his face.

"yuck ! you're gross !" you wheeze, still giggling as you see the lopsided smile on his face. he huffs at the exertion of keeping you still, he really isn't trying hard to convince you he isn't handsome when he looked like that.

"yeah ? i'm gross, huh ? right back at you," he leans in close to you again, smirk still playing on his face "saying mushy shit like that."

"yeah well, i'll keep sayin' it !" you retort, sticking your tongue out at him. he rolls his eyes and drops onto you, causing you to grunt out an 'oof !' sound. he's stays quiet until he presses a soft kiss onto your skin, right where he'd bitten you. unbeknownst to you, his expression softens as he tries to repress a smile. he scoffs.

"you're so damn weird." he utters affectionately.

[max-nicoxfandom]

DCXDP - Danny is a flerken, this causes Dick a lot of concern

Dick doesn't like Damian's new cat, or everyone thinks it's a cat, at least. It's kinda big for the size of a regular house cat, and it's whole body is like a weird trippy illusion; black with blue eyes one moment, white with green the next.

Damian claims he just picked it up off the street, and he's overall utterly unperturbed with the cat. According to him the thing was probably some sort of escaped lab experiment, and he is determined to figure out who was testing so inhumanely on animals. May God have mercy on their souls when that boy reaches them.

No one in the family quite likes the cat, except Damian, obviously.

The animal just has a way of sneaking into where it's not supposed to. It's always watching. Always just around the corner. Always at the exact place you don't want it to be at that exact moment.

Tim in particular is very annoyed by the cat. He likes to sit on Tim's paperwork, press buttons on his computer, and stick his face in Tim's coffee. The cat actively makes Tim's life harder whenever it gets the chance. Damian finds this to be the best form of comedy, because he is a little menace(lovingly).

Dick thinks he has it the worst with the cat overall though. Why? Because no one believes him about this stupid animal. Sure, they all agree that the cat is fucking weird, at the very least it's more sapient than a cat should be, but that's as far as they take it.

Not Dick.

Dick managed to sneak up on it once, and only once, and has never even attempted again. He just wanted to get back at the creature after it spent all day tripping him as he walked down the halls. It was harmless! Honestly, he just expected the cat to jump, maybe hiss, and skitter away for the rest of the day.

Instead the cat whirled around and opened its jaw so wide Dick swears its chin began to grace the floor, and then glowing green tentacles came out! They latched around his arms, covered his nose and mouth, and began to pull him into the tooth filled abyss of its jaws.

He felt the life in him leave before he was even half way pulled in. The fight slowly began to drain out of him, and the room was getting so so cold. Dick really thought this was how he was going to die, via his baby brother's freaky ass cat.

And then Damian's voice rang out, sharp and firm, simply calling the name of his cat lovingly dubbed "Phantom". The name Dick gave him, actually, because the cat travelled around the house like a ghost. Damian is the one who decided the name ghost was too childish, and thus, Phantom came about.

Damian arrived to him laying on the floor, Phantom on top of his chest purring away, as if the thing didn't try to consume him mere moments ago.

"Lying on the floor is quite unbecoming of you, Richard. However, since you are bonding with Phantom, I will let it slide."

And then Damian picked up the cat, tucked it into his chest, and walked back to where he came from.

When talking to Damian about the event later, he just looked at him like he was stupid. Tim said the cameras had shorted out (something that had been happening a lot recently), and he had no clue what Dick was talking about. Bruce and Alfred both advised him to seek mental help, believing him to be stress hallucinating. He didn't even bother telling the others.

So yeah, Dick doesn't like Damian's cat monster. He doesn't want to hurt his baby brother's feelings, but it can't stay.

Will be reblogging with more, eventually, other people's additions are VERY welcome

[sabxynsweet]

mattheo defends sweetheart!reader's honour

content warning: lots of swearing, "whore", mention of slight injury (very brief)

It's barely late afternoon when it happens.

You're sitting at the Slytherin table during lunch, laughing as you and Pansy recount your weekend spent at Hogsmeade, you're sat next to Mattheo and he gives you his cup of fruit knowing you like it far more than he does.

Your peace is disrupted by a loud whisper of your name across the Slytherin table, the group silences a little and you turn your focus to a sixth year Slytherin you barely recognise - Peter Goyle, you think his name is.

But Peter isn't looking at you, he's talking obnoxiously to his group of friends.

"The Hufflepuff girl? The one always hanging around Riddle and his friends?" His friend asks, Peter nods in confirmation.

"Yeah, her." He scoffs, "Biggest fucking attention seeker, it's so pathetic."

Your heart drops.

You look over at Mattheo but his eyes are hard and focused on Peter, his jaw clenched tight.

Pansy looks over at you with furrowed brows.

What the fuck? She mouths to you, you just stare at her with unfocused eyes, trying your best to dissociate from this moment.

"I don't know, Man." His friend mutters, "She seems sweet."

Peter barks out a laugh at that. A mean, unkind laugh so far contrasting with your friends'.

"That's just her act, I bet you anything she'll drop it once Mattheo's run her through." He say, "Whores like her are always the same."

Oh.

Without another word, Mattheo stands from his seat and stalks carefully over to him. He's not operating with the usual blind aggression. Instead, his steps are controlled.

You're so caught off guard by Peter's cruel words, you don't even stop Mattheo.

It's not just him, though. Pansy looks like she's ready to murder a man but instead she rushes over to your side, focusing her attention on you instead. Enzo, Theo and Blaise look three words away from joining Mattheo, but they know better than to join him when he's in this state.

"I'm worried for the guy." You murmur to Pansy.

"Don't be." She shakes her head.

Peter looks up, sensing the energy shift in the room, to see Mattheo walking towards him, he at least has the decency to look scared.

He's about to defend himself - or run - but he doesn't get the chance because Mattheo is slamming his head onto the table with a punch.

You gasp, covering your mouth when you hear the sickening sound that follows. Even Enzo breaks out of his own anger to wince.

The entire focus of the lunch room is on them as Mattheo beats the boy into a pulp.

"You wanna say that shit about her again?" He mutters, blind with rage.

You desperately want to run in to stop him but you know that wouldn't do anything, you doubt he'd even hear you.

Luckily, Professor Mcgonagall marches into the lunch hall and with a flick of her wand and a quickly uttered spell, Mattheo is pulled off of the barely-conscious boy.

It's then you rush over to Mattheo, ignoring the attention that is now suddenly placed on you.

Mattheo is still in a fury and his dark eyes reflect that, the glare he's wearing is enough to remind you who his parents are.

But the rage disappears from his eyes as soon as they land on you, he takes shallow breaths, you take his bruised hands in yours carefully.

"50 points from Slytherin, this is unacceptable, Mattheo." Mcgonagall hisses, you look at her apologetically though her anger is definitely not directed at you.

"You three," She points to a few bystanders, "Take him to Madam Pomfrey, get him sorted out."

"As for you," She directed her harsh gaze towards Mattheo, "Detention after school everyday for the next month."

He simply nods, eyes blank and uncaring. He subtly rubs his knuckle with his hand - something that doesn't go unnoticed by you.

You look down at his hands to notice that his knuckles are bruised and cutting open, you frown.

Mcgonagall simply shakes her head and sighs when she leaves.

There's still half an hour left for lunch when you take his hand silently and lead him out of the lunch hall.

You can tell he's still filled with adrenaline after earlier's events, though your presence is calming him down.

"Are you okay?" You ask gently, leading him by his hand.

He shakes his head, "Are you okay?"

You laugh softly, deflecting. "You're the one who was just in a fight and you're asking me?"

"I mean it, I know shit like this gets to you." He says, "You're okay, right? You know what he says is complete bullshit and it's not true, right?"

You nod, "I know."

Did you? Part of you will always be worried that what Peter Goyle said about you was true, he wouldn't be the first to call you what he did.

But you didn't hang around the Slytherins as much as you did because they gave you attention. Truthfully, it was because they were the first group of people to not take your kindness for weakness.

Ironically enough, between the students in your own house, your classmates and all your other friends - they treated you with the most care. They adored you for who you were instead of what you could do for them.

You look up at Mattheo, who got his knuckles bloody for you and you know you aren't just hanging around for no reason.

Eventually, you make it back to your dorm and you bring him to your bathroom.

You take the first aid kit (that you bought specifically for of him) and bring his knuckles up to your eyes to inspect.

You frown, the cuts are splitting open more. It looks so painful you could cry.

It's like he can read your mind, "I'm okay." He reassures you.

You're not convinced but instead of crying for him, you bring his knuckles up to your lips to gently brush your lips against them before dabbing it with cotton balls and a bit of water.

"This is going to scar." You murmur, more to yourself then anything.

"Add it to the collection." He jokes dryly, you don't laugh, "Come on, Sweetheart, thought you liked my scars."

You did, you like all of him.

"I'd rather you weren't in pain." Your voice wobbles and your lips form into a small pout.

He chuckles before speaking to you softly. "I promise you, I've been through worse and it was worth it."

He kisses your pout away gently, so different from the violence he held just half an hour ago.

"I'm okay." He reassures again, his lips still brushing against yours.

His knuckles burn like there's a match on them and his body hasn't really been okay for a while.

But your hands are cradling his head. You're doting on him and his bruised knuckles like he's glass that might crack under too much pressure. You look at him in a way no one has before. You like everything about him. His pain is yours.

He's okay, he's never been better.

i quite like this one :( it's very sweet i think <3

taglist: @fallingwallsh @espressqe @theodoresvalentine @fanfictiononly4 @genuinelyfloatingsouls @fayezasstuff @glittervame @wxnterwidow333 @thalibaby @cminoko @blainea98 @randomfanpage @megzz-x @peterparkerspersonalplaything

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

dec 4th. tom riddle — bondage, begrudgingly!sub tom.

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. | 2024

summary: revenge is sweet—but getting tom riddle to beg is so, so much fucking sweeter.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, reader gives tom a lust potion in retribution, PIV, desperate sex, tom so out of sorts he doesn’t even know what he’s saying, so much teasing it’s painful, dirty talk, light bondage, choking.

All is fair in love and war.

This might not be love, but it isn't just war, either. It's something messier, something darker, something with teeth. Every time you and Tom Riddle play this game it seems to follow the same trajectory, almost like a dance—step, feint, clash, retreat—a push and pull, a ritualistic give and take until someone takes a little too much and the tension boils over to something like this. 

A locked door. A stolen breath. His body pressing yours into some surface and his hands on your throat, or in your hair, or at your waist with—

"You did something to me." Growled at your neck. 

Right now, expectedly, is no different.

"What could I possibly have done to you?" You drawl, bored blowing off your breath. "The great Tom Riddle himself."

You want to sound dismissive, condescending—just enough to light a match to his already fraying patience—but Tom is too keyed up to take the bait, and that alone thrills you. You can feel the heat radiating off him. Smell the clean, addictive scent of his hair, the musk of dark magic religiously woven into his skin. 

He smells intense, and it makes you dizzy.

Makes you reckless.

"You’re funny," he exhales, the force of it stirring your hair. He's ripping off his jacket now, rolling up his sleeves like he's ready to wrestle the devil himself. "This is your idea of revenge, isn't it?"

There's a shrug, something vindictive set in your shoulders just to get under his skin that much more—spurred on by the sheer state of him before you; those perfect curls a mess, onyx eyes burning with something primal. 

"This, meaning what, exactly?" You watch the corded tension in his neck tighten as he shoves his hair back, hands visibly unsteady. "You'll have to be more specific."

He lets out a stifled groan from somewhere deep in his chest at that—he's struggling, and he knows you know it, a delicious little factoid that has his patience stretched so thin it's almost see-through—

"You're enjoying this," he snarls, forcing himself over to a nearby loveseat and slumping down into it. His voice is half-hoarse, strangled by the effort it's taking him to keep this much distance between you. "You—fuck."

There we go. 

Unable to stall the grin off your lips any longer, you move forward with something predatory—something devious in each step perfectly placed just to spite him—a deliberate sway of the hips, the slight rise and fall of your chest—anything, really, just to break him that much faster. 

He's right. This is your revenge. 

"Oh, Tom," you creep around behind his chair, lips leaning toward his ear. "Are you feeling alright? You're looking hot."

You take note of the way his jaw pulses as he grinds his teeth. The way that one simple word from your mouth—spoken in the type of low, sultry tone that could make even a dead man hard—affects him.

"You're wicked," his head falls back to look up at you, lips glistening like he's salivating over the mere sound of your voice. Still, he's fighting it—still trying to deny you the satisfaction. "Did you know that?"

"You love it," you murmur, fingers slipping their way over his shoulders, down his chest. You lean closer, catching sight of the sharp bulge straining against his trousers. "Look how much you fucking love it."

Another stifled groan. 

"You don't want to do this, sweetheart," he hisses—and there's the nickname, the nickname you've told him you hate. His way of retaliation. "Not now." 

"And why not?" Your fingers dip lower, tracing over the definition of his abdomen. "Because you're not in control? Or because I am?"

He's fighting himself—you see the war play out on his face in the way his brows knit together—the way his lips part briefly only to swallow back whatever words were about to crawl out of them. 

He's never been very good at being at anyone's mercy, least of all yours. 

"You think you're in control," the words rasp against his throat, as if speaking them too loud might shift the balance. "You're delusional."

"Maybe," you whisper, lips brushing his cheek, the curve of a smirk curling into your voice. "Maybe I'm absolutely batshit." Your hand slips downward, slowly, over his stomach to his belt, fingers ghosting the buckle. "But we both know why you dragged me in here, Tom. Don't we?"

He scowls.

"You—" 

The moment you brush against his bulge with the barest touch, his hips jerk forward—words disintegrating, raw instinct betraying his restraint.

"God, look at you." You nearly choke on the heat between you. If this isn't the sexiest fucking thing you've ever seen. "Just admit it, Tommy. Admit you need me to fi—"

You don't get to finish. Something in him snaps—

"Fucking—" he's moving on auto-pilot, hands reaching up to seize you and yank you closer. "—fix this, then." 

In a blink, you're in his lap with his grip on your hips and he's growling—one hand slipping up to the back of your head to fist your hair and force your mouth to his before you get the chance to snap back—

And as soon as your lips collide it's a fight for dominance—teeth clashing as your tongues tangle, both of you biting and pulling at each other like animals. You're grinding against him and he's excruciatingly-hard beneath you and you can practically hear the intensity of it, both of you caught up in the sheer feral force of this—no rhyme or rhythm, no control—just hunger, desperate and unrelenting, like something unleashed that neither of you can put back in its cage.

After all but an eternity of this, you wrench back with force, breaking the kiss and shoving yourself upright. His head falls back against the chair, chest heaving, his lips slick and parted, pupils blown wide and glittering with fury—or lust. You’re sure it’s a bit of both.

He's trying to gain control, his hand still fisted in your hair, arms trapping you in place like he thinks he can still win this. 

But you see him now, raw and undone, and you know better.

"You want me to fix this," you murmur, skating your fingers over his chest lightly enough to make him twitch. "Then put your hands on the armrests."

He wants to fight that, you can tell—wants to yank you back into him, wants to wield that weapon of a tongue—but other things take precedence now, like you, here, on his lap—so close to giving him everything he needs.

You think, to him, the demand must sound less like an order and more like salvation. 

He all but slams his hands down onto the armrests.

You smirk. "Good boy."

Unsurprisingly, he scowls again, a dangerous flash in his eyes—but that doesn't stop his hips from jerking greedily when you grind down against him—fingers digging into the leather underneath them, twitching like they want to make you do it again. 

That doesn't escape your notice. 

"Mm. Just incase." Pulling out your wand, you cast a spell that binds his wrists to the chair. "I know how you are." 

His expression shifts instantly, lips curling back into something like a snarl as he yanks at the invisible binds. They don't budge—your work is seamless—his own spellwork mastered and turned against him.

"I'm going to fucking digest you," he spits, all venom and heat, eyes blazing as he pulls harder. "When I get out of this chair, you'll—oh, you'll beg for-"

You shut him up with your mouth, crushing your lips to his. It's all teeth and tongue, desperate and wild, as your nails rake down his chest and he arches into you—

"Who says I don't like it when you make me pay, baby?" You breathe, biting his bottom lip hard enough to draw a groan from deep in his throat. "Maybe it's my favourite part."

For a moment he doesn't respond—he knows that's true. You love this game too much not to toe the line when possibilities arise. He's pulling uselessly at the binds again as you roll your hips against him, dragging him further into ruin.

"You are," he chokes out, head tilting back as your teeth scrape along his jaw, "an infuriating, wicked little witch."

You huff against his skin, against the pulse point at his throat and the sensitive area under his ear—he's squirming—making strangled, animal sounds that have you seeping through your panties. 

"You're only just noticing?" You’re drinking in his hypersensitivity for all it's worth. "You're losing your touch."

He scoffs, or tries to—it comes out closer to a moan stuck between shallow breaths. 

"Noticed it...the day I met you," he gasps, hips jerking up as you rock against him. "But, fuck—you've gotten a hell of a lot worse."

Perhaps he's right. Perhaps it's the company you keep—specifically, the one pinned beneath you. 

"You're just mad I'm beating you at your own game," you’re grinding down harder, fingers drifting to the buttons of your blouse. "You're a terrible loser."

"And you're—" he starts, but his words falter when you pull the last button free and shrug the fabric off your shoulders, exposing black lace and soft skin. "—an insufferable winner."

"I think the real problem," you toss your shirt to the floor, hands returning to slide down his chest again, undoing his buttons now. "Is that you secretly love losing to me." 

You'd think that would earn another snarl from him—or perhaps a sharp retort about how he'd never lose to anyone, or how he’d never enjoy being at your mercy—but he's clearly too far gone to keep up with even that as he watches you, all but trembling at your touch. 

"Stop—“ he twitches when your fingers glide over his exposed chest, trailing lower. "—talking."

"Make me," you make your way to his belt buckle, taking your time to undo it, sliding the leather free before moving to the zipper of his pants, dragging it down even slower. "Oh, wait. You can't."

He’s helpless to fight the growl you force out of him at that—a vicious sound that makes you clench. His fingers tighten around the armrests, yanking hard against the bonds holding him in place. Useless, you both know, but it doesn't stop him from trying, from straining against them like he might will them to break through sheer desperation alone. 

He exhales through his teeth. "Stop teasing." 

"Now where's the fun in that?" you dip your hand below the waistband of his boxers. He jerks beneath you as your fingers tease just enough to make his breath catch. "You should be grateful l'm taking pity on you—" your tone as soft as it is mocking, "—being oh so kind to help-"

Another groan, another almost snarl. "Stop. Teasing." 

Oh, how the tables turn. You know precisely how he's feeling—you've been here like this, with him, a million times before. It’s the sweetest torture. One you’re sure he doesn't want you to stop—not really. Not with a lust potion dripping from his pores. 

He fucking needs this.

"And what happensssss," you drag your words out as your fingers glide slow, featherlight strokes up and down his rock of an erection. "If I don't?"

His response is a wrecked string of profanity—some of it strangled, some of it guttural, and none of it in English. He's not even remotely coherent anymore, and you're not surprised. Eloquence had abandoned him long before you'd even stepped into the room.

"I will—" he hisses through clenched teeth as you tease your thumb over his leaking tip, "— fuck—I will fuck your ass so hard—“

Now that gets a moan from you—the filthiness of his words, at the way his voice drops so dark and low it should probably be a fucking felony. He's swearing, writhing, desperate, and you're absolutely dripping from it—from the way Tom Riddle has unraveled into this devastating, feral thing underneath you.

"Is that what you're thinking about right now?" Another murmur, lips brushing against his ear as you shift to tug his pants and boxers down. "Fucking my tight ass? Punishing me?"

"Without mercy," he spits, breath hitching as you free him—his cock springing out, thick and throbbing, twitching in time with his shallow gasps. "Fuck—"

You pull away to get a better look at him—and god, the sight almost makes you lose your mind. The man always so put together, always so self assured and smug and in control of every goddamn thing—reduced to this. 

"Such a vulgar mouth, for such a pretty face," leaning forward, you lick a slow, deliberate stripe up his neck. He tastes like sweat and sin. Just how you like him. "Tell me more."

"Fuck," his head tips back involuntarily, exposing his throat to you like it's instinct. He's twitching as you grind your slick heat along his shaft, soaking him, teasing him until his hips buck up against you. "Put me inside you—"

You're barely holding onto yourself, every roll of your hips against him leaving you dizzy and aching—but you drag it out, grinding down harder.

"That's an order, isn't it?" You breathe, catching his earlobe between your teeth. "You giving me orders now?"

"I'm giving you pleas," he rasps. "You fed me a potion that's made me so hard it physically aches, and now you're sitting here—fucking teasing me—"

"Retaliation," you reply with a smile. "You're the one who thought it was a good idea to feed me a truth serum before dinner at Malfoy's."

That night still lingers in both of your minds—things involuntarily said that can't ever be unsaid. Things that still make Draco avoid your eyes at every turn.

"A mistake," he grits out. In any other moment, you know he'd be smirking. "A mistake—I'll admit it, fuck-"

"You're not the type to make mistakes," it’s a true statement, one overridden by the feeling of his dick twitching as your hips still, going maddeningly idle. "You wanted the Malfoy’s to know I'm yours. And now, well, now I have to show you that you're mine."

There’s a moments pause at that. One that makes you realize just how loud your pulse is pounding in your ears. Tom looks at you, holding your eyes until—

"I am," he concedes, finally throwing in the towel with a gasp that's half desperation, half devotion. "Yours. So fucking take what's yours."

"Oh, baby," you purr, cupping his cheek in your palm. He leans into it without realizing, like he's starving for your touch. "I always do."

And with that, you rise up—slick soaked inner thighs leaving damp spots against his half pulled down trousers—humming with a smirk as you slide a hand over his chest, nails raking over his skin, holding him down against the chair—

"Be still," an order. "Or I'll take it a hell of a lot slower."

His whole body shudders at that—but does what he's told and keeps still—chest swelling with each shallow breath as he watches you—dark eyes flicking from your lips to your tits to your cunt—muscles straining and wrists firm against their binds. 

"Just—do it," he mutters through parted lips and clenched teeth—squeezing his eyes shut. "Please."

The world stops. Time freezing to nothing. You swear you'd forgotten how to breathe.

Please. Like it's a holy thing, a sacred word to be used only in worship. Like he's said something he's never uttered in his life. Please. Like a prayer, like a begging benediction. You'd never loved the sound of anything from his lips quite like you do that. 

You will hear it again. You long to make him say it until he forgets every other word he knows.

"How could I refuse that?" His eyes fly open as you reach down, gripping his aching length and gliding the head against your soaked slit. "Fuck, you're so big. So hard."

"Hard," he echoes as his hips buck involuntarily, seeking more friction. "Because this is—torture."

"And whose fault is that, Tommy?" You taunt, just barely sinking down, letting the tip of him sit against what you know he wants. "Oh, that's right. Yours."

"Mine," he grunts before his patience finally snaps in half and he jerks his hips up—shoving his cockhead inside you with a strangled moan. "Fucking mine."

Oh, Merlin help you.

Your head falls back with a moan, eyes slipping shut as the sensation steals the breath from your lungs. He stretches you in the way only he can, and for a moment, you think you should punish him for disobeying you by taking back control—but you can't bring yourself to care about anything other than how fucking good it feels.

"Yours," you breathe, rolling your hips to take him just an inch deeper. "All yours."

"More," his voice cracks, the veins in his neck straining. "Take more. Please."

Theres the word again—please. It makes you weak, makes you greedy. Makes you break and give in on the sheer knowledge of how much it fucking pains him to say it. 

"Oh, gods"" you moan, shifting your hips to take him deeper still, inch by aching inch. "Fuck."

"Take it," he sneers, as if it's his turn to taunt you. Even like this, he's still the same bastard. "You can take more than that."

You curse lowly and sink your nails into his chest for it—because it's the kind of challenge you can't win, even like this you know you'll still lose. He knows it too. 

"I can," you hiss, sinking another inch deeper, and then another. "But can you?"

"Can I?" There’s a mocking lilt to his voice that knows. "Release my wrists, and we'll see."

Christ. That's a question you don't want to answer because you know anything other than yes would be a lie. It's tempting. You know as soon as you let him go he'd put those beautiful hands to use—he'd take back control and you'd immediately let him. Like a lamb to the slaughter. 

Even if this is supposed to be his punishment.  

"Be," you gasp, sinking down all the way and clenching tight as he kisses your cervix. "Quiet."

He lets out a sharp, strangled curse—a guttural string of something you think might either be Latin or Parseltongue—something rough and beautiful all at once—and you decide, right then, that it's undoubtedly the most sinfully delicious thing you've ever heard. 

"I love it when you swear," you manage to breathe out through moans, rolling your hips and savouring the stretch, the ache, the impossible fullness of him inside you. “And I love it even more that it's in languages I don't know—makes me wonder what you're saying."

"Things that'll get me slapped," he grunts, and the tone he uses is the one that promises trouble—trouble, if you let him go. "Or hexed, perhaps."

"Mm. I should hex you right now. I’m considering it," you’re gasping between moans, pleasure buzzing in your brain. "So hard."

"I think, right now," the words split between a groan as your nails leave faint red lines on his shoulders—as you clench around him again, dragging your slick walls up and down his shaft in rhythm. “If you tried to hex me, I’d let you. If it meant you’d keep going.”

You almost take him up on it. You love him like this far too much. So much it’s almost pathetic.

"Good boy." You force the words out, fighting through the sting on your cervix every time he bottoms out inside you, slamming against it. "So. Fucking. Good."

"Jesus Christ," he chokes, muscles taut as the veins in his neck strain. His hips jerk up to meet you at every bounce, greedy for more. "Don't stop."

"Oh, I won't," you dig your nails deeper into his skin for balance. The sting shoots through his body, his reaction delicious. "Not until l've made you swear to every god in the sky."

"Shouldn’t take long," he hisses through his teeth, shoulders cresting as your pace grows faster, more erratic. "I'm practically praying now."

"Good," you breathe, thighs burning as the heat coils tight and relentless inside you, every roll of your hips making you feel fuller, wetter, closer to falling apart. "I want to hear you pray my name."

"You're sadistic," he hisses. "Fuck."

"Pot, kettle," you taunt, biting lightly at the curve of his neck—not hard enough to bruise, but just enough to make him feel it.

The sound he makes—half moan, half growl—is filthy.

"Oh, you like that, don't you?" You murmur, dragging your lips toward his ear, breath molten. "You like pain. I know you do."

"I'd like to inflict some right about now," his voice breaks as you nip at his earlobe. "My hands on your throat. That smart fucking mouth—"

"Mmm," you hum, rolling your hips slower, deeper. "And what would you do with it?"

"Fill it," his voice is broken, head tipping back as his body begs for release. "Fuck. I'm so fucking close."

"You're filthy when you're desperate," you whisper, dragging your hand up to his throat, fingers wrapping around it, squeezing just enough to make his breath hitch. "I fucking love it."

His eyes flash—for a moment, you're not sure how he'll take it—your hand curling around his neck, fingers pressing against the pulse hammering beneath his skin. The unpredictability of him—always teetering between fury and something far more intense—makes you hesitate, even in this state. You wonder if he'll snarl, buck you off, or somehow counteract the spell to rid of the restraints entirely—

But all he does is swallow against it, hips jerking up, cock pressing bruisingly deep—dark eyes fixing on your lips, wild and glassy with want—

And then, he fucking grins. "Tighter."

"Freak," you moan far too loudly, heat pooling low in your belly as you oblige, tightening your grip. You bounce faster, adrenaline fuelling you, panting growing sharper with every wild bounce. "Cum for me."

"Like I have a choice," he rasps, voice shredded, his teeth gritted as his eyes squeeze shut. "Fuck—ffffff—"

The sound he makes when he finally breaks—guttural, filthy, your name torn from his lips—is fucking devastating. Devastating enough to drive you directly to your own orgasm, eyes rolling back and crying out words you aren’t even aware of as he shudders and jerks and tenses underneath you.

"Oh, fuck-yes," you breathe, riding him through it, clenching hard until the aftershocks start to fade out, as you slow your pace. “Tom—“

"God," he gasps, his head falling back in exhaustion, voice stumbling over the word. "God. Fuck."

The incoherence coming from his mouth is a treat—and through your fog, for only the most fleeting of moments, you wonder who exactly he's praying to when he says that.

His chest is rising and falling like he's just run miles, sweat-slick skin glowing in the low light. His head rolls forward, eyes still heavy-lidded, and when they meet yours, there's something feral still dangling in their depths. A lingering hunger that makes your breath hitch.

"That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" He finally speaks after he finds whatever oxygen is left in the room. "To ruin me?"

You're still seated on him, still full of him, and even now, you can feel him twitch inside you. Strong potion.

You exhale with a smirk, feeling your pulse slow. "You're still in one piece, aren't you?"

He laughs—dark, deep, and utterly sinful. It's the kind of laugh that promises you haven't won anything at all. His wrists flex against the bindings, and you swear the leather creaks.

"For now," his tone is almost gentle, but the fire in his eyes betrays him. "But if you think I'm going to let you walk away after this..." he grins. "You're more delusional than I thought."

Oh, Tom. If you only knew.

[totallynotashieldagent]

Alright alright…Damian Wayne secret GF/Family BUT WITH A TWIST. It’s an arranged marriage from his time in the leauge, and he just sort of. Never broke contact with her fully. It doesn’t bother her but with a father known as the world’s greatest detective?

Pleaaase and thank you if you do ❤️

The Birthday Blurbs Special

lets go with batman dami and old bruce <33

This would've never happened if Damian hadn't gone off planet for a mission. He had been diligent, he had been careful, and he always made sure to tie up loose ends.

However, being away longer than expected, the letters that were always timely answered by him specifically, were left unattended.

So, it was no surprise when he returned to the Manor, Bruce was standing in the Cave by the BoomTube, his arms folded.

"We need to talk-" Bruce said as soon as Damian exited the Tube.

"Can this wait, father?" He asked, walking past Bruce.

"No." The firm tone made Damian pause and turn.

"Did something happen-" He started but his voice fizzled out when Bruce held up multiple letters.

The stamp on the corner was so painfully you that he knew immediately. Though his heart had dropped to his stomach, he didn't show it outwardly.

"So, you know." He spoke with a controlled tone.

"Know? I think having a daughter-in-law is something I should have been aware of!" Bruce glared. However, he was Damian's father and he knew that he wouldn't get anywhere with him like this. He exhaled deeply. "How long?"

"Seven years." He stated as if it were a simple fact.

"And you never thought to mention-" Bruce stared daggers at his son.

"You never asked." Damian rolled his eyes, taking off his gear meticulously.

"I wasn't aware I needed to interrogate my own son for spouses." Bruce stayed put, leaning on his cane, watching him move around and removing the heavy armoured suit.

After a beat, Bruce spoke again. "You should go rest." He sounded calm. Too calm. Which made Damian raise a brow.

"Just like that?" He asked cautiously.

Bruce smiled ever so lightly, and Damian knew he was in danger.

"Of course." Bruce said softly. "You'll need to be well-rested and ready to receive her tomorrow."

"WHAT?!" The air was knocked out of him.

"I invited her to stay with us. Considering she is family." Bruce's voice was mockingly sweet.

The days following were agony for Damian. He tried his best to contact you to not come but he couldn't reach you. And finally, the day arrived when you were to be expected.

Damian stood in the foyer, tugging at his cuffs again to fix them even though they were perfectly fine. Bruce stood as straight as he could, given his age. He watched his son from the corner of his eye and how he fidgeted nervously.

"You had no right." Damian hissed.

"You got married in the mountains-" Bruce shot back. "And didn't even-"

"It was necessary." He stated, his eyes glued to the door.

"Well, I believe it's necessary to meet someone who could tolerate you for more than five minutes." Bruce matched his tone.

Eventually, the doors opened and there you were.

Bruce noticed how Damian's shoulders relaxed ever so lightly with your sight. He watched you walk into the Manor as if you belonged there. Not with arrogance, but with a simple grace that hadn't been seen in these walls for years.

"Beloved. I apologise for the inconvenience. I was off planet and-" Damian reached for your hands, "My father is...my father." He sighed softly.

He kissed your cheek with all the gentleness of a dancer. Bruce saw how you leaned into his touch. As if he weren't a master assassin but simply a man.

You turned to Bruce with a smile. "I've heard a lot about you."

"I wish I could say the same," Bruce smirked a little, earning a glare from Damian. "But now that you're here, I'm sure I'll get to know you well enough. Afterall, you did manage the impossible."

"You don't have to accept-" Damian started but at a gentle squeeze of his hand, he quieted immediately. Again, another sight that didn't go unnoticed by Bruce.

"Come. Alfred made Lamb." Bruce turned, walking towards the dining hall. "We have much to talk about."

Damian looked at you again, his eyes pleading with apologies still, but you simply patted his cheek with love.

"We'll survive." You whispered to him and followed your father-in-law.

[polarspaz]

DualityReboot AU

After dramatically passing out, Anakin is carried back to the ship by Obi-Wan and the clone troopers. There, they try and figure out what's causing him to breath so erratically as well as what's causing his eyes to bleed.

While the medics fuss about, Obi-Wan can't help but sit there in stunned shock, replaying the day's events in his mind over and over again. He knew Anakin had been behaving rather odd lately, acting almost like an entirely different person in some occasions, but he had simply assumed it was the result of the increasing stress of the war.

The battles had taken a rather brutal turn as of late and even Obi-Wan was starting to feel strained, so Anakin acting off kilter was understandable, but falling to the Darkside? Obi-Wan couldn't believe it. Even though he felt that oppressive darkness strangle him, even though he saw volcanic gold eyes looking back instead of blue, he still felt Anakin.

Most of all, all Obi-Wan could feel was his pain.

Especially right now. It wasn't even the physical pain that was troubling Obi-Wan, it was mental one. Anakin had tried to block their bond earlier, but the barrier he had put up was now crumbling, allowing Obi-Wan to peek through and see what was causing Anakin so much mental anguish.

What he did not expect was to suddenly pass out as his mental consciousness was ripped out him and shoved straight into Anakin's vision/dream.

It takes Obi-Wan a minute to adjust, he's stunned by how clear and vivid this vision is playing out around him. He's on some sort of Starship deck, one that he's never seen before, and standing right next to him is a tall masked figure dressed in black. The only sound that can be heard from them is the haunting echo of a strained respirator

It's Anakin. Obi-Wan has no idea how he knows this, he just does. He tries to say something but no matter how hard he yells, he can't make a sound. Anakin doesn't seem to be able to see him either and anytime he tries to touch something, he just phases right though it, like a ghost.

So he does the only thing he can do, watch and try and figure out what is going on. What plays out it is a typical day for Darth Vader, force choking position hungry admiral, interrogating rebel spies, and lastly, receiving a call from Sideous, the Lord of the Empire.

Obi-Wan cannot see the shadowed Sith Lord, but he can still feel the darkness pressing down on him like a physical weight. Even as Anakin answers his master faithfully, he sounds so hollow, barely able to hide the anger and resentment he clearly feels towards his teacher.

Then as Vader goes to meditate, both Obi-Wan and Anakin wake up at the same time.

Both of them are gasping for breath as they are violently brought back into reality. Obi-Wan cannot take his eyes off Anakin, who's gold eyes are rimmed with angry tears. "You saw it all, didn't you?" Anakin hisses out. "I couldn't see you, but I could feel you. You were there."

Obi-Wan nods and takes big breath before he gently grabs Anakin's arms and gives him a pleading look. "Anakin please, please tell me what going on."

Tired and knowing the gig is up, Anakin spills his guts. He tells Obi-Wan about his dreams, about the monster called Darth Vader that lurks just underneath his skin, that he was destined to become the boogeyman they all feared.

"I think...that you should kill me." Anakin feels utterly defeated when he says this to Obi-Wan at the end of his explanation. He can't see a way out of this, he's doomed. What he does not expect to feel is the hot surge of anger that explodes out of Obi-Wan when he says this aloud.

"Don't you EVER ask me to do that! I will do anything for you Anakin Skywalker, but not that! Never that!" Obi-Wan vehemently declares, much to Anakin's shock and wonderment.

After a small talk the two agree to keep this between them and not tell anyone, not even the Council. Anakin also gives Obi-Wan permission to view his dreams with him from now on, in hopes the other may uncover a clue on how to stop all of this.

For the first time in months, Anakin feels a faint spark of hope.

[killishin]

domestic hcs with jason

oookay so domestic jason? cus why not.

heavily inspired by the prompts from this post by @novelbear (i love her prompts so much)

dividers by @cafekitsune

in the beginning of your relationship, both of you were kinda awkward, yet less so because it took both of you quite sometime to get over the cautiousness and trust issues, and during that time the awkwardness had shredded to an extent.

it was almost smooth sailing after becoming official, sure there were still a lot of areas that were left unexplored, going wrong somewhere, having long talks or none, because sometimes neither of you needed words. you just knew what the other wanted.

and so slowly both of you eased into each other's lives, like puzzle pieces truly molded and shaped for each other, not a mere gap left. at this point nothing weirded either of you out. best friends along with lovers.

as lovely and cosy this domesticity was, it had its fair share of little bickerings.

"no. no no no. no—" jason took hold of your shoulder with one of his hand while the other easily pulled the cart away, and guided you in the opposite direction from the aisle of biscuits.

you let out a small 'tut' of disappointment before looking up at him with semi puppy eyes, since there was a hint of warning in them.

he lets out a huff of disbelief before giving you a pointed look, "no."

"oh come on what's the issue here?" you ask as if you don't know and his eyes simply become more pointed, "really? really sweetheart?"

you shrug as you take on a sort of diplomatic demeanor, as if negotiating, "trying new things isn't that bad."

"it is when you choose those horrendous new oreo flavours."

"some turn out good!"

"some, sweetheart. most don't, and then you push it away like some cat and i gotta eat it all."

"i promise I'll eat it full this time." you swear with such sincerity that he almost falls for it, almost. his lips quirk up into a smirk as he pinches your jaw in between his thumb and index finger, squishing your cheeks a bit.

"not falling for that again."

"jay–"

"its the normal flavour or nothing."

"babe-"

"normal or nothing."

"fine!" you hiss in irritation and he has the audacity to smile triumphantly, leaning to brush a kiss on your forehead, "atta girl."

well jokes on him, cus the moment you approach the aisle, you put the normal one in and then your eyes inevitably pause at that new flavour, gaze fixated on it.

"sweetheart no—"

you push the packet in the cart, silence engulfing you both as you both stare at the packet in the cart.

"i am not finishing that."

you share a lot in common with him, reading is one of them. when jason is off to do his nightly duties you read to occupy your time, as that is one of the things that give you peace, other than your boyfriend. now it is not always that jason gets a night off. so when he does, you'd rather you spend it cuddled by his side, having the best sleep, since having been tired by your prior activities.

and since he has a night off, he really wants to catch up on his reading. so he does, perched on the bed with a book in hand while you were cuddled beside him with your arm thrown over his lap and head beside his thigh, fast asleep. sleep is just much, much better with him, but you cannot, for the love of god, sleep with any sort of noise. light sleeper, unfortunately.

you let out a small sleepy groan, nudging your face in his thigh, tapping on his arm. "can you stop that?"

he raises a brow, brushing your hair away from your forehead, an amused smile on his face. "stop what?"

you huffed before groggily opening your eyes and propping yourself up on your elbows, "you know what? no more reading before bed. you keep waking me up with your dramatic gasps every time you turn the page."

he lets out a surprised chuckle, ruffling your hair, irking you more, "well, i'm sorry that i engage and connect deeply with literature!"

"well gasp quieter!"

"its not a gasp then!"

you give him a deadpan stare while he just gives you a pointed look with a smug smirk. not to worry he acquiesced later on, getting under the covers with you while partially draping himself on you like a weighted blanket.

".... you gasp too while reading— wha– ow! alright!"

mornings are mostly quiet between you two, neither being a morning person so naturally you're both grumpy in the morning, you more than him specifically.

you're brushing your teeth in front of the sink with a dazed look in your eyes when he enters the bathroom behind you, yawning and scratching at his abs. he nudges you gently, breaking you out of your daze as if he knew you had dissociated for a while.

as you spit and wash your mouth, your eyes hone in on his brush, particularly on the amount of toothpaste he took. and maybe normally you wouldn't have cared, it isn't even an issue.

you quickly splash your face with water before leaning your arms against the sink and staring at him through the mirror, not even drying off your face yet. "thats a lot."

he pauses as his brows furrow, ever so cutely as he looks down at his brush and then back at you, "the toothpaste?"

"yeah?"

"thats the normal amount."

"sure. normal amount for a dinosaur."

he scoffs as he leans on one of his legs, resting his arm on his hip while holding the brush in his other hand , "so how much should i take? like you? that's not even enough for a mouse?"

"how do you know how much a mouse needs?!"

"well how do you know how much a dinosaur needs?!" he retorts back and you roll your eyes as you pat your face dry.

"im just saying you don't need that much— hey!" he snatches you away by hooking an arm around your waist and pulling you snug against him. he leans down with a smirk and your brows furrow in an almost glare.

"you wanna know how much i need hm? you wanna check?" he teases as he dips his head, pecking at your lips, coaxing you into a deeper kiss while you swat lightly at his lips.

"jason!" he pecks your lips, "you-" another one, "stink!"

jason is jason for you, for the world he reserves none of his smiles, none of those charms— none. its the red hood, and if in his civilian state, he is simply a big unit with a glare that can freeze sahara. his heart along with his scars are reserved for you, but his anger and disdain is all for the world to take.

the world and anyone who hogs your attention. now, jason is protective, and maybe even jealous— to an extent, but he would never cross a line that would make you feel uncomfortable. doesn't mean he appreciates people thinking they have a chance with you, or in this case, take his place beside you.

his glares aren't as subtle as he thinks, his arms crossed as he looks at the plushies on your bed. his glare drops into an exasperated groan when you bring out a new one.

"oh my god if you buy one more plush to occupy my spot on the bed i'm kicking you out to sleep on the couch." yet he sounds rather petulant than angry, and of course, hell would freeze and he still he wouldn't dare let you take the couch.

"but they're so nice and warm and fuzzy and cuddly, like you—"

"yes and apparently im not enough."

"you should at least try—"

"i have you."

you chuckle under your breath as you slip out the bed and pass him, pressing a chaste kiss on his downturned lips, "nice try but they're staying."

cleaning the dishes is something that if prolonged, it starts getting on your nerves. more so when you're nearing the end of the pile, and a new dish is added. a sharp sigh leaves your lips as your hands go lax and you turn to stare at jason, who's looking back at you like a deer caught in headlights.

"i was about to finish."

"... saw that."

you sigh again, more so in frustration as you continue scrubbing he laughs nervously, mumbling quiet apologies as he nears you, wrapping his arms around your waist. he rests his chin on your shoulder, pressing a kiss on it.

"tired? i can finish the rest, you should go and rest."

"no i–" you sigh as you hold the washed plate towards him and he takes it, immediately falling into a natural synergy. "you were way too tired from your patrol last night. and besides im done anyways."

"two dishes won't tire me out, you know."

"yeah i know but i think you work better in cuddling me so stay there."

"whatever you say."

again, jason is a protective man. he never tires from caring for you, be it outside or even in the confines of your shared home. he always has an arm around you, shielding you from potential creeps who unnecessarily push their bodies onto you, holding hands is an absolute necessary when walking, his eyes are always on you in any gathering— like a very doting bodyguard.

but thats when you're out, at your home somehow its even more intense and it shows in those small moments. he always keeps his hands on the sharp corners if you're near, maneuvers you around the walls if you're about to smack right into them, blows on the hot pipping food too much to the point it isn't even warm— he just loves you a lot.

"you going somewhere?" he asks as he straightens up on the couch, lowering the book in his hand and you could see just how desperately he wanted to go with you.

"yeah, i promised to meet my friends over dinner." you respond as you recollect your things after pulling on your shoes.

"need me to tag along?" he asked and you could just see the tail wagging, you sigh with a smile as you wave your hand dismissively, "no no. I'll come home early don't worry."

"im still coming to pick you up."

"i know." of course he will.

"that's a really thin jacket." he points out as his eyes narrow and you pause to look down, "is it?" your lips tug in amused grin.

"take an extra jacket. its cold out." he said as he relaxed back on the couch, picking up his book again.

"okay, mom."

"i heard that!"

its not that you don't have any serious arguments, you do and they are often but they don't last long. they can't, not with jason. he can't stay away from you for much longer, he silently agrees for some space after exchanging heated words but it rarely ever prolongs to more than an hour or so. guilt and worry gnaws at his heart while his arms ache for the solace in your skin.

because at the end of the day, you are what he comes home to. that after a grueling night of wear and tear, being and living as red hood, takes its toll on him. so he returns, he returns and hopes to everyday, fights to return everyday— all to see that sweet smile that comes onto your face as he comes back home.

you should be long asleep, he doesn't like it when you stay up for him. but he wouldn't deny how his heart always warms up at it, how it beats faster.

as he closes the window you straighten up on the couch, your head tilting a bit as you smile while beckoning him over.

"you okay big guy?"

somedays he banters, somedays he absolutely smothers you— but somedays, when it was particularly rough, he is quiet. so he took off his helmet, picked off his gloves and discarded his jacket just as his knees hit the floor beside you. you didn't question, you just knew he needed you and the silence.

a soft sigh left his lips as he rested his forehead on your lap, arms circling your waist and your hands immediately tangled in his hair, carding through them softly. your nails lightly scratched his scalp, then you knelt down and pressed a kiss on his head, illiciting another sigh.

"missed ya."

"missed you too."

he may one day be beyond saving, maybe his scars would just run too deep, yet even then he wouldn't dare submit to death— not when you still exist in his life.

NOTE: this was supposed to be a small drabble but i got carried away....

[wqlfstqr]

Could u write something where percy and reader are like frenemies and on a boneyard party a camper is hitting on reader, even tho she's clearly no interested, and percy intervenes. But then she's mad at him because she could handle it herself and they end up angrily making out.

◟𖥻 don't touch her : percy jackson

▰▰ pairing: percy jackson x fem!reader

Percy can't stand her most of the times, yet he's the first one to come running like a knight in shining armor when she needs help— she loves hates it.

warnings: no cabin mentioned for reader, mentions of violence/blood.

The music filled the air and the party was already in full swing when she arrived, campers gathered at the edge of the forest, fairy lights hanging off branches, someone from the Hecate cabin handing ominous sparkly drinks to people. It felt weird and chaotic, very camp.

And he was there. Of course. There was no camp-halfblood gathering without Percy Jackson. She rolled her eyes once she spotted him talking to Grover, a red cup in his hand as he threw his head back and laughed. He was effortlessly cool and so annoyingly handsome.

But she ignored him, which wasn't difficult at all because they had different friend groups, She danced with friends, let herself have fun, and the start of the night was great.

Until she went to get herself a drink, finally relaxed enough to accept whatever the hecate kid was offering, a smile on her face until a boy she barely knew was suddenly standing next to her.

"You look like you could use a drink." he said, using his hand to call out the boy making the drinks.

"I can get my own, thanks." she replied, shutting down the conversation by turning her body towards the hecate kid.

But he didn’t leave.

"Don't be like that, i'm just trying to be nice." He said, stepping too close for her liking. "I've seen you around. You're cute."

Just when she was about to ignore him, he reached to touch her shoulder. It was a minimal touch, but she didn’t like random people touching her, so she was ready to tell him off— But he was suddenly gone.

Yanked backwards.

And then Percy was suddenly standing besides her, his jaw tight. "She already said no, buddy."

The other boy scoffed. "Relax, Jackson, it's not like she's your girlfriend or something."

She rolled her eyes, but once again Percy was quicker with his reply. "I'm not, but I'll break your nose if you don't back off."

It escalated fast. Way too fast. The other guy shoved him, and before she could process it, punches were flying. A few campers yelled, and some of them tried to pull them apart.

Eventually, some Ares camper was able to drag the other guy away. But he didn’t get away without a bleeding lip, just where Percy's punch had landed.

Percy, on the other hand, didn’t look affected at all except for his bloody knuckles. But he paid no mind to that as she grabbed his arm and yanked him away from the crowd, he almost tripped over his feet but immediately followed her.

"Did that asshole do something to you?" Percy asked when they finally stopped.

He surely wasn't expecting her to suddenly hit his shoulder. Of course, the shove didn’t even hurt him a little. "What the hell was that, Jackson?"

Percy shrugged, still breathless. "He was bothering you."

She was mad, and if he wasn't annoyed too, he would've found it cute. "I had it under control!"

"He touched you." He replied, not understanding why she was mad to begin with.

"See, I know everyone around here has made you felt like you're some sort of hero they need, but I don't need you to come like some kind of knight in shining armor." She hissed.

Percy ran a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated. "Can't you just say thank you and move on? He shouldn't have been touching you."

There’s silence for a moment, Percy thinks maybe he finally— yeah no.

"Of course you would think I have to thank you when I didn’t even ask you to help to begin with."

He opened his mouth to answer, but she cut him off, taking a step closer.

"And why the fuck would you care about someone else touching my shoulder?" she jabbed a finger against his shoulder. "You don't even like me, half of the time you're annoyed with me."

Suddenly, his hand shot up, catching her wrist before she could jab him again. His hold wasn't rough, just enough to stop her. Her brassy words dying in her lips as she stared at him, almost surprised.

"I just care, okay?" he said, quietly.

And then he was pulling her forward.

The distance between them vanished. In one second she was blinking, and the next one his mouth was on hers.

It wasn't soft, or careful. It was heated. A mess of tension and all the things they never said. All the feelings they held back for so long in one kiss. And she kissed him back.

Her free hand gripped the fabric of his shirt, his arm wrapping around his waist, anchoring her against him like he was scared she would suddenly vanish without warning.

When they finally pulled apart, breathless, she stared at him with widened eyes, his hand still holding her wrist.

"You kissed me!"

"You kissed me back!"

They stared at each other for a long moment.

And then she grabbed his shirt and pulled him in to kiss him again.

And Percy? Gods, he could get used to that.

[godricgryffinsnore]

Found myself doing this is a boring class, thought it would be a cool fic idea:

YN writes her crush's initials on her wrist's pulse point and he finds out.

Harry/fem!reader

Ink and Impulse ♡ | H.Potter ★

"Look, I didn’t mean to fall for the girl who writes initials on her wrist like she’s living in a teenage diary entry… but then I found out they were my initials, and well — what was I supposed to do? Not tease her relentlessly and then fall hopelessly in love? Yeah, right."

pairing : Harry Potter x fem!reader

summary : Writing your crush's initials on your wrist is harmless… unless your crush happens to be Harry Potter, who’s absolutely insufferable once he finds out.

warnings : Light teasing and playful embarrassment, Secondhand embarrassment (Harry is a menace, you've been warned), Excessive flirting and wrist kissing, Mild language, Shameless romantic fluff, Ron being utterly clueless, Hermione being 100% done with everyone, Boyfriend Harry with zero chill. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : This was such a cute idea!!! Thanks for requesting lovie!

word count : 0.7k

navigation <3

banners : @/roseschoices and @/cafekitsune

It started as a stupid impulse. You were bored in History of Magic — and Merlin, no one should be blamed for what they do while Binns drones on about goblin uprisings. So you did what any mildly lovesick teenage girl with a quill and a wrist would do.

You wrote his initials.

Small. Delicate. Right over the soft thrum of your pulse point.

H.J.P.

And then promptly forgot about it. Sort of.

Well, not really.

You tried to forget about it, but it was hard when every glance at your wrist made your heart do a stupid little jump, and when every accidental brush of Harry’s hand made the ink feel like it was burning.

And of course, life wasn’t satisfied with letting you pine in peace.

No, because Hermione noticed first.

“Did you write something on your wrist?” she asked, peering across the breakfast table.

You yanked your sleeve down so fast it was like you’d been caught with contraband. “Nope.”

“Definitely saw a letter,” Ron muttered, biting into his toast. “A J or a P or something. Is it... a crush?”

“I—no!” you choked, already planning your dramatic escape. “It’s just notes. For class. Revision strategy.”

“Right,” Hermione said, too knowingly. “Because when I revise, I always write my O.W.L. material directly over my arteries.”

Before you could swat her with a spoon, a voice drawled behind you—

“Oh? What’s this about arteries?”

Your soul briefly left your body.

Harry Potter—your Harry Potter, the one with the mess of dark hair and eyes that always softened when he looked at you like you were made of something more than bone and breath—plopped himself down next to you with a crooked grin.

“Apparently,” Hermione said sweetly, “someone’s been doodling on her pulse point.”

“Oh?” he asked again, this time turning directly to you. “What were you doodling?”

You swore his voice dropped an octave.

“Nothing,” you said too quickly.

“Mm.” His eyes drifted to your wrist, half-covered by your sleeve. “So if I just... had a peek—”

You slammed your hand under the table.

“Harry James Potter, I swear on Merlin’s left sock—”

“Is it... my name?” he asked, and smirked.

That was it. That was the moment you realized you were doomed.

Hermione audibly gasped. Ron dropped his toast. Hedwig, wherever she was in the castle, probably looked up with a sense of psychic foreboding.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you muttered. “Shut up.”

“Oh, this is brilliant,” Harry laughed, practically bouncing in his seat. “You like me. You wrote my name on your skin.”

“Initials!” you hissed. “And I was bored!”

“You wrote my initials on your pulse point, sweetheart,” he said, absolutely reveling in your horror. “That’s, like, sixteen levels of emotionally unhinged. Are you planning our wedding, too?”

“I was bored!”

“I think I feel faint,” he said, placing a dramatic hand on his chest. “This is the best day of my life.”

You groaned and faceplanted into your arms, wishing for a time-turner so you could slap yourself three hours earlier.

And that should’ve been the end of it.

But no.

Because Harry Potter decided to become a menace.

“Hey,” he whispered in Charms, pulling your sleeve up. “Just checking if my name’s still there. Would be tragic if you moved on.”

“Hey,” he said again at dinner, resting his chin on your shoulder, “thinking about getting ‘(Y/N)’ tattooed. Right over the vein. Want to match?”

And the worst part?

He actually did it.

One evening in the common room, when everyone else had filtered out and the fire was flickering low, he sat beside you with a quiet smile, reached for your hand, and pressed a gentle kiss to your wrist. Right where the ink had faded.

Then, slowly, he unbuttoned his sleeve, turned his arm over, and showed you.

Your name. Right over his pulse point. Written in messy, inky letters.

“I figured,” he murmured, eyes on you instead of the ink, “if you’re going to walk around with my initials like that... I ought to return the favor.”

Your breath hitched.

“You’re horrible,” you whispered, but you couldn’t stop smiling.

Harry looked utterly pleased with himself.

“I know,” he said, brushing his nose against yours. “But I’m your horrible, yeah?”

You rolled your eyes, cupped his cheek, and kissed him.

Somewhere in the corner, Hermione muttered to Ron, “Finally.”

Ron just said, “Took him writing on his own arm, huh?”

[godmadeaterribleerror]

The Flood Brings Clearer Days

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, smut (p in v sex, fingering, face sitting), the light angst, light fluff too, love confession, no-filter curse

Summary/Warnings: You're not cursed. You don't feel anything wrong. If anything, you feel better, because there's a weight lifted off your tongue that lets you say whatever you want.

And most of what you want is Dean.

Author's Note: Request from @deans-yn! This one was very silly and horny (the sweet spot). Enjoy!!!

Word Count: 8.2k

“Are you sure-“

“I’m fine.” You shoot Sam a glare over the table. “I’m not dead, or dying, and if you ask one more time if I feel okay, I’m going to throw you out the fucking window.”

Sam raises his hands in surrender, a wide look of shock on his face, and Dean snorts.

“You’re violent today, kid-“

“Stop calling me kid.” You snap, glaring at the papers in front of you. “Or you’ll get windowed too.”

“Defenestrated.” 

“Bless you, dude.”

Sam sighs, giving Dean a flat glare. “No, it means-“

“To be thrown out a window.” You grumble. “I know. I like saying windowed, because Dean won’t know what defenestrated means, and I’m trying to threaten him, not give him a fucking English lesson.”

“The threat might be the English lesson,” Sam drawls your name, and Dean scowls.

“Hey-“

“Don’t be a dickhead, Sam.” You snap, and Dean grins.

“Yeah, Sammy, don’t be a dickhead-“

“And you.” The look you shoot Dean is withering, and it immediately makes something whine and coil in your chest. “I- Sorry.”

Dean frowns. “You didn’t do anything, sweetheart-“

“I yelled at you.” Now you’re mumbling. This is a weird day. ��Made me feel bad. Sorry.”

“Do I get an apology too-“

“No. Read.” 

There’s a stretch of silence, the guilt twists again—though now in your stomach—and you let out a long, slow breath.

“Sorry, Sam.”

“It’s fine.” He mumbles, but you don’t miss the look he exchanges with Dean.

One of those looks. Where they’re having a silent conversation or argument about something, and you usually have to guess who’s winning, or what it’s about, or why this has to be a silent conversation you can’t participate in.

But you don’t have to guess tonight. 

They’re talking about you. 

And you’re fine. You are. You feel great, and no amount of Sam and Dean worrying and flocking around you is going to change that. The curse didn’t work, simple as that. It missed you, or it had been cast wrong, or you’ve simply built up an immunity—that’s not really a thing, but it could be—and that’s it. You’re good. 

Some sort of odd weight feels like it’s been lifted from your head and tongue, but if anything it’s good. A little like being drunk, where the colors of the world are brighter and everything a little blurred, and Dean’s somehow prettier and Sam is somehow taller-

Sam says your name carefully, and it’s falling out of your mouth before you can stop it.

“You’re really tall.”

Dean snorts, and Sam lets out a heavy sigh. 

“Yeah, uh, I know-“

“Did you grow?”

“I’m in my thirties, I’ve been done growing for a while-“

You shake your head. “No, you grew. You’re taller. Just like Dean’s prettier.”

There’s a gagging and spitting sound from the couch, and when you glance back to Dean, he’s gaping at you, his whole face red.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, uh,” Dean gives Sam another look. “I’m fine, just- Got caught off guard. Sam-“

“I heard it.” Sam sighs, running a hand through his hair and watching you with a cautious expression. “You’re sure you’re-“

“Sam.” You hiss. “Windowed. I’m fucking serious.”

He drops it. Smart choice. 

You don’t think you’re strong enough to defenestrate him at all. And you wouldn’t defenestrate Dean. It would make him too sad. Which would make you too sad.

And you tell him that later, while Sam is out getting dinner, just so he knows. 

All you get is a blank stare in return.

“Dean, did you-“

“I heard you,” he mutters your name, shaking his head slightly. “I- Stay here.”

“Where are you going-“

“Out.”

“Out where-“

He sidesteps, blocking you from the door. “I gotta call Sammy. Stay.”

You cross your arms, raising your chin slightly. “I am not a dog, Dean Winchester. Although I do like doggy style, in bed-“

“Jesus fucking-“ Dean covers your mouth with a hand, and you freeze.

His hand is big. And warm. And it fits really well over your mouth, and would probably fit in it as well. Along with other parts of his body.

You’d tell him that, if he’d just fucking move his hand.

“You need to stay here.” He snaps, scanning over your face carefully. “No following me, no going outside, no talking to anyone else. Okay, kid?”

You raise your brows at him, your gaze flicking down to his hand—still over your mouth—and he sighs, moving it away.

“I really don’t like it when you call me kid.” You blurt, the moment you can. He needs to stop doing that, because it makes you feel small and sad and like a wet, pathetic fucking burden, and he should know that. “It makes me feel bad. I’m not even that much younger than you.”

“You- Alright.” Dean gives you an odd look, his jaw clenched. “Are you going to stay here?”

You shrug. “I’d do anything you told me to.”

That makes his face red again, but Dean just nods and—with one last odd look over his shoulder—walks away.

You miss him the moment he walks away.

And you tell the air, because there’s no one else around to hear.

You’re fine. You really are fine. You still feel a little high, a little strange, but nothing hurts. You aren’t forgetting who you are, or being someone you aren’t, or doing anything you normally wouldn’t-

Shit.

No. 

You’re fine. You have to be fine.

In the car, you’d told Dean his hands were hot, but that was just so he knew. And you’d told Sam his hair was too long, but it needed a cut. And you’d been complaining more than you’ve ever complained in your life, and you’ve been more forward than you reasonably should be, but maybe it was just the drunk feeling. Courage, flowing through your body and making you bold.

You were being bold.

But that shouldn’t be something to worry about. So you’re fine.

Dean comes back after an hour, and drives you both to the diner. Apparently, whatever talk he had with Sam was done, and-

“Why’d you leave?”

He glances over at you from the driver’s seat, a slight frown on his pretty face. “I had to call Sammy.”

“But you left. The motel.” You cross your arms, holding his gaze with a glare. “Why.”

“It’s-“ He sighs. “Look, I can’t tell you right now. Drop it.”

You might be pouting at him. You don’t really care. “Why.”

Dean grunts your name. “I told you, I can’t-“

“Why can’t you tell me?”

“Because explaining why I can’t tell you would be freakin’ telling you, sweetheart-“

You’re certainly pouting now. “But I tell you everything.”

“No, you don’t-“

“Yes- Well, almost everything.” You frown at the air. “I don’t tell you about all my dreams. I lie about those, when you ask how I slept, because usually it’s a dream about you fucking me and-“

Dean’s covering your mouth again, scowling at the road like it’s personally offended him.

“Dean-“

Your snap is muffled in his palm, and he lets out a long, slow breath, shaking his head. Still not saying anything.

“Dea-“

“Not like this,” he mutters, and it’s mostly under his breath, but you can still-

“I can hear you-“

Dean grunts your name, his grip tightening. “Whatever you��re saying, I can’t understand you. And I’m just going to keep this right here ‘till we get to the bar, alright?”

He squeezes your jaw, you moan–it feels nice, and he’s very handsome when he glaring at things—and Dean’s eyes widen slightly.

He heard.

You should probably care about that, but the weight is gone, so you don’t. You don’t really care about anything but Dean knowing things. All your lives are darkness and secrets and stress, and he should fucking know that you’re here, and you’re not leaving, and that you keep secrets, but they’re dumb, emotional secrets, so he doesn’t ever have worry about you. About you getting hurt, because you refuse to be a person he adds to the tally of people he failed to save. About ever failing you at all—he couldn’t if he tried—or you leaving him like so many other people have.

He should know that those people are idiots. That God himself would have to drag you away from him, and you’d still go kicking and screaming. That you love Dean, and you’ve never told him because he’s too good for you—too strong, and important, and there’s already so much pressing down on his chest without adding yourself to the burden—but he should now know, while the weight from your own mind is gone.

You would tell him, here, in the car, if he wasn’t covering your mouth. If the moment he removed it, he didn’t sprint out of the car and across the parking lot.

Away from you.

Maybe he’s-

“Are you mad at me?” You ask him as you drop in the booth, and Dean just shakes his head, refusing to meet your eyes.

Sam says your name—carefully again, and it’s getting really annoying, because you’re fragile but like a bird, not fucking glass—and watches you carefully as he continues. “Why do you think Dean is mad at you?”

“Because he ran away from me.” You grumble, fidgeting with the paper napkin on the table. “And he covered my mouth the whole drive, and he vanished earlier, and he won’t-“

“We get it, ki- Sweetheart.” Dean mutters, still not meeting your eyes. “See, Sam? There’s nothing.”

“Nothing where?”

Sam shakes his head, ignoring you entirely. “I don’t know, dude, she took a pretty bad hit on the head too, maybe it’s that instead of-“ He shoots you a careful look. “The other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“It’s never just an injury. It’s always the fucking witches-“

You sink back into your seat as they continue to argue, never once even looking at you.

Dean’s not looking at you, and he’s mad at you, and you’ve obviously done something wrong, but you don’t have a single clue what. And he hates you. He must hate you, and if Dean hates you, Sam is going to hate you too, and you don’t want anyone to hate you, and the air is too thin and your heart and eyes and tongue sting-

“Shit,” Dean says your name like he cares, and a weak, strangled sound leaves your throat. “Fuck, what’s-“

“You hate me.” You whisper, shredding the napkin even further. “You hate me, and you won’t even say why-“

“Sweetheart, I don’t- Fuck, Sam-“

Sam shakes his head, raising his hands in a motion of surrender. “You made her cry, dude, not me.”

“I didn’t- Son of a bitch.” Dean reaches over the table, grabbing your chin and tilting it up until you’re meeting his gaze, and you’re still crying.

Which is odd.

You don’t really cry that much, most of the time.

But that weight is gone, and with it, so is your ability to care about being strong. If Dean hates you, he should just-

“Just say it.” You’re sniffling, but Dean’s still not moving his hand. “Say you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.” Dean mutters your name, scanning over your features with a frown. “I promise, kid, you’d know if I hated you.”

“Then why are you ignoring me.”

“I-“ He looks over to Sam for help, and only gets a shrug in response.

“Does Sam know?”

Dean sighs. “Yeah, he does.”

“So why won’t you tell me-“

“I will.”

“But-“

“Later, baby, okay? How about I tell you tonight?”

You swallow, and he’s never called you that before. It’s strange. Spreading a warm, buzzing feeling through your whole body, taking you higher.

“I’d like that.” You whisper, and there’s nothing in the world to look at but Dean. Looking at you. Grinning at you. Not hating you. “I love you.”

Sam goes rigid, and Dean swallows, something flashing over his face that you don’t understand.

“Sure, sweetheart. Sammy, can you-“

“On it.” Sam stands up, grabbing your arm and pulling you with him. “Let’s go.”

You frown up at him. “Go where?”

“Sammy’s gonna take you back to the motel.” Dean pulls his keys out his pocket, but holds them back, out of Sam’s grip. “If I see one scratch-“

“You’ll kill me, Dean, I’ve heard the speech before-“

Dean raises his hand, narrowing his eyes at Sam. “I’m not done. If I see one scratch on either of them, I’m putting your number on a sex crisis hotline for grandmas.”

You wrinkle your nose. “That’s gross, Dean. I don’t even think that’s a real thing-“

Dean shoots you a wink, and it lights you on fire. “It’s not for you and me, sweetheart, but Sammy here’s probably got some-“

“Shut up, jerk.” Sam makes to snatch the keys, and Dean jerks the back with a frown.”

“I gotta hear it, Sammy-“

“They’ll be fine.” Sam snaps your name, still glaring at Dean. “It’s- She’s an adult, Dean, and this obviously isn’t killing her-“

“What’s not killing me-“

“And, I can drive. It’ll be fine.”

If Sam ignores you one more time, you’re going to-

“I’m going to punch you, Sam.”

Dean snorts, and tosses the keys into Sam’s indignant face. “Not a scratch. On either.”

“Yeah, yeah. C’mon,” Sam mutters your name, grabbing your arm.

“But Dean-“

“He’ll be fine.” Sam mutters, dragging you towards the exit. “He’s got some work to do, because you- Never mind.”

“Never mind what?”

“You’re cursed.”

You roll your eyes. “For the last time, Sam, I’m not cursed-“

Sam gives you a flat look, but just shrugs. “Alright. Keep walking.”

“But I want to go back to Dean-“

“I know. But you can’t.”

“Why-“

“Because if you tell him you love him again, he’s going to have a stroke.”

You frown, letting Sam herd you into the car. “Why? I- I know he doesn’t love me back, but I just wanted him to know. Is he-“

“He’s not mad at you.”

“So I should be able to stay-“

“It’s- Look, I promise Dean’s not mad at you, but we need to focus on fixing you right now, okay?“

“Nothing wrong with me.”

“Sure.” Sam sighs. Again. “How long have you been in love with Dean?”

“Since the vamp hunt in the swamp.” You shrug. “He picked me up, and he was really strong, and I thought that I wanted him to keep holding me forever. Then I cut off a vamp head and he laughed, and I wanted to hear that forever. Then he took his shirt off at the motel and I wanted to lick his abs.”

Sam clears his throat. “And that was love?”

“Love was the decapitation. The abs were a bonus.” You pause, tilting your head at the air. “And when he covered in blood and sweat. That was hot. I wanted to make him look like that because I gave him a blowjob, because I’m actually really good at that, Sam-“

Sam shakes his head, almost frantically. “I- That’s good. Uh, for you. I think. Can you think, just try to figure out why you’re telling him now?”

“Because he should know.”

“But if you’ve been in love with him for that long-“

You cut Sam off with a shrug. “I don’t know, I just- I love him, and he should know that. I really don’t expect anything Sam, I promise. If he wants to fuck me until the bed breaks, I won’t say no, but I mostly just want him to know.”

“I- Fine.” Sam runs a hand over his face, shaking his head at the road. “Can we just listen to the radio?”

You nod, leaning your head on the glass, and yesterday Dean was listening to the radio, and-

“Sam?”

He grunts in acknowledgment, and you make a soft, almost dreamy noise that you don’t really recognize from your own body. 

“You know when Dean drums on the wheel during songs.”

“Yeah, I drive with him literally every-“

“I wish he’d do that to me.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and when Sam break it, his voice is cautious again. “Drum on you?”

“Use his fingers on me during a song.”

“Oh my- You’re not going to be able to stop, are you?”

You blink at him. “Stop what?”

Sam shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, just, uh-“

You yelp as he pulls a sharp U-turn, the Impala’s tires skidding on the pavement.

“Dean’s going to kill you.”

“Yeah, I know. But,” Sam lets out a long breath, frowning at the road. “I need a beer.”

A beer means eight beers. And when you ask him at checkout if he’s okay, Sam just shrugs and mutters something about a long night, and Dean owing him one.

But something is off with Sam. And the more you ask—you want to know, and there’s nothing stopping you from asking—the more he just shakes his head, his expression growing blanker and blanker as the night progresses.

And you can’t stop talking. You should. Reasonably, you know you should. It’s rare for you to speak out of turn at all—let alone this fucking much—but that high feeling is still strong all over your body, and you can’t stop. You tell Sam every thought that passes through you head, about the show, or the takeout Chinese, or how you’ve never been to China, but you’d like to go, if only because it’s historically interesting. That gets you half of Sam’s attention, for about fifteen minutes.

“I wouldn’t want to go without Dean.” You mumble, picking at the label on your own beer bottle. “I never want to go anywhere without Dean. I love him.”

Sam shoots you an unreadable, almost soft expression, scratching something in his notebook. “I know you do. But he can’t fly, he hates it.”

You hum. “Would it help if I gave him a hand job on the plane?”

Sam sighs, dropping his gaze back to his laptop. “Yeah. It probably would.”

“That’s good.” The label chips off onto the couch, and you kick your feet up on the coffee table. “I like it when he’s happy.”

“I know.”

“He’s really pretty when he’s happy.” There’s that breathy sigh again. You’d be worried about it, if it didn’t fall so easily out of your body. “I love him.”

Sam makes another note. “Yep.”

“He’s pretty all the time. Do you think he knows that he’s pretty all the time?”

Sam just shrugs, and you’re already talking again before he can answer your question. 

“I just- I love him, and I want him to be happy. And I really don’t care if it’s not with me, Sam, I don’t,” you sit up, twisting over the couch to give Sam a pleading look. “I promise. But I love him, and I want him to know, and that’s kind of selfish-“

“That’s not selfish.” Sam gives you an odd look. “Loving people is the opposite of selfish.”

You shake your head. “No, it is.”

“Why do you think loving people is selfish?”

“I don’t know, because then you’re expecting something of them. Depending on them. And that’s-“

“Depending on people isn’t selfish.” Sam’s voice is careful again, and this is the first time he’s cut you off since the car. “I mean, expecting them to be something they’re not is, I think, but I depend on Dean all the time.”

“That’s different. You’re his family, and he loves you, and I’m-“

“He-“ Sam cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand through his hair. “Shit, he better be back soon.”

“Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“Will he? Be-“

“I don’t know. Watch the TV.”

You don’t move. You just frown into the now dark motel room, and you don’t know where Dean is, and there’s something stinging at your eyes again, and-

“I miss him.” You whisper. “I love him.”

Sam makes another little note. “I know.”

It takes a second of heavy breathing, but you turn back to the TV, and the pattern resumes. You talk, Sam—sort of—listens, and then night creeps on without Dean.

“I love him.”

Sam grunts, and you hear the pencil scratching.

“If he was here, he’d love this.” You tilt your head at the TV, watching the grainy old Western on the already poor-quality screen. “Dean loves Cowboys.”

“I know.”

“I love him.”

Pencil scratch. “Uh huh.”

You point to the TV, twisting over your shoulder to look at Sam with big eyes. It’s important that he hears this, so he understands your intentions with his brother. “I’d ride his face like that.”

Sam drops his head to the table with a long groan, and you frown.

“Are you-“

“I got it!” The door bangs open, and Dean marches through, turning something in his hand. “I’m gonna stab Rowena later, but shit, Sammy, this should work-“

“Thank God.” Sam mutters, pushing out of his seat. “Are you sure this will-“

“Pretty sure.”

“I can’t take pretty sure, Dean, I- Man, I’m gonna jump off a bridge if I have to put up with another day of this.”

“Hey.” You scowl at him. “That’s rude, Sam-“

“I’m sorry,” Sam sighs your name, desperation written all over his features. “You’re like a sister to me, I promise, but I’ve also had to listen to you talk about how you want to be bent over the table by my brother for four hours-“

“Sam.” Dean grunts, and his grip on whatever’s in his hand is suddenly white-knuckled. “Shut it.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m just- I’ll see you guys in the morning-“

Dean’s eyes widen. “Wait, where the fuck are you going-“

“I’m giving you two privacy, Dean. I’m already gonna have to put bleach in my ears-“

“We don’t need privacy-“

“You-“ Sam cuts himself off, his eyes narrowing, flicking quickly between you—still blinking at the from the couch—and Dean. “Dude, you can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

“But-“

“I’m not talking about this, Sam-“

“No, we need to talk about this-“

“Talk about what?” You cut in with a frown, looking between Dean’s set, unreadable expression, and Sam’s exhausted on. “What’s going on?”

Dean sighs, running a hand over his face. “You’re sick, sweetheart, don’t-“

“Don’t tell me not to worry, Dean!” 

Your words are spat out, and you push up onto your knees to glare at him.

It’s been a long, strange day. And they’ve both been ignoring you, and you understand that—you’d ignore you too, if you could—but they’re talking about you, and the weight is gone, and that means that there’s nothing to stop the sudden burst of white-hot rage through your body. 

“Neither of you telling me what the fuck is happening, and I’m not sick, I just- I feel weird but that’s not your problem, and it’s not even that bad, but I just want you to look at me and talk to me and I love you-“

“Stop saying that.” Dean snaps, and Sam punches him in the shoulder. “Fuck, what the-“

“She can’t stop saying it, you idiot. You know that, and thinking that you shouldn’t talk about this is insane, even for you-“

“Talk about what-“

“Sam, I swear to god-“

Sam ignores Dean, holding your gaze as he says your name. “Tell me when you fell in love with Dean-“

“I told you earlier, on the vamp hunt-“

“The one in Louisiana, right?”

“Yeah? I don’t know I’m not good at geography-“

“See?” Sam raises his brows at Dean. “That was four years ago.”

“But I was in love with him longer.” You snap, raising your voice so they can’t ignore you. “I’ve loved him since I met him, I think. I’m pretty sure. No, I know, I remember you walked into the bar, Dean, and I thought oh I want him to fuck me until I can’t walk-“

Sam tips his head up like he’s praying, and Dean grunts your name, but you ignore them both. You’re done being ignoring, because Dean should know this.

“And then we started talking and you were the most amazing person I ever met, and I never, ever wanted to leave you. Ever.”

There’s a long moment of heavy, long silence as Dean just stares at you, and Sam clears his throat.

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

“Sam, shut it-“

You shrug, talking over Dean’s hissed words. “Because that’s manipulative. And mean. And I can take care of myself, and Dean shouldn’t feel like he ever needs to do anything for me.”

Dean gives you an odd, strained look. “Stop talking about me like I’m not here.”

“Now you know how it feels.” You stick your tongue out at him, and Sam sighs, running a hand over his face.

“And why are you telling Dean now? If it’s been so-“

“Because I love him.” Your answer is quick. You know it better than your own heart. “And he deserves to know.”

“Twenty-two.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’ve said you love him-“ Sam leans over, checking his notepad. “Twenty-two times, if you count that one.”

“Oh?” You pause, turning over Sam’s words, trying to work out why Dean looks like he’s been shot. “Why were you counting that?”

“Because Dean’s a fucking idiot.”

Dean’s dumb, blank expression falls into a scowl. “I’m not an idiot, Sammy, she just doesn’t know what the hell she’s saying-“

“No, but she knows what she’s thinking.” Sam shrugs, grabbing his wallet from the table. “Spell didn’t mess with her actual, you know, thoughts. Fix her and she’ll feel the same thing.”

Dean shakes his head, almost frantically. “Sam, I can’t-“

“No. You can.” Sam snaps, and he’s definitely taller now. Glaring down at Dean with a narrowed gaze, like he’s imaging slamming his brother into a wall. 

“You’re taller, Sam.”

He sighs, giving you another odd look. “I know. See you tomorrow.”

Dean still tries to block Sam’s path to the door. “Sammy, I’m serious-=

“So am I. Fix this. And not just that,” he points to you, still glowering at Dean. “All of it. For once in your fucking life, Dean, let someone want you.”

Then he’s gone. 

And Dean’s just fucking staring at you from the doorway, and he thinks you’re sick, but-

“I’m not sick. And I do love you.”

“Yeah. I know.” he sighs, glancing down at-

“What’s in your hand?”

He gives you a strange look, then shakes his head. “It’s for you. To help you.”

You feel yourself almost physically wince at the words. Help. You’ve become something Dean needs to help.

“I really do feel fine.” You whisper. “I do. You don’t need to- To worry about me-

“But I’m gonna.” He shrugs, and you swallow, watching him cross the room.

“I’m sorry I got angry-“

“’s okay. I know you didn’t mean it.” 

Those words sound heavier than they should be, and Dean looks… weighed. Like whatever’s been set free from you is still crushing him by his temple down.

“Dean?”

He grunts, dropping down on the couch at your side. 

“I love-“

“Just- Don’t.” Dean passes a little vial into your hands with a sigh. “Drink it. You’ll feel better after you drink it.”

“But-“

He mutters your name, staring at his hands. “Please. Drink.”

You glance down at the vial. It’s green. A nice green, like-

“It looks like your eyes.”

Dean just leans back, staring at the ceiling, so you keep going.

“I love your eyes. They’re a really pretty color, and they’re always- You’re always watching people.” You tilt your head at him, he lets out another long breath. “I watch you, though. Someone has to, and I love you.”

Dean rubs his brow, shaking his head at nothing at all. “Alright. Here’s how this is gonna go down.”

“Wha-“

“Just listen,” he mutters your name, finally meeting your eyes, and you’d do anything he asked. 

So you nod. There’s a moment as Dean scans over your features, seems to decide you’re telling the truth, and then he gives a tight nod.

“Alright. You’re gonna drink that, and you’ll probably feel like shit after, but I’m going to be talking. Just- Let me talk, and then you can jump in with whatever you want. But you just need to drink, and listen. Okay?”

You hum, and glance down to the vial. “Do I just-“

“Yeah. Go.”

You down the liquid in one swig, and it’s fucking instant.

You messed up. You fucked up. You destroyed everything, because you had been cursed, and the weight that’s supposed to be there—that you need, that protects you from yourself and your stupid fucking feelings—crashes back down with a new, iron-clad ton of what the fuck did you do.

You told Dean you loved him. You were never supposed to do that, never supposed to be another person he was responsible for, that wanted something from him when the world took too much, and you had no right, you had no fucking right-

But Dean told you to listen. And even though the filter is back, you’d meant it. You’d do anything he asked.

Even sit in the vile toxin of your own, stupid fucking actions all day, being rude and crass and vulgar and telling Sam—poor fucking Sam, you’re surprised he didn’t throw you out the window—about how much you wanted to fuck Dean, and-

Dean mutters your name, and it snaps you just a little out of your rotting guilt.

“I- Uh- I’m not good at this.” He’s still staring at his hands. “I’m trying to be better at it, I’ve been trying, but it’s still. I’m not. I- Uh-“ He coughs, shaking his head slightly. “I feel it too. What you feel. I want you, want you all the freakin’ time, baby, and it drives me insane. You’re smart, and funny, and mean but in a really hot way, and I- Shit-“

“Dean-“

“No, I’ve got it, just-“ He takes a slow long breath, finally looking up at you, and it’s like once he’s there he’s trapped. His eyes widen, and he leans forward, and this is it.

The moment.

The one you’ve only allowed in dreams, where Dean is leaning in so close and if you reach out, you’d be allowed to touch him without it being a newer, worse weight.

“I need you.” He mutters, one hand slowly moving to cup your cheek. “I really need you, so much it scares me.”

“Dean-“

“I like needing you,” his words are growing a little firmer, and you can’t look away either. “I do. Fucking love it. And if it was the spell talking, all the stuff you said about me-“

“It wasn’t.” You whisper, and it’s not forced through anything. It just is. “I love you. And you don’t need to say that, Dean. I- If you mean it-“

“I do.” He grunts. “Son of a bitch, I mean it more than anything.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

You swallow. He’s still touching you, and if you’re not careful, you think you’ll melt all the way into him with no way out. 

You don’t really want one.

There’s no way to know who moves first. Dean fully grabbing your face between his hands and pulling you closer, the exact same moment your fingers fist in his shirt and you yank him down over you. It’s a rough, furious, bruising kiss made of spit and teeth, but you’ve both been starved. You know you’ve been dying of it—the need to fucking touch Dean, to tug at his short hair, to let your lips part for him and moan when his tongue moved against yours, to bite his lip and feel fire spark in your blood at his groan—but you can feel that Dean’s been burying it just as deep.

His hands are grabbing at every single part of you. Palming your breasts and ripping off your clothing as he hauls you over his lap. He swallows your every moan and throws it right back when you grind down onto where he’s pressing through his jeans, and fuck-

You’re already missing your shirt, when his kisses fall down your chest and full, firm lips start to suck at your nipples. 

“Dean-“

He growls against you, squeezing your hips as you roll against him, and the sound rolls through your whole body.

“Shirt.” You gasp, trying to peel it off his body. “Dean- Off-“

It’s only a second, when he leans back to help you, but then you’re gasping as he pulls you back down into a wet, sloppy kiss, and God, if this is what being cursed gets you, you should let it happen more often-

“I’ve got a game for you,” Dean mutters against your lips, and you lean back to frown at him.

But he’s grinning. Bright eyes, mussed hair, and an almost primal grin. “Dean, I just want to, you know-“

“I know.” He winks at you, and your nails scrape at his chest as he ruts up into you. “Trust me, we will, but c’mon. It’ll be fun.”

You sigh, nodding, and drop your mouth down to his neck. He hisses right in your ear, as you start to suck and kiss around his throat, but it quickly turns into a deep chuckle.

“That’s how we’re playing this, baby girl?” 

You can’t control the whine that escapes you, and Dean moans again. Big, warm hands rub all over your back, and he knows exactly what he’s doing. Baby girl, and hands, and moaning-

“Son of a- Alright-“ Dean’s grip on your hips tightens, until you’re pinned right to his knee. “Can’t think while you’re doin’ that-“

You bite him, and the sound that leaves him should be considered a sin, or virtue, or fucking hymn.

“Shit-“ Dean tugs you back by your hair, and this kiss is no different from the last ones. Long and desperate, until you’re a little dizzy and looking at Dean with an open, needy expression when he pulls away. 

“You- Dean-“

“I know,” he mutters, watching you with an expression that’s dangerously close to adoration. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, sweetheart, I promise, you just gotta be a good girl and listen for ten freakin’ seconds, okay?”

You nod a little stupidly, and the facts that you’re a little dazed from the taste of Dean still on your tongue and the way that your aching core is pressed right against the muscles of his thighs are the only reasons that smug grin doesn’t get punched off his face. 

“I want you to tell me everything you want me to do you.” Dean’s voice is deep and rough, and you would’ve fallen over if he wasn’t holding you up. “In detail. Then I’m gonna do it.”

You cough, already sounding breathless from nothing but his attention. “Everything?”

“Everything.” 

“I, um, I-“

“And don’t get all fuckin’ shy on me now, baby.” He nips at your lower lip, and you swallow. “You can do it.”

He’s teasing you. You know he’s teasing you, so you whack at his chest, and he laughs, and it helps.

He wants you. To make you feel good. 

And you really would do anything he asked you, because he’s Dean, and you trust him with a little more than your life.

“It’s- I-“ You let out a breathy laugh. “This is a lot harder when I’m not cursed.”

“C’mon.” Dean starts to press soft kisses over your shoulder, just enough to make your nails dig into his forearms. “Try.”

“You- Your hands.” You might be leaving indents on his skin. He doesn’t seem to mind. “I’ve always- You have really good hands, and I’ve always imagined- you know.”

He leans back, the smug somehow only growing. “I don’t know. You gotta tell me.”

“Dean-“

“Ah.” He catches your hand as you slap his arm, kissing your knuckles before he continues. “Detail, baby. Please.”

You swallow, and something softens in his gaze.

“If you don’t wanna-“

“I do.” You whisper, shaking your head. “It’s just- It’s embarrassing. I might need a second.”

Dean just shrugs. “I got time, sweetheart. I’ll wait as long as you need-“

“I want you to finger me.” You let the words fall out of your mouth, grabbing Dean’s face between your hands. “Then I- If you want- I like your mouth, and I want it down there too, and then I want you to fuck me, hard. Maybe raw, if you’re clean, because I’m clean and I’m on birth control, and you know I- If it’s okay, I like it.”

You might be burning alive, from your center up, but Dean-

Dean looks like he’s going to try and eat you alive.

You’d really like to see him try.

“De- Fuck-“

You’re moving before you know what’s happening. Dean stands up, holding you tight against his body as he moves to the bed, dropping you down so you’re sat at the edge of the mattress.

“I-“

“I’ve got you.” He mutters, giving you another, heavy kiss before dropping to his knees between your legs. “God, you’re so fucking pretty-“

“Dean-“

Another, longer kiss, and you can feel his hands trailing up your thighs, right to-

“Fuck-“

“This wet for me?” Dean grins, running two fingers between the lips of your pussy, your underwear discarded somewhere on the floor. “You want me, baby girl?”

“You know I-“ Two fingers press right of your entrance, and you drop your brow to Dean’s with a shaking breath. “Please.”

He hums, flicking his thumb over your clit, swallowing your gasp with a kiss. “You gonna let me finally take care of you?”

“Yes-“

“You love me?”

There’s something more fragile in that question. As if he really is unsure of the answer, and this is your last out. Your last chance to tell him it really was all just the curse, and you want him to stop.

But he really fucking couldn’t drag you away.

“I do.” You smile at him, tracing his jawline with a gentle hand. “I love you-“

That’s it.

It’s like a switch flip in Dean’s brain, his eyes growing only darker and his whole body relaxing, and words seem to be useless. Those two fingers slam into your pussy, pumping and twisting and scissoring, driving you into a mess of whines and gasps of his name. And Dean doesn’t let up for a second. Any noise is devoured with deeper and deeper kisses, your grinding onto his hand is only met with fingers crooking deep in your cunt, right against-

“Dean-“ You grasp, tension building right in your gut, white-hot and readying to burst. “Dean, please-“

He only groans, tugging at your hair to mark and suck on your neck, and his thumb presses right over your clit. 

The tension breaks, and the sound that leaves you is almost unrecognizable. High and desperate as something falls out from between your thighs, and Dean pulls back with wide eyes.

His fingers are shining. Covered in-

Shit.

“I-“

Your words die in your throat as Dean brings his fingers up to his mouth, sucking them clean and holding your gaze and you’re going to cum again, if he doesn’t look away-

“I didn’t know I could do that.” You mumble, fixing your gaze on his bare chest, and he chuckles, squeezing your thigh.

“Well, you’re doing it again.”

That makes your eyes dart back to his face. “Wha-“

“On my face this time.” He pauses, pouting like he’s trying to work something out, then nods. “Yeah. On my face.”

“Dean-“

“Hold on.” He rises to his feet, pulling off his jeans and boxers in quick movements, and your mouth falls open.

You’ve spent a lot of time fantasizing about this. More than you’ll ever admit to him. 

But he’s still better, and thicker, and bigger than you’d guessed. And he’s fully hard, and stroking himself with a wide, lazy grin, and-

“Nope.” Dean swats your hand away when you reach for him. “Not about me tonight, sweetheart.”

You give him your best, sweetest, doe-eyes, and he just laughs, leaning down to pull you into another kiss.

“Asshole.” You mumble against his lip, and he smirks.

“You want it that bad?”

“You know I do-“

“Yeah, but I still got some things on our list to take care of.” Dean pulls your lower lips between his teeth as he draws away, and then he’s gone.

Moving to lay on his back, pulling you with him by your wrist and grinning at you as he sprawls on the mattress.

“Dean, what-“

“Sit on my face.”

You might be drooling, He’s just there, just muscles and softness in all the right places, and looking more like a god than a human in the soft motel lights, and looking at you, only you, and-

“I’ll crush you-“

“Nah, you won’t.” He tugs you a little closer, pressing a kiss to your inner wrist. “Trust me, baby, I’ve survived a lot worse than a hot lady sitting on me.”

“But-“

“You said you wanted my mouth down here.” He rolls his thumb over your clit, and you almost collapse over his chest. “This is how you’re getting it.”

You take a long, slow breath and nod, straddling Dean’s face until his subtle is rubbing on your thighs, and if you’re careful-

Dean doesn’t seem to care about careful. He grabs your hips, slams you down over his face, and you’re gone.

This has only ever been a fantasy. Never a thing you thought you’d actually get.

But Dean seems to have no interest in doing anything but surpassing every dream you’ve ever had, and you think you might be ascending, or falling, or just bursting into a million, perfect pieces.

His tongue plunges in and out of your cunt without relent, and that same stubble is burning so perfectly along the most sensitive parts of your body, and his fucking hands keep kneading your ass and holding your right against his mouth. Keeping your still as he takes your clit between his lips and suck and bites and flicks his tongue until you’re in a frenzy-

You might be swearing, or cursing, or praying, or just repeating Dean over and over like a long, desperate plea, but whatever sounds are leaving your body only seem to spur him on.

He rises without warning, right when you’re on the edge of release. Keeping his hold on your thighs firm and his head buried between your legs, Dean sits up until you’re fallen back against the mattress, grabbing at the sheets as his nose bumps your clit and his tongue never slows and fuck-

You cum with a scream of something, the coil snapping once more and soaking down your thighs, and when Dean pulls back his eyes are shining.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot.” He mutters, bowing over you for another, almost gentle kiss that you only whine into, your whole body only putty from his work. “Think you’re ready to take me, sweetheart?”

You feel raw. Impossibly sensitive and fucked out, wrecked and spent and burning from every nerve point perfectly, as if you’re high and dissipated into nothing but a light, happy mist of Dean.

You nod a little stupidly anyway.

He laughs, pressing a kiss to your brow. “Sorry, baby, I need wor-“

“Fuck me.” Your voice is only a breath. Based on the way Dean tenses above you, he doesn’t seem to mind. “Please, Dean, fuck-“

This kiss is deeper. Rougher. Almost feral, pressing you all the way into the mattress until you’re scratching at his back, and then-

You whine as Dean rises back up, but it turns into another gasp as he flips you onto your stomach, grabbing your ass up into the air and running fingers between the mess he’s left between your thighs.

“Son of a bitch, you’re amazing.” He mutters, and you don’t get the time to come up with something to say back before he’s pinching your clit, rolling it between broad, calloused fingers. “Ready?”

“Ye- Dean!”

He slams into you with one firm movement, your hands fist in the sheets, and the moment when he lets you adjust—hanging over your body, kissing over your shoulders and neck as he just sits in your cunt—is the longest in the world.

“Move.” You gasp, twisting around to try and meet his gaze. “Dean, move, please-“

His growl rolls through your whole body, and your hips jerk back into his. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

He doesn’t hold back. There’s one moment after Dean rises back up where he gives a slow, experimental thrust, but you moan his name and grind your ass up into the air, and he’s gone. Whatever he’d been controlling in himself vanishes, and he fucks you. Fully, properly fucks you, the mattress squeaking and his balls slapping over your clit and god, he’s too good at this. You’ve never been this full, this dazed, dragged right to the edge only by Dean slamming in and out of your pussy, his cock is hitting so deep in your body you’re certain you’ll feel it in a month. And his hands are pulling and rubbing at your skin, and his thrusts are measured but they’re quickly growing feral as you squeeze around him, and he’s moaning again-

“Fuck-“ He grunts your name, bumping right against that impossibly deep spot in your cunt. “So fucking tight, baby girl, taking me so good-“

“Dean-“ You bury your face in the bed, writhing below him. “Fuck- I- I need-“

“I know.” He lowers himself back over you, never once breaking pace and angling your face to crash his lips into yours, swallowing every needy, high plea of his name. “So fuckin’ close, sweetheart, you’re doing so well for me, being such a good girl-“

“Jesus-“

“One more,” he grunts down your throat, a hand snaking around your stomach to rub at your clit. “Just one more for me, baby, c’mon-“

That’s all it takes. Your orgasm bursts and washes through your whole body, leaving the world spinning and everything lost in a daze of pleasure and good, and you can only really hear Dean moaning your name as you squeeze around his cock, fucking you through your orgasm.

He pulls out when you’re shaking below him—hot shivers still running through your body in the aftermath of your release—and second later his cum is staining over your back, one gentle hand still holding your ass in the air.

He cleans you up. Of course he does. He’s Dean. 

He kisses the base of your spine before crawling off the bed, grabs a shirt instead of a rag—because he cleaned the shirt at the bunker but you’re both smarter than using a motel towel to clean anything down there—and wipes your thighs and back clean, before collapsing over your body and burying his face in your shoulder.

“You think Sammy’ll be back tonight.” He mutters, his words slightly muffled against your body, and you sigh.

“I’m worried he’s never coming back.”

You feel Dean’s frown against your skin. “Why-“

“Remember how he said I mentioned wanting you to, um, bend me over a table?”

Dean hums. “Shit, I forgot to do that-“

“Later, I kind of-“

You squeak as Dean grabs you by your hips, flipping you over until you’re nose to nose, and his boyish, smug grin is right where you could bite it off his face, if you wanted.

And you really do.

“We’re having a later, baby?”

You roll your eyes. “Of course we are, Dean, focus-“

His fingers start to trail up your inner thigh, and it takes all the self-control in your body to whack them away.

“I’m still sensitive-“

He shrugs. “I can work with that, sweetheart-“

“I know, but Sam.”

“You said he’s not comin’ back-“

“Yeah, but I need to send him like a fucking fruit basket or something.”

Dean frowns at that. “Why, what-“

“I told him everything, Dean. All the stuff I told you, and some, uh, other stuff.“

“What other stuff?”

“I don’t know, it doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it does,” Dean catches your hand before you can cover your face, pinning it above your head with a smirk. “I need to know what that smart brain is coming up with, how I need to be fucking you-“

“But-“

Dean drawls your name, raising his brows. “Look, that is far from the worst shit Sam’s heard. When I was heading to hell, he had to sleep in the car just so I could get laid. He’ll walk it off, then we’ll drop him at Eileen’s to get some of his own ass.”

You snort. “I’m sure he’ll be very thankful-“

“He better. I saw the marks on my fucking tires. Lucky I’m not defesternating him.”

“Defenestrating.” You hum, smiling as Dean settles back over your body, burying his head in your chest. “Close, though.”

“Thanks.” 

“No problem.” You comb your fingers through his hair, unable to stop the final, soft statement from escaping your lips. “I love you, Dean.”

“Good.” He squeezes his hold on your body. “Same.”

You smile. He won’t say it back, but not because he doesn’t feel it. His weight is heavier than yours, and you know that, because you know him.

And love him.

And he does love you, but for now, that’s the best he can do.

It’s still better than you ever dreamed. 

But then again, so is Dean.

End Note: We've hit new peaks of torment for Sam Winchester. Sorry my king.

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