#ticklish blobs

[sparrows4bats]

Pregnant Damian started as a joke, but now I have ideas.

Idk if this is omegaverse, ftm Damian or an in-Universe explanation. But you get to decide whatever makes you happy.

Jon realises Damian is pregnant first. Like his father before him, he hears his child's heartbeat while lying in bed with his boyfriend.

At first, he thinks he is imagining it. The heartbeat is so faint and so fast that Jon just stops for a minute, but it is definitely there.

Damian, who is reading beside him, is very confused when Jon puts his head on his stomach and starts crying.

"What's happening here?"

Jon sobbing. "I'm going to be a dad!"

"Wait, what?!"

"You're pregnant!"

Damian needs to take a breathe and process.

"Oh. Ooooh!"

Jon looks up at Damian, who looks shocked but not unhappy at the news. He stands on his knees and kisses Damian helplessly.

"We're going to be dads!" He yells when the kiss breaks.

Damian smiles back. "Yeah, we are, Hayseed. But are you okay with this? It is sudden and definitely not planned," He asks a little nervously.

Jon takes his boyfriends hand. "I'm so happy. I love you, and I can't wait to have a family with you." Placing kisses all over Damians face reverently.

"I got that! And you didn't wait! We've only been dating for a few weeks, and our families don't even know about our relationship yet." Damian answers, giggling at the ticklish feeling.

Jon abruptly stops and pales. "Your Dad is going to kill me!"

"Batman doesn't kill."

"I knocked you up before marrying you. He'll make an exception!"

Damian scrunches his nose at the phrasing. Jon gets up and starts to pace.

"And if he doesn't do it, your siblings will!"

"You're being dramatic."

"I'm really not! Red hood will laugh as he shoots me."

"If you're that nervous, let's not tell them yet, I need to get it confirmed medically first anyway"

"Let's do that!" Jon agrees relieved, but he knows he is just prolonging the inevitable. He curls up with Damian again, rubbing a hand over his flat stomach.

"I love you, sweetheart, and our little accident."

"You are not calling our child that Corn Cob!"

Damian books an appointment for during his lunch break the next day. Jon holds his hand as they await the results, practically vibrating.

"Congratulations, Dr. Wayne, you are pregnant. If you get up on the table, we can do an ultrasound."

Damian lies there while Jon stares transfixed at the screen. "You look to be about 8 weeks along going by the growth and cardiac activity."

Jon tears up at the sight of the little blob.

Damian, while also emotional, silently groans.

Jon likely got him pregnant the first time they slept together. He mentally vows that none of his family will ever know. He'd prefer his child's other father kryptonite free if possible.

Afterwards, the two agree not to say anything until 12 weeks. Damian knows the statistics, but carefully doesn't mention them to his boyfriend, who is already acting overprotective.

Unfortunately, like most things Damian plans, it does not work out like that.

There's an invasion AGAIN, and Damian is called in by his father for field medicine.

As soon as Nightengale arrives, Superman 2.0 is attached to his side. Ignoring all orders to go help in a different area. Damian tries to argue with him but quickly learns it does nothing.

"You shouldn't even be out here, and I am not risking anything!" Jon yells stubbornly.

Damian just moves around treating patients with his bodyguard. No hostile gets anywhere near them.

The original Superman flies over after the worst of the threat, has subsided with an annoyed Batman to ask his son what the hell is going on when he stops midstep.

"You're Pregnant?!"

Damian, who is changing his gloves and is exhausted by now, pinches his nose with a groan. He forgot that if Jon can pick up on the fact he's pregnant, all of the kryptonitians can.

Batman growls. "What?" Like the word had been punched out of him.

Jon is looking sheepish but luckily doesn't say anything as Damian glares at their fathers. "Yes, I found out very recently. Now we can discuss this later! I have other patients to see!"

All three of the heroes object vehemently, and Damian is forcefully moved to the Watchtower. Any injured heroes are brought up to him.

Jon finally focuses on the invasion, even if his Dad gives him odd looks.

After clean up and Damian patcheing up his brothers (who once again try to hide their injuries from him), a very serious looking Batman walks into the medbay where Nightengale and Nightwing are trying to get a very stubborn Red Robin to rest.

"You're pregnant, and you didn't tell me!"

Dick and Tim turn to their brother in shock.

"Damian what the fuck!" Dick screams while Tim looks at the drip in his arm suspiciously.

"I found out last week. I'm only 9 weeks along. I wasn't going to tell anyone for another three weeks at least!"

Dick clutches his imaginary pearls.

Bruce looks like he swallowed a lemon at the confirmation. "You still went out on the field in your condition?"

"You asked me to! I was there for med support, and I was perfectly safe." Damian runs a hand over his stomach subconsciously.

Bruce is having a full-blown crisis now and it would be funny if Damian wasn't so nervous.

Bruce stops suddenly as something occurs to him. "Whose the father?"

Damian grits his teeth. "Take a wild guess, Batman!"

Just as Dick, Tim, and Bruce open their mouths to reply. Both Supermen enter the medbay.

"Sugar! Everything okay? Do you need to sit down?" Jon runs over to the increasingly irritated doctor, checking his abdomen with x ray vision before sighing and nuzzling his boyfriends neck like an affectionate dog.

"Well, that answers that question, doesn't it." Tim remarks in as Dick and Bruce stare at the two in growing horror.

"Jonathan, I am fine!"

"I'm so glad!" The kryptonitian kissing Damians forehead and resting a hand on his stomach.

The quiet is interrupted by a sobbing Clark Kent. "I'm going to be a grandad!" No doubt listening to the second heatbeat coming from Damian.

Damian thinks 'like father like son.'

Clarks' words seem to break Bruce out of his shock. He starts smiling at his youngest son only to frown when he sees how Jon has attached himself to Damian.

It's Dick who asks the dreaded question, "How long have you two been together? And why didn't you tell me Dami?!"

Jon, who is distracted by trying to meld them together, apparently, makes the very stupid decision and answers, "A little over two months!"

Damian resists the urge to face palm as his family does the very simple math.

The gathered bats start to glare again.

"What." Dick says, his voice deceptively calm.

"We started dating two months ago."

"Habibi, shut up. Now."

"So you just impregnated my son?!" Bruce starts striding forward reaching for his utility belt.

"It was an accident!" Jon backs away.

"Obviously." Seethes Tim, already on his com, no doubt informing the rest of the bats of the price that's now on Jons head. Dick looks ready to join Bruce in beating him with kryptonite.

Jon looks to his own father for help, but Clark is too busy still crying in the corner.

Damian steps between the two quickly. "A happy accident! Jon and I are very excited. You're going to have a grandchild, Father." Damian looks at his father pleadingly.

It seems to work because all of Bruce's attention goes to Damian, and he melts.

"I know, habibi. I'm very happy, but you're so young."

"You adopted Richard at my age. And he was an entire child."

Batman concedes the point.

The rest of their family are called to the Manor, so Damian can get telling the rest of them over with. Because for people with secret identities, they're the biggest gossips.

The Kents cry (it's a family trait) and are very excited. Lois hugs Damian in joy and offers tips on handling being pregnant with a kryptonitian. Kon makes some very crude jokes that Ma Kent smacks him over the head for.

Kara explains the traditional rites for children on Krypton and starts planning a naming ceremony with Clark almost immediately. Damian is touched and shares his own traditions from his childhood that are a mix of Chinese and Arabic. All four discuss how to meld them at length.

Jon is just so full of love that he can't contain it.

Pa Kent does take his grandson aside to tell him that he is happy, but Jon has got to be responsible for his family now. Damian and his child deserve the best.

Jon agrees wholeheartedly but blushes when Ma tells him off for getting Damian pregnant so quickly and that she expects to see a ring at some point.

The bats are no less enthused. They are all very happy for Damian, of course, but after the hugs and offers of support, they glare at Jon and non too subtly check their personal kryptonite stashes.

Bruce actually smiles now that he has had time to process, talking about the trust fund, education fund, and other insurance he has already set up for the baby. (How he had the time to do so no one knows.)

While Damian is distracted trying to pry himself from a weeping Dick Grayson and overexcited Stephanie, Alfred delivers the most polite but terrifying list of his expectations ever.

When Jon nods along and promises that he is not going anywhere and has been in love with Damian for years, only then does the elderly butler smile.

(Jon once again wonders what Alfred did before joining Wayne Manor. Because he has faced villains less scary.)

Damian spends hours trying to convince his father that no, he is not going to move back into the Manor while he's pregnant or when the baby comes. (Bruce builds him a nursery anyway, just in case. His other children roll their eyes.)

When Talia finds out, she declares war on every kryptonitian as payback for Jonathan Kent 'defiling' her baby. The fight only ends when Damian steps in and promises that Talia is welcome to visit as long as she stops trying to kill his in-laws.

Talia, then, rather quickly gets into a buying war with Bruce. Not that they tell Damian after he gave out to them both about the silk baby clothes he received.

All gifts will be delivered when the baby is born and he can't say no.

During the next few months, when Damian starts to show. Many people who knew Damian when he was younger and had not taken to the time to observe anything or get to know the boy at all offer Jon and Bruce condolences on Damians pregnancy hormones and tell the young Super advice on being patient with his crazy partner.

They quickly have to deal with a very angry Super and Batman. The Watchtower learns to never speak of Nightengale in anything close to a negative ever again. Most still shiver at the memories, made worse when the rest of the bats find out what was said.

What they don't realise is that Damian is actually the patient one.

Jon panicks at every little development and spends nine months trying to serve his every whim even if Damian doesn't say anything!

Damians co-workers hold a baby shower and Jon is threatened by an army of nurses in bright pink scrubs to do right by their favourite young doctor.

And when Jon isn't there, the rest of his family is!

The rest of the Supers and Bats are overprotective and clingy to the extreme.

Dick practically moves in despite Damian changing the locks.

Cassandra especially enjoys feeling the baby kick.

Tim does way too much research, Jason goes crazy buying books, and Stephanie tries to convince them to paint the nursery purple.

Duke starts a betting pool. And Jon is pretty sure Kon is fighting the bats to win the best uncle already.

Damian does not have a moment of peace.

At least his boyfriend is willing to fly halfway across the world to get him a very specific dumpling he is craving at 3am.

His father is still campaigning for him to move home, going so far as to bribe him with a puppy.

When Jon gets called away on a two week mission while Damianis is in his third trimester, the man seriously considers giving up being a hero.

Clark is just about able to convince him not to, but strict paternity leave for all heroes is negotiated.

While his partner is gone, Damian does move to the Manor temporarily because Alfred promises to feed him.

Bruce tries everything to get him to stay after Jon is back. It almost works.

When Damian goes into labour a week early, you would swear he was actively dying with how Jon reacted.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Tattoos II

Mapi Leon x Ingrid Engen x Child!Reader

Summary: Mamí has pens now

You break into the box of Mamí's skin pens that night.

It was very fun to draw all over her arms like how she was drawing over Tia Alexia's. The little pictures on her arms are very fun and Mamí's even got your name written there too because she loves you so much.

Mamí always says that you're a little artist because all of your artwork gets hung up on the fridge at home. When you draw, Mamí says that it's abstract because you always tell her that you like to draw your feelings and Mamí says that's a very good habit to have for an artist.

You think Mamí's an artist too but a different kind of artist to you. She does art on people's bodies instead of on a canvas. It must be fun for her, you think, which is why you're pressing the pen to your own skin to see if it's fun for you too.

Mamí is outside the hotel room talking to Tia Patri and Pina while Mumma is in the bathroom, on an adult call with her parents.

That gives you enough time to grab the pens and start drawing on yourself.

They're a little ticklish but you mix a few of the colours together to reflect your feelings and try to draw a picture of Bagheera too.

"Oh, teeny," Mamí chuckles when she comes back into the room," Did you get into my pens again?"

It's a fairly adorable sight. You're sitting on the floor with your tongue poking out of your mouth as you run the yellow pen up and down your arm as Mapi catches sight of a black blob that was clearly your impression of Bagheera.

"Like you," You grunt as you drop the pen and reach for another one.

Mapi intercepts you before you can, pulling you into her lap and reaching down to put all the caps back onto the pens again. "Like me? Like my tattoos?"

You nod, trying to reach for the pens again.

"How about I do them?" Mapi asks," And then we can compare styles?"

You nod at that too, suddenly excited. At home, Mamí likes to sit with you at the kitchen table and draw together before swapping pictures.

The pens are still ticklish even though Mamí's using them and it brings a big smile to your face as the nibs run over your skin.

Mumma comes back out through the bathroom, shaking her head in amusement at her phone. She looks up at you and Mamí and her smile gets even wider.

"Look at you!" She laughs.

"Like Mamí!" You say proudly, looking down at your arms and then back at Mumma again.

"I can see that. You're just like your Mamí."

That makes you feel very good and the sunshine yellow you already put on your arm reflects that.

"That washes off, right?" Mumma asks Mamí, giving her one of the looks that she gives her when she forgets to put your clothes in the laundry after a bath," And it's not going to stain?"

"It definitely washes off," Mamí says, switching colours to add the finishing touches.

"And the staining?"

Mamí stays silent for a little bit. "Only a little? It's barely even noticeable!"

Mumma sighs, massaging her temples like she did that time Tia Patri and Pina babysat you and she came home to them passed out asleep on the floor and the kitchen covered in flour.

"If anyone makes reference to it tomorrow," Mumma says in a tone that means she's being very serious," Then you're in trouble."

You frown. "Me?"

Mamí laughs. "No, teeny, your Mumma means me."

You think for a moment before smiling. "Okay!"

Mumma starts laughing at the offended look on Mamí's face and you give her a toothy grin in answer as she shakes her head in disbelief and puts the pens back on your arm.

Mamí works away for a few more minutes before putting the lid back on the pen.

"All done," She says to you.

"All done?"

"All done."

You look away from the video Mumma's showing you on her phone to look down at your arm. You pull at the skin a little bit to see all of it before you crash into a hug with Mamí.

"Mumma! Mumma!" You say excitedly," Look! Look! Like Mamí!"

"Wow!" Mumma says," You're exactly like your Mamí! Should we take a picture?"

You nod. "Picture! Picture!" You tense your arm like how Mamí does when she wants to show off and beam at the camera.

"And how about one with Mamí too? Because you both look so similar."

"Mamí! Mamí! Picture time!"

Mamí kneels down next to you, flexing too as she smiles at the camera.

"Send me that," She says to Mumma," I think that'll have to be my new home screen."

[chiefdirector]

Finger Paints | Tim Bradford | The Rookie

Tim had wanted to become a police officer for many reasons. Ever since he retired from the military, he had this unwavering need to help people. He was lost without that structure in his life, but he never considered what he could gain from joining the LAPD.

Through his work he met his now-wife and they had built a life together. Now, instead of fumbling through life, he now had his four-year-old daughter sitting on his lap, absolutely covered in paint as she tried to draw something (it could either be an elephant or an aeroplane, he wasn't to sure).

"That's really good, sweetheart." He said, shuffling the two of them so he could see the picture better. From this angle, he could rule out the plane theory but it had been replaced a multi-coloured blob. "What is it?"

"Mummy!" she said, squealing almost as she wriggled in Tim's lap. He just kept on smiling as she spread paint everywhere, trying not to think about how much he liked these trousers. They could be replaced anyway, this moment couldn't.

"Ah!" he overemphasised his words, poking a finger into her side, causing her to squeal again, this time in ticklish delight. "Now I see it. What is mummy holding?"

"Candy!"

"Candy hmm?" Tim pretended to ponder as his daughter turned to face him, "Why don't we clean you up and get some candy?"

"Ice cream!" she counted, jumping up from his lap.

Tim stood after her, grabbing her hand and guiding her to the kitchen sink to try to wash up some of the paint she had covered herself in. "Ice cream it is."

Masterlist

@rookietrek @kmc1989 @augustvandyne

(i tagged people i thought may like, let me know if you wasnt to be added and/or removed)

[i-drop-level-one-loot]

Not sure if you've closed or open requests but

How do you feel about writing a Yan! Slime? Could be platonic or romantic up to you! Idk slimes are cute :3

(also I'm permanently gonna low key stalk ur blog since again yummy yan fics hope you don't mind me staying- /hj)

CW: Wholesome, romantic, stalker monster love ahead ❤️ proceed with caution❤️

Accidently pushed post whoops done now lol

The five year old boy burst through the bushes, tumbling awkwardly and unskillfully before slowly popping up onto his feet and swinging his stick sword forward. His sibling, (Reader), high stepped carefully over the branches of the bush their brother had just crashed through. (Reader) nervously held their own sword, following their older brother into the woods.

"Jay, can we please go back?" (Reader) whined, trying not to cry nervously as they "explored" deeper into the forest.

"Don't be a baby!" Jay chastised, raising his arms high above his head. "How are you gonna be a monster hunter if you're too chicken?!"

(Reader) grumbled, dragging their shoes in the dirt. "I don't wanna be a monster hunter.. I wanna go home! I'm hungry!"

Jay opened his mouth, and raised his fists, ready to say something when something moved nearby, plopping loudly into a pile of dry leaves. His big, childish eyes went wide with fear, immediately losing all confidence and hiding behind (Reader), holding his thin stick in front of his face defensively. He was too scared to speak, trembling into (Reader's) back.

The younger of the two felt a surge of strength, needing to protect their beloved big brother, so they gripped their weapon with both hands, scrunching up their chubby little face to appear tough. They stomped over to the bush the sound came from, holding their breath, unlike Jay who was hyperventilating. (Reader) removed one pudgy hand from their stick, and swiftly pushed back the little branches, exposing a tiny green blob.

Jay released a high pitched scream and took off running back home, dropping his stick.

The glob was vibrating, and (Reader) was instantly filled with sympathy, assuming the little ball of goo was shaking with fear. "Hey, don't be scared." The four year old cooed, dropping their 'sword' and sitting on their knees to be closer. "I'm sorry, I thought you were a monster." (Reader's) cheesy grin showed off their missing front teeth.

Whatever the green thing was slowly went still, and (Reader) could feel it looking up at them.

"My name is (Reader), and I'm," they looked at their fingers, focusing on holding up the right number, before practically shoving their fingers in the glob's personal space, "four years old!"

The goo reached forward, forming a little nub of a hand, touching (Reader's) fingers. It was surprisingly warm. (Reader) opened their hand so it could roll onto their palm.

"Burrrrble!" The thing happily gurgled, looking quite pleased despite it's lack of a face.

"Burble? Is that your name?"

"Prrrr?" It patted their hand, not understanding the question. (Reader) laughed, feeling ticklish.

"I'm gonna be your best friend!" They decided, cupping the slime with both hands, still giggling over the sticky tingling the little guy caused. "I'll visit you every day, and we can play together everyday after school!"

And (Reader) kept their promise, visiting every single day, for years. The two friends grew up together, Burble learning to speak (Reader's) language over time as (Reader) brought their homework into the woods to have more time with Burble while they studied. Jay kept Burble's existence a secret, but never got over his fear of the creature, so he kept his distance from the two while they played.

Burble had a difficult time not praising (Reader) for their heroics, because if they did it would reveal that Burble had been watching them at school. Living alone in the woods was isolating, especially as a monster, their presence frightening off animals of all species. At first it was just because of how lonely they were, wanting to leave the forest to be with (Reader). They turned Burble down, reminding them how dangerous it would be, now no longer the naive child who didn't understand that slimes were monsters. But, no one would know if Burble attached just a little piece of themselves inside (Reader's) backpack, just to hear their voice while they were away.

Fourteen years later, Burble had been practicing in secret, forming their naturally round body into a humanoid form, trying to perfect their appearance before they revealed themselves to (Reader). It happened so naturally, Burble falling in love with their one and only friend. They wondered if (Reader) could ever feel the same. (Reader) was just so perfect; they were kind and strong, preferring pacifism, but quick to throw themselves in danger's way to protect the ones they love, just like when they first met. Even at school, (Reader) would stand up for those being bullied on a regular basis, gaining a reputation for standing up for those too scared to protect themselves. And they never bragged about it!

The green slime learned so much about (Reader) through the way they interacted with others at school, and fell deeper in love everytime they opened their mouth. (Reader) was an angel on Earth.

(Reader) trudged into the forest behind their home, exhausted after field hockey but refusing to take even a day off from visiting their best friend. It was surprising, learning that Burble was less of a pet and actually a sentient being with thoughts and feelings, but that was even more exciting, being able to communicate with a species not known for their intelligence. Burble rolled onto view, now a very large blob the size of (Reader) if they tucked in their arms and legs.

"(Reader)!" They happily gurgled, jiggling up to the high school senior. "How was your day?"

"Same old, same old." (Reader) lied, still wearing their gym shirt because their original clothes got soaked with milk after they stood up to Cody, the biggest dick they ever met.

Burble knew this, however, and was fine with (Reader) lying, knowing they were just being humble. It made their non-existent heart swell. (Reader) pulled out a bunch of classwork, and a brochure slipped out from a folder. "What's that?"

"Oh, that's a pamphlet for a university. Admissions are coming up, so I've been looking around."

The green color lightened almost to a sick looking yellow. Burble hadn't heard anything about this! What did they mean?!

"Burble, you okay?"

"Does that mean you're leaving?" Burble's voice shook, wobbling their jelly body.

"Yeah, if I make it in, but that's still half a year away, so we have time-"

Burble cut them off. "Don't go."

(Reader) sighed, placing a hand on top of their friend's smooth body. "I can't stay with my parents forever. I want to go explore, meet new people, hopefully get a career a have a passion for."

"Then take me with you!" Burble shouted, heating up under (Reader's) hand, the yellow intensifying.

The now yellow blob lunged at (Reader), morphing into a humanesque shape, creating a beautiful face that looked to be on the verge of tears. Burble held (Reader) to the ground, trapping (Reader's) body with their arms and knees.

"Burble, what the hell?" (Reader) wasn't angry, or nervous, just confused, not understanding what had gotten into their childhood friend.

"You can't leave me alone, (Reader), please!" Burble was incapable of forming tears, but their body ached like they were sobbing, rumbling instead of heaving as they didn't need to breathe. They slammed their face onto (Reader's), knowing what kissing was from a picture book (Reader) had shown them as a child, but not quite understanding how to actually do it. Their newly formed lips moved against (Reader's) timidly, easily holding down the struggling human. Burble broke the kiss so (Reader) could gasp for air. "I love you, (Reader), please don't leave me!"

A hurricane of emotions ripped (Reader's) mind apart, struggling with accepting what was happening. Their first kiss was taken by their best friend, who was still holding them tightly against the dirt ground.

"Let's.. let's talk about this later.. I need to go home." (Reader) stuttered, overwhelmed by the emotions they never felt before rampaging in their skull. Burble sunk lower, melting over (Reader's) body to better prevent their leaving.

"No.. not until you promise not to leave me." Their voice was barely a whisper, begging for (Reader) to love them back.

"I-I won't leave you. We'll figure something out.. You've just gotten too big to hide and-" Burble's weight was heavy on (Reader's) ribcage. "we'll figure something out."

Satisfied, Burble sat up and rolled off of (Reader), slowly changing back to their natural green hue. "You promise?"

"I promise." (Reader) face a sad smile, still incapable of fearing their dear friend.

Burble smiled, barely maintaining their shape as they allowed (Reader) to leave. They trusted (Reader), even if (Reader) didn't accept their confession at that moment, there was no way they would break their promise. And, if for some reason they did, if someone like their nervous brother fear mongered (Reader) into abandoning Burble, they would always be able to find them. The green slime collapsed back into a ball, happily listening to (Reader) through the tiny piece of themselves still hiding in (Reader's) backpack.

"Please come back soon.."

[siren-serenity]

you're so in love

characters: portgas d. ace, gn!reader, marco the phoenix (cameo??) warnings: fluff (takes place before SPOILER: teach's betrayal), reader is slightly drunk in the last prompt but there's no violence, ace calls reader "babe" but in a genderneutral way, slight swearing a/n: - these prompts were from @novelbear!! felt a bit of writer's block so i decided to do some :)) tysm bae! - PRETTY SURE I FAILED MY MATH EXAM BUT THATS OKAY - honorary tag for my wifey -> @officialdaydreamer00 - feedback is appreciated!

gently resting their head on their shoulder when peeking at something

scratch scratch ace woke up to the sound of a pen scratching onto paper. with a groan, he slowly sat up from the bed and rubbed at his eyes. his vision looked like a blur of colors but he only focused on you. the color of his "rare" shirts on your body made you seem like a blob of red because of how big it was and ace couldn't hold back the soft smile growing. he shuffled across the bed quietly but you whirled around, eyes widened. he froze like a deer in headlights, hands pressing onto the bed and his butt raised to scoot over. you chuckled. he flopped onto the bed and laughed aloud. "mornin' love," ace crawled towards you before resting his head on your lap. he burrowed himself in your scent and he felt the drowsiness come back again. he yawned. "welp- good night." you let out another small laugh before letting a small hand rest on his chest; a small finger traced the grooves of his abs and he jerked from the ticklish sensation. he quickly put your hand on his hair and moved it around to indicate that yes: portgas d ace, feared second division commander of the whitebeard pirates, wanted head pats and head rubs from his lover. he felt your fingers run through his messy hair and ace groaned from the soothing feeling. he pressed his head further into your lap, blinking slowly one last time before sighing in bliss. 'yes,' ace thought to himself before falling asleep with a drowsy smile. 'this is undoubtly heaven.' you continued to run a hand through his hair, using your other hand to finish ace's stack of paperworks.

always giving the other the first bite of their food

"say ahhh," ace playfully crooned, holding up a spoon with...something on it. you eyed him warily. both of you were wandering the streets of one of the islands under whitebeard's protection, having taken the opportunity for a long, overdue date. it was hard for ace to keep his hands off you (he loved PDA and loved seeing his brothers grimace at him) so the moment the moby dick docked, he threw some clothes at you and him before dragging you to the festival. and here you were, hand in hand and wandering the busy marketplace. although... you hummed, eyes trailing up and down ace's body. the clothes he threw were borrowed from marco, given that ace rarely had any shirts of his own (you appreciated the view of his glistening abs and his broad shoulders-) and the colors complimented him well. as if reading your thoughts, ace leaned in closer, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "you know, you can take this off me later," he murmured and you laughed at his thoughts. "how did you know i was thinking of that?" he raised an eyebrow before lifting up the bottom of his shirt to reveal his abs and his v-line. you spluttered, quickly snatching his hand and making him drop the shirt. that sight was for you, and you only. "seriously? tell me your eyes weren't trying to rip this shirt off." "pft-" you chuckled into a fist before finally taking a bite of his snack. it was a wafer ice cream sandwich and you smiled in delight. it was delicious! ace smiled before gesturing to the corner of his lips. when you failed to get the crumbs of wafer off you, he leaned in, pressing his lips against yours. the ice cream was quickly forgotten as you threw your arms around his neck, pulling him closer and pressing your bodies together.

absentmindedly playing with their hair at all times

"aceeeee," you whined, slurring your words slightly. you reached out for ace, who enveloped you in a one-armed hug and pressed a kiss to your forehead. you stared at him through your eyelashes for so long, ace looked at you with concern. "babe?" "ace," you stated, a serious look on your face. the other commanders stifled a laugh. "has anyone told you that you're hot?" "yes?" ace twirled a lock of your hair around his finger absentmindedly. he raised an eyebrow in confusion. "i ate the mera mera no mi, remember? " you shook your head, cheeks flushed with alcohol. "no, like really. you're really, really hot. smoking hot. burning hot. fiery hot. fried barbeque kinda hot-" marco swooped in, dragging you backward and a sharp hiss tore from your lips. ace's eyes widened as he quickly unwrapped your hair from his fingers. "shit- sorry love!" "charred black kinda hot, like super hot? marc, have you seen my boyfriend?" you gripped marco's shoulders with desperation, eyes wide. ace almost choked on his next gulp of rum; he's praying for you now. marco never lets anybody get away with that."he's totally beyond cute. he's super caring and nice and sweet and-" the first division commander rolled his eyes. "yes, yes, or so i've heard. [name], you're so drunk." "drunk and in love!" you singsonged before leaping into ace's embrace again. ace's fingers threaded through your hair as he adjusted his position so he was sitting comfortably and you were burrowed into his side. you popped a kiss onto his cheek before humming. "in love with portgas d ace!!" ace's cheeks were flushed red, but not because of the alcohol. his vision was definitely blurred though and a small tear welled up. "l-love you too," he choked out. if his grip around your waist was tighter after that statement, you didn't mention it.

[fluffyenergee]

Based on your last post ... How do the mercs react to being shrunk and tickled? Is the toothbrush the most effective thing against them?

Shrunk mercs :D

Scout: I mean, he saw worse, being skrunk isn't the worst but it's still really weird and most importantly if he wasn't the best at fighting off tickles before then now he is completely helpless. He panics like crazy because of that cause there really isn't anyting he can do, though that of course won't stop him from squirming and wriggling. Nah, but at the end of the day he loves being tickled and this is so new he ends up super excited about this and ideally would like to stay shrunk for a liiiittle longer. And yes, toothbrush is most effective on shrunk Scout but as before, everything else works too. I mean, if earlier a feather which could cover one spot max tickled him then now that it can tickle all of him at once it's a great tool against him. too.

Soldier: Tiny or not he's still Soldier, dang it. Or at least he tries to act like everything's the same. Spoiler, it's not and he really sees that once he's tickled. He can wriggle and scream all he wants but with a size like that this ain't gonna stop the tickles. You don't even know how cute his laughter is once he is tickled into helplesness and is forced to admit that, even if just to himself.

Pyro: tiny gremlin! Pyro loves being tiny! He's literally just a creature now. And Pyro loves tiny tickles! It's new, it's exciting, it's still tickles. Put that gremlin on your palm, and tickle him while he's rolling around like a hot dog bun. Cutests muffled giggles as always guaranteed.

Demoman: Oh damn, did he actually get shrunk or did he finally drink too much? It's the former one, of course. Getting tickled like that makes him talk back to his ler, er more like laugh back, about getting revenge once he's back to normal size and that getting tickled in this state is just damn unfair. Very wiggly, kicks a lot, all that good stuff from Demo.

Heavy: "...Heavy is tiny now. Heavy is baby-sized >:(." Psss, I just think he would be so weirded out by being tiny, since he's known for being the literal opposite. Still, it's kinda nice. And then there's tickles. Before that he was able to mostly fend off tickle attacks by simply picking up the other person and all but now? Of course that's not possible and he's so new to that. He doesn't need to be restrained anymore, it's real easy to tickle him, and he's so helpless about that. It's beautiful. I need this tiny big man begging.

Engineer: Damn, he even more tiny than usually tehee :3. He's just a little blob. Ticklish blob. Little wriggly, kicking his little feet ticklish fella. One finger wiggling on his tummy kills him. You better hope his wrench didn't get shrunk with him but honestly even if it did I don't think it would do that much damage.

Medic: Why, he's fascinated by being tiny! Now he can actually crawl into organs, yay! Asideee from that, when it comes to tickles, he, of course, loves it. It's new, exciting, makes him absolutely unable to stop being tickled, it's great! His laughter is even more high-pitched and he wiggles so much, he allows himself that because he knows his much bigger ler will catch him anyway and wriggling around is fun! The only problem is that now being a ler is much harder, but don't worry, he'll find a way.

Sniper: He tiny :|. He confused. Like it could be worse, but c'mooon. And then tickles 0-0. Oh goodness. He's helpless against those like that! He used to be one of the tallest ones there, at least that helped him. Not anymore. Now if you get him he's just a silly giggly tiny creature, trying so hard to compose himself and completely failing. ...I honestly think he might end up loving it.

Spy: He's pissed about being shrunk, like, what now? You better not let him cloak or you're never finding him again. As for being tickled, he's using everything under the sun to try to stop it. By which I mostly mean he's throwing away his dignity because, holy shit, it tickles so much more now, and being tickled like crazy by one finger is already embarassing enough. He bites, he's flailing his hands around, kicking, stuff like that.

As for the toothbruh, yeah, I think it would be most useful against all of them, aside from maybe Pyro considering the suit. Then of couse there are fingers and feather. Everything else I think like haribrushes or forks would be painful instead of ticklish at that size.

[wackywacker2]

Tough Dominatrix Tickled

David considered himself to be quite the charismatic individual. His jet black hair styled in a short quiff, and his black stubble perfectly rested over his powerful jawline. He was, on all accounts, an attractive man.

But he had a secret. One known to absolutely nobody in his life, Even his best friends, with whom they share everything doesn't know about this one... He had a tickle fetish. He didn't really know why he hasn't told anyone, after all, his friends were very understanding, even admitting to various fetishes themselves. But deep down he was in fear of being ridiculed, or labelled as a creep. Regardless, he decided that today was the day he was to use his secrets to his advantage.

David went online and did a google search of 'Dominatrix for hire' and found a woman called Mistress Konstantina and she was absolutely stunning. Her long, ginger locks flowed down to her shoulders and her Leather Suit had fishnets on her stomach and legs which flaunted her Tattoos, But not too many tattoos, she didn't turn her body into an inky blob, just a Tattoo of the word 'DOM' on her toned abdomen and a snake that runs down her right leg. to her knee. David was speechless, she was just magnificent. And then he saw her welcome post...

"Hello you submissive cretins, I am Mistress Konstantina but you will refer to me only as 'mistress'. You are worthless and I will make you know that. Paying for me will give you the treatment you know you deserve. I have never done a video shoot but I will if you ask very nicely. Prices are $150 per hour, it is more expensive than other Doms but I am the best Dom around so I should expect you to pay the price"

'Wow, She's Arrogant' David thought to himself 'Even Better'. David knew what he wanted to do with Mistress Konstantina and sent an email to the address provided on the website that said:

"Hello my Mistress, I think you are very beautiful and would wish nothing more than to have myself be restrained and tickled mercilessly by you. I wish for you, Mistress, to tickle me for the whole day on the 21st of August at 161 Hamilton Avenue, starting from 11am and ending at 8pm and I wish, with your approval of course, to record the entire session. I am willing to pay $250 for you to arrive at my house, where I already have the stocks and camera ready to go. Thank you for this opportunity, Mistress."

He sent the Email with a grin on his face, Knowing that almost everything he wrote was a lie. He didn't have any stocks ready, He didn't have a camera ready, and, most Importantly, he was not going to be tickled by the Dominatrix...

The Dominatrix was going to be tickled by him.

David had always dreamed about tickling women, His first tickling fantasy was when he was 12 and was watching Kim Possible, thinking how wonderful it would be to capture a strong woman and tickle her until she was crying with laughter, and what better woman to do that to than a Dominatrix, women who are supposed to dominate others and make them submit, being tickled until they themselves submit.

The first thing David had to do was to buy the things he needed. He had decided to use his phone camera attached to a phone tripod he borrowed from his friend, and chose to drive out of town to buy the stocks from a bdsm shop, in fear of being found out if he went to the one in his town. He bought the stocks that would tie her arms out horizontally to her side, exposing her ribs and armpits, and that would lock her feet in place in front of her, with toe binds too, if necessary. The stocks were split into four separate pieces and put them into the back of his car, with the main piece just fitting in the trunk of the car, with the two arm pieces and the leg piece in the back seat. He drove home, imagining all the fun he will have on the 21st, Imagining where she is most ticklish, what her laugh sounds like and how she will react to the tickling.

When he got home, he checked his emails, and found a new, unopen email saying:

"I will be able to make it on the 21st, and you will be able to film, but considering you are asking so much of me, I think it is only fair if you pay $300, but we will work out the pay when I meet you."

'Perfect' David thought, Stage 1 was complete.

|-----------|

David woke up at 9am on Saturday, the 21st, the day he has been waiting for since he found Mistress Konstantina 5 days earlier. He spent an hour having breakfast, brushing his teeth and making himself look presentable, and like his charismatic self, and another hour making sure everything was in order for the Mistress' arrival. He had put the stocks back together, he had placed the various tools on a tray next to it. He hadn't set his phone onto the tripod yet, but he had a plan to do that while she was here. He was checking again, and again, and again until he heard:

*Knock*Knock*Knock*

This was it.

She was here.

David open the door and gazed at the beauty of the mistress, wearing exactly what was shown in the picture on her website. Her leather suit, with fishnets flaunting her legs and stomach. The leather piece on her chest stopped at her arms, so her armpits were also clearly visible when she raised her hands. She was also wearing black ankle high boots with heels that made her look much taller. Much more dominant, or so she thinks.

"Hi! Thanks for coming" David spoke clearly and confidently, trying to act likeable to the Mistress. He spoke with a smile on his face in order to ease the tension.

"Hello... David was it? that's what your email address said anyway"

"Yes it's David, I can't wait for what we're going to do today. It's been a while since I've been dominated". This was a just a well-told lie, David has never been dominated, but he wanted the Mistress to believe that he had done this before and so he was to be trusted for what he was going to do next. They chatted for a couple of minutes, about the Mistress' trip to his house, about the traffic when you go through the centre of town. They even bonded about their shared passion of tennis. Mistress Konstantina had now got her guard down, and started to talk to David as if he was a friend of hers, and not someone he was supposed to be dominating.

"The people who pay for me are so desperate" she went on "Like, some people are like 'Ooh mistwess, pwease spank me, pwetty pwease'. Some people have paid $500 just for a picture of my fuckin' foot". This is where David saw what she was really like, she was just using her dominant façade so that her customers would ridiculously overpay for her. She was arrogant and cocky and David wanted to break her, but it would take some tricking.

"So... have you ever been a sub?" David asked while putting his phone on the tripod.

"Oh no, never, that's not who I am, like... I'm just not that type of girl" She responded, whilst sitting on a chair next to him, without asking, mind you. There was a long silence after that, clearly things were getting awkward. David couldn't let that happen, he needed to keep the conversation going so that the Mistress would keep her guard lowered.

"Are you going to tickle me until I can't breathe" He asked while looking at her with his hypnotic, contagious smile on his face. The Mistress smiled back at him.

"Well if you're really ticklish" she giggled whilst saying "then you'll find it hard to breathe".

"Yeah I am... Are you?" David asked her, to which she lost her smile instantly and remarked sharply.

"Me? ticklish? God no, that wouldn't be right. I don't have an exploitable weakness like that, I'm a dominatrix." She responded, sounding offended that he would even ask.

"Of course, I'm sorry I asked" He proclaimed, trying to keep her at ease, so that she would be more inclined to do what he was about to ask.

"It's fine".

"Alright... all done, I just need your help with something" David confessed.

"With what?"

"I'm going to need you to act as a stand-in while I check everything works properly"

"You want me to... get in the stocks?" The Mistress wondered, with a concerned look in her eyes.

"Only for a second, so I can check what the camera will focus on and what the audio will pick up on. Once it's sorted out I'll get you out and it'll be my turn". He replied with a devilish grin on his face, which the Mistress put down to him talking about himself being tickled, which is why she agreed.

"Ok. But only for one minute" She responded to David with a stern look on her face before sitting on the cushioned seat of the stocks. She put her arms out in a T shape and David began strapping her arms to the chair.

"I've never been tied up before" Mistress Konstantina comments as David completes both arm straps and ties her waist into the chair.

"Really? Never"

"It's just not what I do". David completes the waist strap and moves on to her feet. He closes the foot portion of the stocks and locks it shut.

"I'm gonna need to take off your shoes" David said to the now tied up, completely helpless Mistress sitting vulnerably in front of him.

"What! Why?" She hissed, still acting as if she has any control of the situation, not realising that she, for the first time since she was a child, was not in control.

"I need to check that my feet will be in focus when I'm in the stocks, and your shoes are too close to the camera for me to be sure" David responded kindly, seeing how long he can trick this naïve dominatrix into getting willingly put into a position where she can be tickled for as long as he wants. He reminded himself how perfect it is that the Mistress has never done a video shoot before, and that if she knew how video shoots went, she never would have allowed herself to get into the position she is right now.

"Fine! but you are really pushing it now and when I get out of here, you're going to be in deep shit!". David nods his head sharply and starts taking off her shoes. Her feet were magnificent. David wasn't all that into the look of feet as much as he was tickling them but even he couldn't deny how soft looking her feet were, and how her pedicured toenails looked

excellent coloured black. David took it upon himself to push her feet back and wrap her big toes in the toe binds.

"Woah! What do you think you're doing???" The Mistress roared at David, her eyes piercing him like an icicle.

"Just putting your feet where my feet will be when you tickle me" He responds calmly, adding the idea of her tickling him to put her mind at ease, reminding her why she is doing this. He puts each toe in one of the toe binds and steps back to admire his work. He'd done it. He'd managed to trick a dominatrix into getting tied up and trapped in a set of stocks.

"Ok, now to test the audio, wiggle your arms please" She did so, finding it very difficult to do.

"Now your waist" She attempted to move her waist, but realising that she couldn't lift her waist further than an inch.

"And finally, your feet" Trying to move her feet, she found them completely immobile, with not a centimetre of slack on the toe binds.

"Great, and now I'll check the focus". He puts hand in between the camera and the Mistress' feet, moving his hand forwards and backwards and then touches her foot with his fingers, and starts tracing his fingers up and down the sole of her left foot causing her to gasp.

"Hehey! what are you doing now?" she asks, a slight giggle escapes her lips as she spoke.

"Oh I'm sorry, I thought you weren't ticklish" He says, staring directly into the cold eyes of Mistress Konstantina, a mischievous grin on his face, which is when she realised the reality of the situation

"YOU TRICKED ME!"

"Yep"

"FUCK YOU"

"don't be so rude Konstantina, after all, I'm the one in control" He slyly responded, as he scrapes his nails down the vulnerable mistress' whole left foot.

"GRRRRRHEHEHEHAHAHAHAHASTOHOHOHOPPEPHEHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA" she squealed as David's nails dug into her soles

"You said you weren't ticklish, you lied to me, as a dominatrix you should know the punishment" He teased as he uses his other hand to tickle both feet at the same time

"No, no no no no pleEEEEEEHESEHEHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHANOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOFUHUHUHUHUCKYOUHUHUHUHUHUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA" She screamed as she tries as hard as she can to move her feet, but to no avail as the toe binds are keeping her foot completely immobile.

David pauses the tickling for a brief moment, before moving his tray of tools next to him and Konstantina's feet, he took of the electric flossers and turned them on.

"I want you to tell me how ticklish you are"

"FUCK YOU" She barked

"Still arrogant, we'll have to change that" David joked as he pressed the electric flossers in between the big toe and second toe of both feet, causing the Mistress to go into a ticklish frenzy

"NOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHASTOPITPLEHEHEHEHEHEHEASEHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA"

"Tell me how ticklish you are" He moved the electric flossers in between her other toes and on the balls of her feet.

"AAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAIHIHIHIHIHIHMMVEREHEHEHEHEHEHEYEEHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHATIHIHIHIHIHIHICKLIHIHIHIHIHIHSHHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHAHANOWPLEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEEEEEEASESTOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOPEHEHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA"

"Ok". David stops tickling her feet and stands up, puts the electric flossers back on the tray and looks into the eyes of his 'mistress', who now look less cold and more defeated and concerned.

"I'll stop tickling your feet, thank me"

"What?"

"Thank me for stopping or I'll bring out the hairbrush"

"Thank you" She responds almost instantly.

"You're welcome" He teased as he knelt next to her stomach.

"W-what are you doing?" The Mistress whimpered

"I said I'd stop tickling your feet, I didn't say I'd stop tickling you all together" David remarked while bringing his hands towards her sides.

"P-please, what do you want? I-I have money, you want money?" The dominatrix begs, an odd turn of events considering her job.

"No, what I want is to make tough girls like you a blubbering, giggling mess" He beamed as he quickly and erratically squeezed her sides, causing her to buck as much as she could

"NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOIMBEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEGGINGYOUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHUHJUSTSTOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOPEHEHEHEHEHEPLEHEHEHEHHEHEHEHEHEHEASEHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHVEMEHEHEHEHEHRCYHEHEHEHEHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA"

"You are begging, but I've not truly broken you yet". David grabs one of the electric flossers back from the tray and sticks it into her belly button, but doesn't turn it on.

"NO! PLEASE!" The Mistress spouted, A look of genuine fear glistening in her eyes.

"Awww, somebody must have a very ticklish belly button" David cooes. He turns on the electric flosser and Konstantina falls into a fit of intensely ticklish agony.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAANOOOOOOOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA"

Tears were strolling down Konstantina's face, her make-up ruined and black streaks of eyeliner came careening down her face, she had never been tickled like this before, she would never allow it to happen because she was always the dominant one. Now, feeling embarrassed after getting tricked into being strapped into a pair of stocks, she was longing for the torture to be over.

"My My!" David hooted "Look at the time! Its only 3pm, that means I have you for 5 more hours before people might start to get concerned about your whereabouts. And you better not think about telling anybody about this, because I have the video" He turned around the tripod to reveal the phone with around 4 hours of footage, clearly the footage of her being tricked and tickled. She bowed her head in defeat, she knew if she told anyone her career would be over, she wouldn't be earning thousands of dollars a month from dominating if anyone found out.

"Well lets move on" As he spoke he lunged his hands into Konstantina's smooth armpits, catching her off guard and sending her into another ticklish frenzy.

"AAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAAHAHWHYHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAJUHUHUHUHUHUHSTAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAPAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA"

"For someone who is supposed to be tough and dominant, you are super ticklish and weak, aren't you?"

She didn't respond, just bowed her head in shame. David quickly tickled her armpits, causing her to yelp.

"Aren't you" David snapped.

"yes" Konstantina whimpered, her head remaining locked downwards, towards her stomach, Her curly, ginger locks drooping down over her face.

David stared at her for a few seconds, then went to the tray and got a new electric flosser, two electric toothbrushes, two vibrating hairbrushes, and a roll of tape. He strapped an electric toothbrush to each armpit, a vibrating hairbrush to each foot, and the electric flosser to her belly button, all with no resistance from Konstantina, whose head remained in the same position as before.

"I'm going to turn all of these on, and I will release you when all of these run out of charge, or it reaches 8pm, whichever happens first. You have no say in the matter, so don't beg, or I'll come over and use my hands to tickle you as well. Understand?"

The mistress slowly and slightly nods her head in agreement.

"Good" He beamed as he turned on each device.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA"

[aninklingof]

Just a Dream

Hello, I wrote a fic 😊

This is an AU where Dream’s bed is possessed by a tickle monster. There will (hopefully) be at least 2 more parts after (Part 2 here). Also there’s fanart of the scene at the end 😁

Thanks @skylolasaysstuffsblog for proofreading the first part ❤️

Lee! Dream supremacy!!! 💚

Warnings: swearing, slightly intense tickles ✨platonic!✨

Enjoy!

~~~~~

Dream blinked his eyes open slowly. He didn’t know what time it was, but his body told him it was too early to be awake. He willed himself to roll over to go back to sleep but he did nothing more than wiggle a little, seemingly stuck to the bed on his back spreadeagled.

Realizing that he couldn’t move was the kick he needed to gain full clarity. Dream pulled at his wrists but they didn’t move. He lifted his head to look down at his ankles, but his eyes found something much worse.

A tall shadowy blob with purple catlike eyes towered over him from the foot of his bed. Tentacles squirmed over the walls and ceiling— Dream couldn’t tell if they were shadows or not.

“Good morning sleepyhead,” the creature purred.

“Who— wh-what are you..?” Dream stuttered.

“I am the new tenant under your bed. I was just creeping out for a midnight snack, and it seems I’ve found one.”

Dream didn’t like the sound of that.

“Wha-what do you mean t-teNAT—!!” The blonde man squealed and squirmed upon feeling a curious flick from one of the figure’s tentacles against his side.

“Sensitive one aren’t we~?” The creature cooed. “I’m gonna have fun with you~”

More tendrils slithered closer to Dream’s body, stretched out and vulnerable as if he were served up on a silver platter to this monstrosity that seemed to only want to tickle him.

“Wahait wait wait hahang on a sehehECOND—!” Dream shrieked upon feeling dozens of tentacles begin tickling him all at once. He had no idea what was going on or how any of this was possible for that matter, all he could focus on were the velvety wiggling arms that tickled so terribly.

“Does someone have a ticklish tummy~?” The tickle monster teased deviously, a few arms pausing their attack to lift Dream’s tank top and expose his warm skin.

“Ohohohoh gohohohohod plehehehease!! Whahahahat dohohoho yohohohou wahahahahant?!” The blonde man begged between wheezes and squeaks of hysterical laughter. He felt the tip of a tentacle tease the edge of his bellybutton. “FUHUHUHUCK NOHOHOT THEHEHERE!!!”

“Nawww, blondie’s got a tickly tum button does he~?” The shadow taunted excitedly. “Your laughter is much sweeter here, I think I’ll explore that further.”

The dreaded tentacle dipped into Dream’s navel and wriggled around wildly, throwing the poor man into silent shuddering cackles. The torture on his poor belly button was accompanied by several more tendrils teasing his belly and sides, as well as a few wiggling under his shorts to tickle his thighs and into his armpits.

Dream felt like he was losing his mind. It tickled so bad that he simply went limp and laughed. He squeezed his eyes shut and squeals and shrieks wracked his nerves— he was going to die.

And then as soon as it started it stopped. The tickle monster may have said something before it slinked back under the blonde’s bed but Dream couldn’t care. His body still buzzed with the worst residual tickles and all he could do was lay there and let them pass. Somehow in that time he managed to slip back to sleep, exhausted from the intense tickle torture he’d received.

The next time Dream opened his eyes sunlight streamed through the blinds and he shielded himself from the prying light. He rolled over to pick up his phone to check the time, jumping at the small spark of tickly energy that ran down his whole left side as it brushed against the bed.

He squeaked softly and his hand dropped to rub away the effect, his own fingers brushing his bare skin only serving to worsen the feeling.

The memories of the sudden tickle attack in the middle of the night came rushing back to Dream all at once then and he shivered. Was all that real? His shirt was pushed way up and he was super sensitive, but the shirt could be explained away by midnight squirming. As for the sensitivity he had no clue.

After Dream changed into less smelly clothes (seemed he’d sweated a lot that night, odd) he trudged down to the kitchen to find George and Sapnap already awake.

“Good morning sleepyhead,” George greeted. The words sent a chill through Dream’s spine.

“Morning,” he mumbled shyly, his cheeks glowing a faint red as he busied himself with making a bowl of cereal.

“You feeling okay Dream?” Sapnap asked as he set his phone down.

“Hm? Yeah I’m fine,” the blonde answered, wincing at the nervous voice crack that squeaked out of him.

Sapnap stood and walked over to him, placing the back of his hand on Dream’s forehead and cheeks. “You look flushed, are you feeling hot?”

“Sap, I’m fine. Thank you though.” Dream leaned into the younger’s hand gratefully. “Just had a rough night.”

“I heard you giggling in your room late last night,” George spoke up for the first time since greeting Dream, now sitting on the counter sipping a cup of orange juice.

Dream went rigid and chuckled nervously. “D-did you?”

“Yeah. Got up for a midnight snack and heard you giggling your head off,” the brunette explained with a forced neutral face. “What were you giggling at, hm?”

If Dream hadn’t been so caught off guard by George’s sudden input he would’ve probably realized that George could tell something was off with his best friend. However, the blonde’s brain was buzzing chaotically and he couldn’t get his thoughts straight.

“Dream?” Sapnap spoke, his voice still laced with concern.

“What..?”

“You didn’t answer me. What were you giggling at?” George pressed, crossing his arms over his chest impatiently.

“I—“ Dream sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. “I had a really weird vivid dream last night… I think it was a dream at least.”

George and Sapnap shared a look before leading the blonde man to the living room couch and squishing him between them, comforting Dream as he explained his dream embarrassedly.

“That’s pretty wild,” Sapnap said at the end of Dream’s story, his cheeks tinted a slight pink.

“But it was just a dream, yeah? So it’s alright, it’s not real.” George added before squeezing Dream tighter and scratching comfortingly at his curls.

The blonde furrowed his brows in thought, still relaxing a bit from the older’s hand in his hair. “But it felt so… real. It was so bad.”

“Dream, you don’t have a tickle monster under your bed.” George stated firmly, warm brown eyes staring into bright green. “It was just a dream.”

The blonde blinked and looked away. He then nodded and leaned back into George. “Right… just a dream.”

~~~~~

[mykingdomforapen]

more adventures of Frog Guang

(a drabble from the universe of my fic, courage of stars)

-

Lu Guang had proudly named his pet frog Milk Toast. He cultivated a comfortably damp environment for him in his enormous tank and added new leaves almost daily for wont of something to do to spoil his new friend. 

The first day he went to school after his birthday was the most he ever spoken since the beginning of the school year. He told everyone who was willing to listen that he had a new pet frog. The girls shivered until he told them that the frog’s name was Milk Toast, which made them coo. The boys demanded proof of the frog’s existence, and then bombarded him with so many questions that he almost regretted telling them anything. What color was his webbed feet? How long was his tongue? Does he eat flies? Does he ribbit? How high can he jump? Ten centimeters? Fifty? 

He rushed home from school every day to spend time with Milk Toast, which usually took the form of reading books out loud to him. Lu Guang read his frog books out loud, in case Milk Toast was curious what humans liked to say about his kind. He charged Yeye and Maamaa to let him do all the feeding, so that he could choose the best-looking crickets to set into the tank. The crickets were a considerable match for Milk Toast, and Lu Guang stared approvingly as his tiny frog hunted viciously for the insect larger than the size of his head. 

During art class, Lu Guang drew pictures of Milk Toast every time. Whether they used crayons, marker, colored pencils, watercolor, or cut-out pieces of colored paper, Lu Guang created rendition after rendition of Milk Toast. Even when the art teacher asked if Lu Guang would draw flowers, he added Milk Toast on a leaf. When tasked to draw a portrait of little Mei, his desk mate, Lu Guang snuck Milk Toast onto her shoulder, which she did not appreciate as much as he thought she would. 

After school, Lu Guang showed the drawings to Milk Toast through the glass of the tank, as he was fairly certain that at least Milk Toast would appreciate the effort he put into his art pieces. 

“That’s you,” Lu Guang said helpfully as he pointed to the blueish blob with bulging eyes. Milk Toast stared ahead, his little throat puffing rhythmically. 

“This is you too,” Lu Guang said, showing another drawing. “And this is me.”

He pointed to a drawing of himself, who was roughly the same size as the frog and with skinny lines as limbs. Milk Toast shifted in his place, which Lu Guang took as interest. He propped it against the glass so that Milk Toast could continue to admire it.

“This is you with Qi Mei,” said Lu Guang, showing him the portrait of his classmate. “I asked her if she wanted to keep it and she said no, so I think you should have it instead.” 

“Guangguang, it’s dinner!” Maamaa called out. “Hurry and wash your hands.” 

Lu Guang added another new leaf into the tank as a treat before shuffling off to dutifully wash his hands while his grandmother set the table. He toddled to his usual place, next to Yeye, and saw that the table was set for three. 

“What about Ma and Ba?” Lu Guang asked. 

“Ma and Ba are very busy at the library right now,” Maamaa said. “They’ll eat dinner later.” 

“Can I eat dinner with them?” Lu Guang asked. 

Maamaa pursed her lips as she scooped a mound of rice into Lu Guang’s bowl. 

“They won’t be back until you’re getting ready for bed,” she said with a sigh. “Come on, before it gets cold. I worked hard to cook you a good dinner.” 

Lu Guang hid his disappointment by shoveling rice into his mouth. Yeye stroked the back of his head, his hand strong and ticklish. 

“Come on, have some fish,” said Yeye. 

He scooped a large portion of fish onto Lu Guang’s bowl, and a healthy helping of garlic pea sprouts. He tactfully did not offer the frog legs that Maamaa had cooked for the grown-ups, and Lu Guang avoided eye contact with them. He was convinced that Milk Toast would be able to see whatever Lu Guang saw through his eyes, and he would be sorely disappointed if he knew what was going on in the dining room. 

“When will Ma and Ba be done going to the library every day?” Lu Guang asked. 

Maamaa’s eyes flashed with pity. 

“When you go into the fourth grade, little one,” she said.

Lu Guang’s shoulders sank lower. Fourth grade felt like an eternity. The fourth graders towered over him in the playground at school. They were so big and mature and they knew what fractions were. Lu Guang was right now in the first grade. Was he never going to have dinner with Ma and Ba again? 

Maamaa, snapped her chopsticks as she added tomato egg to Lu Guang’s bowl. 

“Eat more, Guangguang,” she ordered. 

He obeyed. After eating more than his fill in dinner, Lu Guang sat at his desk to finish his homework while Yeye walked him through the mathematics. Milk Toast had changed positions during dinner time, which cheered Lu Guang up. He spied on Milk Toast while the frog basked in low light. For the rest of the night, he rested his head in his arms as he watched Milk Toast up close, starry-eyed.

Even when Maamaa ushered him to bed and switched off his lights, Lu Guang crept back to the tank and spied on Milk Toast, watching the frog breathe, sit, and occasionally swim. By the time Ma and Ba came home, and Ma peeped open his bedroom door to spy on him, she found Lu Guang fast asleep at his desk, cheek pressed up against the glass. 

[bigmouthlass]

Title:  Calling A Professional, part b

Series: Professional, part 1b

Author:  BJ

Fandom:  Supernatural

Rating:  Explicit

Pairing:  Dean Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/Reader

Synopsis: 'You' are a career-oriented young Omega too preoccupied with school to have a dating life. Your image-oriented family decide enough is enough and give you a screamingly inappropriate present -- a night with a full-service Alpha escort, emphasis on full. And stuff happens.

Tags:  Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, ABO, Omegaverse, AU, Alpha Dean Winchester, Omega You, Omega Reader, Sam Winchester, Zachariah, Balthazar, Gabriel, Naomi, Castiel, Benny LaFitte, Arthur Ketch, Abbadon, Becky Rosen, Bobby Singer, Charlie Bradbury, Bille the Reaper, First Time, Sex Worker Dean Winchester

AN:  Blame the walking talking PWP device that is Dean Winchester. All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any copyrights or trademarks. This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and protected by Fair Use.

continued from part a

---

The shower is a dingy plastic cubicle shoved next to a toilet in a bathroom that's about than a yard square.  The two of your barely fit, and that's if you press against the wall.  The water is nice and hot though, soothing sore muscles you don't even remember straining.

Dean runs a soapy washcloth over you, stroking it down your skin slow and gentle.  Briefly you wonder if he usually does this with all his clients, and you can't help a hard sting of jealousy at the thought.  You reach out and touch a black-and-blue smudge on his ribcage.  "What's this?"

"Oh, I uh--" Dean raises your arm and scrubs you from armpit to hip, making you giggle when he hits your tender spot.  He grins.  "Somebody's ticklish."

You shove at him.  "Dick."

"Brat," he retorts.  "It's nothing.  Ketch got a few hits in before I laid him out.  Turn around."

You turn and lean your front against the shower wall.  Dean lifts your hair up and scrubs your shoulders, passes the sudsy washcloth down your back.  The soap smells herbal and musky, and it pairs well with Dean's dark sweetness.  You can feel your heat rebuilding, and you know you're going to want him again soon.

Soon means now, you realize as Dean squats behind you and washes down each of your legs.  You squirm at his touch, almost but not quite flaring up to Present your pussy to him.  You hear Dean chuckle to himself.  His hand, covered with a warm washcloth, comes up to gently stroke between your legs, cleaning up slick and seed as it keeps leaking out of you.  You tremble as his warm hand cups your pussy, only just barely touching where you throb.  "God your pussy's pretty," Dean says, making you blush.  One of his hands touches your ankle.  "Can I touch you?  Make you come again for me?"

"Uh-huh," you whine.  Dean guides your legs apart and shifts your stance to open you up.  Your legs tremble as he drags the warm washcloth across your swollen flesh.  Hypersensitive from heat and sex, it doesn't take long before you're shaking.

Dean stands and pulls you against him, back-to-front.  He pivots, turning you to face the shower spray.  The hot water feels divine, pelting and running down your skin.  One of Dean's hands squeezes your breasts, playing and pinching the nipples.  The other slides down between your legs, his palm rubbing against your clit and making you whine.  Dean kisses you as you come again, thrashing against his grip.

"Oh no," he sighs, bringing his hand out from between your legs and showing where his fingers are soaked with fresh slick and blobs of his own come.  "I made you all messy again."

---

You wake up late, after sleeping deep and dreamless.  Outside is quiet.  The only background noises are the rustling of the trees and the mufflered throb of the generator.  The uncovered windows let in the autumn sunshine, filtered through orange and yellow leaves.  The view through the dirty, undraped windows is of trees-- the cabin must be on the edge of some undeveloped property in the middle of nowhere, maybe part of a defunct farm.  Or someone leaving the land alone to provide cover for deer.  You can see Dean's car, covered with a dingy dropcloth.  You nod-- from a distance it'd look like something covered and forgotten, just another piece of abandoned gear.

Next to you Dean shifts a little in his sleep.  He's on his side, curled up, his mouth hanging open as he breathes deep and a little bit snory.  He's even drooling on the pillow.  You cover a giggle as you snuggle closer, seeking warmth in the cold air of the cabin.  One of his arms curls around you and you take a chance and press a few kisses to his chest.

"Your feet are freezing, babygirl," Dean grunts, and rolls you over.

---

You haven't laughed this much in years, you think to yourself later.  Dean looks up at you, his lips pressed to your ankle bone.  He's spent the last little while doing what he calls intensive researching-- laying you out on the bed, naked to his sight and touch, examining you all over.  And being very silly about it, like tracing the pattern of moles on your left hip with his tongue and trying out names for your tits-- "Tweedledee and Tweedledum?  Strawberry and Shortcake?  Heckle and Jeckle?"  He's naked too, totally unselfconsciously, comfortable with himself in a way you envy.

"This little piggy went to market," he says, kissing your big toe.

"Staaaaaahp," you groan.  "Not into feet."

Dean grins, kissing your instep.  "Flip on over."

You turn onto your belly.  Dean kisses up the back of your leg, lingering in the tender spots behind your knees, at the base of your ass.  "Uht-oh," he says to himself, kneading into the thick muscle, "your pussy's hungry for me again."  He's right, your body's going hot and slick's trickling out of you.  You whine and shift your legs apart, but Dean just keeps kissing up your back.  You can feel him smiling against your skin.  "I could do this all day."

"You bastard," you whine, pressing your ass against him, seeking his cock.

"Hey, I know who my daddy is," Dean says.  He turns your head and kisses you, all tongue.  His weight settles on your back and his thigh presses between your legs.  You push back, trying to get some friction against your clit, but the angle's wrong, you can't reach.

"I got what you need, Alpha's here," Dean says into your ear.  "But you have to ask, babygirl."

"Please, Alpha," you say.  "Need you."

"Good," Dean says, "good girl.  What do you need from me?  Do you need my cock?"

"Yes, please," you say.  "Please Alpha."

Shifting one of your legs to open you wider, Dean enters you with a long slide and a groan.  "Perfect," he sighs.  "Perfect for me, Omega.  So perfect."

---

It's hot in here now, that Dean's got the woodstove loaded up and working.  Outside, rain lashes the cabin, the kind of cold autumn rain that makes you glad for modern conveniences like hot showers and central heating.

"What's this?" you ask, picking out another scar on Dean's torso.

Dean trembles as you kiss over it, an oval of white bisected by a straight line.  "Never saw the shooter.  Just looked down and realized it was my blood all over."  His hands are clamped on the chair's back and sweat's standing out on his skin.  You lick, letting the salt sting your tongue.

Trailing kisses up his flank, you find a jagged white line arching along his rib cage.  "This?"

"Guy caught me cheating at a poker game.  I didn't realize he had a knife.  Dad had to stitch it up."

"Shit.  Why didn't you go to the hospital?"

Dean gives you a look.  "No money, no health insurance, and gambling was illegal in that town.  I'd've gotten arrested."

"Sorry," you say, hanging your head.  It's humbling, realizing on a gut level just how sheltered you really are.  Sure, your parents might've been ambivalent about raising an accidental kid, but they were never unkind and they made sure you were always safe and cared for.

"It's okay babygirl," Dean reassures you, ducking his head to kiss your forehead.  "It healed fine."

Your eyes fall to a tattoo high on his left pectoral, right about where the aorta bends down.  Your lips trail over the stark black ink-- a pentacle in a circle flanked by wavy black lines that look a little like wings.  “Dad,” Dean says.  “He found it in a book somewhere, supposed to protect you from ghosts’n’shit.”

You kiss back down and Dean shudders as you come close to his very hard cock.  You sit back on your heels and just . . . look at it.  All hard and leaking, with a knot and balls and a thicket of tawny brown hair at the base.  Dean's skin is fair, delicate, you can see the thick arteries pulsing, feeding blood in from his belly.  This has been inside you.  Your pussy twitches at the thought.  If you concentrate you can feel deep inside your sex in a way you couldn't before-- touched, wet, fucked a little bit sore.  You know it's kind of your job to touch him there, make him feel good with your hands and your mouth the way he's made you feel good, but now that you're facing the three-dimensional reality you're coming over shy again.

"You don't have to do anything you're not okay with babygirl," Dean reminds you, reading you like a headline again.

"I'm okay," you tell him.  "Just . . . first one of these I've seen in the wild.  I mean-- dumb question, but how do you manage with that flopping around-- shut up!" you whack his leg as Dean busts out laughing.  Some wicked impulse to wipe that silly grin off his face overrides your shyness and Dean coughs out a curse as you take the crown of his cock in your mouth.

A pulse of precome flows across your tongue and you grimace.  Yuck.  You pull back and explore the head with your lips, avoiding the leaking slit.  The texture of the skin is soft, a little like silk and a little like velvet but it’s mostly its own thing.  You press your tongue to a spot where the seam and the head come together and taste-- ick, sour slick and salty blargh.  It’s worth it though, for the way the muscles in Dean’s arms and chest pop out as his fists clench the back of the chair.  Alpha is submitting to you, as you touch his most tender parts.  Dean could bolt up from this chair and knot you in seconds, easily.  But he’s not, and he won’t.

You wrap a hand around his knot.  Here goes nothing-- you take Dean’s cock between your lips and slide him in.  Dean moans, “Oh my God-- you’re doing good babygirl.  So good.  So fucking good.”  Like drinking a thick smoothie, you think to yourself as you apply suction.  “Teeth!” Dean warns and you open your jaw a little wider.  More fluid dribbles from him but at the back of your mouth the flavor isn’t as terrible.  The mass of spongy flesh in your hand pulses and swells in your grip.  You squeeze back against the swelling and Dean’s moan makes your bones tremble.

You look up and meet Dean’s eyes.  The need in them is overwhelming.  Cords stand out in his neck and his jaw’s clenched, lips parted in an effortful snarl.  His fangs have dropped, you can see the sharp points.  You bob your head and his head drops back.  “Fuck,” he heaves, “you’re gonna make me come if you keep doing that.”

You’re not up for swallowing, so you pull back and scrub the flat of your tongue up and down the seam of his cock.  “Yeah, use your hand--” Dean pants, “fuck, squeeze my knot.  Squeeze it.  Fuck, perfect, little tighter.”  Dean seizes the hand you’ve been stroking up and down his steel-hard cock, brings it to his mouth and licks your palm.  “Keep going babygirl, keep going-- fuck, fuck, I’m so close, God, fuck, Jesus--" all the muscles in his belly pull tight and his knot inflates in your hand.  You circle it with both hands and squeeze, as thick seed spurts out of Dean in ropes, landing on your hands, his legs, the floor, your face.

Dean’s whole body, shining with sweat in the lamplight, heaves as he works to get his wind back.  You keep your hands locked around his knot, rhythmically squeezing the way your pussy did.  Blobs of come are still dribbling out of him, Alpha seed meant to sire pups.  You look up at Dean as he sags in the chair.  He’ll make beautiful pups, you think, someday, with the right Omega.

Your Omega instincts growl, and a tiny voice inside says, quiet but very distinct-- Mine.

His cock finally sags and his knot deflates in your hands.  Dean’s staring down at you, his pupils blown wide open.  His scent’s thick in the air, sizzling apples and leather and smoke and you realize your cunt is fucking running with slick, so swollen the friction of your thighs together feels awesome.

Fast as a pouncing cat, Dean stands and pulls you up off the floor.  He sets you on the cabin’s little dining table.  Strong hands shove your legs apart.  “Show me your pussy Omega,” Dean orders.  “Hold it open.  Perfect.”  He pulls the chair close and sits.

“Dean,” you pant as he blows a puff of wind over your exposed, throbbing clit.

“Gonna eat this pretty pussy ‘till you scream,” he says.

By the time he’s satisfied, you are indeed screaming.  A lot.

---

“Hey,” you shake Dean awake.  It’s like it always is with heats-- you’re not hungry until you’re starving.

“Go ‘way,” he grunts.

“Dean.  Food.  Eat.”

Dean’s eyes flutter open, then pop wide as you hold a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon under his nose.  “You didn’t have to-- I was gonna cook breakfast when I got up.”

“Hungry now,” you say.

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“Hungry now,” you repeat.  He does have a point; without your phone and with no clocks in the cabin, you have no earthly clue what time it is, only that it’s dark and still raining.

Dean sits up and accepts his plate.  “Bacon,” he sighs, folding a strip into his mouth.

You point to the pile of yellow curds.  “Eggs.”  You hand him a cup of milk.  “Moo juice.”

You both pretty much inhale the food.  “Thanks,” Dean says, handing back his empty plate.  “Didn’t realize how hungry I was.”

“Welcome.  Now according to the law of equal division of labor--”

“Oh no no no no no,” Dean rebuts.  “We’re in Deanland, and in my benevolent dictatorship the one who cooks is the one who cleans.”

“Nuht-uh,” you fire back.  “This is my land, as I am a born Michigander, and therefore he who eats is he who cleans while she who cooks ogles he who cleans.”  You cross your arms over your chest.  “So there.”

Dean thinks for a minute.  A tiny and very evil smile curves his lips.  “How ‘bout a bet?”

“What kind of bet?” you ask, seeing something wicked dancing behind your Alpha’s eyes.

“You know what mutual masturbation is?”

Hot blood crashes into your cheeks.  “The name’s pretty self-explanatory.”

“C’mere,” Dean pats the bed, getting up on his knees.  You kneel opposite him and he pulls you close for a kiss, his lips tasting of pepper and bacon.  Heat has you trembling, skin hot and sensitive all over.  “Hands only,” Dean instructs as he kisses and nibbles down your neck.  “First one to come has to do the dishes.”

“You’re on,” you growl and seize his hardening cock.

---

You wake up later with the sun in your eyes, a smug grin stamped on your face.  The cabin smells like vinegar and lemons.  Yawning, you stretch and see Dean wiping down the kitchen counter.  The dishes are washed and stacked neatly on the shelf over the sink.  The cabin’s practically sparkling clean, dust wiped away and clutter tidied.  There’s even a broom in the corner, and a folded set of fresh sheets for the bed.

Dean spies you and glowers.  “Where did you learn to do that twisty thing?  I demand to know.”

You grin.  “Girl Scouts.”

---

You fuck pretty much constantly for the rest of the day.  Heat and rut render you both eager, needy, hungry.  All through it your Alpha is attentive, focused, careful about reading your reactions and learning the secrets of your body, then applying the lessons and playing you like some sort of precious instrument.

“Stop,” he orders and your hand drops from where it was stroking your stone-hard clit.  Your orgasm’s there, right there, all it’ll take is a little friction to make it happen . . . but Dean isn’t letting you.  Says he just wants to play with you, see how hard you can come.  You press your chest into the mattress and swivel your hips, showing Alpha your wet and very hungry Omega pussy.  Shameless and needy and you don’t care at all.  Dignity be damned, you want.

Dean’s tongue licks at your inner lips, purposely avoiding your clit.  You bite a knuckle and concentrate on keeping your center still.  “Wanna slip right inside you,” Dean murmurs into your cunt, “right when you’re coming.  Your pussy fits me so good and you’re so fucking sweet,” he licks like he wants to eat every bit of slick you make.

Dean’s hand on your back shifts your ass further into the air.  You scream in bliss that’s more like pain as his mouth attacks your clit.  You start to cry when he stops.  “Please,” you beg, “Dean, please.”

The fat, velvety head of Dean’s cock slides across your pussy lips, across your clit.  You moan at the sensation.  “Alpha, please.”

“You’re gonna come?” Dean asks.  “Go ahead and come.  Come for me babygirl.  Let go.”

You throw your head back and howl as your orgasm crashes through you.  Dean’s cock shoves into you, fucking into the squeeze.  His fingers flicker over your clit as you slam yourself back against him.  Dean grabs your hips and fucks with all the power he’s got, until his knot pops and your cunt clamps down, so hard and tight you know you’re going to feel it forever.

“My good girl,” Dean heaves, pulling you up to sit on his lap, his knot lodged inside you.  “My perfect girl.  God, what’re you doing to me?” he asks between kisses.  His lips seize the spot over the mating gland and you whine something that might be yes when he clamps down, his teeth shielded by his lips.  Mine, something inside you says.  His.  Mine.  His.

Mine.

---

The next morning, the fever is gone and you ache all over.  On the one hand you feel like you could sleep for a week.  On the other hand, you feel . . . energized, full of life.  Downright fucking perky.

You take your time in the shower.  It feels good, washing the heat sweat off.  You feel like yourself again.

Almost.

You use a towel to clear the mirror.  In the harsh light of the bulb over the sink, it’s hard to believe the woman staring back is you.  You drop the towel and look yourself over.  Dark suck marks and small arcs of teeth color your skin.  They don’t hurt, exactly.  Except for the dark, almost black mark on your neck.  You touch it, stroke it, press down into it and relish the sting.  Dean did that.  You dig your fingernails in a little, imagining they’re fangs.  Dean marked you, right where Alpha’s claim is supposed to go.

The thought brings you up short.  Claiming?  Mating?  You’d never taken the idea seriously, imagining finding a husband and maybe having a family in some far-off future in which you’re teaching somewhere prestigious and said hypothetical husband being someone safe and solid, a good father for their pups . . .

Mine.  His.  Mine.

Dean’s up when you come out of the bathroom, dressed and drying your hair as best you can with a towel.  He’s barefoot below his jeans and barechested over them, cooking pancakes and singing along to a Bob Seger song playing on a dusty old tape deck set on top of the fridge.  You tingle when you see the marks you’d left on him, dark purple stamped into his fair skin.  Claw furrows stripe his back, red and scabbed over.

Shyness be damned.  Dean jumps when you wind your arms around him from behind.  His shoulders bear the faint ghosts of freckles.  “You’re Irish aren’t you?” you ask.

“My mom’s maiden name was Campbell,” he tells you.  He flips the pancake in the skillet over, nods at the golden brown, and flips it onto a plate already stacked high.  “Take a little bit of batter,” he says, almost to himself as he dips a cup measure into a bowl full of thick cream-colored goo, “and we pour into the hot pan.”  His arm hooks around your shoulders and pulls you around so you can see.  The batter oozes into the skillet and sizzles.  Your mouth waters.  God you’re starving.  “Make sure it doesn’t get too hot.  Look for little bubbles coming up by the outer edge, that’s how you tell it’s done on that side.”  After a few minutes of watching, Dean slips the spatula under the cooking pancake and flips.

“How can you tell it’s done?” you ask.

“You just kinda have to feel it.  Look at the edges and see if they look liquidy.  Leave it another minute or so.”  Dean looks down at where you’re snuggled against his ribs and smiles.  “Can you get the coffee going?”

“Coffee I can do,” you say, spying the dusty drip machine.

A few minutes later you bring plates and silverware and set the table.  After he sets down the pancakes, Dean reaches for a long-sleeved shirt and drags it on.  He chuckles at your pout.  “It’s cold in here sweetheart.”

“What, I can’t ogle?”

“Well, to be fair,” Dean says, “I’ve been staring at your nipples.”

He’s right, they’re poking straight through your bra and T-shirt, standing at attention like little soldiers.  You cover yourself, blushing.  Then it occurs to you how ridiculous that is, modesty in front of a man who’s literally kissed you where the sun don’t shine.

“Eat, babygirl, before they get cold,” Dean says, loading up his plate and dumping half a bottle of maple syrup over it.

Pancakes, orange juice, coffee by the pitcher.  You can feel your body seizing the calories and the vitamins.  By the time you’re full you’ve eaten enough to make a lumberjack pause.  “Oh man,” you wheeze.

Dean chuckles and you blush again.  “Big appetite after a heat’s nothing to be ashamed of.  We got an awful lot of exercise the last few days.”

“Yeah.”  Fair’s fair; you gather the dirty dishes and stack them in the sink.  Dean gets up and grunts something about getting more wood for the stove.

You’re stacking the clean dishes and putting them away when Dean comes back with his arms full.  “We need to talk.”

“Mmm?  What’s up?” you ask, helping him with the wood.  When you’re done you move to wrap him in a hug but Dean turns away.  “What’s the matter?”

“Oh I don’t know-- I’m twenty-eight years old and I’m in an off-the-books shack in the middle of nowhere with an eighteen year old girl and a trunkful of guns.  What is wrong with this picture?”

After the passionate intimacy of the past few days-- after the small-scale joyousness of the past few weeks-- you’re completely taken aback.  “What?”

“I need to get the hell out of your life.  Before I fuck it up worse.”

“Hey wait a minute,” you say.  “My life was fucked up way before you got here.  Maybe ever since my mother passed.  All you did was get here when everything went kerblooey.”

“’Kerblooey’?”

“Kerblooey.”

“The point stands,” Dean says.  “I’m a high school dropout with ten bucks and my car to my name and I make my living on my knees.  I don’t have anything going for me except a knot to stick in people and now I can’t even do that.  What the fuck am I even doing here?”

Jesus Christ, the self-hate is so hot it’s smoking.  “What in the hell brought this on?”

“I’m a grown-ass man.  You’re just a kid.”

“Stop right there,” you say.  “I’m a little naïve, I admit that, but I’m not a kid.  I quit being a kid when I got out of high school and my father decided he was done with parenting.”

“What?”  Not a stupid man, Dean does the math.  “You were sixteen for God’s sake.”

You shrug.  “Didn’t matter.  I’d been pretty much raising myself since Mother got sick.  Point is, you’re not robbing the cradle, Dean.”

“Yes.  I am.”  Dean pulls aside the collar of his shirt and shows a suck mark over the mating gland.  “You think I didn’t notice?  Do you even realize what you almost did?  That’s a lifetime commitment.”

“I know that.  Which is why I didn’t do it.  Neither did you.”  You tap the bruise on the same spot on your neck.

“You begged me to.  First time with an Alpha-- hell, first time period, and I came that close,” he holds his thumb and forefinger an eighth of an inch apart, “to . . .”  He clears his throat.  “You’ve known me less than a month and you’re acting like you want to Bond.  That’s not normal.”

Mine.  “Fine-- let’s talk about this.  I go through life, I meet plenty of Alphas.  Some of whom aren’t knotheads.  A few of whom are attractive.  Maybe a handful who’re interesting.  And none of them were you.”  You pause to let that sink in.  “I felt it the minute I got your scent.  I know you felt it too.  We’re a match.  Aren’t we?”

Sticking to his guns, Dean says, “We’re not.  You’re just imprinting on the first Alpha you got a crush on.  It happens.  Hell it happens to me on a regular basis.”

That hurts, getting reminded that making people feel special with his body is something Dean is paid to do.  You swallow back the pain.  “And do you always call your old Army buddies to run interference between your clients and their asshole relatives?  Especially when they live like five states away?”

“No,” Dean is forced to admit.  “Babygirl--”

“If this is a serious discussion you will use my name Dean Winchester,” you tell him.

“Big talk from somebody who gets off on being told she’s a good girl,” Dean fires back.

Okay, that hurts.  “Why are you doing this?” you ask.

“Because,” he uses your full name like it’s a curse, “I won’t be the asshole who destroys your future.  I refuse.”

“For Christ’s sake I’m not asking for your hand in marriage, Dean!”  Yet.

“I’m confused--” he says, “you’re saying we’re a true match but you don’t want to talk about a lifetime commitment?”

“I’m naïve Dean, not stupid.  Just because we’re a match doesn’t mean we’ll make a good couple.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“You’re acting like you don’t even want to try.  Because what if we are, huh?  What if we’re a match and we wind up being good together?  What if for once life’s dropped something good in our laps?  You wanna turn your back on that?”

“Because that’s not the way it works, okay?  Not ever.”

“So all those things you said-- they were just to get me here and bend me over?” you ask, trying to keep it together.

“Pretty much.  Kid.”

You stalk up to Dean.  You’re angrier than you can ever remember being, maybe angrier than you’ve ever been in your life.  “You’re lying.”

He smirks.  “You’re adorable when you’re mad.”

“You’re not worthless,” you tell him, and the smirk dies.  “A worthless man would’ve left his father and brother out to dry years ago.  A worthless man wouldn’t leave himself open to a kidnapping charge just to get into a cute Omega’s drawers.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Of course not,” you scoff.  “That’s a Zachariah move.  Y’know, the actual worthless man in this scenario.”

“You don’t know me.  You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you’re still here and trying to do the right thing even after life’s kicked you in the balls for it   A lot.”  You shove Dean and he’s taken aback enough he actually pops back a step.  “Don’t you walk away because of some half-assed idea that you’re ruining me by being here.  That’s not your decision.  And fuck your martyr complex anyway!”  You shove again, Dean stumbles, and down he goes.

Swearing, you drop to your knees.  Blinking dazedly, Dean accepts your help sitting up.  “Ow.”

You sit down on the cold floor.  “Look me in the face, and tell me I didn’t have anything to do with you quitting your job.”

Dean looks you in the face.  He opens his mouth and pulls in a breath to speak.  The hammerblow that would’ve broken your heart doesn’t come; Dean closes his mouth and sighs.  “It wasn’t . . . entirely you.”

“So which parts were me?  The ones about not wanting to do the sex part any more?”  At Dean’s look, you add, “That is what full service means, correct?”

“Correct.  And yeah.  That part.”  Resettling himself to sit with you, Dean says, “Almost seven years, I’m up for just about anything.  Hell I was picking my own clients, pretty much, after the first six months.  And then I meet you and I can’t . . .” he trails off.  “Look, for all you know I’m a deadbeat paying child support to half a dozen baby mamas--”

“You’re not, though.”

“No.”  He cups your cheek.  “I’m not going to convince you how bad an idea this is am I?”

“Nope.  I’m a scientist Dean, and you haven’t offered any hard evidence that you’re a bad man.  Morally flexible, yeah, but that doesn’t make you bad.”

“You deserve better that ‘not bad,’” Dean says.

“That’s my decision.”  Mirroring him, you palm his jaw.  “Start small?  A date?”

And he smiles.  “I know a great Korean place out by East Beltline.”

You kiss him.  “For real now, what brought that on?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says.  “I was out looking at a blowdown I need to cut up and I just-- it hit me all at once.  I’m in the middle of nowhere with no money, on the run, and somebody I love’s counting on me to keep them safe.  Again.  I’m stuck on repeat.”

“Bullshit.  It’s not like we’re fleeing from the goddamned Wehrmacht.  This is one asshole with a shitload of money.”

“If there’s one thing life has taught me, it’s the destructive power of assholes with money.”

“Okay,” you say, “in your experienced opinion, what now?  I should’ve been back to class-- shit!  Today!  Prof Visnyak’s gonna fucking kill me!” you moan.

“We can pack up the car and go right now,” Dean says.  “Be back in town by dinnertime,” he starts to get to his feet.

You let him help you up but when he turns for the door you say, “Wait.  I don’t know--"

Pulling you close, Dean kisses you.  “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know.  I mean--” dread, that’s what it is.  The thought of going back isn’t comforting.  Home doesn’t feel safe any more.  It might never feel safe again.  Here is safe.

“Babygirl.”  Dean tips your head up to look you in the eye.  “I’m gonna ask you a question and I want you to answer without thinking about it.  Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” Dean echoes.  “Yes or no-- is it safe to go back?”

“No,” you say without thinking about it.

“Then it isn’t safe.  We stay here for at while,” Dean concludes.

“How do you know it’s not safe?” you ask.

“Gut feelings aren’t random,” Dean lectures.  “They're based on stuff your brain remembers without you being aware of it.  Scents, body language, stuff like that.  If your instincts are telling you something isn't safe, it probably isn't," he concludes.  "I know you got classes and shit, but would it be the end of the world if you stayed gone for another few days?"

You consider, chewing on your lower lip.  "I feel like a jerk for even thinking it."

"Would you feel the same way if your broke your leg or got in a car wreck or something?"

"Point taken.  I'd just feel better if I knew what the situation was.  We're in the dark here."

"That we can fix," Dean says.  "I can make a supply run and pick up a burner phone.  Do you know Balthazar’s number?"  At your nod, Dean says, "Okay, we have a plan.  Get your coat."

---

Outside you head for the car, but when you reach for the passenger door Dean says, "Nope."

"I'm not going with you?"

Dean shakes his head.  "We gotta do something first."

Your jaw drops when he lifts the trunk's false bottom to show more guns than you've ever seen in person.  "Jesus Christ!  What're we prepping for, World War III?"

Dean shrugs, looking a little guilty.  "Sort of, yeah.  They're all legal if that's what you're worried about."  He thinks a minute.  "Except maybe the grenade launcher.  I'm not sure where Dad got that.  Still think I'm that great a guy?"

You stick your chin out.  "I'll take a calculated risk that you're better than the guy trying to knot the niece that's young enough to be his great-granddaughter."

"Touché," Dean mutters.  He reaches into the trunk and pulls out a pistol.  "Here.  Glock 19, nine millimeter, semi-automatic, fourteen in the magazine and one in the chamber.  About thirty ounces loaded."  Dean presses a button and the magazine slips out and he opens the top part.  A bullet flies out and he plucks it out of the air.  "First rule of firearms is--"

"--the gun is always loaded," you say with him.  “I don’t approve of guns.”

Dean looks down at you.  “I don’t approve of you being unarmed in case we get separated.  Your uncle--”

“Quit calling him that.”

“Whatever.  Zachariah is a threat we are going to take seriously, and that includes making sure you know how to defend yourself if you have to.  You hear me?”

“I hear you,” you grumble.  You hold out your hand and Dean slips you the gun.

---

Later you’re waiting back at the cabin, wringing the ache of unaccustomed exercise out of your hands.  There’s a sour feeling in the back of your throat, the remnants of adrenaline as Dean coached you through your very first shooting lesson.

“We are called upon by the Lord to accept that the cruelty of the world will cause us pain, and to offer our enemies the gifts of love and understanding,” Father Jim had preached in his sermon . . . God, just this past Sunday.

Fuck that, says the dull black thing on the table.

“Just let him feel like an Alpha and he’ll let you go,” your mother said.

Fuck that.

“Nothing we have is worth killing for--”

Fuck.  That.

In your hand the textured black plastic is warm.  Welcoming.  You stare down at your hand like it doesn’t even belong to you.  This hand fired a gun.  This hand can kill people.

And you’re confused by how not horrified you are at the thought.  “For a total beginner you’re not bad,” Dean had said, examining the makeshift target he’d set up with a log and some sheets of paper from your lab notebook.  Watching Dean’s easy confidence with his own, gun, every movement natural as a yawn, you’d felt like a faun trying to walk for the first time by comparison.

Sighing, you get out the little box with the cleaning supplies and start running through the steps Dean showed you to strip and clean the Glock.  Again.

He’s been gone for a couple hours and the quiet is getting to you.  It’s ridiculous; you’ve been on your own ever since Dad took off for Florida the fall you entered college.  You’ve been alone longer than that, the last dehydrated pea rattling around in the tin can that was your mother’s house on Reeds Lake.  A house meant for the large family she’d had with her first husband, the half-brothers you’d only met at her funeral.  That’s you, the half-considered, the afterthought, the surprise no one wanted in the first place and didn’t think much of once you’d arrived.

You shake your head.  That’s not fair.  It’s not your parents’ fault they didn’t think your forty-seven year old mother could even get pregnant, much less carry to term, much less deliver a healthy seven pound baby girl.  It’s not like you were the red-headed stepchild cooped up in the attic or the foundling left on a church doorstep.  You have friends, colleagues, people who respect you.  You have your brain, a decent work ethic, a future in a field you enjoy.  By any reasonable standard you’re blessed.

And now you have Dean.  He just needs to hurry his beautiful ass up and get here.

You hear the Chevy’s engine and your heart starts to beat again.  Calling your name, Dean says, “I’m coming in.  Safety on.”

You look down at your hands.  Shuddering, you put the gun down.

---

“Dear God in Heaven it’s good to hear your voice,” Uncle Balthazar says.  “Are you all right?  Where are you?”

“I’m fine and I have no idea,” you answer him.  “We’re in a cabin a friend of Dean owns.  I don’t know where, it was dark when we drove here and I lost track of the roads.  What’s going on?  Have you and Uncle Gabriel nailed Zachariah?”

“We had enough to take to Naomi and Michael.  She wailed for an hour.  It was dismally theatrical.”

“Son of a bitch!” you hear Dean snap from inside the cabin, along with a clang of something heavy.

Uncle Balthazar hesitates.  “Not to be indelicate, but, um . . . is everything all right?  Mr. Winchester wasn’t . . . inappropriate with you?”

You smile.  If you concentrate you can still feel Dean deep inside, warm and wet.  “Define inappropriate.”

“Oh good God, never mind, I don’t want to know.  In any event, Zachariah’s been relieved of his post and his access to the Family money’s been cut off.

“That’s the good news.  The bad news is, Zachariah himself has vanished into the ether.  We were trying to avoid it but we had no choice-- the police are looking for him.  Chuck’s gone too.  Sturley and Kline looks like an anthill after a tank charge.”

You pull in a deep breath.  “Have their passports been invalidated?”

“Of course but it’s entirely possible they’ve already fled the country.  Castiel and Jack,” Jack Kline, the other half of Sturley and Kline since his grandfather retired, “have been doing a thorough audit of Zachariah’s finances.  He’s filched more than enough to live comfortably in some paradise with low inflation and no extradition treaty.  Thank God that doesn’t trouble my associates in Dubai.  One way or another, Zachariah’s life is over.”

You lean against Dean’s car, bracing yourself for a fainting wave of relief.  It doesn’t come.

“Cherie, you need to come home.  Your phone has been positively screaming.”

“What about the escort agency?” you ask.

“Well, in exchange for immunity from a breach-of-contract and attempted rape charge, Ms. Rosen and Ms. Diablo have been fully co-operative.  Your escort’s friend Mr. LaFitte -- charming fellow, I think I’ll ask if he’s ever considered working in security -- did an excellent job communicating the wisdom of, shall we say, a collaborative attitude.  They both apologize for any distress--”

“Fuck them both with barbed wire dicks.”

“Indeed.  It’s enough that arrest warrants have been sworn out against Zachariah and Chuck, on the off-chance my people don’t find them first.”  Uncle Balthazar sighs.  “Which is another reason you need to come home.  The police need to talk to you and so does the district attorney--”

“Until you can guarantee Zachariah isn’t coming after me, I’m staying here.”

“Dear heart a restraining order’s already been handed down.  If you want I can hire bodyguards.  Whatever you need.”

“No,” you say.  Because when it comes right down to it . . .

“Ah hah, the honeymoon period.  I understand.  When your Aunt Anna and I first met, it was nearly a month before we were willing to come up for air.”

“It’s not like that,” you say.

“It’s quite all right darling, you haven’t had a vacation since that dreadful trip to Tokyo your father dragged you on.  If it makes you feel better to stay shacked up with your Alpha, I’d say you’re entitled.  Oh for God’s sake-- tell me you haven’t Bonded.”

“Uncle Balthazar!  Of course not!” you hiss.

“Just asking!  Just asking!  Please stay safe.  And keep in touch.”

You look at the phone in your hand a long time after Uncle Balthazar hangs up.  You should be calling Dr. Visnyak and your other professors to tell them you’ll be gone at least a few more days.  You should call Penelope to get briefed on your lab project.  You should call Ralph and reschedule your study session-- you’d agreed to work on your Cultural Evolution paper together.

So many phone calls.  So much time.  So many chances for someone to call someone else in exchange for a quick cash influx.  Money turns anyone into a potential collaborator with Zachariah.  You trust Uncle Balthazar, your Uncle Gabriel, Castiel . . . it’s humbling to realize that’s where the list ends and the names on it were trustworthy for reasons other than any affection for you.

Dean looks up from where he’s bent over the woodstove, feeding chunks of wood into the flames.  “What’s the sitch?” he asks as you hand him the phone.

You give him the outline.  Dean goes still when you tell him the family lawyer’s been caught acting wrong.  “That’s not good.  Ketch told me he worked for Sturley and Kline.”

“Yeah.   As far as I know he’s the only scary minion Chuck’s got.”

“But you don’t know that for sure.”

“No,” you’re forced to admit.

At your sigh, Dean sits on the cabin's saggy couch.  Gently, he pulls you to sit on one of his legs.  "What's on your mind, babygirl?"

"Oh I don't know," you say.  "I just ran down the list of friends I have, and I don't trust any of them to not rat me out if Zachariah waves a few thousand in cash under their noses.  It's depressing."

Dean shrugs.  "Money talks."

"I know."

"Try not to take it personally."

"I'm not.  I'm just . . . I don't know."  You look at Dean.  "Tell me about your brother?"

"Sure."  Dean pulls out his wallet and shows you a snapshot of a gangly young man beaming in cap and gown.  You lay against Dean's chest as he talks.  "Four years behind me-- Dad told me he and Mom had almost given up on having kids, then poof! I showed up.  Then Mom had a miscarriage and they thought I'd be a solo act.  Then Sammy came along.  God, he was so little.  I remember when Dad carried him into the house, he was like," Dean held his hands apart, "yea big.  Now he's taller'n me-- how is that fair?"

You relax more as Dean talks.  It's clear from the warmth in his tone-- he cares about Sam, loves him in a primal way that's totally alien to you.  Like if Sam needed blood Dean would cut his own throat for him.  "How do you do it?" you ask when Dean pauses in the middle of a story involving superglued socks and Nair in a shampoo bottle.

"Do what?" he asks.

"How did you make a living, doing what you did?  I mean, you care so much-- how did you keep from . . . ?"

"What, going insane over all my clients?"

"I mean-- no offense, I . . . fuck, I don't know what I mean."

"No it's okay.  It's a fair question, I guess."  Dean strokes down your arm, plays with a bit of your hair.  "In the business, there are rules.  There's only so close you can get with someone who's paying you to screw them.  And I was okay with that.  I’m not great with relationships.”  He hesitates.  "You know what's the best part about getting in bed with a woman?  At least for me it is?"

"No, tell me," you say dryly.

Dean gives you a sour look.  "Hey, I'm trying to do this soul-bearing heart-to-heart girly shit here.  Cut me some slack."

"Consider it cut babe."

Dean frowns at you, but after a moment's consideration he continues.  "Most Omegas-- hell, most women-- you've all been trained to expect bad sex.  One of my first regulars, she was an older lady.  Widow.  She and her husband'd been together since middle school.  Four litters of pups, about a dozen kids.  And you know she told me her husband never made her come?  Not once, in thirty-odd years of marriage.

"It's that moment," Dean says.  "When you realize how good it can be.  That look-- it’s just beautiful.  It's the best feeling ever, knowing I did that.  The rest of it-- it's a job like anything else, it's got its upsides and its downsides.  Like getting filmed?  Not as much fun as you'd think it is.  Fucking cameraman damn near burned my nuts on the lights."

"Jesus, I'm dating a porn star?!?" you squeak.

Dean laughs.  "Private collections only.  I thought about it, but the pay's crap for guys.  'Sides, escort work lets me have flexible hours.  I can take time to see Dad anytime I need to."

"What about going to see your brother?"

Dean hesitates.  "Sam doesn't like it when I come out to visit him."

"Why?" you ask.  "You're fascinating company.  You listened to me lecture you on the excavation of Chief Baw Beese’s grave for an hour and didn’t yawn once."

"Sam's got an image to maintain.  I fuck that up for him.  Besides, he doesn't trust me around his fiancée.  I, uh, might've banged his math tutor when he was in sixth grade."

"Dude!"

"Yeah.  Not exactly my finest hour.  Turns out she was only tutoring him because she wanted a piece of me."

"Still."

"I was sixteen.  Everybody's a moron when they're sixteen.”

“I wasn’t.”

Smiling, Dean kisses you.  “That’s cuz you’re weird, babygirl.”

You bite his lower lip and make him yelp.  His wounded pout is so adorable you just have to kiss it better.  Before you know it you’re sitting astride Dean’s lap in a full-bodied makeout session.  The feel of him, warm and strong and touching you like you’re something precious.   After the stress of this insane day, it’s balm and comfort.

Which is interrupted when your stomach gurgles.  Chuckling, Dean lifts the hem of your shirt and kisses your belly.  “Don’t be mad, it’s been a long day and we skipped lunch.”

---

The next morning you’re back wrestling with your old friend, Statistics.  A raid on the Chevy had produced an honest-to-God tape cassette collection, mostly old-school hard rock and heavy metal.  Outside you can hear the irregular rhythm of chopping-- Dean cutting the logs in the woodpile outside down into more manageable pieces.

You catch an arithmetic error that’s just wasted a fucking hour and clonk your head down on the table, cursing in Arabic.  “I have no idea what that means but it didn’t sound nice,” Dean says as he comes in, grabbing a mug and heading for the coffee.

“It’s pointless, dogs don’t bend that way.”  You accept a fresh cup with a smile of thanks.  “I fucking hate Stats.”

“Come on,” Dean says, closing your Stats text, “grab your coat.  I wanna show you something.”

Leading the way, Dean crunches through the leaves that’ve drifted into piles between the trees.  From the shape you guess you’re in a copse of sugar maples.  “Wait-- there’s no trail.  What if we get lost?”

“No problem.  Check it out,” he hunts around a minute, then breaks out in a grin.  “Here.”

You follow with your fingers a set of deep gouges in a tree’s bark, an arrow pointing back the way you’d come.  “Sammy got lost out here once,” Dean explains.  “I spent the next month carving these.  Just in case.”

You move deeper into the woods, the trees getting taller and the leaf litter more sparse.  Dean splashes across a small stream and lifts you over it to keep your feet dry.  He stops, taking your hand.  For a moment you see nothing but the same view of forest floor, then something clicks into place and you see it-- a large wooden cross standing up from a crude altar made of mortared-together stones.  “What’s this?”

“I don’t know.  Me’n’Sammy found it while we were wandering around.”

Letting go of Dean’s hand you carefully creep in for a closer look.  Any undergrowth was cut back at some point, and kept back with a layer of wood chips that’ve since been covered by silt and leaf litter, decomposing into the forest floor.  It’s a church setup, you can see split logs arranged as pews, making a short aisle.  Reflexively you cross yourself as you proceed to the altar.

“Nondenominational,” you say to yourself, reaching for a notebook you’re not carrying.  “No altar rail or place to kneel I can see.  You turn to look at Dean, who’s watching you with a smile.  “I think this was a setup for little kids.  See how low the pews are?  An adult would find them uncomfortable-- they’re just the right size for kids.”

“Yeah.  Sammy’n’me used to make up stories about this place.  Like it was really a place for ritual sacrifice.”  He shrugs.  “We were bored.”

“No no, here, come take a look.”  You come closer to the altar.  “See?  No blood.  Even with weathering, if anyone killed anything here there’d still be blood caught in between the rocks.”

Dean nods.  “Yeah, I gotcha.”

The cross itself is made out of what look like railroad ties notched and nailed together.  There are no candle drippings and the altar’s upper surface is a single flat boulder, worn smooth.  “This part was built,” you say.  “Kids wouldn’t be strong enough to lift this.  And the rocks are mortared together, they’re not piled like a caern.”

It’s easy to imagine, now that you know what you’re looking at-- a group of little boys and girls sitting quietly on the log pews, listening in varying degrees of attention as a grownup preaches about salvation and the Good News and the virtues of proper behavior.  You can also imagine a pair of bored little boys poking at the altar and scaring themselves silly with tales of monster gods and mad killers.  "Is there a Boy or a Girl Scouts' camp around here somewhere?" you ask.

"I don't know," Dean says.  "We asked Bobby about the place and he said he didn't know.  The cabin belonged to a friend of his-- I never got the straight on how he wound up owning the place.  If he ever did.  He might've just been squatting."

"Wish I had my toolkit with me," you say, hunkering down to take a closer look at the alter.  The base is a slab of poured concrete, eroded and pitted with weathering, dirty with silt and moss.  "Yeah, this was built by the grownups," you note to yourself.

“That makes sense,” Dean says, looking around the little clearing as if with fresh eyes.  “Yeah.  Couple guys and a wheelbarrow could get it done in a day.  Bring a bag of ready-mix, there’s water in the stream.”

“Yeah.  Have the kids collect the rocks, bring the cross,” you clap your hands, “badda-bing, outdoor church.”  One side of the altar is piled high with leaves, caked in mud around the base.  “Help me with this.”

Dean helps you clear the dirt down to the altar base.  “Here, check this out,” you say, looking at a larger stone slab set into the alter, out of place amongst the fist-sized stones.  It’s not mortared into place that you can see.  “Could this--” you carefully fit your hands on either side of the big stone.  “Hey-- I think this slides out!”

Dean takes the other side of the stone and together you wiggle it free.  In the hollow space revealed, you can see a dark shape.  “Oh wow,” you say softly, reaching in and gently withdrawing a dark metal box, about six inches square and four deep.

With the reverence it deserves, you undo the latch.  Inside, kept dry with a clear cellophane bag, is a stack of yellowed envelopes.  They’re letters, addressed:

TO:  JESUS

1 GOLDEN STREET

HEAVEN

“Oh my God,” you whisper.  All the handwriting is little kid block capitals, rendered in colored pencils and crayons.  Some kids ornamented their envelopes with drawings of trees, flowers, stick figure families.  At the bottom of the box you find a copy of the Holy Bible, New English translation.  You open it to the title page-- printed in 1949.  There’s a stamp on the page in red ink; an outline of a leafy tree, with a single branch forming the words Camp Long Lake.  “Summer camp!” you realize, turning to Dean.  “There must be an old summer camp compound around here somewhere!  The counselors built this with the kids!”

“Awesome!” Dean says.

You look at the tiny packet of paper, feeling the same thrill you felt the first time you’d gone into the field and found a tiny shard of ceramic in amongst the red mass of claylike dirt.  Who made this?  What was their life?  What was their story?  "God I wish I had a camera," you say.

Reluctantly, you put the letters back in the plastic bag and seal it up.  "I wish we could take these back, figure out who wrote them," you tell Dean as you refasten the box lid.  "But . . . it feel like we'd be desecrating a church."

"We could always come back later," Dean says.

"That's true.  Take some pictures, maybe explore around a little bit more.  You and your brother didn't find anything that might be campgrounds?  Another clearing, place that look like a tent field . . ."

"Not that I remember," Dean says.  "This is about as far out from the cabin as we felt safe going."

You slide the box back into its resting place, and Dean shoves the stone back into the hole.  The move makes all his muscles stand out for a heart-stopping moment.  His body becomes an expression of perfection, a collection of almost mathematically perfect lines, an ideal expression of a divine creation.  And alive, shining from within.

A wave of pure red-tinted lust damn near puts you on your knees.  You want, God how you want.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

“Yeah.  Let’s go,” you say,

“Okay, okay, jeez.”  Dean falls in beside you as you stride back up the aisle and splash across the little stream.  Your socks get soaked and you are way past caring.  “What’s the emergency?”

“Nothing,” you tell him, taking his hand and jogging between a pair of trees.

“Seriously what’re you--” you drag his head down and kiss him, hard and possessive.  He’s off-balance, it’s nothing to slam his back against a tree.  Your hand cups the front of his pants, presses, caresses.  Dean moans, deep and throaty.  His arms go around you, hands going for your buttons.

You slap his hands away.  This isn’t about you, no matter how hungry you are.  You bite down Dean’s neck, avoiding the mating gland.  Under your hand you can feel him getting hard.

Going to your knees, you undo his belt and tug open his jeans.  “Oh Jesus,” Dean groans as you pull down his underwear and his cock pops free.  It’s as beautiful as the rest of him to your eyes and you suck him down hard as you can.  He practically leaps to life in your mouth, going thick and heavy.

You pull off and take him in hand, wetting your palms and wringing him.  Dean’s knees buckle and he grabs at the tree to keep from falling.  “Oh my God, fuck, Jesus--”

“Wanna make you feel good, Alpha,” you tell him, kissing and licking up his shaft.

“So good, babygirl,” he pants, looking down at you like he can’t quite believe you’re real.  “Stick your tongue out, tap it on-- just like that,” he says as you pat the head of his cock on your tongue.  You wind your tongue around the tip, doing your best not to grimace at the taste.  That look in Dean’s beautiful green eyes, you’d do just about anything for that look.

You take him as deep as you can, doing your best to push past your gag reflex.  Drool slips from your mouth and trickles down your chest.  You can actually feel him getting harder, getting hotter.  His scent mixes with the scent of sex, filling your nose.  It’s heady, and it’s got slick soaking into your panties, your body burning for Dean.

Panting and moaning encouragement and instructions, Dean squirms against the tree.  You cup his balls in one hand and his quivering knot in the other, squeezing gently.  You moan and Dean moans along with you.  His hips make tiny involuntary movements, you can see him clawing at the tree.

His balls suddenly draw up into his belly.  You pull off just in time to avoid a blast of come.  Your squeeze Dean’s popping knot, pulling at Dean’s cock as he spends all over you.  His legs give out and he slides down the tree, pants open and a total sticky mess.

Yanking you close, Dean rolls you into the nearest pile of leaves, kissing you like he might die if he stops.  He licks at the strings of his come on your face, cleaning you like a cat.  “God, babygirl,” he whispers in your ear, “what brought that on?”

“Wanted to make you feel good,” you say, kissing him back.  “Wanted to take care of you.”

Dean puts you on your back and pulls your jeans open.  “I’m gonna make you come now,” Dean tells you, a hard, determined look in his eyes that makes you whimper.  “Do you want my fingers or my mouth, babygirl?”

“I-- I--”  your whole body’s tingling, every nerve alight.

“Tell me,” Dean says.  He kisses your neck.  “How do you want to come?  Tell me.  Talk to me.”

“Mouth,” you squeak.  “Please Dean, put your mouth on me, please.”

“Oh good.  Good.”  Dean yanks your jeans off, shoves your legs apart and latches onto your pussy.  Birds take off at your cry.  Sucking at your clit, two fingers curled inside you and rubbing something that makes your body sing, Dean has you falling to pieces in no time at all.

---

It's late the next morning when you finally wake up.  The passion hadn't stopped when you got back to the cabin; you're actually sore, and there's new marks on your body where Dean's strength overrode his sense.  Smiling you reach across the bed for him, and your arm pats empty sheets.

“Dean?  Deee-an?”  You haul up out of bed.  A search of the cabin takes roughly thirty seconds and the results include a mouse and three spiders but no Dean.

The mouse you shoo.  The spiders you catch-and-release.  It’s when you’re done putting the last spider outside that you spy it-- a note on the floor.  It must’ve fluttered down when you or Dean shut the door.

GONE OUT TO CUT UP THAT BLOWDOWN.  BACK BY LUNCH.  -D

That must be the source of the chainsaw noise you can hear in the distance.  You groan at the thrill of desire at the thought of Dean in lumberjack mode, guiding a chainsaw, swinging an axe, maybe shirtless and sweating in the autumn sunshine.  The spirit may be willing but the flesh needs a break.

After a shower and a breakfast, you settle down to your Classical Antiquities paper.  The Glock Dean gave you sits on the table.  You’ve checked and it’s loaded.  You don’t know why you have it out.  You don’t really enjoy looking at the damned thing.  It makes you uneasy.  It feels like borrowing trouble.

But you don’t want to put it away.

You drum your pencil on the table.  You wish you’d brought your laptop, or your phone, or, shit, anything with an Internet connection.  You spread your notecards over the table and wait for the work to pull you in, absorb you the way it always does.

But the uneasy feeling won’t leave.  Every minute goes by, the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand up a little higher.  You’ve gotten this vibe before, walking to and from your car late at night or when you’re lecturing in front of a hostile class.  The sense of being hunted.

You’ve been working for hours and getting nowhere when you give up.  You need to find Dean.  Something is wrong.

The sound of an engine strikes you still.  It pulls up outside the cabin and stops.  Heart in your throat you listen.

“This must be the place,” a man’s voice notes, smooth and polished with an English accent.  “We appear to have gotten lucky, if that’s Winchester making that racket.”

“Find him.  Take care of him.”  Your heart stops.  It’s Zachariah.

Zachariah knocks on the door, calling your name.  “It’s okay!  I’m coming in!”  Dammit, the door to the cabin isn’t locked.  It swings open and Zachariah sticks his head in.

He looks awful, skin sallow and deep shadows under his hooded eyes.  His nose wrinkles at the smells of sex and scent.  “Jesus Christ.”

How did he find you?  Who was the other man?  God damn it, where’s Dean?

Zachariah spies you and he smiles.  “Whew!  There you are!”  You start to shake.  How is it you feel brave when you’re around Dean but not here where you need it?  “We have been looking all over for you!  Why’d you run off?  Did that girl Alpha scare you?”  He’s come in and coming closer, a dog stalking its prey.  “Look, I know, she came on a little strong--”

“A little?” you squeak.

“--but that’s what timid Omegas need, a firm hand.”  He takes another sniff.  “Dear God, you two’ve been going at it for days haven’t you?”

So what?  You feel your back straighten.  Some of the trembling eases.  You’re not ashamed of being with Dean, in any respect.  Not even a little bit.

Zachariah makes that sour, pinched smirk.  “That’s okay.  Just following your instincts.  I bet you feel a whole lot better now you’ve been knotted properly.  It’s okay.  But now it’s time to come home, sweetheart.”  He’s slinking closer.  You sidle to the side, trying to keep the table between you.

Just let him feel like he’s in control and he’ll leave you alone, your mother’s voice lectures from your memory.  Let him feel that, let him have that, let him, let him let him--

You glance at the table, at the gun.  Zachariah sees it too, and his greasy smirk widens.  “Oh honey, that’s not necessary.  I’m your family.  All I want to do is take care of you.”

Dean’s phrase in Zachariah’s mouth, it makes you sick.  It makes you angry.  You snatch the gun off the table and point it at Zachariah.

“Woah woah woah, easy girl, easy!” Zachariah says, holding up his hands.  “I just want--”

“Get away from me,” you say.

“Calm down.  Nobody wants to hurt you.  I could never hurt you, baby.  I love you.  I always have.”  You can scent him now, a thick and nauseating stench of stagnation and decay driving out yours and Dean’s mingled smells.  “I can provide for you baby, keep you good.  You can have anything you want, I’ll treat you like a queen baby, just--”

“I said get away from me!”  You lunge for the bathroom.  The bathroom door locks; you throw the bolt a half-second before Zachariah slams into it.

Zachariah back off a step.  “Come on Omega, this is ridiculous.  Open the door.  I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Right, and you didn’t just send Mr. Ketch after Dean,” you say as the pieces fall together and terror turns your blood to icewater.

“He’s nothing, baby.  Just an overpriced whore with a crazy daddy.”  Zachariah continues in that vein but you don’t listen.  You have to warn Dean.  He has no idea Ketch is coming.

The tiny casement window over the toilet is too small for you to get through.  Or so it looks; Dean showed you a trick just in case there was a fire.  You undo the catches in the window frame and shove out the panes.  The opening’s tight but you get through, landing in a painful heap outside.

Checking the safety and making sure your finger’s off the trigger, you take off.  Dean.

---

The blowdown Dean showed you is about a half-hour’s walk away from the cabin.  Ignoring stealth, you run hell-bent for leather through the dead leaves.

You’re almost there when you hear a gunshot.  You stop dead in your tracks, panting for air, a stitch in your side like a knife.

“You know,” Ketch’s cultured voice carries to you and your heart stops, “when you locked me in that stinking toilet, I had plenty of time to imagine this moment--”

Crying Dean’s name you run towards the voice.  You plunge through a tangle of weeds and your horrified eyes take in Dean down on one knee, a hand pressed to his side and blood in his fingers.  Ketch, his face battered and bruised, looks over at you but his gun stays pointed at Dean’s head.

He smiles.  “Ah, our wayward Omega.”

You raise the Glock, finger on the trigger.  “Get.  Away.  From him.”

Ketch tsks.  “Little Omega’s grown claws.  Fascinating.”  Slowly, showing every motion, he uncocks his pistol and takes his finger off the trigger.  “See?  It’s all right, Miss.  I’m not here to hurt you.”

“No.  You’re just here to kill my Alpha and take me back to Zachariah,” you snap.

“Your Alpha?”  Ketch echoes.  He smiles, a tight, unpleasant thing.  “I told Zachariah hiring a whore--”

“Don’t call him that!” you cry, raising your gun a little bit higher.

“Really now.  You’re a bright girl,” Ketch says.  In your peripheral vision you see Dean moving, his face pale and agonal.  He’s trying to get to his gun, you realize, you can see the twinkle of chrome on the ground.  “You can do so much better.”

“Like Zachariah?” you say.

“An Alpha who will keep you as an Omega should be kept,” Ketch says.  “Winchester is beneath you, and, deep down,” he says, creeping up on you and holstering his gun, “you know it.”

“Stay right there,” you order.  “I mean it.”

Ketch shows his empty hands.  “Just come with me.  We’ll take Dean to a hospital and you can go home.  No one else needs to get hurt.”

“He’s right.”  Your head snaps around and there’s Zachariah, winded and rumpled.  The instant of distraction is all Ketch needs; quick like a snake he grabs your wrist and twists the Glock out of your hand.

“Down!” Dean barks and you drop.  A shot rings out, and Ketch falls.  You hear a few wheezes, and smell a titanic stench of shit and bowels.  Then . . . nothing.

Oh my God.  You are lying next to a dead man.

At the touch of a hand you scramble away, backing yourself against a tree.  You look over and both Ketch and Dean are lying inert on the ground.  Inert.  Unmoving.  Dead.

Shock coats your feelings in glass.  No.

Zachariah pulls himself up off the ground, dusts himself off, pulls his blazer straight.  “Well.  That was unfortunate.”  He walks up to you, a satisfied smirk on his face.  There’s an edge of madness in his eyes.  “Come on now baby,” he coos, bending close.  “It’s time to go home.”

You spit in his face and he slaps you so hard your lips split.  “You’ve picked up some bad habits,” he notes, that mad edge shining brighter.  “That’s okay, you’ll learn better.  I’m good at teaching Omegas how to behave.  And you will behave for me.”

Your eyes land on your pistol, lying on the ground next to Ketch’s curled fingers.  You lunge, grab it, and fire.  Zachariah curses as a hunk of bark is ripped from a tree next to him, covering his head, “Don’t shoot!  Don’t shoot!”

“Get on the ground!” you order and he drops to his knees.  “Hands behind your head!  Don’t fucking move!”

“I’m not!  I’m not.  See?” he smiles uneasily and puts his hands behind his head.  “Not moving.”

A stir of leaves next to you.  You glance over and oh thank God and the Virgin Mary-- it’s Dean.  He’s alive.  White as a ghost and in obvious pain, but alive.  You want to drop your gun and cover him with kisses.  You can’t.  Not with Zachariah right here.

Dean tries to get to his feet.  Oh Jesus, his front is drenched with blood from the waist down.  He says your name.  “Car keys in my pocket.  Take Zachariah.  Leave me here.”

“Fuck that!”

“I can’t walk and you can’t carry me.”

You point your gun at Zachariah.  “You wanna live through this?”

Zachariah chuckles.  “You won’t shoot me.  You’re not--”  He shrieks in a very unAlpha soprano as you put a bullet in the ground between you.

“Carry him.  Or I swear by God, Father Son and Holy Ghost I will blow your fucking brains out,” you snarl.  Your fangs have dropped and you have to shift your grip on the pistol as your claws slide out.  When Zachariah doesn’t move, you snap, “NOW!”

Scrambling to his feet, Zachariah moves to Dean’s side.  Pulling Dean’s arm over his shoulders, he slowly straightens to a stand, pulling Dean to his feel.  Dean howls in pain, a sound you know will haunt you for the rest of your life.

You look around in confusion.  All these fucking trees look the same.  “Arrows,” Dean grunts, reading you like a sign again.  “Look for the arrows.”

You look up and find one, old scratches deep into the meat of the tree.  “This way.”  You motion with your gun.

“Aht-ah,” Dean says, and he almost sounds like his uninjured self.  He jabs his gun into Zachariah’s ribs.  “Do what the lady says pal, or she won’t have to blow your head off.”

---

The slow march back to the cabin is a crazy nightmare of crunching leaves and Dean’s moans of pain.  You can’t comfort him either, you don’t dare let Zachariah out of your sight.  Underneath the glass coat of shock your Omega instincts are screaming, Alpha is in pain, Alpha is in danger.

Finally you come to the cabin.  Zachariah’s car is a big black SUV.  You growl at him, “Keys.”

He bares his teeth in a sharktoothed grin.  “Ketch has them.”

“Pocket,” Dean wheezes.  His knees buckle and he almost drags Zachariah down.

“Dean?  Dean!  Stay with me Dean!  We’re going to get help.”  Dean moans, his head rolling this way and that.  “ALPHA!” you shriek.

“He’s a dead man,” Zachariah scoffs.

“You’d better hope not,” you growl in a voice you don’t recognize as yours.  “Put him in the shotgun seat.”

“H-h-hand-handcuffs,” Dean says.  Weakly he pats at the glove compartment.  You open it and fish out a set of cuffs.  “Cuff him.  To the other car.”

“You heard him,” you tell Zachariah, holding up the cuffs.  “Do it.  Or I’ll shoot out your knees and leave you to bleed to death, do you hear me?”

“This isn’t necessary sweetheart,” Zachariah tries one last time.  “We can get clear of this if we tell the same story.”

“What story’s that?  The one where you brought your psycho to kill my Alpha and carry me away to your tower for the ravishing?”

“Two psychopaths went crazy, kidnapped you, and killed each other,” Zachariah corrects, “and I arrived just in time to save you.  It’s a good story.  We can go away, start a new life together.  A good life, somewhere warm where--”

“Where the law doesn’t think it’s weird for an Alpha to have an Omega a third his age.  Pass.  Now,” you tic your gun at the SUV, “hands.”

Once Zachariah’s wrists are cuffed with the chain threaded through the door handle, you creep back towards Dean’s car.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” Zachariah snarls as his face turns red.  “I’ll never spend a night in jail.  I know people.  I have money.  You’re mine, Omega.  Just a matter of time.”

“I will slit my own throat first.”  You mean it.

You slide into Dean’s car.  God, the inside stinks like blood.  It’s everywhere, so much blood.  You have to physically peel your right hand off the Glock; your fingers refuse to let go.  Outside Zachariah is yelling and struggling against the handcuffs.  You sincerely hope he gouges his wrists open and dies.

What the hell happened to you? asks your father’s eternally detached voice.  You slap it away.  “Keep it together,” you growl to yourself.

“Doin’ great, babygirl,” Dean whispers.  “Take track to road.  Turn left.  Gas station.”

“Gas station?  No we need to get you to a hos-- don’t tell me we’re low on gas.”

“Fine.  Won’t tell you.”  Dean tries to get his keys from his jeans pocket but can’t quite manage.  You have to dig them out.  As the Chevy’s engine coughs to life you check the gas gauge.  Yep, the needle’s hovering a tick over E.  Cursing in Greek, you find the gearstick, put the car in gear, and pull away from the cabin.

You drive as fast as you dare down the rutted trail through the shitwood and weeds.  Finally you come on a ribbon of asphalt.  Blessed civilization.

Or so you think; it’s another fifteen nerve-shredding minutes until you see a sign that says JOE’S PARTY STORE, GAS BAIT BEER LOTTO.  Almost sobbing with relief you pull in front of the tin shack housing the store and cut the engine.  “We’re here!  Thank God we’re here!  Dean?”  No response.  “Dean!”

He lifts his head from where it’s slumped on the seat and smiles.  Then his eyes roll back in his head and he slumps back down again.

The glass coat that’s been keeping your emotions back shatters.  Your shrieks bring out a retinue of retired fisherman.  They mill around in confusion until one fat fellow wearing a VIET NAM, NHA TRANG baseball cap takes charge.  He opens the passenger side door and askes, “Jesus God girlie, what happened?”

“He’s been shot, he’s been shot, he’s dying,” you sob.

“Call Jimmy, tell him to shag ass.  This man needs a hospital.”  He lifts Dean’s shirt and you almost pass out.  Blood, blood, how can he be alive with so much blood?  It’s everywhere, the whole world is blood.  The Vietnam vet whips a handkerchief out of his pocket.  “This is gonna hurt mister.  I’m sorry.”

Dean screams as the Vietnam vet presses the handkerchiefs to the bullet hole.

“I know,” the Vietnam vet says roughly, “I know son.  But we gotta get this bleeding stopped.”  He looks over at you.  “You his Omega?”

“Close enough,” you say.  You’re crying, and you can’t stop.

“Talk to him.  Keep him with us.”

You nod and take Dean’s hand.  His fingers are like marble, cold and still.  He’s sort of awake, he’s trying to open his eyes.  You lay your head on his chest, hear his heart beating fast and erratic.  “Please, Alpha” you beg him and God and whoever else might be listening.  “I can’t lose you.  I just found you.  Please don’t leave me.  Please.  Please.”

Mine.

---

“Raise your right hand.  Do you swear that the evidence you shall give shall be the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God?”

“I do.”  Moving a bit stiffly in his off-the-rack suit and tie, Dean sits in the witness box.  If he’s at all intimidated by the hate in Zachariah’s gaze it doesn’t show.

“Please state your full name date and place of birth and current occupation for the record,” the bailiff continues in his robotic monotone.”

“Dean Michael Winchester, 24 January 1979, Lawrence, Kansas, auto mechanic.”  Dean answers in a monotone to match.  A bare titter runs through the courtroom.

“Don’t get cute dude,” Dean’s brother Sam mutters.  You seek out his hand; he envelops yours in his huge paw and squeezes, gently.

The past several months have been both the best and worst of your life.  Taking a hurried leave of absence from school had not won you many fans; you’re not sure you would even be welcome back next fall.  The Family, exactly as Uncle Gabriel had predicted, had organized itself into pro- and anti-Zachariah camps.  Although the size of the pro-camp shrinks with the revelation of every new outrage.  Your stomach churns when you think of just what Zachariah had spent that embezzled money on.  And true to form the coward kept thinking he could squeak by.  Despite some outright pleading from his lawyer, Zachariah refused to follow Chuck’s example and cut a deal.  “’Not a jury in the world would take the word of a catamite whore over mine,’ is the exact phrase he used I believe,” Uncle Balthazar had reported.

But then there’s Dean.

Bouncing back from death’s door with only a scar and the loss of some intestine to show for it.  The two of you have been pretty much inseparable since he got out of the hospital, and every day you fall a little more in love with him.  Not that it’s all been sunshine and roses; your Alpha is moody, temperamental, and his need for independence borders on pathological.  You’d had to physically drag him to see his “uncle” Bobby and ask about a job.  Dean and Bobby had walked out of the manager’s office at Singer Salvage And Repair twenty minutes later, Dean with an armful of fresh dungarees and Bobby telling him, “Eight AM Monday morning and you’d better bring your girl ‘round for Sunday dinner.  Idjit.”

You shake yourself out of your reflections.  Dean, answering the DA’s questions politely and respectfully, is telling the jury how Zachariah hired him through the escort agency, how you met, how he quit, and how he took you away to keep you safe.  He describes cutting the blown-down tree into logs for adding to the cabin’s woodpile when Ketch surprised him.  You’ve already had your turn on the stand, and two days of getting broasted by Zachariah’s defense attorney had driven you into a vodka bottle for almost a week.

“I woke up in the U of M Medical Center.  The doctors told me later I had to be Life-Flighted out,” Dean concludes.  He makes a face.  “Thank God I was passed out by then.”

“Thank you Mr. Winchester,” the ADA on the case, a redheaded woman, ‘call me Charlie, everybody does’ says.  Retreating to the prosecution’s table, she says, “Your witness,” to the defense.

Zachariah’s defense attorney, a statuesque black woman named Billie, stands in her navy pinstripe and power heels.  You shrink a little in your seat.  The lady is fucking intimidating.

“Mr. Winchester what was it you said you did for a living before your current employment?”

“I was an independent contractor working for Rosen Entertainment,” Dean answers.

“And what was the nature of your work?”

“Rosen Entertainment provides professional escorts.  For dates, formal occasions, photo sessions, stuff like that.  Sometimes clients came with special requests, such as personal protection.”

“Special requests, yes.  Were those requests ever sexual in nature?”

“Within the confines established by Michigan state law yes,” Dean says without batting an eye.

“You’re awfully frank about it, Mr. Winchester.  Most people would at least blush to admit prostitution.”

Dean looks at the judge.  “I’m sorry, was that a question?”

“Watch the asides Counselor,” the judge warns.

“How long did you do this . . . work?” Billie asks.

“Almost seven years.”

“Make good money?”

“Enough.”

“But not nearly as much as the money some of your clients left you in their wills.”

Dean’s expression hardened.  “I never accepted any of that money.  The rules of my contract with Rosen Entertainment forbade it.”

“That didn’t stop you from accepting gifts from grateful clients.  Cash, clothes, accessories-- I understand once you got to stay on Grand Cayman for two months.”

“Objection!  Where is this line of questioning going?” Charlie snaps.

“Speaks to the credibility of the witness Your Honor,” Billie says.

“Overruled,” the judge tells Charlie.  “Proceed.”

“The trip to Cayman wasn’t a vacation; it was a job.  Personal gifts aren’t a nono under our contracts but bequests are different,” Dean clarifies.  “That money belongs in a family.”

You can see Billie yearning to bring up Dean’s juvenile record but it’s already been ruled inadmissible.  She shifts gears.  “The average escort’s career lasts less than two years yet you stuck it out for almost seven, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you just happen to meet a young, impressionable Omega with no dating experience and no sexual experience either, and you just happen to decide right then and there to quit.”

“She was a factor in my decision, yes.”

“The fact that she potentially had access to a fortune worth approximately six billion dollars didn’t factor into your thinking?”

“No,” Dean says flatly.

“I find that hard to believe,” Billie says.  “I mean, six billion dollars.  You could buy a lot of condos for that.”

Dean turns to the judge.  “Was that a question?  I couldn’t tell.”

“Let me rephrase--” Billie says, “her money did not factor into your decision making at any point?”

“No.”

“Good,” Sam says beside you, “keep it consistent.”

“Now on the afternoon of the date in question, you shot and killed Arthur Ketch, correct?” Billie asks.

“In self-defense.”

“Mr. Adler’s statement to the police says Mr. Ketch was there to arrest you on suspicion of kidnapping, which is within the scope of his duties as a private investigator,” Billie rebuts.

“Well that’s funny-- Ketch’s idea of reading me my rights was a sucker punch to the kidney,” Dean snarks back.

“Tone it down Dean,” Sam says under his breath.

“And I didn’t kidnap anyone,” Dean continues.  He nods at you.  “She didn’t feel safe at home, and she came with me willingly somewhere her folks didn’t know about.”

“An Omega in heat is incapable of making sound decisions, are they not?” Billie asks.

“Objection Your Honor-- it’s been established no kidnapping took place.  The defendant’s grandniece might’ve been in estrus but by the testimony of Castiel Novak and Abbadon Diablo she was not impaired,” Charlie says.  “No warrant was ever sworn out for Mr. Winchester’s arrest, and the death of Arthur Ketch was ruled self-defense under Michigan’s Stand Your Ground law.”

“Sustained.  Move on.”

“We’ve established she was not impaired by her estrus cycle,” Billie says.  “What about you?”

“Me?  I don’t know what you mean,” Dean says.

“Let me clarify-- after one meeting, you quit a job at which you’d been making excellent money for several years.  Could your judgement have been impaired, to come between a child and the family who loves her?”

“I watched a grown Omega cringe when a relative old enough to be her grandfather with room to spare started making dominance moves on her in public,” Dean says, with that narrow look that speaks of a fraying temper.  “Even if I hadn’t been falling in love with her, I would’ve gotten her out of the situation.  Nobody should be treated like that by their own family.”

“Please Mr. Winchester,” Billie scoffs, “you expect the jury to believe a high-class prostitute threw his career away just because of love?”

“What-- whores can’t love?” Dean asks caustically, making some of the reporters in the room gasp.  “The only reason she’s not wearing her ring is it’s at the jeweler’s getting resized-- my grandmother had tiny fingers.”  He smiles at you and you beam back.  “I loved her the minute I looked at her and I’m the luckiest sonofabitch alive she thinks I’m worth loving too.”

Zachariah’s shoulders go tight, but he doesn’t say anything, clearly prepped by his lawyer ahead of time to sit still and shut up.

“The point stands,” Billie says.  “How far should the jury trust the integrity of someone who earned his living on his knees?”

Dean draws himself up.  “Ma’am.  My father is a paranoid schizophrenic who can live out his life in a safe place.  My brother’s graduating from Stanford Law School eighth in a class of a hundred and twenty--”

“Twenty-six,” Sam corrects softly.

“--I was able to help with the little bit he couldn’t earn with that giant brain of his.  He’s graduating debt-free, which means he can afford to be picky about accepting a job, and he and his fiancée can get married now instead of waiting until she finishes med school.

“All of that is possible,” Dean says, with angry dignity, “because I got on my knees and let people pay to fuck me.  I quit because it was time to quit.  When this is over, I can take my mated wife, and get started on the next phase of my dumb little life.”

Billie looks at Dean a long moment.  Dean meets her gaze, square and unashamed.  You want to cheer.  “Nothing further, Mr. Winchester.”

“The witness is excused.  Court is adjourned until tomorrow morning.”  The judge whacks down the gavel and you and Sam meet Dean at the exit door.

“How’d I do?” Dean asks Sam.

“Pretty good,” Sam nods.  “You got a little emotional but I think it’ll play well with the jury.  The important thing is your stories corroborate each others’.  Adler doesn’t have a leg to stand on.  The jury will crucify him.”  There’s a greed in his voice that makes you pull back a little.  You’d found Sam to be every bit the sweetheart Dean had described, but there was still that something that made you nervous.  You definitely wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of Sam’s angry dimples.

“Well! that was fun as dental surgery.  Who’s for pizza?  I know a place off Lake Michigan Drive,” you say brightly.

---

Later that night you leave Sam, Uncle Gabriel, and Uncle Balthazar deep in a discussion over international smuggling laws.  Your uncles seem to have found a kindred spirit in Sam, and you smile at the start of what looks like a beautiful friendship.

“Babygirl?” Dean asks as you emerge from the bathroom in your nightie.  “C’mere.”

You go to where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed.  It’s a bigger bed than it was at Uncle Balthazar’s condo, despite your new apartment being the upstairs of a not-very-big house in a not-very-nice neighborhood.  Between you and Dean there’re enough personal touches to make it feel like a home and not just a place you happen to inhabit.  The first real home you’ve ever had.

“Look what came back from the jewelers today,” Dean says, pulling a gray velvet clamshell from his pocket.

You giggle.  “Should we do the bended knee thing again?”

“Absolutely,” Dean says.  He slides off the bed and lands softly on one knee.  “You’re the light of my life, the twinkle in my eye, the boner in my pants--”

“Such a way with words,” you tell him dryly.

Dean smiles up at you, taking your hands.  “You remember what I told you, about how beautiful a woman’s face gets when she’s having really good sex?”

You nod.  Months of life with Dean has mellowed the sting of pure possessive jealousy when you think of his former profession.  Mostly.

“I knew I was done for,” Dean says, “when I realized I never wanted to see that look on any face but yours.  That’s what I meant when I said I wanted to take care of you.  If you’ll let me, I want to spend the rest of my life taking care of you.”  Using your full name, Dean opens the clamshell to reveal an antique gold ring set with a single blazing sapphire.  “Will you marry me, and claim me as yours?”

“Mmm . . . yeah sure, why not?”  The happy tears betray you, and Dean’s smile beams just as bright as it did when he first popped the question.

At Cedar Point of all possible places.

He slips the ring on your finger and you thank him with a passionate kiss.  Dean shifts to sit back on his heels and sticks his head up under your nightie.  “Hey now, I can smell a hungry little pussy.”

You giggle as he sniffles and kisses all around your lower belly, your thighs, your hips.  You shift your legs apart and Dean zeros in between them.  His mouth wanders over your bush, kissing your outer lips, tongue tickling the crease between your pussy and your leg.  “Deeee-ean,” you whine.

“Don’t break my concentration, I’m hunting here.”  He kisses right over your throbbing clit, making your breath catch.  “Mmm.  I think I’ve cornered her.  Let’s see.”  Parting your outer lips with his nose, Dean licks up a tongueful of your trickling slick.  “I have the trail!  You’re mine, pussy.”

“Dean!” you whack at the lump of his head under your nightie.  “Your brother is like, right next door!”

“Then you’ll have to be quiet, won’t you?” Dean says around a mouthful of your softest flesh.  “I caught this pussy fair and square.  And now,” he suckles at your clit and you choke back a scream, “I’m gonna eat it all up!”

---

The jury deliberations take an afternoon.

“Will the defendant please rise,” the judge instructs, and Zachariah, still in his silk power suit and radiating Alpha-like authority, stands.  Even after everything, he still thinks he’s going to get away with it, you realize.  It hasn’t sunk in, that actions have consequences and not everything can be papered over with money.

You shudder, remembering big pictures of tiny bodies.  Dean feels it and puts an arm around you.  Alpha is here, and you know for a fact he’d die to keep you safe.  Having six and a half feet of Sam on your other side, and Uncle Balthazar and Uncle Gabriel sitting close by; those help too.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“Yes we have Your Honor,” the jury forewoman answers.

“On the first count of the indictment, attempted murder in the first degree, how does the jury find?”

“We the jury, find the defendant, guilty.”

A great release of air goes through the courtroom.  Your body goes cool, numb, tingly.  A release of tension you didn’t even realize you were holding.

“On the second count of the indictment, attempted sexual assault in the first degree, how does the jury find?”

“We the jury, find the defendant, guilty.”

“Breathe, babygirl,” Dean says in your ear and you suck in a breath.  Spots clear from your vision.  Dean kisses your head and lets you lean close.

It takes almost five minutes to read out the rest of the charges-- embezzlement, hiring of a hitman, wire fraud.  Guilty on all charges.  Zachariah stands firm through the recitation, a look coming over his face that actively terrifies you.

“Thank you Madam Forewoman.  The jury is excused,” the judge says.

“I know you” Zachariah says, loud and clear.  “ I know each and every one of you.”  The men and women in the jury box pause, but only for a second as the bailiff starts herding them through the exit door.  “You’re dead!  You’re all dead!” his voice rises as the last juror files out.

“Counselor, control your client,” the judge orders Billie, who looks utterly taken aback at Zachariah’s outburst.  Whatever she says gets through; Zachariah pulls his jacket straight, adjusts his tie, and goes back to standing at attention.  “Defendant’s bail is hereby revoked and he will be remanded  to the custody of the Michigan Department of Corrections--”

“Jail?” Zachariah laughs, in what sounds like genuine amusement.  “I’m not going to jail!”

“--to await sentencing.  Sentencing hearing to be scheduled at a later date.”  She brings the gavel down with a final bang and motions to the bailiffs.  “Take the defendant into custody.”

“I know you too!” Zachariah yells, lunging away from the bailiffs.  “YOU’RE DEAD BITCH!   YOU’RE ALL DEAD!!!”  His head whips around and he spies you.  A grotesque parody of a smile twists his face.  “You’ll never know what you gave up baby.  You’ll never know.”  The bailiffs finally get ahold of his massive arms and pin him to the defense table.  They twist his wrists behind his back and you hear the ratchet of handcuffs.  “YOU’LL NEVER KNOW!” Zachariah shrieks as they drag him away amongst the pandemonium.  Flashbulbs pop everywhere and you can hear reporters barking and snarling.

“Sam,” Dean says.

“Yeah,” Sam replies, and starts elbowing his way through the crowd.  Guiding you, giving you cover under his arms, Dean follows.

“Awfully handy, having a brother who doubles as a battering ram,” Uncle Balthazar notes, falling in behind with Uncle Gabriel.  He puts a hand on your back.  “Are you all right darling?”

“Let’s just get out of here.  You look up at Dean, drinking in his eyes like a dying man drinks cool water.  “Take me home.”

---

“Gimme those feet,” Dean tells you, and you slip off your shoes and put them in his lap.  You moan as he gently rubs away the aches.

“It was a beautiful ceremony wasn’t it?” you ask.

Dean shrugs.  “I’d rather cut to the chase,” he says.  Your eyes meet and you both break down in chuckles.  Tradition dictates a claiming bite be left unbandaged and open to the air; yours is still throbbing.  Exchanging vows before Father Jim had been quiet joy.  The exquisite pain and transcendent bliss of Dean’s fangs in your neck had been heaven.  Dean’s cry as you’d sunken your fangs into his mating gland . . . you’d almost come on the spot.

At Sam’s wedding, you and Dean had shown up with your brand new rings and your brand new claiming bites.  You’d felt the joy in your own body, when the priest had declared them married, mated, and bonded forever.  Sam Winchester, juris doctorate, and his lovely wife Jessica, med student and future doctor.  Happiness makes them beautiful, your Winchesters.

Dean hits an especially sore spot and you moan. “Death to him -- because it was definitely a man -- who made heels mandatory formal wear.”

“But they do fucking mind-blowing things to your legs,” Dean says, his hands massaging your sore calves.  He picks up one of your legs.  “But oh,” he sings against your toes, “they love to watch her strut.”

You cuff him playfully.  It’s funny, after childhoods with no place for play, you and Dean can’t seem to get enough.  “Enough with your schmaltz.”

“Yes ma’am,” Dean says, and the two of you sit quiet for a while.  You’re frowning at nothing when Dean asks, “Something on your mind, babygirl?”

“I’m just-- I dunno, contemplating what’s next, I guess.”

“What’re your thoughts?”

“I mean-- I want to go back to school--"

“Then do it.  Money isn’t a problem.”

“Yeah I know that.”  The bequest from your mother’s estate isn’t huge, but it’s enough to ensure you can complete any degree you want.  On Dean’s absolute insistence, that money is untouchable under a prenuptial agreement-- you and only you will ever have access and should you split up--

Mine, your Omega instincts say, looking at the scabbed gashes on your husband’s neck.

“So what’s the problem?”  Dean sits up straighter on the hotel room sofa.  “Talk to me, babygirl.”

“I nuked a lot of the professional relationships I need when I took that leave of absence.  Professor Visnyak came this close to telling me I’ll never work in this field again.”

“Fuck her,” is Dean’s judgement.

“No thank you.”

“Is there some law or commandment says you have to go to that school?” Dean asks.

“It’s got one of the best Anthropology programs in the country.”

“One of,” Dean echoes.  “Nothing says you can’t go somewhere else.”  Your brow furrows as the idea sits with you.  “I mean-- MSU’s right there, U of M.  University of Chicago’s a good school.  Shit, you could go anywhere.”

“Not without you.”

Dean shrugs.  “Nice thing about being a mechanic-- the skills travel.  I could get a job pretty much anywhere.”

You know that’s not true though.  Plenty of places won’t hire someone who made a living in sex work.

“Besides,” Dean says, “you’re gonna start doing fieldwork soon, right?  We’ll be apart then.”

“I know.”  That’s one of the reasons you and Dean decided to marry now.  Dean your husband gets access Dean your boyfriend doesn’t.  A practical, sensible decision that’s completely separate from being true mates and needing each other the way you need food and water.

“I don’t want to move,” you say.  “I mean, travel?  Sure.  I want to walk the Silk Road--”

“Ancient truck stops,” Dean says, smiling.  “Awesome.”

“I know you wanted to move back to Kansas--”

“I can manage Dad’s affairs just about anywhere.”  A shadow settles over Dean.  Hus father had not taken the revelation of just how Dean made his living well.  You’re not exactly eager to see the asshole again, but you know Dean loves him and you know the rejection hurts.  To a cold part of you it’s fascinating; until you met Dean you’ve never known the kind of love that leaves a person open to agony like that.  And Dean does it so naturally, you don’t know if he can love any other way.  Nothing about Dean Winchester is half-assed, especially not love.

“Even California-- I mean, it’s nice out here.  Except for watching my husband get hit on by every Omega and Beta in town, including and especially the guys.”

“Is that why you practically tore my clothes off when we got back to the hotel the other day?” Dean asks, smiling.  “I love it when you get all possessive.”

You kick him, not too hard.  “So fine, I’m greedy.”

“You’re so mean,” Dean sighs, “and I am so okay with that.  C’mere.”

You go into Dean’s arms and snuggle into his chest.  “Grand Rapids is my home,” you say.  “I don’t want to leave it.”

“Then we won’t.”  Dean kisses the top of your head.  “I got a job, you got school.  We’ve got a home together.”

“Dean.  Alpha.”  You kiss him, just basking in his taste and his scent and his everything.  “Where you are, that’s home.”

Mine.  His.  Mine.

---

AN2: I don't know why, but the plot bunnies bit me hard on this one. The bulk of it was written in about three days-- yeah I know, it shows. If you recognize who the 'Adlers' are supposed to be expys of, or the landmarks described herein, pat yourself on the back for being a true Michigander.

[mushiewrites]

Attack of The Blobs

helloooo! I have been working on like 6 fics at once, but the other night @wishitweresummer, @fluffallamaful + I were just yelling about ideas and summer said "what about george just being tickled by a hundred dream blobs?" and my brain immediately just....spit whatever this is out. I feel like it's paced slightly different from how I normally pace things, but I think I like how it turned out???? so yeah, anyways, enjoy :D

(lee!george / ler!blobs : 1.7K words)

warning: intense tickles

The scream that George let out should’ve alerted his two roommates, but unfortunately for him, there was no one coming to save him. He squirmed harshly on his bed, twisting and turning, kicking and shoving, trying his best to get away from the tiny white blobs that were covering his entire body. He felt a bite to his ribs and cried out again, making a move to bring his arm down to shove the small blob away from the sensitive area. To his horror, multiple blobs threw themselves over the flailing limb, pushing it down into the bed and raising it above his head, now leaving more of his ticklish torso exposed to additional torture. 

“NOHOHOHO!” George pleaded, his voice bouncing off the white walls of his room. He cracked open his eyes in time to see one of the smaller blobs wobbling it’s way up from his waist, diving under his arm and vibrating its body as fast as it could. This sent George into a fit of hysterics, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes closed, trying his hardest to dislodge his arm from the little creatures without success. “P-PLEHEHEASE, DON’T!”

George wasn’t even sure they could understand him - he sure as hell didn’t understand their little chirps and jingles as they communicated with each other. He didn’t know where they had come from, or when they got here. He could only remember the tickles, coming in quick waves as they took their places around his body, taking turns holding down different parts of him as they tickled him senseless. His eyes were wet with tears from his hysterics and his brain was mush from the nonstop tickling, keeping him in a never ending loop of squeals and screams. His voice was hoarse from all the pleading he was doing, unable to stop himself from begging for mercy, even though they hadn’t shown him any. 

“NOT THERE! NOT THEHEHERE!” He wailed as multiple blobs climbed onto his torso, headbutting roughly into his overly sensitive ribs and vibrating themselves there, following the lead of the blob that was still perfectly tucked in the center of his armpit. They targeted the soft muscle between each bone, sliding up and down the area to make sure no spot was left untouched. His chest heaved with every quick breath he tried to inhale, slapping his free arm against the bed and attempting to push some of the blobs away. 

However, when he went to reach down, his arm was tackled once more, this time with two blobs holding his fingers down against the bed while another nibbled at the middle of his palm. George screamed at the tickly feeling, throwing his head back and mistakenly offering his neck to more curious creatures. The sensitive skin under his chin was compromised immediately, a blob occupying the spot and nibbling there while two blobs blew tiny raspberries on either side of his neck. George was unable to shake his head as more and more blobs appeared, biting at his ears and nuzzling into his cheeks. A sudden vibration against his collarbone sent him into another round of laughter, feeling as two tiny blobs made their home in the dips there. 

Another scream ripped from his throat as one of the bigger blobs made its way under his other arm, crawling up George’s sleeve to begin nibbling and kissing and blowing raspberries around the area. The boy was in hysterics, gripping the sheets of the bed with the hand that wasn’t being attacked in an attempt to try and dispel the ticklish feeling that was coursing through his entire body, but it was proven to be pointless when he felt a blob make its way under his shirt and over his tummy. It quickly burrowed itself over George’s belly button, vibrating and wiggling there to make George shriek. He kicked his legs in flustered frustration when he felt tiny nibbles over his hip bones, his laughter breaking into brief bouts of silence as he laughed even harder. 

The kicking only seemed to draw their attention to the area, with more blobs seemingly appearing out of nowhere and jumping onto his thighs and shins. When the blobs began to nibble and vibrate into George’s extremely ticklish inner thighs, with no protection from the thin black shorts he was wearing, his laughter jumped an octave and he felt the tears finally spill as he squeezed his eyes impossibly tighter. It only grew worse when a few of the little blobs squirmed their way under his knees, attacking the backs of them with ease. He couldn’t think of anything other than how badly it tickled, and how incredibly helpless he felt. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before - completely defenseless, taken over by tickles. 

“NAHAHA- NOHO PLE-PLEHEASE!” George begged through his hysterics in another attempt to get their attention, whining when he was ignored again in favor of making their way to his feet. It felt as if a million little blobs were nibbling every inch of them, unable to move or curl his toes with the pressure of how many were surrounding them. He screamed in horror as he flung his eyes open, watching as the tiniest blobs wormed their way into his socks and up between his toes, spinning and vibrating their bodies and driving him absolutely insane. Just when he thought that the tickles couldn’t possibly get worse, a few of the smaller blobs that didn’t fit into George’s socks migrated their way up to his torso, easily sliding under his shirt and going for the back of his ribs, right where George was most ticklish. 

George let out a blood-curdling scream as his most sensitive spots were tortured with no end in sight. The tears kept flowing as he yanked uselessly at his arms and legs, all the strength he previously had zapped away with the amount of tickling that he was enduring. His face was bright red and his chest felt like it was on fire, ready to explode at any second as he struggled more and more to catch his breath. He let out one last shriek as he made another attempt at escaping, and suddenly everything stopped.

He sat up quickly in his bed, a hand clutched to his chest as he looked around with wide eyes in the dark. George felt himself breathing heavily, the panic from the previous events still fresh in his mind as he tried his best to ground himself. He realized his room was dark and turned to grab his phone off his desk, checking the time - 2:30AM. George flipped the desk lamp on, quickly turning towards the shuffling coming from beside and finding Dream lying next to him. Dream was rubbing at his eyes, clearly woken up by the sudden movement and brightness of the light. After a second he squinted up at George, sitting up himself and reaching a hand out to place on his shoulder. 

“George…? What’s going on? You were making a lot of noise, like you were struggling. What’s happening?” Dream asked with urgency as he noticed the panic written all over his face. He pulled George in for a hug, squeezing tight and allowing the older boy to melt into him. 

“Nothing, I just…I just had a nightmare.” 

“A nightmare? Do you wanna talk about it?” 

The question made George’s cheeks heat up immediately, thankful that his blushing face was hidden deep into Dream’s shoulder. He shook his head and clung to Dream even tighter, too flustered to even entertain the idea of telling him that his nightmare was actually about being tickle tortured by hundreds of Dream blobs. 

“No no, it’s okay. Let’s just…let’s just go back to sleep.” George slowly unwrapped himself from the blonde a few minutes later, quickly moving to turn off the light to prevent Dream from seeing the redness of his cheeks. He watched as Dream made himself comfy again, laying down under the blankets and fluffing George’s pillow for him before he inched his way back under the covers himself. He curled into Dream’s arms, letting his head slip under the blonde’s chin, just the way they both liked it. The silence was comforting, and he could feel himself getting calmer by the second as he listened to the sound of Dream’s breathing. His eyelids were growing heavier the more he allowed himself to relax, almost falling asleep completely before letting out a yelp when a finger poked lightly into his side.

“You know, you were laughing in your nightmare,” Dream teased quietly, his finger wiggling against George’s bottom rib when he poked into the sensitive spot again. He let out a quick stream of air from his nose when George squealed at that, hiding deeper into Dream’s neck with a whine. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were being tortured with tickles.” 

George whined against Dream’s neck, making the blonde break out into bright giggles at the tickly vibration it made. He giggled harder when a small hand found its way to his tummy, scribbling for a few seconds and making the younger boy squirm as George tickled him. 

“If you wanna survive the night I suggest you shut up, idiot.” George threatened, words slightly muffled from his place in the crook of Dream’s neck. Dream rolled his eyes as he grabbed the tickling hand, lacing their fingers together and bringing it up to his lips to give it a quick kiss. 

“Fine, you big baby.” Dream let out a fake sigh of disappointment, placing a kiss against the top of George’s head when he hummed in satisfaction. 

After a few tense minutes of waiting for Dream to change his mind, George finally felt the boy relax against the bed, hearing his breathing evening out and letting him know that the blonde was finally asleep. George smiled sleepily, turning his head and placing a gentle kiss against the boy’s neck before closing his eyes and allowing himself to drift off to sleep. 

…And maybe, just maybe, secretly hoping to continue his nightmare.

[magnolia-miraculous]

A. Agreste (aka Chat Noir) Headcanons <3

Kind of a lot tbh—just headcanons that I like to apply in my AUs when they don’t clash with their particular premises. It’s just a hot mess under the cut yeah? Cool.

He was actually in ballet classes as a kid—the same ones as Chloé.

What’s funny is that Marinette was there too. However, boys and girls were kept separate and so he only really knew Chloé.

He only found out when he was going through his closet and found a shoe box with his old shoes and a bunch of class photos; he noticed Marinette in the corner of one.

He’s still really flexible though.

He actually used to go to see a live rendition of The Nutcracker each Christmas.

He wanted to play the Rat King rlly badly.

He’s got a killer steady hand that makes for rlly good cursive.

He has the neatest handwriting in the class, and takes rlly good notes too—particularly in physics.

He’s also got terrible sense in fashion. He knows good stuff when he sees it, but doesn’t know bad stuff is bad at all.

He really likes milk; in some horrible twist of fate, he’s also lactose intolerant.

He’s totally touch starved and rlly touchy feely w/ certain people.

He refuses to kill bugs. He once screamed and lifted Alya up off her feet for trying to squash a spider in the middle of science class.

He put it in a cup before disappearing for a good five minutes so he could walk all the way over to the park to release it where it would be safe.

He’s English and French.

He really likes gelato—specifically passionfruit; peach is a close second tho.

He knows how to run in heels; has a subtly burning hatred for them.

He really likes light up sneakers though and always wanted a pair.

He knows Morse code.

Rlly ticklish.

Sneezes super loudly.

Really crappy immune system thanks to never being allowed outside his castle walls; he got sick like three times within the first two months of school.

He really likes Piano Man by Billy Joel and can sing and play the whole thing.

Honestly his music taste consists of five types of music: Heavy/classic rock, classical/classical-style music (In The Hall of The Mountain King slaps ok), Billy Joel, chill-somber-sad-theatric-feels-y, and whatever the heck that migraine-inducing bs he’s got stashed in the back is.

His Spotify is a hot mess tbch; lots of spontaneous playlists depending on how he felt at the moment. The titles are usually smth along the lines of “ifykyk”, “vibe”, or “yeah”; either that or just the playlist #.

He has like five that are nice enough to send ppl, and those are the only ones he’s listened to more than twice. They’re called “Classical Vibes”, “Cheese Demon”, “Billy Joel Aesthetic”, “sad”, and “Spontaneous 2am Dance Party OST”.

He’ll literally save recommended playlists and never listen to them.

He never bothers to clean it up though, and has 600+ playlists sitting around.

Also he used to drink a ton of pediasures as a kid and his father doesn’t let him drink them anymore bc he’s not a little kid anymore obviously but he would kill for a muscle milk.

He’ll throw up if he ever tries to eat kale again; it’s a trauma response ok.

Emotion smart but social dumb.

Honestly kinda yandere ngl.

I mean have you seen this man?? Cheez-its man, chill.

He resists when in civilian form but once he’s transformed it’s Full Gremlin Mode activated.

He’s not good at drawing but he does try; he does a lot of blob style digital and is slowly getting better.

He overcomes his feelings of being stuck and not knowing what to do in life as seen in wish maker when he spends time with the Dupain-Chengs and realizes that that is what he wants. He then dreams of working in the bakery one day.

Cannot for the life of him resist eating the batter, ok. He needs it. He’s gonna get heckin’ salmonella one of these days and it’s going to have been worth it.

He gets really good at frosting “flower” cupcakes. He switches to the cutest little succulents pretty easily after learning how to airbrush. They’re adorable.

Also really good at modeling lil fondant animals and things.

He’s developed separation anxiety surrounding both ladybug and Marinette—he rlly just wants to have both of them in one place at once and he’s rlly sad that it somehow never seems to happen; he’s rlly happy post-reveal.

He rlly loves babysitting; like honestly he loves kids, so so so much; if he weren’t thinking of taking over the bakery (and/or tied down as Chat Noir), he’d probably become a pediatric nurse or a daycare attendant or smth bc 💞💞💞

He’ll leave the press to Ladybug so he can talk w/ the akuma victims and make sure they’re okay.

He’ll escape out his window and climb to high places when stressed to pace.

Once lost a Chat Noir look alike contest.

Has referred to his civilian self as, and I quote, a “dipsht boytoy” whilst en costume. (watch yo’ profanity)

He became a total night owl thanks to his miraculous but he’s just rlly good at pretending to not be tired.

He’s more cat than he’d like to admit:

He’ll react to catnip when transformed;

He’ll also chase laser pointers;

He subconsciously stares at birds;

Once a bird got stuck in the classroom and everyone was freaking out trying to catch it in a wire trash bin and stuff but it kept evading them so Adrien looked up and pulled out his music, watched it for a second, and then caught it by the feet mid-flight;

He brought it closer to himself and calmed it down as best he could, petting it as he walked over to the window to let it out;

Everyone was flabbergasted but no one said anything as he went back to working and by the time anyone could speak it was kinda late for questions;

He gets the zoomies at the most inconvenient times;

He’s made incredibly uneasy by dogs despite actually being more of a dog person.

Also more destruction powers seeping in alongside the cat attributes:

When he’s is in a funk, there’s crappy cell service, lights flicker, machines go haywire and burn out;

If he’s REALLY upset, drinking glasses and crystal can spontaneously combust;

His powers trickle over into when he’s a civilian;

He just keeps getting more and more frustrated with his computer as it begins to function less and less and keeps giving increasingly worse error codes;

He’s in a funk for the first half the day at school and for some reason the wifi is down;

His mood is lifted after a good lunch break and all of a sudden the computers are working super fast;

Though it frustrates him at first, Adrien learns to hone his powers and either repress or, if needed, direct them.

That’s all I have for now! Feel free to adopt/modify any of these as you please :)

[ashaleeleedagurl]

Playful father antics

Fandom: South Park

Lee: Damien

Ler: Satan

No summary

Author’s note: it has been too long since I made one of these fics, and I don’t really know the relationship between Satan and Damien in South Park, so here’s this random blob I decided to make

——————————————————————————————-

Damien was in his room, just doing whatever while his father was in the living room, extremely bored. In the next hour, he and his son have a father-son bonding moment where they do things normal dad and sons would do and forget about being the king and prince of Hell for a while.

1 hour later

“Damien, it’s time.”

“Ok, I’ll be right down, dad”

Damien came down the stairs while Satan was waiting for him, waiting to get started on their father-son bonding moment.

They did a few things fathers would do with their sons, like talking about their favorite football teem and what not, just having a bonding moment. They were just silent for now, cuddling on the couch.

“So Damien?” Satan asked which broke the silence. “How’s school?”

“It’s fine, I guess. Everyone’s scared of me, you know? Being your son and all… Would be nice to have more than Pip as a friend… I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love Pip, but he’s just my only friend…” Damien responded sadly as he leaned against his father.

Satan didn’t like seeing Damien this upset. Yes, Damien threw tantrums at times, but that was tolerable, but this? Damien was clearly sad and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out! He wanted to see his son happy again, but how?

Soon enough, Satan got a idea. One to cheer his little devil up.

“Damien?”

“Yes?”

“Can you close your eyes for me?”

“Sure dad…” then Damien did as his father said and closed his eyes, still pretty sat but oblivious to the fact that Satan was just about to tickle Damien to pieces.

Satan lightly put his hands on Damien’s sides which almost got him to open his eyes out of curiosity but Satan was quick to started skittering his fingers up and down Damien’s sides, watching how his son was trying to squirm away but also sort of leaning into the touch since he didn’t really get tickled often.

Worst was when Satan started teasing Damien about it! It was bad enough that Damien was almost deathly ticklish, his father, the literal king of Hell, was making it worse by teasing him about it!

“Aww, you’re so cute when you’re being tickled! I should do this more often to you” Satan teasingly said as he clawed at his little devil’s belly.

Damien’s face was red as he laughed a lot, screaming with laughter, “STOHOHOP DAHAHAD!” Not knowing Satan wasn’t wasn’t going to stop until Damien felt better.

Satan chuckled, meant for it to be sinister instead of playful, it ended up sounding playful, “No my sweet, little devil, not until you’re happy”

“IHIHI’M HAHAHAPPY!! GAHAHAHAHAAHAHA!”

It didn’t make it any better that Satan started to squish Damien’s belly and make patterns with his claws on said belly; stars, hearts, circles, squares, etc. it made Damien go insane, happy tears rolling down his face, with his face extremely red.

When Satan decided Damien had enough, he stopped his tickle attack on his baby and held him close as Damien panted and calmed down.

“Better?” Satan asked softly as Damien buried his face in his father’s chest.

“Mhm… thank you, dad…”

Satan cradled Damien like a baby and turned on the tv to watch Damien favorite cartoon, Bill Nye the Science Guy (insert the Bill Nye theme song), while Damien fell asleep along with Satan 12 minutes later.

Like father, like son.

Then Pip burst down the door, “Cheerio fellas!!”

Pt.2?

[cantwritethetword]

SS2k22 - The Devil’s in the Details

(originally posted December 25th 2022)

~A/N  - Happy Squealing Santa everybody!

And surprise gaybananabread I am your secret writer for 2022! And thank you to hypahticklish for hosting this year’s event, you are absolutely amazing and I hope you have a fantastic Christmas!

This was a lucifer prompt of “Lee!Lucifer/Ler!Chloe” and honestly TOP TIER taste with your prompt suggestions, I LOVE THESE TROPES so I decided to put both of them in the same fic lol.

We have “messing around turns to a ticklish discovery” and “playful chasing around before being caught and tickled to pieces”.

Hope you like it, and happy holidays everybody!

- Enoy! ~

Tag List: 

Masterpost Link 

When Chloe had first approached Lucifer with the idea of Christmas Baking, he had given her a very simple answer. Something about not having time for such mortal pleasures, nor the desire to celebrate Christmas in the first place.

But Chloe was never one to take no for an answer. So here he was, the devil himself, painstakingly removing individual cookies from their baking sheet. One at a time, cookie after cookie, god was there nothing better he could be doing. This could be a whole new level of hell. Endless cookie moving, finger burning, and hand slapping if he even thought about taking a bite of one.

“Perfect!” Chloe smiled as he finally finished, a slight tease in her voice. “Now that they’re cooling, we can get the icing ready!”

Lucifer scoffed. “I am the king of hell.” He gave her a look. “I don’t ice.”

Brushing him off with a laugh, Chloe began mixing the sugar and milk in a bowl. Once it had been sufficiently combined, and the cookies had cooled significantly, she handed a bag of icing to Lucifer with a beaming smile.

“Here.” She said. “Just cover each one lightly.”

With an eye roll, Lucifer began squeezing pools of icing over the cookies. Completely ignoring which ones were spilling over the edges and which were barely given enough to cover half. As long as there was icing on every one, he had technically ‘iced’ all the cookies (and would maybe earn his freedom).

“Lucifer!” She half-gasped half-laughed. “I thought you’d be more careful about this. More precise…”

He glared playfully. “Whatever would give you that idea?”

“You know the old saying, the Devil’s in the details!” She smirked, looking back at her own batch.

“I’ll show you detail!” He muttered under his breath.

Grinning, Lucifer flicked a blob of icing at Chloe’s face. With a satisfying splat, it had smeared itself across her right cheek. He looked back down at his work, but almost immediately he felt a wet dollop of retaliation bounce off his temple.

“That was childish.” He stated, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You started it.” She bantered back, throwing another smear of icing.

Oh she was really asking for it. Lucifer took a scoop with the mixing spoon and thumped it onto Chloe’s forehead. He let out a strangled laugh, before his eyes went wide as Chloe initiated a chase.

The two of them ran laps and laps around the kitchen table, Chloe with the spoon ready to launch an assault of sugary syrup onto the devil, and Lucifer just trying to make it out alive (and relatively clean).

With a move of pure agility, Chloe managed to close the gap between her and Lucifer and slide the spoon down his neck. What happened next was just as much of a surprise to Lucifer himself as it was to Chloe.

As the silky half-liquid slid down his neck, and the spoon grazed against the hairs on his nape, Lucifer let out a screech and scrunched his head to his shoulders like a turtle.

Both of them locked eyes for a moment in confusion. Well… Chloe’s was more a look of excitement, and Lucifer’s was one of pure fear.

“Now Detective, let’s not make any rash decisions here…” Lucifer began to back away nervously, hands outstretched.

“Oh I’ve already decided.” She grinned. “I had no idea you were ticklish Luci.”

“Detective…”

“Come here!”

And they were off again, but this time with a far greater drive for both sides. There were few opportunities to turn an all powerful archangel into a giggly puddle, and Chloe was determined to grab this one with both hands - literally.

“Chloe stohohop!” Lucifer pleaded, laughing before she had even caught him.

There was no response, but the devil could feel her right on his heels. In a mad bout of panic and adrenaline, Lucifer managed to pull a chair behind him to block her path. She stumbled, giving him the much-needed advantage. He could finally put some distance between them…

That didn’t last long, however, as with a quick trick-step Chloe had managed to turn the other direction and latch a hand round Lucifer’s waist. As her other hand swung round his back, she began squeezing into the muscle just above his hip.

And Lucifer broke.

“CHLOEHEHEHE!” He shrieked, high pitched chuckles bursting out of his mouth.

“Whaaaat?” She teased in a sing-song voice. “It’s just tickling, surely that’s nothing for an immortal such as yourself?”

“WAHAHAIT!” He begged, grabbing at whatever hand was closest to his own to stop the assault.

The pair were locked in a tickly tango. Each claw of Chloe’s hand sent Lucifer’s waist in a desperate wiggle of freedom, and his head into a tailspin of giggle-filled agony.

“Oh this is just everything.” Chloe grinned. “How much will the King of Hell giggle if I tickle his ribs, hmm?”

“STOHOHOP IHIHIT!” Lucifer cackled, feet stomping in a laughter-filled tap dance as ten fingers wriggled their way along his torso.

“Oh I have no intention of stopping.” She laughed. “ This is just too much fun!”

She emphasised the last three words with three solid squeezes, making the man in her arms jump at every one.

“THIHIHIS IS RIDICULOHOHOUS!”

“Who knew the devil himself has such ticklish sides, hmmm?” Chloe smirked, intentionally ignoring his pleas. “Devilishly ticklish, perhaps?”

“SHUHUHUT UHUHUP!” Lucifer squeaked out between bouts of laughter.

His legs could barely keep himself upright, constantly stumbling and swaying with every poke and prod Chloe’s fingers produced. With her hands rapidly climbing towards his armpits, his knees finally buckled. The pair took two steps backwards before falling onto the luckily-placed couch.

At last, his torment was over. The fall had given them enough of a shock to cease any further ticklish activity (much to Lucifer’s relief), and instead their limbs were locked in an incredibly comfortable embrace (something Lucifer was almost used to by this point… almost…).

“Merry Christmas Lucifer.” Chloe smiled, cuddling into his chest. With a breathy chuckle, Lucifer reciprocated - resting his chin on her head.

“Merry Christmas Detective.”

[littlelovelyspiderling]

Have you ever come across Thing getting tickled by Reed in the comics? Its super cute! He just immobilizes him immediately. I can’t help but wonder if Reed ever uses his stretchy long arms to render Johnny or mayhaps Spidey a usless ticklish blob? ….😏😊 

Just a nugget to place in that clever noggin of yours :3

i have not! that sounds super cute though! if u have a screenshot somewhere of the comic panel i’d love to see it 😊

you know one thing i’ve been thinking about is if peter / anyone else tried to tickle johnny, i feel like he’d just immediately (and possibly unintentionally) burst into flame lol which might make it difficult for peter to ever get him back

dang you right tho reed definitely has the ability to wrap someone up and absolutely wreck their shit lmao 😅 i have many cute ideas in mind for how i want to write all the fluffy scenes and now i can add that to the list 📝

[amyyythestarry]

( Got this image from Pinterest )

I decided to do this with Tsukasa for fun!

Organized but not clean

He likes tea and coffee, but prefers tea because some coffee is bitter ( Only likes light, sweet and creamy coffee )

Meat and vegetables. I have a headcanon he physically could not eat vegetables as a kid ( He always vomited them up ) for some reason, but he still liked them and still does

Is scared of thunder and koalas

Photoallergic ( Sunlight allergy )

He’s an early bird and night owl ( Chronic insomnia )

Extrovert

Single

Ambidextrous 

Superstitious 

Ticklish but it solely depends on where you tickle him ( He’s ticklish in his groin area and the side stomach sides )

He learned how to bake on his free time as a supernatural, so he can bake 

Double jointed, really flexible, can tie a knot with his tongue, ect

Creative, literature, can play the guitar, ect

Dyscalculia

Rock/crystal collection, patch collect, sticker and artwork related collections

Doesn’t have an accent but can do accent, like the transatlantic accent 

His nickname is Tsu and Tsuki. They were more used when he was younger but some of his family members call him that, his parents as a joke, Mitsuba calls him Tsu, and Amane only sometimes

His only pet peeve ( That he knows of ) is people who like their relatives

He doesn’t take baths, but no quick showers either, he takes extremely long in the shower

He had apple headphones with wires and apple headphones

Slytherin or Gryffindor house 

ESFP

He’s a Leo, July 24th ( Headcanon )

One of his greatest strength supernatural empathy abilities, his greatest weakness is receiving love/kindness/anything nice 

Black and white cat named Miyu ( meaning “beautiful moon, gentleness, bind, dream. She has a lot of nicknames but Tsukasa calls her Mish Mish and Mi Mi )

Doesn’t really have a favorite cuss word

Spring and Fall

Call and text

Purple, lucky colors are red, yellow and green

Japanese and African American

He would like to hug anyone

He wouldn’t really like to punch anyone 

Saw his brother and Nene stuck in time and thought about kissing Nene, then did it ( If we’re talking canon here )

Headcanon that he has a scar across his neck from a slip n slide accident when he was human, scar on his chest from the murder, self harm scars, ect. Birthmark on his shoulder that’s just a huge blob

Always wears earrings and a crane necklace

I will be doing this with other character too later!