#without anyone's knowledge or consent

[kagaintheskywithdiamonds]

remember cleverbot? cleverbot was fun. they don't make AI like cleverbot anymore

[ot3]

'you are not immune to propaganda' is true but sometimes the way people deploy this particular soundbite reveals a complete unwillingness to attribute any agency or ideology to people who espouse some pretty heinous bigotry.

like there was a post going around recently talking about people whose parents became increasingly radicalized by fox news and it had one of those tumblr style comments on it along the lines of "REMEMBER! THIS COULD BE YOU! You are not immune to propaganda either. STAY VIGILANT" and the implication here is always that right wing radicalization is something that somehow happens to otherwise pleasant people without their consent or knowledge. But perhaps some of you guys just need to grapple with the fact that your parents might be more bigoted and reactionary than you want to believe.

nobody is immune to bad information ecosystems or groupthink or poor science or anything else that makes radicalization possible, but i do think the idea that anyone is just a bad news pipeline away from supporting white supremacy does a lot to let white supremacists off the hook. it's the same kind of line of thought that gets people to talk about how bad things in fiction shouldn't be 'romanticized'. its a kind of worldview that operates under the implicit belief that a human being is a vessel being uncritically filled with whatever you pour into it and does nothing to grapple with what the actual appeal of these far right talking points is to the sort of otherwise ""normal"" seeming people that can be sold on them.

[disteal]

I think the best advice I ever got to stop myself from getting in my head over issues i was having with a partner/friend was “Are you deciding on ultimatums in your relationship without the other persons knowledge or consent? Are you having conversations in your head where the other party is a projection you supply the responses for? If so; you have done this person a huge disservice in not allowing them to answer on their own terms. You have done so much architecture around this problem in your mind that is impenetrable for anyone who was not there when it was being built.”

That shit really changed my life and honestly? I think made me a nicer person to be around.

[avpdgirlfriend]

wish he wouldnt talk abt me where f**** could see (not a slur im censoring someones name) i hate that guy

[muntitled]

Boa

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Fem!Reader

Summary: You're just a kid, caught in a gangster’s crosshairs. What happens when you don’t deliver like you should…

Warnings: Language, Dom!Seongje, Gangsterism, Bullied!Reader, Coercion, Bullying, Extortion, Mentions of Rape, Smut +18 (mdni), Dark fic, Dubious consent, Public Sex, Exhibitionism, Desperate Sex, Humiliation, Degradation

A/N: I'm not responsible for the media you consume. I wrote this for me so...

Ever since you've started working for him, you've learned to get extremely acquainted with the floor.

"I'm sorry, Sir…” your voice is brittle as you try to make yourself heard in the suffocating internet cafe, “I'm short on delivery today..."

Hardwood. Tile. Linoleum. It's become all too familiar to you. The floor is all you see in his presence.

You never looked Seongje in the eyes unless he addresses you first. He likes that, you suspect.

It's kept you alive this long so you must be doing something right.

"I got assigned a kid to tutor and..." you clear your throat, not daring to make direct eye contact, choosing instead, to keep your eyes trained on the dirty, cold floor.

The internet cafe is the very last place you'd want to be on a Friday evening. You were caught right in between two challenging essay due dates- one for English and one for AP English. Both hung gravley over your head, threatening to set off your sympathetic nervous system and have you fainting from academic stress. Seeing him was the very last thing you needed.

"That tutoring time fucked with my system and-" despite all your achievements, despite the academic prestige and the boundless knowledge… in Seongje's presence you feel insignificant.

A bug he's letting scurry around for no other reason except his enjoyment. You didn't want to get stomped on. You saw what happened to the other kids under his thumb and it kept you up at night. All that blood. All the merciless sadism.

You aren't dumb enough to hope an exception would be made for you.

"I'm sorry,” you conclude, and for a second, you get no response. He plays his game. His friends remain silent.

That's all until he pushes the bridge of his glasses up further against his nose. A calm, quiet sigh leaves his lips.

“Before you started working for me, do you know what you were?" Seongje doesn't take his eyes off the screen. His fingers run deftly over the keys as he speaks to you without ever really acknowledging you, "You were in an alleyway, about to get raped by Eunjang scum."

"Yes, Seongje, I know-"

"And in return for my kindness, what did I ask of you?"

"FUCK- COVER ME BRO!" Your eye snaps up to the source of the loud and sudden burst of energy. Your frightened and pitiful eyes find a boy seated adjacent to Seongje and his goons. He's bent over his screen, clearly not a part of the group. Clearly far too young.

Your heart sinks when you realize Seongje's eyes are trained on the boy too.

"Ya…” Seongje raises his voice a decimal above the cacophony yet it has you flinching. “Too loud,” he says to the boy, “Didn’t anyone teach you shut up when adults are talking?” he asks monotonously to the boy- a child really- still mourning the loss of his avatar on the screen. He doesn't pay Seongje any mind.

Of course he doesn't. He's a kid.

How could he have known?

He came to an internet cafe to play a game with his friends.

It's the boy's innocence that hurts the most.

He doesn't know that the monsters under his bed are very real.

They walk where he walks.

They don't hide.

They move about freely.

Your heart makes like the titanic and sinks.

"Excuse me for a second." Seongje addresses you politely, finally giving you a fleeting glance before pushing himself out of his gamer chair. You see his entire row of friends (if that's what one could even refer to them as) remain unfazed as Seongje rounds the table to stand directly behind the young boy.

He’s bigger, far bigger as he pushes the rims of his glasses up, staring directly at you

"I know you're smart so you're probably aware that your fuck-up won't be tolerated-” he says to you, despite slithering his arm around the boys neck like a boa as he squeezes. Everyone keeps their eyes trained to their computers. Your fist curls at your side. You want to look away but you can't because you're speaking to Seongje. You wouldn't want to aggravate him further by showing him his mindlessly violence bothers you. So you try not to flinch.

You try not to let the casual violence scare you. How nonchalantly he speaks while an elementary school boy flails in his arms, begging to be released from the headlock making his lips turn blue

“You knew there'd be a punishment,” Seongje is still speaking to you. You hold your breathe in solidarity with the boy choking in his arms, “-for fucking up your delivery-” crimson blossoms onto the little boys face but Seongje keeps his eyes on you, appearing unfazed by the boy flailing like an animal in arms, "And yet you came anyway. That's the kinda work ethic, I like-” he smiles, “I like it alot-"

Eventually, after what feels like forever, he lets go of the boy. You finally breathe as well, watching as the kid slumps forward ingesting the air in horrid gasps.

Seongje bends forward, patting the boy on the back.

"No more interrupting when I speak, yeah?" Whether the boy was new to this particular internet cafe, it was unclear, but you hoped to whatever divine being that he wouldn't dare come back.

"So I'll let it slide-" He turns his attention back to you and you watch, still shaken up as Seongje leaves the little boy to make his way back to his side of the table. When he breezes past you he smells like nothing. Like his eyes, everything about him is empty.

"Thank you, Seongje-"

He nods before adding, "After you get on your knees." The goon sitting nearest to you, all the way at the end of the table, his fingers hover over the keys, and just like before, the room is rid of all air.

"Excuse me?”

He pulls out his chair for you, like some mimic of a perfect gentleman he opens his arm, gesturing you in.

"I want you on your knees, under the desk.” His words hang above you all. It has tears threatening to spill. Bile rising.

“What’s with the face? Its not like I’m asking you to suck my dick,”

"Seongje, I need to get home-"

"If you can't do it yourself I'm more than happy to help."

That has your legs moving into action. In your periphery, it feels as though everyone's watching you. A thing in psychology called the imaginary audience. When you're so self-conscious you concoct this idea of being the center of attention… only this time, it's real. You know they're all watching you. You know no one will do anything about it.

"Under the desk you go," he chuckles before sitting down and pushing his chair back in. You back away, creating intense distance between you. Your back hits dirty wires and your knees press hesitantly down onto the grime just to achieve a more comfortable position. Everything you see is his legs, his friends legs and you're suddenly hit with the overwhelming urge to cry.

You want to scream at him to let you go. He's hijacked you from your endless pile of homework and yet the very thought of standing up for yourself causes a sea of nausea.

So you sit there in the dark, not knowing when this punishment would conclude. When would he let you go home? That sends you into another spiral. You've heard Seongje could game for 24 hours straight. Maybe more if he was in close vicinity to food and a bathroom. You knew this internet cafe would close eventually, that gives you the smallest sliver of hope and so you do your time.

Never once does he acknowledge you- the girl under his desk. Unbeknownst to Seongje, you catch one of his fellow gang members sneak multiple glances at you under the table. They all do. Like they enjoy seeing you under here. As time passes, and you slip further and further away from the stress, you realize that down here, on the floor, under his desk, the world is small. It's quite comforting actually and that wasn't the trauma talking.

You've always liked small spaces.

It definitely beat dealing with whatever he had going on up there half the time.

Slowly, your body begins to shut down. Your energy plummets from all the stress and all the thoughts. This is the first time you've been forced into a spot for too long doing nothing. No essays. No tutoring.

Due to tendencies from your childhood that you should've gotten rid of, you find yourself curling up against his leg. He stiffens and you snap out of the exhaustion long enough to reel back. Especially when you see his hand reach under the table. Your heart hammers in your chest, not a single word spoken as his hand searches for something. You move a bit closer until his hand catches on your hair. You wince as he drags you closer, pushing your head against his leg as you had done.

He leaves you there. You try to regulate your breathing as you feel him adjust in his seat above you.

You shift as well. Not your head. He clearly wants you there. But your legs are uncomfortable. You try to kneel and it's ridiculous because your head never leaves his leg.

No position seems comfortable enough until he stretches his leg out, right in between yours and you're made to straddle it. Above you, his fingers are still hitting the keys and you try to disassociate from the fact that his leg is pushing against your cunt. You try to sneak a peek at the surface, his glasses are trained on the screen. Not knowing whether it's your exhaustion making a reappearance but you could've sworn you hear the words, "good girl," release from him in a low drawl.

Something in his tone has you shifting over his leg. Your cunt warms against his leg and you fight the urge to buck against him. All you had to do was remember who it is that you're currently touching. That conscious reminder has you once again hellbent on doing your time with concrete resolve.

That resolve breaks.

It shatters when he eases his back against the chair, enough to once again slither his hand down towards you.

He curls his fist into your hair and tugs.

He pushes you down and lifts you up and you mindlessly follow his movements until you realize he's coaxed you into riding his leg.

He lets go of your hair, satisfied when your hips move out of their own accord.

You hate how good it feels to quite literally be beneath him. You look up and you whimper oh so quietly when you see that small smile play on his lips while his eye remains on the screen.

He's given you new instructions now and so you don't dare to stop moving your hips against him. Despite the damp spot forming on the seat of your underwear. You're not sure what it is that allows you to lose yourself so easily. Perhaps it's all the expectations that melt away when you're doing something so pitiful. You're breaking for him and he's letting you. You're not in control of anything and there's freedom in that.

“F-Fuck-” you didnt mean for the words to slip. There are still other people here but you also couldn't help the wave of pleasure that pushed up so suddenly. Your clit is moving against the fabric of his pants just right and your eyes threaten to roll to the back of your head.

The second that whimper escapes your mouth, he stiffens again.

You watch as he leans back again, this time his hand isn't reaching out for you. It's to ghost over the bulge forming in his pants. Somehow that spurs you on more.

You grind against him desperately and before he can take his hand away, this time you reach up for him.

You watch him closely. The glare from the screen reflects on his glasses. His jaw, tight.

He controls the game easily with one hand, while you bring the other into your mouth.

You're not sure where this other side of you came from. This vixen who rolls her tongue out and forces his index and ring finger into her warm mouth.

He becomes more and more restless… His breath hitching. Seongje's fingers hit the keys more aggressively, while his right hand forces his fingers further down your throat. His hips buck upwards and you can see the damp spot forming where his cock is straining against his pants. He's about to cum in his pants and you're about to cum on his leg and it's far too much for you.

You know his friends are about. You try to preserve even a sliver of dignity but it all goes out the window.

“Fuck-” he spits out, slamming his fist on the table before abandoning the game. There's a fire in his eyes as he sits back to watch you peer up at him with complete and utter desperation.

“What a fucking slut-” he snarled, cleaely audible enough for not only him but his friends too. It has your mouth snapping open. Your back arches as you try to watch him watching you cum on his leg.

You've never held his attention for this long and it sends you off the edge.

“S-Seongje-” you barely squeak out as your cunt spasms against his leg. You rut uncontrollably, spurred on by the name That fell from your lips as if your body needed a reminder of just who it was making you cum. Your tormentor.

It has you seeing stars.

For all of 11 seconds.

Until it comes crashing down on you. Your pitiful act has you reeling. Mind spinning.

You don't want to look up at him but you have nowhere else to look. Your heart sinks when you see a smile form slowly across his lips… Somehow you knew you'd never be rid of him.

[szarina]

the fourth wife

PAIRING. YANDERE! TENGEN UZUI & WIVES X CHUBBY READER

CONTENT WARNINGS. angst + babytrapping + dubious consent + manipulation + gaslighting + forced affection

SYNOPSIS. you never signed for this.

it is you who caught the sound hashira's interest.

tengen have come across of different women. single and married. the pretty ones and the average ones. he encountered all of them even whom he considered flashy and took his interest in the most way that will leave him wanting for more but he never made any advances to them. no matter how attractive and pleasing they are for his tastes for he is devoted to his three wives, bound by duty.

it once crossed his mind that he ought to take another wife and it would be bound by love. sure he loves his wives. adored them in the flashy way he can show it and they are the same to him but it was out of duty. a custom of his clan but what of it when he's already free of them. no rules to abide and will from his own.

he abandoned the thought of it long ago. realizing he's contented with hinatsuru, makio and suma. the relationship between them four wasn't out of love but respect and tengen likes the dynamic of it however it came crashing down on him. the long buried thought in the back of his head came surfacing once he fell in love with you.

a daughter of a humble merchant. one that supplies the goods in the rest house where he stayed in the duration of his recovery after previous missions decision that he needed to be taken care of before returning to his wives even they are more than capable of taking care of him and that's when tengen first laid his eyes in you.

first noticing the different built of your body. you were soft. soft anyone can be and tengen knew soft having three wives gave him the knowledge about the anatomy of a woman and long he burned in his mind what they looked like. you were different from it and when he lifts his gaze up. he saw the most expressive face a human can see and that's when you notice him. offering him a curt smile and then you nodded. merely acknowledging his presence and that's when tengen knew he was a goner and the thought of making you his fourth wife have come to life.

he wasted no time in finding you. introduced himself and from the looks of it you were smitten as he was to you. your parents were delighted to have a man like him who wanted to marry their daughter and so tengen asked for your hand and that's when he's about to get you accepting his proposal, you refused. much to the horror and dismay of your parents. you bowed politely to him despite the affection you have for him in a short span of time. tengen was baffled how could you refused such proposal and that's when you told him the reason and tengen knew you were right. there's no fighting about it.

at the ripe age of twenty-one. many considered that you were past of a marriageable age. growing up with friends that have married before they can reach the age of eighteen, you knew that you're not the sharing the same fate as theirs. while they started to nurse their babies and decided to follow it with an abundance of children you remained the same. deciding that you were not suited for the marriage life. liking the life as a single and your parents didn't need to worry if they desire grandchildren, your older brother have already fulfilled it and it's not like you were the attractive of the bunch of your friends. you would rather be free without being tied to a man who would criticize you for not being deemed beautiful and the standard of your time after the marriage hence your parents agreed besides they still don't want to depart their precious daughter.

tengen's too good to be true and that's the reason you knew he was married. promised and bound to someone. a man who is built like a god which is true, he introduced himself to you as a god of the festivals an attempt to woo you and that almost made you fall for him. handsome he is with his white hair and the flashy accessories he wore and those maroon eyes of his that held confidence and that eccentric personality of his which you find endearing. he's the dream of every lady and you were lucky he took interest in you and said that he was in love with you so what's the catch? he was married, not one but to three women.

he confessed it to you after you refused. calling you a smart girl for finding it out. he explained it to you that it was made by duty but what of duty when it he's already committed and he possibly can't think that you can be his wife despite his wives. you find the proposal absurd and selfish. his desire is your misery and you don't want that. the reason why you avoided being married despite the pressure have put you. your parents were not happy either. they take what they said and didn't accept his proposal despite the promise of paying a dowry just for your hand.

tengen left after that and returned home. back to hinatsuru, makio and suma where he knew he is loved and adored. he remained the same after what happened. not wanting to worry his wives who cared for his being but it doesn't miss their eyes and the feeling that their lord husband is bothered by something, someone.....

they all knew it. this marriage was duty and they played their parts on it and sooner and later their husband will fall in love someone. they knew he loved them but it was respect and that was enough for them and so then they decided to talk their lord husband about it and how right they are and accepted what tengen have said to them.

makio, suma and hinatsuru, all tengen's wives gathered in the estate's living room as they have been summoned by their husband. makio and suma are both anxious while hinatsuru remained calm but despite that he knows how their husband gets when they are all here, it must be important.

it is important. the most important of all, second to tenged and it will be their new priority. a new addition to this family of them.

and hinatsuru was right.

tengen broke the news to them. “my wives, duty bounded us all and i am proud that i have fulfilled all your needs as a husband.” the sound hashira confidently boasted about his achievements to them and it's true. tengen exceeded his duties as a husband and them as his wives. “it is i decided that i desire for a wife.”

there was a complete silence between them.

it was anticipated that this day would come. their lord husband wanting a wife that he loves. he loves them but it was out of respect and responsibility. in many years they were together not once tengen have expressed his desire for a wife that he wanted. they were chosen to be his wife and it's different for this woman that have captured their lord husband's attention. tengen have found someone who he knew he loves from the depths of his heart.

hinatsuru unconsciously grip her kimono. she knew it and it pained her that her lord husband still decided that he wants to marry again despite them three but it was his lord husband's happiness and she was happy for him. although a little hurt, she gave a reassuring smile to tengen. turning her frown upsidedown. her lord husband wishes for it and she's merely a wife to him and she would not put herself in the way of his husband even sharing him with a another woman again.

makio on the other hand wasn't too happy about it. her brows furrowed and a concentrated look in her face. makio was not trying to show his displeasure at the said news but what of it? it's not her place to say it. she doesn't have the heart to tell him and that husband face of her lord husband brimming with an unadulterated love for a woman she is yet to met. she shared her love for tengen with the other in two, what difference would it make when another join this union when it's important for her lord tengen.

suma was desperately trying not to cry but alas a few years escaped from her eyes. it wasn't her problem and he wouldn't be tengen's wife if it wasn't for her bawling her eyes out and thus, replacing her sister when they chose her as one of tengen's wives. she didn't have the right but it's too much not to think about it, knowing that if you accept they will be another contender to tengen's attention and it was you he loves.

tengen wouldn't be called their husband if he didn't care for his wives and truth be told he expected these kind of reactions from them. “my wives, there is nothing wrong to feel this way and i told you of this desire of mine for the reason i didn't want my wives to worry. i know this is hard but please meet her. you will love her like i did.” tengen said, his voice tinged with tenderness and they want to melt at the spot but if tengen was so sure of you, how could they not?

true to his words their lord tengen was. you were all what he described you as and it almost made him want to sing praises for you. they realized that you were just not going to be as someone to them. you were going to be their new partner and a wife to tengen.

they approached you while you tend to the goods in the stall you have set up. curious gazes mixed with envious stare at why someone like you have bewitched a man like their husband and then the answer was clear. when you spoke, the words they were kind. your gaze clear as the sky. pure as the water that flows in the stream. it's almost enough to made them weep.

without pretending and not being able to hide their identities to you, they have laid what they're plans for you and the future that you'll have with you in their life. the requests absurd. you were not going to be a fourth wife of someone who had already three beautiful wives and he's clearly wrong in the head to be going for you and adding you to his collection of his wives. what will be of you and you took the course of what you deemed is right. you straight out refused. you can't accept such terms. bowing your head in a respectful manner and you requested that will be the last time you're seeing the four of them.

it came true but such request like that won't be easy for them.

they were hurt but it's your right. your wish and they were made to respect that but what about tengen. it was clear that their lord husband is deeply infatuated with you. the late night departures and the talk of you. they can't resist his wishes to be with you. as selfish it can be, you were going to be tengen's. wether you like it or not.

it was simply wrong of them to force you but what can they do. the more they know you longer, the deeper they have fallen for you. never did they thought they would share tengen's affection for you. it was maddening. frustratingly ambitious. they can't imagine without you. the mere thought of it drives them crazy so they did what they know are befitting for you.

they took you. it can't be considered an accident. your home burning along with your parents perishing in the accident. no place to take shelter, no people you can confide in. they took you in. offering you with condolences that doesn't pass the intentions they have with you.

you shared a home with your suitor with his wives and it was so wrong. you can't belong in this place and with their strange arrangement. it was from hospitality they were giving to you. it was trapping you in a place. it was too late for you to leave now. their plans have come to fruition and it was decided that you're going to complete their family.

who knows you have no tolerance for sake. the liquid drawing fire down your throat as you took a sip of it. you only insisted that you're only drinking a cup but they insisted that you deserve to drink more. it's a way for you to bond with them and this is their way to get to know you more while their lord husband is away taking dangerous missions.

when you started to get more open to them. they brought the topic of you marrying tengen and you will going to be a part of the relationship. you said no but the arrangement it wasn't. withing a fortnight you were married to him. a tear escaping your eye at what have you done to yourself. you place your self in a trap with no way out but the light is the marriage is yet to be consummated. the marriage isn't valid and you clinged to that while you planned your escape.

the plan's foiled. there's no way out. hinatsuru's lips are on your neck. sucking on that sensitive that leaves you gasping. makio and suma were sucking on your nipples. their tongues swirling on your hardened buds. your legs being spread by them and you tears continuously rolled. you can't get yourself free from them.

while they busied their selves on you, you almost didn't notice tengen looming all over you four. his thick fingers spreading your pussy lips and admires your sex glistening with wetness. it was time for this marriage to be consummated. they already have planned with it.

the fat tip of his cock slowly nudges into your pulsing hole. groaning at the sensation and at the sight of his wives pleasuring the new addition of their family. you can't go now. you would belong to them after this and to make it true, his cock swiftly entered your hole and with that, there's no way out.

it was months after that, every desperate attempt of escape were prevented. you sat there emotionless while your wives simply doted on you while tengen did his duties. fawning over your pregnant belly and cooing how they can't wait to see the little one being born. they weren't jealous of you being pregnant with tengen's baby. it was the opposite. they were delighted.

such delightful event means that you can no longer escape them.

[14dayswithyou]

Olivia fell asleep in one of the aisles again...

how do you feel about ren being used in an ai chatbot advertisement?

⌞♥⌝ Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I genuinely despise everything about this so much, and if anyone comes across this ad on TikTok (or anywhere else), I'd really appreciate it if you could report the video and not give it any further engagement.

I'm vehemently against the use of AI that negatively impacts artists, writers/authors, developers, creators, etc., and I don't condone the use of my art and IP without my knowledge and explicit consent — especially when it's being used in a paid ad/sponsorship. It's extremely disrespectful and I have no respect for those who do it.

[kiefbowl]

wait ok genuinely kind of interested in your opinion on porn now......... if only because those big 3 you mentioned are always the reasons i see people throwing out so id love to hear a deeper take than that

I'm genuinely surprised anyone could follow me and not know my stance on porn, but that's okay. simplified and in no particular order and in no means exhaustive:

porn creates perverse incentives

porn normalizes the purchase of women as sexual objects for men to use

porn is often called "rape on tape" by feminists, which I mostly agree with in the sense that if a woman would otherwise not have had sex except that she is being paid, then she is not consenting. you cannot purchase consent, the consent is not meaningful then.

additionally, you can not verify if you are watching people be raped in any other way. porn sites are filled with stolen videos, coerced videos, actual minors, aggressive rape that was filmed with or without the victim's knowledge, and other videos of this nature. there is no way to verify this at all from videos that are somehow not these things. things like "amateur" are often just marketing by the porn company or pimp, or they're stolen videos.

porn creates a social script for sex. this social script is least of all - boring and predictable. it also reinforces the long standing conservative gender understanding (see 2). porn also reinforces ideas of homophobia and racism under the guise of "taboo." porn is literally so conservative, but because it's considered "shocking" to "puritans" (religious men watch porn all the time), people talk like it's this liberal fantasy. porn is constantly reestablishing the status quo in the most perverse ways.

it's been demonstrated that people who are porn addicts very quickly escalate to more violent porn, and that this plays out in their sex lives with their (often vulnerable) sex partners.

the violence that happens in porn is real. the idea that it's a "fantasy" is marketing by porn website and pimps. if a man slaps a woman across the face, that really happened. why does it matter if she says "yes" to it - that's her "job" so how can she say no? (see 3 and also 4).

there is so much evidence and testimony by porn stars of the absolutely awful and terrifying conditions in which they work, even in the quote unquote "real" industry. drugs, alcohol, violence, coercion, exposure to STIs, homelessness, pimping, prostitution, mental illness, suicide, lack of benefits. It's bananas that anyone would be surprised by this when it's pointed out, we're talking about an industry that films sex on video. The majority of people in the sex industry want out. It ruins their lives, and once in it's very hard to leave and lead a normal life. The idea that the industry needs regulation to be "fixed" is bizarre and just seems like pimp and porn industry marketing to get people to look the other way.

Poverty creates porn. Social welfare for the poorest of our women would prevent them from entering the industry in the first place. Women go into porn out of need, not desire. social media pushes that porn stars loooove their jobs is 1. porn site and pimp propaganda 2. literally marketing because men want to believe this.

I am not religious, I don't believe in god. I love sex and masturbation. it's the most natural thing in the world and people don't actually need to "learn" how to do it - it's innate within us. Porn is just one more way to humiliate women in a misogynist society that requires women to be fearful of sex and rape constantly, and uneducated in their own sexual desires and boundaries.

[zillychu]

Hi there! I'm a human artist who is (very loosely) following the Disney/Universal vs. Midjourney case, and you seem like you're pretty knowledgeable about it and it's potential consequences, so if you have time/energy to answer a question I have about it I'd greatly appreciate it! If not, no worries, feel free to ignore! I haven't had the chance to read through the whole complaint document itself, but at the very top, point 2 mentions:

"...distributing images (and soon videos) that blatantly incorporate and copy Disney’s and Universal’s famous characters—without investing a penny in their creation—Midjourney is the quintessential copyright free-rider and a bottomless pit of plagiarism. Piracy is piracy, and whether an infringing image or video is made with AI or another technology does not make it any less infringing."

Do you know if human-made fanart would also be included in this? Or is this something that would only be aimed at big companies? the "incorporate Disney's characters" part is giving me some pause, but like I said I haven't had the chance to read the full document and I'm not confident in my knowledge of copyright law. 😅 Thank you in advance if you're able to answer this! (Brought to you by a concerned fanartist with near-equal disdain for both Disney and AI. also sorry for the essay-length question 😅)

No problem at all, I'm happy to help ease your worries!

To put it simply, nothing is going to change for us. This is only going to affect unethical LLMs like MidJourney, OpenAI, etc. trained on copyrighted material without consent.

This is because Disney (and Universal) are arguing that LLMs are already infringing current copyright law. LLMs make money by directly using their copyrighted images fed into machine that then regurgitates their IP, and is sold for a premium, en mass.

So there's that, but even more importantly: it's already illegal to make money off of fanart.

Which, corporations don't really care about unless you're making a LOT of money or getting a LOT of attention. This is because it's quite expensive to take someone to court, and you have to prove your business was negatively affected by said fanart (nearly impossible in most cases). You've got to be making quite a bit more money than the court costs, and provide documented proof of damages (to your wallet or name) for corporations to go after you.

Which, your individual/indie fanartists don't qualify... but MJ most certainly does.

So, not to say something bad can't possibly crop up from this court case, but there are quite a few things protecting us: there's no angle in the court case that targets fair use (this indirectly protects non-commercial fanart), the court case touches on human interpretation being essential for transformative art (which LLMs don't have since they're automatic), LLMs are already infringing existing copyright law (making money using Disney's images), Disney has quantifiable proof of damages to their company by said LLMs (nigh impossible for individuals to do), corporations have a vested interest in keeping fair use around as free advertisement (fanart is akin to spoken word about your product), and fair use is intensely tied to freedom of speech.

So don't worry! There are reasonable concerned voices considering how evil Disney and Universal both are--but most of the vehement arguments being made against this court case are from scared techbros who want unfettered access to your money and labor. Current copyright and IP law is far from perfect, but anyone calling for total abolition thereof wants protection taken from individuals like us.

[contentloadingandstuff]

Down Bad For You - Fontaine Girls x Male!Reader

A/N: The idea behind this one is this - what "pervy" kinks do the Genshin girls have? Since it's men that are usually depicted as having these, I thought it would be a nice change of pace. Women are like that too, though we view them as more "proper". They can be horny just like us men, even if they're fictional. The research for this one was fun, as I've never really explored the other perspective. I've planned this for each nation's characters, and I'm even open to writing something like this for the male cast - if my handful of fem readers want me to. Anyway, enjoy!

A/N2: The gif is how I imagine them thinking of these.

CW: Anal, roleplay, BDSM, pain play, Dom/sub dynamics, consensual non-consent, sex work roleplay. Very "concentrated" smut.

Everybody feels extra naughty once in a while - that applies to girls too. They are commonly believed to be more proper and restrained than guys, but that’s hardly true - they can be just as obscene in thought and action as men. They have their needs too, no? And although (most) of them wouldn’t admit to their dirty wants to anyone except you, are these really bad? After all, a girl being hopelessly horny for her man is hardly a sin. 

The care and love that Furina receives from you is something she values deeply. Sometimes, when she looks up at you, she feels like all she wants to do is to make you happy. Do everything, just to hear “good girl” fall from your lips. It's no wonder, then, that she likes to call you “daddy” when she's under you. No matter how rough you are, Furina will hide her face in your arms and take it - you want her to feel good, so there's no reason to worry. All you have to do is ask, and in return, you'll get to hear ‘yes daddy' and ‘I love you daddy'. Praise her often, let her act on her fantasies, and she'll be as happy as can be. 

Clorinde’s profession, and her main source of income, is being a duelist for hire. But what if she had a… different job? One where all a guy has to do is jingle a few Mora in front of her to get her tits out? Of course, being a prostitute is not something any sane woman - let alone Clorinde - would do, but the thought of being your pussy for hire gets her positively drenched. Perhaps it's the feeling of submission, the knowledge that you can do anything you want to her for the right price? Or maybe it's the chance to act like a bold, shameless whore without worrying about her image in your eyes? No matter the reason, she'll be thrilled if you let her indulge that fantasy in the bedroom. It's a fun way to signal what you feel like - give her a handful of Mora and she'll give you a hand, but a jingling purse will move her panties out of the way. Since it's just roleplay, the money doesn't really play a part and is usually just there for fun. But if you ever want to give her money, do it this way - you'll get an opportunity to see her furious blush as she pays for a dress or a new hat, remembering what exactly she had to touch and suck to “earn” these Mora…

Handsy? That's an understatement when talking about Navia. This woman keeps her hands glued to you, and they always seem to travel down to your balls. She absolutely adores these little guys. Watching a movie? She's rolling your nuts in her hand under the blanket. Cuddling? Her warm hand wraps around them and keeps them comfy. Railing her? She'll keep your sack in place with a firm grip. You can expect plenty of worship coming their way, as there's no better aftercare than having your sack spit-shined by an eager mouth. Balls are soft, cool and tender, feeling so perfectly masculine in her hands. All she is doing is giving your baby makers what's theirs - it's thanks to them that her belly bulges time and time again with cute, healthy babies. There's something exciting, though, in how nervous you get when she squeezes them a little tighter or drags her teeth over the sensitive skin. She has your masculinity, your male pride, in the palm of her hand, doesn't she? Don't worry - she won't damage the goods, as you still have plenty of kids to fuck into her~

She's a rare example of a person that really likes each part of her job. Writing, interviewing, taking photos and capturing things on film - Charlotte enjoys each part of the process, and that obviously bleeds into the bedroom. Her trusty Kamera captured more than just famous people, she'll have you know. She has entire smut albums at home, brimming with filthy pictures that show a completely different, far more slutty side of the journalist. Of course, she has a big reputation to uphold - these pictures getting out would be a major blow to her image, but what's life without a little risk? Nobody but you knows that Charlotte walks around with a few of these pics folded up in her wallet. And she doesn't play a stakeless game - she makes sure that each picture includes some part of her face, or at least a clue to her identity, usually the pink tuft of trimmed pubes. Each time she opens her wallet in public, she feels a tingle of excitement mixed with fear at the prospect of somebody seeing her creampied pussy, your thick cum pouring out like dense cream, or just what kind of facial expression she pulls when there's a cock lodged balls deep in her asshole. Of course, you have free access to the whole collection - she trusts you to keep them between you and her. The benefits of developing the photos yourself, right?

As all proper, young ladies, Emilie read a lot of books during her youth and continues doing so to this day. Some of the titles she stumbled upon were more… improper than others, but they quickly became her (literal) dirty pleasure. She found a special interest in mixing pain with pleasure. Whips, clamps, spiked wheels, cuffs and many more torture implements fill her collections, all ready to provide the most intense of experiences. Emilie used to lament to herself that she had no man that would embrace her, let alone her kink, but now? My, the possibilities are endless! She made herself a special playroom, and when she's in there - you're free to do anything your mind conjures to her, no matter how mean it is. Within the pre-established rules, of course. Hoist her up by the panties and just lay back, watching her wiggle helplessly and moan as the fabric bites into her plump pussy. Stuff your boxers into her mouth fingerblast her, adding heavier weights to her poor nipples every time she trembles from the pleasure. Punish her disobedience with relentless edging and an unlubed dildo up her ass. Don't stop, even when she finally releases the stress and pain you inflicted on her all over your cock. And when you're done, scoop up your exhausted wife and shower her with kisses - there's nothing nicer than some love and cuddles after being so thoroughly tormented. 

It's always the quiet ones. Would you expect the quiet and socially awkward Lynette to hand you a vibe and a remote? She's an expert in keeping up appearances, so do your worst. Lynette can take even the highest setting with only a blush and grimace, but it's the long game that gets her. Lynette knows this, and the first hour is always a desperate fight not to cum too much, as she knows overstimulation will crack her stoic facade. Show some patience and you'll catch a sight of her knees buckling or her tail shivering. Don't wear her out too soon though, there's still a lot of things she needs to get done. Before she started doing this regularly, conversations with people were boring and exhausting. They still are tiring, don't get her wrong, but now they are constant battles to keep herself from whining out loud and collapsing on the floor. Luckily, her brothers and friends don't have her feline hearing and she's the only one that can hear - and feel - the constant buzz inside her folds. 

Gods, you're so hot. Chevruse can't help but think of you and only you when you are away. Your body, your scent, your warmth, your beautiful voice… The groans as you chase your pleasure, the ravenous way you fuck her until you're content, only to do mount her again in a few minutes… You're so strong and insatiable. She always wondered how it would be to share you with other girls and watch as you juggle pussies and mouths as you see fit. If you'll have her, Chevruse will gladly offer a threesome, maybe even a foursome to her friends. Wouldn't it be nice? To have two other pussies to fuck when your main toy breaks? It's also a great way of bonding between besties. After all, what brings girls closer that sloppily sharing a load with Emilie or eating your creampie straight out of Chiori's cunt? 

Being independent and strong is a significant part of Chiori’s character. Wouldn't it be nice, though, to give up some of that every now and again? Have someone care for her, keep her close and tell her what's good for her? Of course it would - who would use this power better than a man? And what man would take better care of her than you, her darling husband? Keep in mind, though, that Chiori tends to be sassy and sarcastic with you - she clearly needs discipline. It's not that she doesn't respect you, she keeps her tone quiet and gaze low to the ground when you're her ‘Sir’, but she'll act bratty just to feel you dominate and discipline her. You may nominally punish her, but she's having the time of her life being set straight by a strong, mature, older and more experienced man. Every time she comes home late from the shop, her knees buckle at the thought of what she'll be doing in a while - digging her nails into your pants and whimpering into your thigh as you paint her ass red with your belt, make her kneel on dried peas or lock the bathroom door until she's feeling truly sorry. Every time, after enduring her punishment, Chiori will cling to you, seeking comfort and forgiveness from her ‘Sir’. Though this kink of hers shows up only behind closed doors, she might sometimes call you the honorific in a hushed tone, or hang off your arm as you take her out to dinner or the theater. Maybe submitting to a man isn't as bad as she thought - it definitely is hot as hell. 

Everyone is very respectful and fearful of Arlecchino, which does, at times, make her days very dull. Oh how she would love someone to come in, disrespect her, and give her a reason to let her frustrations out. While this does happen sometimes, she never gets to experience the smutty kind of that. And that's when you come in. Since she’s lucky to have a man of her own, Arlecchino won't hesitate to use you for all you are worth. But she doesn't just want to be made angry, no. She'll clearly communicate what she wants - she wants to be helpless, she wants to be angry, she wants to be desperate until she can't take it anymore and she just breaks. She'll love nothing less than being tied up and forced to cum way beyond what she can take, having her mind melted into slop over hours of stimulation. Vibes and wands are your friends here. Tie her up and just leave her there, maybe slap your cock across her face to rile her up even more. After the overstimulation kicks in, at first she'll be angry - Arlecchino will curse you, for the audacity of doing this to Harbinger and will threaten you with the worst fates imaginable. It's just good fun, so you shouldn't take it seriously, and neither should you stop until you hear the safe word. Push her to her limits. She loves it. Her noble blood, her titles, her position, her power, her influences… She can bring them up all she wants, but they won’t give her anything - not when there's a wand on max power, blasting her clit for the third hour in a row. Eventually you'll hear her beg, plead with you to let her rest, but don't relent. Push her further, watch as she understands that nothing will change her predicament and begs for mercy with her eyes, creaming on the toy time and time again until you grant her mercy. But don't go just yet. You must be so horny and frustrated, all because you indulged her in this. It's only right for her to give you some pleasure too, so go ahead and fuck her stupid, for good measure. Make sure there's not a conscious thought behind her crossed eyes. She can take all of this, don't worry. Arlecchino isn't some delicate girl that will yield to anything. She's a woman, and your own toy - she can take a proper punishment. If anything is wrong, she'll use the safe word, but that doesn't happen often - after all, you know your wife's body so well. 

Thanks for reading!

[psychiatricwarfare]

i love sinners and the discussions being had around it but i haven't seen anyone dig a little deeper into the "i know how you like to be licked" line. it makes remmick feel that much more sinister and cruel when you really think about it.

first off, let's start with the line itself. this is a stranger coming up to grace and talking about committing a sexual act on her, insinuating that she should join him because he already knows her through her husband's knowledge of her. but it's more than this as well, it's beyond violating, he knows her intimately and without her consent. this isn't even someone who's watched her through the window, remmick can "remember" having sex with her that he never had, parts she never wanted him to see. he doesn't just know what she likes, he already knows what she tastes like. it's also a threat, it shows his plans for her once she's turned. this is him telling her that he will eat her out and she will like it, regardless of how she may feel about it in that moment.

secondly, the fact that he said it in her native tongue so no one but her could understand. this way of saying it shows her that he means it. ive seen a lot of people mention that when remmick and his vamps dance, only irish culture gets represented, it's the only culture he truly cares about celebrating. but the use of her native language shows his true intentions, he wants to use them, steal the parts of them that benefit him and discard the rest. it makes it clear to grace that he never meant a word he said to them, he was only there to use them. just as he threatens to use her, sexually.

lastly, i think it's a great portrayal of the sexualisation and dehumanisation of asian women. remmick could have said anything to her to prove that he knows her through her husband, he could have actually tried to get her to join him. this was a moment between just the two of them, the use of her native language in a low whisper ensured that. but he used this, instead, to sexualise her. he immediately violates and threatens her, notice how we never see her tell any of them what he said, she only mentions that he said it perfectly. she is being humiliated and sexualised by this white man who just killed her husband. she is nothing but a sexual object to him and her sexuality is being directly associated with her chinese heritage.

i just think it's a perfect encapsulation of remmick as a character and another example of how he's no different than the colonisers of ireland that he despises so much. a lot of people are focusing on the forced assimilation aspect, and that part is important, don't get me wrong! but this line represents the abuse of women that comes along with colonisation as well and an aspect of it i havent seen anyone mention when talking about sinners. i know it's one line, but it's an important one, it's the catalyst to grace breaking and inviting the vampires in. i don't think the amount of terror packed into it is getting the recognition it deserves and id really like to know what other people think

[mysindividual]

Unknowingly, a yellow hyacinth | Aaron Hotchner

MASTERLIST

requested

pairing: Aaron Hotch x fem liaison reader

summary: When Hotch finds out you’ve been receiving flowers at work, an unexpected twinge of jealousy bubbles up, prompting him to snap at you for the first time. But when he catches you with the charming guy behind those flowers, he can’t help but let his irritation fly, determined to crash the moment and reclaim his territory. Flowers, apologies, and unspoken feelings swirl in the dimly lit office, and as the elevator doors close, one thing is clear: in this office, stakes are high, banter is sharp, and those flowers might be just the beginning of your troubles.

warnings: some angst and a little more of jealousy, hotch fighting his feelings for you, boss x subordinate

I do not consent to having my work translated or reposted to any other site. That being said I do not own the characters portrayed in this story!

The tension in the atmosphere had thickened to an almost tangible weight in recent days, an oppressive silence that hung over the office like a storm cloud. Everyone sensed it, you felt it strongly enough to avoid the bullpen as much as possible.

It was a simmering fury that bubbled beneath the surface—fury aimed not just at Hotch, but at yourself, too. You had found yourself ensnared in a predicament that felt increasingly inescapable.

Yet alongside this anger, there lingered a peculiar, unsettling sensation gnawing at your insides. Was it simply the sting of disappointment at witnessing your boss’s disapproval for the first time, and for the stupidest reason, or was there something deeper at play?

~

When Aaron glanced through the blinds of his office window, which framed the bullpen like a living portrait, his eyes instinctively landed on you. His gaze followed as you stepped into the bullpen, focused on navigating the familiar space, your heels echoing softly on the floor. The sleek ponytail of your hair was swaying rhythmically with each confident step as you made your way towards Emily’s table, a bouquet in your hands.

You wore a crisp white shirt tucked neatly into a black leather pencil skirt, Aaron noticed— a combination that was both professional and undeniably striking.

His gaze fell on the delicate collar framing your neck and a rush of admiration mixed with something more primal surged within him, fighting to keep his focus.

Unbeknownst to you, Aaron’s gaze lingered, and an involuntary gulp caught in his throat—unaware of the effect you had on him; a reaction to the undeniable presence you exuded.

When Hotch had entered your office earlier that morning with the expectation of seeing you, he was met with an unexpected sight that sent his mind reeling. Lately, he had noticed the influx of flowers adorning your workspace—each bouquet seemingly more extravagant than the last.

The first bouquet, the third, the seventh… and yet he had remained silent, a spectator to your blossoming attention. However, upon entering your office and discovering that, he needed to take action.

Surprised, although not for the same reason Emily might have been, or you, or any other woman, but because those bouquets of flowers were scattered across every available surface—a riot of colors on your desk, the sofa, the cabinet, the floor. Even the damn floor.

It was a sight that would have delighted anyone else, but for him, it sparked something else entirely.

He stopped in his tracks, his gaze darting around the room, landing on the largest bouquet of roses. A surge of urgency propelled him forward, and he reached out, fingers brushing the delicate petals. But just as quickly, this moral compass deep within him compelled him to retract his hand, leaving the note unread among the blossoms. Why did he do that?

There was restlessness fluttering inside him — his heart quivered, his thoughts stirred, his hand clenched into a fist. All this unconsciously, without his knowledge and even less without his permission.

Frustrated, he exited the office, anger directed inwards rather than towards you. He was so consumed by his own turmoil that he failed to notice Derek humming a casual tune as he passed by. Those stolen glances, late-night conversations, and shared moments in silence—did they mean nothing to you? Why was he acting like a child whose favorite toy had been taken away?

Now, as he watched you out of his window, you just presented Emily with one of the many bouquets, placing it gently on her worktable. The moment was met with surprise; a rosy blush crept across Emily’s cheeks as she leaned down to inhale the fragrance of the blooms, the only touch of color on her otherwise sparse desk. It was a simple gesture, yet it ignited a warm laugh that bubbled from her lips, a testament to the joy that flowers could bring.

Women very simple creatures sometimes. You gave them flowers and their whole day was made. They were more than just a gift; they conveyed a sense of thoughtfulness from the sender — someone showing them they cared.

As Aaron contemplated this, a nagging feeling tightened in his chest, the thought of you receiving those haphazardly arranged bouquets gnawing at him. What did it feel like to be the recipient of such attention? He shut his eyes, frustration mingling with confusion. Without thinking any further, he left his office in a hurry, propelled by emotions he couldn’t quite grasp, desperate to confront the swirling thoughts that haunted him.

Firstly, he called out your name with a brusqueness that cut through the chatter, and then he commanded you into his office with a tone that brooked no argument. The collective shift of gazes from your colleagues was palpable, each person’s curiosity piqued by the sudden tension. Emily, noticing your bewilderment, shrugged her shoulders. Derek let out a playful whistle, adding to the atmosphere of uncertainty. You excused yourself, the weight of unspoken questions heavy in the air as you made your way towards Hotch’s office.

“Yes?” You closed the door behind you, stepping cautiously into the space that felt suddenly charged. He stood behind his chair— indirectly telling you there was no need for you to sit either.

Aaron scrutinized you, his gaze piercing, as if trying to unveil layers hidden beneath your calm facade. The intensity in his eyes sparked an unsettling fire within you. His stern expression left little doubt that you were about to receive a lecture.

When he finally spoke, his voice was unyielding. “This is a workplace.”

You glanced sideways, replying through a hesitant smile. “Yes.” You weren’t sure what this was about. Looking back at him, you confirmed. “I know that.”

You couldn’t remember if Hotch ever called you out on something. There was a reason everyone referred to you as his soft spot, and you were very well aware of that.

“I’ve started to doubt it.“ he replied, his gaze drifting momentarily to his desk, eyebrows knitting together in frustration before snapping back to you. It was clear that this situation was unfamiliar territory for him, too.

“Excuse me?” Your eyes narrowed, challenging his assertion.

“I’m talking about your office.”

“Why? It’s just some flowers, Hotch.” Your defensiveness edged your words, a forced casualness clashing with the discomfort bubbling beneath the surface.

“It’s not just some flowers. It’s a whole flower boutique.”

You huffed, exasperation creeping in. “Why are you acting like this?”

His brows furrowed even further, his head tilting slightly as if he were trying to comprehend your question. “Acting like what?”

“Frustrated. Over some damn flowers.”

“I’m your superior.” He snapped, imbuing the air with an undeniable authority, but even as the words left his mouth, he felt a stab of regret. It hurt you, he could see that, and the realization left him unsettled. Did he truly believe that hierarchy justified his reaction? Or was he simply hiding behind his title to mask his deeper feelings? The very idea made him feel foolish.

Aaron stood still behind his chair, but inside, a storm of conflicting emotions raged. He couldn’t comprehend why he was so worked up over something as trivial as flowers. It was an irrational reaction, and yet, every time he tried to dismiss it, another wave of frustration washed over him.

There was a flicker of something deeper in him—a protective instinct perhaps, or something more complex. He could feel it pulsing under the surface, but he didn’t have the clarity to name it.

You stood there, disappointment washing over your features, and he felt an unexpected pang of guilt. Why did he care so much? As your boss, he was supposed to keep the team aligned. He was supposed to be your boss, an ally, not the one causing this rift between you. Instead, he found himself obsessing over the sight of your office flooded with blooms, the vibrant colors contrasting starkly with the serious nature of their work. He was acutely aware of how the team was watching, how the tension between you both had become the elephant in the room. It was like a charged magnetism, drawing attention and whispers, and he hated that it felt like a distraction from their mission. But the emotion tangled within him, leaving him more confused than ever. It was new territory for him, and he was unsure how to navigate the storm brewing between professional duty and the undeniable connection he felt towards you.

The silence stretched between you, charged with unspoken words and unresolved feelings, the tension in the air thickening with every heartbeat.

A sudden rush of something unnameable surged through you at his dismissiveness. Adding a quick but firm “Sir,” you turned on your heel and left his office, a swirl of emotions churning within you.

Once you were gone, he maintained a calm facade until the door clicked shut behind you. With a heavy sigh, he released the tension that had coiled in his chest.

In the sleek, metal elevator of the FBI office building, you stood beside Nathaniel, a charming colleague, exchanging playful banter as the elevator smoothly ascended. His laughter filled the small space, and you found yourself leaning in closer, sharing a joke that had him chuckling, completely at ease. The way he smiled—that kind expression always so infectious that you felt your own lips curling.

Just as the banter reached a peak, the elevator doors dinged and slid open to reveal your boss— Aaron, standing there, hands in his pockets, he was all sharp suits and commanding presence, but now—now his expression a mix of surprise and something deeper.

He cleared his throat, his gaze switching between you and your companion.

“Morning, everyone,” he managed, his voice tight.

The men exchanged wary glances but the shifting emotions in Aaron’s eyes made it hard for you to decipher what he was feeling. You could sense a shift in the air as he stepped inside — it was thick, charged with an unspoken tension that hung between the two of you like a taut wire, ready to snap. You managed to greet him back, but his eyes remained fixed on you and Nathan, an unmistakable frown creeping onto his face. Aaron’s lips pressed together a little tighter.

The elevator continued its journey, but the mood had changed. Hotch stood close to the elevator doors, his back to you, shifting uncomfortably as he sensed the playful energy behind him. As he heard a soft and familiar chuckle escape you, his jaw tightened, and his knuckles whitened inside his pockets. It was apsurd, he knew he had no right to feel possessive over you. Unfortunately, you didn’t belong to him. Yet, he couldn’t shake the deep-rooted urge. He felt immobilised, tormented by the sight that you were looking at another man with such fondness, and not someone else… Not him.

Turning around, he glanced between you and the man, who remained blissfully unaware of the storm brewing within Aaron. “How are you feeling today?” he asked, his tone softer than usual, directed at you but layered with an undercurrent of curiosity.

“I’m good…” you replied, darting your gaze between the two men, unsure of where this was heading. “Why d—”

“I saw you throw all the flowers from your office in the trash yesterday.” His tone was deliberately casual, but you sensed the underlying challenge. He feigned ignorance, yet he knew very well that Nathan was the one who had sent you those flowers. How he found out didn’t matter; what mattered was that he knew you were oblivious to the fact.

Your heart raced, warmth flooding your cheeks as you shifted your gaze between Aaron and Nathan, acutely aware of the latter’s confused expression. This was not the best moment for your boss to bring it up, especially not in front of the sender. “Hotch, you said—” you began, desperate to defend yourself.

“I didn’t say you should throw them away.” He stared into your eyes, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m surprised you wouldn’t want something so nice.” The way he phrased it felt like a direct jab, and you couldn’t shake the feeling he was relishing the moment.

Nathan glanced between you and Aaron, his brows furrowing. “Wait, you didn’t like them?” he asked, genuine concern creeping into his voice.

Aaron’s eyebrows raised expectantly as he studied you, waiting for you to answer. Caught between the two men, you felt the heat of embarrassment rise in your cheeks. Aaron turned to the elevator’s display as the digits changed, muttering, “Alas.” He glanced down at his watch just as the elevator dinged. “Just in time.”

You turned to Nathan, wanting to explain, but Hotch stepped outside, turning around to address you. “I need you.”

You raised your brows, waiting. He added, “In the conference room.”

When you stood frozen in place, his expression hardened, voice leaving no room for argument. “Now.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, murmuring an apology to the other man as you stepped forward. Hotch strode towards the bullpen, a faint smile playing on his lips, and you followed, your thoughts swirling with the unsettling desire to wrap your hands around his neck. To say you wanted to choke him would be an understatement.

After a long day spent wrapping up a challenging case, you returned to the office, welcomed by the familiar hum of the building. The lighting in your workspace was soft and muted, casting gentle shadows that danced along the walls, creating a cozy yet intimate atmosphere. As you stepped inside, the air felt still, almost charged with anticipation.

Your gaze landed on your desk, where a stunning potted plant awaited you. Its lush green leaves unfurled like delicate hands reaching for the light, creating a vibrant contrast against the muted backdrop of your office. A smile crept onto your face, and you assumed it was the same sender again, delighting in the thought of his thoughtfulness. The sweet, earthy aroma enveloped you as you leaned closer, savoring the moment.

Nestled beside the pot was a card. You picked it up, turning it over to find a message penned in a well-known handwriting.

I’m sorry.

Your heart raced, and a smile instantly spread across your face.

Just as you admired the plant, a sharp rap echoed through the room. Two knocks. You turned to find Hotch standing at the doorway. The low light accentuated the sharp lines of his jaw and the slight furrow in his brow.

“Hey,” he said, stepping inside. He scanned the room, as if searching for the right words that wouldn’t come off wrong or selfish. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior the other day.” His gaze dropped to his hands, fiddling with his phone as shadows flickered across his face. “I was out of line. I may have not handled myself like a Unit Chief should.”

When he met your eyes, the corner of his lips turned down, revealing a hint of vulnerability. The soft glow illuminated the intensity in his dark eyes.

You tilted your head, intrigued by your boss’ almost shy demeanor. Your eyes softened as you offered him a warm smile, genuinely appreciative of his sincerity. “Thank you, Hotch. I really appreciate it.”

He nodded, shifting his gaze to the plant behind your back. “And the gift…it’s from me.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise, your playful smile unwavering. “Don’t say?” You turned around to take the pot in your hands.

“I thought you deserved something better. And I promise, it’s just this one plant. I know how you feel about your office turning into a flower shop.” He replied, a hint of humour laced in his tone.

You knew he was talking about the way you had discarded of the flowers — how you put them in a big black trash bag and threw them in the containers behind the building. Just the thought that he might have spied on you, seeing you do it, danced on top of your heart.

Leaning down, you inhaled the fresh scent of the leaves, their vibrant green appearing even more vivid in the dim light. “Well, let’s hope it is just this one plant.” You said, trying to sound serious before looking at Hotch over the top of your plant, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. ��As much as I might not like it, my boss despise it.”

There was a glint of mirth dancing inside your eyes. “This is not a botanical garden after all, is it?”

Aaron watched you for a moment before his stoic facade cracked. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he glanced down at his hands before meeting your gaze again, trying to return some seriousness to his expression. “Exactly. I can only handle so much floral decor.”

“I mean, yellow hyacinths would definitely clash with your suit, don’t you think?”

Yellow hyacinths— the flowers of jealousy.

Aaron raised an eyebrow, clearly not picking up on your implication. “I suppose so,” he replied, but there was a fleeting shadow across his expression that hinted at something deeper.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. The world outside your office faded away, leaving just the two of you locked in this shared moment. You could see the warmth in his expression, the way his eyes held a depth of feeling that hinted at unspoken emotions illuminated by the dim glow of the lamp beside you. Your heart raced, an undeniable connection sparking between you.

You glanced at the plant again, blushing, feeling a warmth spread through you. “Thank you, Hotch. It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.” He gave a nod as he met your gaze, a small smile appearing at his lips. He never knew how you managed to make him smile with just a comment, just one look. “I’m glad you like them.”

There was softness in his gaze, a flicker of vulnerability that caught you off guard.

“Good night,” he finally said, breaking the silence that crackled with electricity between you. He turned to leave before you could respond.

“Good night,” you whispered, stepping into the hallway after him, leaning against the doorframe as you watched him go. You relished his figure, the way he moved, the confidence in his stride.

When he disappeared behind the glass doors, you sighed, your gaze falling down to the plant in your hands.

The flowers, though beautiful, were ephemeral; a fleeting moment of beauty that left only memories in their wake. This plant—it felt like a promise, a symbol of something lasting in a world filled with fleeting moments. You would care for it, would cherish it, regardless of what anyone said. You would treasure it.

The corner of your lips turned upwards.

It only confirmed what you already knew.

No man could ever compare to Aaron Hotch.

[lizbethborden]

I have to assume that when you spend a lot of time making arguments that you should be able to perform sexual acts in front of or involving non-consenting individuals, you are, broadly speaking, not a person who respects boundaries and not someone anyone should feel comfortable being alone with. All of this behavior shows a basic indifference to the psychological effect of unwilling exposure and involvement in sex acts--to wit, an indifference to sexual harassment, to rape, to rape culture, etc. Environments such as nude beaches, nude spas, etc operate under the active rule that all there are consenting to be present in other's nudity. There is no parallel to this when a person is conducting a sex act in a public place.

Arguing that being disgusted, offended, or scared by such an action is parallel to being disgusted by an LGBT person existing neutrally in public, or arguing that legislation against public sex is functionally the same as legislating against LGBT people existing neutrally in public, are both fallacious arguments made in bad faith. Yes, public indecency laws have been used against the gay community. Yes, there were and are gay cruising areas where sex acts are committed in public. There are specific cultural and historical circumstances that led to both of these facts. Those circumstances have nothing to do with the issue at hand--whether or not it is OK to feel disgusted, offended, or scared by being involved in sex without your consent.

This attempt at a historical-legal argument is a false equivalence. It's a bit like arguing that since marriage regulations were used in the past to prevent interracial marriage, we should not have any laws about marriage at all and an adult should be able to marry a 12-year-old and if you disagree you're a cop. How can you say it's MORALLY wrong for me to marry a 12-year-old? Don't you know anything about how marriage laws have been used for bigotry? You're just like those people who said it was MORALLY wrong for a white person and a Black person to get married. It's not only offensive on the level of "stop using the entirety of tumblr to justify your fetish," it's offensive on the basic level of knowledge and logic.

[wingedshoes]

Guinevere Beck wasn't the first person Joe had killed but she was the beginning of the show, the story. Why? For justice. For every gruesome murder to be avenged, Joe had to be behind bars, alone, as he is. But he didn't just steal Beck's life and power and autonomy. He rewrote her life's work and he did a shitty job of it and he did it without consent. He reveled in the knowledge that she'd be nothing without him and that at least she's remembered now. That was meant to be a fucking silver lining when the reality was that this another form of violence.

We knew he liked broken women he could save, we knew it but we bought the bullshit because Joe never showed us Beck's real person. Her sense of self was an utter mystery to him, to the point where it deluded him into thinking she'd relish in the murders he committed in her name. When we ses her through Bronte's eyes, she's kind and compassionate and generous. A true role model and friend.

And while she may be an unlikeable character, and perhaps she was written this way on purpose, this is why Bronte was necessary. Anyone could've shot Joe or put him in jail but she saw the twisted words among Beck's. She wanted justice for her life that he ruined and molded into what suited his peace best, the voice he stole when he killed her so early in life.

[ramp-it-up]

Knock You Down: III

Part II | Knock You Down Masterlist | Part IV

Summary: James Bucky Barnes is an avowed bachelor and one night stand artist. But when he meets you, he finds out that sometimes love comes around, and it knocks you down. Bucky feeds you after the failure of date number 2.

Word count: 2.3 K

Pairing: Art Dealer (mob boss) Bucky Barnes x Reader

A/N: Okay I Lied! I added more words as I edited this and it ended up over 5K. So... there will be four parts to this fic which has posessed my soul. It will be posted Tuesday 10/15. Thank all of you for rocking with me on this one. This was in part inspired by Seb Stan's latest pics and this press run 🫠, and partially inspired by an old song by some problematic people, lol. This is the result. As usual, I am Basil Exposition, so this is broken into parts.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Slow burn, cursing, mutual pining, idiots in love, playful banter. Bucky and reader talk about sex, without talking about it. Or doing it. This is fluffy, yet angsty and I feel like you might not like it. Let me know if you do.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-----

Bucky Barnes was sitting at your table eating Thai food with you and you weren’t mad. He had ordered twice the amount you requested and damn you, you thought it was cute.

He was cute, casual in t-shirt, sweats and a ball cap. He looked as alluring as he did in a suit.

You were doomed.

Bucky didn't try to get into a deep discussion or get close to you. He just kept you company as you ate and poured you some of the best rosé that you’d ever tasted. 

Food was your love language, and having good food did a lot for your mood. It also didn’t hurt that the delicious snack known as James Bucky Barnes was sitting across from you.

You respected his game.

But somehow you didn’t think it was a game. He’d been honest and straightforward with you. As much as a man in his position could be. Then you realized that he’d probably told you too much.

“What is it, Frumoasă? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Are you here to give me a last meal and then kill me?”

Bucky laughed loudly. He loved that you had the ability to make him do that. He loved…

“That mind of yours, Y/N.” 

He shook his head at you.

“I’m not going to kill you. I want you safe. Even if you are not going to be mine.”

Your ears perked up at that phrase.

You already knew that Nico was parked outside of your place. You realized that he had been hanging around since Monday night. 

But what you were tripping over is that Bucky said that he wanted you to be his. 

You normally weren’t into possessiveness, but on James Barnes it was sexy as fuck.

After eating, it was only polite that you gave him a tour of your brownstone. He didn’t touch you, but the proximity of his body to yours at the door of your bedroom was heady stuff. You wanted him to… 

But you just took a deep breath and led him back down to your front door.

“Before you kick me out, I have something to say.”

Bucky had never felt the need to explain anything to anyone in a very long time. But you weren’t just anyone.

“I apologize for giving you a security detail without your knowledge. And then piling my friends on as well. They wanted to check you out, and I wanted to be sure that you were safe. Those gossip blog posts have heightened the risk for you.”

Your eyes widened.

“What posts?”

“We’ve been papped every time we’ve gone out. You didn’t know? I thought that’s why you asked what you did tonight.”

You groaned. 

“No, my friends must have seen them. What do they say?”

Bucky hesitated. Just a moment, and then responded to the look on your face. He ascertained that he was going to have to be straight with you consistently if he wanted to be in your company.

“Well… Since we’ve been spotted together more than once, one particular site is claiming that we’re already in a relationship. They say you are my girlfriend.”

The softness of his voice when he said ‘girlfriend’ got to you.

Whoo boy.

You groaned, then laughed.

“That’s ridiculous, you’ve never even kissed me.”

Bucky laughed too.

“Ha ha. Yeah. It’s crazyyyyyy.” 

“Isn’t it though…?

You tried to look deep into his eyes, and he let you. You saw something that didn’t really surprise you. So you decided to just ask the question that was on your mind.

“James, what do you want out of this? This…”

You didn’t say what you were thinking, but he knew exactly what you were thinking when you didn’t finish your sentence.

Bucky looked off as if he were seeing something that wasn’t there yet, then back at you.

“I want… you. I don’t want a one night stand. Or a situationship.”

He watched you carefully as he said the next words.

“I want, I need so much more from you.”

He took both of your hands into his as he leaned against the door frame.

“Listen. When you left earlier this evening, it knocked me on my face. You’ve got me thinking about a lot. Things like what our life might be like in the future.”

You were spiraling as he spoke. ‘Our life,’ ‘future.’ But you tried to remain calm.

“This was never supposed to happen to me. Y/N. But ever since you came into my office on Monday, my heart has been racing. I’ve got feelings for you. Strong ones.”

“Wow.”

It was all you could say. But when you thought about it, you felt the same exact way. You smiled at him and his nerves calmed. 

Just a bit.

“I have to admit that every morning when you text me, I get the biggest smile on my face. That wasn’t something I wanted or planned.”

You looked down at your fingers entwined with his. Yes. This could be a thing.

“It’s not exactly convenient to have these kinds of feelings this fast, James. Especially with all has happened.”

You looked up at him, and the hurt on your face destroyed him.

“I’m really sorry, Y/N. And I understand if you want to pump the breaks. I-”

“If you want me, then why haven’t you made a move?”

You interrupted him to ask about the next most important topic on your list.

Bucky recognized your insecurity.

“Don’t ever doubt the sexiness of your appeal, Frumoasă. I want to kiss you, and more to be honest. But I haven’t because I am so afraid of you.”

The way he looked at you caused a tingle of fear to unfurl in your belly.

Or was it desire? 

“You are afraid of me. I see. You’re a terrible kisser. That’s why you don’t go on second dates. I get it now.”

Bucky threw back his head and laughed.

“Maybe so.”

He gazed at your smile and the way your entire face was alight. Then he brought one of your hands to his lips.

His mouth on your palm enabled you to feel the salt and pepper whiskers on his face. And when he slid those lips to your wrist you moaned a little and squirmed and his eyelids fluttered closed as he inhaled the scent there.

“The skin here is so soft and fragrant, makes me wonder about…”

He stopped speaking but the silence spoke volumes. This man was having wild thoughts about you. Of that you were sure now. You wanted him everywhere.

Bucky brought your hand down from his face and rubbed your wrist with his thumb. The sensuality of the act made you feel unstable. You must have wobbled because his hand went down to your waist to steady you. But you just felt more dizzy.

He chuckled at your tell and saved you again.

“Can we sit?”

“Yeah.”

The couch was a bit dangerous, but the blood was leaving your head.

“Truth?”

“Always, James.”

“Okay. The truth is I don’t think you could handle it.”

You scoffed at the challenge.

“Come again?”

He smirked at you and you rolled your eyes and then he sobered up.

“If I kiss those lips, Y/N, I’m not going to abandon them in haste. I’m going to take my time. And I’m not being cocky, but I’m pretty sure things will progress rapidly. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to stop myself from giving you anything you ask for. Anything.”

The sensual promise was making you wet. You clenched your thighs together, causing Bucky to look down at them and lick his lips. When he looked back up, his eyes were dilated.

You knew that you could have him right now if you wanted. You took a deep breath to clear your head and Bucky’s eyes were on your lips.

This feeling was a drug.

“I’m already falling for you, but I know that I will crash into you. I can get intense about the things and the people that I care about. And you’re not ready for that, Frumoasă. Not at all.”

You pulled your hands away from his even though you wanted to jump his bones. 

“How do you know what I’m ready for, Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky smiled at you.

“You just said that your feelings for me aren’t convenient.”

You sucked your teeth at him and crossed your arms, turning your body away from him. Bucky was charmed by your pout, but a little mad at you closing yourself off from him. If you were his, he’d teach you a lesson about that. He’d open you up. 

But damn, he didn’t need to be so hard right now. You had an important day ahead, and he wasn’t going to rush this experience. He tried to calm down, but his voice betrayed him.

“You also haven’t asked me for a kiss. Although you did tell me that you wanted to fuck my voice...”

You dropped your head, embarrassed.

“Let’s not!”

He laughed, on cloud nine at your shyness with him. He’d teach you to be wanton, and have a grand time doing it.

“Frumoasă mea, you could request a kiss at any time. And I will always give you anything you ask of me. If you ask nicely of course.”

You cocked your head and Bucky bit his lip at how adorable you were.

“You want me to beg you for a kiss?”

Bucky took in the fire in your eyes and his own darkened.

“A kiss is not what I want you begging for.”

You coughed to cover a whimper as your mind went where Bucky wanted it to go. You couldn’t believe that your panties were soaked by someone you’d never even kissed.

“I just want you to know what you’re signing up for if we get physical.”

“From a kiss? It’s like that?”

You tried to be incredulous, but you believed every word that he said. You just wanted to verify.

“So let me get this straight. I kiss you, you rock my world, but I’m not ready for it?”

You’d never been so annoyed yet so turned on.

Bucky shrugged.

“Or you could be right. I’m a horrible kisser. A lousy lay. I’m just trying to stretch out the good times with you before you find that out and dump me.”

You shook your head at him, not wanting to laugh, but doing so anyway.

“...But, in order to find that out, I would have to kiss and lay with you.”

“Of course.”

“You know what…”

Bucky teasing you was the best kind of foreplay. You felt comfortable with him. And now you were intrigued.

“I can’t with you.”

“So we agree.”

“I hate you.”

“You don’t, but you’re cute when you’re angry.”

“Fuck you, James.”

“Is that a request?”

This banter was everything.

You got up from the couch and headed into the kitchen.

“I’m going get you something to drink. Do you drink tea? You seem a little thirsty.”

“As long as you drink with me. You seem a little parched yourself.”

Bucky called after you while watching your curves in your sweats as you flipped him off. He rubbed his hand on the ridge of his semi-hard dick. You were so damn hot. He concentrated on calming down while the kettle heated.

“Honey?”

“Yes, dear?”

You laughing was amazing.

You came back with a tray of herbal tea, milk, and honey and sat down again.

“I do want to talk to you about something else.”

He said it as he prepared his cup.

“Yes?” 

“I want to let you know, as much as I can, the plans for me to go legit. Can I have just a little bit of your time tonight? And then I will let you get some rest.”

Your heart melted and you smiled at him.

“Yeah. You got it.”

—-

You woke up at 3 am, Bucky’s steady heartbeat under your ear and his arms wrapped around you. You had fallen asleep after hours of talking about the future. You looked up at him and those lips were right there. 

You could just steal a kiss.

But you didn’t, just tried to ease out of his arms so you could go pee.

Bucky’s arms tightened around you and you couldn’t move. He was awake.

“What time is it?”

“A little after three.”

He let you go and sat up, looking around, then at you.

“I’m sorry, I talked your ear off and bored you to sleep.”

You shook your head. 

“I wasn’t bored. You made me feel safe.”

Bucky grinned.

“I’m glad that you feel safe with me. You are, you know.”

His morning voice was sensual heaven. You never wanted to kiss someone more in your life.

“And for your safety, I probably need to leave now.”

You wanted him; his body felt good against yours. But he was right. You chuckled and then led him to your door.

“Okay.”

At the door, Bucky turned and looked down at you. He was thoughtful.

“Do you have plans for Sunday?”

“No, why?”

“I wanted to ask you on date number three Saturday night.”

You two stared at each other for a beat before he continued.

“How do you feel about a late dinner at my place after the exhibition? Since you don’t have to get up early the next day.”

You took in his meaning, but you didn’t address it.

“Are you trying to feed me, James?”

His gaze got intense. You got wet again, realizing the double meaning. 

“You have no idea, Frumoasă.”

Holy shit. He caught it too. You gulped.

“Okay. Sounds… intriguing.”

Bucky looked like a little boy on Christmas morning.

“I’ll stop by the center around midday, then go shopping for our meal. Nico will bring you by. About 8?”

“It’s a date.”

You two grinned at each other like idiots. Then he opened your door to leave.

“James.”

“Yes, Frumoasă?”

“Can I have a kiss?”

“Yes.”

He pulled you into his arms and kissed you on the forehead. It was perfect, and a little bit like a promise.

Then he left, straight into the early morning fog, waving at Nico as he got into a sleek black sports car, blew a kiss at you, and then pulled away.

That felt like an escape from the inevitable.

To both him and to you.

——

As always, let me knowww! ❤️

Part IV Here

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Marked (MOC Dean x female reader)

Chapter 1 - Ten days

CWs Explicit sexual content. Some graphic violence. Dubious consent. Unhealthy relationships. Age gap. Sad ending. 18+. 8.6k words.

Mark of Dean series master list ⏐ SPN masterlist

It’s been ten days since you and Dean had sex for the first time. Ten packages of twenty-four hours, neatly stacked beside each other, like birthday presents. Every hour filled with sixty minutes. Every minute with sixty seconds. 

You’re pretty sure not a single one has passed without you thinking of him.

Something always brings you back to him. It’s difficult to avoid him, first of all, living together in the bunker, or the signs of him. A dirty coffee cup. A sandwich wrapper. Sometimes his smell wafting in the air, telling you he’s been there – a smell you got to know intimately. A smell you washed off yourself afterwards. 

Standing in one of the large, tiled showers, water so hot it flushed your skin running over you. You try not to remember how long you stood in front of the shower, how hard you had to convince yourself to step in, knowing you wouldn’t be able to smell him on you afterwards. How you scrubbed at yourself, in the end, frantically, once doubt and shock at yourself started pouring in. How it still feels like he’s all over you.

To pretend you went to Dean’s room not hoping for exactly this would be to lie. You did, although you’re not sure you were even aware of the wish. You went there for something completely different. You could claim ignorance, but the way Dean has been looking at you, studying you, is something you’re violently aware of. The crush you’ve had on him for as long as you can remember – try convincing a jury that there was no premeditation and you would land behind bars. You’ve carried a flame for him for a long time, but it was always just that, a crush. You had no idea it could turn into a wildfire.

You assumed Dean was out of your league, but then Dean’s pretty much out of anyone’s league – even the beautiful, breathtaking women you’ve seen him with seem to shrink in his presence. There’s something about that you don’t wish to explore, how a beautiful man holds so much power. But it’s not just Dean’s looks, of course – though they would be enough to make him the most mesmerizing person in any room. It’s him. His presence.

The first layer: charming, funny. A little silly, dorky, but in a way that makes his good looks bearable. He could be vain, could be vapid. He’s not. He’s engaged. He’s present, yet careless. He’s a horndog and a jokester and it’s easy to roll your eyes at him. It’s like Dean gives up a little bit of his power by being himself, maybe because in a way, he doesn’t see himself as powerful, or he didn’t. Not until he got the Mark.

The second layer is his fierce loyalty. His love. Being in Dean’s inner circle, part of his chosen family, his tribe, is like having the sun shine on you and only you. It always made you ache violently, to be loved like that by him. He’s protective. No, that word doesn’t encompass it. There is no word. He will protect you and Sam and Castiel and Charlie and a few chosen others even while he is bleeding and dying and crippled. It’s what he does. And when he did, looked after you, enquired about you, protected you on a hunt, you felt a need so deep inside yourself it made you want to bend over and sob. Not arousal, but something sadder, yet still similar. Need. Want. You’d lie in bed with one hand between your thighs, the other pressing your pillow into your face as you wept from both ends. The knowledge that you would never be loved as fiercely and protectively by anyone as you were loved by Dean Winchester, and that it still wasn’t enough.

The third layer is the one that has all the hate for himself. Dean’s the exception to the rule, or maybe the exception to prove the rule. He should have everything in life with how he is, how he enters the stage. Nothing should be able to stop him. But he himself does. He’s his own worst enemy. You see the way he isolates himself sometimes, the way he’s decided he needs to carry everything on his own. There’s no convincing him otherwise, not at this point. When you say something nice to him, genuinely tell him about his goodness, he waves it off in a way that isn’t just politeness, or pretend humbleness. It’s deeper. It’s uncomfortable for him, painful, because his own idea of himself is so far from what you’re telling him.

It makes your love for him burn that much brighter. Dean evokes that distinct, ever famous I can fix him urge, the one that has been the downfall of many a great woman. The belief that maybe he can be unknotted, in some way. He would be the perfect man, if only he didn’t get so angry at himself and in turn the world, if only he could be a little softer without scaring himself, if only he could settle for something rather than panic the moment any kind of standstill happens. If only he was a completely different person with a different set of experiences, he would be perfect. You’re pretty sure that’s what Dean thinks about himself, too.

And the Mark has done something to him. Sure, it’s old, it’s ancient, it’s biblical, it’s the ultimate symbol of evil and murder and fratricide. But it has flipped a switch in him and suddenly all those voices that have made Dean question who he is, kept him down, suddenly seem turned off. It’s like there is another, louder voice, that tells him it's okay and you are right and this is just. 

Quod erat demonstrandum: him sleeping with you.

You feel a little silly at calling it that. Sleeping together. You didn’t do any sleeping, and the only connection to those words is that you did it in his bed. You had a moment, Dean buried deep in you, his sweat mixing with yours, your brain almost melting out of your ears, where you thought: Dean wouldn’t do this, while he was, quite literally, doing this. It must not have been real. But it was.

You came, harder than ever before, and not just once. No doubt that Dean Winchester knows what to do with a woman’s body - not that you had any doubt about that. It’s the kind of experience you would laugh at fantasizing about, because while it’s a good fantasy, it’s so unrealistic as to be embarrassing. But it still happened. 

Still, it’s not how you imagined it, not quite. It wasn’t your first sexual experience, but close enough to it to almost count as it. But the Dean you imagined being with, all those times before, was, well, the Dean you know. Silly, a little shy maybe in the face of it. He would enjoy you and you him and you would fall down on the bed afterwards, satisfied, laughing. Whole.

But this man who ravished you, opened you up - it’s still Dean, of course, but it was someone else as well. It wasn’t the man who got excited at a pair of boobs, who thought a red thong was the height of eroticism, who bought his almost juvenile skin mags at the gas station, like the world of free online porn had never been invented. He wasn’t just scratching an itch, and he wasn’t making love. He was fulfilling something - something so deep and primal that you don’t have the words for it.

You don’t know whether that’s better or worse. If it had been the Dean you know, the silly one, you know you’d be even more in love than you already were. If he had held you, caressed your cheek, maybe kissed your forehead - what woman wouldn’t have become a vessel with the sole purpose of making this man hers? 

But it was different. He wasn’t dismissive, or rough in a way that you didn’t like, and he didn’t make you feel like he didn’t care. While he was deep inside you, fucking you from behind, you asked him to kiss you - and he did. It was your first time kissing him, after he’d already been fucking you for a while. But he did kiss you, once you requested it. He kissed you, gently, while he fucked you like an animal.

And that’s the thing. On the spectrum of how you expected the sex to be - one end: loving, gentle, soft, the other: rough, hateful, impersonal, not loving - it falls somewhere in the middle. You like to think you don’t have any puritanical views on sex, but you don’t know where to put it. The neediness and passion, yet it was definitely fucking, not sleeping together, and not making love. But Dean doesn’t hate you, doesn’t think less of you for giving yourself to him the way so many men would in his place. 

You lean forward, elbows on the library table and lay your face into your hands, rub at it. 

This is exactly the circular madness you have been going through for the last ten days. Back and forth and back and forth, constantly, on what does it all mean? You’re young, you know that, but not clueless. Still, you’ve been taught enough that you know a sexual relationship with a man almost twice your age carries a certain power dynamic that should make you run the other way. And the fact that you can’t place the act, can’t qualify it - is that your lack of experience causing it, or should you trust your gut? Trust that voice inside you that is telling you to stay away? The one only surpassed by the voice telling you to find Dean right now and tear at his clothes and make him do all the things he already did again.

So this is how you’ve spent your days - fluctuating, unsure, nervousness buzzing under your skin. You’ve avoided Dean, because of the urges it sets free in you - what you wouldn’t do to take his hand, shove it into your underwear while he grunts into your ear - and also because the way Dean has been looking at you, talking to you when you are unable to avoid him, is sure to set you on fire.

He’s not flirting. No, flirting is suggesting, is saying something without saying something, is getting the other person to consider you a certain way. That’s not what Dean has been doing. What he has been doing is much less subtle. 

He stares at you. Stares at you and when you catch him at it, it’s you who looks away, blushing, not him, and something about that isn’t right. He mostly doesn’t say anything outright, because usually Sam or Castiel are there, by your design, and he doesn’t resort to innuendos, double meaning, licking at the rims of cups or stroking cylindrical objects or finger fucking any soft, pliable surfaces. He’s not trying to seduce you. It’s like he knows he doesn’t have to.

Instead, he just looks at you. Which shouldn’t be as effective as it is, but it is. Not stolen glances. No brushing past each other, backs of hands accidentally touching. It makes arousal twist in you so violently you think you’ll be sick.

One morning, he caught you alone in the kitchen - Dean’s usually the one who sleeps the longest, so you didn’t think you’d meet him at that hour. You were pouring coffee and he walked in, stopped in his tracks while you turned to look at him. Then he kept walking towards you. A million perverted fantasies went through your head in one go - was he going to push you against the wall, take what he, maybe rightfully, considered to be his? Kiss you? Pry you open?

Instead he stopped just a step short of you, looked down into your eyes, you half turned to him, coffee pot in one hand, cup in the other, waiting for whatever he was going to do.

“Take your clothes off,” he said, like that was a viable option, like you were going to put down the coffee and then get naked, in the kitchen, where anyone could walk in, only for Dean to– what? Fuck you there? On the table? Fast and hard and hand pressed over your mouth so no one would hear the sounds he drew from you? Not a viable option. Still, exactly the thing that went through your mind. Your breath stuck in your throat when he stepped closer to you, his scent all around you suddenly.

“I wanna see your skin again,” he said and you needed to swallow. Not pussy or tits or ass, or anything like that. Your skin. How absolutely unsexual, and yet the most erotic thing anyone had ever said to you. Surely, it wasn’t depraved if Dean only wanted to see your skin?

“I–” you stuttered, unsure what to say, then settling on: “We shouldn’t.” Which didn’t mean you didn’t want it. Which didn't mean you weren’t craving it. Only that by some outside law, it was bad and wrong. A soft smile played on Dean’s lips while he watched you intently.

“Says who?” he asked. You just had time to wonder who, indeed, before Sam came barreling into the kitchen, sweaty and breathing hard from his morning run. Dean took a step back, switching to his jovial self, leaving you standing there breathless and wet.

Who, indeed? Who is saying you shouldn’t? And so your thoughts make their inevitable rounds. You love Dean, really love him, and as much as the thought that he wants you - he wants you, needs you, he wants to see your skin - is making you fall apart at the seams, you’re also sure it’s not real. Not really. It’s the Mark. It has to be.

And that, in itself, makes it wrong. Makes it bad. Because Dean’s not himself. He’s driven by this thing, by this power. You’ve seen him act out, more violently than ever before, and that’s really saying something. He enjoys it now. Maybe he always has, but he sure doesn’t feel ashamed about embracing it now. Is it the same with sex? You don’t think he’s been hooking up as much when you’re out on a case, which seems contradictory to your theory that the Mark is magnifying all those primal needs. It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense.

You press your fingertips against the skin of your temple, trying to get some of the tension out. Trying to think of anything other than the way the muscles under Dean’s skin moved when he was over you, the way he kept looking into your eyes even when he pressed his cock down your throat, the way his strong hands felt on your most sensitive parts. You felt beautiful. How sick is that? And you felt safe. Thrilled, nervous. But safe. 

As if summoned by your thoughts, the three men you share the bunker with - well, two men and an angel - walk in, and from Sam’s tone alone you know he is talking about a case. The laptop he has balanced in one hand while gesticulating with the other is a dead giveaway too. Castiel is wearing his usual frown and walking behind the tall hunter. And then there’s Dean.

He’s sauntering more than walking, the way he does. It’s not arrogance. It’s a put-on display of coolness, because Dean meets the world with a balled fist and a charming smile. He has to. It’s the way he’s survived.

He looks at you and your gazes meet before you can avert your eyes. You look away, breath catching in your throat, stare at the table in front of you. As the three come closer to where you are sitting, you look back. Dean is still looking at you, the slightest smile on his lips. God, he’s so beautiful. After how much time you’ve spent with him, you’d think the novelty would wear off at some point. It hasn’t.

“I’m not totally sure it’s something for us,” Sam says while he sits down but two chairs from you, putting the laptop on the table without taking his eyes off it. “But the first death looks suspicious, and there is a witness for it.”

“But you said they didn’t see anything,” Castiel says with that rough voice of his as he sits opposite Sam - it’s still strange to see him casually lounge around, something you’re gonna have to get used to. Sam raises his hands from where they’re resting on the table, his face saying well? Meanwhile Dean positions himself somewhere between the two at the head of the table. Man of the house, you involuntarily think as you try to zone into the conversation.

“Care to fill me in?” you ask, and both Sam and Castiel turn to you. 

Your relationship to both of them is good. They treat you the way Dean used to treat you - like a junior tribe member, a younger sister, not that the age difference really checks out for that. Everyone in this cobbled together family takes care of each other. When you joined them a few years ago - insistent, no family you could go live with since they had all been killed - Sam called you stubborn, and according to your role, you rolled your eyes at him. But Dean just shook his head. She just knows what she wants, is all, he said, and you blushed under his gaze. The gaze that, back then, you’re sure, wasn’t what it is now. 

You’re distracted from your thoughts when your phone buzzes. It’s lying on the table, screen down, and you pick it up, unlock it in one swift motion without even looking who the message is from. 

You look beautiful today. Sexy. Good color on you.

You swallow, eyes going immediately up to Dean. He’s standing there, watching you, phone in one hand, other arm tugged across his chest. Without breaking eye contact, you lock your screen, but keep your phone in your hand while you try to focus on what Sam has been saying. 

“So it looks like they drowned, even though there was no water nearby,” Sam says and turns to you just as you force your gaze back to him.

“Some kind of water spirit?” you hazard, even though you’ve only heard the last little bit of what Sam said. Sam pulls down the corners of his mouth a little. It’s the look he gets when someone’s wrong but he’s too nice, too polite, to say how stupid what they just said is. That’s Sam for you - so friendly and empathetic that it makes your insides twist. It used to not bother you - quite the opposite. It’s Sam you would spend long evenings talking about loss and grief with, not Dean. The perspectives he gave you and how intently you listened to him made you love him wholeheartedly. 

But since you and Dean, Dean and you, that thing, the thing that happened, you realize you’ve been avoiding him. And you know he can tell. He’s been throwing you looks too, but a very different kind than his brother. He seems worried. Only a little over a week that you’ve been feeling strange and already Sam’s picked up on it. It would move you if it didn’t annoy you so much. Fill you with so much dread.

Like now, him considering your suggestion of the water spirit when clearly he’s already ruled that possibility out. If Sam thought it could be a water spirit, he would have said it could be a water spirit. The fact that he hasn’t means he’s already pretty sure it’s not. Still, he acts like it’s a legitimate solution, and that in itself makes your blood run hot. 

You’re good at this. The hunting, specifically. The interpreting the lore and understanding what monster it is this time. You are, and more than once you’ve made the three men give each other impressed looks at your words. Look at you, big brain, Dean once said, grinning. Proud. He was proud of you. You don’t think that’s an emotion he feels regarding you anymore.

Just then, your phone buzzes again and without thinking about it, you look down at it. The preview of the message shows. It’s from Dean.

Too bad Rizzoli and Isles are here. I would love to have you on that table, right where you’re sitting. I could go so deep if you’re be…

The screen goes dark again before you finish reading, and you don’t wake it again. You need to swallow, a delicious, almost painful twist somewhere in your lower abdomen. You can see it, almost as if Dean beamed the images from his head into yours.

Shirt pulled up, jeans pulled down, no time for full undressing. Bent over the table, Dean standing behind you, one hand on your hip, one… in your hair, maybe? Your chest on the smooth wooden surface. You’ve never had your cheek pressed to it, but you’re sure you know what it would feel like. And Dean maybe wouldn’t thrust but grind into you, twist himself around in you. It would take a long time for you to get there, but it wouldn’t matter, because Dean would take his time and you could explore that rise of pleasure, how his body makes your body feel exactly. You would explore it together while he’d hold you like a taut string, calling you baby girl and good girl and my girl and who knows what else.

You blink yourself out of your reverie, try to focus on what is happening. Heavens, you feel like you’re running a fever. You look up and just catch Castiel looking at you too. It makes you clench your teeth just as the clenching between your legs lets up. God, why can’t everyone just stop looking at you? Why are you under such constant scrutiny? Your eyes shoot up to Dean, who is looking at Sam who is talking again. Is that what you want? For everyone, including Dean, to stop looking at you?

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks, and Sam stops talking in the middle of a word, looks at Castiel, then, following his gaze, at you. Dean does too and you quickly look away from him, focus on the angel. He cares too, is kind and sweet, but a little less concerned with everyone’s feelings when it comes to staring into your soul with those baby blues.

You almost want to shake yourself. Why are you so dismissive of their care, of their worry for you? It’s something you’ve always loved, something that always made you feel safe, looked after. Why the sudden antagonism?

Because you have a dirty secret, a voice inside your brain offers. And if Sam or Castiel found out, found out what you have done, no, what Dean has done to you, or what you have done to him, with him, they would look at you differently. You clear your throat.

“I just, I have a headache,” you say, then clear your throat again. 

“Maybe you should lie down for a little,” Dean says and you whip your head towards him, eyes wide. A perfectly innocent suggestion. Except of course it’s not.

“Yeah,” Sam says, looking at the laptop screen, then at his watch. “Look, this is pretty inconclusive, so even if it is something for us, we won’t be leaving for a couple of hours. Why don’t you take a nap?” Your shoulders tense, but then you stand up.

“I will,” you say, feeling a little breathless, “thanks, guys.”

With that, you stride out of the room, not looking back. You walk down the hallway to your bedroom, quicker than you need to. Like when you used to need the bathroom in the middle of the night as a child, and even though you were too old to think monsters were real - ironic, now, looking back - you still couldn’t help but hurry on your way back to bed. Just in case something snapped at your heels. Just in case something was about to breathe down your neck.

You’re almost at your door when your phone buzzes again. You shouldn’t look, you know that. It could be anyone, in theory, but you know it’s not. But you still look. Of course you look.

When you get to your room, I want you to touch yourself. Think about me. 

Your palm lands on the door to your room, throwing it open, then throwing it shut behind you. You think about locking it for a moment - but that would be an overreaction, right? That would be mad? That would imply you don’t feel safe living there. Is that what this is? Do you not feel safe?

Walking to the bed, you put your phone on the small night table, then lift up the comforter, slip under it. No thick boots for you to kick off, you leave that to Sam and Dean. You’re a creature of comfort and you refuse to tie up your feet all day long in what is supposed to be your home.

Tugging your legs up, you wrap your arms around your knees. Ignore that you want to stretch out. Ignore that you want to feel the fabric against your skin, running over you. Imagine it’s someone’s fingers. You close your eyes, try to ignore that tight fist inside of you.

Go to sleep, you think. And when you wake up, everything will be fine.

Dean stands there, listening to his little brother blab about the case, throw theories back and forth with Cas, and the only reason he doesn’t rush right after you is because he’s imagining you on that table.

You’re naked, fully naked, bared for him and only him, and you’re on your back, ass at the edge, your ankles somewhere near his ears while he bends you in half as he fucks you deep. You whimper, but you also spur him on. Fuck yes and keep going, harder and oh God, you’re so deep, Dean. And he would. He would do it all.

He can feel himself grow hard in his jeans, shifts a little to hide it. He likes the chase, it’s not that he doesn’t. He loves walking in on you unexpectedly when you’re in the kitchen or the library, loves the look on your face when you’re surprised when you see him. He knows that you think about him then, about that night, about the ways your bodies sang together. Maybe you’re thinking up some new things, too, but whatever it is, you’re thinking about him. That’s really all he cares about.

Because he thinks about you. Every second, every minute, every hour. He goes to bed, freshly emptied, your name on the tip of his tongue as he finishes himself off with quick and rough strokes, and he wakes up achingly hard, already seeing your face before he has even opened his eyes. It’s like he’s a goddamn teenager all over again, except without all the confusion and shame. 

There’s no shame he feels when he sends you a message telling you he wants to fuck you on this table, or when he goes to the washing machine and your laundry is waiting in a nearby basket and he presses a piece of clothing of yours against his face, inhales. No shame when he once had to take care of himself right there when he found a pair of your panties, buried deep in the pile, a dried white smudge right there. No shame when he walks past you, brushes close by on purpose. No shame when he eye fucks you across the room. No shame when he’s sure, so sure, he can smell your arousal in the air every time you’re close. He doesn’t know if he’s imagining it or not, and he doesn’t really care, if he’s being honest.

He raises his phone, checks the message he sent you. You haven’t opened it, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t seen it. Doesn’t mean you don’t know exactly what he wants you to do. 

He latches back onto the ongoing conversation. He’s better at it than you, maybe exactly because of the lack of shame, so he waits until his brother has said something, and then Cas, and then taps his hand against his arm.

“Didn’t we have something like this in storage downstairs?” he asks, making his voice sound curious. Sam raises his eyebrows.

“I don’t know, did we?” he asks. Dean nods.

“I’ll go take a look,” he says and before anyone can ask any further questions, he turns around and walks away, straight to your room.

You try to go to sleep for a whole thirty seconds, but you know immediately it's useless.

Somehow your hand has found its way between your legs, and with the comforter still over you, you can almost pretend whatever is happening there under it has nothing to do with your head peeking out from the covers. Never mind how quickly your fingers have warmed you up. Never mind how you’re slowly rolling your hips. Never mind that it’s Dean’s head you’re imagining moving under the covers.

You just want to come. You just want that tension out of you, let the tiredness of it carry you to sleep. A quick nap, a case. Exactly what you need to focus yourself. And if thinking about Dean working away at you is what gets you there quickest - well, you’re just being practical, right?

Right then you’re imagining Dean unlatching his plump lips from your clit, and kissing his way up your body. Deep, open-mouthed kisses with his breath fanning over you to warm the coolness left behind by his spit. He nips at your throat when he reaches it and you hum at it.

Then he’s over you and both your imagined and your real version drop their legs open. To receive him, to let him in. No barriers, already wet and glistening, and he slides in so easily, yet there’s rapture on his face at feeling you. You make a sound in your throat and when you hear another sound, you freeze.

Eyes flying open, you look. A part of you expects Dean to simply be standing at the foot of your bed, but he has not crossed that line - as far as you know, at least. But he’s not standing there, and you wonder what the sound was. Until you hear it again, and your eyes go to the door.

Someone is standing on the other side of it. You just catch the slight movement, the change in how the light from the hallway outside falls in through the gap at the bottom, the slightest creak, maybe of shoes. It can’t be the floor, since the hallways are tiled, but maybe a leather boot?

He’s standing there, you realize. Dean is standing on the other side of the door. He could come in, right now. He could. See you here, making yourself come to the thought of him. 

But he doesn’t. He just stands there. Unmoving, or almost. The shadow and light interplaying under the door only slightly moving. Is it possible you can see him breathe? No, there’s no way. You must be imagining it. And yet…

For a moment, it leaves you cold and freaked out. For a moment. Then you imagine him there - he was wearing that shirt with the brownish, yellowish pattern, the one that would look grievous on anyone else, but that made his eyes pop. Swampy, you told him only a few weeks ago, making him smile. Swampy in a good way.

The light stubble. The one you now know, intimately, the feel of. Against your cheek, your lips. So many parts of your body. You can almost feel it now, at the top of your breasts, scratching along the skin while he works his way up, or down, or wherever. You don’t really care.

His hands. Compact and strong. Good, honest hands, you always thought. Hands that can squeeze your flesh, the thumb that can press down on your tongue, the fingers that can roam your insides and undo you.

Your own fingers twitch, there, between your legs. Twitch, then move a little, only testing. Oh, who are you kidding?

He’s right there, behind that door, as your fingers explore your wetness, find all the places you know will make you warm. Another sound comes from your throat. The shadow moves.

Is he maybe touching himself? Could it be? Right out there, in the hallway? For anyone to see, anyone to walk by suddenly? Castiel’s eyes would probably burn out of his skull, and Sam’s too, only more violently. But no, you don’t want to think about them.

You want to think about Dean. About his hand, rubbing over the bulge in his jeans. About his breath hitting the door, because he stands so close to it, too eager to hear every single sound you make. How he’s staring at that door handle - should he or shouldn’t he? He wants to, that’s for sure.

You imagine he doesn’t. He needs to stay outside, but he can’t stop himself, because you hear clinking, metal on metal, you’re sure, maybe a belt buckle being opened, maybe a zipper being pulled down. Maybe a skilled hand pushing inside.

He finds himself, just like you found yourself, and he’s so hard. Just from thinking about you, just from hearing a single sound on the other side of the door. How pathetic. How good. How right. You know what he feels like, what his softest skin felt like under your palm, and that’s what you feel now, in the hand rubbing you, like some sort of strange, phantom double sensation.

He can’t wait. He’s too hard, needs you too badly. Still, the first stroke is excruciatingly slow, because it’s the one he imagines sinking into you on. Velvety, wet softness greeting him, you so open and ready for him. He doesn’t even have to put in any work, although he would be happy to. 

He drags his hand up to his balls, pushes against them just a little, imagines it’s you, it’s the natural stop of how deep he can go, even though he wishes he could go deeper. He wishes he could fill up all of you, until he’s coming out of every pore. He wishes he could become the essence of you, crawl under your skin.

Emotion, deep in your throat. Love, need, want - one of them, or all of them. The shadow shifts again but then your eyes fall closed so you can focus on the sounds, focus on the image of Dean on the other side of the door.

He begins stroking, pulling out of you and in. He goes slow, even though it’s hard to control himself now that he’s inside you, but he wants not just to fuck, but to learn. Learn about every single bump and crevice and part of you. Commit it to memory. Not that he needs to. Not that this isn’t just the first time of a million.

Your breathing is chopped as your bodies get used to each other, as he finds that perfect rhythm, the perfect angle. It’s almost like he’s exploring you, like some new exotic continent he’s come to claim and make his, to own and pillage, and when on one stroke, one round of your fingers on your clit, you pivot your body up, throaty sound bursting forth from you, he knows he’s found the way to you.

He focuses on that, tests it again, and it elicits the same reaction from you. There you go, he says, the concentration on his face breaking in favor of a soft and knowing grin. That’s where you need me, isn’t it? 

It is. It’s where you need him, need to have him, exactly like that, how is he doing this? So sudden, so expertly, but now that he knows where, knows how, there’s no stopping him. He pushes that part, over and over, and there it is, that first taste of pleasure, spreading outside from that spot like a tidal wave. Into your lower abdomen, the tops of your thighs. You’re clenching, searching for him, but there’s no point in you taking control, not when he is taking you high so perfectly. 

His hand tightens on your thigh, or maybe it’s your own, it doesn’t matter. He’s adding a twist to the hand stroking him, the inside of his index finger pressing into the sensitive spot under his cockhead. Except it’s your pussy instead, dragging this pleasure from him. He’s fucking you, but the way you look at him, the slightest smile on your face, clenching down on him, allowing him to pleasure you - you’re the one in charge. Or he is. It’s not clear. Maybe it’s too complicated for that.

He picks up his speed, and you moan. His mouth is open, lips parted while he’s breathing hard, and he looks down at where your bodies are meeting. Oh fuck, baby girl, look at you taking me so well. This tight little pussy taking me so well, huh? Maybe you want him to say something else. It’s too pornographic, too on the nose, right? But it feels so good to hear it. How he makes you small small small but you never diminish.

He huffs. Your body is so good and perfect that even though he’s calling the shots, if that's what he's doing, it’s almost too much for him. He’s fucked a thousand women but you, you are the one who’s gonna ruin him. The only one he ever really wanted.

Faster, deeper, there is no upper limit, not in your imagination and certainly not in his, standing behind that door, now breathing through his nose in an attempt to make himself more quiet, but it’s like he’s all you can hear.

Dean, you moan, over and over, his name so often expelled from you that he should grow bored of it, but he doesn’t. Yes, please, oh God, you feel so good. So f-fucking good. 

You’re gonna come. You’re about to, it’s there, it’s behind your eyelids and in your toes and in the backs of your knees. You’re gonna come, so your hands shoot to his ass, push him harder against you, or trying to, while all these uncontrolled sounds leave you, your fingers on your clit so fast it’s dizzying, his hand moving so fast he won’t be able to stop, even if he wanted to. But why would he ever want to?

Yes yes yes you cry out, teeth clamped shut, body shoved back and forth by his hard thrusts and Dean pulls his upper lip up, like an animal about to strike, his balls and pelvis slapping against you, bruising you, but only stimulating you more, his cock thick and filled with blood and so close to bursting. You want me so fucking deep inside of you, huh? Want me everywhere all over inside of you? he pants, but it barely makes sense. How could it, with his brain having turned into a melting reactor core?

He comes first, but only just. Throws his head back while his hips keep working on their own accord, snapping back and forth, painfully hard now, perfectly hard now. But you are right behind him, aah aah, could be pain, could be horror, could be lust. At some point, all three become the same. The muscles on the insides of your thighs twitch hard, out of control and your stomach muscles tense, so perfectly, eyes rolling up. Your hand grabs the pillow under your head, twists it, while the other keeps working away at you until you need to stop, the feeling becoming too much.

Your body goes slack, blissfully, buzzing, perfect, excruciating. It’s done, it’s over, and it’s the deepest relief. You feel like you ate your fill off a table of rich foods after days without a morsel. 

The pull of sleep is so strong behind your eyes, and you almost miss the shuffling sound over your own breathing. You move your head, eyes blinking open, which is hard work, the hardest in the world. There’s the slight tackiness of sweat under your armpits, and other parts of your body. You need to shower before you leave, you remind yourself, or, if there’s no time for a shower, apply some more deodorant. Change your underwear, that unhelpful voice in your head suggests.

The shadow under the door is gone. Only a thin strip of light, one that you can never turn off as the lights in the hallway don’t turn off. One you had to get used to when first sleeping here. A little bit of light is fine, but the fact that it comes in so concentrated, on that spot, made your eyes go to it over and over instead of close for sleep.

But there’s no one standing there. Or not anymore, at least. There was someone there, right? 

You should care. You should worry. But you can’t. You roll to your side, and fall asleep.

Dean stumbles to his room. Jesus, he almost painted your door white. Not entirely untempting, but not the erotic present he wants to leave you, his come dripping down the wood of your entrance. He snorts at the idea, his brain still scrambled from the intense orgasm that, luckily, ended up in his boxers. 

He just has the energy to kick closed the door behind him and pull all of his clothes off himself. He almost stumbles as his jeans end up stuck on one leg where his boot didn’t fly off when he kicked it away. Life long hunter skills and the Mark, but the way his brain leaks out of his dick when he comes thinking of you makes him trip around like an idiot.

He pushes off the urge to fling himself on the bed for just another second, grabs one of the tissues from the box next to his bed, wipes it over himself, grimacing at the expected sensitivity. Distantly he’s aware that he should feel more done, or that he used to after busting it like that. And he is, done, he means, but also, if you were to walk in right now, he’d be hard and fucking you again in a few seconds.

No, not again. He didn’t fuck you. But it felt like it when he heard you, listened to you. He could have sworn he felt you wrapped around him.

He just manages to pull off his shirt and t-shirt, then falls down on the mattress, groans contentedly, eyes already closing. The air of the bunker’s a little nippy on his ass, so he blindly feels around for the blanket, finds it, drags it over himself as best he can without actually, really moving.

He’s snoring before he can form another thought.

There is time for a shower, and it’s good, because it’s what you need to do, to do what you need to do. You need to feel clean. It’s important.

You raise your hand, only hesitating a moment before knocking on Dean’s door.

Shuffling inside, and a moment later he opens the door, handsome face peeking through the widening gap. He looks a little surprised, cheeks sucked in slightly. You love his face like that, curious, boyish, but then you love his face in pretty much any way.

You smile at him. You haven’t smiled at him in so long, too worried it would feel like encouragement, too worried it would open you up to his advances. But you don’t worry about that anymore.

“Hey,” you say, and your voice is clear. “Do you have a minute?” Dean blinks, then nods, opens the door wider.

“Sure, come in,” he says, and you can’t deny the small thrill inside yourself at how surprised he sounds. No trace, right now, of the dark seducer. He’s just Dean. 

You walk in, and he closes the door behind you. You look at the bed, the bed you spent that night in ten days ago. It doesn’t look as scary now.

“Sammy and Cas ready to leave?” Dean asks, and it’s almost like he’s making conversation. You turn around, arms not crossed in front of your chest, no guarded look on your face. You’re open. Because you love this man. 

“Yeah, we can leave in a little bit,” you say, then intertwine your hands before your body. “But that’s not what I came here to talk about.”

It’s Dean who crosses his arms over his chest. He looks interested, now, intrigued, but also you don’t miss the slight flick in his gaze going over your body.

“What did you want to talk about?” he says, just the slightest twist of irony on the word talk, like you’re using it as an excuse. You can’t blame him. But you’re here to be honest, straightforward. 

It’s the one thing you haven’t done. No actual conversation was had over what happened between you two. Only looks and messages and silent need. But Dean’s not himself. He isn’t, no matter how much he likes to spin the whole the Mark only makes you more of yourself idea. He’s not. 

He’s not capable of saying no. He has biblical forces working against him. But you don’t. You’re the adult in this situation, as strange as it may sound. And you need to make a decision. 

“What happened between us,” you say, then press your lips together, almost chuckling at yourself, your own inability to come straight out with it. “Us, having sex? It shouldn’t have happened.”

Dean drops his arms, looks down, one corner of his mouth going up, a little huff escaping him. It makes him look perfectly charming. He looks back up at you, some softness in his gaze accompanying the knowing spark.

“Cause it was wrong? ” he asks. “Bad? Naughty? Immoral?” You can’t help but shake your head a little. Figures he would try to turn this into dirty talk. How would he know he shouldn’t do that if you’ve never told him?

“Because you’re not yourself,” you say, voice gentle. “Because I took advantage of you.”

Dean blinks, then blinks again, his smile slowly vanishing, dropping off his face. It sounded strange to you too, until you thought about it more, really thought about it. But it’s the truth. 

“You might say that the Mark is a means to an end,” you continue before Dean can say anything. “But it has changed you, even you admit that. It might just be removing your inhibitions, but that’s still changing you.” 

Dean still looks dumbfounded. A slight frown is all that’s left on his face. It’s free of expression otherwise.

“It’s like you’ve been magically roofied,” you say, then incline your head. “Or magically viagra’d, maybe more fitting.” You shrug. “The point is, you don't have the capacity to control yourself. Or to say no.”

Dean blinks again, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. It makes him look young. Like he’s in trouble and expects someone to yell at him.

“So what does that mean?” he says finally. You give him a sad smile.

“It means, Dean,” you say, slowly, the words not easy to bring out despite your mind being made up on this. “It means it can’t ever happen again. It means that no matter how much I care for you…”

You stop, feeling awkward for the first time. Now it’s you shifting around.

“No matter how much I might want you,” you continue and Dean inclines his head at that word. “It’s not right. Because you can’t say no. Because whatever… urges you have that made you do this, they aren’t your own. Not really.”

It might be your imagination, but Dean looks sad, you think, maybe a little disappointed. It surprises you and tugs at your heart. So you do something that might be a huge mistake. You step forward and take his hand.

He looks down at it, then up at your face again. You run your thumb over the back of his hand, your gaze briefly flicking to the Mark on his arm. It looks like a scar, like a thick, ugly scar.

“I care about you so much,” you say, and you’re surprised at the emotion in your voice. No, you’re not surprised, actually. Of course it’s there. You look up at Dean. 

“And I think I hurt you,” you continue, swallow. “And that’s worse than anything else in the world.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” Dean speaks up. He’s still looking at your hands holding his, but then he looks at your face too. “You didn’t.” You force a smile onto your face. Of course he would take the blame for himself.

You bring your hands up, and Dean’s with them. You press the knuckle of his thumb against your lips, kiss it. Then you look up again. There’s tears in your eyes.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” you say. “I’m really, really sorry.”

With that, you let go of him. Dean doesn’t stop you when you walk around him, out the door. It’s difficult not to look back.

When you’re halfway down the hall, a single sob leaves you. Your heart hurts so much it threatens to burst out of your chest. But there’s another feeling as well. The feeling that you have done the right thing, even if it is hard. 

You love Dean. You always will. But not like this. Not at this cost. Never at this cost.

Dean stands where you left him, the hand you kissed flexing open and closed over and over. There’s two things happening inside him.

One is the mangled, dried out throat of his old self, his real self, whatever one wants to call it, moving because it’s trying to speak. 

You think you took advantage of him. You of him. It’s seven kinds of fucked up. It’s not the truth, and the fact that you think that, makes Dean want to rip down the walls, smash the furniture. He was a kid who thought every bad thing that happened was his fault. He’s an adult who thinks the same. And you’re not a kid, not anymore, but you think that. About him. It makes him sick. It makes him panic.

A hand goes over the mangled throat, squeezes. It quiets. Dean’s chest rises and falls. His gaze, slowly, wanders up, past the place where you stood only a minute ago and to the door, as if he’s following your path.

This is unacceptable. How can you not see that? How can you not understand that what happened between you two, how he’s been thinking about you, every night, all the time, every goddamn waking fucking moment, is special? You’re not stupid, so how the hell do you not see it?

Is this a trick, he wonders briefly, a trick to get him to storm after you, claim you? It doesn’t seem like something you’d do, but maybe he got it all wrong? Maybe it is?

No, he thinks, no, it’s not. You genuinely believe this. He hoped you would just come to your senses. He’s so tired of waiting on everyone to finally get it, the things he already got a long time ago.

Fine, he thinks, his hand flexing again. He’ll find a different way.

He hears Sam call down the hallway, saying they’re ready to leave.

A small smile builds on Dean’s face. He’ll get you there, he knows he will.

And woe to anyone who stands in his way.