Chill With Chiara🖤

Chiara | 23 | she/her | bi bitch | drawing and writing things | 18+ Currently musing for: Supernatural (I love Misha Collins) 🖤Dwell in brainrot with me, darling🖤

[midnightsync]

This is so Cas🤣🤣

[lustful-lullabies-blog]

Please 💕

[thequietpercussionist]

Yes please

[steaknugget97]

Yup

[dailyinspirationquotes]

[deans-spinster-witch]

Not many of you, but I’ll take quality over quantity any day!

[drulalovescas]

Society if these two could walk like normal people ...

Talk like normal people ...

Stand like normal people ...

Sit like normal people ...

THEY WOULD IF THEY COULD BUT THEY DON'T WANT TO

[pursuitseternal]

#8 Ascended Astarion x Reader 🥵🥵🥵 because I want to just keel over and die, apparently

“I’m going to ruin you”

From my smut asks | Ascended Astarion x reader

Your dress was too tight, but no matter. It’s on the floor at your feet. A pile of silken shreds.

Ruined.

Your face is warm and wet, tears running down your face. Kohl smeared down your cheeks and scarlet lipstick wiped across your chin. But it’s also no matter, the shade of paint matches the drying dribbles of blood from your lips and neck anyway. From where he’s drunk his fill from your body. A perfect match of color, meant just for him.

Or so he says.

A pretty face, now ruined, too.

As for his face… well… that’s buried in your cunt, lapping and sucking at your clit. His fingers stroke you, his nails digging just slightly, just enough into the ridges of your channel to bring you close. Your orgasm is so close you can taste it, like static on your tongue and fire in your veins. “Good pet,” he purrs, his lips lifting slightly as he speaks to catch the lips to your cunt on the tips of his fangs, “how delicious you are… blood like the finest vintage and essence like the sweetest of nectars. Such perfection.” He croons as he flashes his crimson eyes that seem to glow in the dim firelight up at you, his silver hair framed between your quivering thighs. “But such perfection is meant to be owned, to be possessed.”

He bares his fangs at you as he leans towards, eyes drinking in the way you come on his fingers as they catch that innermost secret spot in your cunt. “Perfection never lasts,” he croons as he brings his fingers to his mouth, licking them, sucking your juices with swipe after swipe of his curling tongue. “It is made to be ruined,” he chuckles, clutching your thighs to lift your ass. One thrust and he’s speared you on his cock. The pulsing, throbbing hardness rams against your cervix as you scream. The downy mattress bends under your combined weight. His skin is lustrous like pearl and rippling with corded muscle, the body of a warrior, last testament to the selfless hero of Baldur’s Gate he once was. Now, the Ascendant feasts on your blood and cunt, eyes glowing with intense satisfaction as he watches you unravel more and more with every second you spend under him.

“You are perfect,” he just purrs again and nips at your lower lip, his voice a melody over the rhythm of his snapping hips, “and I’m going to ruin you.”

[thefriendlypigeon]

Titled "First Hug (In Heaven)". I just wanted happy middle-aged men hugging it out 🥲🥲

Prints available here!

👉COMMISSIONS ARE OPEN👈

[my social media links]

[duothelingo]

Top tip from duo: if someone keeps misgendering you, moan ever time. Soon, they’ll be so uncomfortable they’ll swap to the correct pronoun.

Or they’ll leave and that’s arguably better.

[astarionmylife]

go duo 😭

[vavoom-sorted-art]

Happy Pride!

I promised a big pride artwork earlier this month, here it is! (Ideas lovingly submitted by my dear Patreons!)

[zerozerozio]

bring back tumblr ask culture let me. bother you with questions and statements

[boimann]

reblog to let people know it's ok to bother you with questions and statements

[bacony-cakes]

please bother me with questions and statements

[mariswxts-deactivated20250420]

amoralism | four

Summary: You and Dean Winchester are the top agents from Major Crimes. You’re also assigned as partners on the same case- a crime syndicate is running loose and buying out most of downtown New York. He hates you cause you hate him. You hate him cause you think he got in his position with his daddy’s influence. But this case is personal to one of you more than the other- and you may be getting too personal for comfort.

TW: So much sexual tension it’s illegal, Agent Dean Winchester (yes, he’s a warning in itself), mention of murder, Knights of Hell but they’re just murderous humans, fantasising, a mole in the FBI, thigh riding, Sam being the best friend everyone needed but no one asked for, failed professionalism, description of gore, torture and body desecration, inaccurate description of the FBI but we do it for the plot, Bela Talbot (she’s also a warning, yes), fantasies of seduction

Song Inspo: Liar by Camila Cabello

SERIES MASTERLIST

archaism

A knock on your door had you looking up from your desk, from the notes you were taking on the video found on the necklace’s hard drive. The only face you could see on that necklace was Abaddon’s, which did give you the warrant to put her in the Florence Supermax, which honestly didn’t feel like enough when your own body felt like it was being slashed and burned and disembowelled in tandem with this poor investment banker.

Didn’t help that she took a hatchet to the body even after the life left him.

“Come in.” You sighed, rubbing your eyes. And in came… “Ah.” Yet another tired rub of your forehead. “Trainee Agents Tran and Harvelle. Come in.” You gestured for them to enter, wishing you were also a trainee agent.

It was so much more simple back in those days. Just getting coffee for the superiors. Just some damn coffee. Not being caught in a web of sexual tension, organised crime and some really nasty crap.

“How can I help you?” You asked, feigning genuine interest when you actually wanted to hurl from the videos you’d been watching.

“We wanted to get an update on the Knights of Hell case.” Tran got out, fiddling with his fingers. Suck ups, great. “For, uh, Agent Nick Garrison.” You rolled your eyes.

Nick.

He’d come off fresh from the murder of his wife and baby, and it was bloody. He’d been trying to take cases, but Director Singer kept on insisting he take the desk job.

“Did he tell you he was working the case?” You clasped your hands in front of you, and you cut them off before they could start stammering. “No, I can’t give any information if you’re not working the case. It’s classified information, and Director Singer’s made that clear. I don’t wanna have to report to HR about breaching jurisdiction.”

“No, ma’am.” Harvelle bowed her head, then realised she wasn’t bowing to a queen and grabbed Tran’s hand, dragging him out. You groaned, closing your eyes and rubbing your forehead.

“That’s it. Take what you need.” Dean muttered, your back against his chest, legs spread and held in place by one hand gripping your thigh. Your head fell back against his shoulder, a myriad of sounds leaving your parted lips and slack jaw from his three fingers pumping in and out of your pussy. Stretching you. Breaking you. Wrecking you. Making you rock your hips in tandem with his movements and getting much needed friction on your clit from the rough palm of his hand. “Workin’ so hard, baby. I’m gonna release all your stress. Leave you so relaxed.”

God, you had half a mind to start touching yourself in the office to take the edge off. Right under your desk.

You’d do it. Damn the code of conduct.

“I need a change of panties.” You muttered, done with... “Everything else in my life, while I’m at it.”

“Five minutes, sweetheart. To take the edge off.”

Damn you for being an ass kisser. You could have taken the edge off with Dean Winchester.

Instead you’re here. At a desk. Watching someone be tortured to death and their corpse disembowelled.

”You were left alone? With a shirtless Dean Winchester?” Andréa gasped, sipping a tall glass of wine, her lips stained red from it. “Details. Now.”

You swallowed, clearing your throat. “Dré, I don’t think there’s anything to tell-”

“Yes. There is.” She raised her eyebrows pointedly at you. “Either he railed you nasty, or you pulled the usual professionalism card but you still banged and now you’re fearful for your job.”

“I’m still fearful for my job, railing or not.” You scoffed lightly, taking a long sip of your own wine and holding your glass out for another. “Sorry to disappoint, Dré, but… no. Nothing happened.”

“WHAT?!” Andréa slammed down her wine glass. Eyes wide, auburn hair only slightly out of place. Jesus, she’s shook.

“I know!” You raised your hands in surrender, wine slopping onto the floor. You carefully put it aside; you might be getting a little tipsy with how much you drank trying to recover from the memory. “Look, it happened like I told you; Dean pulled me in, told me to keep my eyes on him… and then his phone rang. His dad called him, and he took the call.”

“I want to bust John Winchester’s balls.” She muttered.

“Classy.”

“Do you think I care about class? I care about whether or not you can walk straight, and right now you should be wobbling from side to side, honey.” She took a very pointed sip of wine.

You sighed with a roll of your eyes, however affectionate it was. “That’s a very interesting notion.”

“It’s Dean Winchester!”

“I’m painfully aware that it is.”

You walked into Dean’s office to find him nursing a bloody temple with a sterilising cloth, which had you raising an eyebrow. You didn’t peg Dean for the working hard type, more like the hardly working. Unless you counted when he was in bed with a woman. Still hot.

And both of your minds switching back to the night where Dean had you in his arms, his whiskey-tainted breath fanning over your lips. Fingers that were tapping the desk were previously curled around your chin, gravelly voice telling- ordering you to keep your eyes on him and by God, you’d say yes sir if he hadn’t taken your ability to speak words with those piercing green eyes. And he wasn’t even your superior.

“Well, don’t you look super.” You drawled sarcastically, throwing down a file on his desk. Eyes moving down to the hands which had held you in place. Fingers that had gripped your chin in a way that almost made your knees buckle and hands fly to undo the drawstring of his sweatpants.

“Knock knock - come in - and yeah, I do look handsome.” Dean responded dryly, but gave you a smirk/grin, a click of his tongue and a wink that had no right giving you that large of a needy jolt through your cunt, soaking your panties instantly. Again.

You cursed yourself for being an ass kisser. Again. When there was a perfectly good cock there that you could be riding.

“I was trying to figure out information on the Abaddon case, see if we could get some of her buddies’ names.” Dean shrugged, swiping his bottom lip with his thumb. “Came out with nada and a cheap shot to the head.”

You cleared your throat, willing yourself to stop feeling so desperate. You were better than this. No you weren’t, but you weren’t gonna admit that aloud. “Director Singer wanted us to check this out. Probably after your failed, sorry ass attempt to find answers.” You watched him open the file, turning the page with a lick of his finger. Had it been anyone else, you would have internally cringed.

But no, it’s Dean Winchester. You wanted to be his index finger.

“Since we’re doing this off books, we have to arrange off book methods.” You rubbed your neck. “Bela Talbot, she’s a freelancer. Occasionally thieves - at least, that’s theory because we’ve never been able to prove it. But Director Singer’s booked us a five star room and an appointment so we can find out what she knows, how she knows it and follow that lead.”

“You’re more snappy than usual, sweetheart.” Dean smirked, mossy eyes trailing- no, roving down- not even that; he was undressing you with his eyes.

And he didn’t miss the way your jaw ticked.

Sign number one.

How your eyes darted from him to the files to the random objects like you wanted to throw something.

Sign number two.

How you occasionally prodded your cheek with your tongue as if you had a Spanish insult that would definitely condemn someone’s mother to hell on the tip of it.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, was sign number three.

Dean Winchester had more than a GED and a give ‘em hell attitude. He had a college degree in criminology, a while spent in the academy and a penchant for figuring out when- “You’re stressed.” He muttered smoothly, and he had an inkling of why. He took hold of your wrist, and next thing you knew, you were pulled to his lap, straddling his thigh. Your heeled feet on either side. And clothed pussy right on powerful muscle.

Oh, boy.

“We haven’t talked about it.” Dean muttered, his eyes tracing your face (and dipping to check your blouse’s neckline, and it did not disappoint), calculating his next move, his hand splayed out on your lower back. “I know you better than you think. And you… are thinking about it.”

“I’m n-not.” You responded quickly and rather pathetically, especially as your words were negated by a whimper as his hand on your lower back slid down, down, down, cupping your ass, squeezing just right and using the purchase to pull you so your chest was flush against his. His nose bumping yours. The scent of a breath mint on your lips instead of whiskey.

Gee, the déjà vu was potent. When could you have possibly been in this situation before, hm? Totally not a few days ago. And five years before that.

“So, you don’t wanna talk about it.” He chuckled, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he looked you over- nope, banging you with his eyes this time. You could see it. He had you bent over the desk, railing the living daylights out of you with a hand over your mouth. “Let’s do about it.”

You swallowed, not protesting even as his fingers tangled in your hair. “That-That’s grammatically incorrect-”

His lips - god, his pillowy, sinful, criminal lips - crashed down onto yours, brow furrowed in concentration as the common sense went out of you.

Dean definitely had eaten a breath mint, and you could taste the coffee remnants on him. A kiss that was no less than filthy, needy and wanting. Smacking of lips on lips at a high frequency and temperature shooting far above the boiling point. Your hand threading in his hair. Other hand fisting the back of his shirt. His cologne your personally crafted aphrodisiac.

Dean was too far gone to care that anyone could walk in. His hand was gripping the soft strands of your hair in between his fingers, guiding your head how he liked it. Relishing your tinted, strawberry flavoured lip balm and how it flooded his tongue. Your perfume sending his hormones skyrocketing and making him zero in on you. Only you, always you. He’d missed out on his treasure all these goddamned five years.

Dean’s tongue licked at the seam of your swollen lips, demanding entrance, which you fought back and denied from him. Good that he’s skilled in getting what he wanted, because it didn’t take long to get you to allow him that access.

His hand came down in a sharp smack on your ass, which had a gasp falling from your lips which he caught with his own. Keeping both parted as his tongue tasted the jam and toast on yours, coaxing it into his mouth so he could suck on it and cloud your mind more than it already was fogged up.

“That’s it, open up for me.” Dean groaned into your mouth, pulling your kiss-swollen lips more apart with his thumb on your bottom lip. You felt his hand leave your ass, air hitting your previously skirt covered thighs and something sliding down your legs but you didn’t care when Dean was robbing you of professionalism.

Doing a thing with his tongue and teeth that had you throbbing and needy for him. Yeah, the Code of Conduct can go to hell.

His hand found home on your ass again, and just experimentally dragged you down and forward, drawn out and hard on the taut, deliciously clad muscle of his thigh.

Clit. Friction. Uh- pussy. Dripping.

Mind. Blown.

You had to actively pull him to you, lips more in a collision than a kiss to muffle the drawn out moan that came from your lips and those that spilled after while he simply hummed, grinding you on his thigh again and again until you were kissing him silly as well as rutting on his thigh like a desperate, horny teenager.

Not that either of you minded.

“Look so pretty, ridin’ my thigh.” Dean chuckled between hungry, heavenly kisses, now taking handfuls of your tit from shoving his hand (in a hot way) down the neckline of your blouse and rubbing your nipple over your bra with precise circles designed to make you go mad all while groping the flesh. “Makes a guy wonder how you’ll ride his co-o-oh, Jesus Christ, baby.”

For context, in retaliation, you’d started palming him over his slacks, grinding the heel of your palm in a way that had him rolling his hips forward so his cock could meet your hand for the first time ever through two thin barriers.

The slow movement of your hand and your hips that were dragging over his slacks a personified oxymoron of the way your lips would devour Dean’s and vice versa over and over again.

Every movement of yours synced to the way he’d toy with your tits and his hand would knead your ass under skilled goddamn fingers.

Swallowing every moan like second nature.

He definitely had some kind of qualification in the female body.

“Woah.” And both of you pulling away to see Sam at the door. Which incited pure chaos.

You jumping up. Fixing your skirt, your hair (your kiss-swollen lips were a gone case) as Dean manoeuvred his leg so you couldn’t see the obvious wet patch on his slacks.

Wet patches, if you count the pre-come stain that leaked through.

Ah, well, at least he’d pocketed your soaked panties. For… research purposes.

“Nothing’s happened.” Dean shrugged, trying to signal to Sam as if to say no, he did not want the news of him making out with his case co-head in his office, in FBI headquarters in DC.

Your mind was in a tizzy, especially as you hurried off before you could shake hands with embarrassment.

“I don’t know whether to say ‘finally’, ‘what the hell’ or bleach my eyes out.” Sam said to Dean with a light chuckle, folding his arms.

“How about you shut your mouth?” He scoffed back.

“I can’t just unsee that-”

“You were told to shut your mouth, not your eyes.” Dean grinned as if nothing was wrong, because nothing was wrong. That could just be one of his fantasies.

You were thinking the same thing. It could just be a vivid daydream. Or even a dream that you’ll wake up from at any moment.

But then Dean saw the wet patch on his slacks again. The soaked panties that he’d stolen off you and you’d let him. His lips were swollen and still buzzing from the heated sensations, ego on an all time high from how many moans he’d ripped from you even though he’d done so little. If this is what he’d waited for all this time - for five years - the wait was damn worth it.

You could still feel Dean’s hands groping at you as if he had a degree in your body. His harsh breath against yours. Lips bruising as they met over and over again— his thigh pressed between yours.

Your thighs rubbed together and- god damn, he’d stolen your panties. You weren’t even mad at him for it.

You were reeling from the - ahem - make out session display of professionalism. And Dean wasn’t making it any degree better.

“So, we’re not gonna talk about it?” He scoffed, folding his arms and quirking an eyebrow. “Five years, the time we actually break the Code of Conduct and we’re not gonna say a word of what went down?”

You gestured to him. “My point. We broke the Code of Conduct. Hell, we torched it!”

“It was just making out.”

“In your office.”

“Look,” Dean chuckled and ran his hand through his hair, “it ain’t my fault that your gorgeous ass is attracted to me. And it ain’t your fault that my handsome ass… is attracted to you. It’s a sexual thing.”

“It’s a sexual thing.” You repeated quietly, which didn’t help things, but hey- it’s the best he can do. “You have no regard for your job’s integrity.”

“You’re so uptight all the time.”

“And it’s better to be really damn loose?” Dean Winchester made your pussy drip leg bounce on the ball of your foot. It was a nervous tick. Or an angry tick. But you knew that you wanted to curse his bloodline in Spanish.

He could only offer you a scoff. “You know, this tough girl act is really unbecoming.”

“This tough boy act doesn’t cut you any favours.”

“Some may say it’s sexy.” A brunette slid into the seat next to him. Hair pulled up into a ponytail and threaded through a baseball cap that was pulled low over her brow- no doubt for disguise. Poorly orchestrated disguise, and Director Singer said she was a professional. Smug smile and manicured nails painted an eyebrow raising shade of rouge while she smelled strongly of Chanel.

Extending said manicured hand daintily towards Dean. “Bela Talbot.” She purred, playing up a sultry smile. “I’m your freelancer.”

“That Dolce or is it just me?” Dean shot back with a raise of his eyebrow. How did he know? He knew the notes of that perfume collection cause you’d worn it when you… made out with him and rode his thigh. Ahem.

“I’m a freelancer, but I’m not a savage. I indulge.” Bela replied before turning back to you and sliding a paper. “Knights of Hell. Hard bunch to track down, but I can tell you who they are and what they do. They’re like mercenaries. A secret service for an underground mafia ring. If you want a bloody death, the big boss will ring them up and then it’s bye-bye within a few hours. They play it like a game too. Whoever’s skill set meets the quota, that’s who they send out.”

“Abaddon.” You frowned, clasping your hands on the table. “Why was she sent out to that bank?”

“She plays with her food before she eats it.” Bela sighed, shaking her head. “Invades the mind of her enemy. If you don’t catch on quick enough, she doesn’t sing your tune, you sing hers. Like she’s Bach and you’re just his orchestra.”

“That’s colourful.” Dean muttered, sipping his coffee. “Who is this guy we’re about to talk to, by the way?” He was watching Bela carefully for any signs of deception.

Any at all and he had cuffs attached to his belt.

“His codename’s Cain.” Bela checked her nails with a pout. “But he was previously known as William Abernathy. He was the first Knight of Hell. For initiation he was made to kill his brother Cole Abernathy and had been trying to exit the gang since. Only got out a few months ago.”

‘Cain’ himself was a grumpy-ass man who seemed to lounge with bottles of beer on the best days and hard vodka on the worst. He had pictures of who seemed to be Neil, his brother, and another woman. Young. Beautiful, with an innocent smile on her face.

You wondered if she had known what William had done.

You watched Cain sit down with a gruff grunt, and

“Being a Knight of Hell makes you bitter.” He swept a thumb over his bottom lip, scoffing and shaking his head slowly. “You do horrible things. To innocent people, too. Most of us enjoyed it. I didn’t. That’s why I ran.”

You rubbed your cheek, sharing a look with Dean, who looked both incredibly concerned and curious. Not only was this syndicate dangerous, they took inspiration off Bible lore, which was how they contracted their code names.

“And your code name was Cain?” You asked, gesturing to him with a raise of your eyebrow. “As in… Cain and Abel? And your real name is William Abernathy?”

“Abel was my brother’s supposed ‘codename’.” William, previously ‘Cain’, deadpanned, sipping some bourbon with a blank expression. “Gave it after his death. Thought it was funny. They thought the same for my beautiful Collette too.”

“Collette?” Dean pointed to a photo, of a smiling woman in Cain’s arms. In a wedding dress, looking as if all the problems were gone. “This her?”

“That’s her.” Cain nodded, his voice wavering a bit. “She looked every bit as beautiful on our wedding day even when she died. Bloody, but so beautiful. She still smiled even then.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Abernathy.” You gave him a look of sympathy, taking a deep breath. “For your loss. Could you give us the names of the other Knights?”

Cain nodded. “I’ll do it. I’ve give you them all.”

“You run the risk of being hunted down.” Dean added quickly. “We can place you under witness protection.”

“Witness protection can’t do crap.” Cain scoffed, a cynical bark of laughter leaving him. “It'll end how it always does. A blaze of glory and no survivors."

You could easily see the truth. You saw it in his body language; he wasn't defeated, he was tired. Tired of fighting rather than losing. Cain was a shell. Empty.

"You want them to find you." You murmured, running a hand through your hair in partial disbelief. "You want to die."

Cain nodded, pointing a gnarled finger at you with a nod, writing a list of names down on a sheet of paper before handing them to you. "You're good, Agent." He sniffed, averting his eyes, which welled up. "First they took Neil. Then my darling Collette. That Hell took everything from me. Might as well let them finish the job."

"No, hold on." Dean stepped in with a wave of his hand. "We have to take you into witness protection, to testify."

A violent shaking of your head put him off and made him worry that you were having an aneurism. "We can't. Code of Conduct, Article 53, Section A, Subsection Alpha, line 5, written in '79 after the assassination of Jakob Brierkevald on his transportation to unwillingly testify against Russia. Unless given autonomous permission, law enforcement and/or federal authorities do not have the jurisdiction to detain the subject to testify in court, which directly relates to the Treaty for Human rights... even if it concerns national safety."

Dean stared at you as if you'd grown three heads. "Did you swallow the textbook?!"

"You didn't?"

“A spot of advice.” Cain spoke up gruffly, looking between the two of you. “Have angry sex. That could solve everything.”

“No!” You threw your hands up, then turned to Dean. “He basically signed a DNR for himself by saying that. We can’t do anything.”

“Isn’t there some kind of overrule clause?” Dean asked, folding his arms. “Rack that pretty head.”

“Not that I know of.” You shrugged. “It could be in some weird ass phrasing but if the subject decides, that’s final.”

“Son of a-”

“We’re federal agents, keep it together!”

“Hey, Bela.” You sighed, pacing slowly as you talked. “Thanks for the tip. We got a lot more to go off now, and turns out you weren’t as slimy as the FBI warned us you were.”

“Charming.” Bela quipped, hands in her jacket pocket with a smile, then she chuckled. “Happy to help. The Knights of Hell should be taken down a peg or two. Who better than the Fed’s finest agents?” Her eyes travelled to Dean tap dancing for fun a little way away, then back to you in amusement. “Or finest.”

“Yeah, he’s not the most professional one out there.” You chuckled, shaking your head.

"I didn't catch the traditionalist aspect from him." She shook her head, then caught how you were looking at Dean.

That was the most potent and obvious eye bang she'd ever seen.

"No, he's- ay, dios mío." The reason for your speech cutting off was Dean's succumbing to the heat and pouring a whole damn water bottle's contents over his face, making his shirt cling to his chest and wavering your focus.

One word. Muscle.

"Word of advice." Bela whispered in your ear. "You two really should have angry sex."

NEXT UP:

“Mom.” You painfully kept your voice level. Not wanting to raise your voice at your own mother, because even if she was a nasty piece of work - in your eyes - she still carried you for nine months. “This is unreasonable.”

Understatement of the Year award goes to you. Hopefully, also the Daughter and Sister of the Year awards too.

“What I do in my household is none of your business, niña!” Eleanor snapped back, her fingers too for emphasis. You felt familiar anger bubbling, but you told it not today.

You scoffed at the notion, though, rubbing Cassie’s shoulder. “You’re practically starving her!” Still shoving down unadulterated fury. “And pressuring her to have kids. Hell, I haven’t. I’m not even married.”

“You should be!” She responded quickly. Does this lady not get the point? “You should be married, bringing honour to your family.”

“You’re delusional.”

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If they think ‘hey, people actually like what I’ve written and are writing small paragraphs/quoting my story and writing lengthy paragraphs on how they feel’ then they’re more likely to put more fics and chapters out for you.

I’d really appreciate it if y’all do that and the same goes for any other writer on here. Reblogs are worth a lot more than likes on here!

Anyone who does reblog/send me an ask with your thoughts, I can give you a shout out and/or a surprise profile pic design!

[transfagrified-in-the-void]

Here is a free pdf of the players handbook

Here is a free pdf of xanathars guide to everything

Here is a free pdf to monsters manual

Here is a free pdf to tashas cauldron of everything

Here is a free pdf to dungeon master’s guide

Here is a free pdf to volo’s guide to monsters

Here is a free pdf of mordenkainen’s tomb of foes

For all your dnd purposes

[gumi-megpoidd]

Here's a site that has literally every official (and most UA) dnd stuff

including the books and campaigns

and you can add homebrew

[transfagrified-in-the-void]

Hey rb this!!!

[cuntiel]

[scottishmushroom]

[thenotoriousscuttlecliff]

David Tennant, former Doctor, sauntering demon, protector of trans kids, and all round good guy, attacked proud bigot and "Equalities" minister Kemi Badenoch for being a proud bigot and now Rishi Sunak is going after Tennant saying he is the problem.

The Tories are so fucking toast on election day.

[tsrmarina]

Tried a little more cinematic lighting and composition ✍️

[mariswxts-deactivated20250420]

hyperthermia

Summary: Based on a request by @yinorathedragontamer. You needed a break from hunting, so you didn’t go on the latest one, but found you needed something to occupy your time. Just your luck that the Winchesters happened to return home when you were washing Baby, and you caught the eye of a certain someone.

A/N - Banners in use by @cafekitsune, first entry for Jensen-A-Thon!

TW: Set in S9 (so hot, scruffy Dean guys), and blatant checking out/fantasising

Want to request something? Drop a message in my ask box!

Want to join my Dean Winchester (or any other Jensen character) taglist? Go to my main master list and find the Forms link!

Dean and Sam ambled back into the bunker, duffel bags carried by their taut arms like they’d done a million times before, so what should be a bag of bricks was a feather. Dean swept his hand over his mouth while Sam’s went through his hair, both ready to crash from the wear and tear of the hunt.

“I swear, m’ready to goddamn pass out.” Dean chuckled, nails scratching over the scruff that had grown on his cheek. He’d been hit a few times - not enough to cause bruises and whatnot - hard enough to cause fatigue once the adrenaline of the fight was used and faded.

Sam could only grunt in agreement, trying to rub the effects of a long drive from Oregon out of his eyes, paired it’s the disgruntlement of having to listen to rock tracks in the car. “You and me both. But hey, we should at least visit-”

“Roger that.” Dean cut Sam off before he could finish, in search of you. You were always a sight for sore eyes after a hunt, no matter what you were dressed in or if you were covered in blood; he enjoyed the vision that you were. More than he cared to admit.

He checked your bedroom, but he only found an unusually neat bed and a clean room, which was a rare occurrence for you and had him thinking that you were kidnapped, which prompted him to take out his gun.

You never did up your bed.

He crept through the hall, hoping to the good God that his boots didn’t squeak, but then familiar humming of ‘Stairway to Heaven’ caught the attention of his ears, originating from the garage. Followed by his arrival there, where he spotted you. And it wasn’t only just the sight of you that had him standing up straight.

You, in nothing but a soaked through plaid shirt tucked into some tight denim shorts, the sleeves of the plaid rolled up to your elbows and drawing his attention to your pretty hands. Hair damp and falling just right and had him biting his lip and fighting off the urge to ruin your friendship entirely. Droplets of water running down your neck, that damn sexy curve of your slightly bent legs and trailing beneath the v-shaped neckline that the collar of your shirt made that he was starting to think was made on purpose to make him go insane.

The image was too damn sinful. And he was suddenly not so tired and ‘ready to goddamn pass out’, more like licking his lips and biting the bottom one as he folded his arms over his chest. Eyes trained on you. Yeah, not so tuckered out anymore and ready to catch the full nine.

His bed can go to hell, he wanted you pinned against the bonnet of his Baby, legs spread wide so he could fit in between and show you how much he appreciated the job well-goddamn-done. Did he mention you were washing Baby? Probably not, he was too distracted with the way your hips were swaying as you stepped to cover another part of his beloved Impala with soap suds that then trickled down your own body and made your attire that much more see through and you that much more delicious.

Holy Jesus of Nazareth, you were giving his self control a run for its money. And his self control was likely to lose the money and go bankrupt if he wasn’t distracted pronto.

Wait- but why was he objectifying you? You were doing him a solid by cleaning the other girl of his dreams, why the hell would he think about your legs like that? And your body clearly outlined by the wet, clingy material of your shirt that he was starting to feel jealous of because he wanted to be that close to you.

No. Bad Dean.

He licked his lips again, his hips shifting slightly as he fought a clearing of his throat in case it’d alert you of his presence. His mossy eyes trained so precisely on you, it’d probably let you know he was there anyway, heat radiating from his gaze.

He didn’t want to think about the curve of that pretty neck. Or the way it’d feel under his lips.

Neither did he want to think about those delicate hands - that he knew were tough as hell - holding the sponge that was lathering up his Baby. Or the way they’d feel working his - nope, too far.

Definitely not the way the shirt looked like it now had to be peeled off your skin to reveal the treasure underneath, because god-holy-damn he had managed to catch a glimpse of black lace underneath that plaid. He’d happily unwrap you like a frickin’ present and it wasn’t even Christmas for about six months.

“Damn, pretty girl.” He muttered, running a hand through his hair that was begging to let his feet walk over, grab your hip and pull you into him so he could lick up your neck to collect all the water droplets running down them. What he wouldn’t give to just pop the button on those shorts, get to his knees and work you until his tongue ached.

Right there. Right-frickin’-there. Against his Baby-

“Pretty girl? That’s what we’re calling her now?” Sam muttered into his ear with a snort, not loud enough for you to hear as you bent over Baby’s bonnet in just the right way to have Dean’s eyes sliding down to that gorgeous ass framed in those shorts that should damn well be illegal.

Dean was snapped partially out of his thoughts, left embarrassed and disgruntled and somewhat still ogling that God-blessed ass before he followed Sam through the halls, the latter of which was sporting a smug smirk. “H-Hey, I was just-”

Sam raised his hands in surrender with a small laugh, looking back to Dean knowingly. “Hey, if you wanna check out her ass, do it at your own risk.”

“I wasn’t checking out her…” Dean got an image of it again and smirked slightly, jerking his head to the side, “yeah, maybe I was, so what? Can you blame me? That thing’s-”

Sam held up a finger, shivering in borderline discomfort as his mind filled the blank. “I’m gonna TMI you before you say it.”

“I’m just sayin’, I’m a man. I have needs, where a female who’s a badass hunter and also happens to be gorgeous and also happens to live with us is concerned. And it’s worse when she’s handlin’ my Baby.” He gave Sam a sheepish grin, but the younger Winchester only shook his head in mock disapproval, grabbing the duffel with his pyjamas.

“I’m going to bed.”

“You do that.” Dean grabbed his own duffel, heading to his room which, to his luck, passed the garage and you working on the car. You managed to lock eyes with him, and you gave him a cheery wave. He returned it, and as you turned, his eyes slid down to the curve of your ass again, eyebrows pumping once as a smirk stretched his pouty lips.

“I’ll see you in my dreams, sweetheart.” He muttered before he disappeared off to his bedroom to live his fantasy.

Meanwhile, you dried your face and neck off with a chuckle, going back to your room to change into some get into some drier and more comfortable clothing with a smug smirk on your face.

You’d noticed Dean through Baby’s newly cleaned mirror that you could probably sing ‘Reflection’ from Mulan in. His eyes taking you in and licking his lips like you were the latest snack he wanted to devour. His hands itching to touch you, his mind going blank when you pushed out your ass on purpose in order to catch his attention.

That was just phase one of your multi-step plan to strip Dean Winchester of his self control where you were concerned.

“Mission accomplished.” You muttered under your breath with a giggle.

I’d really appreciate feedback, loves! Have a great day!

TAGLIST: @k-slla @hobby27

[satinique-deactivated20250228]

Blood in the Wine

sequel to blood in the liquor

warnings - established relationship, soft, angst, stripper astarion, blood, vampire, wholesome, soft , fem reader, sexual harassment

You and Astarion had kept contact from your little rendezvous, he going so far as to break up with his Boyfriend to be with you.

The idea of having a man like Astarion as your Boyfriend shocked you still as you realised you would have to introduce him to your parents eventually, they would definitely ask for his occupation, you were never ashamed of Astarion but you were sure your parents would disapprove of your relationship with the eccentric male.

Arriving at the club, you thanked the taxi driver and walked in, your ID didn't need to be checked as you were rushed in by security guards, already knowing you to be Astarion's devoted Girlfriend.

Instantly you were met by the workers, and customers each of them going about their lives, making a living, offering services.

You weren't as intimidated by them now that you got used to the club, although the offers you and Astarion would have to engage in gangbangs or threesomes were inevitable.

Greeting the other strippers you make your way to Astarion's private dressing room, you are let in without a single world, Astarion himself had made it quite clear that you were to be accepted in anywhere in the whole building.

Sitting on his sofa, you whip out your phone and text your friends, informing them that you had plans with your Boyfriend, Karlach and Shadowheart had also made it official, the night they both bailed on you when they admitted their feelings to one another.

Making yourself comfortable you poured yourself some water from Astarion's fridge in his room.

Sitting back down on the sofa you heard the door open to reveal a tired looking Astarion, "Sweetheart?" He asked, he looked so tired, there were dark circles underneath his usual bright eyes, and he wore a skirt that looked like it'd been ripped.

Standing up, you lean forward capturing his waist in a hug, "Oh what happened to you?!" Keeping your voice low, you cradle his face, your hands soft and gentle, "A few rowdy customers, security kicked them out."

Astarion sighed softly as he leaned into your embrace, his head resting on your cleavage.

Slowly you beckoned him to the sofa so you could run your fingers through his soft hair, "I'm glad you didn't get hurt.. but they ruined your favourite skirt." You frown as you press a kiss to his forehead.

"I know, I was really annoyed." Astarion replied, he held you in his arms as his hair tickled your nose, "Do you want anything..?" You whisper, looking at your Boyfriend lovingly, "Just stay with me please.."

Nodding you smile and kiss his head, "Of course, I'll be here whenever you need." Sitting back down, you glance at his appearance, "Baby? Do you want me to run you a bath?"

Astarion paused as he looks at you, "Yes please, that'd be nice.." the silver haired male strips out of his clothes and chucks the remains of the skirt in the bin.

You place his high heels over on the other side of the room, "Do you want me to join you sweetheart?" Looking at him you reach forward, touching his face.

"Yes.. please.." Astarion nodded and walked with you into his bathroom, it was fairly small but had a extremely large bath that had different kinds of soaps and scents.

Nodding silently, you strip off your dress and begin to run the bath, you look at him every now and again, his eyes seem to be far away.

Eventually, the bath is right for the both of you to get in.

Cautiously, Astarion climbs in, the bath wide enough for the two of you to fit side by side.

Wordlessly, you begin to wash his hair being soft with him, he allows you to touch him as he plays with the bubbles in the bath.