I'm freaking hungry @katherinepetrovawife - Tumblr Blog

I Don’t Hate You

Pairing: JJ Maybank x Cameron! reader,

You were a kook and Sarah’s sister. But you were never the one for the whole kook lifestyle. It was tiring, all the dress ups to impress people and the parties were boring. You often were jealous of the pogues for their freedom. no one cared what they did. You always thought they were fun to hangout with, but many of them didn’t like you because you were a kook.

You used to be friends with Kiara but after your sister's whole drama with her you didn’t even get to see her. You knew about her pogue friends. You were envious of their friendship. You have always wanted friends like that.

#jj maybank angst #jj maybank imagine #jj maybank #jj obx #outer banks #obx season 2 #rafe cameron imagine #sarah cameron

angelicstarkey

enjoy your stay - chapter III

rafe cameron x reader

summary: after finding out that your fiancé had cheated on you with his childhood best friend—who just so happened to be Rafe's fiancée— Rafe proposes a reckless plan: follow them across Italy and Greece and ruin the dream honeymoon they stole. but somewhere between petty sabotage, breathtaking views, and far too much time together, the two of you begin to discover there's more waiting for you than revenge.

content warning: strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, forced proximity, one bed, sexual tension, explicit sexual content, mentions of death (for this chapter only!) 18+ MDNI

w/c: 9.4K

a/n: another long chapter, sue me (so sorry!!) i just need you all to read this with through a romcom lens — trust me, it'll help

series masterlist

Sleep hadn’t come easy to Rafe in the past two months; if anything, it’d been the last thing he’d gotten. There were a few things he could think of why it might’ve been the case; perhaps it’d been the silence that filled Tannyhill now that Charlotte was gone, or maybe it’d been how his bed had suddenly felt far too big for just one person, a subtle reminder that every empty inch served as a reminder that someone else had once occupied it. Or perhaps it’d been the way he kept seeing his father’s disgruntled face when anyone would come up to Rafe asking about his now-called-off wedding, even if Rafe had nothing to do with it.

Whatever the reason, sleep had become something he tolerated rather than welcomed, which was exactly why waking up after one of the best nights of sleep he'd had in weeks irritated him beyond belief. Rafe had woken long before the sun had fully climbed over the rooftops, the first rays of morning spilling through the terrace doors in pale strips across the room, casting over your body. For a moment, he simply lay there, unusually still, waiting for the familiar heaviness to settle over him, but it never came. Just silence. A comfortable silence that hadn’t come easy to him for a bit.

Until he heard you sigh in your sleep.

alygator77

love hard

summary. after years of failed dating app matches, you finally hit it off with someone. he’s funny, charming, emotionally available… and apparently?! not who you thought he was... literally — because he used his ex-best friend suguru geto as his profile picture! so now, you’re stranded in a foreign country for the holidays, stuck with the real satoru gojo: a digimon-loving, trivia-winning, six-foot-tall nerd who... sure. may have catfished you. but he also might just win your heart.

tags/warnings. fluffy holiday au. nerdjo. light angst. slow burn. eventual smut. long distance relationship (reader is from cali, satoru is from japan). fake dating. one bed trope (yuuuup). found family feelings w/ the jjk cast. lots of dorky humor. alcohol/weed usage. there’s a bit of suguru x reader (also sukuna hits on you a lot bc he wants to piss gojo off). endgame is satoru x reader w/ a happy ending! soft and silly romcom vibes.

author note. here it is lovelies, the final part to this little mini-series. i'm going to miss these two 🥲 thanks for being patient!! as you guys know, i tend to get carried away and couldn't stop yappin, heh. a few extra tags/warnings for this part include - (marijuana usage, peer pressuring, unsafe sex, cunnilingus, degradation, praise, brat taming, fingering, creampie!) i'll see ya'll at the end~ (art by @/pamalechano on x)

<<< part 1 - <<< part 2 - main masterlist

part 3 (final)

Suguru’s already waiting by the rock wall when you arrive, sipping that green abomination of a drink he insists to love. He lifts the cup in a little wave, smiling warm and slightly crooked.

“There she is,” he calls. “My fearless climbing partner.”

Fearless.

Right.

You try to return the smile, letting your mouth tug into something passable. Though, it’s stretched too tight, like it might snap if you breathe wrong.

“Yeah… sorry to keep you. Were you waiting long?”

“Hm? Nah,” he waves a hand, easy as ever. “Just got here. Was about to get set up.”

“Perfect!” you chirp, clapping your hands together. “I’ll, uh… get set up too, then!”

Setting his drink down, Suguru reaches for his harness, adjusting straps and dusting chalk on his hands like he’s done this a hundred times.

(Probably because he has…)

And you’re just fumbling with your own gear, pretending you’re totally, one-hundred-percent-sure how all these buckles are supposed to sit. You’ve just managed to wrangle one leg into the harness when—

“Hey…”

✨ Swipe Right into Hell✨ My Final Column: The Secret to Love (Spoiler: It’s Not a Three-Text Rule) — People chase love like it’s something cosmic. A planetary alignment. A glitch in the matrix. Like if you say the right things, wear the right clothes, and angle your Hinge profile just so, the algorithm will spit out a soulmate; curating the perfect playlist of personality traits. All you have to do is be sweet, but not too sugary. Smart, but never a know-it-all. Sexy, but not a slut. Vulnerable, but not weird about it. But here’s the real kicker: The secret to love? Keep no secrets. And no, I don’t mean pull out your trauma resume at brunch. I’m not saying you need to confess your childhood abandonment issues over iced coffee or text him your credit score on date three. Okay? I mean—in the weird way. The loud way. The shy or passionate way. Like how you still rewatch the same comfort show every time you’re sad. Or how you talk to your pets like they understand you. Or how you overthink a text for twenty minutes and then forget to hit send. Be messy. Be awkward. Be a little cringe. Whatever just— Be you. Because love? The kind that stays? The kind that listens to you ramble about your favorite things, the kind that offers you half their fries and holds your hand when your voice gets quiet — well, it can only grow where there’s light. Not in the shadows where we hide the parts of ourselves that we’re scared no one will want. And trust me, someone will. Someone out there is going to see your quirks as constellations. They’ll laugh when you snort. Cry when you cry. Look at you on your worst day and still say, “God… I’m so fucking lucky.” So? If there’s anything I’ve learned after all these disaster dates? Don’t shrink. Don’t edit. Don’t crop out the parts of you that feel too much or not enough. Because the right person won’t just match with you. They’ll meet you. Exactly as you are. Beat for beat. — Swipe Right Into Hell xoxo, your favorite hopeless romantic, signing out for good.

snowynns

ᘛᰍ𝅄 ׁ 𝓟.𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄 ! 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐘 𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐎𝐍

♡. 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐲𝐬 : Oh Ser Jackson, his Majesty, son and prince of the enemy kingdom, marrying you? This had to be a horrifying nightmare orchestrated by the gods.

♡. enemies to lovers, royal AU, percy's pov over letters, arranged marriage, percy is downbad, wedding night, porn w plot, f! oral, spitting, p n clit sIapping, fíngering, pussiedrunk, virginity loss (both), mating presses, manhandIing, size difference, creampie.

disgustinggf

pika-toru-deactivated20260505

looking out for you, part 1

you’ve been in love with your best friend gojo satoru ever since you were eighteen. spending your years watching him bloom in various relationships was not the way you imagined your life would go.

one day, you meet geto suguru, who makes you want to forget about your feelings for satoru. will you be able to do that? let go of your feelings and live your life?

contents. gojo x fem reader x geto! • my favourite trope — unrequited requited love • friends to lovers • gojo dating other people like a girl named yuki who is not canon yuki • a lot of angst and feelings like A LOT • eventual smut • change of povs • gojo and geto being down bad for reader • BUT GOJO IS ENDGAME • so more angst • hurt/comfort • fluff • ~20k words um yeah

YOU met satoru gojo at the university entrance exams, which feels, in retrospect, like the kind of meet-cute you’d roll your eyes at if it happened to anyone else. but it happened to you, so instead of rolling your eyes, you’ve spent the last four years cataloguing it like a sacred text.

you were both seventeen, freshly out of high school, standing in a crowded hallway that smelled of anxiety and floor wax. you’d found a spot against the wall, trying to make yourself small, because that was your strategy for most things back then— take up less space, don’t draw attention, survive. you were not a social butterfly. you were the opposite of that! you were, if anything, a socially anxious caterpillar who had resigned itself to a lifetime of hiding in the metaphorical dirt.

and then there was satoru.

you noticed him before he noticed you, because everyone noticed him. he was tall even then, all limbs and restless energy, with white hair that caught the fluorescent light. he was laughing at something a friend had said, head thrown back, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, and he looked so utterly at ease that you felt a small, familiar pang of something that might have been envy or might have been longing or might have just been the general ache of being a person who had never once felt that comfortable in their own skin.

you looked away since staring was rude, and also because looking at him felt a bit like looking at the sun.

you didn’t expect him to talk to you! you certainly didn’t expect him to weave through the crowd and come to a stop directly in front of you, tilting his head like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve.

“hey,” he said. “you look like you’re about to bolt.”

you blinked at him. “i’m not going to bolt.”

“good,” he said, and then he grinned, and it was the kind of grin that made you understand, instantly and completely, why people in myths were always getting into trouble because some beautiful god smiled at them. “because i don’t know anyone here and you look like you don’t either, so i’ve decided we’re friends now.”

you opened your mouth to say something— probably something articulate and witty, something that would prove you were worth befriending— but what came out was, “that’s not really how friendships work.”

“sure it is,” he said, and then he leaned against the wall next to you like he’d always been there, like you’d saved him a spot. “i’m satoru. tell me something interesting about yourself.”

“i’m not interesting,” you said, because you believed it.

he looked at you for a long moment, those ridiculous blue eyes— you’d seen them properly when he’d pushed his sunglasses up, and they were the kind of blue that made you think of shallow tropical water, bright and startling and almost too much— and then he said, very seriously, “that’s the most interesting thing anyone’s said to me all day.”

you didn’t know what to do with that. you still don’t, honestly.

but you told him your name, and he repeated it back like he was testing the weight of it on his tongue, and he nodded once, decisively, and said, “see? we’re friends.”

and that was it. that was the beginning.

the exams themselves were a blur of anxiety and cramped hands and the quiet terror of your entire future hinging on a few hours of multiple-choice questions. but between sections, satoru found you. every time. you’d emerge from the exam hall, dazed and already convinced you’d failed, and there he’d be, leaning against a railing or sitting on a bench, long legs stretched out, waving like you were old friends reuniting after years apart instead of two people who’d met that morning.

“how’d it go?” he’d ask, and when you’d mumble something noncommittal, he’d launch into a dramatic retelling of his own experience, complete with exaggerated hand gestures and sound effects, and by the end of it you’d be laughing so hard you’d forget, for a moment, that you were supposed to be terrified.

you both got in, of course you both got in. you’d worked yourself to the bone for it, spent countless nights hunched over textbooks with cold coffee growing stale at your elbow. satoru, you later learned, had barely studied. he was just like that. things came easy to him— the exam, the university, the effortless way he moved through the world like it had been designed with him in mind.

you should have resented him for it. sometimes you did, a little, in the quiet moments when you were up late finishing an assignment and you knew he’d finished his in half the time and was probably out with friends, laughing at something, existing in that bright, uncomplicated way of his.

but the resentment never lasted, because the thing about satoru was that he never made you feel lesser. he never acted like his ease was a mark of superiority. if anything, he seemed genuinely baffled when you struggled with things that came naturally to him, like it had never occurred to him that the world might be harder for other people.

and when you did struggle— when you stayed up too late and drank too much coffee and ended up crying in the library bathroom at 2 a.m. because you couldn’t make the words on the page make sense— he always showed up. you never had to ask. he’d text you at midnight with a picture of some ridiculous snack from the convenience store and a message that said “study break, meet me outside, don’t argue,” and you’d go, and you’d sit on the steps of the library eating stale onigiri while he talked about nothing and everything, and by the time you went back inside, the words would still be hard but the weight of them would feel lighter.

that was satoru. he made things lighter. that was his gift, the one he gave freely to everyone around him, and you were just lucky enough to be the one he gave it to most often.

the friendship solidified in those first few months, fast and fierce and seemingly unshakable. you shared a dorm building your first year, then an apartment your second, because it just made sense— you were already together all the time anyway, and satoru had looked at you with those too-blue eyes and said “we should live together” like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and you’d said yes before you could talk yourself out of it.

and living with satoru was… an education.

you learned that he was messy in a chaotic, endearing way— clothes draped over chairs, empty snack wrappers that he swore he’d throw away “in a minute,” a general refusal to do dishes until the pile in the sink reached a height that could reasonably be called architectural. you learned that he sang in the shower, intentionally badly and loudly, usually whatever pop song was currently stuck in his head, and that he would inevitably emerge with his hair dripping water everywhere and demand that you tell him if he sounded good (he didn’t, but you always said he did).

you learned that he had nightmares sometimes, that he would wake up in the dark and knock on your door with a sheepish expression, and you’d let him in without a word and he’d curl up on the end of your bed like an overgrown cat and fall back asleep to the sound of your breathing.

you learned that he was softer than he let on. that the arrogance, the brash confidence, the way he flirted with everyone and everything— it was all a layer, a performance, a suit of armor he’d put on so long ago he’d forgotten how to take it off. but with you, sometimes, the armor slipped. with you, he was just satoru, the boy who couldn’t cook to save his life and cried at sad movies and had a laugh that made your chest ache in a way you refused to examine too closely.

and you learned, too, that you were falling in love with him.

there was no lightning strike, no moment of cinematic clarity. it was slow, insidious, the way water wears down stone. it was the way he’d throw an arm around your shoulders when you walked to class, his hand warm and heavy and casual. it was the way he’d save you the last piece of whatever he was eating, even when you’d said you didn’t want any. it was the way he said your name, the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention and you’d catch him and he’d call you a dumbass.

it was the night you turned eighteen, two months into your first semester, when he’d bought a cheap cake from the grocery store and you’d eaten it on the roof of your dorm building, and he’d looked at you with frosting on his lip and said “i’m glad it’s you” like it was the simplest truth in the world, and your heart had made a decision without consulting you.

oh, you thought. oh, no.

sirenleche

𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𖤐 𓈒࣪ ᭡ ˖ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: satoru gojo x female reader.

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: smut. angst. fluff. formula 1 au.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬/𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: racer gojo/f1 gojo x racer reader/f1 reader. nsfw content. rivals to lovers. toxicity. misogynistic/sexist themes. jealousy. suggestive themes. explicit language. alcohol usage. possessiveness. mentions of restrictive eating. mentions of death. themes of child neglect/child exploitation.

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: a twenty-one year old american rookie in ferrari red was never supposed to exist. especially not beside satoru gojo, the team’s beloved golden boy. one brutal race and one mistake later, their rivalry turns intoxicating and impossible to ignore.

𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬: ongoing.

𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: ~139k.

pureprettyprincess

no because nobody understands how hard it was to find x reader fics of anyone in the gaang or atla fandom in general before this movie came out. now there’s new fics coming out daily. I USED TO PRAY FOR TIMES LIKE THIS‼️

midniqhtt

clark kent / superman ── .✦ recs six

꒰ masterlist • dc • david corenswet • 09/26/25 ꒱ gif - @/corensweat

ᝰ.ᐟ key: A- angst I F- fluff I S- smut I C- comfort I HC- hurt/comfort

☆ go save the world, i’ll be around ── @honeypiehotchner I A + F

You and Clark are childhood best friends, growing up just across the field from one another. When he moves to Metropolis and announces himself as Superman, it causes a rift so large that you aren't sure you'll ever cross it. Until Superman comes home, sick and out of his mind, and only two things can help: sunlight and you.

☆ you hide your injuries from him ── @staseras I A + F

you’ve been asking your boyfriend to take down a bookshelf for months, but every time he gets to it, something comes up and the world needs your boyfriend. you decide enough is enough, so you decide to do it yourself. it’s going well until you fall and get hurt, and you hide the injuries from him because you don’t want to worry him. he finds out anyway.

☆ office gossip ── @blank-potato I S

You have a big crush on Superman, and the whole office knows it, especially Clark. When you can't seem to stop thinking about him or talking about him, it has you asking yourself (and the office): Is Superman good in bed?

☆ that’s so clark kent ── @/blank-potato I F + S

☆ clark is jealous of himself? ── @glassmermaids I F

☆ blister in the sun pt2 ── @moonlight-prose I F + A

the daily planet was the home of gods in a city you never thought might see your presence. a newspaper that won awards, that held the hearts and minds of the best and brightest to exist. yet your boss handed over a job that only a reporter from gotham could do.

☆ broken down and hungry for your love ── @/moonlight-prose I F

a conversation leads to kissing him on his couch until oxygen becomes secondary.

☆ everything is meant to be broken ── @/moonlight-prose I A + S

there would be no world in which you could live without him. no future where he could exist without you. the both of you were intrinsically tethered. and you found that finding yourself beneath him in his bed was inevitable.

☆ stupid glasses ── @snooperzz I F

She hadn’t found out the way that he wanted. Not that he ever really had a plan, but he certainly hadn’t meant for it to happen like this.

☆ the dint ── @imagines-all-day-everyday I F

when clark kent stumbles into a 24 hour vet clinic with his unconscious side-kick, the last thing he expects to find is maybe the only person in metropolis who can handle krypto. It’s an extra bonus that she’s beautiful too.

☆ 12 to 12 ── @/imagines-all-day-everday I A + F + ~S

clark forces himself to go to a work party with only one purpose - to find you in the crowd. he has no idea if you want to be found or want to avoid him at all costs. the only problem is, neither do you.

☆ the mystery of love ── @rosesaints I F + S

4 times he showed you he loves you + 1 time he says it

☆ knowing clark’s coffee order ── @/rosesaints I F

clark's no stranger to doing the grunt work around the daily planet.

☆ i’ll crawl home to her ── @se7entyrell I F

You and Clark just got married four months ago. That's barely enough time to settle into the house, and your new life. So when you take a pregnancy test in solidarity with your friend, the last thing you're expecting is a positive.

☆ put you in a bodybag or in my bed ── @bodhiscurls I A + F

clark kent is your mortal enemy; it's been a constant battle between who's going to get front page privileges and clark always manages to top you with superman. when you both get a little too drunk and repressed feelings rush to the surface- surely it can't be real? how could it be real when you wake up naked in his bed, unsure of how you ended up there? when you've accidentally sent the department the doc you made in a rage listing all the reasons you hate clark kent? it can't be real so why does it hurt so much when he calls it quits- when you cry to superman of all people- when everywhere you go reminds you of him?

☆ cause i can see you ── @myladybelle I F

it’s been a couple months since you started working at the daily planet, and you’re beginning to suspect that your awkward, mild-mannered coworker might be hiding a much bigger secret than his crush on you

☆ just a super dog ── @idk-imjustanerd I F

Clark is trying to get Krypto acclimated to city life when you unexpectedly knock on his door.

☆ enough for you ── @teascorner I A + C

Plagued by insecurities, you can't imagine that Clark Kent would ever return your feelings. After weeks of pining, weeks of feeling your heart break more and more, it all comes to a fever pitch. Can you and Clark work it out?

☆ purpose ── @wwinterwitch I F

you get back from work to find clark preparing a little surprise for you

☆ virgin!clark ── @audreyownsdiamonds I F

making out with you for the first time

☆ bury the lede ── @levanswrites I A + F + S

clark kent runs on compassion the way most reporters run on espresso. he is, by all observable metrics, the most principled man you know. so when your hard-won article gets pulled without explanation, the softest man in metropolis is suddenly ready to raise quiet, righteous hell. because when something’s wrong, he never lets it slide—especially when it comes to you.

☆ i can see you ── @stargazsblog I F

you and clark have been secretly dating for three months. no touching, barley talking at work. so why does it feel like everyone knows?

☆ companion ── @murdockparker I F

You were an adult, with adult money. You can buy things that bring you joy! Hopefully your boyfriend never finds out about it.

☆ theory of goodness pt13 pt14 pt15 ── @messylxve I F + HC

☆ mornings with you ── @writing-for-marvel I F + S

The morning after your first night together, Clark still can’t get enough of you.

☆ i never was the good samaritan ── @supershit-hits I A + F

a stupid bet between two coworkers with allegedly opposite morals. if all’s fair in love, war, and corporate life, then who’s willing to be kinder for a month?

☆ the tantrums and the chilling chats, i promise ── @/supershit-hits I A + F + C

clark takes a picture of you and it leads you to spiral. the last thing you want is for him to see you crashing out, but he’s determined to be by your side no matter what.

☆ villian!reader pt2 pt3 ── @maiamore I S

clark meets another super, who he can fuck the way he really wants to.

☆ metahuman-telepathic!reader pt2 ── @/maiamore I S

Clark has to enlist the help of his metahuman ex for an interview.

☆ please? ── @/maiamore I S

Jealous!Clark Kent finds his mutant!telepath ex on a date.

☆ girl next door ── @/maiamore I S

Clark takes care of his neighbour.

☆ manchild! pt2 ── @/maiamore I F

Clark saves the life of one of Lex Luthor's lab techs — but doesn't realise what he does cost her everything.

☆ the ‘yes’ list ── @/maiamore I S

You get to fulfil your 'to-fuck' list with Superman.

☆ killshot ── @/maiamore I S

Clark Kent scores an interview with Bruce Wayne's infamous sister — you. Except you don't make it easy for him.

☆ to good for me ── @lomlsatoru I A + F

everytime you remember your life, clark is always there, and now after everything came crashing down, clark thinks he has loved you from the very start.

☆ blurb ── @daenysx I F

you wash clark's hair and praise him until he turns red

☆ all pent up pt2 ── @honeybunnyale I A + F + S

Clark has been utterly perfect, smart, kind, cute and witty. But a woman has needs and doubts were starting to lead you to a detrimental decision. A breakup. But this Clark guy shows you that he fucks hard and checks all of your boxes.

☆ the way he waits for you ── @danitcx I F

You’ve always been shy. Quiet. Invisible, even. But working at the Daily Planet gave you a badge, a desk… and a seat across from Clark Kent. What starts as silent glances and white chocolate donuts turns into a walk, a bar, a moment —where maybe, just maybe, your heart begins to hope he sees you too.

☆ sue me ── @fatherjohnmistake I A + F + S

after a nasty breakup, you find your name plastered on the front page of the daily planet, courtesy of no other than your ex, clark kent.

☆ leftover frosting ── @navybrat817 I S

Clark bakes you a cake and has a plan for the leftover frosting

☆ undress ── @/navybrat817 I ~S

You put on a little show for Clark.

☆ 10 things you hate about clark kent ── @bitterballad I S

You had just moved to Metropolis from Gotham after quitting the Gotham Gazette. You thought it would be a breeze. But there's 10 things about your coworker that irk you more than you ever thought.

☆ just clark ── @larkandpen I F

You live in the same building as Clark Kent. You think he’s sweet but awkward, he carries your bags, helps you build things, fixes issues in your apartment. You joke he’s “like a superhero” for doing the chores your ex never did, and he panics and runs off

☆ best to you ── @sunsburns I F + C

clark loves being superman, though he can be away for hours and sometimes days on end. you tend to miss him more than you admit, and you find comfort in wearing his clothes and... his spare superman suits.

☆ baby, it’s just you ── @eupheme I S

the suit stays on

☆ clark’s super secret ── @celestiababie I F

In which Clark Kent has to face the truth if he wants to get a good night's sleep...

☆ heartbeat ── @maikorian I A

clark adores the little thing about you, now he'll never get to experience them again.

☆ superbanned ── @arkofangels I S

After one too many, ahem, “incidents,” the Justice Gang slaps Clark Kent with a temporary sex ban. He promises to behave—until one look and a little teasing from you has him breaking every rule he promised to keep.

☆ kanas anymore pt3 ── @junleb I F + A

you're bruce wayne's date to a gala and clark starts feeling under the weather

☆ the one with the broken printer ── @heartburriedinvenice I F

the five times in which clark made your head spin and the one time you finally got him back. and it all started with a broken printer.

☆ super shy ── @fhrlclln I F

in which you’re trying your best to tell him you like him in your own quiet and shy way but clark kent is an oblivious fool when it comes to these things.

☆ adrenaline junkie!reader ── @hexedlover I F

☆ hardly discreet ── @hearts4hughes I A + F

☆ drabble ── @souliloqui I F

you'd like to hear clark curse.

☆ drabble ── @/souliloqui I F

you meet krypto

☆ drabble ── @/souliloqui I A

you find out clark's secret.

☆ drabble ── @/souliloqui I F + A

a building falls with you beneath it. superman calls out your name despite never having met you.

☆ drabble ── @laceyfaeryy I S

clark kent is a big titty lover

☆ superman and ultraman ── @idksmtms I A? + C

☆ 4 + 1 ── @beentainted I F + S

four times clark kent almost said he loved you, and the one he actually did.

☆ front page ── @yasministration I F

clark doesn't care about anyone's opinion more than yours, so when you flick over to the crossword puzzle without telling him what you thought of his article, he worries for a minute.

☆ a cozy interview ── @/yasministration I F

when superman is married to an award winning actress and filmmaker, it's no surprise to see him crashing her interviews, and despite keeping his identity a secret, he doesn't keep his affection for his wife a secret. if anything, he flaunts it.

☆ i’ve got a crush on you ── @coquettefrancaise I F

oblivious to your coworker, Clark Kent's, obvious feelings towards you, you spiral in self-pity when he brings you flowers and you chalk it up to him being a good friend

☆ tolerate clark, ignore superman ── @catbayunthestoryteller I F

☆ shy!reader ── @inkdrinkerworld I F

☆ request ── @/inkdrinkerworld I F

☆ drabble ── @corensology I S

clark eating reader out

☆ mr. superman for the ladies ── @vitoriadior I F

Where you, preschool teacher, get the incredible Superman (aka your boyfriend) to come to your classroom for Jobs and Careers Day.

candyeager

THE CRUEL PRINCE

Aerion Targaryen x fem!reader

he calls himself a god. you know he’s a monster.

married to the most volatile man in the Seven Kingdoms, you have committed the ultimate sin: being too human for a dragon’s blood. now, you must find a way to be useful to the cruel prince, or risk a war that will leave the kingdom in ashes.

warnings. 18+ mature themes, implied dub-con (consent surrendered by duty), explicit content, graphic violence, toxic & manipulative relationships, blood & murder mentions.

tags. female reader insert, forced marriage, angst, enemies to lovers, toxic romance, god complex, heavy pining & yearning, hurt no comfort.

taglist. OPEN (comment on this post!)

PART I

PART II

PART III

PART IV

PART V

sheriff-bodecker

a lesson in devotion <𝟑 .ᐟ

pairing: bestfriend!bucky x f!reader

summary: after picking you up from your failed date, seeing your eyes red rimmed and cheeks tear stained, Bucky can’t help but let everything he’s been holding back from you go.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut & fluff, crying, being stood up, dating apps, self-deprecation, texting & phone calls, reader uses sarcasm to deflect, sexual jokes, petnames (sweetheart, sweet girl, baby…), whipped!bucky, making out, kitchen to the bed, dirty talk, oral (f!rec), fingering, unprotected pinv, creampie, missionary, seb’s tongue thing (and his face scrunch), (failed) riding, subspace, cocky!bucky, (soft)dom!bucky, multiple orgasms (like three), multiple positions (like two), slight cockwarming, MAAAD BDB (bucky's got a big dick and he knows it) . . . - (wc: 7.7k)

a/n: THANK YOU TO THIS ANON ASK !!!! in my brain, 'bestfriend' automatically turns into 'college!bucky' but really, you can imagine however you like lol <3 (he is broke tho so.) im so sorry this is late, fhsdufghfsf i didnt think this would turn into a 7k word porno lmfao

masterlist || navigation

✴︎ reader is mentioned to have hair, and wears a dress, heels and make-up at the beginning. bucky also carries reader from kitchen to bed. (readers favourite movie is also Almost Famous here, why? because im self indulgent and it's a good movie.)

✴︎ it's mentioned that bucky lives in an apartment with steve, unrelated to the plot, just mentioned (as well as a couple mentions of steve/nat. also alpine is mentioned once !!)

✴︎ if i'm missing any tags please kindly let me know !!

fawnindawn

knocking on love’s door!

summary: damian wayne is at a total loss in the matters of love and winning over your heart, so much so that he dreadfully ends up on each brother’s doorstep seeking love advice.

pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader (featuring dick, tim & jason)

content: flufff, absolute chaos and only one bat brother comes out on top in teaching damian the ways of yearning, not that he needed help for that in the first place.

28, 1013 Parkthorne Avenue (Grayson’s Blüdhaven Residence)

“You—” Dick’s grin is barely repressed, chest puffed in pride of being the first confidant Damian thought of. “—seek dating advice?”

Damian makes a non-committal shrug. “I admit that I may harbour feelings towards her that differ from my usual disdain to the average person.”

Dick’s laugh escapes his lips, but quickly conceals itself into an overly serious nod when Damian’s glare pierces through him.

“And you… travelled all the way to Blüdhaven to ask me for help?”

Damian would much rather be stabbed with a jagged-edged blade than admit that. There was always a price to pay for relying on others, especially when it came to his tooth-grinning brothers.

reignpage

The Ex Files

Synopsis: you got into an accident and lost your memories. to learn about what happened and how you ended up in the hospital in the first place, you must start at the beginning and contact your six exes

and perhaps on your path to recovering what you lost, you may end up back together with the one who loved you most...

Warnings: angst, memory loss, reader's morality questioned, flawed characters, realistic depictions of relationships?, crude language, modern/non curse au, each men's part can be technically read as a standalone but they are part of the series

Gojo ⊹ Geto ⊹ Choso ⊹ Toji ⊹ Nanami ⊹ Sukuna

The Ex ⊹ The One

sacr1ficialang3l

⋆✶ ˚｡⋆ Demolition Lovers.

SUMMARY: Dean always thought the end of the world would come with exploding suns and the walking dead—not in the shape of his best friend suddenly flirting with him. 9.7k

WARNINGS: best friend!reader. friends to lovers. suggestive language. pining. fluff. humor. dean's self-deprecating shenanigans. masturbation. implied smut. dry humping. breeding kink if you squint really hard. this was very random but i ended up loving it. set somewhere mid s2.

Dean is scared. Like really, really fucking terrified.

He’s faced everything a person can be afraid of. Vampires, ghosts, weird one-of-a-kind monsters. He’s fought enough demons—both physical and metaphorical—to drive the strongest man crazy. He fucking had to build the pyre where his father’s body would eventually turn to ashes by himself, for God’s sake.

But nothing, nothing has scared the shit out of him more than you flirting with him.

The first time it happened, he didn’t even notice you were flirting. His mind was just so closed off to the possibility, the idea so far-fetched and insane that even now—weeks later, as he stares at the peeling painting on the wall, ruminating—it still blows his fucking mind.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You and Sam had been talking non-stop the whole ride from Tennessee to a dingy motel in rural Virginia, completely engrossed in your brainy shit. Dean caught bits and pieces of it every so often, when the thin but comforting fog that a long drive provides to his brain dissipates enough for him to actually register your words.

But it’s not like it mattered if he paid attention, it’s all Greek to him anyway.

It was only once he stopped at a gas station, leaning against Baby’s side while he waited for the tank to fill, that he actually tried to follow your conversation.

He opened the driver’s door and rested his arms on Baby’s roof, pressing his forehead against the crook of his elbow and peaking down at his baby brother and his best friend, the cold leather of his jacket a relief in the southern summer heat.

Sammy was leaning against the front seat’s backrest so he could meet your eyes, long limbs all twisted and his face still exhausted with everything that’s happened in the past year. His eyes were glittery as he nodded along to whatever you were saying, shaggy hair flopping around his head, and once again Dean has to wonder just how the fuck Dad pretended for Dean to kill the kid.

The memory of John’s words always leave him wilted and venomous, Dean tries so hard not to think about them. He turned his eyes to you instead. You were draped across the backseat—long legs bare thanks to your tiny shorts, socked feet pressed against the left door, your back resting against the right one.

You always make sure to take off your shoes before propping them up on the bench, without Dean even having to ask. You just seem to instinctively sense how much he cares for Baby, working as hard as he does to keep her clean and pretty. Dean doesn’t dwell on it.

He also didn’t dwell on how good you looked then, with the afternoon sun flaring behind you and making your hair glow, all sprawled out in his car. He’d gotten over the fantasies of climbing on top of you and kissing you until the two of you melted into the Impala long ago, around the time he’d gotten over any hope of you ever wanting him back.

Still, seeing your smooth skin against the black, shiny vinyl sent a shudder down his spine. If only.

His life lately has become nothing but just a long, boring list of cobweb-covered If-Only’s.

He quickly drew his attention to the words leaving Sammy’s mouth and away from your chest in that thin, translucent tank top.

“Blue eyes are genetic mutations to adapt to the sun.” The kid sounded the exact same as he had in middle school. Dean wondered if the reason why he didn’t get bullied more often was because two rogue teenage boys staying in the town’s cheapest motel was always a scary enough tale that kept most ruffians away. “Just like dark skin.”

“Yes! That’s also why people who live near deserts have longer, thicker eyelashes. It’s a mutation to protect their eyes,” you chimed in with an eager little smile. Dean almost saw you pushing phantom reading glasses up the bridge of your nose. “And, actually, lighter skin would be the mutation, since humanity originated in Africa.”

Sammy nodded enthusiastically, just like he did whenever he was presented with new information. Dean remembered then why, when you were younger, he used to memorize random fun facts in the library and then report them back to you two after a bad hunt or a nightmarish evening.

That pair of bright, dorky, always-too-wide eyes staring at him with that exact same awe always did wonders to keep the venom in his blood from spilling.

“How did you even get there?” he asked, voice dripping with laughter. “The last thing I heard from you was Halle Berry.”

“Of course it was, horndog.” You rolled your eyes, a wide smile tugging at your lips. The teenage instinct to puff up with pride at the sight stirred, he stomped on it until it stopped moving. “We were talking X-Men. Genetic mutations just kind of fell into place.”

“Right, obviously.” He scoffed. “You’re gonna infest my car with your nerd-virus, geeks.”

“May I remind you of all the Marvel Comics hidden in the trunk, under all your porn ones?”

“No, you may not.”

You snorted, crossing your arms and turning back to Sammy, widening your eyes as if saying: Can you believe this guy?

“I thought you’d be interested in the topic, Dean. Since you seem to try and prove Darwinism in every motel mini-fridge you find.”

Dean glared at his brother, one hand leaving Baby’s roof so he could flip him off. It only made you laugh harder. If Dean preened then, it’s between him and the voices in his head.

“I’d think you Winchesters have a genetic mutation that calls for trouble. The Winchester gene.” You pulled your knees closer to your chest, leaving him with a perfect view of your ever-bruised knees. He wanted to kiss them away, he wanted to leave more. The heat was getting to him. “Call Professor X, I’ve found a new mutation. Gene-W, which stands for Worst Fucking Luck in the Whole World.”

You’re such a fucking idiot.

How was Dean supposed to spend almost every waking moment with you, and not love you? It was impossible. Dad had to know he couldn’t do it, even when he yelled at Dean to get his head out of “some random chick’s cunt and man up. Focus on what’s important.”

God had to know as well, even when He made Dean fundamentally unlovable. It has to be divine punishment, sending him the perfect girl and making her so holy that she was untouchable, especially when Dean’s hands are coated with sacrilege.

“That’s three W’s.” It was the only thing his brain could spit out that wasn’t pleasepleaseplease.

Just once, just one time.

I need you so bad, it’s killing me.

Please.

“I’ll call it the 3W-gene, then.” You shrugged, wiggling in your place until you were sitting with your feet on the car floor. You stared at him then, eyes scanning his face with a nebulosity that he’d never seen before. They burned on his skin, hotter than the sun and more intoxicating than the scent of gasoline. Finally, your lips twisted upwards. “Which I’d have to guess makes up ninety percent of your DNA. Though it looks like you were made for the desert as well.”

Dean frowned, blinked down at you, wondered if you were having a heat stroke.

“But I’m… white? I mean, I know I don’t really get sunburnt, and I tan easily, but—”

“No, I mean—” You gaped at him, like you were trying to figure out if he was intentionally playing dumb. Dean didn’t realize what he was missing, the truth so far removed from every stone-set belief in his head that it seemed ridiculous to even go there. You had to sense his genuine confusion, because the disbelief vanished and left behind only giggling. “I was talking about your eyelashes, dummy.”

Ouch. Dean tried to hide the pang that traveled down his ribs, his lips pressed together in what he will never admit was a pout. “What’s wrong with my eyelashes?”

“Jesus Christ.” You sounded exasperated as you huffed, but also fond. Dean felt adrift. “Forget it, Dean.”

“No, no. Wait!” But you were already sliding out of the car, walking across scalding concrete and spilled oil toward the restrooms, too far away for him to stop you. He bent down and tried to read some answers out of Sammy's face, but all he got was a mocking smile.

He searched for you again, but by then you were already walking into the gas station’s Dunkin Donuts. Still, he yelled after you.

“What’s wrong with my lashes?!”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

He didn’t get it the second time either.

Actually, it took him until the third time you shamelessly flirted with him for Dean to catch up with the situation. But it was just so… unimaginable.

Dean spent every waking moment of his younger years trying to charm you. Well-trained grins and lingering hands, compliments spilling like honey from his lips and pick-up lines flying your way like perfectly-aimed bullets.

But Dean missed every time.

You used to laugh, hiding your smile behind your hand and shoving him back like he was just being silly. At first, he was. You were gorgeous, and Dean was nineteen and horny. He could tell there was something different about you, with the quick hammering of his heart and the fuzz that tingled his brain when you walked in the room, but he paid it no mind.

Being a hunter meant that knocking on love’s door would always be risky. Being a Winchester meant that door was closed and locked forever. Being Dean meant that there was no door at all.

Love wasn’t an option, but he could have sex. He took that small grace and ran with it.

He never expected more than a night with you, maybe a fortnight if he was lucky enough. Then you could leave, or stick around for a while and ditch them when you got tired of him, and Dean wouldn’t mop over it. He’d gotten what he wanted—or all he could afford to want—and you’d just be another speck of dust on his rearview mirror.

But then you’d turned every single one of his advances down, always with a teasing but sweet smile on your face, and you’d stayed.

Through his twenty-first birthday, through Sam’s escape to college, through Dad’s death. Dean has been rattled with grief a million times since then, breaking down into pieces and glueing himself back together with scotch tape and stale beer, and still you stay by his side.

Dean doesn’t get it, but once again, he takes the grace—miracle, he would call it—and does everything he can to keep it.

No more flirting, no more secret touches under tables, no more trying to sleep with you.

It soon became evident that having you in his life meant more than casual sex could ever mean, and so Dean buried all of his desire so deep down that he thinks it might’ve backfired and infused with his soul instead of disappearing. He pretends it did, though, never letting his sickness get in the way of your friendship.

He’s good at pretending. It’s all he’s ever done.

At some point in time, that desire began to transform, bubbling up and becoming syrupy—like tar. Dean keeps throwing dirt over it like a dog trying to hide the bones of his last meal, fangs still bloody. It’s barely enough.

All of this to say, you’ve had a million opportunities to make a move on him.

Back in that shack in Oregon when you were twenty, or ten months ago when Sam had just entered your lives again and Dean was getting sloppy, giving you sultry looks over diner menus, his bantering quickly taking on a seductive undertone whenever you went back and forth. He’d pulled himself together soon enough, but you had still brushed him off just as easily as you had back in ‘98.

Because that’s just how the universe works—Dean swallows it all down until something escapes him and then you turn it down. You don’t flirt, and you sure as fuck don’t call his eyelashes long and thick or his face pretty.

That time… yeah, Dean should’ve probably gotten it then.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You were sitting in the bed of a rusty-red pickup truck, parked in the middle of nowhere Virginia, just a week after the first incident.

You were already a quarter down your way to North Carolina when Sam remembered the witch’s shadow book he’d forgotten back in the motel. You’d all considered just leaving it, but the risk of some poor maid coming across it and wandering down a dark and dangerous path was too big. So Sam had left you in some ghost town in the middle of the woods, taking off with Baby before Dean could regret offering her to him.

Dean had stolen a truck, driving you out of the road and between the trees until you’d found a small clearing near a lake, far away enough from town that no locals would give you trouble.

It was still hot as fuck, the air thick and humid, leaving your hair frizzy and Dean’s throat dry. The sky was clear, a million stars winking down at you, and so you settled on the bed of the truck, desperate for as much fresh air as you could get.

Sam at least had the decency to let you pull a few things out of the trunk before he sped away, including a big blanket that you spread over the dirty metal before climbing inside, Dean following close by.

You laid on your back with a flashlight in one hand and a book propped up over your face in the other, bathing in the moonlight as your eyes hungrily absorbed every word in those pages. Dean lit up a cigarette and watched the smoke travel with the breeze, listening to the familiar buzz of the forest and fidgeting with his M1911.

His back was pressed against the bedside, leaving him with the perfect view of the tree line. And you.

You looked like an angel. Definitely divine punishment.

At some point your legs ended up tangled, blissfully-bare skin against stubborn denim. You knocked your knee with his but kept your eyes on the book, Dean watched you. The way you held the flashlight between your teeth when you needed to flip the page, the light that reflected on the paper and highlighted the curve of your throat, the scar on your cheek from when you jumped between Dean and a knife the witch had thrown at him.

“Watcha reading?” He couldn’t keep the words down, they swirl in the air along with the smoke. This time you spare him a glance.

“Gothic horror. Very Americana, fits the vibe perfectly.” With your hand still holding your book open, you gestured to your surroundings. Dean chuckled. “You’d like it, if you could read.”

“Hey!” He kicked you softly in the shin. “I know how to read, thank you very much!”

“You do? Woah, news to me.”

“I’d be the worst hunting partner if I didn’t. Research would take us ages.” Your eyes went back to the book. It was unbearable. “At least have the decency to look at me when you insult me, you little dweeb.”

You dropped the novel next to your head, getting up on one elbow so you could finally meet Dean’s gaze. The flashlight kept pointing up, enveloping everything in faint yellow light. Dean’s hair stuck to the back of his neck with sweat, his white ratty t-shirt suddenly too tight.

“Sam and I always do the research anyway.” You flexed your leg, your knee now hooked over his as you laid on your side. Dean was an adult, he could handle this.

“So what’s my job then, attack dog?”

A small frown crossed your face, it was quickly replaced by a teasing smirk. “Nah. Your job is to sit there and look pretty.”

The overwhelming quiet of the wilderness and the haziness of the tacky night made it all feel like a dream. Dean had to be hallucinating the slight tilt of your face, the warm glint in your irises, your teeth grazing your lip.

“What?”

“Every team needs The Pretty One. Makes it easier to be approachable, you know how a shining smile can do wonders.” Dean almost wanted to clear his ears with his fingers. What the fuck was happening? “Though you just had to be pretty and good at fighting, you could fill all the team’s positions if you wanted. I blame it on the 3W-gene.”

A lot was going on, Dean’s brain would start leaking out of his nose if you didn’t stop.

“You think I’m pretty?”

Not his smoothest moment. He’s not proud.

You scoffed, and if Dean was a little more certain of anything at this point, he’d thought you blushed. “Please, Dean, everyone thinks you’re pretty.”

No they don’t. They think he’s hot, or handsome, or badass. He’s heard beautiful a few times. Pretty… he doesn’t hear that one often. For some reason, it sent lightning down his spine.

“You have never said it, though,” he whispered, mellower than intended. He took one last drag of his cig and stubbed it out against the bedside. He quickly grabbed another one, if anything, just to keep his hands busy.

There was a slow, terrifying moment of silence before you spoke again, and Dean held his breath until the smoke burned in his lungs.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t see it.” Something haunted flashed on your eyes, Dean felt the need to float closer until he charred within it. “That I don’t know it.”

His world started to crumble, the ground under him shaking. You finding Dean attractive—pretty, even… it was life-ruining.

All of his defenses started to crack.

“You’ve seen me covered in enough fluids to make the toughest surgeon vomit.”

You giggled, the sound breaking through the still air like a bullet. Dean’s grip on his gun loosened, his whole body melting.

“It’s that freakin’ Winchester gene, I’m telling you. Good looks, bad luck, weird ass charm.”

“So you think Sammy’s pretty too?”

He wished his voice hadn’t been that bitter. You rolled your eyes before picking up your book, flopping back down on your back as your eyes left him. Dean shivered even though the air was stuffy, musk and salty heat filling his nose.

“You’re the prettiest, De. You should know that.”

Well, he knows now.

He smoked half his pack of reds and you got through another third of your novel before you decided to get some shut-eye. Dean agreed to lie down next to you after you plead with him, even if he knew he would stay up all night regardless. Your pouty expression was too much for him to resist, he’s only human.

You didn’t have any pillows, but Dean was stubborn and he took his jacket everywhere, even when it was a thousand degrees. He bundled it up and offered it for you to use. “It’s not the comfiest, but it’s something.”

This time, Dean was sure he saw your cheeks reddening.

He kept on watching the clouds and listening in for any dangers as you got ready to sleep, throwing a thin sheet over the two of you and curling into yourself at his side. He put out his last cigarette against the sole of his biker boots, refusing to take them off even after you nagged at him for it.

He’d learned long ago to always be ready to escape. Old habits die hard.

“I wish you’d put them out on me.”

The words barely reached him, getting lost in the whistling of the wind. He quickly turned his head toward you, eyes wide and breath ragged, but you had already fallen asleep by then.

Your face was hidden against his jacket. It stayed there all the way until morning.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The few days after that had been torture. Even now, Dean still isn’t sure that last part was even real, the words too good to be true.

If only you could be as sick as him, if only under your skin lived a beast as rabid as his, if only the immensity of his desire and obsession could be reciprocated instead of abhorred. If only.

But by the third incident, Dean had enough evidence to believe he heard right and he didn't need to get hooked on antipsychotics. And oh, what a thought that is.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Dean was working on Baby, two weeks or so after Virginia.

You’d driven to South Dakota a few days ago after ganking a vampire nest in northern Iowa, still waiting for Ash to get back to you with any demonic omens. Bobby had welcomed you with open arms and a cooler full of beer, and God knows Dean needed the break.

He didn’t know how long he could keep handling being locked in the Impala with you, your clothes getting skimpier and the days getting longer. Your head stuck out the window, your hair floating in the wind, your voice echoing in his head.

“You’re the prettiest, De.”

Even motel rooms didn’t serve as a relief. You’d still walk out of the shower with your skin flushed and bare, filling the boy-stinking room with your sugary smell and girlish sweat. It was hell, it was paradise. Dean had to rush into a cold shower every time.

He thought that being at Bobby’s would stop the avalanche of prohibited thoughts. That once there was a bit more space between you—other people around and open windows and air conditioner—he could go back to pretending that your strange confessions in the past few days hadn’t shattered all of his careful guards.

But it only took you flashing a smile across the dining table or your shape lounging by the bay window for all his pent-up frustration to claw at his throat. He was restless, fingers twitchy and temper irritable, his whiskey glass almost cracking under his hand when you strode down the stairs in a tiny skirt and a tight top, clearly not wearing a bra.

Before his head could explode, he grabbed a cold beer and dashed out the door and into the salvage yard, Baby’s keys in one hand and his crumbling sanity in the other.

He’d been at it for hours, tinkering here and there with the Impala’s undercarriage, the old car creeper he’d stolen from Bobby’s garage stiff and bumpy under him. He welcomed the distraction.

There was nothing to fix, really. Baby wasn’t up for an inspection for quite a while, and Dean knew exactly when she needed work done. She was golden.

Still, he fidgeted with the exhaust and turned a few screws uselessly, stalling. The sun beat down on him, his shirt was stained with oil and sweat, his vision was getting splotchy. The smell of metal and dirt was comforting, familiar, manly. No soft vanilla or flowery shampoo. Just Dean and his life on the road, no space for anything else.

But being trapped under an engine only made the heat even worse, his throat closing up and his eyes stinging. He finally decided to slide out and into the fresh air, sitting up with a gasp as he reached for his beer, the condensation dripping from the bottle a small heaven.

He chugged the drink down and threw the bottle on the ground, wiping his forehead with the hem of his dirty shirt before dropping back down on the creeper, his eyes scanning his arid surroundings. Big mistake.

Because there, stepping out of the house to his right, were you. The stupid skirt left him as breathless as it did the first time, the little perk of your nipples under the soft fabric of your top still filling his mouth with saliva. There were two beers in your hands, your skin glistening as you stepped in the sunlight, Dean’s grip on the wrench tightened.

“Brought you some libation, so you don’t pass out under that thing.”

“Hey! Put some respect on her name.” Dean petted the underside of Baby, your laugh washing over him like a waterfall.

You reached his side and handed him one of the beers, the caps already off. He took a long swig of it, mostly to keep that syrupy tar from spilling. He was still lying on his back, with you towering over him. Dean focused on the sharp dig of metal against his spine and not the way he could almost, almost peep under your flowy skirt.

“What are you working on, anyway?”

He didn’t have a real answer, so he spit out some bullshit excuse full of technical words that he knew you wouldn’t really understand, hoping it was enough to keep you from asking more questions.

“Uhm—right…” You nodded, like you’d understood anything Dean had just said. It made him smile, how you always tried to pay attention even when the topic couldn’t bore you any more.

The two of you stayed there for a few more moments, sipping on your beers and letting the seconds trickle by. You swayed to a phantom tune in your head, Dean could nearly hear it. It was nice to know you could still have moments like this, when your minds swirled into one and you didn’t need words to communicate, like tuning into the same radio station.

If Dean was a little cheesier, he’d say you’re soulmates.

Because he’s Dean, he says you’re just trauma-bonded.

A small but glorious breeze glided between you, making your skirt and hair twirl and lifting Dean’s shirt halfway up his chest, his torn-up jeans laying low on his hips like a good mechanic.

Dean watched as your eyes caught the movement, drinking in the sight of golden skin and scar tissue. You ogled shamelessly, from the ridges of his ribs down to the V of his hipbones, licking your lips as you followed the trail of faint hair that disappeared down the waistband of his boxers, the elastic peaking out of his jeans slightly.

Too much, it was too much. Your teasing had made him reckless, this was his last straw.

“Take a picture, darlin’. It’ll last you longer.”

Instead of snapping back into yourself and running back into the house, you just hummed mindlessly, gaze slowly moving up to Dean’s face. Your cheeks were pink, it could be just the incandescence. The darkness of your eyes differed.

“Left my phone inside. Such a shame.” He wasn’t expecting that. He laughed hoarsely, trying to pass it off as a weird joke. Friends could joke like that, it wasn't that crazy. Your expression remained consuming. “You shouldn’t stay out here for too long, De. You’re gonna roast under all that metal.”

Dean thought you sounded hungry, he finished his beer in one go.

“Hey, it’s a good way to go.” He gave you one of those relaxed, I’m-not-freaking-out-you-are smirks. “I’ve always wanted to die under a hot girl or a cool car.”

Okay, he walked right into that one. He was trying, okay?

This time, you laughed. It was velvety, stickier than summer and more addictive than any adrenaline rush. Dean became a junkie after just one hit.

“Great philosophy, really.” You chugged half of your beer, stepped a little closer, stood with your legs parted. Dean kept his eyes firmly on your face. “Well, you can choose now. Which one will it be?”

For a second, Dean wondered if he’d drink more than he remembered. Only when he was really, really hammered did he daydreamed this vividly. But he’d barely had three beers today and half a glass of whiskey, he was nowhere near wasted.

His breath hitched, he gaped up at you. His brain racked for excuses, for another explanation to this that wasn’t your best friend who you’re inescapably in love with is making a move on you.

There wasn’t any. There’s only so much you can lie to yourself before the truth becomes imminent.

“I’m just a hardworking mechanic, ma’am. I’m trying to do my job here.” It was so easy, to just fall back into the playfulness that’s been dying to crawl out of his mouth and wrap all over you for years.

“Mhm.” You grinned foxily—which was new—and then stepped even closer, a foot on each side of his extended leg—which was even newer. You were still too far away for him to actually see anything, but the scene was still too familiar, from grainy videos in Sam’s laptop and raunchy magazines. Oh god. “I think I have a problem for you to check out, Mister Mechanic. Don’t worry, I can pay you well.”

You winked at him, and Dean’s breath grew ragged. The line of just-friends had started to blur long ago, but this was definitely stepping over it. He wanted it so badly, that was always a sign that it shouldn’t happen.

He tried to convince himself you were just joking around, making fun of his cliche porn indulgences, calling him out for being a little freak.

“You can’t just come into my workshop and demand to be served, ma’am. That’s no way to treat a humble, blue-collar man.”

Another one of those laughs, Dean relished in the ecstasy of it. “I think I know how this blue-collar man likes to be treated after all these years.”

His mouth was full of spit and tar, he swallowed it all down. It still spilled.

"You’re gonna let me take a look, then?”

Surely, this is where you drew the line. It was all fun and games up to here, just a little healthy flirting between best friends with a broken silent understandment—nothing unfixable.

This, this is where everything could go up in flames. Dean was delirious, frothing at the mouth and begging to be put down. To be woken up from this dream, to go back to when everything ached but was familiar, to have you snap his neck in mercy.

Instead, you drenched everything in kerosene.

With a wicked smirk that screamed danger, you crept higher up his body. Your foot resting between his legs moved and installed itself next to his shoulder, until you were completely straddling his frame, right over his head.

Shadows covered his face, the ruffles of your skirt fluttered, that musky smell of vanilla and salty skin enveloped him. Dean panicked.

There was no coming back from this. He wasn’t ready to ruin the best thing that had ever happened to him. He wasn’t sure this was even happening in the first place.

He shoved himself back under Baby, a yelp logged in the back of his throat, his eyes still shut closed even when all he could sense around him was rusty metal and motor oil.

That laugh again, vivid and electric, now muffled by the car shielding Dean from the demon that's taken the shape of his best friend.

“I thought I—I heard a rattle.” He’s not sure his words even reached you with how scattered they were. You sighed in delight.

“Of course, Mister Mechanic. I’ll stop bothering you.” You softly kicked his boot in goodbye, even that made Dean’s breath stutter. “Don’t stay here too long, or you’re actually going to faint.”

“Sure.” He sounded wrecked. Goddamnit he can be pathetic.

You giggled, this time tender and almost… enamored. Dean seriously needed to go see a shrink.

He listened closely as you walked away, waiting until the back door of Bobby’s house clicked shut before rushing out from under Baby. He got on his feet so fast that his head spinned, his vision blurring as he made his way between the maze of broken-down cars and hills of old tires.

He found a sun-bleached school bus that looked like it had been there for ages, big enough to conceal his form as he leaned against its side, fumbling at his belt with shaky hands.

He came a few minutes later, with his back against scalding, yellow-painted steel and his dick fisted furiously in his hand. He kicked dirt over his cum on the ground, still trying to catch his breath and process what the hell just happened.

His cock twitched at the memory of you climbing over him, he pulled his jeans back up and darted into the house, locking himself in his room until he was able to function again.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Dean had been able to bury the cum well-enough that day, but you’ve done irreparable damage to his desire’s grave. No matter how hard he scratches at the earth and tries to cover the bones, you’ve resuscitated something invincible.

He’s doomed, even more than before.

Because it’s not just desire anymore. Now it’s also a sunrise on the beach, quiet mornings in a suburban kitchen, soft kisses that promise more than just a good time. Now Dean wants more, he wants everything.

Oh, what have you done?

It was hard, moving on from that day. After a lot of self-reflection and many, many jerk-off sessions, he’d gotten to the conclusion that you were, indeed, flirting.

He knows, he knows. Give him a Nobel prize.

The knowledge is almost impossible to live with. He wants to put his head through the wall, he wants to scream until his lungs give in, he wants to kneel at your feet and ask you why.

Why now, why not before, why not never. Why when he was finally getting the hang of it, why when he had just gotten used to the ache of longing, why when he’d ultimately made his peace with never having you.

He didn’t know how to act after that, not when he was holding his guts inside his body with trembling hands and he didn’t know exactly what you needed. Because that’s the scariest part of all.

Just to what extent do you want him?

At first, he assumed you wanted the same he did at nineteen—to fool around.

Maybe you’re lonely. Dean hasn’t seen you leave the bar with anyone in months, hasn’t caught you sneaking out of your motel rooms, hasn’t heard you talking about that college boy you became friends with during your Hook Man case in Iowa.

Maybe you’re wired, and needy, and Dean is a safe choice. No awkward introductions or dangerous meetings. Just the pleasure of skin against skin and the haven of being with someone you know like the back of your hand.

Dean isn’t sure if he could handle casual, after all these years, after you’ve wiped away his dumbest tears and patched up his ugliest wounds. For once, Dean might not be able to muzzle the beast under his skin.

So he panicked, and tried to put some distance between the two of you. But his line of work doesn’t accept mental health leaves, and you were back in the Impala just a few days after. You didn’t mention Mister Mechanic again and Dean didn’t quite look you in the eye, but everything went virtually swimmingly, aside from Sammy’s occasional side-eyes.

Still, the taste of worry lingered on his tongue and the beast wailed with every glimpse of you in the rearview mirror. More if-only’s made it to the list.

If only he was a better man, maybe you’d want all of him.

If only the yellow-eyed demon had never existed—that one wasn’t new, but it always stung like it was.

If only you could love him, the way he loves you.

That one was the most terrifying of them all. It made Dean want to throw up all of his innards and flush them down the toilet. He wondered if he’d even be able to focus on the case with your face hovering over him flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked.

But then, incident four happened.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Dean was struggling with his necktie.

He fucking hated dressing up as FBI. Even the priest costume had been more comfortable than this cheap rental suit and too-small dress shoes. It was still way too hot for a suit jacket, and the white shirt buttoned all the way up made him feel like he was choking. The stupid tie wasn’t helping.

He stood in front of the mirror, clammy fingers tugging at the fabric fruitlessly. Dean had known how to tie a necktie since he was six, when Dad was too drunk or hungover to do it himself. By the time he’d gotten old enough to start wearing the disguises himself, he’d been pretty fucking good at it.

But his hands hadn’t stopped shaking since that day in the salvage yard, and he really, really didn’t want to go deal with useless small town sheriffs and sobbing widows. Especially not when you’d be staying behind, deciding to take over research while Sam and Dean collected as much information as they could on the five married men who’d shot themselves within the past week.

Sammy was out getting all of you some coffee, everyone exhausted after the drive all the way down to Berthoud, Colorado. So when the door creaked open, Dean scoffed without turning away from the closet mirror.

“I can’t tie this stupid thing, Sammy. C’mere and help me.”

He was expecting the ribbing chuckle that followed his words, but he didn’t expect it to be so high-pitched and lovely.

He spun around on his heels as the door closed, messy knot making the collar of his shirt pop around his neck, eyes wide as he took you in.

“Hello there, Agent Dracula.” You were leaning back on the wooden door, hands behind your back and a little smile on your face. You hadn’t been alone in the same room since Sioux Falls, Dean secretly started to pray to any deity that would listen.

“Hey.” He hoped he didn’t sound as sulky as he thought he did. “How did you get in?”

You stared at him for a few seconds, long lashes fluttering—and Dean wished he could turn back time and tell you that no, you were made for the desert. But once again, he was too late.

You chuckled, seemingly incredibly amused by a silent joke that Dean missed, and knocked your knuckles twice on the door behind you before walking toward him.

“Sammy gave me the second key, just in case.” Dean stayed frozen in place as you approached him, wondering if this is how deer felt when they heard the snap of the trigger. Your fingers latched onto his collar, and you grinned at him as you started to fix his tie.

“The little fucker told me nothin’.” Your fingers were swift and delicate as you twisted the navy blue fabric around them. Dean swallowed harshly, your thumb brushed against his Adam’s apple. “You should knock, y’know. I could’ve been changing.”

You hummed, your smile widening. Dean wanted to lick behind your teeth, he wanted to rip all of his out. “And we wouldn’t want me seeing that, would we?”

He didn’t dignify that with an answer. Whatever game you were playing, Dean knew he’d lose. He might as well give up now.

Of course, you couldn’t even give him that.

You finished with his necktie, adjusting it against the base of his throat before fixing his collar. You tugged on the fabric, hard, until his chest was almost pressed to yours and your faces were just inches apart.

“There you go, agent. Handsome and ready to go dazzle all those poor mourning widows.” You ran your hands across his shoulders and down his biceps, smoothing out the wrinkles of his button-up. Dean bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.

“What better pillow talk than all the gory details of your past husband’s suicide, am I right?” At least he could still joke. That was a relief. “You might wanna give that key back, so you don’t walk into one of my private investigation sessions.”

He wasn’t sure what he was looking for with that. He hadn’t brought back a girl in years, always keeping his encounters in dark alleyways or the chick’s home. Encounters which, he’d never admit, were starting to happen less and less.

It was hard, keeping your name off his tongue when all he could think about was you, even when he was balls-deep inside someone else. It had gotten him kicked out a few times, he never took it personal. It was all a distraction, one that was barely working now.

You frowned, your fingers around his arms twitching. Your eyes stayed fixated on his tie for a long moment before they flickered up to his, swirling with something that made the tar start to boil.

“You don’t need to do all that. You’re smart, you’ll find another way to make them talk.”

Your voice was too solemn for the comment to be brushed off as a joke. Sweat started to bead up on his hairline, he’d have to turn on the ceiling fan as soon as you left.

If you left. Dean wasn’t sure if he wanted you to.

“I thought I didn’t know how to read?”

You giggled, leaning closer until your bodies were flattened against each other and Dean could feel the warmth of your skin through your clothes.

“You can be an idiot sometimes. You can also be a genius when you want to.” Your breath brushed against his lips with every word, his lips parted on instinct. Another beat passed by, your hands slid up to cup the back of his neck. “Don’t fuck any widows, Winchester.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to.”

The words were barely audible, Dean tried to close the distance between you, hands wrapping around your waist. His lips just grazed yours before you tilted your head back, shaking it almost imperceptibly. He had to bite down the urge to whine.

He whispered your name, pained.

“Not now,” you whispered back. Outside the room, Baby’s engine roared before shutting down. You pulled him closer again, turning your face until your lips were pressed against his cheek, leaving a feathery kiss against his just-shaven skin. It was still sensitive, Dean exhaled harshly. “Just—come back to me tonight, mh?”

Before he could say anything, the door opened and you took a step back. His arms awkwardly stayed in the air long after you’d made your way to the door, still holding the shape of you. Sammy walked in after you beelined out of the room, giving him a suspicious look.

Dean was just as lost.

But one thing was for sure, whatever this was, it wasn’t casual. You were right, Dean could be smart when he wanted to, and he knew damn well you couldn’t fake that look in your eyes.

He came back that night, alone, as soon as interviews were over. Sammy was left behind getting copies of the mortuary reports and at least two ladies ended up alone and kindly rejected in their homes—all for you.

He knocked on your motel door, your pretty head popped up after a second. You quietly gave him an up and down look, eyes glistening under the streetlights as a satisfied beam made its way into your mouth.

“Good.” You nodded before winking at him, already retreating back inside your room. “Good night, De.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

And so that leaves him here, the morning after, lying shirtless on scratchy motel sheets and staring at the water-stained ceiling in search for answers. Sammy is deep asleep in the bed next to him, the kid’s soft, familiar snores doing nothing to keep Dean anchored in time.

He feels like a teenager, he feels a million years old. He wants to barge into your room and childishly demand an explanation, he wants to retire to a monk monastery and find divine wisdom. He wants to tear his own heart out and for you to keep it in a glass vial forever.

If-only’s start to spiral into maybe’s. Fears turn to hopes and hopes to fears. He tosses against the pillows and the cheap mattress springs dig into his back.

With an agonizing groan, he leaps out of bed.

His boots are still on his feet, of course, so it’s easy to pull on his dirty jeans and dart out of the motel room. The early morning sun welcomes him with a wave of warm air and a brief second of blindness, his skin already growing damp as he sits on the curb of the lonely parking lot.

He’s already reaching for a smoke before his vision even gets used to the sunlight, the torrid pavement burning his skin through thick denim. He blinks back white spots as he takes a long drag, letting the taste of tobacco erase the traces of angst clinging to the corners of his mouth.

The parking lot is almost empty, barely any cars waiting for their owners to be done with whatever they were doing on a Wednesday at eight in the morning inside a pay-by-the-hour motel. So when footsteps start to slowly get closer, light and measured, he knows exactly who it is. His eyes stay glued to a far away billboard with a generic anti-smoking slogan printed in the center.

The first thing he sees is your boots, stepping down the curb right next to him. Then your bare calves, miles of smooth skin, the muffled sound of fabric dropping. Purple-peppered knees bend as you lower yourself on his right side, that soft smell of sugar and sun-kissed skin mixing with marlboro and mildew. And then, when his eyes flicker just a little closer but not quite land on your shape, he sees white cotton and lacy edges.

He chokes on the smoke gliding up his throat.

“Jesus Christ.” He coughs, finally turning his head to take you in completely. A tiny cup of coffee held in your hands, thin white tank top hugging your bare chest, soft cotton panties, boots. Nothing else. “What the hell?”

“It’s hot as fuck.” You shrug, gazing toward the same billboard. You’d dropped one of the motel towels over the spot you’re sitting on, the fabric frayed but thick enough to keep your skin from burning in the concrete. “You’re naked too, you know?”

“I’m more modest than you, that’s for sure.”

With languid movements, you set the porcelain cup down between the two of you and reach for his cigarette, your fingers stroking over his as you steal it and press it against your mouth. Your eyes meet his as your lips wrap around the filter, just where Dean’s were a second ago.

“I was using that, you know?” Maybe one day he’ll be able to talk to you again without his voice failing him. You chuckle. “I could’ve just handed you a new one.”

“But where’s the fun in that?”

“Give it back.” You smile lazily, tilting your head and taking a long drag, goading. “Fucking—whatever.”

His hand fishes into his front pocket for the pack smokes. You lean closer, again, just enough for Dean to feel your skin reflecting the warmth of the sun. Your hand wraps around his thigh, making him halt. Delicate fingers pull the cig away from your perfect mouth, and suddenly your parted lips are brushing his.

“Stop being a baby. Open up if you want it so badly.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

His answer comes in smoke being blown into his mouth. He breathes it in, starving for the slightest taste of you between all the earthy bitterness.

“Why do you think?”

He’s way too dizzy to process the words, and it isn’t until you’ve pulled away enough for Dean to see your whole face that his brain starts to work again.

“Because you want me dead?”

You laugh, so fucking sweet and heavenly. Dean allows himself to revel in it this time.

“I love you, Dean. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” The way you’re looking at him makes him feel even more naked than he is. Dean stutters.

In concept, yes, he knows you love him. As a friend, as a partner, as family. In the lives you lead, there’s only so many people you can trust, and when you finally find them—yes, it’s easy to love them. Especially when the rest of the world is either too ignorant to feel real or too cruel to keep close.

“I know.” He gulps, the words stinging on his tongue. “I—I love you too.”

He’s said so very few times in his lifetime. Kneeling by your hospital bed after a rugaru left you bloody and with a raging concussion, on the phone the night Sammy left for Stanford and he got hammered by the seaside, the day Dad died. It was always secretive—with the shadow of sorrow hiding the severity of the words, protecting him from their consequences.

But here, when he’s shirtless under the brightest, hottest sun of the year, there’s nowhere to hide.

You drop the cigarette to the ground, cupping his cheek in your palm instead. Dean leans into the touch like a stray puppy, heart pounding against his ribcage.

“How do you love me?”

He murmurs your name dejectedly. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Please, Dean. I—” You take in a trembling breath, and for the first time, the confident mask you’ve been wearing since this whole thing started falters. “I need you to say it.”

“I love you more than anything. I love you like a best friend, I love you like family, I love you like a piece of myself. You’re part of me, darling. The better, lovelier part of me, the part I would go insane without. I love you like I dream of spending my last days on earth with you. I love you like I have never loved anyone before, and it scares the crap out of me. But fuck, I don’t care, because I fucking love you.”

Tears glint in the corner of your eyes. Before Dean can blow his brains out for making you cry, you lunge yourself into his lap, knees hitting the pavement on each side of his hips hard enough to scrape skin.

“Fuck, fuck.” You sound crazed as you cradle his face in your hands. Dean can barely follow what’s happening. “I love you too. I love you so fucking much, Dean. Goddamnit.”

Dean’s hands have barely landed on your thighs when you’re already engulfing his mouth with yours. It’s desperate, feral, long-awaited. Teeth clashing and hands groping, years and years of longing spilling from the seams and sealing the two of you together.

“What the fuck—” His words are licked away, he bites down on your tongue in retaliation. It only makes your hips grind down onto his. Instant karma. “—is happening?”

Your laughter this time is low and fevered. Dean’s hands can’t stop mapping all the exposed skin offered to him—calloused fingers wrapping around barely-clothed hipbones and slipping under flimsy fabric and drawing shapes against silky forearms. Your flesh dips under his fingertips, he finds scars he didn’t know of before, his mouth waters.

“I’m in love with you, Winchester. So in love I’m fucking dumb with it. That’s what’s happening.”

Dean drags you closer and drapes himself around you, arms encircling your middle and face buried in your hair, taking the moment in. Just a second to breathe, and make sure he isn’t dreaming.

“What changed your mind?”

You chew on his question, your hands doing some exploring of their own. His back pricks with the scorch of the sun and your adoring touch, your bodies stick together with sweat and Dean’s tar, now flowing freely from his chest and coating all of him.

“I’ve always loved you. I think I was born loving you.” Your nails trace every dip of his muscles. Dean flexes for you, you smack his shoulder with a giggle. He nuzzles his nose against the line of your jaw. “But when you used to flirt with me—well, you know your reputation, De.”

He does, he spent decades crafting it. He leaves a kiss on your cheek before pulling away enough to look into your eyes.

“It wasn’t like that, not with you. Maybe at first, but now… I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

“I know,” you whisper, your lips pressing against his in a chaste peck. “I know now.”

“How?”

It’s hard to focus on talking when you’re sitting on his lap in nothing but sheer undergarments, but his curiosity is slightly stronger than his craving.

“Do you remember that time Sam got cursed? The truth spell you tried to convince me was a contagious diarrhea curse?”

Dean remembers, unfortunately. Sammy couldn’t stop spitting out every thought that crossed his head, and Dean knew that if the kid was in the same room as you for even a second, his meticulously-concealed love would be bared before you quicker than Dean could knock his brother out.

So he’d made up a lame excuse as to why you shouldn’t go back to the motel until Dean had a cure, and prayed that taking Sam’s phone and locking him in their room would be enough to keep everything from falling apart.

Until a second ago, he was sure it had been.

“You’re a good liar, Winchester, but you can’t lie to me. I knew something was up.” Your hands find their way to his hair, Dean represses a grunt when you tug on it softly. “So I picked the lock to your motel door and had a very… insightful conversation with your brother.”

“You really took advantage of the poor kid, baby?”

The endearment brings a beautiful flush to your cheeks, he’s rewarded with another smoky kiss.

“He looked quite eager to share, actually. Told me all about you keeping a picture of me in your wallet and calling other girls my name.”

Dean plops his forehead down on your shoulder, groaning. “I’m gonna gut him.”

“No, you’re not.” You thumb at his sideburn. Dean grumbles unintelligibly against your skin, teeth grazing the spot right beside the strap of your top. “Because without him, we wouldn’t be here.”

He hums in the back of his throat, getting lost in the enchanting sensation of having you all around him. “What was all the torture about, then?”

“Well, I had to test you first. Make sure you actually feel the same way.” You drag him back by the hair, until your noses are brushing and Dean can count every mole in your face. “Because I love you so much it kills me, Dean. Does it kill you, too?”

Dean takes a slow breath, his arms tightening around you. “Not anymore.”

You kiss him again, this time slow and deep. No more rushing, no more fear. There’s nowhere to be, nothing to escape. For as long as you’re with him, sitting on his lap and holding his bleeding heart in your hands, never letting go—you’ll be okay.

“You know,” He sucks your lower lip into his mouth, you whine lowly. Dean should really get you off the dirty curb and into your room. “I demand a redo in the whole Mister Mechanic thing. That wasn’t fair.”

You giggle breathlessly, your clothed crotch rubbing against his lower stomach. Dean grips the back of your thighs hard enough to bruise. “I still can’t believe you freaked out so bad.”

“I can.” He leaves featherlike kisses down your neck, already obsessed with the way you squirm in his arms. “Look at you, of course I freaked out. Still, I’m ready for it now.”

“Calm down, cowboy. Patience is a virtue, and we have plenty of time for that.”

“Do we?” He reaches the hollow of your throat, lips sliding lower over your tanktop, the fabric now translucent and sticking to your skin with perspiration. “Because I might have a list of things I want to try.”

“Of course you do, horndog.” Your mouth hovers over his ear, making his eyes flutter shut. “We can try whatever you want. I’m yours, De. I’ve been yours for a while.”

“That’s a dangerous offer, baby girl.” His hands find your ass, fondling the tender flesh before he squeezes, making your pretty cunt grind against his torso again. “You’d really let me do anything I want to you?”

“It’s—A-ahh. It’s that 3W-gene. You could charm me into anything.”

Dean chuckles, low and husky, still guiding your hips down on his.

“You’re really obsessed with that.”

Your lips brush the shell of his ear, gnawing on his lobe before you whisper. “What can I say, I want my kids to have it. Though it’d be good to dial back on the bad luck.”

Dean’s brain stopped working after kids. Your kids, with his genes, because they’d be both your kids. You, carrying his baby. Him, putting a baby in you.

“That’s it.”

With a guttural growl, Dean jumps to his feet, taking you with him. You shriek when he throws you over his shoulder, nails clawing at his sides and feet flailing in the air. He smacks your ass once, a warning to stay still. You bite down on his lower back in revenge.

Thankfully, you’d left your room’s door open. Dean kicks it shut behind him and makes sure to lock it before he throws you onto the bed, crawling over your giggling form and shutting you up with his tongue.

Baby’s keys get thrown somewhere on the floor when he kicks off his jeans, Dean doesn’t bother picking them up. He doesn’t plan on leaving this room any time soon.

Suicidal husbands can wait, Dean’s been waiting for too damn long.

Now, when you whisper filthy words in his ear that make his cock weep, he doesn’t feel scared anymore.

The door he thought didn’t exist at all swings wide open, and Dean will never be terrified again for as long as you hold the key to it.

NOTES: this literally originated from me and my cousin talking about genetic mutations to adapt to different environments. you can tell why i'm a virgin loser. I MISS THIS FICTIONAL MAN SO BAD.

my classes have been cancelled because we're snowed in, so I had time to finish and edit this quicker than I expected. YAY!

anyway, thank you sm for reading, and I love you all!!! mwah<3

TAGS: @mostlymarvelgirl @pink-ghost666 @rafeskitty @otteropera @xoswiftieprincess @tinas111 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @losers-clvb @pieandflannel @southernimpala @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @that-stanford-girlie @immodestly-marina @angellust333 @cupidzbunny @scatorcciosbabe @angrydragon90 @urblondiebaby @fertilise-me @angelicjackles @fratbrochrisgf @deerplaygroundpoetsflowers13 @mfstargrll @stars4birdie @cccayliexx @madslxz @spaghettiwoes @crumpledroses @madyyyslovs<3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!!

iydiamartinx

TAKE HIM BACK TO EDEN III

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 9.1k synopsis: You accepted you would never be his first choice and after five years you decided enough was enough and decide to divorce Bruce. warning: Divorce, miscommunication, Bruce being emotionally constipated a/n: Alrighty part 3 done, part 4 should be the last one... most likely... hopefully.

lixzey

❝ doomsday is close at hand, i'll book the marching band... ❞

word count: 20,876

nezuscribe

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐦

pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader

summary: two years had passed since you first met gojo satoru, and it was two years of having an agonizingly one-sided crush on the white-haired genius. for the most part, you were okay with keeping it down and acting like the nights you spent fantasizing about what it would be like to be his were normal. you were fine keeping it hidden until something between the two of you shifts, and you're left wondering if this crush you have on him is truly as delirious as you think.

genre: 18+, nerdjo, slow burn, angst + happy ending (duh), fluff, eventual smut (nerdjo being a munch), some mention of insecurities but nothing major

word count: 33k (oops)

note: nerdjo bu set in oxford! art credit! @to00fu

jjk masterlist

It began at one of the English department get-togethers.

Two years ago, when you felt like you had to come to every single event in the hopes of striking expeditious luck at one of them. And it’s not that you particularly disliked these events, but they weren’t the first thing you’d think of when it came to how you’d prefer to spend your free time.

The weather was just getting chilly enough where you’d rather stay in your dorm and wrap yourself in three blankets and a sweater, and the year had been dragging on long enough where you’d rather just talk about the wonders of Shakespeare and his sonnets in the confines of your next research paper and not with academics who made you feel inferior.

You had been invited weeks in advance, and yet you still found yourself dreading being here, the more it led to it, and even more when you were in the thick of it. Awkward small-talk with students you’ve seen around briefly and stiff handshakes with male professors who think that they have better places to be were just mentally taxing, and you counted the seconds until it was all over.

Thankfully, it was busy enough that you could slip into the background without many people even noticing you were there, but not so crowded that you could just slip away entirely without somebody asking where the great Dr. Howard’s research assistant had gone. And anyways, it wasn’t too horrible. You had taken to silently recounting Othello in your mind moments before everything changed.

There was a small tap on your shoulder. It startled you at first, and you looked around in your small corner to see a man waiting patiently behind you, a sheepish look on his face as you tried to gather yourself up.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered, and you blinked out of your stupor as you tried to recall in your brain if you had met him before to save yourself from the embarrassment of him having to re-introduce himself, “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

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