#<- stone identity tag

[plushri-moved]

animanga blog: @springandchocolat / @hazzabeast is my cat

standard dni, no bigots

[blushedfemmes]

i wish people would stop making well-intentioned positivity posts for stone bottoms/pillow princesses that begin and end with scolding people for ‘not respecting our boundaries.’ like yeah it’s partly about boundaries but it’s way more about how sex- topping in particular- is viewed as labor, and therefore must be a reciprocal or somehow equal exchange. the same way one might talk about household chores. shit-talking pillow princesses is so common within sapphic spaces because it is perceived to be a MORAL stance. treating this problem as if it’s purely an interpersonal matter of respecting individual boundaries is not gonna get us anywhere.

sex is only work when it’s sex work. if you think topping is a chore, you shouldn’t be doing it. if a satisfying sexual encounter for you involves taking turns, or trading orgasms, or whatever, of course that’s completely fine and good! the problem arises when people assume that’s the default, natural, moral, correct or only way of having sex as a queer person. when people assume that it goes without saying. stone folks exist in defiance of that. and everyone benefits from shedding normative, restrictive ideas about sex. which, by the way, is a value-neutral 100% optional activity with infinite variations. we need to work on tearing down any moralizing about how it should be done, beyond risk-aware consent, which is really all that matters.

people feel justified in disregarding, mocking, belittling or shaming stone folks’ boundaries because they do not think those boundaries are morally or socially correct. i know these positivity posts mean well, but shouting ‘respect boundaries!!’ over and over is missing the bigger picture.

[screechingfromthevoid]

nothing (besides everyone ignoring Orym's deal) has made me angrier than watching Dorian keep up this facade. Dorian Storm has always been a type of mask he's worn. At first he called himself a liar because of it. The happy go lucky bard was a way of escaping for him. He was escaping Brontë so he created Dorian. He didn't believe he was Dorian. Until the Crown Keepers made Dorian real. And for a while, he really believed he was Dorian. That he has this new family and new life and he could be who he truly wanted to be.

And then his brother came back and made his problems Dorian's problems. Until he had to put Brontë back on. Because even if the Crown Keepers + Cyrus called him Dorian, he was Brontë. He had to be who his brother thought he was.

When Cyrus dies, the thread to Brontë had snapped. He was going to see Orym, back to the Bells Hells, back to Dorian Storm. But the foundation of Dorian had shattered. Dorian was created in order to run from his place in life, family, Cyrus. Now he was gone. The Crown Keepers had fallen apart. His friends fell through his fingers and he couldn't do anything to stop it. He was once ready to side with a betrayer god for these people and now they're in the wind.

So Dorian shows back up to Bells Hella and he's completely broken. The foundation of both of his lives has been thoroughly rocked. No brother. No Crown Keepers. The two things that forged Dorian Storm. He wears that mask so fucking well. Because he still wants to believe in it. He said it live on stage that he should "believe his own backstory". The one he made up. The one where he was a bard.

He wants to be Dorian so bad. He spends all his money on Orym, he spins the bottle so he can kiss his friends, he flirts, he blushes and giggles at compliments. Exactly how Dorian would, should.

But he wears the gold of the heir. He has a festering animosity inside his chest. He doesn't sleep. He's thinner than he was. He doesn't sleep. He sicks abominations after their creators. He talks to God's without an ounce of self preservation, daring them to strike him down. He does not acknowledge them as they taunt him.

The god of beauty and magic calls him beautiful and he does not smile.

[milfygerard]

but fr outside of my contracted madness i absolutely refuse to give joe alwyn gold rush like how is that song at all related to their relationship the lyrics clearly spell out a relationship that either never existed or only existed in implication and fantasies and maybe-maybe nots and its so bitter and yet desperately soft in the bridge where it almost projects a sense of envy, of wanting to be them as much as you want them. It continues an interesting oft ignored lyrical trend of taylor wanting just as much to be her lover as to have them, envying their easy charisma (you were flush with the currency of cool/i was always turning out my pockets) or quiet dignity (your integrity makes me seem small) dating back to her earliest songs (the kind of flawless i wish i could be). Theres a projected self hatred and yearning to be better that twists itself into both romantic and sexual lust for her partners thats so fascinating and speaks to how all of her songs regardless of who theyre about are also an act of self reflection on who she is and who she wishes to be.

[irrealisms]

every time I see a “it’s actually totally fine and nbd to have sex you don’t enjoy and are uncomfortable with because your partner wants it and you want them to be happy, as long as you’re giving uncoerced consent!” post I lose a month off my lifespan

[queerasiniloveyou]

Blade by Minnie Bruce Pratt

When you and I begin the drive south, it's déjà vu all over again, speeding down 1-95 with a husband, like twenty years ago and more, going home for the holiday. Except then, one child was tiny in a car crib, the other a toddler strapped straining in a car seat, and now they are grown. Except then, I was not with you. The son we are headed to see is about to host his first festive dinner with the woman who is now his honey. They live in neighboring apartments in a complex of red-brick buildings, like where I lived when I was first married to his father. By my son's backsteps I almost look for remnants of the daylilies I planted to try to make a home. As soon as you and I knew we were going to be together, you told me, "Now they are my children too, and I'm going to love them just that way." Today you joke with me that I'm bringing him home a drag stepdaddy, but you mean it.

The dinner is crowded with graduate students, most in their early twen-ties, a young queer studies crowd. We have silly dime store games as presents for our son and daughter-out-law, water pistols, bubble toys. In the brief space before dinner, I sit on the edge of your armchair, and then on your lap. Conversation is both crowded and quiet. It's impossible to tell what the other guests think about our presence there, living specimens of their theories, butch and femme, drag king and lesbian queen.

My son and his honey are in the kitchen. He mixes orange juice to stir into the creamed sweet potatoes. She takes a last look at the browning turkey. As I put my cornbread dressing on the table, young men and young women ceremoniously carry in their specialties: twice-baked potatoes, cranberry and walnut relish. Just as we all crowd to the table, someone brings the bulging turkey out, and places it at the head of the table, in front of a vacant chair. My son stands quietly in the kitchen, avoiding that place. His honey lays the carving knife down beside the bird and goes back in the kitchen. I run upstairs to the bathroom, wondering how they will solve this problem of author-ity, family, who is to head the table, who is to carve, who is to sit at the side. How to negotiate the metaphors of blade, flesh, commun-ion; mother, father, children; maleness, femaleness, domination, sub-mission. Are my son and this woman our children? Are they the parents of the others? Am I everyone's mother? And how can I be? Me who has just been making out with you by the stairs, not pure enough for a mother, too young in my flirtatiousness, and with the wrong husband.

When I return, everyone is seated but no one is at the head of the table. You are sitting to one side, next to an empty place and plate for me. But you have the blade in your hand and are slicing huge slabs of meat onto a platter. I begin to laugh. I say, "How did you end up with that?" And you say, "Don't even ask! I've never done this before in my life." But my son says, "It took a lot of courage to grasp that knife."

Minnie Bruce Pratt, “Blade” from S/He

[cerealbastard]

"The stone butch, finally, represents a mode of female masculinity that has been categorized as unreadable. For many feminist historians, the stone butch embodies the excesses and indeed the liabilities of a role-playing lesbian culture, and she resides within a form of false consciousness about her "true" lesbian desires. However, the stone butch is as legible as any other fixed set of sexual practices if we have a functional model of female masculinity. The stone butch refuses in a way to sublimate her masculinity and to channel it through any of the conventionalities of femininity.

In conclusion, the sexual discourse we have settled for is woefully inadequate when it comes to accounting for the myriad practices that fall beyond the purview of homo- and hetero-normativity. The development of a new sexual vocabulary and a radical sexual discourse is happening already in transgender communities, in sexual subcultures, in clubs, in zines, in queer spaces everywhere. Female masculinity within queer sexual discourse allows for the disruption of even flows between gender and anatomy, sexuality and identity, sexual practice and performativity. It reveals a variety of queer genders, such as stone butchness, that challenge once and for all the stability and accuracy of binary sex-gender systems. Because we tend to type nonconformist genders as pathology, it is easy to understand how the stone butch can be read simply as a sign of sexual dysfunction and gender dysphoria; indeed, stone butch does signify both dysfunction and dysphoria, but as I have claimed here, dysfunction and dysphoria actually become part and parcel of this complicated and fully actualized sexual identity. This is not to say that stone butch is forever annexed to loss and dissymmetry and disturbance, but these markers of trauma and melancholy do haunt the stone butch and mark her, and after all, even stone butches get the blues."

Jack Halbebrstam; "Lesbian Masculinity; Even Stone Butches Get the Blues"

[aenslem]

btw, I get that idea of Rubes mom being an ordinary woman is awesome, like anyone can be important for the world and all, but after everything that was shown to us, I waited for something... more

don't get me wrong, not everything should be 'big' event, but she was important just because Ruby wanted to know who she is, we as an audience have only that, we don't know her, but there are many kids out there who wanna know who their parents are, why only Rubes mom was that important that god of death wanted to know her name as well? what about father though

The woman herself did nothing but exist, the way everything around the mystery of her identity indicated that she was something big, the revelation did not match the mystery. That's what makes me like ??? ohkay... so that's it? don't get me wrong, in any other situation I would be more than happy to see ordinary people saving the day, Rose Tyler was an ordinary girl, but look at her. She became so important, important to the universe itself and us, an audience, and that's amazing, Jackie Tyler was an ordinary mom, but she could beat Sutekh's ass in a fight, not saying Ruby's mom had to do the same, the mom is not important herself at all as far as I am getting it, it was the fact that Ruby wanted to know who her mother is. Ordinary people were always there in doctor who, saving everyone, but this one feels off cos we do not have connection with the character.

I get the message, kinda? I am glad for some people it meant something, what about others though, who wants to watch a silly tv show where mysteries have some kind of answers, like me. or at least some hints indicating in what direction I should go to find the answer on my own.

Ruby's mom is just a tool. her being ordinary is not the problem, but the way it is presented for me as a viewer is a problem. You built up so much and then give us... poof. Ruby is just a girl, an ordinary girl that was important herself, I would be happy if she saved the day, and in some ways I can pretend she did, but honestly, the entire plan against Sutekh was planned offscreen and then Doctor kills Sutekh, so the only answer given to us is that the universe was saved because Sutekh waited to get the answer, cos Ruby wanted to know the answer, as if none other child on the planet Earth ever wanted to find their parents. She wanted to know the answer so much that god of death wanted it as well. And I did not even mention everything else surrounding Rubes yet. also making Ruby wanting to know identity of her mother is something I can relate to, but she also had a mother who cared for her, who loved her, who we have seen and I liked that character, but the idea of Ruby wanting to know identity of her biological mom saves the universe instead... not the mother herself. Bill saved the world with the love for her mother once, and I cared for everyone involved in that moment, because I have seen how important Bill's mom was for her, we hardly knew her, but we did have some connection with her through Bill, so the finale where she saves the world makes you feel something. That does not mean we had to know who Ruby's mom was, but whatever the show tried to show us was establishing something different from who the mother actually was. But you know what? RTD could show us a random woman who does something somewhere, a picture in the background, on tv, something, idk how it would fit the stories, but hints thrown about the woman here and there would be enough, I mean, if we saw Ruby;s mom at least once in some situation, would not you be more excited to get the answer and be like 'omg we have seen her in ep number n, that's her???' she is still an ordinary person, a no name, but we know her in some way already. but here it's like nobody out of nowhere, that's not how you make it work for the audience... A person hidden and pointing at Doctor did not make me connected with the character to care about them, but I was curious about who was that character, how they are connected to the Doctor, and why her existence is hidden for the god of death. And in the end, it was a random woman who had nothing to do with the Doctor, and her existence was important because a child she left wanted to find her, again, there are many children who want that as well, what makes this one stand out?

The way the mystery of Ruby's mom was presented felt like it has connection with the Doctor, and by the end you expect Doctor having to do something with it. The other fact is that there is god of death, who was always with the Tardis, which is fun, there are so many things happening in the past we find out only now, how fun is that we praise only some of the retcons here :)

So, we have god of death, what I get is that pup can kill all the living things in the universe, which means he can't kill what is already dead. So, I presume that he knows everything he killed, since he only wants to know one woman, which bugs me with Rube's mom here, because if the earth is dead then she is dead as well, which means Sutekh killed her and knows of her, maybe he can't indicate which dust was which person before and since Ruby is not dead and did not became dust he can't connect her mother to Ruby to know the answer lmao. I don't get why the answer was so important to the pup, though. But we will not pay attention to that, otherwise the show would not exist, and when it was that doctor who made much sense, it was always about feelings for me and emotions I experience watching the show.

Now, since we established some things above, the problem pup had was the mystery, not the person, so the answer to the mystery must be something as big to save a life in the entire universe, because the creature like Sutekh who can wipe out all the life was interested enough to get the answer. but also, the mystery must have connection to the doctor, cos the answer that Ruby's mom is important because Ruby wanted to know who she is has nothing to do with the main character of the show.

So, I wrote all of it because there is a character who actually fits the role of Ruby's mom the best in my opinion, maybe it's not as great as the answer we got is, maybe you will say there's a nostalgia whore speaking in me and I only need the old characters back and all

This character is important for the Doctor, can actually travel through time and space, the character was a mystery as well, this character is not alive, they exist between one heartbeat and another... and yes, that's Clara Oswald. hear me out

Clara was there as well as Sutekh in Doc's life for so long, she transcends through time and space, she has time travel machine as well, she can't be seen by Sutekh cos she is already dead, she is not part of his dead empire, she exists out of life and death rules, she is the mystery for Sutekh as well, you cannot kill her, she is not alive, you cannot find her, she also existed in every time Sutekh created Susans. That connection could explain obsession of Sutekh with getting an answer, that he risked everything he worked for - just to get that answer.

Also, while being a tiny blond - Ruby Sunday resembles Clara Oswald a lot, I won't start how and all, but in my opinion having a living child while being not dead/not alive fully (?) herself would be an amazing mystery to defeat death itself. And it would be so much better if Sutekh was defeated by Ruby not the Doctor, Ruby, the proof that life can exist in death, but also being connected to the Doctor. Being in his life all along and knowing that something's coming up and slowly giving hints through time and space so Doctor finds Ruby, but not actually telling him to not change the timeline and all, showing him that he should go and help her, that Ruby Sunday exists to save the life and Doctor is the one who should protect that life, that would be awesome. not the Doctor being life itself against god of death, but the protector of life.

But alas, we get what we get, thanks for coming to my ted talk

[j-psilas]

I'm going to throw a stone at a hornet's nest and say that the TERFs who like to claim Alison Bechdel as one of their own lack basic reading comprehension—and worse still, they lack shame.

There's an actual, honest-to-goodness, authentic, genuine strip of Dykes to Watch Out For in which Mo gets called out for her transphobia when she whines about sharing a restroom with a trans woman. Moreover, she then becomes the victim of bathroom policing herself, because butch women don't fit the cis-hetero-normative mold. It's all right there in the text, plain as day.

Just because Bechdel is a butch lesbian, and prefers that identity over "trans man" or "nonbinary," doesn't mean that she rejects the theory and rhetoric that produced those labels. That's child logic.

Cherry-picking her work to support their bigotry, just so they can claim lineage from a distinguished queer writer, is not only stupid and easily debunked, but it's deeply insulting. It betrays how little TERFs actually care about LGBTQ rights, feminism, or literature.

Any so-called "radfems" interacting with this post will be blocked—thereby cleaning up the "Alison Bechdel" tag for my browsing, so I don't have to wade through a bunch of bigotry every time I scroll through it. Thank you in advance. ❤️

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [1]

series masterlist part one -> minium || part two -> woad and weld

pairing: viking goap x fem! nun reader summary: you become the unlikely treasure of two vikings who raid your convent looking for gold w.c: 4.3k tags/warnings: religious themes (DLDR), minor suicidal ideation, mention of viking raids (slavery, violence, death), kidnapping, threats, dubcon bathing + touching, mean simon (ish), established goap, reader is underfed and beaten in the convent (corporal punishment), difficult travel, some food description

Near the coast the wind scratches at you when it blows, full of sand and salt.

Once, you'd imagined this as your calling; committed to asceticism, married to God, serving under the abbess. Enclosed, you find yourself stifled more than devoted, pressing your face to the stone barrier that blocks the convent from the outside world.

Isolation, never being quite full, the slow and steady stripping of your identity. This is your life - hollowed out, like meat sucked from a crab, cracked open and used and hollow.

You couldn't have predicted Christ to be such an inconsiderate husband.

"Girl!" the voice is the crack of a whip in empty air. You don't jump, but the hair on your body raises, the welts on your thighs sting.

"Yes, mother?" you put your chin down to your chest, turning, pressing your back to the wall. Demure, submissive, utterly devoid of fight. And still, her grip finds you hard as iron and rough as the rock you'd just been touching, pulling you hard enough to make your shoulder ache back toward the heavy wood doors of the dormitory.

"You shirk your duties again, child? Leave your sisters to pick up your slack?" you didn't mean to, truly. It's only that you ache so deeply you're afraid you might never recover from the feeling.

"Please forgive me, mother, I lost track of time," you murmur. Your uniform is damp from the spray outside, and you relish in the scent and feel of it. Freedom, that's what it is. "Allow me to make up for-"

"Hush!" spit touches your cheek. You don't wipe it away. "You'll finish the tapestry tonight. No matter how long it takes you."

Desperately, you wish for God to strike you down. If you're there, father. You close your eyes. Please, please kill me now.

He doesn't listen, and the abbess pushes you to supper.

Dark bread, boiled turnips, fish and wine. Average, filling, but you'd hoped for more of the crumbly white cheese from yesterdays supper.

You know not to complain. And truly, you are grateful. With your family, it had been gruel upon gruel, often bear, and rarely flavour. Salt kisses your tongue now, and the wine makes your sore muscles relax.

The monks have it harder; you'd visited them once as a girl with your father to pray, but there was still labour to be done here. Cooking was often your job, as was doing the washing and the tilling for the vegetable garden.

Today sister Colette had assigned you weaving so that you wouldn't be out of practice. The muscles in your back and fingers ached from it already, and dread made your stomach sour to the food you ate at the thought of more work.

Mealtimes were quiet, as required. The other women eat mousily, looking down at their plates and pulling their food apart into small little bites, trying to make it last. Obedience, poverty. How silly it was now that you'd dreamed of this.

"Sister?" a whisper, next to you. Margaret was almost a friend, too pious to really confide in but so kind it was impossible to ignore her. "What were you doing?"

"I felt compelled," you shrug, lips oily from the fish. "I felt confined."

"Oh sister," Margaret pushes her bottom lip out, dark eyebrows pulling up. "You should never feel confined here."

You knew, and yet you did. It was like living in a stone coffin. All the work felt pointless since your heart had strayed from God. Even now, touching Margaret's elbow to comfort her in her worry for you, you're sick to death of even clearing plates.

There was one secret they hadn't found. None of the sisters, not even the abbess, had found your secret booklet.

Paper was more valuable than gold since the church needed so much to copy and produce texts. The writing room at the very top of the convent, where you were so seldomly asked, was full of it and guarded by lock and key.

Over months, you'd scrounged, stealing enough to make a booklet. In it, you felt sustained. Free. Titillated, sometimes, when your hand found its way beneath your soft worn blanket under your shift and you drew indecent drawings of men coming to save you. Of the farmboys from your village.

They were nothing like real art, not so detailed, but they lit inside you a spark of life. Without them, you'd be snuffed out.

Candles line the hallway toward the workroom, where you'll likely spend the rest of the night. It's near the very entrance of the convent, so that visitors may see the sisters hard at work and find reason to donate.

Really, it's a temptation. Those massive doors, ready to open and let you free.

But what could you do, really? If God were a kind man and Christ a good husband, they'd turn you into a horse so that you might run, might feel your hooves beating the earth and the coarse air on your skin.

Regrettably human, you sit to work on the tapestry. Curse the abbess and let the holy father hear your thoughts. This is worse than hell, you think. Your fingers cramp and the chair is hard, flat wood. It's made to be uncomfortable on purpose, everything is. After you finish you only have a thin mattress to look forward to, even thoughts of drawing hunky carpenters doesn't draw you out of the misery that is embroidery in the dark.

Is this string strong enough to hold you, should you hang yourself? You're being dramatic, but you feel you've earned the right.

Footsteps walk down the hall towards you. They're sure, heavy. Maybe sister Catharine, tall and splendid, is coming to release you from torment?

"Hello," you say jovially. Please be sister Catharine.

"Look what we've got here, Ghost," it's a male voice. You freeze. The accent is unfamiliar. Had you missed the visit of a monk, an abbot, a priest? "Darlin' little lass, all by herself."

Shivers overtake you. It hurts to straighten from your hunched position, but you have to do it to see properly.

You come face to face with a skull, towering over you from the doorway.

A scream builds, filling your chest, hanging off the tip of your tongue.

Stopped only by the glint of candlelight against a blade, and the quickness of the another man reaching you.

You shake, all sound stuck in your throat, feeling arms as strong as petrified wood circle your arms and pull you toward the door. The pressure, the scrape of rock against your feet, it's unreal and barely registered against the terror that builds when you look to your left and see the skull, sewn into cloth, with the soft clank of bones hanging from his waist.

His eyes find yours, dead and mellow in the eyesockets, piercing through you. Blood rushes through your ears, deafening you, until you leave the room and reality sets in.

Devils, come to sack the convent.

Who will likely kill you and all your sisters. Even the abbess, with her punishment cane and severe face, doesn't deserve that.

You shriek, finding your voice, twisting like a cat in a bag. Their hands tighten against you, growling orders at you to be still, girl.

It's then that you hear the cries, the crashes. Sounds of chaos, a cacophony of harsh voices and the search of the convent. Some of the women weep, some pray, you scream.

"Hey!" Skull snaps, shaking you hard. "Behave and we won't kill you." You comprehend that, but the animal urge to struggle for your life still has a grip on you.

The other man twists towards you, lips snarling. "Ye want to die, then? I'm not opposed to slitting ye open throat to cunt, if that's what ye prefer."

You still, sag, mouth turning downwards in misery. Sweat sticks to your skin, from fear and exertion.

"Good girl," Skull says.

The nuns have been crowded back into the dining room, cowed and cowering, trembling lambs against the storm of awful armoured men ravaging the sanctity of the space.

Some have already found gold, crosses and busts of saints and reliquaries. The abbess weeps to see the bust of Mother Mary, thrown so roughly to the ground that baby Jesus snaps off.

You watch it all happening, eyes wide, shaking despite yourself. Adrenaline makes your legs cramp in their position, curled, back to back with another sister.

"Cap," a younger man runs up, hands full with an ornate chest. "What'cha think of this one?"

"Lookit this one," the man from earlier is giddy, slapping the young one on the back. He holds St Augustine, gilded in gold and jewels. "Not too shabby, eh, Gaz?"

"Not too shabby at all," Gaz grins back at him, turning towards the third man.

"Good job, boys," he says. He's mustached, tall, steadier and calmer than the rest. A leader, clearly.

It smells of smoke, or blood, but you can't see anyone bleeding.

Maybe that's their natural scent, violence clinging to them cloying like they'd bathed in it before coming.

"Soap," Gaz calls. He's run through the library, tossing shelves to the ground, taking one or two books. Walked through the dormitories, throwing open the chests at the ends of each bed. "Take a look at this one!"

A little booklet. Your booklet, tiny in the hand of the devil.

Anxiety crawls up your spine. There's no way they'd know it was yours, but you're still afraid of another kind of raiding, should they discover your sin.

The men laugh, looking with hungry eyes, glinting, mouths stretched and wet.

Look at the ground, be quiet, be still. You want to survive, you want to draw again and feel the air against your skin. You're scared of these men, huge and muscled as they are.

They wear furs, leather, clinking chainmail, wrapped shoes. Weapons hang by their sides and are clutched firmly in hands, though no nuns nor abbesses have been harmed.

Yet.

"Gold ain't the only treasure, eh?" Soap looks down at you while others use pillowcases for bags, stuffing their bounty inside with loud clangs.

His foot nudges your thigh, and you shift away as much as possible, still looking away, still scared.

Skull comes back. Soap calls him over and calls him Ghost, so you switch the name in your head.

Ghost is big, but he glides through the air.

"See that, Ghost?" Soap nudges him, the way he nudged you. Eyes crazed.

"Mm," Ghost grunts. He hasn't looted, not like the others. Just walked through the halls and gathered one or two other stray nuns shuddering in various corners. "You want 'er?"

You blanch, breath leaving you.

"Can we?" He looks back at you and leans down, thick fingers finding your chin, tilting your face up. "Pretty little hen, so scared, aren't ye?"

"Take 'er."

With Ghosts permission, Soap moves his fingers from your face to the meat of your arms, dragging you up, using your stupor to help him.

"Dinnae worry, hen, we'll take good care of ye," it's not reassuring. You think you feel your knees hitting each other from the force of your shaking. "Awe, don't cry."

Two rivers have sprouted form your eyes, tracking searing hot salt down your cheeks, hands twisting in your habit.

The men regroup. You were right about the mustached man being a leader, and learn his name is Price. He commands them like any armyman you've ever seen, clearly holds a lot of authority.

You're the only nun that's a part of the spoils.

The only one tied with coarse rope around the wrists, chafing, tossed between Soap and Gaz through the convent until you reach those big wooden doors.

Those doors you'd dreamed about opening, those doors that you dread opening now.

"Keep walking," Gaz says. He's mellower than the others, but you'd be a fool to underestimate him.

Or ask him for help.

Reality hasn't set. You're in purgatory, stumbling across the wet grass in just wool socks, growing wetter by the minute from mist and dew. The men hoot and cheer and clank their gold, throwing fists and weapons in the air.

A bloodless victory, unless they change their mind and decide to kill you.

Soap jumps, accidentally pulling you forward in a jerk that brings you to your knees. The tears come back, and the pebbles nearing the beach digging into your knees makes you sob.

"Careful!" Ghost barks. Behind you, he reaches under your armpits and helps you up. His hands are still rough, but he lets go of you quickly to yank the rope out of Soaps hands. It doesn't help that it's still near-pitch outside, not yet morning, hard to see.

"Ach," he rubs a hand behind his head, watching you cry and walk like a deadwoman. "Got a little over-excited, darlin. Forgive me."

"I'll be better to ye, don't worry," he falls in beside you, using a knuckle to brush away your tears.

When you reach the beach, you see a few boats, supplies, but that's all. No camp, nowhere to sleep. Did they jump straight from the boats, marching up the hill to the convent to pillage?

God, they're so big. Warriors. Why just you?

"Right," Price calls them to attention. You're stuck next to Ghost, sniffling, shivering a little, praying mentally for the first time in a long time. Dear God, please help me, please strike these men dead and let me run back up the hill.

You miss what Price says, whispering under your breath with your eyes closed and palms together until Ghost puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you forward again.

"Walk, then get on the boat," his voice is a growl.

"Dinnae worry," Soap chips in. "We brought meat."

They did - dried fish hangs like your laundry across each boats. The gold is loaded alongside you, stuffed to one side, and you're left trying to avoid the men tossing things in your direction.

Ghost ties your wrists to a wooden loop on the side of the boat.

It was built for this. For prisoners, slaves, taken in conquest.

"Ready?"

"Ready!"

Price shouts, the men answer. It's loud, a cacophony of voices and waves and the scrape of the boat against the sand.

You're going, going, gone. Floating. Adrift. Tied to the side of a viking ship with nothing but your thick, woolen habit and woolen socks. At least they provide some warmth, the air colder over the water.

Eyes look you up and down, not just from the two that took you. Gaz smiles to himself and punches Soap in the thigh, then they play wrestle.

You wonder what will happen to you- are you being taken as a slave? A prize?

The positive side to your time spend as a nun is that you know how to work, and you know that if something awful happens, you could find a way to meet God early and put yourself down.

Blood rushes in your ears again.

You register from somewhere outside of yourself that you're panicking again, caught wanting to run and having nowhere to do it. Tied down.

A hand touches your nape, and you turn with wild eyes and desperation all over your face to Ghost.

"Take a breath," he says, low enough that only you hear it, firm and commanding. "In and out, girl. Do it."

You do, if only to save yourself passing out. In and out, in and out, you breathe.

"That's it," he leans down, brown eyes finding yours. The skull is bleached yellow, old, but you try to ignore it. "You're alright."

"No I'm not," you shock the both of you by speaking, voice high and wavering. "I'm not, you're going to kill me or worse-"

"You think we'd take you just to kill you?"

"You're a heathen, aren't you?" you gasp again, wiping your face on the fabric of your sleeves. "Sister Catharine says heathens sacrifice virgins. Please don't."

He startles you by laughing, a ragged thing ripped from his chest.

"Not gonna sacrifice you, lamb," his hand squeeze your nape, his thumb rubbing the edge of your jaw where he can reach. "Gonna be a long journey, you'd better settle now."

It's hell. You were mistaken before, and you'd do anything now to go back to embroidery. You'd let the abbess cane you bloody, you'd kneel and pray with the passion of Christ himself if it meant you could come off the boat.

The boat, the men. The godforsaken fish, too-salty, not much better than the biscuits Soap insists on feeding you by hand.

"Your hands are tied, pretty lamb, how are ye gonna feed yourself?" He breaks it up, wiping crumbs from your cheeks.

You hope Ghost will step in, but he doesn't. He watches, a specter, still wearing that mask on his face. You wonder if it's because of you, or if he's just like that. Private, hidden. Intimidating.

"Open wide," Soap seems fond of holding your face, squishing your cheeks and puckering your lips. He's extra zealous since catching a sea-bird, keen on making you taste it.

The thought makes your stomach roil, despite being sick of the fish and biscuits. You turn your face, trying to avoid him, whimpering when he squeezes a little too hard.

"Come on, hen," he leans closer. "Fresh meat is good, no?"

"Johnny", Ghost saves you again, finally. Pulls on Johnny's shirt until he's sitting back on his heels. "Let her be."

"Awe, just wanna giv'er my catch, Si," if a heathenish, kidnapping devil could whine and pout like a child, it would look like this.

Horrific, is what it is. You tuck your face into your elbow and close your eyes.

You've been doing that most of the journey, closing your eyes and breathing deeply like Ghost taught you. Or Simon, what you've heard Johnny calling him.

Dread sneaks in every once in a while, wakes you up from fitful sleeps or seizes your ability to speak. Nobody else has spoken to you, not even Gaz who keeps glancing at you. Nobody but Simon and Johnny.

"Here," Simon says. You look up.

In his hand, an apple. Your eyes go wide, prickling, and you look even further up to him.

His eyes reveal nothing. Brown, flat.

"For me?" you ask.

"You see me offering it to anyone else?" from the corner of your eye, Soap is staring at you, smiling.

"I can have it?" an apple. You could dance. Days and days of travel after living in the same town and then the same convent to taken by force on a boar. An apple.

"Take it before I give it to Johnny," he grunts.

Suddenly, you feel a kinship with Eve.

Seasickness luckily doesn't affect you, and the melancholy is kept at bay by the apple. You think of it when you think you can't take anymore, remembering it's sweetness.

Simon becomes the safest person, and often if you feel scared your eyes find him.

When a minor storm rocks the boat, pelting rain, waves beating against the front, you tuck yourself close to his side and let Johnny take your hands into his.

Too easy to lean into them, to accept Johnny wiping your face gently with a cloth and eat fresh fish from Simons fingers. You're exhausted, and Simon doesn't push.

He just remains steadfast against chaos, even when Johnny fights with another one of the men and he has to pull them apart by their shirts.

"Si'down!" he barks, the loudest you've ever heard him. It makes you flinch, hiding again, until he sits heavily down beside you and you scoot as close as possible again.

"Not the smartest, are you?" he looks down. That hurts. You're just scared, is all. "Doesn't matter who's there, you'd cling right to them, wouldn't you?"

No, you want to say. But you just hide your face in your arms and cry again. You want to tell him the apple was special, that you know nobody else has one or got one, but you don't.

Your heart beats hard against your ribcage, that dread coming back again, feeling heavy and small under the weight of your predicament and his judgment.

"He didnae mean it," Johnny croons. He strokes your hair away from your face, thumbs finding your tense brows and smoothing them out. "We know you're a good girl. S'why we took ye."

You sniffle. The rocking of the boat has become both maddening and soothing.

You wonder when this journey will end.

Your clothes are stiff with salt, wetted and dried and re-wetted. Your skin itches, wrists burning, welts unhealed from before when the abbess has caught you sneaking mead.

She had accused you of indulgence, of trying to get drunk. Truthfully, you'd just liked the taste of honey and missed it.

Nuns didn't eat honey, at least not there. Cheese and wine were already over the top, God forbid anyone ate anything sweet. That's why you loved the apple, had held each bite long on your tongue, letting the sugars sit there a moment to savor them.

"Hey," someone nudges you, bringing you out of your half-sleep. Easier to be less conscious, less aware, trying not to feel your anguish and your physical pain. "Come on, get up. We're here."

"Hmm?" You're so tired, hissing and whimpering when your wrists are jostled.

Untied. They're being untired. Your head lifts too quickly, making you dizzy. Gaz is squatting in front of you, holding your leash.

"You awake?" he squints, tilting his head. "You look rough, sorry 'bout that. You good to stand?"

Too many questions. You're forced to lean on him heavily to try to stand. He's as solid as the others, just leaner. Kinder, honestly, as he mostly carries you off the longboat.

Muscles like a new foal, you take a seat on the soft wet sand and slump onto a crate. It's a struggle to walk on solid ground.

Men move around you, dumping and lifting and talking. Less excited than the last time they were on the beach, but there's still a buzz aflutter.

"Can I bring'er up?" Johnny is looking at you, his hand on Simon's forearm. Their affection is the quiet kind, something you only noticed the last couple days of the journey. Small touches, murmurs.

"Go ahead," Simon touches him back, moving towards Price when Johnny comes towards you.

"Awe, lamb," he coos, hauling you up with an arm around his shoulder. His other arm goes to hold your waist, squeezing. "Dinnae worry, I'll get ye in a bath soon 'nough."

He's not lying - after a painful, difficult walk, you make it to a wooden cabin. Looking around, there are a few of similar make, a little town.

"Go on in then, sweet hen," he pushes you just enough for you to shuffle your feet in the door.

Modest wooden furniture greets you, a one-room house with a large bed, fireplace, and table. The rest is beyond you once you spot the tub.

"Sit, let me get it ready for ye."

You nearly fall asleep, or maybe you do, because when you open your eyes Johnny has steaming water filled to halfway in the tub, wooden slats fragrant. He's crumbling a dried flower in as well, humming to himself.

"Alright, s'ready," he helps you up again. Modesty is forgotten, you're too tired and weary to care when he slips the woolen habit off and leaves you in a plain shift, finally untying your wrists. "Pretty girl." He says it under his breath, like he can't help it.

The water is better than the apple. You hiss when it touches your wounds, your sore muscles.

You're tired to your marrow, could weep about it, eyes still opening and closing. Around you, Johnny searches through various bags and chests until he finds a bar of soap.

The soap is better than the water.

"Feels good?" he whispers, dipping his hands in and lathering up. How he's up and about, you have no idea. Even his hands near your bare breasts don't phase you - that's how wiped you are.

"S'good," you mumble. "Thought I ws'gonna die."

"We wouldn't've let that happen, sweet girl. Too precious, our treasure," a kiss, on your shoulder. He rubs the soap on your skin, your arms and down to your fingers, washing them each one by one.

"N'ver want to do that again," and then, because you forget he's your captor. "Please."

The attention is soft, patient. The soap washes away salt and dirt and sweat, even tears when he wipes your face with a rag. This is a second baptism, a better one, with gentle hands massaging your scalp and the barest brush against your nipples.

"Sit up," he pushes you forward, rinses your hair, washes your back while you're there.

The rag swipes over your cunt when he gets there, once, twice, eyes boring into you. Your exhaustion mutes the squeeze of anxiety in your chest, closing your eyes to avoid his gaze.

"Right, all done," he helps you back out and into a long, thin shift.

The bed is soft, so soft, covered in furs and actually stuffed enough to cradle your body. You sink into it immediately, just barely registering the door opening again.

"She asleep?" It's Simon, carrying luggage.

"Aye," Johnny says. You hear them kiss, wondering if they think you're asleep. "Anything else?"

"No," he's gruff, to-the-point. Drops bags in the corner with a clank and a chest by the door with a thud. "She give you trouble?"

"Sweet as a lamb, our girl," he sounds proud.

You open your eyes, one last attempt at self-preservation, and see them looking down at you.

Simon swipes a thumb over your cheek, under your eye, still wearing the skull.

"It's alright, go to sleep," he murmurs. Johnny leans his head on Simons shoulder. "Perfect girl, knew we did good takin' you."

[iniquitousyearning]

tom riddle. | this is your punishment

PAIRING: tom riddle x fem!reader

SUMMARY: prefect tom riddle catches you breaking the rules again, and this time decides to provide a different type of punishment he’s certain you won’t soon forget.

WORD COUNT: 4.7k

TAGS: 18+, SMUT MDNI, dubcon (entirely consensual), dom!tom, brat!reader, BDSM (light), intense humiliation kink, sexual punishment/ forced orgasm, inappropriate use of magic/spells, clit-stim orgasm, begging.

You had thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes to dance with disaster. Thirty minutes to dodge destruction. Thirty minutes to descend into the depths of the library, infiltrate the restricted section, slip the book on occlumency you clandestinely borrowed back into its rightful place, and ascend back to your dormitory before the harbinger of your nightmares—Head Prefect Tom Riddle—emerges from the prefects' bathroom and winds his way back down to the dungeons.

Thirty minutes felt like both an eternity and a heartbeat. The weight of impending doom pressing down on your chest as you crept through the darkened corridors, each shadow a lurking menace, each creak of the ancient floorboards a deafening scream that could betray your presence.

And though the stakes were disastrously high, you weren't entirely worried; you knew Tom Riddle's schedule as intimately as the lines on your palm, and he was nothing if not a creature of habit. But of course, there was always the chance. The slim, terrifying possibility that he might deviate from his usual routine. And being caught by him was the absolute last thing you needed right now.

Every second felt like a blade poised above your head, ready to drop at the slightest misstep. It was no secret that Tom Riddle had it out for you. By now, it was practically etched into the very stones of Hogwarts, a fact as immutable as gravity. Everywhere you went, every step you took, he was always there—watching, waiting, eager to catch you in some transgression.

The relentless scrutiny was exhausting. The number of detentions you'd served was staggering, the punishments you'd endured endless. Not to mention the droning, entirely condescending lectures and disappointed yet gleeful stares he always made sure to give you as he personally hauled you to Dumbledores office.

It was all bullshit, and certainly had nothing to do with your frequent rule-breaking or constant sneaking around. No, of course not. You most definitely never toed the line. You were as innocent as they come. As pure as the driven snow. In your mind it all boiled down to the fact that Tom Riddle had it out for you, plain and fucking simple. A personal vendetta written into the fabrication of his identity.

Because even if he did. Even if he did somehow manage to track you and uncover your clandestine activities by just being the perceptive cunning bastard that he is, there are certain things that simply defy logic. Some occurrences that just don't add up.

There are just some instances that can't be explained, save for the simplest conclusion: Tom Riddle has been inside your mind for months.

And that was precisely why you sought out the book on Occlumency—you needed it. Needed to learn how to block Tom out because if he wanted to play mind games, you were determined to play better. You were determined to keep up.

You knew Tom took pleasure in continually getting one step ahead of you, and as much as it utterly ticked you off—perhaps a twisted part of you enjoyed being caught by him—savoured the banter you shared including his threats that next time he'd take matters into his own hands, since even Dumbledore was growing tired of your antics. Perhaps you revelled in provoking him, in defying him like no other student dared, relishing the thrill of the chase.

Perhaps you simply loved to hate him. Because he was always so goddamn good at everything, always in control. It was maddening, intoxicating, and you couldn't deny the rush it gave you. His perfection was a thorn in your side, and yet, you craved it, sought it out like a moth to a flame, even if you'd never admit it.

Not to yourself, and most definitely not to him.

As the night droned on, you managed to make it to the library unscathed, slipping into the restricted section unseen. Everything was going according to plan, not a soul around to forsake you. And yet, just as you slipped the book back onto its origin shelf, you heard a distant yet distinct voice, accompanied by the determined clacking of perfectly polished dress shoes.

"—ah, yes. I believe I informed him that I would have an answer by tomorrow evening."

That voice. You could never fucking mistake it.

"—well, yes, Mr.Riddle—but he said—"

"No matter." The footsteps ceased. "You'll both await my determination until tomorrow's eve. Continue pressing and I will see to make you wait two more."

The bile rose in your throat, threatening to spill over onto the floor beneath you. His arrogance had always been a towering monument, casting shadows that seemed to suffocate all reason. Sure, he was the brightest star in the firmament, undeniably brilliant with features rivaling the gods themselves—chiseled jawline, captivating dark eyes—practically born to bask in his own glory.

Yet, for all his outward perfection, his self-assurance bordered on the verge of the grotesque.

"—yes, o-of course, Mr. Riddle..." you stifled a distasteful scoff. You weren't sure how that individual was even standing with such lack of spine. "—t-thank you, sir."

You didn't stick around to hear a response or the lack thereof. The voices were far enough to keep you breathing but close enough to damn near make you faint because you knew he was most likely just outside the iron gates. You couldn't afford to ponder the improbability of his presence or the surrealness of your predicament. You had to move—deeper, further out of sight.

Which was going perfectly well until you rounded a corner with a little too much intensity and collided directly into a small round table. The sharp screech of wood against wood cutting through the thick silence like a blade, echoing ominously in the vast, dim library. Panic seized you, every nerve electrified, as if the table's cry had been your own.

And it was roughly ten devastating seconds after this that you heard the creak of the iron gates opening behind you, and those same polished footsteps drawing forward with haste.

Fucking hell.

You'd spent enough time in the Forbidden Forest to know how to keep your calm, to know how to effectively avoid being noticed—how to silence your footsteps and slip around obstacles without leaving a trace, how to mask your scent with earth and leaves, how to blend into the shadows to avoid becoming prey to the creatures that lurk in the depths. Yet, the only predator you'd never been able to successfully evade was the one you were currently running from.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

A shadow that clung to you, a hunter whose senses were always sharper, whose instincts were always keener. No matter how well you hid, he always seemed to find you, as if he could sense the very beat of your heart.

Tonight—to your naive surprise, was no different.

"Think you can hide from me, do you?" Tom's voice slithered through the narrow gap between the shelves, smooth and dark as midnight. "Not quite stealthy enough, I'm afraid."

You pressed your back against the cold wood, trying to steady your breathing, but his words seemed to wrap around your throat, squeezing the air out of your lungs and replacing it with something dizzying.

"Why don't you come out, little snake?" He purred, his footsteps drawing closer, each one a death knell. "We both know how this game ends."

Little snake. Two words that rooted you to the spot. It was impossible, inconceivable that he could know it was you. Yet the nickname, the venomous familiarity of it, left no room for doubt.

You slipped around the corner, the two of you making calculated moves like chess pieces. Your board was one of evasion, his one of domination. The gates were in clear view now as you paused to determine his position, silently mapping the space between here and there, certain that if you ran fast enough you could make it—if you moved quietly enough he wouldn't know which direction you were heading.

"You're only making this worse for yourself, darling." Arrogance so thick you weren't sure how he wasn't choking on it. And as much as you detested it, something about it sparked heat between your thighs. "You know I always win."

With the desperation of a cornered, wounded animal, you decided you were done playing and began making a silent yet brisk path toward the gates. You knew you could get about three shelves deep before you needed to take cover again. The silence was deafening, urging you to move faster.

And just as you were about to reach your next hiding spot, just about to duck back in between the shelves, a sudden sensation of pressure coiled around your ankle, cementing you to the spot.

"What the f-"

It was as if the very air had turned to iron, suffocating you with its weight. Your breath caught in your throat as you stared down, disbelief flooding your senses. The once innocuous carpet beneath your feet now glowed with enchantment, its fibres twisting and contorting, snaking around your ankles and climbing steadily up your calves.

"There she is." It was an echo from behind you, deep vocal inflection choking you with its pride. "Always so deliciously predictable.”

The fibres wound tightly around your upper calves, constricting tighter against your leggings as you squirmed, struggling to free yourself. Tom appeared beside you with a leisurely saunter, his smirk so smug it seemed almost tangible.

Your frustration bubbled over into a groan of disbelief. "You charmed the fucking carpet?"

"Of course," Tom replied. "Why do things the hard way when magic can do it for you?" He stepped closer, his eyes roaming over you, drinking in your entirety, running the tip of his wand up your arm. "You should know, little snake, I always find a way to catch my prey."

You watched as two dark eyes dipped low, lingering over the thickness of your thighs, fighting against the tendrils of the enchanted carpet that had now crawled tightly around them. You certainly felt like captured prey, tangled in a web of his making, awaiting his next move—and he certainly didn't miss how tantalizingly prepared for him you were, like a gift waiting to be unravelled.

"Impressive, Riddle—you've really outdone yourself this time," you spat the words through clenched teeth, fighting the urge to smack his wand away, battling the unwanted heat pooling in your core. It was the way he was looking at you. The way you wanted him to keep doing it. "Guess you can add 'carpet tamer' to your long list of accolades now, huh?"

Tom huffed, a glint of amusement dancing in his dark eyes as he forced them up to meet yours. The corners of his lips curled upward in a smirk, every pore radiating control. He looked at you as though you were a puzzle he had already solved, a game he had already won.

"Now now, darling, no need to be so dramatic." His free hand reached up and grasped your jaw, kinking your neck back as he stepped closer to you. "Though, I think 'little fucking brat tamer' might be the more notable achievement to add to the list."

Your stomach leapt, your teeth sinking into your tongue for a moment as you fought to gather your sanity. Your defiance was draining like sand in an hourglass.

"Hm." You huffed, the grip on your jaw firm as steel. "Quite the mouthful."

"So I've been told," he shot back, his eyes glinting like shards of glass under the dim light. "You'd know all about mouthfuls, wouldn't you?"

"You fucking wish." You hoped he did.

His smirk deepened, his fingers digging into your skin like iron claws. You could tell he was amused by you, as though you'd just delivered the punchline of the century, as though you were the world's most revered stand-up comedian. It was maddeningly infuriating and dangerously captivating all at once.

"Still wielding that weapon of a tongue, even when you've so clearly lost." He remarked with a click of his own tongue, releasing his grip on your jaw. Stepping back, his eyes devoured the sight of his spell tangled around your thighs. You caught the tension in his jaw before his eyes snapped back to yours. "Tell me, little snake, do you know why I admire this spell so much?"

Your gaze remained fixed on him, anticipation crawling over your skin like a colony of ants as he scrutinized you. You offer him a shake of your head, a scowl etched deep on your features. "Can't read your mind, Riddle. Not everyone is a skilled Legilimens like yourself."

Tom's chuckle rang out, swallowed by the thick tension in the air, suffusing the oxygen you desperately tried to gulp down. He moved to circle you, and you felt his presence looming behind you, his body brushing against yours like a whisper in the wind. One hand found your hip, however softly, as though he was reluctant to touch you.

"It's a very versatile spell, darling," he dismissed your sass, his voice stripped of all emotion as his lips hovered closer to your ear. "The best part being...I know exactly how to manipulate it to get you to listen."

Words withered on your tongue, attitude wilting in your lungs, and oxygen fleeing from your veins—never to return. Tom's looming presence behind you was enough to make your chest constrict, but his words—his words were a different beast altogether. In the countless times he's caught you, never once did you imagine yourself here, like this, with him.

And never once did you imagine yourself enjoying it this fucking much.

"One might describe it as remarkably adaptable, catering to a multitude of desires..." his hand floated away from your hip, his fingers subtly dancing—the coils responding to his ministrations and slithering higher up your thighs. "And you, little brat, have a plethora of desires at this moment, do you not?"

Your jaw nearly smacked the floor as you watched him command the spell without the aid of his wand. You felt your stomach twist into an iron knot, something heating your blood to flame. Perhaps you underestimated him, perhaps you-

"F-fuck-" you gasped as the charmed fibres slithered between your thighs, coiling higher and higher, wrapping around your waist and ensnaring your arms at your sides. The pressure on your cunt sent your head reeling, your entire body quivering. "Tom...what..."

You know Tom is just beaming with satisfaction, the tremor in your voice eliciting a low growl from deep within him as his hold on your hip resumes, his lips teasing the sensitive skin behind your ear.

"Speak up, little doll, articulate your thoughts," he murmured, his words dripping with cunning like poison. "I know you possess an abundance of them."

You suppress a groan, squirming in a futile attempt to free your wrists, to move against the relentless hold. The heat of Tom's presence behind you has your senses in a frenzy. Your head spinning, your body silently yearning for more. You despise how much you're enjoying this, whatever this even is.

You whimper, lids fluttering. "This...this isn't fair..."

"Neither is disobeying the rules every fucking chance you get—but here we are," his hand brushed against your thigh, fingertips barely grazing, his voice drifting further from your ear. "You should understand, this is all your own doing...the charm merely responds to your desires, adapting to fulfill them.”

That insufferable bastard. The list of descriptors you'd use to paint his portrait would stretch longer than the very library you're standing in, and then some. Every time you think you've unraveled his mysteries, he unveils another layer that exposes just how brilliantly twisted he truly is. How charming. How intoxicating.

You loathe him, relish in despising every fiber of his being. Yet you can't deny the fact that he outmaneuvered you, in the most tantalizing manner imaginable.

But still, you attempt to deny it. "That's...that's not..."

He muses. "Isn't it?"

Tom withdraws his hand from your thigh, and almost immediately, you ache for its return, the absence of his touch leaving you yearning. Caught off guard by the tendrils of the charm exerting pressure against your core, teasing over your clit, you squeeze your eyes shut, teeth sinking into your lip to stifle any sounds.

"It appears you have a penchant for challenging me..." his voice is a certain murmur. "It seems the charm knows precisely why.”

All the smugness of a deity himself, a walking, talking colossus among mere mortals. As inevitable as the sunrise each morning. It made you want to bare your teeth at him, but instead, all you could manage was a groan, struggling against the pleasure his charm inflicted upon you.

"I'm not quite certain what you would deem a fitting punishment..." he continues, voice as deep as the depths of your desire. As dark as an all encompassing black hole. "—given the countless ones you've endured in the past months, which have clearly taught you nothing."

You groan again, your head bowing as you gaze down at the tendrils of the enchantment, ensnaring you in the clutches of a man with teeth of diamonds, fingers like razor-sharp claws. It'd been a relentless dance of dominance between you for years, a battle of wills that always seems to end in his favor.

You despise how he effortlessly wields his power over you. How he has so easily read between the lines of your story—knowing precisely the effect he has on your body, knowing exactly what you crave.

You fight back a moan. "Mmmff—fuck..you..."

Tom maneuvers his mouth to your ear, his presence pressing against you from behind, the ghost of his breath caresses your skin as he whispers;

"You wish you could."

Beautiful, insufferable bastard.

"Fuck," you huff through gritted teeth, sweat gathering behind your neck, fingernails biting into your palms as you clench your fists, still battling against the overwhelming pleasure. "Get out of my head.."

You feel a low chuckle resonate against your back, its vibrations stirring something primal within you, his fingers grazing against your side.

"Do you truly believe this is mere manipulation, little snake?" Tom's touch begins to ascend, feather-light and elusive, barely registering against your clothes as he presses closer behind you. "I am intimately acquainted with your desires, darling. I've been privy to them for months." You can almost taste the smugness in his voice. "The truth is fairly simple—you crave me, and you despise yourself for it."

Tom takes a deliberate step back, circling around to stand before you, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled form. Your breath comes in rapid gasps, your skin flushed with desire, and you find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from him. You yearn for more of him, yet you resist acknowledging it, even to yourself.

It's as though he can see your thoughts, his eyes darkening as he drinks you in. "You'd go to any lengths to avoid admitting it, wouldn't you?"

"Gods—" he's right, and you hate him for it. “Mmmf.”

Tom hums softly, his lips barely suppressing a smirk as he steps closer to you. He reaches up, his fingertips brushing against your skin as he tilts your chin, compelling you to meet his gaze.

"How about we try a simple question?" His dark eyes bore into yours, their depths ablaze with a devilish glint. "Do you wish it to stop?"

You're rendered speechless. The egotistic side of you wants you to say yes—while the other, larger part is consumed with an insatiable hunger for more, for him. The charm swirls over your clit, applying increased pressure against your leggings, causing you to bite down on your bottom lip again to stifle a desperate moan. You couldn't answer him if you tried.

Tom's eyes roam over your face, not willing to miss a thing. "Use your words...tell me what you need..."

The sensation against your clit intensifies further, as if dancing to the rhythm of his words. You can feel his gaze boring into you as the heat between your thighs surges, and you realize you're on the brink of climax. And Tom knows it.

"Fuck..." your hips twitch involuntarily—torn between craving more friction and fleeing from it—your mind a whirlwind of uncertainty. Tom brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, his gaze fixed on his own movements, and you feel yourself unraveling, succumbing to the scorching intensity of his eyes—two dark pools of permanent ink. "Tom...please..."

His grip tightens. His jaw clenches. "Say it."

Shame courses through your veins, searing your skin like molten lava, the prickling sensation drowning you. You're on the verge of climaxing from an enchanted carpet, a manifestation of his spell, and the humiliation threatens to consume you.

"I need you-" you gasp, the words tumbling from your lips in a pitiful plea, desperation sinking its claws into your soul. So close...too close. "Please—please, I—I don't want to cum from this—I..."

Oh, but you do. You most certainly fucking do though the mere thought of admitting it feels like a dagger twisting in your gut. Tom's eyes glint with amusement, his head cocked slightly as he regards you with a faux expression of pity, as artificial as the plastic plants in the common room.

"I've truly made a mess of you, haven't I?" His hand glides down from your face, tracing a path along your neck, lightly grazing over your collarbone. "Tell me what you want from me."

Gods, you ache to strike him—yet crave to kiss him and cry out his name with equal fervour. Your defiance lies shattered, a broken relic at your feet.

You peer up at him, pleading. "Please, Tom, please touch me—I need you..."

A smirk toys at his lips, his fingers slipping under your jaw once more to hold you steady as he leans in closer.

"Touch you?" His voice is like a loaded gun, his fingers the bullets—intent cocked and ready to annihilate, but instead he taunts you, keeps you on edge, pressing the barrel against your temple just to see the look in your eyes. "You want me, the man you so madly fucking detest, to touch you."

You lack the strength to command him to go to hell, but oh, how you wish you did. Just to witness his reaction, to see what he’d do next. Despite his appalling self-assurance, you can see behind the mask—see how he is genuinely taken aback by your submission, as though he never expected you to surrender, to confess your desire for him.

"Tom, please..." you beg, trembling with anticipation, your impending climax a rapidly swelling tide. "I want you...I want you to make me cum—you-you win."

Tom pulls back from your ear to regard you, his gaze fully focused this time. He takes in the sight of you—trembling, panting, wide-eyed before him—his expression conveying complete contentment in simply observing you as you struggle to persuade him to touch you.

That familiar taunting grin lingers upon his lips, uncontainable, and you know he's relishing this moment far too much.

"I know," he says softly, his thumb tracing your jawline as his hand falls to your neck. "I always do, don't I, little doll..."

His voice drifts over you like smoke, thick and intoxicating, wrapping around you in a dizzying embrace. The intensity of the charm wavers slightly, granting you a momentary reprieve to catch your breath as Tom leans in, so close that you can feel his exhales caressing your lips. Your head spins, every sense overwhelmed by his presence.

"But you deserve this—" he continues, his voice a rumble like thunder through your veins. "—you deserve to be humiliated like this, to break for me without my hands ever touching you." His mouth hovers just millimeters from yours, taunting you with its nearness. "This is your punishment, little doll...and you're going to take it."

The pleasure between your thighs swells once more as the charm resumes its sinuous movements and you can't suppress the moan that escapes your lips, mingling with the groan of utter frustration. All you can do is stare at him.

Tom hums, amused. "Because you revel in it, don't you? Being a little disobedient brat..."

Your eyes glaze over, your pulse soaring as Tom's breath once again brushes against your parted lips. The ache for him is almost unbearable, as if he's injected something into your veins, rendering you unable to function without him. It's maddening, in the most exquisite way imaginable.

"You're-ohh-fuck.." your voice comes out as a moan, low and breathy, the words trailing off as the charm adds pressure to your clit, stars dancing at the edges of your vision. "Gods..."

"There we go, just as I like you,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing over your jaw. "Unable to unleash that pretty little mouth. Perfectly shattered for me."

You clench around nothing, yearning to scoff. "Mmmf—never..."

Tom chuckles at your feeble attempt at defiance, though the sound carries a hollow, half-hearted quality. You both know you've passed the point of return. His fingers trace along the edge of your jaw, until his palm cradles your face, his thumb brushing gently across your lips.

"Is that so?" He murmurs softly, his dark eyes locked onto yours. "Well then, go ahead...let that pretty mouth run wild...prove that your defiance is more than just an act..."

The way he wields his power has you teetering on the brink of madness, and you despise the fact that you've revelled in every torturous moment of it. You long to snap back, to wield your tongue, to curse him—anything to grasp onto even a shred of control. But every fucking word is a struggle, every moment not focused on your breathing is an achievement.

You squeeze your eyes shut, channeling all the energy you have left. "You...you're such an...arrogant—mmf—I...I hate you..."

"Mhm. You hate me." He cooes. "And yet, here you are..." his voice is as soft as feathers, as warm as the morning sun, the unmistakable taunt laced within. His thumb presses against your bottom lip, slipping between your teeth. "...falling apart for a mere spell, begging for me, for my touch..."

You feel Tom's thumb pressing against your tongue as you whimper. You attempt to speak, to convey something, but instead, you find yourself instinctively sucking lightly against his thumb in response.

"Mm." Tom's brow lifts slightly, amusement dancing in his eyes. He seems pleased with your reaction. "A much better use for that mouth."

You're beyond caring about the way he's taunting you, how he's systematically humiliated and debased you, stripping away every ounce of defiance without ever even touching your skin. Tremors wrack your body from the overwhelming sensations, rendering coherent thought nearly impossible.

Your head lolls to the side, constrained by his hand, as waves of pleasure crash over you, your climax approaching rapidly and dangerously.

"Fuck-I'm..." you manage to squeak, his thumb still nestled in your mouth. "Mmmf-"

Tom's eyes darken with satisfaction as he watches you unravel, his thumb pressing deeper into your mouth, a silent command for you to keep sucking. The enchantment continues its relentless assault—tightening around you, swirling over your clit and amplifying the pleasure until it's almost unbearable.

"Go on," he murmurs, his voice a blend of silk and steel. "Let go for me. Show me just how much you need this."

Your body trembles violently, your muscles tensing as the climax rips through you. You can't hold back the moan that escapes around his thumb, your entire being consumed by the intensity of the release that you've desperately fought off for so long. Tom's grip on your jaw tightens, keeping you in place, ensuring you can't escape the exquisite torment he's orchestrated.

"There it is," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "Perfectly broken, just for me."

Your eyes are squeezed shut so tightly it's almost painful, his thumb buried in your mouth muffling any sounds of pleasure that threaten to escape. The evidence of your desire pools between your thighs, your embarrassment stripping you raw as you slowly begin to return to reality, the spell gradually losing its grip around you.

You struggle to find your breath, your thoughts, your sanity, but Tom doesn't grant you much reprieve before he's tugging your head back towards his, forcing you to focus on him.

"You should see yourself." He withdraws his thumb from your mouth, trailing the remnants of saliva over your cheek as he assesses you. "You're a vision."

You try to summon the strength to argue, to reclaim some semblance of defiance, but the attempt dies in your throat, unable to comprehend the fact that those words sounded like a fucking compliment. Your body is trembling with the aftershocks of your climax, and you can only manage a soft whimper. He looks at you as if you are his masterpiece, perfectly crafted and beautifully ruined.

"Remember this, little snake," he whispers, his breath ghosting over your lips. "Remember how easily I can break you. How much you crave it."

You exhale slowly as you feel the charm dissipate, the carpet settling back into its rightful place at your feet. Tom's hand falls away from your face, but the tension between you remains palpable, neither of you daring to make a move.

"And as for the book," he adds, his eyes flashing to the bookshelf behind you, the one home to the Occlumency text you borrowed. "You may want to keep it. You're not nearly as skilled as you think you are."

And with that, he smooths out his uniform and strides past you without a second glance.

thank you to my babies @doremimosasol and @pizzaapeteer for proofreading this. means the world to me🖤

[nor-ay]

This is just me thinking about my last two-shot story. A little drabble.

So you head with everyone to the spire of all knowledge. Rolling eyes when White Lily Cookie and Pure Vanilla Cookie have their little moment when resolving the riddle that Towerkeeper Cookie gave you. So, when you are sleeping inside the Tower, you get this weird dream where you’re all spacey and dizzy and kinda like Alice in Wonderland, you follow this white bunny with blue ears to a room where there is a puppet identical to you. It has the same ornament in its head, just like you.

And from a distance, you hear Shadow Milk Cookie’s voice saying something you can’t really understand. So you ask him. “Would you please tell me, which way I should go from here? I want to return”

You can’t see him when he answers but his voice seems to be everywhere. “ Now now, return where, exactly? You came here yourself.” His giggles echo so loud that you have to cover your ears.

“No…I’m sure I followed a rabbit and ended up here.” You begin to doubt yourself, and everything is so dark yet so bright. You feel overwhelmed. Maybe you wanted to be here, you want him, right?

“Rabbit? What rabbit? I’m pretty sure that you want to be here! Mhm…well, since I’m such a thoughtful host, I’ll tell you what, relax, aaand…you’ll be back where you were, O-kay?”

…

When you wake up, feeling and probably looking stoned, you find the doll next to you.

Damn, I regret not putting this on the part two. I’m always a bit worried when writing dialogue because I’m afraid that I make him out of character. Anyway, you can’t tell me that Sadow Milk Cookie doesn’t like Alice in Wonderland. I know he does, trust he told me himself.

@average-crk-enjoyer you told me to tag you so here it is!

[overadores]

જ⁀➴°⋆ Love Me Like A Friend ୨ৎ Daniela Avanzini

“Every night you're sleeping in my bed”

“Every morning you're fucking with my head”

୨ৎ synopsis. When Katseye’s main dancer, Daniela Avanzini makes her debut, no one is aware of her secret friends-with-benefits arrangement with chart-topping producer and singer Y/N L/N—a relationship they’ve kept under wraps due to Daniela’s strict no-dating rule. However, as rumors circulate about Y/N’s supposed affairs with other women, and her enigmatic song lyrics appear to reflect Daniela’s mixed signals, tension starts to build. With public speculation intensifying and jealousy brewing behind closed doors, their closely guarded secret is on the verge of unraveling, compelling them to face what they truly mean to one another.

୨ৎ tags. fluff, crack, smau, little writing, friends with benefits, sexual jokes, mention of substance and alcohol, toxicity, red flags, tiny bit of angst, profanities, kys jokes, friends-lovers, suggestive themes.

୨ৎ pairing. daniela avanzini x producer!reader

୨ৎ guests. billie eilish. renee rapp. ph1 ( hwang intak ). enhypen ( lee heeseung ). katseye. other celebs.

"Every morning you love me like a friend"

୨ৎ status. ୨ৎ finished. (02-01-25)

୨ৎ author's note. This is an original work of smau, and is written for entertainment purposes only. Any names or characters, businesses or events or incidents, are fictitious and for the lore the place is going to be in Los Angeles. The characters identity have no relation to the actual persons/portrayers— and are solely based on the author's imagination. Don't bother looking at the timestaps 'cause it's not that important unless stated and also the face claim would be random masc peepz at pinterest so ctto. taglist is also open.

୨ৎ in queue never be the same - camila cabello, mgk; wicked games - kiana lede; into it - chase atlantic; echo - the marias; heaven - julia michaels; after hours - the weeknd; butterflies - denise julia; easy - haven, wild

୨ৎ profiles. gaybies pop dani-thology '25 pop dani-thology '25 2.0

୨ৎ chapters

01. hear me out

02. such a tease

03. win streak

04. spoil her too much

05. dropping by

06. my girl

07. stereotypical lesbian

08. any guess?

09. THE sabrina carpenter

10. GOT IT.

11. MIDNIGHT

12. in a relationship

13. lunch

14. jealous dani

15. infinity stones

16. just friends

17. lay low

18. surprise collaboration

19. perfect chemistry

20. are you even real?

21. can't with you

22. meet up again

23. short n' sweet

24. another pop base

25. jenna ortega

26. DANI OVULATING

27. are they dating?

28. TASTE MV

29. toxic

30. let her go

31. consecutive days

32. echo

33. its all over now

34. cure my boredom

35. simps in my tweets

36. pack it up

37. tsunami

38. is it really over?

39. make me fall in love again

40. dream

41. lovesick (the end!)

++ more chapters to come ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

taglist: @sunshinez4 @haerinkisser @altaroflux @kristalag@1luvkarina @p1hbrook @xochitlisbest @peanutbutterlover05 @goofymickeyr @ourlovesarang @meizinisnumberone @linnnsworld @bandaidss320 @meiphobic @yeetaberry127 @urmom2314 @chaepu @leotapes @gtfoiydlyj @ratzeye @cassiespoiler @wtfisthisnoclueman @bowforgodjihyo @skz-xii (taglist closed)

[queerasiniloveyou]

The Old Days by Minnie Bruce Pratt

"Standing in the pit of the auditorium, you are someone I don't know yet, handsome in silky shirt and tie, hair clipped close almost as skin on your fine-boned head. You read a story about bar raids in the '50s, a dawn scene on the street between a butch just released from jail and the woman who has waited for her, who now smooths her shirt and mourns the bloodstains that will never wash out. As you read, I am the woman who touches the shirt, startled to be so translated to a place I think I've never been.

Yet later I remember that when I got to the trailer she had already showered and changed out of her overalls. The plaid shirt, her favor- ite shirt he had slashed with his knife, was a heap on the bathroom floor. I thought then that he had raped her because she was a lesbian. But he raped her because she was also a butch, her cropped hair, her walk, three o'clock in the afternoon, taking out the garbage to the dumpster behind the 7-Eleven, finishing up her shift. I smoothed her shirt over my knees. I pinned the frayed plaid together. I hand-sewed with exquisite care until the colors matched again, trying to keep us together.

In the dim light of the auditorium, you see me standing in your past. Your message on my phone machine the next morning says, "So glad to see a femme from the old days." I write to correct you, to explain about my lesbian-feminist political coming-out. In return, your letter says, of me listening in the auditorium, "While I was reading, it was as if you were moving emotionally with me in the symmetry of a slow dance." I don't understand what you mean, me who begins to wander off in my own direction halfway through every dance with a lover, my attention and my confidence failing. I reply, dubiously, hopefully, "I have so much trouble following--perhaps I haven't had a skillful enough partner?"

When you come to visit me in D.C., we go to dance at the Phase. You have a pocketful of quarters and arrange for three slow Anita Bakers in a row. I am nervous and tentative for the first song and a half, you murmur endearments and instructions. Then suddenly I lean back in your arms, look into your eyes, and begin to move as if the dance is air I am flying into, or water I am swimming through, finally moving in my element. When we sit to drink Calistogas and lime with friends, you say, "I never thought I'd dance again with a femme lover in a bar like this, like the ones I came out into." Behind us the jukebox glows like a neon dream, and dykes at the green baize table are clunking their pool cues. I tell you about my first bar, in North Carolina, almost ten years after the Stonewall Rebellion in New York City, an uprising of lesbian and gay liberation that I had not yet heard of. At that bar we parked around the corner so the police wouldn't photograph our license plates. We had to sign a roster at the door because it was a "private club." Rumor was that the lists got handed over to the police. My friends taught me to give a fake name; sometimes I signed in as Susan B. Anthony. Everyone always turned around to see who was coming in when the door opened. Everyone knew about the second exit in the dance room, double doors onto the street just in case of a raid, which never came while I was there. You lean toward me, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up in the heat. You pull me into the hard circle of your arm and say, "Baby, no one knows about the second exit except someone from the old days."

Minnie Bruce Pratt "The Old Days" from S/He

[godmadeaterribleerror]

No More

Main Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, so much angst, hurt/comfort, small fluff at the end, pre-established relationship, past abusive/toxic relationship, soft Dean

Summary/Warnings: Some scars don't really fade. They just fester and rot, remaining unattended in your body because you can't really remember how to heal them.

And Dean can't fix this for you. But he can give you somewhere safe to fix yourself.

Author's Note: Request from an anon! This one's heavy guys. If you think that past abusive relationships might be a no go for you, make the right choice for yourself <3. If not, enjoy (?) the story.

Word Count: 4k

It had been a good hunt. An objectively good hunt. Done in two days, no bodies to burn or bury, an alright bar in the town, and Sam managing to get his own room because he’s sick of you trying to bang Dean in front of him.

“Hey, don’t blame my girl for how you’re always sticking your ass in our business-“

“We share a room, Dean!” Sam had said, half-throwing his hands in the air. “Where else am I supposed to stick my ass if not in our communal living space-“

Dean had snorted. “Communal living space? Dude, you sound like such a jackass-“

“Why, because I can use big words like space?”

“I- Watch it, Sammy-“

“I’ll watch it if you stop trying to fuck on my bed!”

They’d kept arguing. You’d remained silent, picking at the wood of the table and wondering if—should you actually attempt to—you could sink into Dean’s chest and just stay there for a while. It would be warm and solid, and probably not all that safe—that man got himself stabbed and shot a lot—but safer than being in you. Then your traitorous and useless body, made only to be snapped in half. It must have something written on it or in it, emit some kind of blacklight or stench that said weak. Dumb, weak little bitch, lucky to have this because you don’t deserve it. Couldn’t deserve it.

Better, you could turn to stone, right here in the booth. If you could do that, you’d never get another bruise on your throat or hear venomous words spat in your ear. Sam and Dean could leave you behind and never have to feel any guilt. Dean could stop having to pretend he likes you as more than a body, and pull away without beating himself up about abandoning you like a used and worn couch. 

Moth-eaten and stained, only still in the house because it feels wrong to throw it out. Because you have a little sentimentality for the couch when it was nice, before it had been beaten and abused and reduced to just a lumpen sack of feathers and cloth.

You don’t think that comparison is fair to the couch. 

At least the couch was once useful.

Because it had been a good hunt.

You were the problem.

You’d slipped and wavered and fallen. But the whole place had smelled like lavender soap, and it had carried you back to where that same smell had suffocated you. He had loved that smell, and said it made you seem prettier and softer than you were. 

This whole case had reeked of him. And you’d told yourself you’d be fine. That it was in the past, and he wasn’t supposed to have that kind of control over you anymore. That the world seems gray in that vamp nest, but it was winter, so that was to be expected. And when you’d been knocked flat on your back, you’d seen a crack in the ceiling—identical to the one that had been over his bed—but had been a coincidence. Ceilings cracked, and there were only so many patterns in the world.

And when a Vamp had wrapped its hand around your throat, that was just something that happened to hunters. You all got hurt and beaten and had close calls. That was the job. You’d faced worse than this. You’d faced blood coating your fingers and splattered on your face, guts pooling at your feet and long moments where you’d been sure no one would come and save you.

Dean had always saved you. Even before you’d started doing more—and then more and more and more, until it seemed pretty obvious you were dating and it was more exhausting to fight it than accept it—Dean had always been saving you. He’d had to do it today, yanking the Mare off your chest and cradling your head against his chest until you were breathing easily. 

Yet again, you’d been the problem. The hunt had been easy and simple, and you’d still fucked it because you sucked. You were dead-weight. You couldn’t stop feeling the hand around your throat—imprinted like a tattoo that made your words small and body smaller—and you couldn’t stop the weighed down feeling of hopelessness. Your brain stuck on a scratching loop around the Vamp’s hiss of dumb, annoying, weak little bitch, until you couldn’t manage to smile at anything at all.

It just made you feel worse, because Dean might be worried you don’t think he’s being funny. That whenever he makes truly horrible joke and you don’t giggle like a lovesick schoolgirl, it’s because he’s gone wrong.

He’s done nothing. You really hope he just gives up and tosses you aside, because he shouldn’t have to put up with worry about something so valueless. He’d find someone else. Someone better and more deserving. You’re just lucky he ever even looked at you, let alone bothered to try and stay. To try and be the hero that keeps rescuing the princess, even when the princess is just a peasant who can put on a show.

You’d tricked him into thinking you’re better than you are. Lied to him until you’d trapped him, and now he had to stay with you, because he’s a good man and you’re simply the fucking worst thing in the world to darken his path, and he’ll leave if he really saw you-

That’s not fair to Dean. He is a good man. Better than he was, by miles and stretches and eons, but that really just made it hurt more. Because Dean’s not him, but you’re still you. The same you who was weak, and stupid, and undeserving. That doesn’t change. It only grows now that you have someone you really don’t deserve. Someone who glows in the low light of the night, laughs in a way that fills the bar with life, and always touches you like he’d like to keep you.

You aren’t something that should be kept. But he’s doing it anyway.

And there’s some bile in your throat at the thought. And that’s just another way in which this—in which you—are horrible.

But the worst part was that things like this happened all the time, and you still weren’t strong enough to build an immunity. To just move on, like a big girl. To actually teach yourself that he was in the past, and this you—now, in the present, sitting with your smoking hot boyfriend’s arm around your shoulders—didn’t have any right to be afraid anymore.

“Are you feeling okay?” 

You blink at Dean as he guides you out of the bar, Sam walking a few feet ahead and the wind of the night is so cold-

Dean says your name, his brow furrowing in the way it does when he’s worried, and you give him your best, softest, most docile smile.

“Everything’s fine.” You say, and you can almost believe yourself. Your voice is gentle and small and doesn’t sound like you, but it’s the best way to end the questions. You’ll fold over. You’ll bend until you snap. And nobody needs to push you for that to happen. 

But Dean’s still frowning. “Are you sure? ‘Cause if you’re feeling well we can head back to the bunker tonight, and Sam won’t have to get his own room-“

“No, Dean, I’m-“

“Yeah, no, Dean.” Sam turns, shooting his brother a glare. “How would I get home?”

“You’re smart, Sammy, you’d figure it out-“

You tune out the rest of their fake-argument. You’re mostly listening to the wind. It’s loud, and strong, and cold. So cold, biting at your skin and making your joints stiff, but at least you can feel it. It’s not numbing, and it’s indifferent, and Sam and Dean don’t seem half as affected by it as you are, but they’re also not weak-

“C’mon,” Dean says your name, and you realize you’re moving again. That he’s guiding you into the shotgun seat, and a grumpy looking Sam is clambering into the back.

“Wait, why-“

“We’re dropping Sam off, then heading back.” Dean turns the engine on, his voice barely raising to match the rumble, and you’re not sure you heard him right.

“Why- I don’t-“

“I wanna go home.” Dean shrugs, and it’s too casual. “And Sammy’s a big boy, he’ll be fine without Mommy and Daddy watching him.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, built by Sam’s groan from behind you, and you can’t stop the words from slipping out. “I told you to stop calling us that.”

“Yeah, but you also told me that you were-“ Dean cuts himself off, shaking his head slightly and clearing his throat. “That you weren’t into car sex, and that ain’t ever stopped us-“

You cover his mouth with a hand—his shit-eating grin just as blinding in only his eyes—and Sam makes a fake gagging sound.

And you think Dean knows. That he’s realized that you’re just so tired and weak and useless, and he’s trying to work out if it’s worth keeping you around. If you’ll listen to him and do what he asks—and you will, you always will, not because of the threat of being left but because he’s Dean and he couldn’t lead you astray if he tried—or if he needs to leave you on the pavement to scrape yourself back together.

So you don’t fight him, or insist that Sam can have his privacy and sanity without getting another room or you and Dean leaving, because you don’t really want to be touched like that right now. You just drop Sam off at the motel, grab your bags, and slump back into the Impala’s bench as Sam and Dean exchange low words outside.

By the time Dean joins you, you’re half asleep. And you try to stay awake—to entertain him half as much as he entertains you—but he pulls you right into his side, lets your head rest on his shoulder, and Dean doesn’t smell like lavender. He smells like evergreen and apples, he’s warm when your ears are still a little numb from the cold, and when he starts to hum along to the low music, you’re gone. Everything fades, and it’s just the deep sound of Dean’s voice like a lullaby and a big, firm hand on your thigh that isn’t going to leave a bruise.

Maybe you don’t deserve a bruise. 

Maybe you don’t deserve anything. Maybe you’re lucky to be stuck in this bed with stinging marks around your throat, and a voice like nails on your ears sneering that you’re a weak little bitch. If you were stronger you’d fight back, but you’ve been broken in and can’t be put back together. If you were stronger, you’d scream for help, but you’re also so horribly you that you know nobody will ever come and save you.

Who would try to save you? Who could possibly care about something like you enough to bother and patch up you up, to take string to your skin and heart and organs and tie them back together? You’re not strong enough to make anything stick. You’re made of glass and linen, and any attempt to put you back together would be futile, because you’d probably just break further. Someone would have to be patient enough to pull you back together when you spooled apart, and warm enough to fuse and meld you in a way that wouldn’t shatter with one touch.

You don’t think a person like that would be real. And if they are, they wouldn’t want you.

Because they’d be strong, and you really are weak.

If you were strong, you would’ve left. But you’re still here in this freezing cold bed, staring at the crack on the ceiling.

And you don’t think you’ll ever be more than that. Not as another hand wraps around your throat—you don’t remember what you said, but you must have said something—and there’s a heavy weight on your chest and you can’t breathe-

“Breathe.” A deep voice that sounds like it cares says your name, and you listen. “It’s okay, you’re okay, just breathe for me.”

For him. There’s a hand on your head that’s combing through your hair and pressing you into a place that warm and solid and safe. You’re held steady by an arm around your waist, and it fits so well there. You don’t think it could hurt you if it tried.

He’d sounds kind and caring, and he’d said your name like you mattered, so you’ll try to breathe.

And you don’t remember how to do it for yourself yet, so—just for now, until you can teach yourself to do anything for you—you’ll breathe for him.

“There you go, baby,” the voice mutters, and when you make a weak, choked sound his body tenses, but he doesn’t push you away. “I know, but I’ve got you. Swear I’ve got you.”

He says he’s got you. Dean says he’sgot you.

And you believe him.

So you start to cry.

He’d never liked it when you cried. He’d said it was useless, and that the sound was annoying.

Dean just keeps holding you, and muttering soothing words in your ear until the tears stop flowing. He only keeps rubbing a circle on your back until your breathing slows, and you can lean back to meet his gaze.

He’s not angry. Just worried. 

You’re going to start crying again.

“Are,” you sniff, trying to pull yourself back together by force, and look around the dark space. “Are we still in the car?”

“Pulled over earlier.” He mutters, tracing his thumb over your cheekbone with a care you don’t deserve. “You started doing that tossing shit when you’re about to have a nightmare. Wanted to get ahead of it.”

You swallow. You’d made him pull over, and you had enough nightmares that he knew what one looked like, and you were just a burden and problem and he should just shove you out of the Impala and leave you to rot like carrion on the highway-

��Stop doin’ that.” Dean grunts, and you tense.

“I- I’m not-“

“You’re freakin’ out. You’re freakin’ me out.” Dean scans over your face, pulling you close until you’re half on his lap. “If you’re hurt, you know you gotta tell me, sweetheart. I’m not looking to do a zombie bite thing, where we get home and you start bleeding all over the floor. So tell me.” He takes a deep breath, and his exhale is warm over your lips. “Please tell me.”

You can’t tell him. You’re not ready for him to leave yet.

You drop your brow to Dean’s, taking low, slow breaths and shaking your head. “It’s okay-“

“It’s fucking not.” He snaps your name, his grip tightening slightly, and you flinch. “I- shit- did I hurt you-“

“No.” You mumble. “I’m just tired-“

“You’ve been sleeping for five hours. You’ll get another seven once we get goin’ again. But,” Dean narrows his eyes, even as his grip loosens once more. “We’re not getting back on the road until you answer me. What’s wrong.”

“I-“ You cut yourself off with a choked sound. He’s angry. You’d made him angry, and he won’t hurt you but if he did you’d deserve it-

You start crying again, and Dean’s eyes widen. This is it. He’s going to push you out the window and you’ll have to wander through the marshes until the mud just swallows you whole-

Dean pulls you fully into his lap, holding you there carefully and muttering in your ear with a care and reverence you don’t deserve.

“Fuck, baby, I’m sorry, fuck, please don’t cry-“

“No, it’s- I’m-“ You take a long, strangled breath, wrapping your arms around his torso until you’re sure you’re going to suffocate him. “It’s not you, Dean, I- It’s not your problem-“

“Fucking hell it’s not my problem.”

You shake your head, burying your face in the crook of his neck. Maybe you really could move in there, and nothing would ever hurt you again. “It’s- You don’t have to-“

“I do.” He mutters, guiding your head back to meet his gaze. He brushes the tears from your eyes. You don’t deserve this. “You’re hurtin’.”

It’s not a question, but you nod anyways. Holding a lie too long has never done you a favor before.

“Tell me how to fix it.”

“You- you can’t fix this,” you mumble, staring at the bridge of his nose. You aren’t worthy of looking him in the eyes. “It’s, it’s just me, Dean. I’m just like this.”

He frowns. “Like what?”

“Weak.” You whisper. “I- I risked the hunt, I always risk the hunt, and I’m not strong like you and Sam are, and I just wanna go home-“

“We’re going home, babygirl.” Dean’s voice is soft, and low, and cautious, and you let out another sob that shakes your whole body. “And you’re not weak, you ganked like three vamps-“

“Could’ve done more.”

“There were seven of them. Three is pretty awesome numbers.” He gives you a nervous small smile. “You’re awesome. I don’t know who’s been telling you otherwise, but you are.”

That’s what breaks you. The floodgates don’t open—they’d barely held anything to begin with—but something snaps along your spine, and you can’t stop the horrible, rotten truth from falling out of your mouth. 

“But he was right.” You whisper. “I’m weak, Dean, and I don’t know why you can’t see it.”

“There’s nothing to see, and I- Who’s he?”

You wish that you’d slept better. If you had, your tongue wouldn’t be loosened with pure exhaustion, and you could lie.

But you’re so tired. Unbelievably tired. Mind-numbingly and persistently tired, all the time, and it’s grow so intolerable you just want to be anything else. And if what you are is weak and alone, at least you’ll know that’s where you're supposed to be. 

And you’d never wanted Dean to know. He was never supposed to learn from your own mouth how foul you are. He was supposed to find out himself, and then leave you like everyone always has the right to do.

But you’re telling him that you’re weak and fearful, that you’d never been able to fight tooth and spit and leave. You waited so, so long to leave and even then, it had only been because he’d been gone for a while, and you were so tired, and you needed to be anywhere but there. 

And you stepped out, and never gone back.

There’s not going back now either. It all spills out, from how you met him to the day you left. And Dean’s so quiet. Only watching you as you speak and squeezing his hold on your hips when you trail off or cry.

But he doesn’t kick you out. And when you finished, you’re still in his lap. You can’t read the expression on his face. The highway lights are dim, and there’s nothing obviously hateful or disgusted written over his features, but you might just be too stupid to see it-

“I’m-“ Dean clears his throat, his voice hoarse. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You blink at him, the tears still blurring your vision. “What.”

“That’s- I didn’t know, I never even fucking guessed- I should’ve guessed-“

“How would you have guessed?” You whisper, risking a drop of your brow back to his. He lets you stay. “I never told you-“

“But I know you. I should’ve seen it, you- I should’ve made you feel like you could tell me, I-“ His face hardens in his second, his grip tightening, but not to suffocated you. To protect you. To wrap his whole body around yours and keep it there safely. “I should fucking kill him. Cut off his arms and stuff them up his ass, get Cas to put the fear of god in him-“

“Dean, no-“

“He doesn’t just get to fucking do that to you and keep walking around-“

“He shouldn’t.” You mumble. “But he did. Men do all the time. And, I- I’m sorry I didn’t tell you-“

“Don’t apologize.” He grunts, dragging his thumb over your cheekbone. “You’ve never done anything wrong, baby, it’s just that son of a bitch, who’s gonna get a knock on his door soon-“

“No knocking on doors,” you wrap your arms around his neck, shaking your head against his brow. “Please, Dean, that’s- that’s not what I want-“

“What do you want?”

His question is immediate, and it crashes into you like a tidal wave. Numbing your whole body and kickstarting it in the same second, because you don’t know. You haven’t really known, haven’t had a direction, in years. You wandered and wandered and just tried to keep on breathing, to keep on your feet,  and never let yourself look back. 

You’d never been good at that last part. You kept on breathing because you didn’t have a choice. You’d kept on your feet because if you faltered, you’d fall over and it would be so painful to get back up. 

But you’d always looked back. On nights like this one, over and over and over until your eyes were sunken and your neck was craned to always make sure nothing was behind you. 

It might be nice to rest. To breathe not because it’s a labor, but because it feels nice to breathe the same air as Dean. 

It would be amazing to keep looking back—it’s a habit, and it will die a slow and withering death until it’s gone, and you never pinpoint the moment you lost it—but to also start looking forward. Looking for that place to rest, that you already seem to have found.

What do you want?

“I want some food.” You whisper, leaning back to scan over Dean’s face. “And a nap. Please.”

Dean gives you a small grin, and nods. “I think we can do that. And after, you’ll give me an address-“

“Please don’t kill him, Dean.” You drop your voice slightly, holding his gaze. “I just want to stay with you, and to never see him again. Please.”

Two more wants. You’re on a roll. 

“Just me?” Dean asks, and you don’t he believes you.

But it really is the truth.

“Just you.” You say, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his lips, and humming when he grins against them.

“Lucky you,” he mutters your name against your lips, squeezing his arms around you “I think I know a dude who can swing that.”

You let out a soft giggle—barely a breath, but there—Dean squeezes his arms again, and you really like how he does that. It’s not because he’s trying to remind you where you belong, it’s because he trying to check that you’re there. Like he’s just as afraid that you’ll flee as you are that he’ll shove you aside, and he’s trying to hold you together with everything he has before you slip away.

“You’re really cheesy,” you say, and he chuckles.

“You like it. We start drivin’ again, you think you’ll be able to get some sleep?”

“Yeah, but food-“

“We’re only a few hours out from home.” Dean shrugs, really making no attempt to move you from his lap. “I’ll order whatever you’re feeling when we get back.”

You pause, playing with the hairs on the back of his neck as you think. “How about pizza?”

“Who’s cheesy now-“

You lean back to give him a mock glower. “Dean Winchester.”

“What did you not like that one-“

“It was horrible-“

“That’s not a no-“ 

You cut him off with a long, soft kiss, and you like it here. Wherever Dean is, you’ll like it there.

“Can we please get pizza?” You mumble, and he nods. It’s such a small, normal movement. 

It makes you feel a little more found.

“We can get anything you want, princess.”

End Note: Oof that was a sad one. Sorry squad.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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@and-i-wish

[whatdaikesneed]

One of y'all really went all out. About two months ago I met up with a dyke who DM'd me on here, after we found out we lived near each other. She's in her late 20s, and is really working hard to sell the "I'm secure in my identity as a lesbian" thing in public. Her blog is totally woman-oriented, too. (There are no pictures of her face on her blog but she's got a stick and poke of interlocking Venus symbols on her hip that's visible in a few pics of her incredible ass.)

And she UHauled with her partner around August, a stone butch who works on cars for a living. They live in a two bedroom with another roommate, and this girl's sex drive just flatlined like a week into living together. It was, like, a problem, she and her girlfriend were getting in way more fights that weren't about that but were definitely about that. So this girl started digging around for something that could help her get turned on. And that's when she found dykebreaking, and it worked hard.

She started having sex with her partner again, just secretly imagining that she's a man. She'd scroll a bit in the tags on Tumblr to get herself in the mood, and she'd fantasize about someone with a big cock just breaking in and taking her girlfriend's place.

But the hit started to die down just reading the stuff, so she escalated. I believe she DM'd a fair few people, and this was right after I set up this blog, after that first little patch of posts. (Btw probably realistic to expect my posting to be completely sporadic, I fade in and out of the mood to share my conquests with an audience and it's hard to write them when it's not getting me off.)

We talked for a couple days, and she'd been DMing people for over a week, when she decided to step things up a little harder and tell some people she was DMing what city she was in. And, as it happens, we lived pretty conveniently close to each other. You don't even have to change trains on the subway.

She talked about coming over every day. She'd text me after her girlfriend went to sleep to tell me that she'd only been able to cum thinking about sneaking out after and riding my cock. I told her what my address was and she told me that over the next few days she'd been masturbating just looking at it.

And then she showed up at my apartment. No heads up, no planning. I wasn't even home—somebody let her into the building, she was just sitting on the floor by my door, reading our text thread, dressed like she was trying to get raped at a goth club. Doc Martens, black and purple thigh high socks, a pleated black miniskirt, and a flannel held closed with one button over a fishnet top. She did not have a bra on under it. She also really did her makeup—purple lip, eyeliner, etc.

I invited her inside, shut the door, and told her to bend over against the couch. I lifted up her skirt, and confirmed both that she hadn't worn panties and that she'd had her cunt waxed. I've seen enough peeks of bush on her blog to know that that's not normal for her—she really fucking made a cosmetic appointment to prep for showing up unannounced at my home.

I started to finger her, while I asked her about her day. She told me that at work an older man had come in and asked her for help, and she had butterflies in her stomach the whole time she was walking around with him. By the time she got him checked out, she knew she had to get this out of her system that day. Her girlfriend wasn't gonna be home till late so this was the chance.

I made her cum with my fingers a couple times before taking out my cock, and sliding it into her. She screamed. She fucking threw it back, impaling herself on my cock over and over. I grabbed her throat and pulled her up, bending her back. She's very flexible—I've been enjoying taking advantage of that.

She had considered herself a gold star lesbian—she'd had cocks inside her before, but only by rape, which she said didn't count. After I came inside her, I put my fingers in her cunt again, scooped out some cum, and put it in her mouth. Then I asked her how it felt to lose her star, and she said, technically, she hadn't consented to any of that, so she was still in the clear. Hearing that, I pushed her onto her back on the couch, pulled her legs apart, and raped her again.

She's been coming back for a few hours' rape two or three times a week since then. Last Thursday she showed up while I was fucking a girl from the local dyke scene who, it turned out, was good friends with her partner. After I came inside that girl I had her get up on the bed and bent the cheating Tumblr slut over and had her eat the cum out of her girlfriend's friend's pussy. (I haven't written about her yet—it's a tamer story than most of these, but still a good time. She didn't know about my blog, until Tumblr slut told her after that round. Wound up leading to another round.)

I know cheating slut's been looking forward to seeing her story turn up on here. I bet the partner's friend is gonna enjoy it too. Lmk in the comments if you think you know who it is 😘