#Pure pornography

[hufflepotato-18]

OH BUT THE RELIEF I FELT WHEN THEY KISSED-

AND THEN I NEARLY THREW UP AND BAWLED MY EYES OUT-

[sword-and-stars]

Chapter 12 sure is somethin’.

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

OH DO I JUST HAVE TO UNFOLLOW THE TAG #fiction BECAUSE SOME IDIOTS DON'T KNOW HOW TO TAG

[thefabelmans2022]

romance booktok in particular is completely fucking unhinged.

[t-800]

Here are curated letterboxd film lists that are relevant to my interests and maybe other's

Industrial Films For Industrial People

Queering Giallo

The Degenerates: Horror Movies by Gay Directors

Movies on rarefilmm.com + rarefilmm.com

Pornography, erotism and experimentation

Gay Adult Films and Videos on Letterboxd

PURE SLEAZE: The Dirty, The Sweaty, and The Nasty

clownin’ around (circus/clown/carnival/amusement park)

Puppet Movies (That Aren’t The Muppets)

High concept 90s esoterica

Cybertronic Movies: Techsploitation Cinema

latexxx (latex/leather/rubber)

Sex Horror for Perverts

Horror Comedy, Horror Parody, Horror Pastiche

[konigsblog]

Loser!König who pretends that he's having sex with you while watching pornography all alone in his filthy bedroom, grinding his stiff and leaking cock between the smooth and velvety walls of a fleshlight while murmuring your name through hoarse German curses and agitated, pained groans.

Loser!König who finds himself distracted and unable to concentrate on the words leaving your lips due to your cleavage, that tight little body fucking with his perverted and sick brain. You'll have to snap your fingers at him, a disgusted expression plastered on your face at his perversity and depravity, how he slobbers over the sight of your breasts shamelessly, as if he's invisible, as if there aren't any repercussions for his twisted behaviour. He'll apologise profusely after stumbling over his excuses, his cheeks flushing a rosy pink through humiliation and shame.

Loser!König who upskirts women. It's beyond filthy and violating, but the opportunity is irresistible, an urge too much for König to deny. He's not sharing it with anyone, and it's not like you don't trust your best friend, right? He'll messily jack himself off to these photos later, feeling guilty and disturbed with himself whenever he meets your pure, loving eyes afterwards.

Loser!König who's a complete virgin. It's not a surprise when he admits the truth to you. The type who'll guilt trip you into pitying him, into holding him while he drunkenly rambles about how beautiful you are, how horrible and isolated he's been feeling lately... Don't you feel sorry for him, Mäuschen? Why don't you offer him a little something sweet, special, and precious from between your supple, plush thighs?

[porcalinecunt]

(𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃)𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄 ♡︎

🎀 ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ having the body of a cyborg came with it’s perks, including turning boothill into your own personal porn bot a plug away! ~ ♡︎

·˚ ◌༘͙[featuring] ! ˊ 𝐁𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐗 𝐆𝐍!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

cw — afab!reader. mean dom!boothill. improper use of usb ports. pornography. manhandling. overstimulation. edging. pussy drunk boothill. no pronouns for reader.

◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡ author’s note! : saw someone on tt mention inappropriate use of boothill’s usb ports, and i couldn’t help myself. <33 as usual, enjoy!

“..and i’m supposed to plug this in?”

Boothill spun the harddrive around his fingers, staring at it with both curiosity yet suspicion. it was a hot pink color with a heart sticker sloppily slapped onto the front. you handed it to him without saying a word, leaving him beyond dumbfounded.

you simply nodded, trying hard not to burst out laughing. despite the glaringly obvious USB ports that were carved into his waist, he swore to have never actually stuck anything in them. by anything, of course, were any harddrives that could’ve been packed with whatever info or footage that would’ve automatically made it’s way into his memory. he didn’t want anyone’s weird porno or stupid memes to burn into his motherboard and live with it.

yet he had a hard time saying no to you. hell, he’d never say no to you unless it’d kill you. then again, it was probably a random assortment of cat videos you came across on your feed. it wouldn’t hurt to take a peek. right?

holding up a reluctant thumbs up, you plugged the harddrive in and awaited his reaction with anticipation. boothill never looked away from your reaction, quickly noticing something was rather…off about your face. your lips curled into a seductive grin, biting down on your lower lip while hearts practically carved your pupils. your cheeks and nose were flushed a slight pink that faded to a hot red color.

yet, it was already too late for him.

his vision suddenly became a hot pink blur, the gears within his body had began to spun widely while the mini fans tried to cool down his heating body. the blood red target in his eye morphed into a pink heart while he spaced out at what was being shown in front of him.

nothing but pure pornography, some of the most explicit, flooding his memory and infecting his circuits with the love virus. boothill felt his head spin from the lewd imagery, bouncing from clip to clip of multiple sex acts all at once. from simple missionary to subs being bent in half by their ridiculously larger doms, there was even one where they were in full nelson. legs high up with thier sopping cunt in full view. it was all too much.

“so this..is what y’want me to do to ya…”

the cyborg chuckled, overwhelmed with his sudden libedo. he looks over at you with hungry eyes, flashing his shark toothed grin the moment you nodded.

“why didn’t ya say so, dollface..?”

“a-ah! m’sorry! m’sorry boothill..! i-i was only p-playing..ngh!”

your clothes were torn clean off without a damn given, leaving you bare and vulnerable as the cyborg pumped his cock in and out of your sopping pussy. just like how you wanted it, bent in half in full nelson with your legs held high as only boothill’s arms kept you from falling. his pace was unforgiving, hungrily stuffing you full like your his last meal on death row. despite your body already stiffening from the position, boothill showed no sign of stopping. his eyes, bright pink with hearts dialating for pupils, full of burning desire and a greedy lust that clouded his judgement till his mind went blank.

it was as if the cyborg was built for fucking, his only goal being to push you beyind your human limit.

“zip it, sugar. you're gonna take m’dick even when i’m done with ya, you hear?”

boothill hissed in your ear with a mean rasp, shark-like teeth nibbling away at your earlobe. the ticklish feeling only added to the intense overstimulation that turned your brain into mush. you felt the familiar knot in your stomach close to snapping for what seems like the tenth time tonight, until a sudden emptiness snapped you back into reality. looking down, you noticed how boothill pulled himself out, leaving you hanging. a whine came out of your throat almost instinctively at the neglect.

“boothilll..! i was so clo!—“

you’re words were rudely cut off as the ranger threw you onto the bed with you laying on your back. he wasted no time crawling on top of you and pressing his heavy body against yours. trapped, you couldn’t even move an inch as you squirmed under his touch. he practically caged you.

“keep whinin’ like that and I'll leave ya empty. got that?”

as difficult as it was, you pressed your lips together and screwed your eyes shut in a desperate attempt to keep quite. your cunny spasmed around his length as he kept going with his violent pace. even with the harddrive, you could never imagine boothill going this far. you truely underestimated the strength of the virus that infected his mechanical body with such libido, yet you don’t regret it. you continued to cry out as your limbs grew numb, your senses going blank in an orgasmic euphoria. you were teetering towards the fuckin’ edge.

you sobbed out babbles of “‘m gonna cum!~” over and over again like it was automatic. finally, the knot snapped in two as stars filled your vision. if he wasn’t made of metal, you would’ve left some nasty scratch marks.

on the other hand, the ranger watched in pure awe as his pretty baby fell apart on his dick. your fucked out expression, teary eyes and pouty lips covered in spit, only fuled him for more. you couldn’t even get a breath in as you were picked up and flipped onto your stomach, ass high up in the air.

“you think ‘m done yet sugar? hehe, that’s cute.”

you could only sigh in response, unable to do anything about your own mess. lesson learned, never fuck with a machine you know so little about.

© porcalinecunt 💌 ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ do not steal, translate, or use my work and claim as your own.

[gurorori]

i think my growth as a fic writer is stunted by needin 2 justify writin a thing by it havin sm kind of deeper meanin or subtext...

[kingkat12]

pornography (eric draven x reader)

WARNINGS: 18+, foul language, groping/fondling, dry-humping lol, mentions of substance abuse

summary: when you finally talk to Eric Draven in rehab, it doesn't take long before you get drawn together by a force stronger than anything you have ever encountered. it doesn’t help the situation that you eventually find out Eric has been drawing pictures of you… nude

word count: 2,337 PART 1, PART 2, PART 3

a/n: this is for all the girlies like me that just came home from watching The Crow and got their mind blown by how hot Bill was in it... holy fuck. had to write this blurb because I am so shaken up, I can't feel my face. enjoy!! there will be more parts hihi...

"I fucking hate pink," 

I couldn't believe that was the first thing I said to him-- the dark and broody stranger I had been eyeing through my first few weeks in rehab. He stared back at me, confusion swimming in his big green eyes, probably pondering why I had sat down next to him in the cafeteria. "Pardon?"

"It's a little ridiculous," I tried, watching as he put down his cutlery, pushing his food away as he gave me his full attention. Tugging at my pink sweater, which we were all wearing, I let out a nervous chuckle. "Whose idea was it to put a lot of addicts in pink, anyway?"

My eyes darted down to his hands as I waited for his answer-- they were huge up close, and completely covered in tattoos. I hadn't noticed them from afar; I had only noticed the ones peeking through the top of his shirt when he would pass me by in the hall, or the big eye he had on his chest that I had seen while passing by his room. I knew it wasn't nice to peek into his room while he was changing, but I was quite frankly starved of any male contact-- any girl would go crazy in here. 

He eventually shrugged, giving me the answer I least expected; "I guess pink is supposed to be a calming colour. It's not that bad," I watched as the corners of his mouth tugged upwards, giving away hints of amusement. "Aren't you girls supposed to like pink?"

"Maybe," I mumbled, nudging food around on my plate with my fork. "I just don't like to wear it. It doesn't suit me."

The handsome stranger didn't seem to agree, another shrug following accompanied by a shy laugh. "I can't figure out whether you're being sincere or searching for compliments,"

This was most definitely not how I wanted to come off. I straightened up, resting my elbows against the table as I cleared my throat. "I'm just trying to make conversation,"

"... Why?"

"Because you've been staring at me almost as much as I've been staring at you," I put down my fork, hoping he didn't see how nervous I was. In truth, he had been staring-- it wasn't all purely one-sided. I had caught him staring at me in the courtyard, on my way to the shower, and I had also caught him lingering outside my room several times. He would usually leave when I came out, disappearing down the hall with speed I wouldn't even dream to catch up with. 

He finally gave in to a smirk, nodding to himself as he lowered his head. "Sorry," It was clear that he hadn't thought he'd be called out like this. However, something told me he wasn't too upset about being caught either. 

"Don't be," I said, feeling my anxiety ripping through my veins. Why was I indulging? "I just--"

It was at this moment that a guard appeared behind him, yanking him away from the table with a harshness that made me gasp. I clasped my hand over my mouth, watching as he barely reacted to the brutality. 

"Guys and girls eat separately!" the guard yelled at me, slamming his fist down on the table. 

My eyes widened, looking back at the handsome stranger. "But I-- I was the one who sat down here, he didn't do anything!" I protested, watching as the guard grabbed him and led him away. Groaning, I ran my hands through my hair, frustrated with the rules at this place. Why was it so fucking strict?

I eventually looked up just in time to see that the man had managed to turn around, smirking my way; "I'm Eric!" he said, holding back a laugh as he was shoved along the cafeteria for everyone to see.

Despite the horror washing over me for getting him in trouble, I managed to croak out my name as well. It seemed that he appreciated that I had at least tried to stick up for him-- What was it that I had just started?

My question would be answered a lot quicker than I had expected. 

A few days passed, and more looks and stares were exchanged. I was dying to talk to Eric again. I knew I hadn't been sent to rehab to make friends or get feelings for someone, but something was gnawing at me to talk to him again. I wanted to be around him constantly; what was happening to me? I recognized this feeling-- it was the same feeling I got when I really, really craved something... Fuck, how I missed drugs. Maybe Eric was turning into a substitute?

It wasn't often that the door to Eric's room was open, but today it was. I wouldn't have noticed it if I hadn't taken the extra lap around the institute as usual, hoping to get a glimpse of him through the small window in his door. But today, I didn't have to get on my tippytoes to get a look-- there he was, picking up several drawings that had been scattered around the floor. His room looked like a mess, completely unlike how I was used to seeing it through the tiny window. This looked like the result of one of those raids that the prison guards sometimes did when they suspected there were hidden drugs in a patient's room. 

I felt sorry for him; I knew how horrible it could feel to have someone rip through all your stuff. But as I bent down and picked up a few drawings that were at my feet, my lips parted in surprise.

It seemed I wasn't the only one caught off guard; Eric noticed me standing in his doorway, letting out a relieved sigh as he watched me inspect his drawings. He called out my name, leaning against the wall as he sized me up and scanned me, crossing his arms over his chest. 

I cleared my throat; "Is this... me?" I held up the first drawing of the bunch. It was a sketch of me sitting in the courtyard, and I was sure that it was me-- I suppose it was my shock asking for confirmation. 

Eric snickered, kicking off the wall. "Yeah... Sorry,"

"Stop saying sorry," I shuffled through the drawings, finding he had drawn me in multiple settings, and it was clear that I had been watched the few weeks I'd been here. "These are beautiful, Eric... I guess I'm honoured--" My words trailed off as I finally approached the last drawing. Was that...?

He didn't even try to take it away from me. Eric sighed, looking away as his cheeks flushed a light pink, similar to our uniforms. 

Judging by his reaction, I had a feeling he wasn't so against me seeing this. It was a sketch of me, after all-- nude. 

I had to swallow rather hard for anything to go down. I couldn't pinpoint why I wasn't absolutely horrified at this.  "So... this is what you've been up to in here, huh?" There was no stopping the smirk that spread across my lips, holding back a flustered giggle. "This is next-level pervy, do you know that?"

It didn't take long before Eric's big hands ripped the drawings out of my hands, turning away as he shook his head. "Every artist needs a muse, no?"

"A muse? How can I be your muse if we don't know each other?"

"That's not how it works," he mumbled, throwing away the drawings into a heap on the bed. "Your beauty is all I need to get inspired."

This was enough to shock me into silence. I inhaled a sharp breath, stepping into Eric's room despite knowing it was forbidden. "So now you think I'm beautiful?"

Eric hummed, finally turning to meet my eyes. "It hasn't been the biggest secret, has it?" There was something playful about him, shameless, as though it didn't matter to him that I had just found his handmade porn. "It gets a little lonely in here, I guess. These drawings just... run out of me like water. Can't control it."

There was something so unimaginably tantalizing about Eric. Everything about him made me want to jump him then and there-- was it maybe the result of my withdrawals that were turning my brain into further mush? In a normal setting, this would have creeped me out to infinity and beyond, but knowing this was coming from the man I had been lusting after from afar for several weeks made me excuse it in a heartbeat. 

I had no idea what possessed me to close the door to his room and lock it, knowing the repercussions could be severe if we were caught. But Eric didn't seem to mind; his green eyes widened, watching my every move like a hawk.

"It was really pretty and all... The drawing, I mean," I said, inching closer to where he had sat down on the bed. "But would you maybe want some inspiration for the next one?"

Eric's plush, pink lips parted, eyes rounding out in surprise. Despite his shock, his big hands reached out for me as I came closer, and he pulled me in between his legs. I could feel him caressing my back through my shirt, holding me with the utmost gentle touch. "I'll take all I can get," he murmured, looking up at me through his brows, a knowing smirk spreading across his face. 

I let out a giggle as he pressed his lips against my stomach through my shirt, enjoying the intense feeling of someone against my skin again after all this time. Eric pulled away, glancing at the door before slowly trailing his fingers under my shirt, testing the waters. 

It didn't take long before that wasn't enough for him-- my breath hitched as Eric grabbed my waist, pulling me down with him on the bed. I barely had time to think before the euphoric feeling of being kissed engulfed me. Our lips met in an open, soft kiss, almost as though we were scared to break the other if we were too needy or harsh. As I straddled him, I felt his hands tugging at my shirt, dipping back under the fabric once more. His fingers gently ghosted over my lower back, eventually ending up trailing small circles with his thumbs along the underside of my bra. 

If I hadn't been so starved of any human contact in here, I would've never jumped the opportunity like this. But none of us knew how long we had until the guards would bust us, and it only fueled the adrenaline pumping through our veins. Our kisses became desperate, hungry, and I let out a whimper against his lips as he took the liberty of cupping my chest, feeling me up to his heart's delight. I knew I had been waiting for this moment since the first time I saw him, and I wasn't about to let it slip through my fingers-- I decided to let him do whatever he wanted to me, no matter what. 

I could feel Eric's cock twitch beneath me, clearly aroused. It was also at this moment that he made me sit up, tugging my shirt off of me before laying back down to scan me. Was he memorizing my body for his next sketch? It wasn't every night that I had a handsome stranger beneath me like this, so I allowed him to trail his hands up and down my body, lips parting in delight. "Fuck... Yeah, this will do," he murmured, pupils dilating at the sight before him whether he wanted them to or not.

"You sure?" I asked, giggling to myself. My hands rested against his broad chest, letting out a sigh of delight; God, he was sexy. As I shifted in his lap, Eric's breath hitched as I seemingly sat down in the exact right spot. Almost as though he was possessed by instinct for a moment, he grabbed my hips, rocking me against him through the fabric of our clothes. 

Who would've thought I'd be dry-humping this stranger and enjoy it so much? My hands gripped his shirt, a quiet moan spilling past my lips-- I had forgotten this feeling. This was mostly something I did when I was a teenager, before I figured out how to have proper sex with my high school boyfriend. But it felt so damn fucking good, desperate; it didn't take long before I leaned back down, capturing his plush lips in another kiss. 

I craved him like water. I wanted him against me, in me, for him to take me in every possible position ever-- a deep, dark part of me knew I would be insatiable from now on. 

But our moment of ecstasy was interrupted when a guard started banging his fist against the door, his muffled yells barely registering through my arousal. Despite my dazed state, it didn't take me long to drape my shirt back on, climbing off Eric with wobbly knees. "Shit," I mumbled, turning to him with wide eyes. "I'm screwed. We're screwed."

Everything about him was so damn beautiful. The kiss-swollen lips definitely didn't help how gorgeous I thought he looked right now. Despite the situation, knowing we were in deep shit, Eric let out a soft chuckle; "I don't think you're screwed enough, actually. We'll get to that another time," 

My eyes widened as I gave into a light giggle. There was no way this was happening-- had my naughty rehab dreams come true? The guard banging against the door was drowned out by the incessant ringing in my ears that festered through my mind as Eric leaned down to kiss me one last time; "I hope to see you around, if they don't kill us,"

"Yeah," I breathed, only now realizing how tall he was as I looked up to meet his gaze. This man was towering over me. Holy shit. "Can't wait to see your next masterpiece."

I couldn't wait. I really couldn't.

(a/n: PART 2, PART 3 here!! enjoy<33)

[ramp-it-up]

Cassandra’s Muse

Summary: Your job is to distract and read all who dare to go against Cassandra. And you take pride in your work

Word count: 2.5 K

Pairing: Deadpool x Reader; Wolverine x Reader; Johnny Storm x Reader; Deadpool x Wolverine x Johnny Storm x Empath Reader

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. S MUT Not Beta’d. DEADPOOL X WOLVERINE SPOILERS AHEAD of this line!Read at your own risk. S MUT! Morally Grey reader, sex worker reader, reader is an empath, lots of dark emotions, group sex, oral (m & f receiving) pansexual touch and intentions (it's Deadpool, folks) explicit sex acts, raw p in v (wrap it up), anal sex (f receiving) rough sex, dvp, squirting, copius amounts of cum, bukakke, after care. Reader has pet names from each hero: Sweets, Sweetie, Sweetheart.

A/N: Ok. I had to do it. If you inspired this, you know who you are, you menace. 😘 This occurs within an imagined scene between the scene where Pyro captures Johnny, Wade and Logan and when they were delivered to Cassandra Nova. This is pure filth. Let me know you like it by liking, commenting and reblogging!

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

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

————

“Let me put your hair up for you. So pretty.”

Wade Wilson cooed down at you to the music of his shackles clinking as he gently pulled your cloud of hair up and out of the way. 

“Need to have a clear view of you hoovering that anaconda.”

Your lips were stretched around Johnny Storm’s thick, tan cock as his blue eyes stared down at you and a steam of eloquent pornography flowed from his lips.

“Mm. That throat is so gatdamn tight Sweetheart. Can’t wait to fuck that tight little wet gash of yours. Holy shit, that’s good. I know you can take it deeper. I know you can. Such a sweet little innocent slut for us.”

He had no idea. You were in service to Cassandra. She called you her muse, a tool to service her future victims so that when she felt their minds up, she had something more to get off on. You were her little slut, her psychic empath who fed off of other’s joy and you loved your job.

Giving others joy got you off something fierce. The fact that Cassandra loved it and that kept you alive was an added bonus.

Johnny’s hand snaked around the back of your neck to encourage you to take more of him. You looked up at him, eyes wide with tears streaming down your cheeks, while saliva escaped from your stretched-out lips.

“So pretty for us like this, Sweetie.”

Wade’s mask almost seemed to be emotive as he looked down on you, his long fingers fisting his cock with increasing speed as he watched you take Johnny down. It was disconcerting that he was completely naked except for his mask, but that was none of your business. He was sincere, despite the sarcastic monologue.

“I’ve always wanted to say that in real life and not just in my 1D/Destial crossover fanfics on Tumblr. Username is MrsLarryDestiel (no spaces) if you want to follow.”

Wade was leaning over to Johnny, who had steam rising from his head as he gazed down at you with devotion. You felt his amusement at this entire scenario. You tried to smile back around him, even though you knew his affection was only due to your skill.

After all, you’d just met him less than an hour earlier. 

“Get your hand off my ass before I burn it off, Wade.”

“Was just trying to help you push it in her tiny little mouth. Wasn’t trying to cop a feel of what looks a lot like America’s Ass, not really,” quipped Wade who was stroking and looking down at Johnny’s derriere.

Before anyone got injured, you pulled off of the hot one’s dick and licked Wade’s thick plum shaped tip.

“Sssss. Ahhhh, yes!”

 Wade groaned and threw his head back.

 “Suck that dick like your life depends on it, Sweetie. It may be our very last night on earth. I mean, in the void.”

You sensed no fear in Wade, only irreverence.

You followed his direction and opened wide as he slid his long, thick, Deadpool dick along your outstretched tongue. Wade was still talking, of course, even as he made eyes at Logan, who was lurking on the edges of the light, pulling on his dick with two hands and making low, almost indiscernible grunts. 

Now there were about a thousand different emotions coming off him, irritation, rage, despair, grief, a deep sadness, and foremost right now, need and frustration. You tried to watch him through your tear-filled eyes.

Wade and Johnny took turns with your mouth as Logan just moved nearer, his large, impressive cock raging against those impossible abs. His stare, and his body, made you drip even more in the dirt floor of the cave they were captive in for the night.

You needed him inside you, to at least extinguish his need. But yours was growing too.

“Why don’t you relax over there while we get her ready, Mr. Grumpy Pants. Little Miss Triple Threat looks like she’s almost ready to take three cocks at once in all of her holes.”

The Wolverine grunted, but went to a spot just a few feet away and reclined against a cave wall as he continued to handle himself.

Wade looked down at you and stroked your hair again, stage whispering to you as you deep throated Johnny’s cock down your throat.

“I know he seems like a party pooper and not down for this at all, but the fact that his beautiful meat is hard and leaking precum, which is delicious, bee tee dubs, oh, AND HE'S NAKED, means he definitely is.”

You smiled around the dick in your mouth and nodded as you pulled off Johnny, a string of saliva connecting you three as Wade grabbed you by the hair and plunged down your throat, barely giving you time to take a breath.

As you choked, you could see Logan jacking off faster from the corner of your eye as you swallowed Wade whole. Even with the mask, you could tell when his eyes rolled back into his head as you took every single inch.

“Get over here and sit on my dick.”

You were surprised at Logan’s voice, not having heard much of it during his ride in the cage, except to tell Wade and Johnny to shut up. Currently, his tone was more intense and raspy with desire.

You did as you were told and the action moved from the fireside to where Logan was reclining. 

“Move the fuck around, asshole.”

Wade stomped his foot.

“That’s what I’m trying to give you, Wolvie, baby.”

But he moved from in front of you so that you could take your throne.

“C’mere.” 

Logan reached up for you, the tender gesture a contrast for the crude situation you are in: fucking these men because it was the last night of their lives, which it almost surely was. You knew when Pyro let you into the cave halfway to her lair where they stopped for the night that no one escaped Cassandra.

You almost felt sorry for them. But when you read their emotions, you sensed no fear in these heroes. Only a myriad of other things including pent up tension, stress and desire for you. And for freedom. Or at least the sensation of being free.

Fucking all three of them would free your own soul, if only for the short time you would spend with them. They were all fine, and they looked like they would be a good time. If they only knew that your purpose was distraction, to keep them busy and not trying to escape.

If you searched their emotions hard enough you might find that they knew what you were about, and that they didn't care.

You accepted the offer of Logan’s hands and settled on his muscular thighs, glancing at the other men stroking themselves by firelight to the sight of you stretching yourself around the thick head of Logan Howlett, the Wolverine’s, cock.

Their attention only made you wetter and you slid further down Logan’s thick staff than you thought you could. When Johnny and Wade each grabbed a nipple as you whined and got even slicker the sensations allowed you to encase that extra inch at the base of him.

You were so full, not having been stretched like this in a while with a human, visually pleasing partner in a long time. You moaned in pleasure and closed your eyes, biting your lip at the delicious sting of taking him.

Logan looked up into your eyes and then commanded you with that deep, sexy voice.

“Open your eyes, look at us, and bounce on this cock Sweets.”

The smack on your ass spurred you on as Johnny leaned against the wall, watching your tits bounce as he jacked himself, and Wade got behind you, straddling Logan's thighs and rubbing them. You thought you knew what was coming next as you felt Wade’s hot breath on your shoulder as his hard length slid through your slick folds. But you were surprised as he entered you, although not in the hole you expected.

Within a few seconds, Wade was nestled deep within your cunt, cock alongside Logan’s in your snug sleeve, making you mad with pleasure. An obscene groan from you accompanied Logan’s warning to Deadpool.

“Watch it fuck face.”

Loan’s voice was husky, and there was a glimmer of a smirk as he grasped your breasts, roughly pulling on your nipples. Fear of his claws coming out and injuring you caused the contractions of pleasure in your belly to quicken, even as Wade sassed him back.

“You can fuck my face later buddy. Right now, let’s both concentrate on fucking this beautiful, nice, accommodating lady’s beautiful, nice accommodating cunt..”

The two men fell into an oddly synchronistic, sinful rhythm, both of them filling you to the brim in the best way possible, sexy groans finally replacing the smart words coming from Wade and literal grunts and groans coming from Logan.

Johnny moved, filling your mouth and causing your moans to vibrate around his shaft as Logan and Wade fucked you stupid.

“Holy fuck!”

Johnny rasped as you started sucking his balls, your legs shaking as Logan and Wade pounded you into oblivion. You feel a tremendous pressure and you tried to run from what was coming, but Wade’s fingers were circling your clit and Logan’s hands are around your waist, his mouth latched onto your left nipple. That and the feeling of Johnny’s fingers massaging your scalp collided to make your impending doom come much more quickly.

You pulled off of Johnny's unit to scream.

“Oh shit, oh shit, ohhhhhh shitttttt, I- I- I- I’m cummingggg!”

“Holy shit, she's gushing like Old Faithful all around us!”

You soaked Logan as you squirted, seemingly never endingly, all over. everywhere. Wade slipped out of you and so did Logan, but instead of giving someone else a turn with your pussy, Logan growled in your hair and pitched you forward onto his chest with his hands underneath your thighs. 

“Want that ass.”

You clenched around nothing as Logan lifted you up and squeezed your ass cheek in order to give his hard, thick cock access to your puckered hole. You were so wet that he kept slipping around until you felt Wade reach in and grab Logan’s dick, pumping it a couple of times before guiding it home inside your tight ass.

You saw the sneer, and you heard the ‘schnick’ of Logan’s claws coming out and Wade’s giggle as he explained. 

“Just trying to help with the mission, Boss.”

You didn’t care about any of it as your head lolled back on your shoulders because Logan was filling you up deliciously.

Wade retreated and pulled his mask up to lick his fingers. He and Johnny resumed stroking as they watched Logan pounding you mercilessly from below, your cum making it embarrassingly easy. You locked eyes with him, and grabbed the tufts on top of his hair for purchase as you screamed and came again, just from his cock in your ass.

"Ahhhhh! Shittttt!"

“Mmmmnhhh! Incoming, Sweets”

Logan’s cum spurted inside you and began to leak out around his cock, making you even messier than before.

“Ugh. Fuck. So good.” 

He kissed your forehead as he softened inside you, then lifted your thigh to slide out from underneath you. You braced yourself on the wall as you tried to catch your breath and savored the feeling of him dripping down your legs and the peace, if only momentary, emanating from his soul. You didn’t realize that your eyes were closed until you felt  a new desperation accompanied by a hand on your arm and two hands on your ass. 

“Don’t usually go for sloppy seconds, but I’ll take it tonight.”

Johnny’s sparkling blue eyes and sincerity held you captive. His tender kiss on your lips distracted you as you felt Wade’s hands on your ass and you lowered yourself down around Johnny’s long cock.

Johnny slipped easily inside you because Wade and Logan had stretched you out, but he was so hot, literally, that you quickly clenched down on him. Your hands caressed his shoulders and trailed down his sternum and his happy trail to where you were connected. 

The way he looked at you from under his long eyelashes made you want to give him a show. You bit your lip and circled your clit, earning a groan and an appreciative stare from him as you started to ride. 

You sensed a sudden a wave of mischievousness from Wade and felt his tongue in our ass. He moaned, sending vibrations up your spine as he caused you to clench around his wet muscle and Johnny’s cock. He slurped you up, and pulled away momentarily to come up and whisper in your ear.

“Mmmm. You and Logan taste so good. You’re doing amazing, Sweetie.

He was down again and licking you clean, causing irritation to emanate from Johnny.

“I’m tryna cum, here, Wilson. Stop licking my balls, you jerkoff.”

Wade came up and wiped his mouth.

“So sorry, that was a total mistake. Didn’t mean to touch your huge, full, sexy balls with my velvet tongue. Not at all, Johnny.”

“Shut the fuck up, I’m trying to concentrate on this Sweetheart right. Here.”

Johnny kicked Wade away, stroked upward to make you moan, and then grabbed you by the neck as he flipped you over onto your back, grasping your thighs and folded you in half like a pretzel. 

“You ready to take this hot cock?”

You nodded enthusiastically as Johnny Storm began to fuck you relentlessly, his long cock reaching that magic spot inside you as you tightened around him, much to your chagrin.

It was going to be over too soon. You wanted him to use you longer.

“Mmmmph, Darlin’ I feel you, still so tight around me even after these two knuckle heads fucked your cunt silly. Should be loose, but damn, girl. C’mon. Cum for me like you did for Wolverine and Wade. Gimme that shit.”

Johnny reached down and strummed your clit, as Wade came and held your legs in place, his oddly beautiful cock hard against his abdomen. You stretched your neck and teabagged him, earning a choked, garbled moan, and no words from him.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Logan standing over you and stroking his hard-for-you-again dick.

“Shit, shit, sheeeeiiittttttttt this pussy is so good. Fuck!”

Johnny pulled out and stood over your body as you scrambled up on your knees to open your mouth for your reward. The men gathered around you as first Johnny spurted white, hot cum all over your face, then Logan jerked on your tits, rubbing his bulbous tip all over your nipples, and Wade just sprayed everywhere as he watched the show.

You collapsed on your knees, wiping your face as strong arms lifted you up and took you to the other side of the cave and started washing you off with a bucket of water that had been warming by the fire. You looked up into Logan’s eyes and he avoided your gaze, concentrating on getting the cum out of your hair.

“You can rest now. We’ll cook up this bird that Pyro threw in here for food and you can sleep for a while.”

You sensed genuine tenderness, and another spark of a future need within him. You knew that they would wake you up for more than food later.

And you were more than okay with that. 

So you just smiled at him as his hand trailed the water down your body, this moment a respite for all of you, in the chaos of Cassandra’s world.

——

If you liked it, hit Reblog!

[rememberwren]

I finally wrote for Gaz <3 Quick little blurb about BFF!Kyle / fem! reader. You ask Kyle to practice sucking dick. You know. On him. Ft. a rather subby Kyle Gaz Garrick. Part 2 here.

-

The first thing Kyle does after you ask to practice sucking his cock is—

—jerk off. I mean, he agrees. He showers, even though he had showered earlier that day. But in the shower, he jerks off because he knows that if he doesn’t, he’ll be spilling himself into your mouth straight away. It’s hardly the learning experience he wants to give you.  

Erection sated, what he doesn’t do is think about the why. He doesn’t think about the next person, the one you might be trying to learn these skills for. That way only leads to pain, and he’s not interested in the angst tonight, not when he’s got this opportunity in front of him packaged up neater than a gift at Christmas. 

You sit on your heels while he sits on the edge of the bed, naked. For cumming only ten minutes ago, he’s having no problem getting hard, not with the way you look at his cock: a little dumbfounded, a little curious, a little scared, a little excited. 

“It doesn’t bite. At least it didn’t the last time I checked,” he teases. He doesn’t admit that it was only ten minutes ago. “You can touch it if you want. Just stop whenever you want to stop, yeah?” 

Comforted, you reach out and stroke your fingertips along the velvety length of his cock. You trace around the foreskin, down the shaft, even brave enough to gently cradle his balls in your palm.

Kyle loves it—loves turning himself into a statue beneath your touch, loves existing only for your innocent exploration. He murmurs soft words of encouragement beneath his breath, watching as your confidence blossoms like a flower beneath rain. Until you feel bold enough to lean forward and place a chaste little kiss on the head. 

His cock jerks, a quiet moan pulled from his throat at the softness of your mouth. You pull back, laughing a little at the unexpected movement of his cock. You’re moving plenty yourself though: can’t seem to sit still, shifting from one side to the other. Anything to get a little pressure on your pussy. 

“Are you already wet?” Kyle asks. “Just from kissing my cock?”

You laugh again, embarrassed, and cover your face with your hands. Kyle reaches out to peel them away, eager to see your every minute expression. It’s important that he does, he tells himself, so that he can tell if you’re uncomfortable. It has nothing to do with enjoying the way your mouth drops open a little when you stare too long, the way your eyes get heavy-lidded when you breathe in the clean scent of him and his shower gel.

“First lesson,” he says, guiding your wrists back down to your sides. “Anyone ever asks you to suck their dick and you don’t want to, say no. If they insist, kick them right in the balls.” 

“I already knew that,” you huff, rolling your eyes at him. 

“Second lesson: don’t bite it off. That’s the end of the lessons, really. Take it from somebody with a dick, we’re just grateful it’s in your mouth. As long as we get it back in one piece, we can’t really complain about whatever you do to it.” 

Your laughter goes a long way to relaxing that last anxious part inside his chest, the one that is worried he has somehow pressured you into this (despite your insistence that this was what you wanted; that Kyle was the only man in your life you felt safe enough to explore with). When you put your hands on his thighs to brace yourself, kneeling up, he laces your fingers together with his own, smoothing the calloused pad of his thumb across your knuckle. 

“Go at your pace. You’re in charge unless you decide otherwise,” he says, watching as your mouth comes closer to his aching length. Your eyes flicker up to him, the picture you make of pure pornography as you kneel between his thighs like a sinner, holding onto his hands like a saint. 

You place open-mouthed kisses along his length, tasting him, working your way up and down his cock. It’s a test of his restraint to keep still and quiet and let you explore like this, when all he wants is your lips wrapped around him. A bead of precum wells at the slit of his cock and he watches your eyes find it, fingers wiggling free of his own so that you can reach out and drag the pad of one finger through the pearly seed. Your eyes find his, a hint of caution there, like you aren’t sure if you’re about to do something bad—but whatever you see in his face (likely something far too honest, far too open and worshipful)---settles your anxieties. You slip the finger into your mouth and suck it clean, nose wrinkling a little at the taste. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, breathless. “You don’t have to finish me at all, okay?” 

You roll your eyes again. “Gaz. Stop talking.” 

“Shut me up,” he challenges, holding out his hands as if to say, Be my guest. 

You take a deep breath, shoulders squaring. Your mouth opens and then the head of his cock rests against the warm wetness of your tongue. Whose eyes shut first? He couldn’t say. Your mouth closes around him, sucking softly on just the tip as your fingers come to wrap around the base, thumb stroke along the underside. Kyle mutters a curse, sucking in a breath and holding it until his lungs burn. Fuck, your mouth is like liquid heat, the little suckling motions of your tongue soft and sweet as you test out different intensities and pressures. You lean forward, taking more of him past your lips, and he lets out a long, low groan. 

He forces his eyes open, suddenly aware that he is missing it. You’re here, on your knees, sucking his cock like the best girl, and he’s missing it. You’re already watching him, a smile visible at the corners of your eyes. You take him into your mouth until his head nudges at the back of your throat where it turns soft. You gag a little, and he curses again, a sound which has you shifting against your heels. 

You set a hesitant rhythm, head bobbing. It takes you time to coordinate your hand and your mouth, but once you do, it tears a whine from his throat. You keep yourself comfortable, only taking him in to the back of your mouth, but he has no complaints, his belly tight with pleasure, breaths coming shallow and fast. 

“That’s it,” he breathes, reaching out to cup your jaw in his hand, thumb smoothing along the hollow of your cheek as you suck. “So good. Doing it just right, aren’t you?” 

You make a little needy sound, shifting on your heels again. 

“Wet, pretty girl?” he wonders. “You can’t sit still. Is this turning you on?” 

You nod, his cock in your mouth. 

“Show me,” he says, half-delirious with need. “Touch yourself and show me.” 

You remove the hand from the base of his cock and slip it down the front of your leggings. When you pull it free and hold it up to the light, your first two fingers are wet, a line of slick connecting them thin as spidersilk until it breaks while he watches. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. Part of him wants to leave you in pain, desperate for relief, to watch you squirm between his legs like you’re kneeling on hot coals. The other part of him wants to feel the vibration of your moans around his cock, and that is the part which wins. He’s always considered himself a generous guy. “Touch yourself—’s only fair. You’re making me feel so good.” 

You get clumsy once your hand is between your legs. Your other hand holds the base of his cock steady, but he can tell you lose focus on him, the slick sounds of your fingers rubbing against your clit just audible. Sometimes your mouth goes loose and lax around him, tongue aimless. Kyle groans, hips jerking a little deeper into the softness of your mouth, desperate for anything you give him. You’re the one on your knees, but you’re so far in control that it’s almost laughable. 

“Don’t stop,” he whispers, stroking where your lips are split open around him, using the pad of his thumb to feel his cock through the softness of your cheek. “Please don’t stop, pretty girl, just—please—” 

You blink, coming back to yourself a little, and the suction around his cock tightens to a point somewhere between bliss and pain. Though your efforts have been clumsy and the lesson has gone properly off the rails, he can feel his balls drawing up tight against his body, his cock throbbing against your tongue. 

“I’m close—pull off, baby,” he says. 

You stiffen, eyes going wide. He slips in too deep and you gag around him, a wet choke that shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does, your eyes slipping shut until your lashes rest on your cheeks, broken little whines filtering out around his cock as you cum on your fingers. 

It’s too much for him. He pulls out just in time, one hand cupped loosely around the head of his cock and the other stripping its length in short, quick strokes as he cums after you, teeth clenching, jaw tight around your name in his mouth. He fills his hand and some slips out between his fingers, dripping down onto your thighs below. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “Are you okay?” 

You nod, working your hand free from your leggings. You’re slick all over your palm. He wants to lick it clean. 

“I didn’t pay attention,” you blurt out. 

He stares. 

You continue: “Like, at all. I’m sorry, Kyle, I was so—I was distracted. But I think I’m better now. Can we…can we try again?” 

More cum drips from between his fingers. You squeal and stick your open hand beneath his to catch it before it can ruin your leggings more than they already are. After a lengthy silence, Kyle sighs. 

“Yeah, pretty girl, we can try again. Give me ten minutes.”

[libraford]

I'm not bothered by the conversation so much as I am a growing approach to activism which makes it impossible to interact with other people. Which echoes a lot of that conversation I had with Ginger this week.

He refuses to have friends that are not faithful to Jesus. Like, he can have a productive conversation with a non-believer and nearly connect with them socially, but if he learns that they don't go to church or don't believe in christ, he finds it difficult to take them seriously because their words were not god-inspired.

Ginger was in a cult. I do not mean this colloquially- Xenos/Dwell is a prominent pseudo-christian cult in central Ohio that preys on college students in need of community. There are rules about who you can date, who you can hang with, they practice gay coversion therapy, and will tell you not to visit your family if they're not Christian.

There is a lot of focus on purity. Actions, thoughts, social groups- it's very controlling about what you can and cannot do.

So. When he goes out into the world with us sinners, it becomes difficult to interact with general society.

We were talking about Merve, one of our foremen, and I said: "the first time I was in a car with Merve, he introduced himself as a Democratic Catholic Pervert. And honestly- yeah that's a good summation."

Ginger didn't like that at all. "Well he's not a very good catholic with all that talk of pornography, he should be ashamed of himself- honestly shouldn't even call himself Christian."

Merve is very much a womanizer, but it's all talk. He's gross about it sometimes and it rubs me the wrong way, but in all fairness- he warned me. Outside of that, he's what I expected from a 60-something landscaper.

"Well, I think whether he's a good Christian or not is up to God, not us."

And he got a little pissy over that comment because I caught him judging.

He only hangs out with 'the faithful' at work, which consists of three guys who are religious in a similar way and it's caused a bit of a rift in the culture. It's gotten a little... preachy. It wasn't preachy before.

So I am making... parallels to this behavior and a particular strain of activism that's been affected by purity culture.

Nothing is ever good enough. If it touches racism, it's banned forever and you have to spread the word about how it's racist. Where doing things that are well-intended puts you in the spotlight for the underlying and actually bigoted reason you're doing a nice thing. And prevents you from doing the nice thing in the future.

Because yes you did a nice thing, but it wasn't enough- you could be doing more.

Yes you did a nice thing, but you did this nice thing instead of tackling this bigger issue.

Yes you did a nice thing, but it was through this program that you didn't know was funded somewhat unethically.

Yes you did a nice thing, but your motivation for doing it wasn't the goodness of your heart, it was motivated by guilt.

Yes you did a nice thing, but it took a horrible event to do it when you should have had the morals of goodness ingrained in you and you should have done this from the start.

Yes you did a nice thing, but you only did it when it started impacting your life and you should be thinking of others first.

Yes you did a nice thing but the nice thing doesn't align perfectly with my worldview.

The goalpost is forever moving backwards.

No one likes to be called 'racist.' It's a really easy weapon to use when something does something you don't like. If you look at anything closely enough, you will see it's racist roots. You could say the same for misogyny, homophobia. Our society is built on hatred and inequality. Untangling it and living a morally pure life free of ridicule is impossible.

Recognizing the roots of an action to be bigoted is the first step. The second step is knowing it when you see it. Step three is pointing it out.

But there are more steps.

Pointing it out, or calling it out, and chastising someone for ignoring or not knowing something actually isn't all that helpful. Because it leaves you to wonder- okay, now what? What can I do to remedy this situation?

Which is the next step- actionable items. Yes, I have done something wrong- I am sorry.

I am sorry. Now I will try to make it right.

I will try to make it right by donating, by volunteering time, by listening to the people who have been hurt and lifting their voices.

Part of healing from an oppressive Christian community is realizing that people are going to sin whether you like it or not. And barring harm to themselves and others, you're gonna have to let them.

If my tarot practice is derived from a 15th century racist, then it was derived for a 15th century racist. Refusing to participate in a past-time that helps me connect with my family doesn't make it not racist. It will still be racist. But I'm not sure who it's hurting in 2024 and I don't have a time machine and I'm not being given clear instructions for how to unracist it.

[sometimescharlolette]

JOEL MILLER X F!READER (SARAH’S FRIEND) - PART TWO

PART ONE

Synopsis: Lunch with your best friend's dad takes an unexpected turn, for better or worse.

Word count: 3.7k of pure pornography, and 10% plot

Warnings: +18, sexual content, age gap (reader is in her twenties, Joel in his late forties), dirty talk, cursing, sex (p in v), rough sex, possessive behavior.

A/N: Hello beautiful people, I think this time I got carried away, and ended up writing more sex than the plot itself, but, okay, let's let Joel enjoy these moments of paradise, because soon the chaos will begin... Anyway, I hope you like it, feel free to comment what you think, feedback helps me improve and I'm counting on you for that, bye, kisses💜💜

Sarah frowned, confused by what she assumed was a meaningless outburst. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice laced with curiosity. Not that she wasn’t used to your sharp tongue, but she had expected you to at least try to tone it down in front of her father.

“Uhm, yeah, sorry,” you stammered, forcing a laugh. “I kicked the leg of the table by accident. You know how it is—hurts like hell when your little toe hits furniture.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. You knew that look. It was the one she gave you whenever she sensed you were up to something. Or worse, when she suspected you were letting last night’s alcohol-fueled decisions cloud your judgment. And unfortunately, she wasn’t wrong. Your mind was very clouded, and her father was the reason why.

“Nice to meet you…” Joel’s deep, steady voice broke through your spiraling thoughts. He let the sentence hang in the air, acting like he was meeting you for the first time—like he hadn’t had his hands all over you just hours ago.

You met his gaze sharply, irritation flaring in your chest at his infuriatingly calm demeanor. He was completely unaffected, carrying on as if this was just another casual introduction, not the aftermath of a night that left your legs shaking.

“Y/N, Mr. Miller,” you bit out, your eyes narrowing as you took a slow sip of your coffee, hoping the bitterness would chase away the heat creeping up your neck.

Joel’s lips quirked into something that wasn’t quite a smirk but was smug enough to make your blood simmer. “Pretty name.”

Damn it. The way he said it, the way his voice dipped just slightly, sent an unwelcome warmth through you. You hated how effortlessly he could make you feel like some love-struck teenager. And worse, you hated that he knew it.

Meanwhile, he carried on, effortlessly slipping into conversation with his daughter—asking about her classes, if she was eating properly, if anything in the dorm needed fixing. The perfect father routine. You could barely concentrate, too busy trying to regulate your breathing, while he sat there looking as composed as ever.

“Oh, speaking of which,” Sarah said suddenly, flipping through the menu. “Dad, the foot of Y/N’s bed broke or something. Could you take a look at it?”

You choked on your coffee.

Joel exhaled through his nose, a slow, measured breath. His lips twitched like he was holding back a comment—one that would probably have made you throw your drink in his face. Instead, he just nodded, his voice low and infuriatingly smooth.

“Sure. Always keep a toolbox in the truck for emergencies.”

You shot him a glare, and for the first time since sitting down, he looked directly at you. There was something in his gaze—something knowing, something teasing.

Sarah, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing between you and her father, suggested placing the orders before the restaurant got too busy. She rattled off what each of you would have before walking away to place them, her father’s card in hand.

As soon as she was out of earshot, you leaned forward, lowering your voice. “What the hell, Joel?” you hissed, eyes flashing with irritation. “Why didn’t you tell me you were Sarah’s father?”

Joel barely blinked, completely unbothered by your frustration. “Not my fault, sweetie. You didn’t ask.”

You clenched your jaw, gripping the coffee cup a little too tightly. His calm, easygoing tone made you want to strangle him. How could he be so damn composed when you were internally combusting?

“Oh, right, because obviously, I should have interrogated you before letting you take me home,” you shot back, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Excuse me for not assuming you were my best friend’s father.”

Joel chuckled, the deep, rich sound sending a traitorous shiver down your spine. “Well, you didn’t exactly insist on knowing my last name, either.”

Your mouth fell open. “You didn’t ask for mine at all!”

Joel shrugged, looking far too entertained for your liking. “Didn’t expect we’d see each other again.”

The words stung more than they should have, and judging by the flicker of something unreadable in Joel’s eyes, he hadn’t meant for them to come out so bluntly.

Truth was, neither of you had expected this. You had chosen him at that bar because he wasn’t a student, because you thought it would be easier. No awkward run-ins on campus. No tangled emotions. Just a night of fun before moving on like it never happened.

But now, faced with reality, you couldn’t pretend the ground hadn’t shifted beneath your feet.

You exhaled, running a hand through your hair. “I didn’t expect to see you again either,” you muttered, shaking your head. “I thought you were just someone passing through, not her dad.”

Joel tilted his head slightly, eyes dark with amusement. “Disappointed?”

You wanted to say yes. You wanted to tell him this was a disaster, that you regretted everything. But the words wouldn’t come, not when the memory of his hands on your body was still so fresh, not when the scent of his cologne still lingered faintly in the air between you.

Instead, you scoffed, rolling your eyes behind your sunglasses. “You wish.”

Joel chuckled again, but before he could respond, Sarah returned with the trays of food, placing them on the table.

“That was faster than I expected,” she said cheerfully.

Joel, slipping effortlessly back into father mode, reached for the dishes. “You should’ve called me, Sarah. I would’ve helped.”

She just shrugged, waving him off as she took her seat. Meanwhile, you focused on your lasagna like it was the most interesting thing you’d ever seen. Anything to avoid Joel’s knowing gaze.

You spent the rest of the meal in quiet torment, nodding along to conversations and making half-hearted comments while your mind raced. Your body, traitorous as it was, still buzzed with the tension between you and Joel. The way he looked at you, the way his voice lingered on certain words, the smug curve of his lips—everything about him was infuriating.

And yet, deep down, you knew that if given the chance, you’d make the same mistake all over again.

***

“You really didn’t have to come,” you muttered as you opened the door to the dorm you shared with Sarah, stepping aside to let Joel in. The toolbox in his hand looked almost comically out of place in the small, cluttered room.

Joel’s whiskey-colored eyes swept over the space, taking in the contrast between the two halves. Sarah’s side was neat and predictable—her bed perfectly made, her laptop resting beside a neat stack of textbooks and papers. The bedside table held only an alarm clock and a charger, everything in its place.

Then there was your side—pure chaos. Your bed was an unmade tangle of blankets and pillows, last night’s clothes haphazardly tossed into the mix. Your bedside table was a disaster zone, littered with half-empty disposable coffee cups, a tangle of cords, and your laptop teetering dangerously on the edge.

Joel let out a low chuckle.

“Uhm, I wasn’t expecting visitors,” you defended, hastily gathering up the mess and tossing it onto a chair.

“Clearly,” he deadpanned, setting the toolbox down with a thud.

You shot him a glare, irritated at how amused he looked. He smirked, that signature Joel Miller smirk that made you want to simultaneously strangle him and kiss him senseless.

“Relax, little girl. I’m a mess too.”

Your breath hitched. That damn nickname. You shifted uncomfortably, pretending it didn’t ignite something in the pit of your stomach.

Desperate to change the subject, you gestured toward the bed. “Do you think you can fix it?”

“First, gotta see what’s wrong.” Joel rolled up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms as he lifted the mattress and propped it against the door. He crouched beside the bed frame, examining the splintered wood. “You’re a wild one, huh?” he murmured, his voice dripping with suggestion.

Your face burned. “That’s not how it broke,” you snapped quickly, then immediately regretted your defensiveness. Like hell it’s any of his business if it was.

Joel grinned, clearly entertained by your reaction. “Sure,” he drawled, grabbing a hammer and prying out the broken nails. “Might wanna step back, sweet thing. Hate to elbow that pretty face of yours.”

Your breath caught in your throat. When did the room get so damn hot? You realized, belatedly, how close you’d been standing—nearly pressed up against him, watching him work. Embarrassed, you took a step back and sat down on Sarah’s bed, grabbing your phone to distract yourself.

You tried not to watch him, but there was something hypnotic about the way he moved—how his strong hands handled the tools, how his biceps flexed beneath his flannel. Your stomach tightened, heat creeping up your neck. You shook your head, forcing yourself to focus. You already made that mistake once. You were not going to do it again.

Especially not in the room you shared with his daughter.

“There,” Joel announced smugly, pushing the mattress back into place. “Good as new. Go on, test it out.”

You rolled your eyes. “Idiot.”

He smirked. “No, seriously. See if it’s comfortable. I don’t half-ass my work.”

You stared at him for a moment, trying to gauge if he was being serious or just fucking with you. With a sigh, you walked over and sat on the bed. Joel’s gaze flickered downward, shamelessly watching the sway of your hips before quickly looking away when you caught him.

You ignored the way your pulse quickened. Instead, you shifted on the mattress, nodding. “Yeah, it’s good. Thanks. How much do I owe you?”

Joel scoffed. “As if I’d charge you for hammerin’ a few nails. Besides, you’re Sarah’s friend, so that means you’re in the privileged group that gets my services for free.”

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. Damn him. You hated how effortlessly he made you like him.

“Can I at least offer you a drink?”

Now that made him smile. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

You pulled two beers from the mini-fridge, handing him one before sitting on the edge of your now-fixed bed. The air between you felt different, heavier. The brush of his thigh against yours was subtle, yet searing.

A beat passed before you sighed, bringing the bottle to your lips. “You know… if all of this wasn’t so fucked up, I think I’d actually enjoy spending time with you.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking. “You sayin’ you don’t?”

You glanced at him, your gaze steady. “I’m saying it shouldn’t be like this.”

He hummed, taking a slow sip of his beer. “I’m still a lot older than you,” he reminded you.

“Age is just a number,” you murmured.

“And jail is just a place,” he shot back, making you roll your eyes.

“I’m twenty, Joel,” you deadpanned. “I’m a fucking adult.”

Joel exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “That don’t make it any better, little girl.”

“What kind of bullshit moral high ground is this?” you snapped. “Did you forget that you fucked my brains out yesterday?”

Joel ran a hand down his face, sighing. “I’m tryin’ not to let that happen again, little girl. But you’re makin’ it real damn hard.”

Your breath hitched.

His words hung in the air, thick with unspoken want. Your eyes locked onto his, and something shifted. Neither of you moved at first, but it was inevitable—the slow, magnetic pull drawing you together.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, your lips crashed onto his.

Joel groaned against your mouth, his large hands gripping your waist, pulling you onto his lap. The kiss was desperate, fueled by the tension that had been simmering between you all damn day. His fingers dug into your hips, guiding you closer, until you could feel the heat of him through his jeans. Your hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, making him growl into your mouth.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, devouring you like he was starving for you. You gasped as he tilted his head, biting down on your bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough and thick with need. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”

His words sent a jolt of heat straight to your core. Your fingers fisted in his flannel, tugging him impossibly closer. You didn’t answer, you didn’t want to think, you didn’t want to admit that you were giving yourself to him again, but fuck, how could you resist when your whole body was buzzing with need for his? 

When all you wanted was to drown in the feel of his body against yours, the way his calloused hands caressed your soft skin like they knew every little nook and cranny. You rocked your hips against his groin, Joel’s rough jeans rubbing against your cotton panties, your dress bunching at your waist, the feeling was deliciously wrong. But if you were honest, you were begging to fail again if he fell too.

Joel's hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing the firm globes as he ground his denim-clad erection against your aching core. He swallowed your moan with another burning kiss, his tongue plunging into your mouth to claim you thoroughly. You could taste the beer on his breath, feel the scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin. It was intoxicating, overwhelming, and you found yourself getting lost in the sensation of being wanted, being desired, being consumed by him.

"Fuck, little girl," he growled, breaking the kiss to trail his lips down the column of your throat. "You taste even sweeter than I remembered." His teeth grazed your pulse point before he sucked hard, no doubt leaving a mark. You both knew it was stupid, it was a way of digging your own graves, but your minds were too consumed with lust to reason about the risk.

Your head fell back, giving him more access to the column of your throat as your fingers tangled in his brown hair. You could feel the weight of his cock throbbing against you, separated only by the barrier of his jeans and your soaked panties. The friction was maddening, delicious, and you found yourself rocking against him wantonly, chasing more of that pleasure.

"Joel," you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper. "We shouldn't... not here..." Even as you said it, you knew it was a lie. You wanted him, wanted this, wanted to feel alive and unburdened and whole in his arms. You wanted him to fuck you until you forgot your own name, until you forgot that it was your best friend's father who was fucking you.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating against your own. "Shouldn't we?" he countered, nipping at your earlobe before soothing the sting with his tongue. "Baby girl, I've wanted to bend you over this table and fuck you senseless since the moment we walked through that door. Gonna ruin this tight little cunt until you're beggin' for my cock, beggin’ to my cock split you open”

His words made you clenched around nothing, your core aching and empty and hollow. You needed him, needed to feel him inside you, filling you, completing you. You were already addicted to the way he touched you, the way he fucked you, the way he made you come undone. And god help you, but you wanted to do it all over again. You wanted to drown in him, in the pleasure and the pain and the all-consuming hunger that only he seemed to ignite in you.

"Please," you whimpered, not even sure what you were begging for anymore. "Please fuck me, please make me yours"

Joel seemed to understand, seemed to sense the desperation radiating off of you in waves. He hoisted you up onto your bed, the soft mattress pressed against the backs of your thighs as he stepped between them, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

"Wrap your legs around me, baby," he commanded, his voice a low rumble. "Gonna fuck this sweet cunt so hard, you'll forget your own goddamn name. Gonna make you scream so loud, the whole fuckin' college will know who this pussy belongs to."

You knew that if anyone found out, it would ruin you both, but you were so lost in the moment, that you did as you were told, wrapping your legs around his waist as he leaned down to capture your mouth in another bruising kiss. His tongue delved deep, tangling with yours as he ground his cloth-covered cock against your dripping entrance. You could feel the heat of him, the thick length of him, and you knew you were already ruined for anyone else. Only Joel could make you feel this way, could set your body on fire with a single touch.

"Fuck, I need you," you gasped against his mouth, your nails raking down his back as you tried to pull him closer. "Please, Joel... please fuck me. I can't... we don't have time to waste"

He groaned, the sound muffled against your lips as he fumbled with the button of his jeans. He shoved them down just enough to free his thick, hard cock, the swollen head already luscious with the pearly drops of pre-cum. You licked your lips at the sight, imagining what the taste of him would be like on your tongue, the weight of him in your mouth.

"Greedy girl," he taunted, rubbing the tip of his cock against your clothed slit. "So fuckin' wet for me already. Tell me how bad you want it, little girl"

You were already panting, already desperate, already hoping for him. You knew this was wrong, knew you shouldn't be doing this, that if Sarah found out she might hate you forever, and yet, you couldn't stop yourself. You needed him too much.

"Please, Joel," you whimpered, looking up at him with eyes clouded with appetite. "Please fuck me. I want your cock so fucking bad. Please, just... please fuck me. I'm begging you."

He seemed to like that, seemed to like the way you begged so sweetly for his cock. He rewarded you by shoving your panties to the side and notching the thick head of his cock against your soaking entrance. Then with one hard thrust, he buried himself inside you, splitting you open on his cock.

"Fuck!" you cried out, your head threw back as he stretched you wide around him. "Oh god, Joel... so fucking good..."

"Take it, baby," he growled, starting to move. "Take my fuckin' cock. This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be fucked so hard you won't be able to walk straight?"

You could only moan in response, your pussy clenching and fluttering around him as he started to move faster, harder, his hips slapping against yours with each brutal thrust. The bed creaked beneath you, the wood groaning in protest as he fucked into you with wild abandon.

"Yes," you hissed, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you held on for dear life. "Yes, fuck... just like that. Please, Joel. Fuck me harder!"

He obliged, gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks of his fingers on your skin as he slammed into you with enough force to make the bed shake. You could feel every thick inch of him, stretching you wide and filling you up until you swore you could feel him in your womb.

"Gonna... fuck... I'm so close, Joel," you panted, your body already starting to tighten. "Gonna... fuck... come on your fucking cock..."

"Then fuckin' do it," he snarled, his voice strained with his own impending release. "Come on my cock like the desperate little girl, you are. Wanna feel this pretty pussy squeeze the fuckin' cum outta me."

His words, his filthy, vulgar words, sent you over the edge. You came with a scream, your cunt clamping down around him like a warm embrace as your orgasm crashed through you. Your vision went white, your body convulsing as pleasure exploded behind your eyelids.

Joel followed soon after, with a guttural groan that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. He slammed into you one last time before stilling, his cock pulsing and throbbing as he emptied himself inside you. You could feel the heat of his release flooding your insides, painting your walls with his seeds.

He collapsed against you then, his sweat-slicked skin pressing against yours as he tried to catch his breath. You knew you should feel guilty, knew this was wrong, that you should feel ashamed of the things your best friend's father made you feel, but all you could feel was the aftershocks of your release, the way your body still fluttered and clenched around his softening cock.

"Fuck, baby," he murmured, his voice rough and low. "That was... fuck, that was incredible."

You could only nod, too tired and sated to form words. You knew this was a mistake, knew you should never have let this happen, but God help you, you wanted it to happen again. And again. And again.

Joel seemed to sense your thoughts, sense the way your body was already craving more of his touch, more of his cock. He lifted his head to look at you, his dark eyes filled with a hunger that made your stomach flip.

"Don't you worry, little girl," he said, his voice a low rumble. "We're gonna do this again. Gonna fuck until we can't fuck anymore. Gonna make you forget everythin' but the feel of my cock inside this sweet little pussy."

You knew you should protest, push him away and run as far as you could. But you couldn't. You were already addicted, already ruined for anyone else. And god help you, but you wanted to let him ruin you over and over again.

So you simply nodded, a small smile playing on your lips as you looked up at him. "Okay," you whispered. "Okay, Joel. I'm yours for now."

At least until his daughter found out, but you didn't want to think about Sarah right now, not with his cock still buried deep inside you. That was a problem for your future self, you just need to rest.

[dreamersworldduh]

CRAZY, STUPID, LOVE

• DEAN WINCHESTER x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — In the dangerous, chaotic world of hunting, you and Dean Winchester found solace in a friends-with-benefits arrangement—a simple, no-strings connection to escape the relentless weight of your shared lives. Dean, a man who kept his emotions locked behind walls built from years of pain and loss, treated attachments as liabilities and avoided vulnerability at all costs. Yet, you became the exception.

Your sharp wit, unwavering confidence, and ability to see through his bravado slipped past his defenses, offering him a sense of stability he didn't know he needed. While he tried to convince himself that your relationship was purely physical, the truth was far more profound. You mattered to him in ways he couldn't deny, grounding him in a life defined by chaos. Against his own rules, Dean found himself holding onto the one connection he couldn't let go.

WARNING! FLUFF. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing. Violence.

WORDS! 9.8k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Okay, I have a confession—I have never seen Supernatural! Which is weird because I loveeee any show or movie dealing with the supernatural! However, I seen read plenty of Jensen Ackles fics, enough to fall in love with the gruff hunter, Mr Dean Winchester. Boy, oh, boy. He’s a tough one, so here’s something to melt your heart!😉✨

The story of how you and Dean Winchester became entwined is far from conventional—though it began in the simplest, most unremarkable way. In the unforgiving world of hunters, where every day was a gamble with life and death, and the weight of your duty pressed heavily on your shoulders, finding moments of relief wasn't just a luxury; it was survival. For you and Dean, that relief took the form of a shared understanding—an arrangement born out of mutual need: friends with benefits. No emotional messiness, no strings attached. Just two weary souls seeking solace in each other's company, finding fleeting comfort amid the chaos.

And if there was anyone who could embody that kind of arrangement, it was Dean Winchester. Ruggedly handsome in a way that seemed almost cinematic, Dean exuded a raw masculinity that was both infuriating and magnetic. His confidence was disarming, his smirk a challenge, and his green eyes held the kind of mischief that dared you to keep up. He was a man of contradictions: a relentless hunter who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders but masked his pain with crude humor and unapologetic charm. He had a talent for turning even the most innocent remark into a sexual innuendo, a penchant for classic rock, and an encyclopedic knowledge of pop culture references that would have been impressive if it weren't so distracting. And, of course, there was his unashamed fondness for pornography—a fact he made no effort to hide, even when it made you roll your eyes.

Dean wasn't someone who let people get too close. He had built walls around himself, reinforced by years of trauma, heartache, and the gnawing fear that attachments only brought more pain. Women came and went from his life, their names forgotten as quickly as they were learned, serving as fleeting distractions from the shadows that seemed to follow him everywhere. He had rules—strict, self-imposed boundaries that kept him from caring too much, feeling too deeply. But then there was you. And somehow, without even trying, you became the exception to every one of those rules.

Maybe it was the way you carried yourself in the heat of battle—calm, collected, and fiercely determined. Or perhaps it was your sharp wit, the way you could meet his sarcasm with a quip of your own, effortlessly keeping him on his toes. You challenged him, called him out on his nonsense, and refused to let him get away with his usual bravado. There was a spark between you, an undeniable chemistry that ignited every time you were in the same room. It wasn't just physical, though that was certainly part of it. There was something deeper, something intangible that drew him to you like a moth to a flame.

Dean couldn't ignore the way you made him feel—how your presence seemed to ground him, even when everything else in his life was spiraling out of control. You weren't just a convenient distraction or a fleeting fling. You were a rare constant in a life defined by chaos and loss. And though he might never admit it, not even to himself, Dean found himself captivated by you. Not just your striking features or your commanding presence—though those certainly didn't hurt—but by something deeper. Something he couldn't quite name, but that made him break every rule he had so carefully built to protect himself. Something that made him keep coming back, again and again, to you.

You had an undeniable effect on Dean—an effect so consuming, so all-encompassing, that it shattered any expectations he'd ever had about what someone could mean to him. You weren't just someone he wanted, someone he found attractive or compelling. You were a craving, a fire that burned through his veins and refused to be extinguished, no matter how much he tried to rationalize it. You were in his thoughts constantly, lingering like the hum of a well-tuned engine, always there, even when he didn't want to admit it. You weren't just a desire; you were an addiction—intoxicating, irresistible, and impossible to replace. And the truth? Dean didn't want to escape it. He welcomed the way you consumed him, as terrifying as it might have been.

There was something about you that defied explanation, a magnetic pull that went beyond physical attraction or fleeting infatuation. Maybe it was the way you could match him stride for stride, meeting his sarcasm and teasing head-on with that sharp, wicked smirk that drove him insane. You weren't intimidated by his bravado, his wit, or his rough edges—instead, you seemed to thrive on the challenge of keeping up with him, throwing his words back at him with twice the fire. Dean wasn't used to that. He wasn't used to someone who didn't just tolerate his roughness but met it with their own, blending seamlessly into the rhythm of his life like you'd always been there.

But it wasn't just the banter or the chemistry that set you apart. It was the way your presence made everything feel... lighter. For a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, who lived every day knowing death was just a step behind, you were his reprieve. The chaos and noise of hunting—the relentless guilt, the endless responsibility—felt a little less suffocating when you were around. With you, the world didn't seem quite so heavy. You didn't just make life bearable; you made it worth the fight, worth the endless sacrifices and heartaches. And that was something Dean hadn't felt in longer than he cared to admit.

The thought of losing you? It was more than unbearable—it was terrifying. Dean was no stranger to loss; it was a constant, unyielding shadow in his life, stealing everything he held dear. But the idea of losing you wasn't like anything he'd faced before. It wasn't just grief or sadness he imagined—it was devastation. The thought of you walking out of his life, of your laugh, your presence, your fire disappearing, left a hollow ache in his chest that he couldn't ignore. Losing you wouldn't just hurt—it would break him in a way he wasn't sure he could come back from.

So no, you weren't going anywhere. Not if Dean had anything to say about it. He wasn't the kind of man who easily held onto people—his life was messy, dangerous, and far too uncertain. But for you, he would make an exception. He had to. Because somehow, in the chaos of his life, you had become his anchor, the one thing he could hold onto when everything else seemed to spin out of control. You were his constant, the steady presence that reminded him why he kept fighting, why he hadn't given up. And though he might not be the best at showing it, Dean Winchester would do whatever it took to keep you by his side. Because the thought of losing you? That wasn't just unbearable—it was unthinkable. You weren't just someone to him. You were everything.

When it came to you, Dean Winchester didn't just care—he claimed. His protectiveness wasn't a casual thing, nor was it something he apologized for. It was fierce, unapologetic, and at times downright terrifying. He didn't just watch over you; he guarded you with the intensity of a man who had lost too much already and refused to lose again. The idea of anyone even speaking ill of you was enough to make his jaw clench and his green eyes harden with that razor-sharp, dangerous glint that made most people back off without him having to say a word. Disrespect you? Hurt you? They'd better pray Dean didn't hear about it—because when it came to you, there was no forgiveness, only retribution.

It didn't matter that you didn't need protecting. Dean knew you were strong—hell, he'd seen it up close. You weren't just capable; you were a force of nature. He'd watched you take down monsters with a precision and ferocity that left even the most hardened hunters slack-jawed. You handled yourself with confidence and skill, and there was a fire in you that burned so brightly it was impossible to ignore. You didn't need anyone to save you—you'd made that clear from day one. But that didn't stop Dean. It wasn't about whether you needed him; it was about the fact that he needed to be there for you.

Dean had your back in every possible way. He wasn't just a partner in battle; he was an unmovable presence in your life, standing by you like an unshakable wall. He was the first to step forward when things got rough, the first to take a hit so you wouldn't have to, the first to make it clear to anyone who dared cross a line that you weren't someone to mess with. Whether it was stepping in with a cutting remark to shut someone down, fixing that steely glare on a threat, or physically putting himself between you and danger, Dean made sure the message was clear: you were untouchable. On his watch, no one—human or otherwise—would get close enough to hurt you.

But his devotion ran deeper than just physical protection. Dean wasn't just your shield in the field; he was your unwavering support in every part of your life. He stood by you in the quiet moments, too, watching your six not just on the battlefield but in every room, every situation. You'd catch him scanning a crowd, making sure no one was getting too close, too loud, too bold. He didn't need to say a word; his presence was enough. The way he hovered just a bit closer when tensions rose or the way his gaze darted to you when you entered a room spoke volumes. It wasn't just about keeping you safe—it was about making sure you knew you weren't alone. That no matter what came your way, he was right there, ten toes down, ready to stand between you and anything that threatened you.

Dean Winchester might have been a lot of things—brash, stubborn, and infuriatingly sarcastic—but when it came to you, he was steady, loyal, and relentless. His care for you wasn't loud or flashy; it was in the little things. In the way he made sure you had a hot meal after a long hunt. In the way he double-checked that the weapons you carried were in perfect condition. In the way his hand would find your arm or your shoulder when words weren't enough to say, I've got you.

Because when Dean cared, he cared with everything he had. He didn't do half-measures or halfway devotion. You were his person—his anchor, his partner, his everything—and he wasn't about to let anyone forget it. He'd fight for you, bleed for you, and, if it ever came down to it, he'd die for you without hesitation. Because you weren't just important to him—you were everything. And Dean Winchester never let go of what mattered most.

Tonight, Dean Winchester was a man on a mission. It wasn't about hunting monsters or saving the world—though those things had their place. Tonight was about you, about making sure you understood, without question, just how much you meant to him. Grand gestures and sweeping declarations weren't Dean's style. He wasn't the guy who showered someone with roses or planned elaborate candlelit dinners. No, Dean expressed himself through dry humor, protective instincts, and those rare moments when he let his guard slip, showing the vulnerability he kept locked away. But tonight was different. Tonight, he was determined to show you, in his own way, that you weren't just someone in his life—you were the someone.

Even Sam and Castiel couldn't hide their surprise at the effort Dean was putting into planning something special. Sam had raised an eyebrow when Dean muttered something about setting aside some time and needing things to go "just right." Castiel, ever the curious observer, had tilted his head, his unblinking gaze silently analyzing this rare glimpse of Dean's softer side. After all, this was the same man who thought a six-pack of beer and a slice of pie was romantic gold. Yet here he was, mapping out a plan to make sure you felt appreciated, loved, and understood.

Unfortunately, as was often the case in your world, life had other plans. Before Dean could even begin to set his night in motion, the three of you—Dean, Sam, and yourself—caught wind of a small pack of vampires preying on a nearby town. The hunt couldn't wait. Innocent lives were at stake, and in true Winchester fashion, the mission had to come first. Castiel had been ready to join you, but angelic duties had called him away, leaving the three of you to gear up and face the threat alone. The trunk of the Impala was quickly filled with machetes, bottles of dead man's blood, and the familiar weight of yet another dangerous night.

Despite the sudden change of plans, Dean wasn't about to let the hunt derail everything. Even as the three of you strategized, his attention lingered on you in ways that spoke volumes. He handed you a weapon with a brush of his fingers that lingered just a little too long to be casual. His jokes, aimed at breaking the tension, were always delivered with a glance in your direction, his eyes sparkling with something deeper than humor.

The three of you—Dean, Sam, and yourself—pushed cautiously into the abandoned mansion, the heavy wooden doors groaning under their own weight as they creaked open. The air that greeted you was suffocatingly stale, carrying the acrid stench of rot and mildew that made your stomach turn. The grandeur of the once-stately home was long gone, replaced by decay and neglect. The intricate carvings on the wooden banister were chipped and splintered, the elegant chandeliers dangled precariously, and the faded remnants of wallpaper peeled from the walls like forgotten memories.

Dean moved on your right, his machete glinting faintly in the dim shafts of moonlight filtering through shattered windows. His body was a study in controlled tension, each step deliberate, his green eyes scanning the shadowed corridors for the slightest hint of movement. To your left, Sam's towering form moved with equal precision, his flashlight sweeping over the debris-strewn floors and gaping doorways. You could feel the charged silence between the three of you, the unspoken knowledge that danger was lurking in the dark.

The herd of vampires you'd been tracking was somewhere in this sprawling labyrinth, and the unease in your gut only deepened as you ventured further inside. Years of hunting had sharpened your instincts, and right now, every nerve in your body screamed that you were being watched. The oppressive quiet pressed in on you, broken only by the creak of the warped floorboards beneath your boots and the distant drip of water echoing through the cavernous space.

"We should split up," you suggested in a low voice, your words cutting through the heavy silence.

Dean stopped dead in his tracks, turning to you with an incredulous glare. His jaw tightened, and his voice was a low growl as he snapped, "That's the dumbest idea I've heard all week. And that's saying something."

You met his sharp gaze with calm defiance. "The house is too big, Dean. If we stick together, we'll be here all night, and they'll have time to scatter. Splitting up means we cover more ground faster."

Sam tilted his head, his brow furrowing as he considered your point. "He's not wrong," he offered cautiously. "If we stick to a plan—stay in contact and regroup at the first sign of trouble—we might have a better chance of catching them off guard."

Dean let out a heavy sigh, gripping his machete like he wanted to argue but couldn't find the words to refute you both. "Fine," he muttered, though his expression left no doubt he hated the idea. "But if either of you gets in over your head, you call. I mean it. No hero crap."

With a reluctant nod from Dean, the three of you split up. Sam headed toward the grand staircase, his flashlight sweeping over the crumbling steps as he ascended to the second floor. Dean veered off toward the eastern wing, muttering something under his breath about bad ideas. That left you with the western halls—a maze of decaying doorways and shadowy passageways that seemed to stretch endlessly into the dark.

The deeper you ventured, the heavier the atmosphere became. The walls seemed to close in, the corridors twisting and intersecting in a way that made you question whether the mansion's design had been intentional or the result of time warping its structure. Your machete felt solid in your grip, a reassuring weight against the growing tension.

When you stepped into a large library, the air felt different—heavier, charged with a faint energy that raised the hairs on the back of your neck. Rows of dusty shelves loomed around you, their contents long forgotten and crumbling. A massive window at the far end of the room was cracked and fogged with grime, letting in just enough light to cast eerie shadows.

Then you saw it—a flicker of movement in the corner of your eye. You froze, your heart hammering as you tightened your grip on your weapon. Slowly, you turned, scanning the room with practiced precision. That's when you spotted him.

A figure emerged from the shadows, leaning casually against one of the bookshelves as if he had all the time in the world. He was tall and lean, his pale skin giving him an almost ghostly appearance in the dim light. His dark hair was slicked back, framing sharp, angular features that were only accentuated by the smirk curling at the corner of his lips. But it was his eyes that held your attention—cold, calculating, and predatory, glinting with an unsettling mix of amusement and hunger.

"Well, well," he drawled, his voice smooth and dripping with mockery. "A hunter, all alone. What a delightful surprise."

The vampire prowled around you, his movements unnervingly fluid and calculated, each step deliberate as though he were savoring the moment. His sharp, piercing gaze raked over you, studying you with an intensity that felt invasive, as if he could see right through you. The smirk tugging at the corner of his lips hinted at amusement—or perhaps satisfaction—but there was no mistaking the predatory gleam in his eyes.

Your grip on the machete tightened, its weight steady in your hand, a much-needed anchor in this tense standoff. You held your stance firm, but your mind was a whirlwind of calculations. He wasn't lunging, wasn't snarling, and yet his every movement radiated menace. He was toying with you, a predator testing its prey. But why? That lingering question gnawed at the edges of your mind.

"Tell me," he drawled, his voice like velvet, smooth and disarmingly calm. "What brings you here, hunter? Were you foolish enough to wander in alone? Or are you just that brave?" His tone was mocking, but there was something underneath—curiosity, perhaps? Intrigue?

You didn't answer, your eyes tracking him as he circled. Silence was your shield; words could give too much away. He noticed your refusal to speak and chuckled, a low, rich sound that made your skin crawl.

"Ah, the silent treatment," he said, feigning disappointment. "That's fine. Silence can be... telling." He stopped briefly, tilting his head as though examining a puzzle piece he couldn't quite figure out. "But you're different, aren't you? Not like the others. There's something... unique about you."

His eyes gleamed with a strange intensity as he resumed his slow circling. You could feel the air shift around him, heavy and charged, as though the room itself was reacting to his presence. Most vampires you'd encountered had been feral, desperate creatures, attacking with reckless abandon or fleeing when cornered. But this one? This one was composed, confident—dangerously so.

You couldn't ignore the questions clawing at the edges of your mind. If he was here alone, where was the rest of his nest? Vampires didn't operate solo, especially not leaders. And you were certain this one was the leader. His calm, his control, the way he carried himself—it all screamed authority. But if that was the case, why wasn't he surrounded by his kin? And more importantly, where was his mate? Vampires who lived long enough to lead a nest often had a mate—a partner as strong and cunning as themselves. The absence of one was glaring.

Your eyes darted subtly around the room, searching for any sign of movement in the dense shadows. The room was vast, its corners dark and endless, offering countless places for another vampire to hide. If his mate was here, they could strike at any moment. Or was he truly alone? The possibilities buzzed in your mind, each one more unsettling than the last.

"Looking for something?" he asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. He had caught the flicker of your gaze, and his smirk deepened. "Or someone, perhaps?" He leaned in slightly, his movements so smooth they were almost imperceptible. "If they're here, you'll meet them soon enough."

You refused to flinch under his scrutiny, your resolve unwavering as you met his gaze. But there was something disarming about the way he looked at you, as if he were searching for something deeper, peeling back layers you weren't even aware of. And then there was that other look—the faintest flicker of admiration, or something more unsettling. Attraction, perhaps? Whatever it was, it left you uneasy.

"What do you want?" you asked finally, your voice sharp and steady, cutting through the thick tension like a blade.

He stopped circling, standing just a few feet away now, his smirk softening into something more calculating. "What do I want?" he echoed, his tone almost playful. "For now? I want to know more about you. You've intrigued me, hunter. There's a strength in you, something I haven't seen in a very long time. Something rare."

His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. You didn't rise to the bait, keeping your expression neutral, your weapon steady. He was trying to disarm you, to draw you into a game you didn't intend to play. But his calm demeanor only made him more dangerous. He wasn't like the others you'd hunted—this one was intelligent, deliberate, and playing a game with stakes you couldn't yet see.

"You're stalling," you said, narrowing your eyes. "If you wanted to kill me, you would have done it by now."

His chuckle was soft, but it carried a dark edge. "Kill you? Oh no, hunter. You're far too interesting for that. Besides," he added, his eyes gleaming with a predatory glint, "I have a feeling this is just the beginning. I'd hate to waste such... potential."

The male vampire took a deliberate step closer, his smirk curling into something darker, more predatory. His eyes gleamed with an intensity that felt almost magnetic, holding your gaze as though he could bend your will with a look alone. Yet, there was an undeniable allure beneath the menace, a strange charisma that made your skin crawl even as it piqued your unease.

"You know," he began, his voice low and smooth, laced with a chilling kind of seduction, "you would make a magnificent vampire. Strong. Clever. Fearless. Qualities like yours don't come along every day." His pale fingers hovered near yours, not quite touching but close enough to make you hyperaware of his presence. "Imagine it. No more running, no more mortal limitations. You and I—forever. Doesn't that sound... enticing?"

The words sank like ice into your mind, freezing your blood as you processed his absurd proposition. Your grip on your machete tightened, the familiar weight anchoring you against the storm of implications behind his offer. Yet before you could summon a response—sarcastic, angry, or otherwise—the tension in the room shattered with a thunderous crash.

The door behind the vampire burst open, slamming into the wall with a crack that echoed through the decaying mansion. A blonde woman stormed in, her every movement radiating fury and disbelief. Her striking features were sharp as a blade, her golden eyes glowing with a mix of rage and disdain. She carried herself with the authority of someone who was used to being obeyed—or feared.

"Elliot," she snapped, her voice cutting through the air like a whip, "what the hell are you doing?"

The male vampire—Elliot, apparently—stiffened briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching in irritation before he turned to her with a calmness that only deepened the tension. "Ah, Celeste," he said smoothly, his tone laced with mock surprise. "You're earlier than expected."

"Clearly," she shot back, her voice dripping with venom. Her fiery gaze darted between you and Elliot, her scowl deepening. "What is this?" She gestured at you, her tone sharp enough to flay skin. "Are you seriously flirting with a hunter? Have you lost your damn mind?"

Elliot exhaled a long-suffering sigh, running a hand through his dark hair as though Celeste's arrival was the greatest inconvenience of his night. "Flirting?" he repeated, his voice tinged with exasperation. "You misread the situation. I'm making an offer."

Her laugh was sharp and bitter, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "An offer? You're trying to turn him, aren't you? Don't even try to deny it."

Elliot's smirk returned, this time more amused than predatory. "And what if I am?" he asked, his voice smooth as silk. "He's exceptional, Celeste. Even you can see that."

The color drained from her face, her fury briefly giving way to stunned disbelief. "You're insane," she hissed. "We've been together for decades, and now you're ready to toss me aside for some random hunter? Is that it?"

Elliot turned to her fully, his expression hardening, the amusement fading into something colder. "Decades of convenience, Celeste," he said bluntly, his tone like a blade cutting through the air. "Don't mistake what we've had for something it's not."

Her face twisted in a mixture of pain and fury, her fangs flashing as she stepped closer to him. "You bastard," she spat, her voice trembling with emotion. "You used me. All this time, you used me."

"You were useful," Elliot said flatly, his voice devoid of sympathy. "But don't delude yourself into thinking you were anything more."

Celeste's golden eyes burned with rage as she turned her attention to you, her expression venomous. "This is your fault," she snarled, pointing a finger at you. "You've bewitched him somehow, haven't you? But it doesn't matter—you're dead. Tonight."

She took a step forward, her fury boiling over, but Elliot moved faster. He stepped between you and Celeste with a speed that made your heart skip, his posture rigid and his voice low and dangerous. "Enough," he said, the word cutting through her rage like a command. "You will not touch him."

Her laugh was a harsh bark of disbelief. "You're protecting him? A hunter? Against me?"

Elliot's gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. "He's not just any hunter. He's mine."

The possessiveness in his words made your stomach churn, your unease mounting as the energy in the room shifted. It was colder now, heavier, as though his claim had weight beyond the spoken word. You could feel the power in him, raw and oppressive, pressing against you like an unseen force.

Celeste stared at him, her chest heaving with suppressed fury. "You've lost your mind," she whispered, her voice trembling with rage and disbelief. "You'll regret this. Both of you."

Suddenly, the room exploded in a flash of violence as Celeste's head was severed cleanly from her shoulders. There was no warning—just a swift blur of silver and the sickening sound of blade slicing through flesh and bone. Her head hit the ground with a dull thud, rolling to a stop, while her body crumpled in a lifeless heap. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood as the shock of what had just happened settled in.

You barely had time to process the scene before your gaze locked on the source of the attack: Dean Winchester, standing tall and unapologetic, his machete glistening with blood. His green eyes burned with a sharp, unyielding intensity, his smirk laced with the kind of swagger that only Dean could pull off.

"Yeah, sorry to interrupt your little soap opera," Dean said, his voice heavy with sarcasm as he stepped forward. He gestured casually with his bloodied weapon, as if he hadn't just executed a vampire mid-argument. "But let's make one thing clear: he's spoken for."

Elliot's body stiffened, his expression shifting from shock to pure, unbridled fury. He snapped his head toward Dean, the calm facade he'd worn earlier disintegrating in an instant. His dark eyes burned with hatred, and his lips peeled back to reveal his fangs, sharp and glistening. "You dare interfere?" he snarled, his voice low and menacing, practically vibrating with rage. "You'll regret that."

Dean, utterly unfazed, rolled his shoulders and adjusted his grip on the machete. His smirk widened, his voice dripping with cocky defiance. "Big talk for a guy who just lost his girlfriend," he quipped. "What's wrong? Did I ruin your plan to turn him into your eternal cuddle buddy?"

Elliot's face twisted in rage, his entire frame vibrating with barely contained energy. His movements were sharp and predatory as he took a menacing step toward Dean. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, the air around him growing heavier as he prepared to strike. He wasn't just angry—he was an apex predator on the verge of attack, his supernatural strength and speed radiating off him in waves.

Dean didn't flinch. He stood his ground, his machete gleaming in the dim light as he squared his shoulders. "Bring it on, Dracula," he growled, his tone daring.

That was all the invitation Elliot needed. He lunged, moving so quickly he was almost a blur. His hand shot out to strike, claws extended, but Dean sidestepped at the last second, swinging his machete in a wide arc. The blade connected with a shallow slice across Elliot's arm, drawing blood. Elliot hissed, barely fazed, and spun back around with terrifying speed, his claws slashing through the air where Dean's throat had been just moments earlier.

The fight was brutal and relentless, their movements a chaotic dance of strength and strategy. Elliot's supernatural speed and power were staggering; he moved with inhuman precision, every strike aimed to kill. Dean, however, was no stranger to impossible odds. He moved with the practiced skill of a man who had faced death more times than he could count. His blows were calculated, his every movement a mix of grit and raw determination.

The sound of their battle filled the room—the clash of steel, heavy footfalls, the occasional grunt of pain. Elliot's strength was overwhelming, and at one point, he caught Dean by the arm and threw him across the room like he weighed nothing. Dean crashed into a bookshelf, the wood shattering under the impact, but he was on his feet again in seconds. He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning through the pain. "That all you got?" he taunted, his voice low and daring.

Elliot snarled, his eyes glowing faintly as he lunged again, this time aiming for Dean's chest. Dean ducked just in time, bringing his machete up in a swift upward strike. The blade bit into Elliot's chest, leaving a deep, searing wound. The vampire howled in pain, staggering back, but it wasn't enough to stop him. He retaliated with a backhanded strike, his claws catching Dean across the shoulder and sending him stumbling.

You stood frozen, your heart pounding as the fight raged on. Dean was holding his own, but barely. Elliot's supernatural strength was wearing him down, each counterattack forcing Dean closer to the edge. You wanted to jump in, to even the odds, but before you could move, Dean's sharp gaze found yours.

"Stay back," he barked, his voice firm and unyielding, despite the strain in his expression. Blood trickled down his arm, staining his shirt, but his resolve was unshaken. "I've got this."

Elliot's head snapped toward you, his cruel smirk returning. "How noble," he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "Trying to protect him? You can't even protect yourself."

Dean's jaw tightened, and without hesitation, he lunged forward with a roar, swinging his machete with every ounce of strength he had left. The fight wasn't over—not yet. And if you knew anything about Dean Winchester, it was that he wouldn't stop until the vampire was dead, even if it killed him in the process.

Dean was struggling, his movements growing slower, more desperate with every swing of his machete. Elliot was relentless, dodging each strike with inhuman speed, his attacks growing bolder and more calculated. The vampire wasn't just fighting—he was toying with Dean, circling him like a predator savoring the moment before the kill. Blood trickled down Dean's forehead from a cut just above his brow, the crimson streak stark against his pale skin. His chest heaved with labored breaths, his shoulders sagging under the weight of exhaustion, but he refused to stop. Refused to give up.

Elliot's smirk deepened, his predatory eyes gleaming with cruel amusement. "You've got grit, I'll give you that," he drawled, his voice laced with mockery as he stepped closer. "But let's be honest—you're out of your league, hunter. Look at you. You're barely standing."

Dean's lips curled into a snarl, his knuckles whitening as he gripped his machete tighter. "Yeah? Well, I've taken down worse than you," he shot back, though the quaver in his voice betrayed just how close he was to his limit.

Elliot chuckled darkly, his fangs catching the dim light as he leaned in, closing the distance between them. "Oh, I doubt that," he sneered. "But don't worry. I'll make this quick." He paused, his smirk turning even crueler. "Or maybe I won't. Maybe I'll let you watch while I turn your little friend. Make you see what he becomes."

Those words lit a fire in Dean's eyes, his rage momentarily overriding his exhaustion. With a roar, he lunged forward, swinging his machete in a wide, desperate arc. But Elliot was faster. He caught Dean's wrist mid-swing, twisting it sharply until the blade clattered to the ground. Dean barely had a chance to react before Elliot's other hand shot out, slamming him against the wall with bone-crushing force.

Dean's head snapped back against the crumbling plaster, his breath knocked from his lungs as Elliot pinned him in place with one hand around his throat. The vampire leaned in closer, his smirk widening as he bared his fangs. Dean thrashed against the grip, but it was like struggling against iron chains—Elliot was too strong, and he was enjoying every second of it.

From your position, you could feel your heart pounding in your chest, the scene playing out in agonizing slow motion. Dean's struggles were growing weaker, his face reddening as Elliot's grip tightened. The vampire was speaking, taunting him, but the words barely registered. All you knew was that if you didn't act now, you'd lose him.

Adrenaline surged through you, and you moved without hesitation. Dean's earlier order to stay back echoed faintly in your mind, but you pushed it aside. There was no way you were letting him die—not now, not ever. With your machete in hand, you crept forward, your steps quick but silent, your grip tightening around the hilt until your knuckles ached.

Elliot was so focused on his prey that he didn't notice you until it was too late. Just as he leaned in, his fangs poised to strike, you swung your machete with every ounce of strength you could summon. The silver blade whistled through the air, a deadly arc that struck true.

The cut was clean, precise. Elliot's head severed from his shoulders in an instant, his expression frozen in a mixture of shock and disbelief. His body crumpled to the ground in a heap, lifeless, as his head rolled a few feet away before coming to a stop. The room fell silent, save for the sound of your own ragged breathing.

Dean stumbled forward as the vampire's grip released, coughing and clutching at his throat. He leaned heavily against the wall, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Slowly, he looked up at you, his face a mix of relief and frustration. "You really don't take orders well, do you?" he rasped, his voice hoarse.

"You're welcome," you replied, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins as you tried to steady your breathing. Your grip on the machete remained firm, your pulse thundering in your ears.

Dean straightened, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. His gaze dropped to Elliot's lifeless body, then back to you. A faint, crooked grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Hell of a swing," he muttered, nodding toward your machete. "Remind me not to piss you off."

You managed a small grin in return, though the weight of what had just happened hadn't fully lifted. "You looked like you needed a hand," you said simply, your voice steadier than you felt.

Dean's grin softened, and he reached out to clap a hand on your shoulder. The gesture was brief but heavy with meaning. "Thanks," he said, his voice quieter now. "Seriously. I owe you one."

Before either of you could say more, the silence of the room was broken by a faint noise—a distant creak of footsteps echoing through the mansion. The two of you exchanged a glance, the momentary reprieve evaporating as the reality of the situation returned. The fight wasn't over. There were still more vampires lurking in the shadows, and you both knew it.

Dean bent to retrieve his machete, his movements steady despite the fatigue etched into his frame. "Let's finish this," he said, his voice firm, his green eyes sharp once more.

You nodded, your machete still at the ready.

The heavy iron doors of the Men of Letters bunker creaked and groaned as you, Sam, and Dean pushed them open, stepping into the dimly lit warmth of your sanctuary. The hunt was finally over. Days of tracking the vampire herd, endless skirmishes, and close calls had culminated in one brutal showdown, leaving the herd annihilated—and all of you battered and exhausted. The adrenaline that had kept you on your feet had long since burned out, leaving only the ache of bruises and the bone-deep fatigue that followed every hunt.

Dean was the last to step inside, his machete hanging loosely at his side, the blade streaked with dried blood. His shirt was torn in several places, revealing fresh cuts and purple bruises across his arms, chest, and shoulders. He moved with a slight limp, favoring his left leg, and his face was streaked with grime and blood—some his, some not. Yet despite his disheveled state, he still managed to mutter, "Those damn bloodsuckers were on steroids or something," his tone laced with sarcasm as usual.

Sam, equally worse for wear with a gash above his eyebrow and dirt smudged across his face, clapped Dean on the back. "You're lucky they didn't do worse," he quipped, his voice heavy with exhaustion. Without waiting for a response, Sam trudged off toward his room, the promise of a shower and sleep clearly his priority. "I'll patch this up later," he added, gesturing vaguely to his injuries before disappearing down the hall.

Dean made to follow, his steps slow and uneven, but you stepped in front of him, crossing your arms and blocking his path. "Hold it right there," you said, your tone firm yet gentle. "You're the one who looks like you just went twelve rounds with a grizzly bear. Sit down."

Dean rolled his eyes, letting out a huff of annoyance. "I'm fine," he muttered, though the stiffness in his posture and the wince that flickered across his face told a different story. "It's just a couple scratches."

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed by his bravado. "Uh-huh. And I'm the queen of England. Sit. Down."

He sighed dramatically, but the fight was already gone from him. Dropping into one of the war room chairs with a heavy thud, he leaned back, letting his machete clatter onto the table. "Fine, Nurse Ratched," he grumbled, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

Without another word, you grabbed the first-aid kit from its usual spot on the shelf and pulled up a chair beside him. Dean watched as you opened the kit and laid out what you needed, his lips twitching in a faint smirk. "You're really getting a kick out of this, aren't you?"

"Not even a little," you shot back, already dampening a cloth with antiseptic. "Now sit still and shut up."

Dean complied, though not without muttering something about you being bossier than Sam. You ignored him, focusing on cleaning the blood and grime from his face and arms. The silence between you was comfortable, broken only by the occasional hiss or wince from Dean when you pressed too hard on a particularly nasty gash. Your hands moved methodically, and despite his usual resistance to being fussed over, Dean stayed still, letting you work.

As you carefully wrapped a bandage around a deep cut on his arm, you caught him watching you. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw that his usual smirk was gone, replaced by something softer, almost contemplative. His green eyes lingered on your face, the intensity of his gaze making you pause.

"What?" you asked, glancing up at him.

Dean shook his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Nothing," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "Just... you're good at this."

You raised an eyebrow, your tone playful but pointed. "I've had a lot of practice patching you up, Winchester."

He chuckled, but it was a quiet, almost bittersweet sound. "Yeah, I guess you have." His gaze dropped briefly, as if searching for the right words, before he looked back up at you. "You don't have to, you know. Take care of me like this. I'm supposed to be the one looking out for you."

You frowned, tightening the bandage with a little more force than necessary. "You don't get to decide that," you said firmly. "You're not just some guy I hunt with, Dean. You matter to me, okay? So stop being stubborn and let me take care of you."

Dean's breath hitched slightly at your words, his expression shifting. For a moment, he just looked at you, his usual walls nowhere to be found. His green eyes softened, and the vulnerability there made your chest tighten. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "I think I'm in love with you."

The confession hung in the air like a thunderclap, the weight of it sinking into the quiet space between you. You froze, staring at him, your heart racing as you processed his words. Dean Winchester, a man who guarded his emotions with ironclad defenses, had just let them spill out in the most unexpected way.

"Dean..." you started, but he cut you off with a small, self-deprecating laugh.

"Don't worry," he said quickly, his voice rough. "You don't have to say anything. I just... I needed to get it out there. You deserve to know."

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself before placing a hand on his uninjured arm. "Dean," you said softly, your voice steady despite the emotions swirling inside you. "You're an idiot if you think I don't feel the same way."

His eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, he looked almost vulnerable. "You do?"

You smiled, squeezing his arm gently. "Of course I do, you stubborn ass. But we'll talk about it later—after you let me finish patching you up."

Dean let out a breathy laugh, his smile genuine this time. "Fair enough," he said, leaning back in the chair. "But you're still bossy."

"And you're still reckless," you shot back, shaking your head with a grin. "Take your shirt off."

Dean's eyebrows shot up, and despite the fatigue lining his face, a slow, cocky grin spread across his lips. "Well, if you wanted me naked, you could've just said so," he teased, his voice carrying that familiar drawl of Winchester charm. "Didn't peg you as the 'wounded soldier' type, but hey, I'm not complaining."

You rolled your eyes, doing your best to ignore the way his grin tugged at something in your chest. "I'm serious. I need to clean that cut on your chest, and I can't do that with your shirt in the way."

"Mm, bossy. I like it," he quipped, but as he reached for the hem of his shirt, his smirk faltered for a moment when the movement made him wince. He pulled the fabric over his head, tossing it to the floor with a groan.

You tried not to stare, but the sight of his battered torso was hard to ignore. Bruises in various stages of discoloration painted his skin, and dried blood streaked across the angry red gash that ran diagonally across his chest. Even beaten and bruised, Dean Winchester was... well, he was still Dean Winchester.

Focus. You grabbed a cloth, soaked it in antiseptic, and stepped closer, crouching slightly to better reach his chest. "This might sting," you warned, pressing the cloth gently against the wound.

Dean hissed, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. "No kidding," he muttered through gritted teeth. "You're lucky you're cute; otherwise, I'd be kicking you out of my personal space right now."

You raised an eyebrow, barely suppressing a smirk of your own. "Pretty sure I've earned my place in your personal space, Winchester."

He chuckled, though it was rough and breathy. "Fair point." His green eyes lingered on you as you worked, his smirk softening into something more genuine. "Y'know, you're pretty good at this."

"I've had a lot of practice," you replied, dabbing carefully around the edges of the gash. "Mostly because you keep getting yourself into situations like this."

Dean leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze never leaving your face. "Well, if this is how you're gonna take care of me, maybe I'll get banged up more often. Free TLC from my favorite person? Could be worse."

You let out a small huff of exasperation, but his words still sent a flicker of warmth through you. "You're impossible," you muttered, shaking your head.

As you continued to clean his wounds, the air between you shifted. The banter quieted, replaced by something heavier, more intimate. The room seemed to shrink, the space between you and Dean charged with an unspoken tension. You could feel his gaze on you, more intent now, as if he were memorizing every detail of your face. Your hand brushed against his side as you worked, and his breath hitched almost imperceptibly.

When you finally stood to discard the bloodied cloth, Dean's hands suddenly found your waist. His grip was firm but careful, his calloused fingers pressing gently into your sides. The unexpected touch made you freeze for a moment, your heartbeat stuttering as his thumbs brushed lightly against your hips. You opened your mouth to say something, but before you could, you felt the warmth of his lips against your neck.

The kiss was soft, almost tentative, as if he were testing the waters. His breath was warm against your skin, and the way his lips lingered sent a shiver down your spine. You stood still, your hands hovering uncertainly near his shoulders, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.

Then he tilted his head up, capturing your lips in a kiss that was anything but tentative. It was slow and deliberate, carrying a weight that left you breathless. This wasn't the impulsive kind of kiss born from adrenaline or heat of the moment. This was something else entirely—something deliberate, something meaningful.

Your mind raced, trying to piece together what this meant. Dean Winchester wasn't exactly known for vulnerability, and this was different. There was no bravado, no smirk. Just him, raw and unguarded.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours, his hands still on your waist as if he couldn't bring himself to let go. His green eyes searched yours, his expression uncharacteristically open. It was as though he was trying to say something but didn't know how.

"Dean," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His lips quirked into a small, almost shy smile. "Don't," he murmured, his voice soft, almost pleading. "Don't say anything. Just... let me have this."

You swallowed hard, your emotions warring in your chest as you placed a hand gently on his shoulder. "Okay," you said softly, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you. "But, Dean... I'm not going anywhere."

He closed his eyes for a moment, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly at your words. When he opened them again, the vulnerability in his gaze was still there, but so was something else—something warmer. His hands loosened slightly on your waist, though he didn't let go.

"Good," he said quietly, his voice carrying a faint trace of that signature Winchester charm. "Because I'm not ready to let you go."

Dean's hands, so steady and certain in battle, now moved with a different kind of confidence. They trailed downward from your waist, his touch warm even through the fabric of your shirt. The shift in his grip sent a shiver through you, anticipation crackling in the air like static.

When his hands settled firmly on your ass, his hold was unapologetically possessive. He gave it a squeeze, a low hum of satisfaction rumbling from his throat, the sound reverberating through your chest. Against your lips, you felt the telltale curve of his smirk, laced with mischief and hunger. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his green eyes alight with that dangerous combination of charm and heat that was uniquely Dean Winchester.

"Didn't think I'd get you in my lap tonight," he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that sent warmth pooling low in your stomach. "But I'm not complaining."

Before you could form a coherent response—whether to quip back, scold him for his timing, or give in entirely—Dean shifted. His grip tightened, firm and insistent, and with one smooth, fluid motion, he pulled you forward. Your knees slid onto the chair on either side of his hips, your body straddling his thighs as he drew you into his lap. The sudden movement left you breathless, your chest brushing against his as you steadied yourself.

His hands returned to your hips, anchoring you firmly in place as if daring you to move. His gaze roamed over your face, taking in every detail with a mix of amusement and barely concealed desire. "That's better," he murmured, his lips twitching into a self-satisfied grin. "Now I've got you right where I want you."

Your breath hitched, and before you could retort, he surged forward, claiming your lips once more. This kiss was nothing like the first—it was hungry, demanding, a raw intensity that made your pulse race. His lips moved against yours with fervor, his hands pressing against your hips to pull you even closer, until there wasn't a sliver of space left between your bodies.

As the kiss deepened, his tongue teased yours, every movement deliberate, sending heat coursing through you. His fingers curled against your sides, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of the power he held. Beneath you, you could feel the tension in his muscles, the coiled strength barely restrained as you balanced precariously on his lap.

When his lips finally broke away from yours, it was only to trail down your jaw, leaving a hot, tingling path in their wake. He pressed kisses to the sensitive skin of your neck, each one deliberate, calculated. His breath was warm against your pulse, and when his teeth grazed the tender spot just below your ear, your body reacted instinctively—a soft, involuntary sound escaping your lips.

Dean chuckled, the sound low and rich, vibrating against your skin. "Careful," he murmured, his voice thick with amusement and a darker, more primal edge. "Make noises like that, and I might not let you off this lap for a while."

There was teasing in his tone, but beneath it, there was something deeper—something raw and unspoken. You could feel it in the way his hands moved over your body, exploring with a mix of reverence and desire. He wasn't just touching you; he was committing every curve, every line, to memory, as though this moment mattered more than either of you had expected.

When his lips returned to yours, the kiss was just as searing, just as consuming, but now it carried a weight that left you breathless. There was no rush, no urgency to move beyond this—just Dean, claiming every inch of you with his touch, his kiss, his presence. His hands remained steady on your hips, keeping you tethered to him, as though letting go wasn't an option.

And you realized you didn't want him to let go. Dean Winchester had a way of commanding a room, of making you feel like nothing else existed but the two of you. In this moment, you were more than willing to let him consume you completely.

Your fingers tangled in Dean's hair, the strands soft and warm against your touch as he kissed you with an intensity that made your world narrow down to just him. His hands gripped your ass firmly, his hold unapologetic and possessive, grounding you in a way that made your pulse race. The heat of his palms burned through your clothes, a stark contrast to the cool air of the bunker. Every touch carried a deliberate weight—hunger, yes, but also something deeper, something unspoken that lingered in the space between you.

Dean finally broke the kiss, his breath warm against your lips as he pulled back just enough to speak. His voice was low and gravelly, tinged with a vulnerability you didn't often hear from him. "You know," he began, his green eyes meeting yours with an almost shy flicker, "I had this whole damn night planned for you."

The unexpected confession caught you off guard, and you blinked at him, your hands still resting in his hair. "What?" you whispered, your voice soft, barely audible over the thundering of your heartbeat.

Dean let out a quiet chuckle, equal parts humor and self-deprecation, as his hands slid from your ass to rest gently on your hips. He tilted his head back slightly, his gaze searching yours, as if he were trying to gauge your reaction. "Yeah," he said, his tone quieter now, a rare tenderness weaving through his words. "Candles, music, real food—not diner junk. I even picked out a bottle of whiskey that didn't taste like it came out of an engine block."

Your lips parted in surprise, the image of Dean Winchester—gruff, no-nonsense, and allergic to emotional displays—meticulously planning a romantic evening stirring something deep in your chest. "You?" you managed, a note of disbelief creeping into your voice.

His smirk returned, but it was softer now, lacking his usual cocky edge. "Yeah, me. Don't look so shocked." He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, lingering there for a moment before pulling back just enough to speak again. "I don't do that kind of thing for just anyone. But for you... I wanted to."

Your hands slid from his hair to cup his face, your thumbs brushing gently over the stubble on his jaw. "Dean..." you began, your voice soft, but the weight of your emotions made it impossible to finish the sentence.

Dean cut you off, his smirk fading into a rueful grin. "Of course, the universe had other plans," he muttered, his tone turning wry. "Because why the hell not throw a pack of vampires into the mix, right? Nothing says romance like dead man's blood and machetes."

A soft laugh escaped you, the sound breaking through the heavy tension that had settled between you. "So, what? You're telling me I missed out on some grand romantic gesture?"

Dean's lips twitched into a quiet laugh of his own as his thumbs traced slow circles on your hips. "Not just some grand gesture," he corrected, his voice growing serious again. His green eyes locked onto yours, the sincerity in them hitting you harder than you expected. "I wanted you to know... how much you matter to me. How much this—" he gestured faintly between the two of you with a slight shrug "—means."

His words hit you like a freight train, the raw honesty in them leaving you momentarily speechless. Dean Winchester didn't do vulnerability—not often, and not easily. But here he was, baring himself to you in a way that was rare, even for him.

After a beat, you found your voice. "You didn't need candles or whiskey to show me that," you said, your voice soft but steady. "Just you, Dean... that's more than enough."

He studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before his lips curved into a small, genuine smile. "Yeah, well," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead that was so tender it made your chest ache, "I'm still gonna make it up to you. Just wait."

His hands slid back to your ass, his grip firm and familiar, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together again. His lips found yours once more, and this kiss was just as consuming as the first—but now it was softer, filled with something more profound than just hunger. It was a promise, a reassurance that this—whatever it was—wasn't just a fleeting moment.

As the kiss deepened, his touch moved with the same deliberate care, his hands anchoring you to him as though he wanted to keep you there forever. You couldn't help but smile against his lips, your heart full as the weight of his words lingered.

Maybe the night hadn't gone as planned. Maybe there were no candles, no music, no expensive whiskey. But none of that mattered. Because Dean was here, raw and unguarded, and in this messy, unplanned moment, he had given you something far more valuable than any grand gesture.

He had given you him. And that was more than enough.

[pbelfz]

Title: Pure as Honey, Twice as Tart Pairing: Bakugou x Reader Includes: virginity loss, corruption kink, miscommunication PB’s Masterlist

Your touch graced his skin once more – from his neck to his shoulder and down his naked chest. He sat still and tense underneath you, his hands haphazardly placed on your lower back. Gentle and timid. Much different than how you thought this would go. You pulled away from the kiss, pecking his nose lightly as you pulled away from him to speak.

“Katsuki?”

He stared back up at you through his eyelashes, brow furrowed deep, as it typically was. However, this was different than his usual scowl. Hesitance graced his features.

“What?” He grouched.

“You can touch me some more.”

Katsuki’s hands seemed to twitch, flexing around your body and pulling you further against him. “I–! I know that!” His grip lessened then, moving to your hips. Reflexively, or intent on teasing, your hips rolled against his, feeling his erection through his sweatpants. You felt him clear as day through the fabric, thick and hard, and pressing against your underwear. With how prominent the pressure against you felt, you were almost certain he wasn’t wearing any boxers. He pressed his face against your shoulder, almost like he was hiding, and he stifled a groan at the friction. You giggled, one of your hands finding its place in his hair.

“I mean like this,” you had grabbed one of his own hands and placed it on your bare breast. Katsuki pulled back to gawk at the squishy mound in his palm. He didn’t dare move at all; he simply held it.

“…Katsuki?”

“What?” Gruff, and yet, he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the tit in his hand.

“Is this your first time?”

At that, he finally seemed to be aware of having a naked woman in his lap. His ears were beet-red, the heat spreading down the back of his neck underneath your fingertips. Katsuki’s lips were sealed shut, reluctant to say anything for a change.

He started to pull away then. That’s it. It was done. The night’s over, time for you to go home.

That’s okay. You were patient. Or impatient.

You pushed back against him, but Katsuki’s hand had already fallen off your breast, and now you were just sitting in his lap.

Katsuki didn’t say anything at first, and you could see the turmoil and embarrassment behind his eyes. He was quiet. Katsuki’s a quieter man than you expected. He seemed to be waiting for you to take the lead, but he wouldn’t dare tell you that. He stared at you, at your body, expectantly. You gently took hold of his hand, bringing it back up to the breast he was holding. This was your way of telling him that it was okay to continue. That he didn’t do anything wrong. That he was doing a good job. That he was the one you wanted.

Katsuki stared at your breast in his hand and ran his thumb over your nipple, almost absentmindedly, like he was testing the waters. Or his finger was moving about curiously as he pondered your question. Either way, you wanted to encourage him – Katsuki was always a sucker for praise – and made him comfortable. You bit your lip to hide a devious smile.

Your back arched, pushing your chest further into his hand and let out a moan that you’d only ever hear in pornography. Okay, maybe it was a little dramatic for just having your nipple touched. However, Katsuki’s eyes widened immensely at the sound, looking up at your face. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him look so astounded.

“That… That felt good?” It’s not often Katsuki seemed so unsure of himself. You nodded, reaching to pull his other hand up to your other breast. Katsuki held a tit in each hand, his wild eyes flittering between each of them and your eyes. He experimentally ran his thumbs over your nipples, a little more confident than before, and you gave him a show. Your back arched a little more, and you let out another moan, trying to encourage him to do more, touch more.

Katsuki chewed on his bottom lip at the sight. He honestly looked a little crazy with his bugged-out eyes. You had to hold back a giggle because the instant you make him feel insecure or like he wasn’t doing a good job, all of this would stop, and he would shut down for the rest of the week. Katsuki was a fearsome Pro Hero, but he could be rather childish when it came to his hurt pride.

You kissed him again. He was a little needier this time, almost as if he was falling victim to his lust. His ministrations on your breasts were becoming tiresome; his rough fingers moved the same ways, and your body was growing too tolerant of his touch for it to mean anything anymore. You gently cupped his larger hand and brought it down between your legs. You thought Katsuki was going to pass out.

He overcame, though. He watched his own hand, touching you through the fabric of your underwear with a hot blush on his cheeks and neck. His hands were one of the most attractive parts of him, in your opinion; however, right now, you were becoming frustrated with their lack of experience. The rough pads of his fingertips pressed awkwardly on your labia, seeming to be searching for… something… Katsuki glanced up at your face to gauge your reactions.

Unfortunately, you didn’t look pleased enough, and Katsuki took it personally.

“What? It’s… It’s here, isn’t it?” He sounded so unsure of himself, and it made you want to eat him up. Katsuki was frustrated that he had no clear vision of what to do right now. It was so different compared to any of his previous triumphs where he picked up on a task quickly and excelled. There was hesitance here — something he’s not used to experiencing.

You got off of him, then, and Katsuki’s nipples perked at how chilly the room was without your body pressed against his. You giggled, lying down on your back and peeling your underwear off. Katsuki’s cheeks flushed bright pink as he stared directly between your legs. You reached up and grabbed his wrist, pulling him closer.

“Like this…,” you guided his pointer finger to your clitoris. Katsuki’s eyes widened as you let out an exaggerated moan and bit your lip. You brought your other hand down to grip his wrist, contorting his fingers the way you wanted them. “You’re doing so good…,” you were good at pretending to already be breathless, even though all he was doing was flicking your clit.

Katsuki ate it up, though. He swelled with pride at your praise, his cherry-red eyes flickering between your cunt and your face. He became a little adventurous and dipped a finger inside of you. You keened, spreading your legs wider for him. Katsuki’s cock swelled painfully in his sweatpants, and it was getting difficult for him to ignore it. The rough cotton of his sweatpants was getting itchy against his sensitive skin, and you could see the frustration on his face. One of your hands traveled over to his waistband, and you watched his face carefully. To your surprise, he actually jolted away from you.

Katsuki’s never liked being touched. It took him so long to get used to holding hands, and even still, he preferred to walk alongside you; he only really became touchy when around a group of guys or in a large crowd.

You weren’t offended. He was fingering you, pumping his single digit in your warm cunt slowly and carefully, so you didn’t think it was ludicrous to ask him: “Katsuki, can I touch you?”

Katsuki looked bewildered. He was so shocked that you could so easily ask to… He was much more of a prude than people took him for. You began to wonder why you were so surprised that he was a virgin, now than you thought about it. He always looked uncomfortable during sex scenes in movies, and he never liked PDA – seeing it or engaging in it.

Katsuki stuttered, “Yeah…”

You wrapped your fingers around his waistband, your gaze focused on his very noticeable tent, and you gently pulled his sweatpants down his hips. You’ve seen him soft before – by accident, you don’t think he even knows – but this was a whole different deal. You couldn’t stop yourself from running a finger over the bead of precum on his slit. Katsuki hissed at the sensation, tensing. His finger had long stopped moving and was simply resting inside of you like a wine cork. You watched his face as you lightly wrapped your hand around his shaft, stroking gently. His cock was hot to the touch, red and angry. His balls sagged, but every once in a while, one of them would tense up, almost like they were itching to release.

“Baby, keep fingering me,” you voiced, and Katsuki blushed, embarrassed that he paused his movements. He’s typically so good at multitasking. He couldn’t help but huff; he was failing you.

Katsuki pulled his finger out and jammed it back in. You gasped, or more like yelped. When you made that noise, Katsuki pulled back altogether, removing himself from you and your touch. He was cursing himself, ashamed that he couldn’t just get. It. Right.

“Katsuki, it’s okay. Here,” you reached out to grab his wrist, to try and guide him once more, but he yanked it away.

“No,” came the harsh reply. He turned away from you, glaring at the wall. He didn’t want you to see his face. You knew he was embarrassed beyond belief, but his ego was getting in the way. He needs to learn how to fail before he can get better at something. He needs to let you teach him.

“Katsuki, I can show you,” you pacify him, sitting up. Katsuki rolled his eyes and kept his head turned away from you as you sit closer to him.

“No. It… I’m not into it. Not tonight,” he snaps. He had pulled his sweatpants back up at some point between when he pulled away and now, but you knew his statement was as false as it gets. He was still hard as a rock. You were quiet for a minute, letting the silence talk for you both.

Before you can argue with him, Katsuki stands up and heads to the bedroom door with his hands in his pockets.

Without looking back, he says, “You… I’ll take you home if you want.”

You sit back on the bed, frazzled. This is what he does. He withdraws into himself. He shuts you out. He ‘messed’ something up in his head. Something went wrong. It wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t perfect. Now you’re paying the price for it.

[serpentface]

!!!!!RISKY POST INCOMING!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THERE'S ILLUSTRATED EXAMPLES

Erotic art forms in Wardi culture largely center around a variety of visual arts and poetry.

Visual erotic art falls under a wide swath of materials, purposes, and uses. It ranges from art that exclusively intends to be pleasing to the viewer (while not necessarily outright Arousing) to art with utilitarian ritual functions. While Wardi culture has very strict standards and regulations around interpersonal Acts of sexuality, Depictions of sex (including acts that are frowned upon or severely taboo if actually performed) are not considered inappropriate or something purely for a private setting, and are something the average person is entirely accommodated to. As such, erotic art commonly has a place in everyday objects- drinking vessels, plates, oil lamps, pottery, etc- and in decoration- statuary, frescoes, textiles, mosaics, etc. It's not a Predominant theme, but most well-decorated homes will have at least a few erotic art objects.

There isn’t really a concept of 'pornography' in the sense of uniquely explicit art exclusively for the purpose of sexual gratification, but there are (often subtle) measures that distinguish a sort of ‘highbrow’ erotic art appropriate for public viewing (either in literal public areas, or in common areas of the home where guests can visit) and ‘lowbrow’ erotic art that is reserved for private areas of the home (and sometimes brothels).

This distinction revolves less around the explicit nature of the sex act, and more around What in particular is shown. Actual depictions of a spread vulva in a sexual context tend to be ‘lowbrow’ (note the distinction of the sexual context- some of the most common apotropaic motifs directly depict or heavily invoke a spread vulva). Visible depiction of the human anus is virtually always ‘lowbrow’, and is very rare in erotic art in general. Both organs are conventionally regarded as ugly, though the vulva has highly positive connotations of abundance and renewal while the anus is, at absolute best, a hole you can stick a penis into.

Depiction of sex acts seen as taboo or disgusting, inappropriate, (mutually) emasculating, or otherwise undignified occupy an ambiguous middle ground- too lowbrow for common public spaces, but appropriate in certain semi-public contexts due to their usually humorous and entertaining intent. Depicting shocking or widely mocked sexual practices often (at least ostensibly) seeks to elicit a comedic response from the audience. (Some examples on a diminishing scale of perceived severity- bestiality, rimming, a woman penetrating a man with a dildo, a man masturbating with a dildo, mutual fellatio between men, a man performing cunnilingus.).

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The element of voyeurism is VERY significant to the Wardi concept of erotic art. Some art that wouldn’t even slightly be read as erotic by an outside viewer is squarely so by means of depicting people (usually women) in highly private domestic spheres which no one but close kin/spouses typically has access to. This can be evoked more easily and directly with women, who are expected to veil outdoors and in fully public settings, and to keep the hair braided everywhere outside of the private spaces of the home. This norm is strictly enforced among the upper classes and is followed fairly uniformly across class lines outside of the most extreme poverty (and some heavily rural settings). In a lot of instances, the only women any given person sees both without a veil and with unbraided hair on a regular basis (outside of their immediate family, or their wife) will be sex workers out in public. The depiction of a desirable, upstanding woman unadorned heavily implies the viewer's presence into a controlled domestic space (with undertones of sexual vulnerability), and has a distinctly erotic component.

It’s less the unbraided hair in of itself that is sexual (though this norm certainly leads to more people than average having sexual fixations on hair)- women in public with loose hair tend to be regarded more as lowly and unkempt than as objects of desire. The specific fantasy is that this is a woman of good standing in a private place and You are there, watching her.

In more explicit art, the hair being half braided during sex is a very common motif. It suggests that the process of the woman undoing her hair has been interrupted for sex, which can be compelling for viewers. It can imply her lover is so revved up that he could not wait once they both entered a private setting, as well as functioning as wish fulfillment in contrast to the tamer voyeuristic art- the viewer is no longer just looking in on the scene, but rather is invited to participate.

Depiction of a young woman noblewoman unbraiding and combing her hair, executed by a highly skilled pottery painter. While there is nothing overtly sexual in this image, this would be considered erotic art. The viewer finds themselves looking in on a highly private scene of an upstanding, sexually desirable young woman, in a physical state that would likely only be seen by a husband.

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Art objects depicting actual sex acts are common and come in great variety. The vast majority depict men with women, but all gender combinations Can be within the sphere of 'highbrow' public art.

More work from the same painter depicting an older man and a beardless youth, who (for the sake of keeping this post up) could just be in a charged, artistically nude embrace for all you know. The youth is heavily implied to be a sex worker- he wears a short haircut typical of a teenage boy, but the presence of full sideburns indicate that he is well beyond puberty, possibly shaving a beard and keeping his hair short to maintain a youthful appearance. This visual performance is very typical of male sex workers, as means of attracting clientele predominantly interested in very young men. Though on the older side of the 'beardless youth' spectrum, his body is still conventionally desirable for a male partner. Neither the presence or the older man's cloak around his waist nor the youth's distinct lack of arousal is a desperate attempt to keep this post from being nuked (though my choice of this subject matter to begin with is), and instead represents actual artistic conventions. The older man's partly clothed state serves to dignify him in comparison to his partner and emphasize their difference in status. An unmistakable clarity of power differential is common in depictions of male homosexuality made for a mass public audience, allowing the image to be conventionally pleasing and attractive. Similarly, squarely 'highbrow' depictions of male homosexual acts tend to imply no sexual gratification on the part of a receiver, as the position is emasculating and shameful and this act is often described as being exclusively pleasurable for the top. The youth's function in this image is mainly to be a desirable male body and to glorify his partner in comparison. Depictions of more amorous/more power-ambiguous male homosexuality are conventionally acceptable, but largely relegated to the semi-private sphere, and are often intended and/or received as humorous in nature.

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The above examples serve primary functions of pleasing the viewer with their imagery, but a wide swath of erotic art has simultaneous aesthetic and ritual/magical functions. Imagery in of itself is thought to have a degree of metaphysical power, and depictions of sex (and pregnancy/childbirth) on utilitarian objects often seeks to spiritually benefit the user in its use.

A decorative ceramic oil vessel featuring a coupling man and woman. The imagery of this vessel has, aside from the typical blank expressions, a distinct sense of tenderness, with the couple positioned close together and holding each other's bodies. The smear of white on their foreheads represents amenchalme, a sanctified substance used to give blessings. This heavily implies that this is a wedding consummation (as a full blessing of the couple occurs at the end of the ceremonies). The wife appears to be pregnant, which is unlikely to be an implication that she was married while already carrying (which is generally shameful outside of cases of remarrying widows), but rather intends to show the act and its successful result simultaneously. Lotus flowers (symbols of renewal and fertility) and a stylized version of the abundance character (here doubling as roots) decorate the body of the vessel. This is a multi-purpose erotic art object. It has aesthetic beauty but does not intend to be titillating. Its imagery evokes the hope for a happy marriage and the fertility of the couple. While not a specific ritual object, it may serve ritual and/or folk magic functions regarding fertility and childbirth in its usage. It might hold oil rubbed to soothe a pregnant belly, or to give in home offerings during prayers, all while imparting a sense of the blessings it suggests onto the user.

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Other erotic art serves entirely ritual functions, with no concerns for pleasing or titillating the viewer. Genitalia in complete isolation is almost always squarely apotropaic in function- the phallus is a symbol of masculine protection and transformation, the vulva symbolizes abundance and renewal, and imagery of both are thought to have protective natures.  

Some simple imagery depicting human or animal mating has a sympathetic magical function (especially in folk magic, but also in some doctrinal religious practice) intending to compel fertility, conception, healthy pregnancies, and safe childbirth. The folk magic variants tend to be made by everymen who are not technically sophisticated artists. The concern is not aesthetic quality, but the magical functions of what is being depicted. These objects are also usually not intended to be actually seen, as they will be buried or hidden in a relevant location to work its intended effects.

A pottery shard used for folk magic. The artist has little technical artistic experience and is partly literate. They have drawn their best representation of mating horses, accompanied by logograms that translate to 'horse' + 'abundance' and '(animal) fertility'. This will likely be buried within the pasture they graze their horses upon, in hopes of influencing more matings and healthy pregnancies in their livestock.

Clay figurine used for folk magic. It similarly hopes to encourage conception, this time for humans. It could be for a specific pair of humans (in which case it may have their mingled blood baked into the clay, or be tied with their hair), or intended to benefit many. Writing may be present at the bottom- depending on the artist's literacy, it may contain anything between common logograms broadly communicating their wishes or a very specific idea (ie: "May my beloved wife Tsimanse Hippinoube conceive a son by me, and not by my wretched dogcunt of a neighbor Odebidinai Jannes (cursed be his name), and may her pregnancy be healthy and her birth be swift and safe, Odomache protect her and give her strength").

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Wardi culture has a long history of poetic traditions, with its main two facets being epic and lyrical poetry (erotic poetry generally falls into the latter category). Being a talented lyrical poet is highly esteemed. Successful poets will have their works permanently recorded and disseminated for general use- read for entertainment at social events, weddings, ceremonies, and in private. Being a performer of poetry is its own field, and can be highly lucrative with skill, resources, and luck. Most professional performers are men, but learning to recite and sing poetry is a standard part of the education of most upper class girls as well as boys.

Erotic poems are generally a subset of love poetry, extolling the beauty of an object of affection or the speaker's desire (fulfilled or not) for them. Most erotic poetry revels in wordplay, avoiding direct descriptions of sexual acts in favor of cleverly implying them through careful wording and use of metaphor. These poems are considered entirely appropriate for public performance, though (unlike visual erotic art) the VERY high esteem of the poetic practice limits most conventionally accepted poetry to "highbrow" subject matter (it can be entirely explicit, but the acts and relationship dynamics it describes are relegated to cultural norms).

There's a separate subset of 'dirty' poetry (usually intended as comedic, though sometimes a form of invective poem), which mixes conventional flowery language with graphic sexual descriptions and heavy use of slang. Opinions are largely split on this variant, with the most socially conservative swaths of the population finding it to dishonor such a virtuous artform, with the less uptight response being "but its kinda funny tho"

The vast majority of successful poets are men, and most erotic poetry focuses on conventional targets of male attraction (primarily women, secondarily akoshos and beardless youths). However, erotic poetry can be one of the most accessible outlets to genuinely express un-socially accepted desires, especially due to the stylistic tendency to partly obscure its subject matter.