#and tries to make me into his version of myself

[larkandkatydid]

There are many ways to be a big weirdo and I think that some are more conducive than others to a happy life and/or to a life where your weirdness can have a positive effect on the world.

So, for example, let's say one is naturally introverted and also naturally imaginative, bright, prone to coming up with ideas about how we could just fix everything if only we tried this one thing. This is describing many tumblrinas and many Aquariuses. And if one spends too much time alone, pondering great, world-changing ideas, then that weirdness starts to fester into something unhelpful. One becomes something between the Unabomer and a person with annoying bad ideas.

A commune, like a college dorm or a nursing home can be so helpful for the introverted because it takes no extra work at all to find people to socialize with. These days, I have to challenge myself to get up, leave the house and go to the volunteer session or protest or concernt or group activity that I know is good for me. It was way easier when all those things were happening in my kitchen.

And most improtantly, I think a person with a lot of utopian ideas for how the world could work benefits from a chance to try those ideas out! And especially benefits from having a social circle that is pre-selected to be into trying out your utopian plan. Should we replace the toilet with a bucket of sawdust and the shower with a grey-water system leading a duck pond? YES! Should we move to having only 1 cup and 1 plate per person in order to master our dishes problem? YES! Should we raise tilapia in the bathtub and quail in the backyard YES and YES!

And one learns from failure that maybe these ideas were actually pretty bad or, most importantly, one learns and gets better at the skills required to make those ideas work. I know several people whose passion for greywater systems first dramatically fucked up their plumbing but who then, after asking for help and even taking a bunch of community college classes on plumbing, became incredibly skilled plumbers capable of creating working grey water systems and also capable of fixing their neighbor's fucked up shower drain. I personally have found that my commune-acquired ability to milk a cow has often helped me build relationships with people who figured that if I know my way around a cow, I can't possible be that much of a big city weirdo. There's an old member of the Black Panthers who has made it his life's mission to spread bathtub tilapia as a small agricultural practice. I know a dude who convinced his local city council to fund a giant mushroom farm on the city compost facility.

This is just a complicated version of touch grass, but I believe in my heart that being weird alone in your own head makes you Jack Torrance and being weird with others makes you the world's own Manic Pixie Dream Girl...and that that one is better.

[cherry-bomb-ships]

Director's Commentary:

First of all, THIS HIT 200 NOTES IN LESS THAN 2 DAYS????? 🥺💝🥺💝🥺💝🥺💝 Thank you SO MUCH EVERYBODY, I have never had any of my self ship art get this many notes this quickly!! I've also screenshotted every tag I've gotten and will continue to do so! Thank you so much everyone 🥺💖🥺💖🥺💖🥺💖

Second, I hope that everyone knows I did this 100% original! I have actually had more than one person call this an edit, which makes me very proud of how convincing this apparently is as an imitation of the PPG style! 🥺 But no, I did all of this by hand myself! The screenshots were just referenced :D

Y'all should also know that I don't have any type of tablet or way to do digital art with a pen, I use Adobe Illustrator and only use my mouse. For the first image I did a sketch of the pose on paper and traced over digitally, but I'm proud to say for the other two I did it entirely originally using just reference images and my own imagination! That's something I'm usually not really able to do so I'm very happy that the final result came out so good

The context of the original scene is that Ms. Keane and Professor Utonium just went on a failed date that was set up by the girls, but ended up sharing a little moment after Ms. Keane accidentally tripped and the Professor ended up catching her. I'd like to think the context here is essentially the same, but I'd consider it an AU scenario because there wouldn't be a time in my ship canon where this setup would happen before Cherry and Mojo are dating.

I came up with Cherry's outfit kind of on the spot, it's basically just a fancy version of their normal outfit, with a low cut white shirt, yellow and orange cardigan, and some nice tan boots. They borrowed the choker with the pendant from their cousin, Ms. Bellum :3

I find it funny to think that Mojo wouldn't really wear an actual outfit out on a date, because in his mind, what fit could possibly be better than the villain outfit he designed for himself? He just put on a bowtie to be slightly more fancy 💖 That's actually a reference to the panel below from a DC PPG comic where he's trying to find a date for Valentine's Day and failing... I would have been there for him 🥺

Also I liked the idea of the moon being bright enough to shine through the back of Mojo's big ears, which is why the shading on them if a bit oddly shaped. No one has mentioned anything about that yet so I'm not sure how obvious that came across 😅

Ngl I struggled a bit on the background of Mojo's panel just because it's a unique perspective that I hadn't tried before, so I went and laid down on the floor in the corner of my room to see how the perspective of that looked 😂

In fact now that I think about it... This is the first time I've ever done a full color background at all, digitally OR traditionally. I'd say for my first time it came out pretty good!

In general I'm very happy with the end results, although there are a few mistakes here and there, like there's a secrion of Cherry's shadow that's not filled in all the way, and I think some of the background colors could be better adjusted so they don't blend together as much (especially the bench, what was I thinking making it so similar to the wall color aaaaaah)

That's all I can think of for now that I'd like to comment on. Once again thank you to everyone who has liked or reblogged and an even bigger thank you if you read this far! 🥺💝💝💝💝💝

There are benefits to being clumsy... sometimes you get to fall into the arms of a handsome chimpanzee 💜🩷💜🩷💜

Screenshot redraw of a cute scene from what's basically PPG's Valentine Day special! This was so fun to do, I feel like I learn more abt using Illustrator every time I go back to it :3 🩷 Reblogs are all seen and appreciated, click for higher quality!! Tag list + Screenshots referenced will be under the cut 💜

Tag List!! Click here to be added or removed.

@absentmoon, @avas-wonderland, @bee-ships, @beetleboyfriend, @berryshipbasket, @bugthecalmchild, @canongf, @cloudyvoid, @derelictdumbass, @dissonantyote, @edencantstopfallininlove, @final-catboy, @chickenout , @flowering-darkness, @gibles-lovely-selfships, @hoppinkiss, @hyperionshipping, @impulse-exe, @iwishihadfangs, @iyamifucker, @kissingarthurclaus, @lex-n-weegie, @lficanthaveloveiwantpower, @little-miss-selfships, @little-shiny-sharpies, @loogi-selfships, @mandrakebrew, @midoridayz, @mintpecks, @mothfinite, @mrs-kelly, @nameless-self-ships, @nerdstreak, @odysseyyaoi, @oleanderspride, @orbitingaroundyourlove, @paper-carnation, @reds-self-ships, @rotten--cotton , @spacestationstorybook, @squips-ship, @theheroand, @toogayforthistoday, @winterworlds, @yuzuibanagi

[bimbosicko]

GET HIM BACK ! (DEAN'S VERSION)

you're sam's girlfriend and when you find out he cheated on you, you have to get him back ۶ৎ

pairings ! dean winchester x fem! reader

warnings ! english isn't my first language, soulless sam, S6E9, aka fairy episode lol, sam cheats on you so you fuck his brother ><, but there are feelings involved, i promise. fluff! angst! sex! what more could you ask for?, creampie (wrap it before you tap it guys), 69?, cheating but at the same time no??, oral (female and male receiving) and that's it i think! :3

author's note ! dean is literally the loml (⁠╥⁠﹏⁠╥⁠) idk how this got so long like i literally am a sam girlie idk what happened!!! remember!! my asks are open and everything you need to know ab myself is in the pinned post in my blog, ily<33

words count ! 10k omfg, i need therapy.

sam's version (there's no connection between these two fics)

The cabin was silent when you woke up. Outside, the wind battered the windows fiercely, making the wood creak with every gust, but inside, everything was still. Too still.

You reached out almost instinctively, searching for the familiar warmth beside you, but all you found were cold sheets. And like almost every night lately, Sam wasn’t there.

You sat up slowly, blinking to adjust to the night’s darkness, and then you saw him.

Standing by the window, back to you, his silhouette rigid, his head barely tilted toward the darkness outside. The same posture you had seen every night for weeks. As if something out there made more sense than everything in here. As if he was trapped in this place with you, and not out there chasing the freedom he seemed to seek with every flicker of his gaze through the glass.

“Can’t sleep?” you murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

Sam took his time to respond. He didn’t turn to look at you—if you didn’t know him better, you’d think he hadn’t even heard you. He just stood there, unmoving, like a statue.

“I’m not tired,” he whispered after a few seconds.

The same answer as always. The same empty, lifeless phrase, with not even the slightest attempt at reassurance.

Before, Sam used to wrap you in his arms, press a kiss to your hair, and fall asleep with his breath in sync with yours against your skin. Before, his mere presence was enough to make you feel safe. Now, you barely even shared the same space.

You moved carefully, ignoring the chill of the cold floor against your feet as you approached him. Every step felt like a test, like you were trespassing into forbidden territory. Finally, you lifted a hand and placed it on his back, waiting… for something. Any sign of recognition, a glimpse of the man you once knew.

All you got was the immediate tension of his muscles under your touch.

He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t react either.

You pressed your lips together and tried to pretend that didn’t hurt more than it should.

“Sam…” you whispered, feeling the words catch in your throat. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Another silence followed. A heavy, unbearable silence that stretched for too long. Finally, Sam turned his face slightly toward you.

And his expression knocked the breath out of you.

There was no trace of the person you remembered. His eyes, once full of life and every emotion you never needed to put into words, were now an empty void. Black in the dim light, expressionless, as if he were looking at you without really seeing you. If he hadn’t proven himself to you weeks ago, you’d be convinced you were dealing with a demon, not your boyfriend.

“Nothing.” His voice was calm. Too calm. So devoid of emotion that it chilled your blood. “Things just… changed down there.”

A shiver ran down your spine. It wasn’t the first time you’d talked about Hell, but never like this. Never with this cold indifference.

You swallowed hard.

“But you’re still you, right?” you asked, hating how weak your own voice sounded. Like you were afraid of the answer.

Sam tilted his head in an almost mechanical motion. As if the question confused him. As if it was ridiculous to even suggest otherwise.

Then, he smiled.

But it was an empty smile, devoid of warmth, almost soulless.

“Of course.”

Your chest tightened. You wanted to believe him, you really did. But everything in his demeanor told you otherwise.

Still, you forced yourself to smile too, even though it hurt. Slowly, you lifted a hand, trying to touch his cheek. Just a simple touch. A simple connection. Something that could bring you back to him.

But before your fingers could even reach him, Sam turned his face away. Not abruptly, not in anger. Just with that same cruel indifference, as if the idea of your touch was completely foreign to him. As if you were nothing more than a shadow in his world now.

Since he had come back, he hadn’t touched you. He hadn’t held you. He had barely even spoken when you tried to reach him.

You lowered your hand, feeling your throat burn. You didn’t say anything else. There was no point.

You just turned around and went back to bed, wrapping your arms around yourself to fill the icy emptiness in your stomach.

But no matter how much you curled under the blankets, the cold never left.

If you were being honest with yourself, pretending to be surprised when Dean called to say something was wrong with Sam was harder than expected. You had already noticed. You had felt it in every empty stare, in every touch that never came, in every silence that stretched too long.

But you couldn’t say it. You couldn’t admit that, deep down, you already knew.

“He… doesn’t have a soul.” Dean’s voice was tense, tired, carrying that unmistakable weight of someone who has seen too much and still keeps going. “We don’t know who took it. We don’t know anything.”

You bit your lip, processing the information as you overanalyzed everything you knew about the supernatural world your boyfriend and his brother were trapped in. A world where souls could be taken like objects. A world where the impossible happened far too often.

“Maybe…” you started, but Dean cut you off before you could finish.

He said your name. Not like he usually did. Not with the teasing tone he used when you argued over stupid things. Not with that slow, arrogant drawl that sometimes drove you crazy. No. This time, it was different.

Lower. Deeper. More… personal.

“No, stop doing that.” His voice was firm, frustrated. “You always defend him. And lately, more than ever.”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms.

“I wasn’t going to defend him, I was trying to think of solutions.”

Dean scoffed, and you could almost picture him running a hand down his face, exhausted.

“There’s no solution for this.” His tone softened just a little, but when he spoke again, he said your name once more. And that was worse.

There was something in the way he said it that made you tense up. Like every letter weighed too much on his tongue. Like he was fighting himself just by saying it.

You didn’t like it. Or rather… you liked it too much.

Quickly, you tried to change the subject.

“How are Ben and Lisa?” you asked, forcing yourself to sound casual.

Dean was silent for a second. Just a second. But it was enough for you to feel a knot in your stomach.

“Don’t do that,” he finally said.

“Do what?”

You didn’t need to see him to know he was clenching his jaw.

“You know exactly what.”

You swallowed down a nervous laugh. But of course, Dean caught it.

“Are you laughing?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I can hear you laughing.” His voice took on that tone he always used when he wanted to sound annoyed but really wasn’t. “I’d recognize that sound anywhere. It’s the same as Smurfette’s.”

You smiled, even though you knew you shouldn’t.

“Sorry for emitting emotions, Terminator. Won’t happen again,” you said with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood.

On the other end of the line, you heard Dean inhale sharply, like his lungs had forgotten how to function for a second.

There was a pause. Not the comfortable kind. Not the ones that felt natural. This one was heavy, loaded with something you didn’t want to name.

“Speaking of Terminator,” he finally said, and you rolled your eyes at his nickname for his brother.

He’s not just his brother. He’s your boyfriend, you reminded yourself harshly.

“He… confessed some things.”

Your stomach tightened.

“Confessed?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Dean took a second to respond. Not long enough to be suspicious, but long enough for you to notice.

“I roughed him up a little,” he admitted, and even without seeing him, you knew he was uncomfortable. “Sorry about that.”

A part of you wanted to be angry. But that part was small, almost insignificant. Instead, you sighed and shrugged, as if that could somehow translate through the phone.

“I’ll assume he deserved it.”

There was silence, and then Dean let out a short laugh.

“He really did.”

But the lightness didn’t last long. A second later, he sighed, and you recognized the sound of someone bracing themselves for something difficult.

Then, he said it.

“Sam confessed to cheating on you.”

The world seemed to stop.

The air in your lungs grew thick, impossible to inhale without pain. Your eyes welled up instantly, but you didn’t let the tears fall. You blinked rapidly, pressing your lips together tightly, as if that could hold back everything that was about to break inside you.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t ask why. You didn’t deny it.

You just said the first thing that came to mind.

“Are you okay?”

Dean said your name in a tone you couldn’t quite decipher. Damn it, he seemed obsessed with your stupid name. He always said it differently than anyone else. With a different weight. As if it meant more than it should.

“I’m fine, Dean.” You bit out each word, swallowing the anger, the pain, everything you couldn’t afford to let out in that moment. “Do you need me to come?”

Dean hesitated, and for a moment, you thought he’d tell you no. That it would be best if you stayed where you were, far from all of this. But instead, his voice dropped to a whisper.

“We’re fine.”

It was soft. Too soft. Like he was trying to wrap you in something he couldn’t allow himself to give you.

You scoffed, “I’m coming anyway.”

Dean didn’t try to stop you. He didn’t argue. Somehow, that made you feel worse.

Your grip on the steering wheel was so tight you could feel your nails digging into the rubber. The trembling in your hands was subtle, but enough to make your knuckles turn white under the pressure.

You kept trying to convince yourself that you were fine, that this wasn’t the end of the world, that you and Sam were going to get through this like the totally functional couple you were.

You took a breath. Then another.

Everything could be fixed. Everything.

It didn’t matter what Dean said—what the hell did he even know about this anyway?

But doubt crept into your chest like a slow poison.

He knew. Dean always knew more than he let on, and when he had called, his voice had that tone that made you want to throw the phone out the window. That tone of I know you’re lying to yourself, but I’m gonna let you figure it out on your own.

Your breathing started to turn erratic, your grip on the wheel tightening even more.

You knew Sam didn’t have a soul. You knew it. Something inside you had known all along.

But goddamn it, you couldn’t stop it from hurting.

Things were changing, and you hated it. You knew what you were signing up for when you started dating him, but… how the hell were you supposed to fight something you couldn’t even see?

The pain was diffuse, hard to pinpoint, but it was there, under your skin, in the way his eyes didn’t shine anymore, in the way his hands no longer reached for you.

You blinked, and by the time your vision focused, you had already driven past Bobby’s place.

Shit.

You slammed on the brakes so hard that the force sent your forehead crashing against the wheel. Any harder, and you would’ve left a mark.

You huffed, running a hand over your face before reversing and parking properly.

By the time you stepped out of the car, Dean was already waiting at the entrance, arms crossed, leaning against the frame like he had been standing there forever.

His expression was tense, but his eyes scanned your face quickly, analyzing every flicker of emotion you weren’t sure you could hide.

“Oh, fuck, what happened now?” It was the first thing that came out of your mouth, because if there was one thing you could still do, it was pretend you weren’t about to break.

Dean let out a sharp exhale, tilting his head like he was debating whether to tease you or let it slide.

“Well, hello to you too, princess.”

You rolled your eyes with fake impatience, like hearing him call you that didn’t make you feel things you really shouldn’t be feeling.

“Your boyfriend’s inside.”

That sentence—so simple, so casual—hit you like a punch to the gut.

Your boyfriend.

Your boyfriend, who didn’t have a soul. Your boyfriend, who didn’t touch you, who didn’t look at you the way he used to, who had cheated on you and didn’t even seem to understand why that was wrong.

Your boyfriend, who felt more like a stranger with every passing day.

You swallowed hard, forcing your expression to stay neutral.

“Great.”

You took a step toward the entrance, but Dean moved before you could pass him—not exactly blocking your way, but not stepping aside either.

His eyes flickered downward.

It was only then that you realized your hands were still shaking.

The shift in his expression was almost imperceptible, but you caught it. The tension in his jaw, the way his gaze hardened for a second before he masked it with his usual attitude.

“Tell me you’re at least gonna kick his ass when you see him.”

It wasn’t a question.

You looked at him, and for a second, it was hard to remember that he was with Lisa and you were with Sam.

Dean wasn’t soft when he spoke—he never had been. But somehow, when he looked at you like that, when he said things like that in that irritated yet protective tone, the stupid tension in the air became impossible to ignore.

You shook your head, as if that could clear your thoughts. “Just tell me how bad the mess is this time.”

Dean tilted his head, his eyes still locked on you.

For a moment, you thought he was going to say something else. Something you weren’t sure you wanted to hear.

But then he just huffed and shrugged.

“Nothing we can’t fix.”

You knew he had changed his mind at the last second just to make you feel better.

You appreciated the effort.

Seeing Sam sitting at the kitchen table, casually drinking a beer like nothing had happened, sent a wave of fury so intense through you that, for a moment, you had to clench your fists just to keep yourself in check.  

You wanted to yell at him.

You wanted to shake him.

You wanted to make him understand what this meant to you, what he was making you feel.

But it was useless.

Because he didn’t care.  

Not because he wanted to hurt you, not because he was doing this out of malice, but because… he simply couldn’t care.  

And that indifference, that complete lack of emotion, was worse than any lie he could have told, worse than any excuse he could have given.  

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm, to not let the desperation seep into your voice.  

“Dean.”  

Just like that, he caught the hint instantly. With one last glance between you and his brother, he turned on his heels and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

The sound of the latch clicking into place felt like a sentence being passed.  

Sam sighed, resting his elbows on the table, wearing that same vacant expression that was driving you insane.  

His eyes skimmed over you, as if assessing how much you knew, how much you had to say to him.  

He whispered your name, his voice hesitant.  

“I’m guessing Dean told you.”  

You let out a humorless laugh. Of course he did. Of course he fucking did.  

“Yeah, he told me all about your little ‘I’m unstoppable and have no feelings’ monologue.”  

Your tone was pure venom. A sharp-edged mockery, laced with more anger than you wanted to admit.  

Sam blinked slowly, unfazed.  

“You two are really close, huh?”  

You knew it wasn’t meant as an accusation.  

But it still felt like one.  

Your chest tightened instantly.  

You coughed, trying to shake off the embarrassment. “I… I’m disappointed.”  

He nodded, as if mulling over your words, then, with the same lack of emotion as always, murmured:  

“Yeah. I’d be disappointed too, honestly.”  

That simply was the final blow.  

No anger, no guilt, not even the bare minimum of an attempt to reassure you.  

You wanted to wipe that blank expression off his face with a punch.  

You let out a bitter laugh, because if you didn’t, you were going to break right there.  

Both hands landed on the table as you leaned forward slightly, forcing yourself to keep it together.  

“I understand your… situation. I really do,” you whispered, though the lump in your throat made it hard to speak.  

And the moment the words left your mouth, you felt like an idiot for calling it that.  

A situation.  

Not having a soul wasn’t a situation.  

It wasn’t a temporary crisis, something that could be solved with an honest conversation.  

It was a void. A bottomless pit.  

“That’s why I thought of coming to an agreement.”  

Sam raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised.  

“You did?”  

You nodded.  

“An open relationship.”  

The very idea of it made your stomach turn.  

You didn’t want this. You didn’t want to say these words.  

But you didn’t have another choice.  

For the first time in this entire conversation, Sam actually looked confused.  

“What?”  

He didn’t ask the question as if he was in shock. He didn’t say it because he was hurt, or because this was affecting him.  

He just… didn’t get it.  

Like the idea seemed unnecessary to him.  

Like he had already accepted what he was doing anyway.  

You inhaled deeply, forcing yourself to smile.  

“I don’t want you to keep cheating on me,” you said firmly. “And I know you’re going to do whatever the hell you want anyway, so I’m giving you full permission to fuck around.”  

Your smile didn’t reach your eyes.  

Sam tilted his head slightly, watching you. Analyzing.  

“And you… are you in this open relationship too?”  

You rolled your eyes.  

“Oh, tell me, Sam, who the hell am I supposed to be sleeping with?”  

He lifted his hands in surrender. “Just asking.”  

He stood up with that same unbothered calm, as if this conversation hadn’t affected him in the slightest.  

Your whole body tensed when he walked past you to grab another beer from the fridge.  

The fact that he didn’t notice…  

The fact that he didn’t even realize…  

It made you want to break something.  

The clink of glass against wood as he set the bottle down pulled you out of your thoughts.  

“Dean and I have a case coming up. Some missing people in Indiana.”  

You knew the only reason he was telling you was because Dean would mention it if he didn’t.  

The anger inside you burned hotter.  

“I’m going with you.”  

Sam turned his head, his expression showing just how much he hated that idea.  

“If you come, you’re just gonna slow everything dow—”  

You cut him off instantly.  

“Sam, you are in no position to tell me shit.”  

His lips pressed into a thin line.  

That seemed to shut him up.

You stepped outside, desperate for air.

Not that the air in Bobby’s scrapyard was particularly fresh. It always carried the scent of rusted metal, motor oil, and damp earth—a suffocating mix that clung to your throat. But even that was better than staying inside.

Better than being in the same room as him.

Your boots crunched against the gravel as you walked away, each step feeling heavier than the last. Your throat burned, your chest tightened, and there was this unbearable pressure, this sensation that you were about to shatter into a thousand pieces.

You leaned against the wall of the garage, bending forward slightly, hands gripping your knees as you tried to breathe.

Don’t cry. Don’t scream.

Don’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you break.

“Get a grip,” you whispered under your breath. “You have to get a fucking grip.”

The door behind you slammed shut.

You flinched at the sound, your body tensing instinctively.

Dean.

You didn’t need to turn around to know it was him.

His presence was unmistakable—the way he moved, the weight he carried like the world rested on his shoulders, and yet he still walked with that unshakable confidence, like he’d fight the whole damn universe and somehow win.

He followed you outside, stopping a few steps away, watching.

Then, without warning, his hand settled on your shoulder.

You jolted as if you’d been electrocuted.

“Jesus Christ!” you yelped, clutching your chest. “Are you insane?”

Dean raised both hands in defense, giving you that classic ‘what the hell is your problem?’ look.

“Relax. I was just checking if you were alive.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

“Oh, I’m perfect, Dean. Just freaking fantastic.”

Your tone dripped with venom, but Dean didn’t take the bait. He just stood there, watching you with that damn patience of his, the kind that somehow managed to be both frustrating and grounding at the same time.

His eyes flicked over you, scanning, assessing—seeing more than you wanted him to.

Then he exhaled, shaking his head slightly.

“I broke up with Lisa.” His voice was calm, almost casual. “Haven’t seen her in months.”

Your breath hitched.

“…What?”

The word came out louder than you intended, and as soon as it did, you slapped a hand over your mouth, cursing yourself for reacting so strongly.

“I—Sorry, I just—”

“It’s fine.”

And there it was.

Subtle, nearly hidden beneath the shadow of his usual exasperation.

A smirk.

Dean Winchester was enjoying your reaction.

You narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest.

“What happened?”

Your voice softened without you realizing it—less biting, more curious. And that was when it clicked.

The bastard had done it on purpose.

He was distracting you. With his problems.

And the worst part? It was working.

Dean didn’t answer right away. He just held your gaze, his expression shifting, growing heavier.

“…It just didn’t feel right.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking into your chest.

Because you understood exactly what he meant.

Because you knew what that felt like.

Because you were standing here, feeling the same way about his brother.

Your teeth sank into the inside of your cheek as you nodded slowly.

Dean smiled at that—just a small, fleeting thing. And then, for the briefest moment, his eyes flickered down to your lips.

Your stomach clenched.

The moment was so quick, so subtle, you could’ve imagined it.

But the air between you thickened, charged with something neither of you had the right to feel.

Then, as if snapping out of it, Dean cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck—a rare, almost awkward gesture coming from him.

He coughed, looking away immediately, like he’d just realized what he’d done.

“Yeah, well… whatever,” he muttered, standing up and dusting off his jeans. “Tell your boyfriend to get his ass in gear. We’re leaving.”

The word hit harder than it should have.

Boyfriend.

It almost felt like a cruel joke.

But you didn’t let it show.

“No need,” you said evenly, standing up as well, though something inside you twisted violently. “I’m coming with you.”

Dean stopped dead in his tracks.

Slowly, he turned his head to look at you, one eyebrow arching.

“You’ve been real eager to tag along lately.”

You shrugged, your expression unreadable.

“What, afraid I’ll slit your throat in your sleep?”

He let out a dry chuckle, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. But his eyes—his eyes—they never left yours.

Studying.

And for the first time in this entire conversation, you realized…

He was crossing a line, too.

“If you wanted to kill me, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice dropping just slightly, “you’d have tried already.”

The drive was uncomfortable.  

Like, parents-on-the-verge-of-divorce-while-their-kid-sits-in-the-backseat-clueless level of uncomfortable.  

Except in this case, Dean was the kid, he had full control of the car, and he was very aware of absolutely everything that was going on.  

Sam had spoken exactly two words the entire trip. And as if the tension wasn’t thick enough, the second you arrived at the motel, he left you in the room without a second glance and grabbed his brother by the arm, dragging him along to do interviews.  

He didn’t even give you the chance to fix Dean’s crooked tie.  

Twenty minutes later, you had two missed calls from Dean.  

You sighed, already knowing that if you didn’t call him back, the idiot would just keep ringing until he drove you insane.  

As soon as he picked up, he didn’t even let you breathe before snapping.

“You didn’t answer.”  

His tone was irritated, impatient.  

You rolled your eyes on instinct.  

“I was doing this thing called showering. You should try it sometime. Even cats do it.”  

You heard him exhale sharply, like he was debating whether it was worth it to argue with you.  

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I can’t stand Sam anymore.”  

That made you raise an eyebrow. Fast topic change.  

“He’s really wearing you down, huh?” you murmured, a trace of amusement in your voice.  

“He doesn’t care. Not even enough to pretend he does,” Dean practically growled.  

The frustration in his voice was so thick you could almost see him gripping the wheel too hard, his jaw clenched, his knuckles turning white.  

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.  

“Dean—”  

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” he snapped.  

“I wasn’t going to.” Your voice softened just a little. “I was gonna offer you a massage when you get back.”  

Silence.  

One second. Two.  

Your heart pounded so hard you felt it in your ears.  

“…Oh.”  

Dean’s voice dropped lower, quieter.  

“That… uh. That actually sounds nice.”  

Nice? That was all he had to say? Because suddenly, you were regretting offering at all.  

You cleared your throat, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck.  

“I figured it would,” you said, keeping your tone light, pretending like it wasn’t a big deal. “So… should I wait for you?”  

“I’m checking out the crop circles. Sam’s with the missing guy’s father.”  

“Alrighty,” you said, standing up. “I’ll get dressed and head out to find a grocery store or something.”  

Silence.  

“…Get dressed?”  

Dean’s voice dropped lower, rougher.  

“…Are you naked?”  

You blinked.  

And then you smirked.  

“I told you I had just showered.”  

“You never said—!”  

You rolled your eyes, amused.  

“Sorry, Dean, bad signal, you’re breaking up, bye-bye.”  

And you hung up before he could say anything else.  

As soon as you put the phone down, you exhaled sharply, realizing how fast your heart was beating.  

This wasn’t right.  

None of this was right.  

And yet…  

For some reason, you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face.

It had been hours since you first walked into the grocery store.  

But somehow, you were still standing in the candle aisle, completely hypnotized.  

You absentmindedly picked up a pack of red candles, turning them over in your hands. Would that be too much? Would it make the massage feel… whore-ish?  

You chewed the inside of your cheek, debating.  

Then, with a sigh, you tossed them into the cart anyway.  

After all, you had plenty of time to set things up. Dean hadn’t called yet, which meant he was still out there, handling whatever the hell had happened with the case.  

And if he hadn’t called, it also meant that he hadn’t even thought about you.  

That shouldn’t sting.  

But it did.  

Shaking the thought away, you finally pushed your cart toward the registers, scanning the near-empty store. The air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and industrial floor cleaner, the kind of artificial sterility that only existed in convenience stores.  

The cashier barely looked up as she started ringing up your items, her hands moving automatically over the scanner.  

You glanced at her wrist, catching sight of her watch.  

And then you frowned.  

“Hey… what time is it?”  

She glanced at you, then down at her watch. “Four in the morning, miss.”  

You froze.  

That—  

That wasn’t possible.  

You had only been here for a few hours.  

Dean would’ve called by now.  

Hell, if you disappeared for too long without telling him, he usually lost his mind.  

“…Are you sure?” You let out a nervous chuckle, suddenly uneasy. “Isn’t the store supposed to be closed by now?”  

“It’s a 24-hour store.” She smiled politely.  

“Oh.”  

You blinked.  

Oh.

Your stomach twisted.  

He forgot, didn’t he? 

Of course, he did.  

You felt stupid for even entertaining the idea that he wouldn’t.  

There were more important things to do—things that had nothing to do with you.  

Sam had already made it clear, hadn’t he? You were a burden.  

So, really, what kind of idiot offers to give a massage to a man whose brother lost his soul?  

No wonder Dean hadn’t called. You had probably embarrassed him so much that he just decided to ignore you completely.  

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral.  

But before the weight of that thought could settle—  

“Miss, your phone is ringing.”  

The cashier’s voice pulled you out of your spiral, and you barely had time to register that she was scanning a pie—one you’d grabbed for Dean—before you glanced down at your phone.  

Dean.  

You picked up instantly.  

“Need you back at the motel. Now.”  

His voice was low. Steady.  

And yet…  

Something about the way he said it sent a shiver down your spine.  

Your grip on the phone tightened.  

“Where are you?”  

“In the field.”  

Your brows furrowed. “Still?”  

“It hasn’t been that long. Just—” He exhaled sharply. “Meet me at the motel.”  

You frowned.  

“What do you mean it hasn’t been that long? Dean, it’s literally—”  

“Can’t hear you,” he cut in quickly, voice suddenly light, teasing. “You’re breaking up… See you at the motel.”  

And just like that, he hung up.  

You stared at your phone in disbelief.  

Then, before you could stop yourself—  

You bit your lip, suppressing a smile.  

Asshole.

The walk back to the motel was quick, the cold air biting at your skin as you hurried down the street. You spotted Dean just as he was about to cross, his broad frame illuminated under the flickering streetlights.  

A familiar warmth spread through your chest at the sight of him.  

You barely registered the exhaustion on his face before you picked up your pace, a small smile tugging at your lips.  

“Hey,” you called, shifting the grocery bags in your hands. “What was so urgent that I had to rush back?”  

Dean turned, his own grin surfacing when he saw you.  

“Oh, you’re not gonna believe it—” He cut himself off mid-sentence, reaching out automatically. “Here, let me get those.”  

Your breath hitched.  

It was a small thing. Simple.  

But the way he said it—so natural, like it was second nature for him to take care of you—sent a quiet ache through your chest.  

You handed him a few of the heavier bags, shaking off whatever that feeling was.  

“Thanks,” you murmured. “Okay, so… the field?”  

Dean let out a short laugh. “Yeah, the field. So, I was out there, minding my own damn business, when suddenly—”  

He pushed open the motel room door, stepping aside to let you in first.  

Only—  

The second he did, his smile faltered.  

And yours vanished completely.  

Your hands slackened, the grocery bags slipping from your grip as your brain registered what—who—you were looking at.  

“Dean!”  

Sam’s voice was sharp, filled with something dangerously close to surprise.  

Your stomach dropped.  

“What the hell?”  

You slapped a hand over your eyes instinctively.  

Because, standing right there, half-undressed on your boyfriend’s bed, was some random hippie chick.  

“Oh! That’s Dean?” The girl’s voice was way too chipper for the situation. “Sam, they brought your brother back!”  

You let out a slow exhale, keeping your eyes covered, because if you didn’t, there was a very real chance you would absolutely murder someone.  

Preferably the soulless bastard in the room.  

Dean, meanwhile, looked seconds away from strangling Sam himself.  

“Okay. It’s all right, Sam,” the girl continued, completely unfazed. “I so totally understand that you need time as a family. But it’s just—what were they like?”  

Dean let out a sharp huff, eyes flickering toward yours.  

“They were grabby, incandescent douchebags,” he said flatly. “Goodnight.”  

You almost smiled at that.  

Almost.  

“Too soon?” The girl hesitated before shrugging, completely unbothered. “Okay.”  

Then, finally, her attention shifted to you.  

“Hey! We haven’t met yet.” She reached for her shirt, slipping it back over her head. “Who are you?”  

Dean turned his head slightly at that. You felt his gaze on you, heavy, expectant.  

You forced a smile. The kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes.  

“Sam’s girlfriend.”  

Silence.  

“Oh,” she said slowly, blinking. “I… didn’t know—”  

“It’s an open relationship!” you blurted out before she could finish whatever sentence would’ve absolutely ruined your night.  

Dean coughed.  

The girl perked up instantly. “Oh! Cool! Since when?”  

You swallowed.  

“…This morning.”  

Dean let out a strangled noise beside you.  

The girl laughed, shaking her head. “Wow. You guys really adjust fast.”  

And with that, she grabbed the rest of her things and strolled right past you, completely unaware of the tension crackling in the room.  

The second the door clicked shut behind her, you dropped your hand from your face and turned on your heel, fully prepared to rip Sam a new one—  

But before you could even look at him, Dean was already moving. 

Fast.  

One second, he was by the door. The next, he was grabbing your wrist, his fingers curling just enough to make you stop.  

You froze.  

Your breath caught in your throat.  

Dean didn’t say anything right away.  

He just stood there, eyes flickering between yours, his grip firm but careful, like he wasn’t sure if he should let go or pull you closer.  

The tension was thick.  

Too thick.  

Because for a second—a stupid, fleeting second—you forgot all about Sam.  

Forgot about the girl.  

Forgot everything.  

And all you could think about was the way Dean’s hand felt against your skin.  

“Hey.” His voice was low, steady. The kind of tone that made your stomach clench. “You good?”  

You forced yourself to breathe.  

Then, with a practiced ease you weren’t even sure was real anymore, you pulled your wrist free.  

Flashed him a smile.  

“Never better.”  

And then you walked away.  

Because if you didn’t—  

You weren’t sure what would happen.

You heard Dean yelling, but the words barely registered. His voice was raw, edged with frustration. You didn’t even try to process half of what he was saying. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. Not really. 

Eventually, his voice lowered, the edges of his words smoothing out. That meant he and Sam were actually talking now—probably about whatever the hell he was trying to tell you before you walked in on that hippie disaster.

You sat on the curb, pulling your lighter from the pocket of your jacket. It was simple, worn at the edges, your initials etched into the metal. A birthday gift from Dean back when you were just Sam’s girlfriend. Back when he only knew you as the girl who lasted longer than the others.

You flipped it open, flicking it alight. Then off. Then on again.  

A small flame danced at your fingertips, hypnotizing in its simplicity. A quiet distraction.

The motel door creaked open behind you. You didn’t turn.

“Come on,” he said, voice softer now, exhaustion slipping into his tone. “I’ll get you another room. Away from that idiot.”  

You smiled, barely, eyes still fixed on the flame.  

“It’s almost morning,” you murmured. “Doesn’t really matter anymore.”  

Dean sighed, then sat beside you, close enough that his thigh brushed against yours. He held out his hand, palm up. Without thinking, you handed him the lighter.

He turned it over in his palm, rubbing a thumb over the engraved initials, studying it the same way you had.

“I miss when things were easier,” he admitted, voice quiet, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should say it out loud.  

“You and everyone,” you muttered.  

Dean exhaled sharply through his nose. “I’m sorry. For all this.”  

You frowned. “What do you mean?”  

“You used to have a normal life. Friends, a job, y'know.” His voice was rough, like he hated acknowledging it.  

You shrugged, letting your shoulders drop as the exhaustion hit you all at once. “Doesn’t even sound like me anymore.”  

Dean said your name.  

For the first time since he’d sat down, you looked at him.  

His eyes were glassy, his jaw tight.

Your stomach twisted.  

Dean Winchester did not cry.  

And yet—  

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he broke eye contact.  

“I really am sorry,” he murmured. “Told Sam you were a bad idea.”  

If you didn’t know him so well, you might have been insulted. But instead, you just leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder.  

“You should’ve tried harder,” you whispered.  

Dean huffed a soft, almost humorless laugh. “Yeah.”  

The two of you sat there, the silence heavy but not unbearable. The kind of silence that held years of things left unsaid.  

Then, slowly, you moved your hand toward his.  

Your fingers brushed his knuckles.  

Dean didn’t pull away.  

So you intertwined them, heart hammering in your chest like a teenager with a school crush. You took his hand properly, feeling the rough calluses against your skin.

“At least we have each other,” you said quietly.

Dean let out a breath, shifting slightly like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. His grip in your hand tightening.

“At this point,” he admitted, “I think you’re the only thing keeping me sane.”  

A soft, breathy laugh escaped you.

Dean released your hand, only to push himself up. “I’ll go get you a room.”

“I don’t want to be alone tonight,” you admitted, voice quieter than before. “Will you stay?”  

Dean’s expression softened. He didn’t say anything.  

Not right away.  

He just looked at you for a long moment, then nodded.  

A few minutes later, he returned with a new key. He held out his other hand, silently offering to help you up.

You took it.

Once on your feet, you dusted off your jeans, hyper-aware of the way Dean watched you.

Every movement. Every shift.

His eyes traced your hands, the way your fingers brushed against your thighs, the way you adjusted your shirt.

When you finally looked up, he didn’t look away. Didn’t even try to hide it.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You could feel it. The weight of everything between you.

You swallowed, nerves buzzing under your skin.  

Dean inhaled sharply, as if trying to convince himself not to do something.  

Then, before you could second-guess anything—  

“If I’m wrong about this,” he said, voice low, deep, “you can slap me.”  

You frowned. “Wrong about wha—”  

Dean kissed you.  

It wasn’t hesitant.  

It wasn’t soft.  

It was years of tension. Of almosts. Of stolen glances and lingering touches and things neither of you ever dared to say. 

His hands found your waist, pulling you flush against him, like he’d been holding back for too long and finally—finally—let himself have you.  

Dean’s hands were firm, rough fingers cradling your jaw, tilting your head just right as he devoured you. 

You gasped against his mouth, barely managing to process the sheer intensity of it before he was pulling you closer. He kissed you deeper, tilting his head, his lips parting against yours as he swallowed the quiet gasp you let out.

Your fingers tangled in his jacket, fisting the fabric desperately as heat coiled in your stomach.

He needed this.

You could feel it.

The way he kissed you like he was making up for lost time, like he’d been starving for this and didn’t know how to slow down. 

You were dizzy. Burning.

You met him with equal force, matching every movement, every press of his lips, every quiet sound he made against you.

Dean groaned, and the sound alone sent a shiver down your spine.

Then—his hands.

One sliding to your waist, gripping you like he was scared you’d disappear. The other curling into your hair, tilting your head back just enough to deepen the kiss.

The heat of his body, the scent of leather and gunpowder and Dean surrounding you—

It was overwhelming.

And you didn’t care.

Didn’t think.

Didn’t breathe.

Just him.

Just this.

Finally.

After years of pretending.

After everything.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathing hard, foreheads touching.

Dean swallowed thickly, green eyes flickering between yours.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, lips tingling from the kiss.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you needed to.

Because whatever this was—

There was no coming back from it.

Your breathing was erratic, your chest rising and falling as you tried to process everything. Your eyes slowly dropped to the keys in his hand.

“Room?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Dean nodded, his gaze locked on yours—dark, intense, filled with something that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Room.”

You didn’t give him a chance to say anything else.

The kiss was desperate, raw, almost clumsy in its urgency. Dean pressed you against the door, his body firm against yours, his fingers threading through your hair as his lips claimed yours like he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

Your fingers fumbled with the lock, somehow managing to turn the key. With one hand gripping the doorknob and the other still tangled in Dean’s hair, you pushed the door open without breaking the kiss.

“Where did you learn to do that?” he asked between ragged breaths, his lips brushing against your skin.

“Uh… college?” you said, breathless and unsure.

Dean chuckled against your neck, the sound vibrating through you.

“You’re gonna have to teach me that.”

“Relax, tiger, we’ve got time.”

The words had barely left your lips before you felt the sharp graze of his teeth—a soft bite, enough to send a jolt of heat straight to your core.

The door shut behind you with a dull thud, and before you could process anything else, Dean was pushing you toward the bed.

He hovered over you, his weight barely there, the heat of his body making your skin burn. His hands traced the curve of your waist, his lips pressing open-mouthed kisses down your throat, trailing lower with each breath.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured, his voice thick with something almost reverent.

You tried to focus enough to respond.

“Let me guess… the first Thanksgiving we spent together?” you teased, remembering the turkey you had made just for the three of you.

Dean shook his head, his lips ghosting over your collarbone.

“Nope… my second birthday with you.”

You frowned slightly, tilting your head.

“What? What was so special about that birthday?”

Dean smirked against your skin before lifting his head, eyes locking onto yours.

“I remember watching you spend the whole afternoon making a pie just for me.”

You rolled your eyes. “It was just food, Dean. I don’t see the connection.”

Dean chuckled. “It wasn’t about the food. It was the fact that, after all that, you stayed up just to sing me happy birthday at exactly midnight. Because you said it made it more special.”

Your face flushed.

“Well… it does make it more special.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “You woke me up.”

“Are we gonna argue, or are you gonna kiss me?”

You didn’t wait for a response.

You pulled him down, crashing your lips into his with a hunger that rivaled his own. His hands moved quickly to the buttons of your shirt, fumbling slightly in his impatience before finally undoing them.

When his eyes raked over the newly exposed skin, his jaw tensed, pupils blown wide.

“Jesus Christ, you look fucking perfect.”

Your breath hitched at the way he said it, raw and unfiltered.

Dean didn’t give you time to react. His mouth was back on yours, slower this time, more deliberate. Like he was savoring every second. His hands moved along your sides, fingers skimming your bare skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

His lips traveled lower, down your throat, over your collarbone, and lower still, each kiss softer than the last, teasing, torturous.

You were dizzy, overwhelmed, every nerve in your body attuned to his touch.

His hand reached for the button of your jeans, unbuttoning it quickly.

His fingers opened you with ease. You saw him lick his lips in a movement so fast that if you had blinked you wouldn't have noticed.

He slowly, carefully inserted a finger into you. All his movements were filled with affection and love that made you melt under his touch.

Your head tilted back against the pillow, a sharp gasp escaping before you could stop it.

Dean groaned, his movements fastening slightly.

“Yeah,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with want. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

“Dean,” you moaned, your voice barely more than a breath, needy and desperate. “Please—I want it now.”

Dean smirked, the kind of cocky, infuriating smirk that made your stomach tighten. He pressed a soft kiss to the tip of your nose, teasing.

“A little desperate, are we?” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

“I’d like to call it eager,” you shot back, rolling your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

Dean chuckled, his fingers grazing over your hip, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. “Smart ass.”

“You love my a—”

The words died in your throat the second you felt Dean slide another finger inside you. Your breath hitched, your back arching slightly, heat pooling in your core.

Dean’s eyes darkened, his gaze fixed on your face as he watched you unravel beneath him.

“You feel so damn good, baby,” he murmured, his voice husky, thick with something possessive. “You’re sucking my fingers in like it’s my cock.”

A sharp gasp escaped you, your fingers tightening around the sheets.

“It could be your—”

Dean shot you a look, a warning, the kind that made your stomach flip. Automatically, you clamped your mouth shut.

His lips curled into a smirk. “That’s what I thought.”

Without warning, he pulled his fingers out, leaving you breathless and aching. Before you could even protest, he was on you again, his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that was all tongue and teeth, desperate and unrestrained.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmured against your lips, his hands mapping out every inch of you like he was memorizing the way you felt.

His hands moved, grabbing the hem of his shirt and discarding it across the motel floor. Your hands roamed over his back, nails digging in slightly as you pulled him closer, needing more, needing everything.

"Dean," you whispered, and that was all it took.

His breath caught, his pupils blown wide with something dark and hungry. His hands moved to his belt, fingers working the buckle open with urgency.

But before he could go any further, your hands covered his, stopping him.

His eyes snapped up to yours, concern flickering across his face. "What?" His voice was rough, husky. "You okay?"

You swallowed, your heartbeat a frantic drum against your ribs. You weren't hesitating—you knew exactly what you wanted. Your gaze softened, lips curling into a small, teasing smile.

"Can I suck your dick?" you asked, bluntly.

Dean blinked.

"You what?"

"Can I... suck your dick?" This time, your voice was quieter, almost uncertain, but the intent in your eyes was clear.

Dean’s mouth parted slightly, like his brain had short-circuited.

“Oh, fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face before covering his mouth for a second, as if trying to get a grip. “Of course you can, pretty girl. Only if you let me do the same.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly, amusement flickering in your expression.

"Like... at the same time?"

Dean smirked. "I suppose you're familiar with the number sixty-nine."

You burst out laughing, your forehead falling against his shoulder as your whole body shook with amusement. Dean laughed with you, the moment light yet still buzzing with heat.

When you finally lifted your head, he was looking at you with that damn smirk, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Come here,” he murmured, cupping your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lips.

Then he kissed you, and this time there was no hesitation, no teasing.

It was deep, consuming, the kind of kiss that stole the breath from your lungs and left you dizzy. His hands explored, memorizing the curves of your body, tracing fire along your skin. He pulled you onto his lap, pressing you down against the hardness of him, making you gasp into his mouth.

"You feel that, sweetheart?" he whispered against your lips. "That's what you do to me."

You whimpered, grinding down slightly, and Dean let out a strangled groan, his fingers gripping your hips like he was barely holding on.

"Fuck, you're gonna kill me," he muttered, before flipping you onto your back, his lips trailing down your neck, your collarbone, lower—

And then he was gone, shifting down the bed, his mouth pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your stomach.

His hands moved to your thighs, parting them with ease.

"You still sure about this?" he asked, his voice rough, edged with restraint.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer.

"Dean," you breathed. "Shut up and get to work."

Dean chuckled darkly, his grip tightening.

"Yes, ma’am."

And then he did exactly that.

Dean shifted his body, leaving his crotch above your face.

“Damn”

“Thank you” he said, you laughed again.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you slowly lowered the fabric of his boxers, freeing him completely. His cock was long, thick, and already aching for you. The sight alone sent a fresh wave of arousal pooling in your belly.

Before you could react, you felt the first hesitant stroke of Dean’s tongue against your cunt—tentative at first, almost testing the waters. The sensation sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through your spine, making you groan softly.

"Just like that," you murmured, voice dripping with approval before you finally wrapped your lips around his cock.

A deep, guttural moan escaped Dean's throat, a sound that vibrated straight into your core. His whole body tensed beneath you, his fingers digging into your thighs as if he was trying to ground himself.

Your spit coated his length, dripping down as you hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper. His cock throbbed against your tongue, and a part of you—some sinful, smug part—loved knowing you had this effect on him.

Dean’s response was immediate. His hands gripped your thighs tighter as his tongue pushed deeper, licking into you with new urgency. It was messy, desperate, like he couldn’t get enough. He buried his face between your legs, his nose pressing against your clit, groaning as if he was drunk on you.

Everywhere, he was surrounded by you. He could taste you on his tongue, smell you, feel the way your legs trembled under his touch. It was intoxicating, overwhelming—like being worshipped just for existing.

The more you moved, the more he lost himself in you. His tongue flicked over your clit in tandem with the bob of your head over his cock, and he let out a muffled curse against your cunt, his hips jerking up slightly.

"Shit—" he groaned, voice wrecked. "You're gonna kill me, sweetheart."

You hummed around him, sending vibrations through his cock, and Dean choked out a curse, his grip tightening even more.

Your rhythm quickened, lips gliding over him with purpose, and Dean matched your pace, his mouth working you open with relentless hunger. His hands spread your thighs wider, keeping you right where he wanted you, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of you pulling away.

The room was filled with the sounds of pleasure—his groans, your whimpers, the wet, filthy noises of tongues and lips working in tandem. The tension that had been brewing between you for years was finally unraveling, raw and unfiltered.

Dean’s breath turned ragged, his movements becoming erratic. You could tell he was close—his thighs tensing beneath your hands, his moans turning desperate.

"Fuck, baby, if you keep going like that—" His warning was cut off by a deep, shuddering groan as you took him deeper, letting him hit the back of your throat.

His body trembled beneath you, and you knew he was about to fall apart. It was okay, because so were you.

"I'm about to—" Dean's voice came out strained, ragged with pleasure.

You nodded, your lips still wrapped around him, determined to take everything he had to give. A deep, guttural groan tore from his chest as thick, hot ropes of cum hit the back of your throat. At the exact same moment, his mouth latched onto you even harder, and the sheer sensation sent you over the edge. Your body trembled as your release coated his tongue, making him groan into you.

The pleasure was dizzying, all-consuming. Your moans mixed with his, lost in the heavy, humid air of the motel room. Every nerve in your body was buzzing, oversensitive, barely able to handle the aftermath of everything you'd just felt.

Dean pulled away first, his breath uneven, his hands still gripping your thighs like he needed something solid to hold onto. Slowly, he shifted, moving up to hover over you, his emerald eyes dark and heavy-lidded. His lips were swollen, wet, glistening with the taste of you.

He reached for your face, his thumb swiping at the saliva on your lower lip with a tenderness that felt almost out of place after everything you'd just done.

"You okay?" His voice was low, husky, but there was something softer beneath it—something vulnerable.

You nodded, unable to speak, still lost in the haze of pleasure. Instead, you pulled him down, capturing his lips in a slow, lingering kiss. He tasted like whiskey, like heat, like you, and for a moment, the world outside the four walls of that room ceased to exist.

Dean groaned into the kiss, deepening it, his tongue sliding against yours with unrestrained hunger. His hands roamed your body, rediscovering every curve, every dip of your skin like he was memorizing you. There was nothing hesitant anymore—no more second-guessing, no more resisting.

This was years of tension, of longing, of stolen glances and unspoken words, all unraveling in the way he pressed you down against the mattress, in the way your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist.

"You drive me fuckin' insane," he murmured against your lips, his forehead pressed to yours. "You know that, right?"

You smirked, brushing your nails down his back, reveling in the way his muscles tensed under your touch. "I had a suspicion."

Dean chuckled, but the sound was cut off when you rolled your hips up against him, making him suck in a sharp breath.

"Jesus, sweetheart—"

"Dean," you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair. "Don't stop."

And he didn’t.

He captured your mouth again, hungrier this time, as if he was afraid this would all slip away if he let go. His hands slid between your bodies, fingers teasing at the last pieces of clothing that still separated you. Finally taking what was always meant to be his.

Dean's cockhead dips between your folds, teasing your entrance with agonizing slowness. A desperate, keening moan escapes your lips, your body arching instinctively toward him. You're dripping, your slick coating him, making it easier for him to push in—just the tip at first, stretching you open inch by inch.

"Fuck, sweetheart…" Dean's voice is hoarse, strained with restraint, like he's holding himself back from completely losing control.

Even with just half of him inside you, your breath is already coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Your walls flutter around him, sucking him in, silently begging for more. And Dean, never one to deny you, pulls back just enough before slamming forward with a deep, firm thrust.

A sharp cry rips from your throat, your fingers clawing at his shoulders. He groans at the way you take him, the way you clench around him like you're made for him.

"Goddamn, baby," he mutters, his forehead pressing against yours as he buries himself deeper, stretching you until the burn melts into pleasure. "You feel so fuckin’ good."

His thrusts are precise, each one landing with an intensity that has you seeing stars. Every movement sends waves of pleasure crashing through your body, each stroke hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

You're already shaking, the pleasure mounting too fast, too strong. Your hips roll against his, chasing more, needing more.

"Dean," you whimper, your voice wrecked, hands grasping at the sheets beneath you.

He tightens his grip on your hips, shifting the angle just enough to push even deeper, dragging another cry from you.

"That’s it," he breathes, his voice thick with lust. "Take it, sweetheart. Let me hear you."

You can barely speak, reduced to moans and gasps, your body wound tight like a string about to snap. Your legs tense, your muscles locking up as the coil in your stomach tightens, tighter, until—

"Dean!" you sob, your back arching as pleasure consumes you, your release hitting so hard it steals the air from your lungs.

Dean groans at the feeling of you pulsing around him, and that’s all it takes for him to follow. His thrusts turn erratic, desperate, before he buries himself to the hilt, spilling into you with a deep, shuddering moan.

He collapses onto his forearms, his body still trembling with the aftershocks. His breath fans against your skin as he presses his forehead against yours, grounding himself in you.

"That's it," he murmurs, kissing your temple. "You did so good. God, you should see yourself right now… you're so goddamn beautiful."

You can’t help but smile, the exhaustion settling into your limbs as the warmth of his words wraps around you like a blanket.

"Thank you, Dean," you whisper, curling into him. You know better than to overthink this—to question what it means. Because the man lying beside you? He doesn’t do confessions, doesn’t do mornings-after. And if this is all you get, you’ll take it.

Dean presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, so tender it makes your chest tighten. Your eyes sting, emotion creeping in where you least expect it.

He looks like he wants to say something, his mouth parting, his brows drawing together in that way he does when he's struggling with something real, something serious. But before he can get the words out—

"What the hell—" He suddenly stiffens, eyes snapping toward the corner of the room.

You blink, barely able to keep yourself from slipping into sleep. "What?"

Dean's jaw drops slightly, his expression shifting from post-orgasmic bliss to sheer disbelief.

"Is that a goddamn fairy?"

"You look oddly happy," Sam commented as he walked past.

"Okay, asshole move," you shot back, rolling your eyes. "Am I not allowed to be happy that we found a way to get your soul back?"

"Oh, I get it—you just want your boyfriend back," he said, smirking.

The word boyfriend made your stomach twist uncomfortably. If Sam actually got his soul back and everything went back to how it was before… things were going to be awkward. Really awkward. Considering you had just fucked his brother.

Sam walked into the motel room, searching for something you didn’t really care about. Your mind had been thoroughly occupied with someone else since the hippie incident.

Speaking of Rome…

Dean walked in, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, carrying himself with that same cocky ease that could knock down even the strongest walls. His presence alone felt like a gravitational pull, one you had no business indulging in—but damn, was it tempting.

He gave you a small nod in greeting, his gaze lingering just a second too long.

"How'd you sleep in jail?" you asked, biting back a grin.

Dean smirked. "Had better nights."

The words hit deeper than they should have, sending heat creeping up your neck. The memory of two nights ago burned behind your eyes—his hands on your hips, his breath against your skin, the way you whispered his name like a prayer. You forced yourself to swallow it down.

Sam walked back out, his own duffel bag in hand, completely oblivious to the tension crackling between you and Dean.

You slid into the backseat of the Impala, letting out a small yawn.

"Still don’t get why you woke up so early," Dean muttered as he climbed into the driver’s seat.

"To gloat," you teased, stretching your arms behind your head.

"Uh-huh. And you’re just gonna pass out again in a couple of hours."

You opened your mouth to argue—but damn it, he was right.

Dean caught your expression in the rearview mirror and smirked, like he knew exactly what you were thinking. His fingers tapped lazily against the steering wheel before he spoke, his voice casual—too casual.

"Guess I’ll have to find another way to keep you awake, huh?"

The words were innocent enough. Sam didn’t react, didn’t even seem to register them. But the way Dean said it, the way his eyes flicked up to meet yours in the mirror—

Yeah. You weren’t done with him.

And worse? He knew it.

[swampybogg]

[scribz-ag24]

i checked the italian blind run that apparently is very popular in the IT community. and. was anyone.

so was anyone. was anyone going to tell me in this version dusknoir asks if his existence had value.

his line about saying with full sincerity that life is marvelous.

why didnt i hear of this until now i crave to know every little difference between translations so i can cry again and again over the same guy.

[alwayssmilingvenison]

Alastor shrugged with a hum at the other’s self-deprecation. “I wouldn’t say you lost control, you were very tame from what Ombre shared with me. You just gave into desire. You’re the King of Hell, so I’d say that is kingly of you. As long as that desire is directed at me, then I don’t care.” He assured. “Besides, you warned me you were wound up...I just didn’t think it was so tightly, though that makes sense and I accept my fault in this.” He shouldn’t have let it get so far knowing he had somewhere to go. While he himself had the ability to turn of his sexual desires, he had learned from Rosie that was not something everyone possessed, and Lucifer had gone without a proper partner for 7 years. So he couldn’t be too mad…

Besides, he wasn’t caught.

Alastor chuckled. “Oh, true discipline, from you? I’d love to see that~” He teased.

“Yes.” Alastor sighed. “Had I been anywhere else where I could enjoy it privately, I would have preferred.” He admitted before blinking at the question and looking to the shadow with an annoyed fondness.

“I wish I could answer you, but neither of us is quite sure what he is and where he starts and I end.” He admitted. “I...summoned him when I was still alive. On earth the most he could do was emote and help me see in the dark, sometimes move small objects like a book. He adored hiding my ties and books to see me get upset. Here though, he seems to have his own powers. He feeds from my soul yet the powers are his own and I cannot do them. Vise-versa as well. He can’t use my powers either. We agreed that he is an extension of me. He is me, but a different version of me who is more carefree. We can share what we see with the other, feel what each other feels, and communicate internally.”

“You liking him is just you liking a different side to me others don’t see.” He said simply and then chuckled as Ombre moved to hug the king and kiss up his shadow’s neck. “And he likes you as well, he says you’ll need more than Holy Water to remove him—That’s a jab at me. I tried it when I was alive, just ended up burning myself with him laughing.” He rolled his eyes.

The “too” didn’t need to be stated. Realization hit Alastor quickly and his look softened, even Ombre calmed down with a light frown. Alastor took Lucifer’s hands and then took a seat next to the king. “Lucifer…” He called the other’s attention, squeezing his hands, his tone gentle and full of seniority. “Look at me.” He ordered, waiting for the king to obey. “I’m not going anywhere.” He swore evenly and with certainty.

Alastor knew well the trouble the other had. Lilith had truly left the man in pieces… She left them both in pieces, but in different ways. Lucifer’s was more intimate and took longer. She had used him as a puppet by using his love and loyalty until she became disenchanted with that want wanted more… That was how Alastor had found himself collared, though he still hadn’t told a soul other than Husk about it and even then Husk didn’t know who held the other end of his collar, just that the Overlord was chained. Not even Lucifer knew, Alastor just...never could find a right time to tell him as it required him sucking up his pride on top of finding a moment Lucifer was in a good head space and when he was, Alastor felt bad shattering it. So, it just kept being put off…

It shouldn’t matter anyways with Lilith in Heaven. Not that the king knew that either…

“You were a brat doing what you did and it embarrassed the hell out of me...but I did enjoy it—Don’t make it a habit.” He added quickly, stroking the other’s cheeks. “I wouldn’t leave you over something like that, just remember: I don’t get even, I collect interest.” He warned, but with a playful smile before pulling the king into a lighter kiss. “Besides, only a coward would leave without explanation and I am no coward.”

[nonsensechemicals]

crying whenever i talk about Cookie9 because all my friends have these interesting and unique theories on them while i take everything too literally and they all just stare at me like “dude… uuugh we r TIRED” <-they dont actually say this they are very kind to me but i can Feel It

[skitskatdacat63]

Boy King Seb :D

[yuriyuruandyuraart]

Opinions on Dream? :^

SO many feelings about him omgg rant under cut please forgive me

okay so i don't really talk or draw him much cause honestly,,,most of the times i just think he's a bit....boring? or more accurately plain? not in a mean way either but just in a 'fades into the background' type of way like don't get me wrong!! he's a really nice friend to his peers, his feelings about his powers and aura making his relationships harder to navigate and trust along with his whole conflict with nightmare and morality about what's good and bad IS very cool!! and i love it whenever they write him to be complex and not on this black and white mentality or when he's just straight up following along his friends with no free will or with a dubious purpose without ever addressing his issues or feelings! it's just unsatisfying to me :')

or when they're making him the 'naive' and oblivious, (sometimes childish?) character being marked as the obstacle and villain along with the other star sanses from the fic's pov, always talking about doing good things while fighting his brother and not hearing him out about the balance, (and for weak reasons most of the time. like it's been so long and you STILL haven't sat down with him when he's, generally, basically begged you to just have a talk? guys please :'( ) or when they go for the victim sad dream always missing the old nightmare, where corrupted nightmare is the incarnation of evil, with no sympathy or emotion except anger and sadistic glee, killing and hurting everyone and dream's just trying to protect the multiverse and dream's always been in the right. such extremes!!!

LIKE!! i hope i'm not the only one that thinks a 500+ year old should have had enough time to idk. learn things? about people and manipulation and deceit? after knowing what the villagers did to night? about the bad things in the world and how there's a lot of grey areas in life and that he maybe reflected on his past enough to process and ask himself if there should to be a convo to settle his differences with nightmare (and you can make nightmare the stubborn one too! or have them BOTH be petty and imperfect and have some things wrong and some right at the same time like why do i always see the good guy vs bad guy cliché with these two when they're the perfect example of why positivity doesn't have meaning without the negativity!! as long as there's a satisfying evolution or growth that doesn't leave me empty i'm good yknow?)

plus i believe dream really isn't as dumb as people view him. i do get some of you saying he probably can't read or write since that's actually a pretty interesting idea to explore! but in general please let him have emotions other than pure sunshiny happiness or endless sadness like he's gotta have more depth than that! let him make mistakes, have flaws that don't just make him the bad guy that's always in the wrong by default, and be angry or suspicious or jealous or bitter or battling his mental health problems/depression or malicious or smart or witty or mischievous and silly or sarcastic or ANYTHING dude i just want him to be put into different scenarios where he can be serious or lighthearted like it doesn't even have to be long or perfect but make him feel real.

it could definitely be that i don't read or see much art about dream or really look for it hard enough but also i just. i feel bad for even saying this fr and i wanna be honest about why i don't enjoy most stories about him cause he always gets the worst treatment along with ink!!! especially ink omg the poor guy has it the worst i think like wow do they mess him up :'(

always one dimensional in non shippy fics, or too plain or easily replaceable by other, more entertaining people in the significant other's life in most of his ships like man. i have read fics out there that made me genuinely FEEL and root for him and love his character so much it restored all hope for me!!! but i can only name one on top of my head and the others? it's been so long i don't even remember their names i just legit feel terrible cause i love him still and i can't find many headcanons that fit my interpretation of him yknow?

not to say people who write him very happy, mislead or sad are ruining him like that's silly- if i see something i don't like i just. move on bro i wouldn't force people to feel or think the same way i do about him cause anyone can have whatever headcanons they want!!! just talking about what i personally look for in him and why i can't exactly find it since most of the stuff out there just isn't my cup of tea :')

hopefully i didn't set anyone off with this rambling opinionated essay i just pulled hhh xD i know i know he's a popular character and i know a lot of people like dream so *sobs* please please recommend me artists and fics about him that you think is good it's been so looong since i've read or seen anything new that makes me attached to this little guy aughg<33333

[reity]

i froth at the mouth sometimes because i’m not “doing enough” or “successful enough” and then i’m like . i am not even the legal drinking age yet. take it down a notch girl.

[rampant-testiculitis]

rereading and rereading that post

[greyedian]

ok ok fuck it I'm gonna try to be brave and actually work on Sterling and Gale's whole uhhhh situation bc I started a new bg3 run with my friend so now they're back occupying my brain. Again. Sooo... *carefully opens document*

[mad-hunts]

if barton tried hard enough, he thought, imagining himself being literally anywhere else but the warehouse right then was easy. this place was never meant to be lived in for an extended period of time after all; despite the fact that it had appliances that you might see in an every day home like a fridge.

it put him on edge instead of at ease, and it certainly didn't better barton's mood when he stayed in it either, after all. but so long as he was allowed to dream within it to some degree... it was tolerable. plus, he had company here, courtesy of nico, jack, and barton also supposed jervis counted. nico had complicated feelings towards the doctor, though, and spending time around jack whilst in it thus far gave barton an unfortunate impression; which was that his own son was made nervous by him.

and the irony of it all was, barton only gathered that because he could feel cognitive empathy towards him. something that didn't include feeling but reasoning. therefore, the hopes of him somehow patching that up with jack someday were drastically decreased. barton vaguely listened to jervis respond to what he'd said about him being in the warehouse solely because of them; all of the words but one not quite having any actual impact on him, this being 'nightmares.'

the smell of the yuja tea that jack prepared for jervis, as fragrant in the air that it was, seemed to be the one thing keeping him from being sucked down a unpleasant train of thought. for someone who didn't feel human half the time, barton sure as hell experienced his own fair share of seeing 'ghosts' from the past and mourning the way some things had gone in his life. and regret, as well as sorrow, were practically intertwined in every single 'normal' person's life that he'd known.

speaking of regret, once he'd closed the curtains, something from the small cabinet hanging on the wall next to them fell to the floor. barton picked it up and was immediately reminded of why he kept this photo here instead of at his home. hiding it away helped alleviate the pain of not only loving someone and losing them, but also knowing that at the time it was taken, everything seemed fine.

'my 19th birthday party - spent right, with my handsome fiancé!' was written on the back in marcy's handwriting. barton felt like screaming and smashing something simultaneously. the photo was instead placed in his pant pocket, whilst he dragged his hands down his face and thanked his lucky stars that jervis wasn't exactly expecting any big conversations from him. barton's hand flexed by his side before he was changing his shirt, wondering just what the hell he was supposed to do after seeing that again.

grief was a thing he'd never been able to pend down how to deal with 'appropriately,' unfortunately. from marcy, to the momentary blink of an eye that felt like his bittersweet friendship with yves, to his son julien's death - barton thought he'd be destroyed by all of those losses for the longest time. but he supposed he was still here, god willing, or laughing at him more like if such a being did exist. barton noticed the fabric that was splitting on the blanket and how jervis very much appeared to be in his own world.

it was at that moment that he reached for something in that same cabinet he'd opened to change his shirt, finding that sewing thread and needle he'd stored in there long ago. barton kept it there because the shirt he was wearing had actually torn at some point and he'd fixed it. though, he had no use for it now, so he decided to put it on the edge of edge of the cabinet if jervis wanted it. but he didn't really know what he wanted. that night seemed to be a series of gut punches now as the other touched upon how jack was a good person and barton should be proud of him.

he blinked several times as he felt this sensation like something ugly was swirling within him. jack had always kind of gotten the short-end of the stick, and for what? ❝ ahh. well, sometimes i've found myself practicing behaviors towards him that my father used to use on me... but i try to stop myself when that happens. jack has come a long way, as the first time i met him, he was a scared two year old who was on his own with his brother. but now jack's a young man and very brave, despite maybe still being scared sometimes. ❞ barton cleared his throat then, ❝ that's normal though. so yeah, i am proud of him. ❞

barton turned his attention back to jervis and tilted his head at the other's sluggishness. being vulnerable like that surprisingly didn't feel too nerve-wracking, as he added just a bit more to the equation. barton gave the iv bag jervis was hooked up to a good squeeze, ❝ hmm. are you still in pain, jervis? or are you just tired? ❞ he observed the other silently and looked down at the cards before the both of them. that is, before barton heard jervis approve of him reading his fortune.

he drifted a hand along the cards then. choosing one that felt 'right' came without much difficulty to barton, and when he did, the reversed 'wheel of fortune' card for jervis's past. the next card he chose was the reversed 'six of swords' for jervis's present. barton flipped the last one for his future and was greeted by 'the sun,' which made him let out a soft 'huh' and smile a bit. ❝ well... i hate to start off with the past when you got this card, but i guess we have to. ❞ he was about to start interpreting jervis's fortune when jack came back into the room with the breakfast he promised the other. well, talk about convenient timing.

Jervis merely rolled his eyes at Barton’s remark, fingers biting into the fabric of the blanket as he pulled it around his shoulders like an old shawl. The plush material was a little threadbare at the corner; a tear disrupting the otherwise seamless fabric.

Sea-green and white plaid. Utilitarian, impersonal.

It sufficed perfectly; his thin frame was almost terminally intolerant to the cold. 27 years in Gotham had failed to inoculate him against the frigid rains and bone-chilling air sweeping off the harbor.

“Trust me, I’m well aware where I would be, if it weren’t for you both. I see enough of the place in my nightmares… so I don’t require any reminders.” He flexed his fingers around the teacup, feeling the warmth seep into his hands as he cautiously tipped the liquid into his mouth. It had a strange, but not unpleasant consistency, like warm, thin honey that slid smoothly over his tongue in a tangy blend of sweet and sour. Tiny bits of softened citrus peel floated in the syrupy mixture.

Barton’s IV pole scraped slightly along the concrete floor, a sharp metallic sound that mingled with the sudden rasp of the curtains being jerked shut. The room was clean and sparse, a sterile space designed to be free of clutter, yet a faint, telltale mustiness clung to the air—a lingering scent of damp fabric and stale dust that disinfectant alone couldn’t quite mask. Beyond the makeshift partition, the rest of the warehouse stretched out in vast, dark emptiness. The floor was cold, unpolished concrete, marred with cracks that split like spider webs. Dim, flickering fluorescent lights cast a harsh, uneven glow, barely cutting through the haze of dust that swirled in the air.

But, of course, beggars couldn’t be choosers when it came to hideaways—especially when you’ve learned to take shelter wherever you can find it. Or when you were part of the criminal element.

How far he’d come and how little had truly changed.

Jervis glanced across the room at where his coat, shirt, and gloves rested neatly on the desk, carefully folded with almost surgical precision. He flexed his hands again around the teacup, feeling the phantom prickle of sensation where the wool-lined leather should be—an exposed vulnerability that gnawed at him, made his skin itch with invisible grime.

He sank his teeth into a particularly broad piece of yuja peel, the bitter tang releasing as he bit down; meanwhile, Barton’s voice drifted in one ear, out the other like the static hum on a faulty wireless. He chewed slowly, savoring the rind as he turned his attention back to the small tear in the blanket. Nodded intermittently.

Jervis’ callused, scarred fingers found the frayed edge; the fabric was worn thin and splitting, and he traced it absentmindedly, feeling the uneven fibers beneath his touch. For a moment, his thoughts shifted to the sewing kit buried somewhere in his bag, imagining the small spool of thread and the thin, glinting needles; each one ready to pierce the fabric and pull it back together.

As if stitching this small wound would make any real difference, he thought bitterly; like it could somehow soothe the cold reality pressing in on them from all sides… It was a small, pointless task, a flicker of control in a situation that felt like it was slipping away, unraveling faster than he could sew it back together. He knew it wouldn’t ameliorate anything—wouldn’t solve the problems looming larger than this tiny, frayed corner. And yet, his fingers lingered there, desperate for something tangible to fix; something he could make whole again, if only for a moment.

Jervis gave no reply as Barton moved to change his shirt; blinking hard as he gazed down at the floor, but the darkness behind his eyelids refused to stay empty. Flecks of indigo light bloomed in the black, shifting like dust motes that twisted with each beat of his heart. The room swam as he opened his eyes again, the ceiling blurred and murky like the styrofoam cup Alice stored her wet paintbrushes in. He scratched absently at the IV in his arm, feeling the tug of the thin plastic embedded in his skin but barely registering the discomfort. The bright pinpricks danced at the edges of his vision, trailing like little comets whenever he turned his head.

“You ought to be proud of him, I imagine. Your son… he seems like a good lad.” Jervis’ voice was a wisp of silk, smooth and thin, like it might unravel into nothing if he spoke too loudly. He tilted his head slightly, almost resembling a marionette on a slack string, the hint of a smile touching his lips but never quite reaching his eyes. He ran a finger along the rim of his teacup, the motion delicate and deliberate as he pondered Barton’s final query.

“Hmm… can you?” Gray eyes blinked slowly, the lids heavy and sluggish, further dragged down by fatigue. The question lingered in the air, softly innocuous. He glanced over at the tarot cards Jack left behind on the desk—arranged in a rough, careless spread, but somehow feeling deliberate, as though the cards had fallen exactly where they were meant to. The edges were worn, curling slightly; the images esoteric, half-familiar symbols. Stars, sun, moon, cups and swords, animals and human figures rendered in faded colors.

He paused, gaze narrowing, subtly curious despite the exhaustion that weighed down his expression. For a moment, his hand tightened around his teacup; twitched like he might reach out and touch them, as if by brushing the surface he could glean some hidden answer buried beneath the painted ink.

‘Why, they're only a pack of cards, after all.’

His grip on the blanket slipped momentarily, fumbling at the worn edge before he reached for his collar instead. He dug beneath the charcoal fabric of his T-shirt, searching with a practiced motion until his fingers found the tarnished silver chain again. He drew it out slowly, the weight of it comforting against his skin as he absently ran his thumb over his and Sylvie’s rings, threaded side by side on the links.

The metal was dull, no longer shining with the luster it once had, but it carried a certain softness now, smoothed by years of worry. His eyes dropped for a second before he let the chain slip back beneath his shirt. “By all means, if it tickles your fancy…” Jervis gave a short, rough half-shrug, the motion stunted as though his shoulder couldn’t quite decide whether to follow through.

[bigbootyloverentllc]

Aunt Charlotte… Want to see the full version?

😈💵 HMU #candid #bigbootyloverent

Backstory below:

Day 1: So I was riding around one day and notice my aunt charoltte walking, and in my head I’m saying to myself “damn! Aunt Charlotte got a big ass booty… l’m about to record it .🤳🏾” I then decided to pull up at the gas station to say hi, and I’m so glad I did. She was happy to see me and said I was looking good. After we spoke she ask if I can give her a ride back home, and I agreed. Once we made it to her house this is when I decided to get bold and ask her can I take a picture of her booty. She was like 😐 huh. I kept it real and said her booty been making me hard since I was a teen.

Day 2: Aunt Charlotte randomly texted me saying “Nephew. Now you know you shouldn’t have been touching my booty and saying and thinking that kind of stuff about me. I’m your auntie.” After I explain myself she just said “alright boy”. Some hours later I saw her walking again (if you haven’t notice, she doesn’t have a car). I pulled over and spoke, and asked her where she’s going. She seemed very irritated, so I asked her “are you good?”. Apparently she got into it with those people that she been living it, so she was walking to a room she got got for herself. I offered to give her a ride since it was just up the street. Once we arrived, I tried to make up an excuse to get out the car so I can record her walking. So I asked can I use the bathroom real quick. Once I use the bathroom I decided to get bold and asked can I just see her booty without the pants and take a picture. To my surprise, she agreed 😃

Day 3: Some months has went by and at this point IDGAF. I was in the area and just went for it. I texted and ask “can I fuck?… I already have seen you naked” she replied with “now you’re going to far. No you can’t”. But I wasn’t going to accept no that easy. With a few more texts sent pleading my case, she replied with “we can’t fuck because we’re family. But you can jack off and nut on my booty”. I said hey I’ll take it. Her people was out at the moment, so I had to be in and out.

[bluebeads-art]

As the flash hits your eye, you feel something crashing into you from all directions. Below you is obvious, Bonbon situated themself to bump into you while the picture was taken. You look to your right, and Mirabelle’s cheek is pressed up to yours. On your left, Isabeau’s sheepishly hugged you to his side. There’s a hand in your hair, too, and it feels like Madame Odile. [...] “We need a souvenir of this trip,” Mirabelle adds. She rushes to the ground to pick up the picture and snort-laughs as she looks at it. “Oh no, Siffrin looks like we’re holding him hostage!” — Curtain Call, Chapter 9, by @openphrase123 (Link in the replies)

2024 October 22nd

Fanfic fanart fanfic fanart!! When I read the "hostage" line, it invoked such a clear image in my head of Siffrin tensed up like a startled prey animal that it got added to my list of things to maybe draw immediately.

Dooon't think about the words 'left' and 'right' in that quote too hard. I know how to read I prommy. :) (I did Not process those words and lost the coin flip in the composition phase...)

Close-up and ramblings about the cans of worms I unleashed upon myself under the cut

Time taken on this was [head in hands] 48 hours and 37 minutes.... That bloated number has two culprits:

1) I got a new tablet! My old one was 10 years old. Its plastic was melting and the electronics had ghosts in 'em, so it needed the sweet release of retirement. However, I had just gotten to the line art phase when the switch happened. Clumsily getting used to the new one during the most precise phase of the process did devastating things to my perfectionism.

2) I made a GRAVE mistake with how I chose to color this. I wanted to keep the grayscale layers for accuracy instead of just slapping a B&W filter over the colored version, so all the colors come from gradient maps, color balance layers, overlay layers, and raster layers clipped to other layers. Listen. I'm used to working with lots of layers. I like keeping things separate so I can edit them more easily. But this is the worst layer system I have ever created. Going from color to B&W requires toggling exactly 20 layers & folders on or off. There are 87 visible layers total. This file lags when you edit it. I've never wanted CSP v1.13 to have layer comps more in my life.

Not helping matters was Isabeau. I said he was the easiest to draw in my last post, but he took that as a challenge, apparently. It's a simple fist-on-hip pose, why was that so hard!?! His face gave me grief too.

Odile's lil' wave got added at the end of the line art phase. I've never added to a sketch that late in the game before, but I felt bad about how little screen area she got, haha. Girl, I tried, but this composition was not kind to you.

Giving Isa, Odile, and Siffrin skin colors felt cursed. Well... "color" is maybe a stretch for Sif. The pallor from being affection-jumpscared isn't helping. In the dev's nose reveal post, they said that Siffrin isn't white but is white-passing, so BOOM albinism headcanon. Like c'mon, they wear a big hat and have most of their skin covered because the sun is a deadly laser when you have little to no melanin and idk if sunblock exists in-universe. Heck, maybe most Islanders have it, their whole religion is about the night sky so maybe they're nocturnal. This makes perfect sense. :)

[where-does-the-heart-lie]

ASL brothers HAIKYUU!! AU!!!!!

Day one of Self Indulgent month for me! I love these three, i love haikyuu, i love killer whales!

(The Naval Academy is this au’s version of marines)

For those who dont know, in Haikyuu (and prob in real life too but in my experience its not as important as they make it in the anime) The "Ace" of the team is the person who primarily scores points via spiking. Theyre the Hard Hitter, basically.

Design talk👇

Originally, i was gonna make their school mascot just "The Pirates" but i couldnt figure out a clever pun with the school name so i scrapped it in favor of an animal mascot. I figured I would have a wider range of puns that way.

I landed on Orcas as the mascot because I think they really embody a pirate way of life. Theyre strong, hang out in groups of a mix of found family and their actual family, hate the rich, and theyre fun loving! And also im a bit biased because theyre my favorite animal, but hey, i said its self indulgent month, didnt I?

Their school name is a play on the word for Killer Whale (Shachi シャチ) and the word for 'knowledge' (Chishiki 知識), i just smashed the two words together. I'm very proud of myself for coming up with that given i dont speak japanese at all.

Anyway, with their designs, I was taking inspiration from orcas to match the design themes of haikyuu. Ace's hair is bleached on the underside to look like the underside of an orca's body, I made ace and sabo's eyes look more whale-like, the clip in sabo's hair is meant to resemble to spots behind orca's eyes, and I tried to make luffy's hair look more like it's round and spiking down more than i usually do.

Ace is wearing a ''way of the ace" shirt in the first picture, Luffy is wearing a shirt that just says "VOLLEY BALL" because i think it would be funny if he wore a bunch of those Zero-context-poorly-translated-random-english-words shirts that theres a bunch of in Asia. Sabo dyes his hair like delinquents do, but it doesnt much look delinquent~y because of how soft it looks. He means to do it to make him look like a delinquent though. Sabo still has his scars in this au, but he uses his hair, arm braces, and leg braces to cover them up. LUFFY AND ACE HAVE FUNKY SOCKS BECAUSE NO ONE CAN TELL THEM (or me) THEY CANT. Sabo wears athletic socks though because he's a debbie downer. He defends himself saying “It’s practical” and Ace and luffy call him “practically a Debbie Downer.”

Luffy is very good at receiving from growing up with Sabo and Ace practicing setting and spiking with eachother and assigning Luffy as Ball Boy. So he got the libero position from that cuz sabo and ace put in a good word for him. Nepotism.

I didn't feel like coming up with designs for them, but Zoro and Bepo are also on their team (theyre in the fifth image sitting on the right of the line of students). Koala and nami are student managers, Robin is the teacher manager, and Franky is the coach. all other straw hats/luffy friends, rev army comrades, and whitebeard brethren are in the stands. Im trying to keep the ages consistent with how they are in canon.

I didnt do a very in depth research, but i couldnt find what Japanese schools have as mascot costumes. and given no one wears any costumes in haikyuu for their team, i can kind of assume they dont use them over there. But unfortunately for them, I'm American. And part of the backbone of our schooling system, is Vaguely Unsettling Mascot Costumes. My sister says my design for it looks like its from Club Penguin, and i find that delightful. [moment of silence for my billions of fallen Puffles, taken from me in The Shutdown] Anyway.

I thought I was clever coming up with the equivalent of the Marines in this au being a Naval Academy. And their mascot being Seals, famously the animal that gets the absolute Worst Of It from orcas. Get shit onnnnn

I believe thats about it, thanks for coming to my ted talk :)