#i can just tell he will be fucking excellent at it

[foolondahill17]

Fool’s Top 10 2024 Fanfics

My favorite stories written in 2024. If you don’t see your 2024 favorite, please add in a tag or reblog!

it dawns darling on the daffodil pastures by fleeceframe (@tasteslikevelvet)

Rated E, Destiel, porn with feelings, 20,669 words

Premise: Dean and Cas have some truly spectacular and emotional grace/soul sex.

Favorite part: At his sides, Dean’s hands shake. “You can kiss me. But just- just a little one, okay? I like it when…”

“You like it when what?”

“When you make me feel- When you treat me like I’m real fragile.” Dean tenses as soon as the words leave his mouth.

But Cas replies, “Things that are fragile are usually precious.”

Clutch, Bite by kalliel (@kalliel)

Rated T, gen, missing scene, 1,926 words

Premise: Dean tries not to kill himself after Sam’s death at the end of Swan Song.

Favorite part: It is the possibility of death that pulls him back to the truck, and maybe the whisper, Winter is ending. If he slips off the road without black ice in the picture, Sam will think it wasn't a mistake.

Thoughts: the return of my absolute favorite fic author. If I had the time to rec every single one of their works, I would.

sweet syncopation by enochianprayer (@chapeldean)

Rated M, Destiel, mid-season 15 one-shot, 12,252 words

Premise: Dean and Cas have a very messed up will-they-won’t-they situationship while Cas tries to stay within the bonds of his Empty deal.

Favorite part: “You know I can’t taste what you taste, Dean,” Castiel says softly. “I’m sorry.”

Dean rolls his eyes, licking the same wooden spoon he fed Castiel with before chucking it in the sink.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. But the molecules? They’re groovin’?” 

Flash of the Needle; Dark of the Dream by kayliemalinza

Rated T, Destiel, mid-season 9 one-shot, 4,514 words

Premise: Dean and Cas take shelter in a cabin as a snowstorm comes in. Dean cuts his hand on a broken window and needs stitches; Cas has trouble falling asleep.

Favorite part: I could tell him sometimes friends have sex in cabins, Dean thinks. He'd believe me. He doesn't know any better.

Paging Doctor Novak by Salamitsunami1 (@salamitsunami1)

Rate E, Destiel, Doctor Sexy/Grey’s Anatomy AU, 51,314 words

Premise: Dean Winchester is a nurse, Cas is a surgical intern. Rivals to friends to lovers.

Thoughts: a fun, hospital AU romp. I will warn for asshole!Gordon, however, for those who like to avoid that characterization.

Ten Minutes From Home: Lebanon Coda by disabled_dean (@disabled-dean)

Rated E, Destiel, canon-adjacent AU, WIP 65,828 but the posting schedule promises an end by December 31

Premise: In season 14, John Winchester comes back and knocks Dean’s world off its axis.

Favorite part: Mary says, “Breakfast.”

“What?”

“I'll make breakfast.” She stands from the table.

Dean follows her with his eyes, “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Mary opens the fridge, digging through the shelves, pulling out tupperware. She spreads it out across the table, and then doubles back for plates. Silverware.

“This is just breakfast from yesterday,” Dean points out, “I made this.” He gestures at the food, and then winces.

“I made you.” Mary tells him, but he can see the tension in her eyes. “Eat.”

Physical Graffiti by entropic_saudade (@entropic-saudade)

Rated E, Destiel, Sharp Objects-AU, 62,894 words

Premise: Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn but make it Supernatural

Thoughts: “The purest form of family remains underground.” In turns eerie and painful but always captivating. Devoured this in one day, and it left me yearning for more.

Ninety One Whiskey Snippets by komodobits (@cuddlebabies)

Rated E, Destiel, World War II AU, 50,093 words

Premise: 17 delicious morsels from Komodobits’ excellent Ninety One Whiskey universe

Thoughts: not a single one didn’t make me cry. Ninety One Whiskey continues it’s well-deserved legacy as one of the best works of fiction I’ve ever read.

Perhaps the World Ends Here by Randomfandomwoman

Rated T, gen (implied Destiel), Supernatural/Criminal Minds AU. 26,919 words

Premise: JJ is rescued from a serial killer by another serial killer, Dean Winchester, and kidnapped for 24-hours in his underground headquarters for a cult that exceeds JJ’s wildest imaginations.

Thoughts: I’ve never seen a singular episode of Criminal Minds, but I’m somehow obsessed with reading crossovers. This story scratches my outsiders-POV itch like no other.

Riptide by luulapants (@luulapants)

Rated E, Dean/others, alternate season 2, WIP 23,214 words

Premise: the sequel to my favorite fic last year A Cliff That Knew Too Many Tides follows the events of the second season with a painfully closeted and traumatized Dean at the helm.

Favorite part:

Footsteps drew closer. Stopped. Dad asked, “Can I sit down?” Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw him gesture toward the edge of the bed.

He knew why he had to ask now. He wouldn’t have asked before. And Dean knew, he knew…

A soft choking sound escaped his throat. Dean covered his eyes. He nodded. Dad would always have to ask now. Maybe sometimes he wouldn’t even ask, would just keep his distance. He’d thought, back when the shifter thing happened, that he and Dad would never be okay again, but they had been – just a different kind of okay. Now even that was gone.

[casino-lights]

So I wrote a love letter to the Wigmaker Job.

If you ever saw that snippet I posted with Illario putting on eyeliner and playfully roasting Lucanis, this is part one of that full fic! This is also the first meeting between Illario and Lidia. There's at least one swordfight, some rooftop parkour later, and perhaps most importantly, the Dellamortes fucking around at a party. A typical Saturday night for an Antivan Crow.

you can read some here or the full thing on ao3 here!

Somehow, Lucanis agreed to let his cousin help him again. Even after the mess the wigmaker job had become, he still buckled when faced with Illario’s knowing smile and a chant of please, cousin, think of all the fun we had last time! He had to admit, Illario’s presence did help time go by faster, and this job could require a lengthy wait. And besides, Lucanis couldn’t possibly keep his socialite cousin away from a ball in their home country even if he had refused.

So there he stood, dressed in the Antivan Crows interpretation of a sharp black suit, beside Illario as he peacocked in front of the mirror in the attic room they shared in the inn. Lucanis watched his cousin trace a finger along his own jawline, turning his face left and right, before smugly straightening his back and adjusting the collar of his navy brocade vest. He preened the sleeves of his silver silk shirt until they billowed just right, dangled the chain of his watch tantalizingly from his breast pocket, and fastened a feather-shaped, gem-set silver pin to the opposite lapel.

Lucanis sighed and turned away, pacing the room as Illario tightly lined his waterlines.

“You know, nothing says you can’t take pride in your appearance too,” Illario said, his voice deepened by the angle of his chin as he fanned out his eyelashes. “You could make those eyes stand out, maybe pick up more than just a target tonight, eh?”

“If you fuss over your face much longer, we won’t even get that far,” Lucanis muttered before fastening his cape to his shoulder with a silver crow skull clasp.

Illario scoffed. “Some of us actually like to display what the Maker gave us rather than hide it with that scruff you call a beard.”

“I think it suits me.”

“And I thought your jawline suited you, too, but clearly you disagreed.”

“I can still see it.” Allowing himself a smirk, Lucanis added, “You just hate that you never liked yourself with proper stubble.”

Illario rolled his eyes and turned away from the mirror. “Ah, but you did take my advice on the cape. Excellent. Shall we?”

“If you’ve finished admiring yourself, certainly.”

“I’m never finished admiring myself, cousin.” Illario winked and pulled on a pair of supple leather gloves stitched with silver thread. “But we should go before our ‘fashionably late’ becomes ‘actually late.’”

The inn was sparsely populated as they left, but the streets, as always, were bustling. Antiva City was always densely packed, especially at night, and despite the merchants’ ball being hosted nearby, plenty of people were still making their way through the district. Clearly, none of the expected guests were important enough to warrant shutting down even the nearest avenue.

As the Crows approached, they noted several carriages stopped outside the stately hotel hosting the ball. Lucanis nodded toward an especially luxurious one, lavishly decorated with purple curtains, gold trim, crystal drop ornaments, and oil lanterns.

“Our target?” Illario asked eagerly, subtly glancing into the carriage.

“Possibly.”

“You will tell me who we’re after eventually, won’t you?”

Lucanis hummed. “He’ll be upstairs in one of the state rooms. We can go up now or scan the ballroom for him - your choice.”

Illario sighed through his nose. “I would be better able to identify him if I knew who he was.”

“You never read my dossiers,” Lucanis complained. “Devi Santuono. Merchant prince - made his fortune selling jewelry to nobility, then married into it later. He deals in magical artifacts now, but he’s been known to sell fakes to less discerning clientele.”

“So… a mage?”

“Not according to my findings.”

Illario flashed a smile at the doorman as he followed Lucanis into the foyer. “Why hire the Demon of Vyrantium?” he asked, voice low enough and smile tight enough to avoid suspicion. “Seems a waste of your talents.”

“Perhaps. But Caterina mentioned a special request and a tidy sum.”

“Hmm. Upfront?”

“Upfront.”

A second doorman, guarding the entrance to the ballroom, checked their tickets and nodded at them approvingly. Illario thanked him as he held open the heavy doors for them, and they crossed the threshold into the warmly-lit, sweet-smelling room. The banquet had yet to be served, so the long tables were instead laden with punch, wine, and untouched porcelain plates, and the chairs sat mostly empty as the guests took the opportunity to mix and mingle.

Several of them turned to look at the Dellamortes as the doorman announced their pseudonyms. They resumed their conversations promptly thereafter, paying the two no mind as their chosen names were unremarkable in Antiva City’s merchant circles. Still, more than a few smiled back at Illario when he met them with his own dazzling grin.

Lucanis scanned the room, noting the many exits, clear sight lines, and profound lack of choke points. He saw no sign of the target so far, but the night was young and the crowd was thick. They had plenty of time.

Illario glided effortlessly through the ballroom, making his way toward an elven servant with fresh glasses of wine and punch on a tray. He collected a red and did a sweeping circuit of the ballroom before returning to Lucanis, and sipped his drink before frowning slightly.

“Hmm. Cheaper than I’d expect for such a nice ball.”

“Poisoned?”

Illario chuckled dryly. “It might taste better if it were.”

“No sign of the target,” Lucanis murmured as he scanned the room again. “And I think that woman over there is the passenger of the carriage we saw outside.”

Illario raised his eyebrows over the rim of his glass. “Oh?”

“Her crystal earrings and brooch match the carriage decor. Likely new money - perhaps even a client of our jeweler.”

After a swallow and another small grimace, Illario offered, “I can ask. Newly rich women love being asked who did their jewelry.” 

“Also, Lady Josephine Montilyet is here,” Lucanis added, casting his eyes toward an attractive woman in a striking lavender gown surrounded by at least half a dozen enraptured guests.

“I noticed,” Illario replied. “Looking especially lovely this evening, too.”

“And a fine draw for any wandering eyes.”

Illario barely contained a cough and smacked his lips quietly. “This gets worse with each sip.”

“Then stop drinking it,” Lucanis said with an irritated edge to his voice.

“I can’t make it obvious that I know better wines.” He drained the last of his glass in one large swallow before setting it down on the nearest table. “Here’s hoping the punch is better.”

Lucanis glared at him. “Don’t get drunk before we find Santuono.”

“Relax,” Illario soothed with an easy grin. “The evening has only just begun. Didn’t you say he’d be in his room? Why don’t we just slip out while everyone is enraptured by Lady Montilyet, kill our man, and be back in time for dinner?”

After a look in Josephine’s direction, and satisfied by the amount of attention she commanded, Lucanis nodded once, and he and Illario followed the wall to the nearest exit.

AO3

[mydemonsyourangels]

i am so fucking excited to see force play an asshole. that man has a villainous look in his eyes that has been SEVERELY underutilised

[backpackingspace]

Headcanon that most demon royalty goes to some fancy private/finishing school. But that Stolas was homeschooled with a private tutor. It was one of the very very few requests his dad granted him and for years it was a tressure memory, one of the few times he /got to choose/ one of the few times his dad /listened/ to him. Only to realize when he enters society that it was another isolation tactic. That everybody had already spent years forming social alliances and building their reputations and social credit. And that there was no room for him to break into those circles, that he /did not know/ the proper unspoken social rules. That his wife has spent years building her clout and that he is once again. Alone.

[littleplantfreak]

gn lovlies I’m gonna go dream about Umemiya getting bit in zombie apocalypse au

[mars-ipan]

currently thinking abt the despair disease and the character analysis potential it brings

[youaremysunshine-court]

Dislike how explicit bls have made it so its not a bl unless two men are ripping each others clothes off and fucking on every available surface in my opinion a true bl is where the symbolism is in how they drink their wine, if they talk about the red thread of fate, if flowers fall from the sky when they meet, and in how their hands brush one (1) time in episode 26

[kissucrose]

no because now i need to actually talk about it like. i love every pokémon game pokémon has been such a dear thing to me since BIRTH literally i came out the womb w a pikachu ive loved pokémon for as long back as i can remember. but no game has ever done it for me like POKÉMON VIOLET DUDE the last pokémon game i can genuinely admit to being invested in like i was with violet was LETS GO PIKACHU and let’s be so fr it ain’t even have a real narrative storyline like violet like this was a real EXPERIENCE and i would do anything to play that for the first time again

[frogmascquerade]

Doctor who spoilers in the tags ! Empire of death

[gay-dorito-dust]

How’d they react to you calling them bro or dude whilst in a pre-established relationship…(platonic/romantic)

Dick: he’s insulted.

Gutted.

He will try to give you the silent treatment for such a shameful thing but ultimately fails as he ends up being the one pawing at you for attention.

‘Do you still like me? Or did you just run out of cute nicknames to call me?’ He’d say one night as your both cuddling in bed together. ‘If it’s the later then I can help you find something, just please spare me and don’t call me dude or bro anymore.’

He’d rather you call him Richard-wait, no he hates that even more because to him you’re not meant to use his fully name, only cutesy nicknames that’d make a grown man sick to his stomach. Nothing else would suffice other than Dickie bird, handsome, babe, hunk, honeybun or anything that wasn’t his name.

He’s go mad or would act delusional and say that everything was fine when everyone could tell that it wasn’t. People who know him have personally came to you and begged you to stop calling him dude/bro because he kept talking their ears off about how his beloved partner is torturing him, which ends up torturing them even more upon hearing about his relationship issues.

Dick would even consult Hayley on what he did wrong, only for Hayley to look at him with those big, big eyes of hers. This was not her level of expertise unfortunately. (Head empty, no thoughts. She can’t do her abc’s guys it’s a real tragedy.)

Jason: ‘I just had my tongue down your throat just now and you had to go and ruin the mood by calling me bro. What the fuck.’ - Jason at some point.

It’s a whole mood killer for him to be honest.

He’s calling you things like chipmunk or sweetheart but here you were calling him dude and bro. He knows for a fact that he’s well and truly out of the friend zone because the shit you’ve done together isn’t platonic in any sort of way.

Thinks Roy had set you up to call him dude or bro behind his back. (He hasn’t)

Jason is petty and will get his own back by referring you as ‘just a really good friend’, ‘buddy o’ mine’ or even worse than both of those; ‘chum.’ 💀

When you go low, Jason was more then willing to go to the depths of fucking hell to the point it had become a game to see who’d call out just how stupid this all was, and at the both of you for ever thinking that this was an excellent idea in the first place.

You’ll probs get punished…I’m just going to leave it there and let your minds guess what that ‘punishment’ was exactly.

Damian:

As much as Damian hates it when you call him Dami, he hates it when you call him dude or bro even more, if that’s even possible.

Damian hates it when you call him dude or bro. He’s not your dude or bro, he’s your partner and he expects no less then darling, my heart or my beloved.

So you calling him dude or bro is more than enough reason for him to give you the silent treatment.

‘Until you learn that I am your partner, I won’t want to be anywhere near you if you’re going to keep calling me your bro or dude. It is a disservice to who I actually am to you.’ He says with a huff and beckons Titus to follow, only for the Great Dane to be left confused as to why his human parents were at a disagreement over something silly.

Also Titus, Ace, Jerry, Alfred the cat, Goliath and BatCow are children of divorce because I said so.

So it’s bests that you apologise while you still can because Damian can hold a grudge unlike any other. Even if you didn’t, you’d still crack first before Damian and quickly put an end to calling him dude/bro.

He just thinks being called a dude/bro when in a pre-established relationship is an insult.

He can take a joke but not when it’s aimed at his relationship. He’s well and truly devoted to his relationship -if we’re to completely ignore the whole being Robin thing- that it might as well be an insult towards him too at this point.

[curly-my-beloved]

do you have any general NSFW curly headcanons/imagines to share? I imagine he’s someone who tries to be really gentle ohmy god I wanna hear this man whimper…. I love your writing for him!! I need to be fed more content of him…. pleas e…..

NSFW Curly headcanons

Pre-crash, of course.

Gentle giant. Curly is 6'5" and muscular, yet he is the gentlest, sweetest man you'll ever meet.

He's an absolute service top with his heart on his hand.

And since I've already described his cock, why don't we talk about some other aspects of his physique?

Curly's a muscly guy. This, of course, grants him excellent titties.

Although I believe they're called pecs when they're on men. I will, however, call Curly's tits what they are.

A juicy pair of nice, manly titties. Very squeezable, very biteable, I need my godsdamn mouth on his tits right this very instant.

Also, as we can see on the character model, Curly's got not just cake, but a whole ass bakery. He will, in fact, blush furiously if you slap his ass as he walks past you.

He's mostly a top, but if he's tired and you ask nicely to let you take care of him, he'll be very happy to sit back and let you ride him.

Praise this man. He will melt. Usually he's the one praising but fucking hell he's weak when he's the one praised.

This man is clingy as hell. He'll want to hold you at all times. Skin to skin is a must with him.

He just loves feeling you against him. He loves being inside you, arms wrapped around you as he buries his face in your neck, leaving small yet needy kisses.

Curly is addicted to you. To your voice, your scent your touch... He loves you. And you can see it with how gentle he always is with you.

This man treats every time like your first time. Always whispers praise in your ear, telling you how wonderful you are, how great you're doing for him, how sweet you sound, how much he loves you.

If you tear up from pleasure, he will wipe all the tears away with his thumbs, kissing your forehead, talking about how beautiful you look right now.

He hides his face in you as he cums, either in your chest or shoulder. He wants to be as close to you as possible.

King of aftercare. Absolute king of aftercare. I love him.

[backpackingspace]

Okay but this fic?! Love this

[spilledcoffeeonthefloor]

Fans making a youtube video with the title:

"Neil josten when Andrew"

and it's like:

*reporter: Neil Josten! people say Andrew m-

Neil: nope, imma stop u right there. you bring Andrew up again and we're having a big problem here. I'm tired of your never ending self made drama about my teammates.

*reporter, Again: Neil Josten! there has been rumors about your current goalie Andr-

Neil: there has been rumors about your mother as well, actually! people say his son doesn't have a better job to do than making a shit amount of money out of people's private life.

*camera on Neil staring at Andrew in a middle of a warm up before a match.

*camera on Kevin talking to Neil, Neil literally zoning out, then turning his head around and looking for something. kevin sighs, then points toward Andrew in the corner. Neil's face lighting up

*camera on Neil looking at Andrew in the goal when he's standing out for the game and doing a "Andrew smile" soft and proud and literally heart eyes.

*camera on Neil punching a stricker for shoving Aaron.

*camera on Neil turning toward Andrew everytime he scores.

*more Neil staring at Andrew

*another stricker yells something at Andrew mid game,

Neil punching the guy in the guts, twice, walking toward the referrer, snatching a red card before the referrer could even offer it, and punching the stricker dude twice more

*reporter: Neil josten, your goalie Minyard did an excellent performance at this game, do-

Neil: OH MY GOD, RIGHT????? like, wow that was amazing. he is amazing. I've been obsessed with exy since i was a kid, and I've seen really, really great things in exy, but this? that defense? that was the greatest thing I've ever seen. he didn't let a single goal in. like-*endless yapping*

*reporter: Neil josten, how's playing with Minyard?

Neil: good, he keeps me on my knees.

Neil:....

Neil: TOES. HE KEEPS ME ON MY TOES.

*Camera on Neil laughing so hard at something Andrew said with complete deadpan

*a tweet that says "i wish Andrew Minyard would bench press me" and has a "liked by Neil josten" above it.

*Camera on Neil threatening a nurse at the hospital to let her see Andrew, who was hurt mid game.

then again, camera on Neil shouting "ok then I'm buying the fucking hospital"

*Camera on Wymack trying to prevent Neil from buying the hospital

*reporter: Neil josten you look fabulous tonight! can you tell us what brand you're wearing?

Neil: i have not a single idea, Andrew picked it up

reporter: you just wear whatever he picks up for you..?

Neil: yuP.

*Foxes on tv in a quiz show, camera on Neil taking Andrew's coffee mug, taking a sip, put two sugar cubes in it, blowing it a bit to cool down then handing it to Andrew and turning to the host: excuse me what were you saying?

[evilminji]

Okay, you know how bird don't ACTUALLY look the way we think they do?

They are far more colorful? But only to the eyes of other birds?

And it has to do with how light reflects off them and how their eyes are shaped etc etc.?

Well..... humans can see the most shades of green, right? But! We sure as shit can't see UltaViolet and InfraRed? Or shades BEYOND those. Ectoplasmic colors. Magical ones. Third eye, need to see with your SOUL type ones.

Danny? Could very well still have lil baby "kitten's eyes who haven't open yet" syndrome.

He thinks the Zone is Green and his hair is white.

But it's not.

His hair is Starlight colored. Frost. His suit is specifically "the void between stars" colored. Which looks... different? Then black? No, no, guys. How can you guys not see it? It looks REALLY different! How did he not NOTICE before?! They're not ever CLOSE to the same shade! It's like calling salmon and hot pink the same. You know... if you were to compare an actual fish and some irradiated, violently glowing version of "hot pink".

......guys?

His gloves are.... guys, these ares stars. Pressed so close together there's no gap. His body is the night sky, all rearranged. He's wearing SPACE, guys.

*continues to stare at his gloves for the next five hours*

Now... why is this relevant? Because! Danny slowly, as all humans do, adjusts! It's like finally having glasses after years of blurry vision. He... forgets, what it was like, not NOT See Zone Colors. Not completely, mind you, but enough he has to be reminded.

And the Zone? A Realm of the Dead. Specifically, the great catch-all and highway of the Dead. They get EVERYBODY. Misfits and vagabonds. Those who don't quite fit. Funky lil dudes. And of course, assholes, but everybody has those! See, Zone colors?

Are DIFFERENT.

They're all of um!

It's like looking at the technicolor, stobe light, multi galaxies in one, Sun. Tingly(tm)!!! You get used to it. What helps? Is that as garish as the Zone is? The painting and grand tapestry of it all? Keeps changing. Like weather. If it's too much for you, you can stay inside your Lair until the current Color changes. Until the designs shift. Vibe changes.

There are even glasses for that! "Temperate" areas for people to set up, that get headaches or are just... kinda killjoys. Too each their own. Though the stormy areas? Those guys are freaks. Watch out for those guys. They're the kind who stare directly are stars until their eyes burn out.

Where was I? Oh yeah! Danny!

No longer a wee baby, smol baby, twig-o!

Sad. We miss it.

But he did get used to Seeing The Colors. Got a handle on his powers. And! Finally worked with his parents on how to safely turn the portal OFF. There was much booing. Cries of "kill joy" and "booo! You suck!". But? Like? Dude DID have the right to protect his home. Go to college. What can you do?

Problem with THAT is? Baby grew into his "built like a brick shit house of constantly running off to literally tackle the Supernatural excellence" Fenton genetics. He Tall. Muscles! And he PUMPING out "somethings fucked up with me" Vibes!

Add in his DEEPLY Sus off hand comments. Weird ability to tell when someone has or is about to die. Basic immunity to the cold. Fuckin EYE GLOW?

Ha ha... *Horror movie screams from his college dorm mates*

Clearly a demon!

He gets kicked out. Well... not kicked out. He's a model student and broken no rules. They'd never survive the lawsuit. But... he's? STRONGLY INCOURAGED to finish his education elsewhere. Repeatedly. By like... 15 colleges.

Sam is not just livid, she's actively foaming at the mouth.

Breathe, Sam! Remember what your doctor said! Your mortal body can't handle that kinda Vengance spiral! Think of your blood pressure! Breathe!!! (Were not for the laws of this land... and the weak, fleshy constraints of her mortal form!)

Thankfully? Tucker's been interning, remotely of course, with Wayne Industries. He asked his manager where he could find some of those scholarship forms. (Since Gotham University is just a touch out of Danny's price range.) Manager wanted to know why. And oh! Oh holy shit. Apparently? Danny is the hot new office gossip.

People in the main office are OUTRAGED. Danny's "too spooky"?! Too FUCKIN SPOOKY!? Are you KIDDING THEM? Even juicier, a Meta kid from some wacky ghost hunters turned scientists. From a line of Supernatural hunters. Wants to be a aeronautics engineer.

Ooooooh how SPOOKY! Better watch out! He'll design an ENGINE at yooooou!

Fuckin casuals. Non-Gothamites are WEAK. "Too scary" their collective asses. Yeah, maybe the kid SHOULD come too Gotham. He can be the weird kid. Mildly unsettling or something. His powers won't be SHIT in Gotham. Just remind him to buy a gas mask.

So! Danny gets his Scholarship! Merrily packs his bags for darker, Gothic hellscape hills. Unaware... that Constantine has been following reports of a "demon" that he's? 80% sure is a Banshee but MIGHT be a winter spirt with a shtick? For the past 13 colleges. He's getting closer. And this sucker is a strong one.

Not "this is going to cause me serious, life imperilling danger" strong. But more? "Man, that cat is HUUUUUGE". Could he still get mauled a lil? Yeah. Scratched to all hell and back? Probably! But DIE? Unlikely.

He just needs to know why the FUCK this spirit his hanging around colleges.

Which is made harder... by the fact that what HE sees? And what OTHER people see? When they look at this guy? Separate things. Yeah, he'd LOVE to give you guys a description! IF HE HAD ONE.

@the-witchhunter @hdgnj @hdgnj @spidori @babbling-babull @nerdpoe @lolottes

[covenofagatha]

Birthday Girl

On your 21st birthday, your friends drag you to a bar to get wasted when you decide it's a good idea to drunk-call Professor Agatha Harkness.

Word count: 3400+

Warnings: smut, fingering, oral, intoxication, mentions of underage drinking, teacher x student (legal)

“One, two, three!” Wanda chants and you and your friends tap your shot glasses on the bar counter and quickly down them. 

You gasp at the burn and they laugh at you. It’s your 21st birthday and your best friends Wanda, Rio, and Natasha had dragged you out to the closest bar to get you wasted. They had all already turned 21 the year before; you were the baby in the group. 

“Fuck, that’s disgusting,” you groan. 

“Another round, please!” Rio motions to the bartender. He sets down four more tequila shots and one is shoved into your hand. 

“Think you can get to 21?” Wanda jokes and the thought of 20 more shots makes you want to gag. 

“I might puke after this one,” you say and your friends laugh. You were never a partier in high school or college, always preferring to curl up on the couch and watch a movie. You’d only had some sips of alcohol a few times, but you had never been drunk. 

“You deserve this!” Nat shouts in your ear. “Harkness has been working you to the bone!” 

You shrug and wave your hand dismissively, suddenly uncomfortable. Agatha Harkness is your History of Witchcraft professor at Westview University. She’s known around campus for being cold to everyone and rarely giving out A’s. She expected nothing short of excellence and would not put up with excuses. Everyone was terrified of her. 

Everyone except for you. 

Something about the older woman captivated you. You were obsessed with meeting her standards, dreaming of the day she would look at you with pride. You poured over your books for her class, rereading every sentence you wrote thrice, just to try to impress her. It had taken your friends days of begging to convince you to come celebrate your birthday with them because you had a paper for Agatha’s class due in a week and you were already worried about it. 

“I don’t know how you’re surviving,” Wanda says. “I had her last semester and got a C in the class. Third highest grade. She’s the worst.” 

“She’s not that bad,” you defend, not quite sure why. Something about Agatha getting so much hate for pushing her students rubs you the wrong way. 

“Yeah she is,” Rio joins in. “I heard that she’s a real witch.”

You roll your eyes. “Can we please stop talking about her? I thought you guys brought me here to get away from school.” You take the shot that’s still in your hand and it goes down smoother this time. 

“Yes, there we go!” Rio whoops. 

Two more shots later and your head has gone completely fuzzy. You feel as if you are floating on air and everything around you is happening in slow motion. You get off your stool and immediately stumble, Wanda catching you with her arms. 

“I think I’m a little drunk,” you tell her. She laughs like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. 

“No shit, y/n, you don’t have to yell!” 

You didn’t even realize you had. “We should probably go back to the dorms!” You look around to see Nat chatting with some girl and Rio throwing darts at the board in the corner. 

“Not yet,” Wanda says, picking up her rum and coke. You’re not sure how she’s still drinking after she also did four tequila shots. “I’ll get you some water.” She signals to the bartender and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing your vision to go back to normal. 

When you open them, you see dark hair in the corner. Is that–? You shift so you can get a better look and feel sorely disappointed when you realize the person is not Agatha. Why are you disappointed? The thought echoes in your head for a second, and then is replaced by a sudden urge to see your professor. 

“Drink this,” Wanda orders, pressing a glass of ice water into your hand, but you’re too busy scrolling through your phone. You know she put her number on the syllabus somewhere and you are too far gone to think that this might be a bad idea. 

You feel a thrill run through you when you find it. You read the number over and over, like you’re afraid it’s going to change somehow. 

“I’ll be back,” you slur to Wanda and then step out the side door into the alley. You type the number into your phone and your finger hesitates over the call button. You know you shouldn’t. But fuck it. You press the button and lift the phone to your ear. 

It rings. And then rings again. You’re about to hang up to spare yourself the rejection when the call connects. 

“Hello?” It’s actually her. 

Your breath catches in your throat and you stand up straighter. “Professor Harkness?” 

“Y/n? Is that you?” 

“Yeah.” Shit, this was a bad idea. Even with your head still swimming, you know that. You can’t just hang up though. 

“Why are you calling me at 10:30 on a Saturday night?” 

“Um,” you say, trying to think of something. You’re definitely going to have to drop her class after this. You’ll never be able to face her ever again. “It’s my birthday?” You offer lamely. 

Agatha scoffs. “Happy birthday. Can I help you with something?”

“Oh, no, Professor, I just wanted – we’re at a bar – I thought you were – and just wanted to say hi,” you ramble, knowing you’re not making any sense, and you can almost hear her smirk through the phone. 

“Y/n, are you drunk right now?” Her voice perks up and it sounds like she’s finally interested. 

“No!” you protest. “Well, maybe a little. But I’m 21 now!” 

“What bar are you at?” 

“Jimmy’s.” It’s a local dive bar that is a popular place for Westview students to hang out at. 

“I’ll be there in ten. Wait out front.” There’s a click and then she’s gone. You stare at your phone, dumbfounded. Is Agatha coming to pick you up? Why?

You walk back into the bar and order a Dirty Shirley. The call had sobered you up a bit and if you had already drunk-called your professor, why not get even more hammered. Wanda comes back over to you and giggles when she sees the new drink in your hand. 

“Alright, time to party!” she exclaims. You pick up on the fact that she’s a little drunk as well. You stand up, vision blurring for a second. 

“I actually called an uber,” you lie, even through your hazy mind knowing that your professor coming to pick you up might sound strange to them.

Wanda pouts and then throws her arms around you. “Happy birthday,” she says into your ear and your arms tighten around her. 

“Thank you,” you breathe back. You’re close with Rio and Nat as well, but they don’t have the same bond you and Wanda do. You pull back and then go say goodbye to your other friends. 

The wind outside does very little to sober you up and you shiver from the coldness. You’re wearing a purple crop-top and a black mini-skirt, something Nat had found buried deep in your closet. You watch the time on your phone, heartbeat picking up as it gets closer to ten minutes since Agatha had hung up on you. 

And then right on the dot, a slick black Range Rover pulls into the parking lot, and you immediately know it’s her. The car stops right in front of you, the passenger window rolling down, and your breath catches. 

It’s Professor Harkness, clad in a maroon suit, wavy hair falling over her shoulders. 

“Do you need me to open the door for you, too, princess?” Agatha says, sarcasm dripping over the words, when you haven’t moved. You shake your head, partly to answer and partly to clear the fog. You settle into the seat, not missing the way Agatha’s eyes rake over your skimpily clothed body.

“You didn’t have to come get me,” you mutter, putting real effort into not slurring your words. 

She glances at you and sees you struggling with your seatbelt. She reaches over and you freeze at her close proximity. Her breath is hot against your cheek and her fingers brush your stomach as she takes the seat belt from your hand and buckles it for you. “Thought I would spare the other people you drunk-called,” she says. 

Embarrassment runs through you. “You were the only one,” you say meekly, picking at a scab on your hand. You dare to peek at her, only to find her smirking, one eyebrow quirked. 

“Oh?”

“I shouldn’t have called.” This time, it’s harder to keep your words from running together. “We were talking about you and then I thought I saw you and I just wanted to see you.” You need to stop talking, now. 

Agatha hums. “Did you, now?” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ears as she shifts the car into drive and you watch her fingers. 

“You’re really hot,” you blurt out and then clamp a hand over your mouth. Fuck. 

Instead of pulling over and making you get out, like you thought she would, Agatha simply reaches over and pats your leg. “And you’re really drunk, sweetheart.” 

The pet name makes you swoon inwardly. “Not that drunk,” you say unconvincingly. “I only had one…two…” You trail off, attempting to count the number of drinks on your fingers. Agatha stifles a chuckle. 

“Is this your first time drinking?” She asks, amused. 

“No, but it is my first time drinking this much,” you admit. “My friends dragged me out since it’s my birthday. I was going to work on the essay for your class.” 

“You were going to spend your 21st birthday doing school work?” 

“Your essay’s due in a week. I wanted to make sure I-it was good enough for you.” 

She notices your slip of tongue and her smirk sends heat down low in your stomach. “You’re always good for me. Your essays are some of the best I’ve ever read.” 

Your heart skips a beat and your face flushes. “I have a B in your class.” 

“You have an 88 in my class. That’s the highest I’ve had in years. Can’t make it too easy,” she says with a wink. 

“You could make it just a little easier,” you grumble, the alcohol clearly getting rid of any inhibitions. 

“You keep doing what you’re doing, sweetheart, and it’ll go up, I promise. I’m very impressed with the work you’ve been turning in.”

A hot flash runs through you. “Just wanna be your good girl.” And if it wasn’t clear how you feel about her now, it sure is. But she doesn’t look disgusted or creeped out, only intrigued. 

She finally stops the car and you peer out the window, expecting to see your dorm. You haven’t been paying attention to where she’s been driving at all, and you’re quite surprised to see you’ve arrived at a two-story house in a cute, suburban neighborhood. 

“This isn’t where I live,” you say dumbly. 

“No, it’s not,” she agrees, getting out of the car and walking over to help you. You stumble up the steps to the front door, Agatha’s tight grip on your shoulder keeping you upright. You can feel her fingers playing with the ends of your hair. 

She unlocks the front door just as a wave of nausea hits you. “Oh, god,” you say weakly, holding a hand in front of your mouth. Agatha doesn’t even seem phased; she leads you to a bathroom in the hall and leaves, only to re-enter with a glass of water moments later. You gulp it down and feel better. 

“You okay?” she asks softly, stroking your cheek, eyes tracing up and down your face. You’ve never seen this side of her and you really like it. 

“I think so. Thank you again,” you murmur and you realize that you’ve been staring at her mouth. 

“Anything for my favorite student.” 

And then, because you’re apparently determined to fuck everything up even more, you lean in and press your lips to hers. Agatha stands still for a second before you pull back, horrified with yourself. 

“Professor, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to–” 

She draws you back in for a longer kiss this time, tongue licking into your mouth. You let out a long moan and she breaks away. 

“You’re drunk,” she tells you again.

You clasp the lapels of her blazer. “I know. But I want you.” 

She softly pries your fingers off her suit and smiles. “You need to sleep. And then we can talk about this in the morning.” 

You pout and she runs her thumb over your bottom lip, slightly pulling it down. You suck her finger into your mouth, delighting in the way her eyes darken. She steps back.

“Let’s go. You can sleep in the guest room. I’ll find you some pajamas and toiletries.” Her hand on the small of your back guides you up the stairs and to the room on the right. The guest room is simple but cozy and you immediately go to the bed and flop onto it. “Don’t fall asleep yet,” Agatha warns and then leaves the room. 

She comes back in a few minutes, an old shirt and sweatpants in one hand and a toothbrush and toothpaste in the other. She pats your legs in an effort to get you up but you can barely move, suddenly weighed down by all the drinks. 

“Come on, hon,” Agatha says and helps you stand up. You don’t move as she works to take your shirt and skirt off, your cheeks and upper chest flushing red. You try to cover yourself and she smirks. 

“M’sorry,” you mumble. 

“Don’t be. I’m enjoying the view.” You stare at her longingly, silently begging her to fuck you right there and then, but she helps you step into the sweatpants and pull the shirt over your head. She watches you brush your teeth and moves the covers so you can get into bed. “Do you need anything else?” 

Your hand grabs hers. “Just you,” you try again hopefully, but she chuckles and wrenches free of your grip. 

“Good night, birthday girl,” she whispers and leans down to press a kiss to your forehead. And then she turns off the lights and leaves the room.

You fall asleep immediately. 

***

Sunlight streams through the blinds, waking you up. It takes you a minute to get your bearings and then the events of last night come back to you. 

The bar. Four shots of tequila and half a Dirty Shirley. Calling Agatha and her coming to pick you up and taking you to her house. Kissing her in the downstairs bathroom. Shit. 

You groan, head pounding. You see a container of Advil and a glass of water on the nightstand beside you. You take two Advil and drain the glass, heart warming at the thought of Agatha taking such good care of you. 

And then you remember that your relationship with her will forever be complicated by your actions. 

You solemnly brush your teeth and pull back on the clothes you wore to the bar last night, neatly folding Agatha’s pajamas and placing them on the bed. You hope she hasn’t woken up yet so you can sneak out without her having to tell you how inappropriate you behaved last night. 

No such luck. The second you get downstairs, Agatha perks up from where she’s typing on her laptop on the couch.

“Good morning, darling,” she purrs, shutting her computer. You gulp, taking her outfit in. She’s wearing a robe that ends mid-thigh and the neckline drops low. 

“Hey,” you say casually, trying to hide how much you’re internally freaking out. 

“Do you want something for breakfast? I can cook you something.” She stands up and walks to the kitchen and you follow like a lost puppy. You involuntarily lick your lips at the way her hips are swaying. 

“What are my options?” Your voice is raspy, still feeling hungover. She glances back at you and her eyes dart up and down your body. 

“I can make eggs. Bacon. I think I have pancake mix in the pantry. What would you like?” 

You’re a little confused that she hasn’t scolded you yet. And then you remember something else. She kissed you. 

You swallow hard. Whatever else you may have done last night that you can’t remember, she doesn’t hate you for it. She might even want you back. 

“Are you on the menu?” It comes out before you can even realize what you’re saying. 

Agatha freezes and turns around. You shift your weight nervously, but then you see her pupils blown out. Her eyes are so dark you can barely see any blue. “What?” She asks carefully.

“You kissed me last night,” you say, a little breathless. You have absolutely no idea where this confidence is coming from. “You wouldn’t do anything else cause I was drunk. But I’m not drunk now.” 

She steps toward you and roughly grasps your hair. She tilts your head back, exposing your neck just a tad. “No, you’re not.” She regards you for a second. “You know you’re not going to get extra credit for trying to sleep with your professor.” 

You laugh. “That’s not why I’m doing this.” 

She smirks. “Good.” And then she licks a hot stripe up your neck and bites down, sucking a mark on your skin. You gasp loudly and tangle your hands into her hair. 

“Professor,” you moan and you drag her into a filthy kiss. She backs you up until your thighs hit the table so she lifts you up onto it. Your legs wrap around her to pull her closer. Agatha pushes up your crop-top and kneads your breast, thumb stroking your nipple, never once breaking your kiss.

Her hand creeps under your skirt and cups your mound over your underwear. Your hips jump on their own at the stimulation. 

“Please,” you beg. Her lips curl into a smile. 

“What do you want?” Her fingers have pushed your underwear to the side and have started lazily stroking through your folds, spreading your wetness. 

“You,” is all you can say before she sinks a finger into your hole. 

“Like this?” She asks innocently, thrusting hard. 

“Yes,” you pant, quickly untying her robe so you can touch her. She’s completely naked underneath and you lean down so you can take a nipple into your mouth. 

“That’s perfect, baby,” she sighs, setting a relentless pace with her fingers after she slips another one in you. “Is this what you hoped would happen when you called me last night?”

“I’ve been hoping for this since the first day of the semester,” you answer, and she falters for a second, thrown off by your honesty. 

She pulls out of you and panic runs through you, terrified that you said the wrong thing. But she just pushes you down so your back is resting on the table and she pulls out one of the chairs from the table. 

“What are you–” Before you can finish your sentence, she leans forward and sucks your clit into her mouth. Your back arches off the table, hands rushing down to hold her in place. “Fuck, Professor!” 

She devours your pussy like she’s a starving woman, pulling all sorts of loud noises from you. 

“Oh my god, I’m gonna cum,” you chant, hips grinding on her face, trying to get the last bit of stimulation you need to send you over the edge. She knows what you need and presses her fingers inside you, curling them just right and gives your clit a hard last lick. You cum harder than you ever have before, her name on your lips like a prayer. She helps you ride through the aftershocks and then trails kisses up your body until she can kiss your mouth. 

“How was that?” she asks after you pull away to catch your breath. 

“That was probably the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten,” you say, which cracks both of you up. “But I’m not finished.” 

Her eyebrow quirks up and she smirks. “Oh?” You stand up, putting your hands on her hips and flipping her around so she’s leaning against the table. 

You sink to your knees in front of you, not even bothering with a chair. You slowly push her robe up so it bunches at her waist. “Can I return the favor?” 

A glint appears in her eye and she fists one of her hands in your hair preemptively. “I’d like nothing more.” 

[nereidprinc3ss]

make me late

in which spencer finds a few minutes to spare with fem!reader in the morning

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: softdom!spence, sub reader, technically dubcon bc he doesn’t ask and she jokingly says stop but it’s not like that I promise, fingering (here we go again), 'slutty' is used to describe an action but not by spencer, spencer slaps r's ass one (1) time, (hot), mild overstimulation a/n: apparently need to post at least one fingering fic per week or i'll fucking die. very short and sweet but as always let me know if you like it, i have a crush on all of you!

You’re used to Spencer’s alarm going off early in the morning—typically you tune it out or sleep right through it. Today, however, it rouses you more than usual. You roll over, blinking your eyes open. 

“Sorry,” Spencer mutters, finally turning it off and leaning over to kiss your head. “Go back to sleep, angel.”

You wrap your arms around his torso, pulling him down again when he tries to get out of bed.

“Don’t go,” you beg into his shirt, slinging a leg over him. His hand slips under your (also his) shirt, rubbing the bare skin of your back.

“I have to. You know that.” 

“I just want you to stay for a little bit,” you insist. 

“No you don’t,” he drawls, voice still gravelly with sleep, “You want to make me late.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say innocently, burying your face further into his shirt as if you could extinguish the heat in your cheeks. 

His hand drops from your back to reach under your thigh, pushing your underwear to the side. You gasp when his fingers make contact with your soaked core, involuntarily pressing your hips closer. 

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Stop it! That’s not fair!” You squeal, attempting to wriggle away once you regain your senses. But the bastard wraps his arm around your waist like a vice, forcing you to stay in place as he sinks a finger into you with no preamble. Instead of satisfying him with a vocal response, you keep your face hidden in the crook of his shoulder and remain obstinately silent. When he begins to slowly pump his finger, you’re forced to bite the fabric of his shirt to shut yourself up. 

“If you’re not enjoying yourself, I’ll stop,” he says plainly, but obviously he knows that’s the last thing you want. His ring finger joins the other and your mouth falls open, a tiny, choked breath against his skin. “Do you want me to stop?”

Don’t give in, you say to yourself. Wait. What are you not giving in to? Fuck, that feels good. You hum quietly—an excellent display of self-control considering the noises you’re actively holding back. 

“Are we already getting whiny?”

“‘m not whining,” you bite. 

“You’re always whining.” There’s nothing to do but prove him right when he begins massaging that spot inside you with a practiced stroke of his fingers—the one that makes you arch your back further and spread your legs a little wider—makes you oh-so compliant and all together, a bit slutty. But Spencer has told you that by definition, you’re not a slut if it’s just him who you lose all self-respect around. “My pretty girl feels so good, huh?”

You agree with a mindless mumble, forgetting that you were ever going to try and fight the pleasure. 

“It feels so good.”

“I can tell, baby. Listen to the mess you're making.”

Soft, wet sounds emanate from where you’re probably dripping around his fingers. A moan is muffled by his shoulder as your own fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt and sink into the flesh of his waist—though you doubt he minds. 

“Please don’t stop, please please please—" It’s quiet, almost demure as you plead. 

“You’re so sweet when you get like this,” Spencer coos. “I wish you were always so well-behaved.”

No, he doesn’t. Both of you know he loves fucking the attitude out of you, and at times, back into you. But you’re not in any place to correct him right now, as his fingers slip in and out of you so quickly, exactly where you want to be touched. 

“Oh, right—right there, that’s—oh, god,” you squeak. 

Your face is still nuzzled in his shirt, your voice is still so delicate and weak with sleep, rising in pitch with your pleasure until it breaks. 

“Right here? This is where you need it?”

“Yes,” you practically cry, “I’m gonna come, Spence—” your hips rock back and forth to meet each stroke of his fingers inside you, vision going white with with pleasure. 

“Yeah? My pretty girl is gonna come all over my fingers?”

“Mhm!” You speed up the motion of your hips. He chuckles, which might offend you if you were in your right mind, but it’s early, and you’re tired, and your soul is trying to untether itself from your body. 

“Let me feel it, baby. I wanna feel you coming, can you do that for me?”

A breathy keen rushes from your throat as your orgasm begins to suck you out to sea like a riptide, flooding your lungs and blood and everything with so much easy pleasure you’re barely awake and you don’t care one bit. 

“Uh-huh, good girl,” Spencer murmurs, not letting up with his fingers as you fall through your orgasm. Another choked moan takes you by surprise when his free hand falls with a heavy clap to your ass, before rubbing the stinging flesh. “Let go a little bit longer, baby, I’m right here.”

You’re barely breathing, still seeing stars as he continues to fuck you leisurely with his fingers, more out of pure affection than anything else. Eventually he slips them out, teasing gently over your clit as your stomach tenses. But you let him keep going. You’ll do anything to keep him in bed for a few minutes longer. To that end, you gather enough breath to speak. 

“Can you please fuck me?” 

He hums pityingly, moving his hand from between your legs to lovingly soothe the tender skin he’d slapped just a moment ago. 

“You know I can’t, baby. I shouldn’t have even done this. I really have to get a move on.”

“But you did do this,” you say, eager to point out the fallacies in his argument, “which means you could also have sex with me and we could be really fast and you could just take less time getting ready for work.”

Your chin is now resting on his shoulder as you look up at him with wide, imploring eyes, and he leans down to kiss your nose. 

“The answer is going to stay no, sweet thing. I don’t care how much you beg.”

He’s already gently sliding you off of him and getting out of bed as you pout. A few moments pass, and you can’t think of a good retort as he moves about the room, gathering a towel for his shower and digging through the dresser. 

“You’re mean.”

“Aw, poor baby. You only got to come once. Nobody has ever had a harder life than you.” Spencer dodges the pillow you throw and laughs, coming back to lean over the bed as you glower at him. “I’m sorry I woke you up. If you can’t fall back asleep in the time it takes me to shower, I’ll make you fancy coffee.”

“Fine.”

“And I’ll be extra nice to you when I get home.” He kisses your head and then your lips, and then disappears into the bathroom. 

In a completely predictable turn of events, you’re dead to the world by the time he gets out of the shower. He makes you the fancy coffee anyway, leaving it in a thermos on your nightstand. 

He’s late to work. He can't pretend to be sorry.