#rufus is so. he is SOMETHING

[sunlitriddle]

Have you ever been so possessed by a half-baked thought that you drew two pics just to get it out of your brain? Yeah, me neither.

These are kinda old, about a year apart. I forgot where I was going with the first pic, making a deal you can't refuse, probably... but I REALLY wanted to take some liberties with his costume on the second one. I mean, even still, I conveniently forgot his chunky white cuffs in the first one.

[minai28]

Today's vaguely Jason related problem: I had a really funny picture idea but I need to draw Arabel for it. *Sigh* I'll need like a million references and I need to figure out what kind of braids and clothes tooo.....

If I'm not mistaken she wears her hair similar to Emir, which would be in braids of some sort ending in colorful beads. I always imagine Emir with cornrows but idk about Arabel. Loose braids(as in not directly on the skin though how loose is also a question) Then there's the clothes. I think their home town style was mentioned as well fitted? Should I incorporate flowers because it's the city of flowers? Should I make it vaguely french because that'd be our world equity geographically speaking??

She's a healer who uses giant magic containers to suck up and redistribute stuff like poison, wtf does that entail for practical clothes???

All in all how the f do you make it clear it's Arabel? I think I have an idea for the hair? Maybe? At risk of it not being too book accurate?

Should I give her small heels? Like she's gonna be a tall stunning woman even if her hight was never mentioned, right? Can you have too much of a good thing?

I'll be back when my hand hurts from doodling.

[randomnameless]

The fun thing about the Crest system argument is that before Hopes, myself and others were pointing out how Edelgard's claims make no sense when held up to the various nobles we have in game. The Alliance was a big sticking point in this regard, it was only in the Kingdom where it seemed to exist but it was also tied to defending their lands. Then Hopes came out where Sylvain explained that yes, there is a Crest system… that the nobles ignore and do their own thing. Fodlan itself basically says no one follows the Crest system, so is it really that important that Edelgard removes it while consolidating power on herself?

Where in Nopes does Sylvain mention the Crust system?

Crust system is basically the Fodlan equivalent of inheritence laws, and not that different from a male/female/klingon primogeniture rule, legitimacy rule, or picking the most able "person" to inherit...

Especially since the "most able" notion is as variable as the contents of a teaspoon and Fodlan refuses to elaborate what kind of magical superpower each crest gives.

The Nabateans using hair dye in the War of Heroes make more sense than the crust "system"!

I remember Houses thought trying to push the "wah wah inheritence based on crusts bad" with Sylvain (or was it Dimitri?) saying that the crested heir inherits, and the others are disinherited or something? I haven't checked the jp version and if it is worded differently, but, come on.

We see Rufus and Gilbert, sure they don't inherit the ancestral seat/throne of the house (Gilbert's bro is the baron, and Rufus is salty bcs Lambert got the throne), and yet they're not left in the boonies, are we really supposed to believe that both Rufus and Gilbert didn't get a penny, a house, titles (Gilbert became a knight) or anything for inheritance? Disinherited Rufus would never have became a grand duke (unless Dimitri's grandma was from Itha so Rufus took the inheritance from his mom?) or have lived a relatively more privileged life than Ashe and be free to "seduce around".

Jury's out about whether Glenn had a crust or not, and yet, Glenn got a fiancée and is always highly spoken of by his dad - not something you'd do for a kid you disinherit!

So, what were Sylvain (or Dimitri?) talking about in Houses?

Or were they full of shit to pretend there is a "system" that exists but isn't applied anywhere in the land, so it's totes important to get rid of it and make "ReFoRmS" and in the end, Supreme Leader wasn't totally in the wrong and had some good ideas, but please don't ask more about those ideas or what the "most competent" means to her, especially since Bernie in her solo ending in CF (just like in the other routes) can rule her territory ?

We don't see Hector crying a river because Uther is the Lord and not him, or Eirika doing the same (even if it would have been better for Magvel lol) just like Tana, hell, Elincia's dad didn't want to create an inheritence feud between his daughter and Renning so he hid her, and when Renning returns in FE10, he's not throwing a fit because he should have become King instead of his niece, and what not.

Hell, Desmond wanting to make Guinivere Queen wasn't a move to empower her or to shit on Zeph, but ultimately, a move he pulled off because of his own insecurities at being a worthless King compared to his son.

In Fodlan? Tana - after Innes' death at the hands of her accomplices - starts a war to conquer Magvel to get rid of male primogeniture.

And to make this less stupid than it sounds, the devs insist that Magvel's primogeniture laws are very bad and ruin a ton of lives in the continent which would justify killing Ross and Garcia because they're sacrifices to be made for the greater good.

Yeah :/

I'm not playing this version of FE8.

[sarellathesphinx]

Hey did you guys know Reeve is the one who had to tell Elmyra and Marlene that Aerith died in the original game. I think about this constantly

[non-cannon]

If you think about it, technically Rufus did his job as the Osirian in the season two finale. When he took the mask from Nina he protected the Chosen One from going to the afterlife, and with Senkarah following the mask he also sent the evil being harming/threatening the Paragon to the (probably technically not hell) bad afterlife.

[breitzbachbea]

I should get more familiar with the troubles of the late republic and pick an era for my res publica AU. Like idk even in WHAT civil war these clowns dies, but it would be positively hilarious to have all these drabbles that make them seem like political masterminds and the talk of the town ... and then we get them placed next to ACTUAL power of historical figures and they're the lowest on anyone's list.

But for that I would have to give everyone a latin name and uuuuugggghhhhhh.

[alliluyevas]

did anyone else read the dreamer webcomic back in the day. it's basically like if outlander was YA and a graphic novel and it was the american revolution instead of ye olde scotland. sudden wave of nostalgia but also. the main character is not supposed to be a history person or anything but she also doesn't like. look up anyone she's met in the past after going back to the present until it's too late. if i got isekai'd back to 1777 in my sleep the first thing i'd do upon waking is google every single solitary person i met back then to find out if there was any documentation of them. i do my research folks!

[ophelialoveshandsomemen]

(Rufus Sewell, in At Sachem Farm - 1998)

[macabrebatz]

WHAT THE SLASHERS SMELL LIKE

Except I get too realistic and carried away

Author’s Note: No seriously. I got carried away. Didn’t intend to write for this many slashers but the thoughts kept coming. If you all want a part 2, let me know!

Characters: Jason Voorhees, Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair, Lester Sinclair, Rufus “RJ” Firefly Jr., Baby Firefly, Otis B. Driftwood, Captain Spaulding, Pinhead, Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, Bubba Sawyer, Thomas Hewitt, Art the Clown, Michael Myers, Freddy Krueger, Ash Williams (I know he’s not a slasher, shush), Billy Lenz, Brahms Heelshire, Mitch/The Ghost, The Driller Killer

Warnings/tags: Realistic takes on the body odor & hygiene of various horror characters, mention of sex on Freddy’s part (and alluded to in Otis’s part), gender neutral reader, not beta read

Word count: 1.7k

Jason Voorhees

Jason smells bad. Like really bad. He smells like mud, mildew, blood, and a rotting corpse that’s been soaking in lake water. It takes a long time to be in such close proximity to him. Personal hygiene isn’t his strong suit at all. But once you come along he’ll definitely try. His clothes can be changed and washed but Jason’s body stinks in a way that a shower and soap simply can’t fix (at least not fully). It’s possible to get the smell toned down to somewhat tolerable levels. But realistically I think he’ll always have a bit of a smell to him.

Bo Sinclair

Bo, for the most part, smells fine. He takes regular showers, washes his hair with a generic shampoo, brushes his teeth, etc. When he hasn’t been working, he’ll smell like cheap cologne and whatever scented soap you keep in the shower. But if he’s been working at the mechanic shop he’ll come home smelling like sweat, oil, and gasoline (and blood if he’s killed someone that day). There’s also always a faint smell of cigarettes. The smell seems to have seeped into his clothes permanently after many years of smoking. You don’t have to coax him to shower, he heads there without a fight. After a long day, a shower can make him feel better anyway.

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent doesn’t smell too bad but he doesn’t always smell great. He often smells like beeswax, which isn’t a bad smell. But he can get quite sweaty as well and doesn’t shower as frequently as Bo. So it’s not the best smell combo. I mean, he’s constantly working in a hot basement/workshop…in a sweater…in a mask…with long hair……in Louisiana. Yeah, sweating is a common occurrence. He’ll probably increase his amount of showers for you. He gets so caught up in sculpting that he forgets sometimes though.

Lester Sinclair

Lester is the worst Sinclair brother when it comes to smell and hygiene. When you first meet him smells like roadkill, sweat, and dirt. His hygiene isn’t great. He doesn’t shower often, nor brush his teeth often. But when you come along he definitely starts caring about his hygiene more. He’ll take showers and brush his teeth. Maybe he’ll wash his clothes more…maybe.

Rufus “RJ” Firefly Jr.

Rufus smells fine for the most part. He showers regularly and uses deodorant. By the end of the day though he might have a slight musky smell to him but nothing too bad usually. Sometimes he would stink after working on cars all day in the Texas heat. He’d come home smelling like sweat and oil and you might have to ask him to take a shower. Occasionally he’d have a faint smell of beer or whatever alcohol was lying around on his clothes.

Baby Firefly

Baby takes frequent showers and bubble baths (when she’s not on the run with the family). She likes soap with a fruity scent, often opting for something that smells of berries. Sometimes she’d smell like blood but usually, she’d smell rather good. She has a variety of different perfumes snagged from the luggage of different victims. Just like her soap, she often goes for things with more of a fruit scent.

Otis B. Driftwood

Otis doesn’t smell good often. In fact, a lot of the time he smells straight-up bad. Like corpses, blood, alcohol, and tobacco. Otis does take showers though so the smell is temporary. He doesn’t take them often though and sometimes you’ll have to ask him (or mildly threaten him) to shower. If he’s being stubborn and you really, really want him to shower then you can coax him by getting in the shower and asking him to join you. He’ll never say no to that offer.

Captain Spaulding

Captain Spaulding smells okay usually. He’s not the best smelling out of the Firefly family but he’s not that bad. He often smells like fried chicken from making it so often at his shop. There are some faint hints of alcohol, blood, and maybe even cigarettes. His dental hygiene isn’t great but he does take somewhat regular showers.

Pinhead

Pinhead smells like blood, leather, and metal. It’s not an overbearing smell like some of the other slashers but it’s there. You can smell it when you hug him close. I don’t think he gets very sweaty. Honestly, do Cenobites even sweat? He doesn’t shower, doesn’t brush his teeth. Hell, he barely even removes the leather he wears. He’s not human and he doesn’t care about human concepts of hygiene.

Hannibal Lecter

Hannibal smells really, really good. He takes regular showers, wears deodorant, and brushes his teeth twice a day. He sometimes splurges on more expensive shampoos, soap, and cologne. He goes for colognes with woody scents. Sometimes there’s a small hint of vanilla thrown in. A majority of the time he smells really fresh. He doesn’t often smell like blood because he takes the cleanup process very seriously. Occasionally the smell of whatever he’s been cooking might linger on his clothes.

Will Graham

Will also smells good for the most part. He often smells like the outdoors and cheap cologne. He obviously has a big sweating problem so that can make him not smell as great. But he takes regular showers, especially when he’s been sweating a lot. He likes to smell good but he doesn’t give it much thought.

Bubba Sawyer

Bubba often smells like sweat, meat, and a heavy dose of decomposing bodies. Showers are infrequent but not nonexistent. When he does shower he smells fine but that smell can quickly disappear in the Texas heat, especially if the Sawyers are dealing with unwanted visitors. He doesn’t really notice the smell unless it’s pointed out and he’ll shower and change clothes if needed.

Thomas Hewitt

Much like Bubba, there’s often a smell of sweat, meat, and blood. In fact, those smells are stronger on Thomas compared to Bubba. He’s a rather musky guy. He doesn’t shower frequently. It’s a rare occurrence. But when you’re in the picture he might do a little better hygiene-wise, especially after a heavy dose of scolding from Luda Mae. And he’ll smell better (probably never great though).

Art the Clown

Oh, don’t get me started. Probably one of the worst-smelling slashers out of the bunch. Art smells like shit. Literally. And blood. And not just a little blood. The smell can be so strong sometimes that you swear you can taste iron on your tongue. Sometimes he’ll have faint scents of gunpowder and oil but those smells are often overpowered by others. Surprisingly though, Art isn’t that opposed to showers. He does the absolute bare minimum though, just standing in the water and rinsing off the remnants of his victims. He doesn’t mind getting all of that off of him but he’s not doing it to smell better. If anything, he likes the smell.

Michael Myers

He smells bad. Whether we’re talking about the OG or the RZ version, I can’t imagine this man smelling good when you first come across him. He smells like a corpse. It overpowers any other smell there could be on him. He doesn’t shower, he’ll wear the same coveralls for years if they last him that long. Hygiene is the last of his priorities and he’s not easily convinced at all to bathe or wash his clothes. Maybe (and that’s a very strong MAYBE) you could entice him to do something about the smell. It’ll definitely be a trade-off. He won’t give in easily.

Freddy Krueger

Freddy doesn’t smell great. He smells like ash and burnt skin. He almost smells like a campfire but with the added smell of blood and death. The smell is always there. It’s kind of permanent. And no, he won’t be showering. Don’t even suggest it because he’ll laugh in your face. It’s not that he’s against it, he just doesn’t want to nor does he feel the need to. The only way he’ll get in the shower is to have shower sex and that’s it.

Ash Williams

Ash smells good 90% of the time. He smells like pine shampoo, aftershave, and whatever cologne he wears. It’s not expensive but it smells nice. The other 10% of the time (when he’s hacking away at deadites), he smells like a mixture of gasoline, oil, blood, and whatever hellish smells come out of deadites. It’s not great and he’s aware of it. The last thing he wants is to be covered in brains but it’s just another day in his life. He honestly can’t wait to shower it all off.

Brahms Heelshire

Upon first meeting him, Brahms didn’t smell good. He smelled like a combination of sweat, dust, mothballs, and mildew. A direct result of constantly staying in the walls and lack of showering. If the smell bothers you though, Brahms is more willing to bathe than most slashers. He can be stubborn sometimes but he rarely puts up a fight.

Billy Lenz

Much like Brahms, Billy has a strong odor of dust, mothballs, and whatever other lingering smells are in an attic. Old boxed-up books, cardboard, mildew, the faintest smell of cologne (not sure if it’s his or it's just rubbed off from some clothes in the attic). The smells have stuck to his clothes and he doesn’t wash that sweater. He won’t put up a fight if the smell bothers you though. He’ll happily take a shower for you.

Mitch/The Ghost

Mitch smells fine…usually. He showers regularly, wears deodorant, etc. He usually smells of whatever soap is in the shower. The only time that he ever really smells bad is after long nights of running the Haunt in October. On those nights he’ll smell strongly of blood, corpses, and whatever acid they use to dispose of all the unlucky haunt visitors. Other than that, he smells fine the rest of the year.

The Driller Killer

The Driller Killer smells like cigarettes, leather, and blood. He smokes often. It’s not like he’s going to get sick from them (not 100% he can even die). Sometimes when you hug him, you swear you can smell the faint scent of a woody cologne. Or maybe it’s his hair gel. You’re not fully sure. But there’s definitely something there.

[transsexualcunt]

it's fine

[flowerwiththemachinegun]

Tseng. So hear me out right.

ok i’ve done this one before but i thought about it again and it made me laugh so here-

think of your fave’s greatest enemy.

*please say who and why

[dragonsoulage]

What are you looking at?

feat. Cloud Strife, Reno, Sephiroth, Zack Fair, Rufus Shinra

What are these gorgeous men looking at while they taking you over and over again? What part of you makes them blush or going feral when sinking into you?

Hello friendos, it was time to make something for Final Fantasy again 🤌🏻🤌🏻 after my Baji fic is done I thought this could it be 🤣💀 was playing Remake and was suddenly in the mood to ✨🌚 so here enjoy my little smūt when we talk about what they are looking at while they having fun with you 🌚🤌🏻

Wordcount: 2,6k

Warnings: smūt, missionary, pet names, doggystyle, s*x in front of a mirror, slight choking, tummy bulge, riding, spanking

Cloud Strife ~ So shy when he looks in your face…

Well, he is stoic yes, not too open about his feelings.

But when he fucks you, that boy is whipped trying to keep his mouth shut. Too embarrassed to let out too much noise.

Although it is quite sexy to listen to these deep shy grunts, when he is balls deep inside you.

Always making you shiver and pull him even closer.

Cloud is someone, he mostly fucks you from an angle where he can't see your face, simply because he loves your face.

Loves the way your lips parted for him just to moan his name.

The way that delicate blush on your cheeks spread, these eyes looking at him, adoring him.

He struggled not to just cum when you look at him.

Especially difficult it was when you grabbed his hand just to take his thumb in your mouth, making his thrusts stutter.

So when he fucks you he mostly likes to watch your cute expression when you are about to cum, when he holds your hips just to feed you with his thick inches over and over, to have these pretty orbs rolling back. Making himself groan, and his cock throb.

"Look at me, baby." you cooed in his ear, when you felt the blond nuzzled your neck, hard planes of muscles looming over you, two large, rough hands spreading your thighs open.

"N-no...you're just going to tease me." Cloud said firm, with a ragged breath while he bullies his cock right between your puffy folds.

So wet and warm, and so fucking velvety.

"Please, just one look, give me one look, pretty boy." you urged so sweetly, he was sure when he would not see your face he could get off on your voice alone.

Calling the 1 rank SOLDIER 'pretty boy', as if it would not make his dick any harder, making his balls draw up tight.

"No funny business, yeah?" Cloud repeated before finally getting up, still holding your thighs apart as you squirmed under him. With a smirk, wiggling your pussy down his shaft a little more, clenching around his base. Your pussy was always killing him.

"See, it's not that hard." you replied, and then he just gave you one mean thrust, mako blue eyes locking with yours, his gaze over all had roamed from your pretty pussy, stuffed full of him up your torso, your perfect tits, to your kiss bitten neck and then your gorgeous face. Your expression a little too cocky, but with that mean thrust there you had these big eyes again, jaw fell open, your expression just so full in need of him.

And hell, he was gone, he was so gone, groaning from only the fact how your eyes rolled back, the way he continued to pound into you.

One hand came up to tenderly cup your cheek, making your head that fell back in pure bliss, so he could just admire your pretty face.

"You are so....fuck, so pretty. Taking me so well." he praised you, he was just so in love with you and your expressions, making him nearly spill his load into you...

Reno ~ Mirror, mirror on the wall…

Reno is nasty, like when he could, he would have an eye on every part of you. Fucking you raw and that stamina, girl, you need to run away when you can't take it anymore.

Not that he would let you.

After all you are his 'sweet thing' adoring you in every position he folded you into.

Even when he is more of a tits guy, but when he could, damn he fucks you in front of the mirror.

Reno got confidence in buckets, he knows he is hot, he knows you think he is hot.

And for some reason he enjoys to not only make you watch yourself, how good you were taking his dick. But also how he fucked you, how his abs tensed when taking you from behind.

How the veins on his lower arm and on the hand popped up when grabbing your throat to make you look in the mirror.

And of course, how helplessly cute you looked when getting your cunt pounded like it would be the only goal in his life.   

"Nah, no looking away, babygirl." he snickered, always playful while being so deep inside you, you thought you would have been split open. Your cheeks already flush, his hands had grabbed your arms, hooking his hands underneath your elbows, to pull on you, just to bury a further inch inside your snug pussy.

Your pussy was pure heaven for him, dripping down his shaft, no one else could make you this wet, and he fucking knew it.

Always a shy girl, but so nice and wet when his dick was inside you. Moaning and crying, stating it would be too much, although it was just right.

"Re-reno, it's weird." you puffed out of your plump lips, when you looked at him through the mirror. Still, his pace restless and fast. Just slowing down now a little, to gave you something to breathe.

"Weird you say? So weird to watch that cute pussy getting parted for me? I love how we look like that, sweets." he stated, tilting his head, before letting one arm of you loose. You had such a nice deep arch for him.

"I mean, look at that... See how I enjoy fucking you?" he bends slightly forward just to lick a stripe up your neck to whisper it in your ear. Making his tip hit your cervix, what made you squeal, so cute, he swore you were so cute like this.

"Fuck...you're so...ahhh naughty." you tried to act up, a weak attempt on the fact how your walls grabbed his length.

"Oh, believe me, when I wouldn't be a turk, we would be porn stars, sugar." he joked, before grabbing you more firmly and steady to continue you to fuck you into oblivion in front of the mirror.

"Now give me a cute face, yeah, just like that. Look how good we look, how well you take me." he praised you with that damn sneer in his face, the damn grin and these turquoise eyes that now landed on you and him in the reflection. 

Sephiroth ~ Eyes on your pussy…

He is not really known to be so close with anyone. Expect you, one of the assistants from Hojo. Always so cute and your thoughtful expression. Alone, the care you took to ask him if he is fine, after a mission. Something he enjoyed, something that made him want to have you. And indeed he had you, all so possessive, all so rough.

Just enough time to have you on the desk in some office.

But what he adored to look at, green mako eyes fixed on that pink slit between your thighs.

Spreading your pussy lips apart, just to watch how deep he sunk into your welcoming heat.

He wasn't that good to look into your face, not that he wouldn't manage that at all. But it made his heart a weird movement, a weird feeling he didn't know how to put. So fixing on your wet cunt instead, seemed like a plan to him. Something he grew a little obsessed with.

Watching every little twitch your pussy made, how your clit throbbed when being neglected. How your hole clenched when he split you open.

Damn, it fascinated him, how he could stretch your pretty cunt out. And how it made your core flutter. Especially when you had this tummy bulge because he was so big, when he could watch how he rearranged your insides.

These low moans and grunts that came from his throat, not just because you felt absolutely divine, no because your pussy was like a pretty flower blooming for him.

A flower he wanted to squirt all over him, to gush out in pure ecstasy.   

"Look at that, so eager to take all of me, hm?" he teased with a calm voice, before his tip vanished inside you again, making your spine curve up.

"Please...faster." you whined nearly, but that plea fell on def ears, his eyes only watching your puffy folds. A hand of yours reaching down, wanting to rub your clit, to get that feeling of being high on pleasure. But before you could even touch your nub, his hand slapped yours away.

His handsome features shortly came to look in your eyes.

"Not without permission, little one. But I guess you lost that privilege now." he said to you, pushing his thick girthy cock further inside you.

The way your eyes rolled back, was something he may want to look more often, maybe when he had enough of watching that cute cunt try to milk him.

"But, Sephiroth... I just...hmm, just want-" you tried to say something with sense, although he literally fucked your brain out before.

"Sweet girl, got a greedy pussy. You just want, to cum, no other thought in that pretty head of yours." he taunted you nearly, making you blush, although he was right.

Wanting to cum so badly, you nearly could taste it on your cunt.

One hand from him moved down your belly, feeling how deep he was inside you, pressing down slightly, what made you cry out.

"Oh god..." was all you could let out, as he watched in awe how you clenched around him, how these juices spilled out of your cunt, making your legs shake. How he, the strongest SOLDIER, made you shake.

"Yeah, that's what I thought...pretty girl, with an even more pretty pussy." he murmured before finally picking up his pace.

Zack Fair ~ Shutting up when seeing tits…

Zack has a body that bangs you until the sun goes up and a face that wants to make you breakfast. But he couldn't help to have his girlfriend on top of him. Propped up on his thick cock. His mako eyes just loved to watch your tits bounce for him, how soft they were. How good your mounds looked when he gave them a little hickey sometimes because he sucked a little too eager.

Creamy skin, and pretty nipples, just so alluring to him. Always having them in his hands, always looking at them. Nearly as if he was cast with a spell, so in trance.

And the way you dragged your cunt up and down his pulsing cock, making him groan.

Eyes sometime fluttering shut, only to open again, afraid he might miss one of your cute bounces and the way your tits moved with it.

That puppy, gone, totally gone.

He was always a tits guy, no matter how yours looked, how big or small they were, he just loved them. Squished them, and he always had this endearing blush on his cheeks, when you caught him being totally transfixed to your chest.   

"God, yes. Riding me so good, you are such a...a natural in this, aren't you?" he babbled, he never could keep his mouth shut, not at all. The way your insides grabbing him, making him buck his hips up a little, just to bully his pink tip back inside you, against your sweet spot.

Then you took off your shirt and this was the moment, it made him shut up.

Just a groan and a moan slipping out of his lips.

Spiky hair messy when he reached one hand up to palm your tit.

"Suddenly so quiet." you joked while grinding against him, making his abs tense underneath you. Supporting your weight on top of his torso, sometimes fingers dancing over these muscles, you liked so much.

"Let a man adore his girlfriends, boobs. Can't help when....ah fuck...can't help when they are so perfect." he tried to listen, indeed he tried. Besides the fact that every blood was in his rock hard cock, now your unpacked, stunning tits on display for him. A thumb brushing over your nipple, before he gently tugged on it, making you gasp.

"Zack..." you moaned, your cunt dragging along his shaft in the most delicious way, the hips of you in a circle motion.

When you suddenly felt how his other palm came up grabbing you and pushing you forward, his hands on your ass. Making your upper body fall into him. As he decided to pound into you while his face being smashed with your tits.

"I love your tits, damn, so fucking perfect. Baby, I just could cum from looking at them." he confessed, hold back a whimper before his lips found the sensitive nipple from your right breast to suck in it. Making him groan even more, making his cock disappear even faster inside you.

Rufus Shinra ~ Got a thing for your backside…

Oh, every time you walk by, every time you turned around so he could see your pretty backside.

Rufus Shinras mouth went dry, that perfect curve of your ass, the way your hips swayed slightly when you walked.

The shape, alone the fact it looked so...just so good. Nearly made his serious composure fall.

After all, he was a busy man, a powerful man.

The president of Shinra companies was not only in love with you, but hell, did he is in love with your ass.

Having you bend over his desk whenever he could, not that he would have many opportunities in his leadership position. And every time he fucking loved to watch your soft skin yield under his touch, how your ass bounced back against him. How it looked when he grabbed a chunk of it.

Not to forget, he just couldn't help then to smack it while fucking his cock inside your tight pussy.

Alone, the fact you always arched your ass up for him, how it made your cunt clench when he smacked your ass.

The red hand print that was left there, before he would soothe it with a sweet caress.   

"Keep the arch, pretty. Need to be deep inside you, after that...urghh meeting." his voice strained, his blue orbs fixed on your flesh. The way your back was curved, how you knew he liked your butt that much, how you shamelessly wiggled it back onto him. Before moaning so pretty.

It was like a long needed break, every time he plunged his needy cock inside your heavenly cunt.

His hands grabbing your waist, just to watch the skin jiggled every time he thrusted inside you, feeling every vein that drags along his cock.

"Spank me, please." you urged him then, already could tell he wanted, just how his fingers before had danced over your skin, grabbing a good chunk of your ass. Holding back, not wanting to overwhelm his pretty lady so soon. Although, the way your ass bounced back against his pelvis, had something hypnotic and satisfying. Making him calmer, reducing his stress level. But when he could smack your ass, spank it, making you whimper and clench down on him. This had the Shinra president, going.

You heard a deep breath and a slight growl, just by how good he was fucking you. His palm caressing your sensitive skin, in a gentle motion.

"You play your cards just right, hm? Exactly knowing what I wanted, before I even bend you over." you heard him chuckle, and just as soon as you wanted to reply a sharp spank was heard, making your chest lay flat against the wooden desk. It had you cross-eyed, pussy drooling.

"Look at that, as if my hand print would be your personal branding, darling." he cooed before he leaked pre-cum right inside you, hitting that spongy part with such precise.

"Then brand me, baby." you moaned, wanting more of it.

"Good girl..." Rufus smirked before the next print of his hand landed on your other ass cheek.

[rafedarling]

can you do the puppy interview with drew starkey x actress reader plss

𝐩𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐰

pairing: drew starkey x actress!reader ft rustyn starkey

summary: you and drew, and your son rustyn participate in a puppy interview, creating heartwarming chaos on set.

warning(s): english is not my native language. none, fluff and family fun.

au: like, reblog and feedback are much appreciated. discussion can be send through my ask box, please feel free to send in anything. ⭐️ taglist | tagging: @rubixgsworld @rafeyslamb @bisexualcvnt @tracymbcm @maybankslover @anamiad00msday @stuffyownswrld @httpsdrewstarkey @mileyraes @enjoymyloves @akobx @noobmazter69 @victwrvale @xoxohoneymoongirl @xoxosblogsblog @wearemadeofstardust0 @saviorcomplexrry @percysley @littlelamy @winniemoe @emberaurora @watercolorskyy @kravitzwhore

“Hello, this is Y/N.”

You start with a smile at the camera.

“I’m Drew Starkey,”

Drew adds, a soft chuckle escaping his lips as a playful corgi tugs at his shoelace.

“And I’m Rustyn Starkey!”

Rustyn proudly chimes in, his little voice filling the room.

The way he says it, with a mixture of excitement and confidence, makes the crew chuckle.

“And we’re here for…”

“A puppy interview!” you and Drew announce together while Rustyn claps his hands, his energy infectious.

Rustyn immediately gets distracted by a wiggly golden retriever puppy climbing into his lap.

“Hi, puppy!” he says, giggling as the pup licks his cheek.

Drew picks up the first card, holding it in front of him dramatically.

“Alright, first question… Who is the biggest dog lover? Drew or Y/N?”

He pauses for a second before answering with a grin.

“I’ll say both because we all love puppies!”

You nod, laughing as a dachshund pup curls up by your side.

“Okay, fair answer. But Rustyn might be the biggest dog lover here.”

Rustyn looks up from petting his puppy.

“I love them sooooo much!” he declares, making everyone on set melt.

The next card is passed to you, and you read aloud,

“What would you name this puppy if you could take it home?”

You hold up a fluffy Bernese mountain dog sitting near Rustyn.

“This one feels like a Charlie to me, big and sweet.”

Rustyn thinks for a moment before pointing to the golden retriever still snuggled in his lap.

“I’d name mine Buddy, ‘cause he’s my buddy now!”

Drew laughs, ruffling Rustyn’s hair.

“Buddy’s a solid name. I’d name this little guy Rufus,” he says, gesturing to a dachshund sniffing around his lap.

“He looks like he’s up to something.”

“Dada, can we take them all home?” Rustyn asks, his big eyes looking up at Drew.

You and Drew exchange a knowing glance, both trying not to laugh.

“We’ll see, buddy,” Drew says, grinning.

“But let’s finish the interview first, okay?”

The next question is read by Drew.

“Who’s more likely to sneak the puppy treats?”

“Dada,” Rustyn answers immediately, giggling.

Drew raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Okay, okay, guilty. But you’d sneak them, too, wouldn’t you, Rusty?”

Rustyn looks thoughtful for a moment before nodding.

“Yeah, but only if the puppies are really good.”

“That’s my boy,” Drew says, laughing as a corgi puppy climbs onto his lap.

The crew brings out more puppies, creating a delightful chaos as they run around the set. One pup grabs a squeaky toy, making Rustyn laugh so hard he falls back onto the couch.

“Alright, next question!” you say, trying to regain focus.

“Who’s more likely to cry if the puppy gets hurt or sick?”

You, Drew, and Rustyn all point at each other simultaneously, which sends everyone into fits of laughter.

“No way, it’s Dada,” Rustyn insists, his tiny finger pointing directly at Drew.

“You cried when we saw the movie about the dog!”

Drew laughs, trying to defend himself.

“It was an emotional movie! And don’t act like you didn’t cry too, bud.”

Rustyn shrugs, giggling. “Maybe a little.”

You laugh, shaking your head.

“Let’s just agree that we’d all be emotional wrecks if anything happened to these little guys.”

The final question comes up, and you hand the card to Drew. He reads it aloud.

“What’s one quality in each other that would make you amazing dog parents?”

Drew pauses, his expression softening as he looks at you.

“You’re so patient and loving. You make everything, whether it’s taking care of Rustyn, the dogs, or me, feel effortless. And I know you’d raise the most well-behaved dogs in the world… somehow.”

You feel your heart swell but quickly focus on him.

“And you’re the most hands-on dad and partner I’ve ever seen. You’d be out there training the dogs, playing with them, and making sure they’re spoiled with love. They’d be the happiest pups ever.”

Rustyn looks between the two of you.

“And I’d give them hugs and kisses every day!”

“We know you would,” you say, pulling him close for a quick kiss on the head.

As the interview wraps up, Rustyn is lying on the floor with three puppies cuddling around him, his giggles filling the set. You and Drew watch, smiling at each other.

“Mommy, Dada can we take Buddy home, please?” Rustyn pleads, his eyes shining with hope.

Drew looks at you, raising an eyebrow.

“What do you think, Mama?”

You laugh, knowing the answer was already decided the moment Rustyn named the puppy.

“Alright, Buddy can come home with us.”

Rustyn cheers, throwing his arms around the golden retriever.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Drew leans over to kiss your cheek, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

“You’re the best.”

As the scene fades, Rustyn’s voice rings out

“This is the best day ever!”

[supernotnatural2005]

The Hiatus Beard

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Dean grows a beard during your much needed R&R, and it does things to you.

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: SMUT!(18+ONLY), swearing, Dean's beard 😍

AN: I thought I'd release a little something before the first part of my series: The Arrangement, this Friday. Scruffy Dean/Jensen is just 🤌🏻 and does things to me. So enjoy this little one shot that got away from me 🫣

Masterlist

For as long as you’d known Dean, he’d always been a minimalist.

Whether that was with his cut-and-dry humour, his “kill first, ask questions later” attitude on a case, or his appearance. The way he dressed—a simple jeans and t-shirt combo with a flannel thrown over. And then there was his hair, short, neat, a quick run-through with some gel, and he was done.

And it had always been the same with his face. Clean-shaven, jaw sharp, lips unobscured. He had a routine. No scruff, no fuzz, just Dean as he always had been. Until now.

The moment the world stopped burning for a minute, when the fight against Michael had finally ended, Dean had agreed to take a break.

A real break.

You and him up at Rufus’s cabin, away from the bunker, away from the weight of saving everyone. Sam had all but shoved you both out the door, telling Dean to let himself breathe for once.

And maybe that was what made it happen. Because, for the first time in forever, Dean let go. He let himself sleep in. He let himself do nothing. He even let himself grow a beard.

It had started as stubble, nothing unusual, just a sign of taking a day off from shaving. But then a day turned into a week, and the neat, smooth skin you’d grown used to gave way to something rougher, wilder. A thick layer of golden-brown scruff covered his jaw, making him look different.

It shouldn’t have been that big of a deal. It was just facial hair. And yet…

You couldn’t stop staring at him.

Dean with a beard did something to you, something primal, something that made heat coil low in your stomach every time you looked at him.

Maybe it was the contrast, the way it softened him but somehow made him look rougher all at once. Maybe it was how it made him look even more like the hunter he was, like the kind of man who could haul you over his shoulder and take what he wanted. Maybe it was because it was just so damn new.

And then there was the way he felt when he kissed you. The scratch of his beard against your lips, the roughness dragging along your skin in a way that made your breath stutter. Every kiss was different now, leaving a burn that lingered, that reminded you hours later that he’d been there. That he’d touched you. And it only made your mind wander further—how would it feel against your throat? Down your stomach? Between your legs?

The thought had haunted you for days, simmering under your skin, making it harder and harder to focus on anything else.

Whatever it was, it had you in a chokehold.

It didn’t help that Dean seemed utterly oblivious to it. He wasn’t doing it to be sexy. If anything, it was the opposite. The man had taken to walking around the cabin in old sweats and a stretched-out Led Zeppelin t-shirt, scratching at his beard like he was still getting used to it, completely unaware of what it was doing to you.

Until he noticed.

It was one night after dinner, sitting by the fire, both of you with beers in hand. Dean leaned back, stretching, and his eyes caught yours. You must have been staring—again—because his lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

“Alright, what gives?” His voice was low, rougher with the rasp of relaxation. “You’ve been looking at me weird for days.”

You blinked, feeling heat crawl up your neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Dean chuckled, setting his beer down. “Oh, sweetheart, you definitely do.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, the sound of fingers over scruff making your stomach tighten. “It’s the beard, isn’t it?”

You swallowed. “Maybe.”

Dean’s smirk deepened. He shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he levelled you with a gaze that made your breath hitch. “You like it?”

You could have played coy. Could have brushed it off, made a joke. But screw it. You were tired of pretending.

“Yeah,” you admitted, voice quieter than you meant it to be. “I do.”

Dean’s eyes darkened just a bit, his smirk flickering into something else. Something hotter. “That so?”

You nodded, fingers tightening around your beer bottle. “Yeah.”

Dean didn’t say anything for a second, just let the weight of the moment settle. Then, slowly, he leaned in, eyes locked onto yours.

“What have you been thinking about?”

Dean’s voice was a low murmur, rough and coaxing, but there was something dangerous curled beneath it—something that sent a shiver racing down your spine. His gaze was locked onto you, sharp and unrelenting, like he was already inside your head, already picking apart every filthy thought you’d had about him.

Your breath hitched. You could lie. You could change the subject. But what was the point? He’d see through it. He always did.

Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, pulse hammering like a war drum in your chest. “I’ve been wondering how it would feel.”

Dean’s brows lifted slightly, intrigue flickering through the storm in his eyes. “Where?”

Your stomach clenched, heat pooling low, so heavy it made your thighs press together involuntarily. “Between my legs.”

Everything in the room shifted—thickened. The air became stifling, charged, the space between you crackling with something untamed.

For a beat, he didn’t move. He just stared, breathing slow and deep, jaw clenched tight like he was barely restraining himself. And then—

He snapped.

In an instant, Dean was on you.

His mouth crashed against yours, rough and claiming, his beard scraping deliciously against your soft skin. His kiss was brutal, messy, all tongue and teeth, like he couldn’t get enough, like he needed to taste you, to consume you.

His hands gripped at you, dragging you against him, pressing your body into the hard lines of his own. You could feel him—all of him—thick and aching beneath his jeans, grinding against the heat of your core.

A whimper spilled from your lips, and that sound—it did something to him. A guttural groan tore from his chest as he wrenched his mouth from yours, only to drag it along your jaw, your neck, his teeth scraping, his scruff burning against your skin in a way that made you tremble.

“You wanna feel it, sweetheart?” His voice was a rasp, breath hot against your throat as he nipped at your pulse, making you gasp. “Then let me give you exactly what you’ve been thinking about.”

Before you could respond, he was hauling you up into his arms like you weighed nothing, moving with purpose, raw determination burning in his gaze as he carried you to the bedroom.

Dean didn’t waste time. He laid you out on the bed, broad shoulders squared, chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths as his eyes dragged over you—hungry, dark, wild.

And then, with agonising patience, he began undressing you. Deliberately.

He peeled away your top first, taking his time, letting his fingers linger on newly exposed skin before his mouth followed. Every inch of you was tasted, kissed, sucked—his beard scraping, the contrast of soft lips and rough scruff making your body writhe beneath him. He worked his way down, his mouth hot and open over your ribs, your stomach, the curve of your hips.

By the time he reached your jeans, you were a trembling mess, already lightheaded from the way he touched you, the way he took his time like he was savouring you.

But when he finally stripped you bare, something in him snapped again.

His hands slid up your legs, fingers pressing into your skin with a bruising grip, parting you for him. His breath hitched as he took you in, eyes darkening to something animalistic, something primal.

“Jesus.” His voice was low, almost reverent, but there was nothing holy in the way he looked at you.

Then he was moving, surging forward, his mouth hot and wet as he kissed up your legs—starting at your ankle, his beard scraping along your sensitive skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs digging in as he worked his way higher, pressing kisses, nipping at soft flesh, until—

He reached where you needed him most.

The first swipe of his tongue was slow, deliberate—a tease—but the effect was devastating. Your back arched, a breathless moan escaping you, and that sound shattered what little control he had left.

Dean growled, deep and low, the vibration sending a shockwave of pleasure through you. Then he dived in.

There was nothing gentle about it. He devoured you.

His tongue was relentless, flicking, curling, pressing deep as his scruff burned against the delicate skin of your thighs. The rough drag of his beard was intoxicating, every pass sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He gripped your hips hard, holding you in place, refusing to let you squirm away from the onslaught of sensation.

When your thighs clenched around his head, he groaned, the sound filthy, desperate. “Fuck, baby—give me that.” His voice was a growl, muffled against your slick heat, and then he buried himself deeper, sucking your clit into his mouth, his beard scraping in the best, most deliciously punishing way.

You shattered.

Your orgasm crashed through you, white-hot and endless, and he didn’t stop—not when you cried out, not when your fingers yanked at his hair, not when your body shook from overstimulation. He just held you tighter, kept licking, sucking, fucking you with his tongue, dragging it out until you were wrecked beneath him.

Only when you were trembling, spent, did he finally pull back, his lips glistening, his breath ragged as he gazed down at you—his work of art.

And you knew, with just that look, he was nowhere near to being done with you.

AN: I hope you guys enjoyed this one.❤️ And I can't be the only one, who's thought about this, am I right? 👀😂

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester Tag List: @bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @tbgfvfdcb @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @stoneyggirl2 @deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom

[transgoodman]

9am re-animator posting but something that (mildly) bugs me is the lack of silly herbert in fics. don’t get me wrong, i eat up the danbert fics on ao3 like a starving dog but so many people leave out his goofiness. like yes, he’s stoic and a little murderous and off-putting and seemingly emotionless—BUT! he is also silly. think of all his goofiness!!! “malpractice!”, “deluded little daddy >:)”, “he’s a wife-beater dan, use the gun!”, “get a job in a sideshow :/“ or what about when he intentionally spooks dan in the basement after rufus is killed and laughs about it? when he looks at meg and just weirdly goes “i scared you 🙂” he’s a freak!!!!! please write him more #weird!!! keep him insane and stoic and freakish but also give him his herbert west trademarked charm!

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

malevolence

part II

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Bobby's!Niece!Reader

Summary: After finding out Dean is possessed by a demon, Bobby has sent you away to one of his cabins. One you didn't even know existed. One that's supposed to be safe.

Warnings: 18+!, language, violence, manipulation, gaslighting, corruption, pining, smut (kissing, spitting, marking, fingering, oral/cunnilingus, p in v, implied breeding kink, rough sex, dirty talk, mildly dubious consent, cum-play), I may have missed some.

Word Count: 4,886

A/N: Ahhhhh. Need him in a way that's dangerous to my insides. God, I'm so gross. Anyways, I hope y'all like this as much as I liked imagining it ahaha. <3 Again... these gifs. Ugh. The is part two, so... part three will probably be up later (depending on how high my motivation levels stay) but failing that, definitely tomorrow. I'm gonna state now, for the record, that I have literally been typing so fast today (my best is 90wpm, but it's been like 97wpm today... don't know why, and I am not complaining) so I imagine I'm probably gonna post a few more things today/tonight. All the love.

You didn’t talk much on the drive.

Rufus had filled the silence just fine on his own—grumbling about Bobby, cursing the road, complaining about how “the old bastard always pulled shit like this,” like building a secret cabin deep in the woods was a personal betrayal. You’d nodded a few times, given the occasional hum, but your thoughts were somewhere else entirely.

Still back at the house. Still pressed to the counter. Still trembling under hands that hadn’t belonged to Dean, even if they’d felt like him.

That was the part that made you sick.

That it hadn’t felt wrong. Not then. Not until later. Not until the holy water. The hiss. The look in Bobby’s eyes when he said the words out loud.

That thing ain’t Dean.

You’d clutched your bottle of water tighter and nodded along as Rufus cursed at the trees.

This cabin wasn’t like the others. You’d been to all of Bobby’s usual places over the years—run-down hunter shacks tucked off forgotten dirt roads, where the walls smelled like smoke and the furniture creaked if you breathed wrong.

But this place… this place felt like it didn’t want to be found.

The drive to it had been nothing more than an overgrown trail, barely wide enough for the truck, weaving through the trees like it had no destination. It hadn’t even looked like a road. Just forest and shadows and the steady hum of wheels over roots.

And then, without warning, the woods had opened their mouth and spit it out.

The cabin was small, sun-bleached, older than it looked. Tucked into the edge of a lake like it had been forgotten there, hidden away from the rest of the world. The water stretched out endlessly behind it, framed by trees so dense they swallowed the horizon. The kind of place that didn’t exist on maps. That didn’t want to be remembered.

Rufus had carried the groceries inside. He hadn’t asked if you were okay.

He hadn’t needed to.

He left with a muttered warning—“Don’t open the door unless it’s me or Bobby”—and then he was gone.

Now it was just you.

You sat on the old couch, knees pulled to your chest, Bobby’s shirt still wrapped around your shoulders. It didn’t feel as safe as it used to. It smelled like the kitchen. Like last night.

Like him.

The silence was thick. Heavier than you expected. There were no hums of traffic. No creak of floorboards overhead. Just the faint groan of the old wood settling and the occasional hush of wind through the trees.

You hadn’t even known this place existed. Bobby had never brought you here. Not once. And that meant something. That meant he was scared.

You reached for your phone, screen glowing too bright in the dim cabin light. One bar. Maybe two.

It’d have to be enough. You hit call and held it to your ear. The dial tone echoed through the room like it didn’t belong there. Like nothing here did. Like you didn’t.

You didn’t know what you were going to say. Only that you needed to hear his voice. Only that you needed someone to tell you it was going to be okay—even if it wasn’t.

The first ring had barely finished before he answered.

“You okay?”

No hello. No soft landing. Just Bobby’s voice, all gravel and bark, tight around the edges like he hadn’t unclenched his jaw since you left.

You swallowed. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I’m okay.”

From the other end of the line, you could hear another voice. Faint, indistinct, but familiar. That rhythm, that tone. You knew it.

“Rufus got me here fine,” you added, curling further into yourself on the couch. “Helped me carry the groceries in. Told me not to answer the door unless it’s him or you.”

Bobby didn’t answer right away. You heard the soft creak of wood, the shift of weight. He was moving—probably pacing, probably pinching the bridge of his nose, probably working through ten things he didn’t know how to say.

You hesitated. “Is that Sam I hear?”

“Yeah,” Bobby muttered, like he didn’t love confirming it. “Boy showed up a few hours ago. We’re tryin’ to figure out what the hell’s goin’ on with Dean.”

You pressed your thumb to the seam of the flannel wrapped around your shoulders and stayed quiet.

In the background, Sam’s voice floated through the phone, clearer this time. “Can I talk to her?”

A beat. Some rustling. Then Bobby’s voice again, closer.

“You up for that?”

You nodded before realising he couldn’t see it. “Yeah. It’s okay.”

There was the muffled scrape of the phone changing hands, and then Sam’s voice—softer, lower, with that same cautious care he’d always had when you were younger and crying in the backseat of Bobby’s car after a nightmare.

“Hey.”

Your chest ached. You hadn’t realised how much you needed to hear that voice.

“Hey,” you whispered back.

“What happened?” He asked gently. “With Dean.”

Your breath hitched. For a second, you almost didn’t answer.

“He… he was flirting with me. Like, really flirting. Touching me like he thought he had some kind of claim.” You paused. “It wasn’t like him. Not really.”

You didn’t say more. You didn’t have to.

Sam let out a long, rough sigh. You could almost picture him rubbing a hand down his face.

“Dammit. He—he made a deal,” he said. “After Dad died. I didn’t know at the time. He didn’t tell me. I guess we’re still trying to figure out the details, but… yeah. It tracks.”

You closed your eyes. Let your head tip back against the couch cushion. Something settled cold in your chest. More shuffling, more rustling, and then Bobby’s voice returned, cutting through the static like a knife.

“Alright, listen to me. You stay put, you hear? You don’t go outside. You don’t open that door unless it’s me or Rufus. I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

You let the silence stretch a little too long.

“Why didn’t I know about this place?” You asked. “This cabin. I’ve been to all the others. Why keep this one secret?”

You could hear the scoff in his throat before he said it.

“You don’t need to know all my damn business, girl. But this?” He paused. “This is exactly why I got places like that. Tucked away, quiet. In case the world decides to go sideways.”

It already had.

Bobby exhaled into the receiver, and something about the sound made your throat go tight.

“Be safe,” he said, and it landed more like a plea than a command.

“I love you,” you said, barely above a breath.

There was a pause. Then:

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “You too, kid.”

The line clicked dead. And just like that, you were alone again. The silence swelled. The wind moved through the trees like a warning. The lake held its breath. And you sat in the quiet, trying to remember which part of you had wanted him to kiss you back.

You must’ve dozed off somewhere around the second shootout.

The Western on Bobby’s old VHS copy had long since fuzzed into that flickering loop of gunfire and tumbleweeds, the dialogue dipping in and out like the tape was gasping for breath. The couch underneath you was stiff and uneven, the cushions worn thin from age, but you hadn’t meant to fall asleep there. You’d meant to just… rest your eyes.

The creak that woke you was sharp and sudden.

You blinked, sitting up fast, breath catching as you looked around the dim room. The air was cooler now, the lake wind whistling faint through the old cabin walls. The only light came from the television—flickers of orange and white against the far wall as some nameless cowboy fired off another round into the dust.

You exhaled slowly.

It was just the wind. Just the old wood groaning under its own weight.

You stretched, arms lifting above your head as you yawned. Your body ached. Your mouth was dry. You rubbed your eyes with the heel of your hand and glanced toward the dark hallway leading to the bedroom.

Time to sleep somewhere that didn’t smell like mildew and motor oil.

You pushed yourself up from the couch. And then—

Knock knock knock.

You froze. Your heart lurched in your chest, sharp and immediate.

What the hell—

Your head turned toward the front door, still half-shrouded in shadow, the porch light outside long dead. The knock hadn’t been frantic. It hadn’t been loud. It had been gentle.

You took a step back without meaning to, bare heel brushing the edge of the rug. Bobby hadn’t called. Rufus hadn’t either. No one should be here.

Knock knock.

Again. Softer. Closer. And then—

“Sweetheart.”

Your stomach dropped.

The voice was low. Familiar. Soothing in the way only his ever had been. That gentle hush he used when you were little and bleeding from a scraped knee, shaking too hard to hold still while he cleaned the cut. The same tone he’d used when he’d called you over to sit on the hood of the Impala while the sun set, a bottle of Coke in one hand, his flannel hanging open.

Like that voice still lived in your bones.

“C’mon, open up,” he said. “S’just me.”

Your breath caught.

You took a step forward. Tiny. Barely there. The kind of step you could pretend hadn’t happened if someone asked.

His voice came through the door like a ghost.

“I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you.”

Another step. Your fingers curled at your sides.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, baby. You know that, right? I just… I needed to see you. Needed to talk.”

The TV flickered behind you—gunfire, dust, a man dying in the dirt. You barely noticed it.

Dean’s voice was all you could hear.

“You left so fast. Thought maybe you were scared of me or somethin’.” A pause. A low, breathy sound that might’ve been a laugh. “Ain’t nothing to be scared of. You know me.”

You shook your head—but it was slow, weak, like your body didn’t fully believe it.

You did know him. You knew the curve of that voice. The rhythm of those words. But something behind them was wrong. You took another step anyway.

“Open the door for me, sweetheart,” he murmured, soft as sin. “Let me see you.”

You were at the edge of the rug now. One more step and you’d be on the old wood floor. Another after that and your fingers would be at the lock. Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs. You knew it wasn’t him. You knew. But God, he sounded so much like home.

“C’mon, sweetheart… please.”

It wasn’t the word that undid you—it was how he said it.

Like he meant it. Like he was standing on the other side of that old wood with his shoulders slumped and his head low, like the world had been too cruel to him and you were the only thing that ever made it better. Like he was yours.

Your throat worked around a breath.

“Dean?”

It slipped out before you could stop it. A whisper. A prayer. And then—God—you heard it.

That smirk. Not loud. Not sharp. Just a bend in the syllables, a smile shaping the air between you. Like he knew you’d say it. Like he’d been waiting for it.

“Yeah,” he said, low and warm. “It’s me, sweetheart.”

Your hand lifted slightly. Your fingers brushed the edge of the doorknob.

“I need to see you. I’ve been lookin’ everywhere. You just… vanished.” His voice dropped, like it hurt to say it. “Thought I lost you.”

Your breath hitched. You stared at the door like it might open on its own.

“I... I can’t,” you said. It came out soft, shaking. “Bobby said not to let anyone in.”

“He was wrong,” Dean said immediately. “That wasn’t me, not really. The demon—it’s gone. It left.”

You froze.

“That’s not possible,” you whispered. “They don’t just leave. Not unless—”

“I’m hurt,” he said quickly. “Real bad. Demon can’t stay in a busted vessel. You know that. C’mon, sweetheart, think.”

Your mind was spinning. The words made sense, sort of—but they didn’t feel right. Still, he sounded like Dean. He sounded like the man who used to carry you on his shoulders, who used to patch up your scrapes and call you kid and ruffle your hair and smirk like nothing could ever touch him.

“I don’t—” You swallowed. “I don’t know if I can believe you.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.” His voice dropped into something soft, velvet-slick and breaking. “You know me. You know me. I’ve known you since you were a little thing, running around Bobby’s yard with dirt on your cheeks and that oversized t-shirt draggin’ past your knees. You think I don’t remember that?”

Your breath caught. Your feet inched forward.

“You always climbed into my lap when you got scared during storms. You’d knock on my door at two in the morning just ‘cause you couldn’t sleep. Used to tuck your cold feet under me on the couch like I was your personal furnace.” He let out a small, breathy chuckle. “Used to drive me crazy.”

Your fingers curled around the lock.

“I never stopped thinkin’ about you, y’know that?” His voice was quieter now. Closer. Like his mouth was just against the wood. “When I was on the road. When things got hard. I kept seeing your face.”

You pressed your forehead to the door. Eyes closed.

“Please, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Open the door. Just let me see you.”

Your hand tightened on the lock.

“I missed you.”

The words landed like a punch to the ribs.

“I miss you,” he repeated, gentler now. Like confession. Like sin wrapped in satin.

Your thumb hovered over the latch. The lock clicked open with a sound that felt too loud in the silence. Your hand fell away like it didn’t belong to you anymore, your body moving without permission, chest tight and limbs heavy as the door creaked open to reveal him.

Dean.

Leaning against the doorframe, bruised and dusted with blood, eyes catching the moonlight in that soft, impossibly familiar way. Hair mussed. Jeans low on his hips. Flannel half-unbuttoned and clinging to a sweat-slick chest.

He looked like he’d crawled out of a nightmare just to find you.

And he smiled.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. And then—he was on you. Strong hands grabbed the backs of your thighs, palms squeezing hard enough to bruise as he lifted you like you weighed nothing, slammed the door shut with his boot, and pressed you back against it—hard.

Your breath punched out of you on impact.

He shoved his hips forward, grinding into you through his jeans, his chest flush against yours, mouth dragging along your throat before you could even make a sound.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he rasped against your skin, voice pure velvet and filth. “I knew you’d let me in. You've always been a good girl.”

His tongue licked up your neck, slow and hungry, like he could taste the guilt trembling beneath your skin.

“That’s it,” he whispered, hips grinding harder as you whimpered. “You missed me, didn’t you? All alone up here, touchin’ yourself thinking about me.”

You shuddered.

“You… you lied to me,” you breathed, fingers curling into his shirt like you couldn’t decide whether to pull him closer or shove him away.

He groaned low in your ear, like the accusation turned him on.

“Yeah,” he said, no apology in it. Just smug, satisfied heat. “Sure did.”

His mouth was on your throat again, teeth grazing, lips dragging open-mouthed kisses down the column of your neck as his fingers dug harder into your thighs.

“But you opened that door anyway,” he murmured. “Didn’t you?”

You gasped.

“You’re not—” Your voice broke. “You’re not Dean.”

He pulled back. Just an inch. Just far enough to look at you.

The expression on his face made your blood run cold—mock-hurt, mock-surprised, like he was wounded that you’d even suggest it. His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing, lips curling into that crooked, devastating smirk.

“Ouch, baby.” He said, soft as sin.

You stared at him, searching his face for the man you used to know—the man who used to call you kid and ruffle your hair and carry you on his shoulders.

But the man in front of you? He looked the same. He felt the same.

And still, he wasn’t.

He leaned in again, lips brushing yours.

“You think I'd let a demon wear me like a goddamn suit, sweetheart?” His voice dipped darker. “I made a deal.”

His grip on your thighs tightened, grinding his cock up into the heat of you through thin cotton as you gasped.

“I’m still me,” he whispered against your lips, breath warm and full of smoke. “Just... better.”

“Why the hell would you do that?” You whispered, breath catching in your throat as his hands gripped tighter, his hips still rolling slow and devastating between your thighs.

His mouth brushed your jaw, breath warm as sin.

“Why I did it doesn’t matter,” he said, like the answer wasn’t worth your time. “All you need to know is I don’t have that pesky guilt in the way anymore. Nothin’ holding me back.”

He thrust forward just right—hard enough to grind against that perfect spot between your legs, and a sharp little whine slipped out of you before you could stop it. God, you hated that sound. Because it was real. It was need. You hated yourself for it.

“You’re a goddamn fool,” you spat, but your voice was thin. Weak. Your body wasn’t moving away—it was pressing in, arching, wanting.

He laughed—low and delighted, like the sound had been waiting in his throat since you opened the door.

“Yeah?” He murmured, lips brushing your cheek as he nipped at your skin, gentle but stinging. “Well, maybe I’m a fool for you.”

His fingers dragged up the back of your thighs, under the flannel and over the hem of Bobby’s old shirt, bunching it at your hips.

“You think I didn’t see this coming?” He whispered, breath thick and warm in your ear. “You think I didn’t know what I was doing? Leavin’ little touches here and there, letting you catch me looking?” His hand slid between your legs, cupping you through your panties, palm heavy and hot. “You were always gonna be mine. All I had to do was wait.”

You gasped, hands curling into his shirt, your knees trembling where they locked around his hips. You wanted to push him away. You wanted to scream. But instead, your head tipped back as he ground into you again, your breath hitching on a moan.

“You wanted this too,” he rasped. “Didn’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because your body already had.

“You know what the best part is?” He breathed, rocking his hips into you slow, dragging against the soaked cotton between your legs. “You don’t even know how fucked you are.”

You shivered.

“Bobby tried to keep you out of all this,” he said, tone thick with mock-affection. “Kept you tucked away in his little salvage yard like some precious thing. Thought he could keep the world off you. Thought he could keep me off you.”

His hand slipped beneath your panties. Two fingers dragging through your slick like he already knew what he’d find.

“Guess he was wrong.”

You whimpered. He groaned, forehead dropping to yours, mouth open against your lips.

“You’re soaked for me,” he whispered, his voice wrecked and reverent. “Fuck. You were made for this.”

His forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing close, breath warm and uneven as his fingers dragged slow and steady between your thighs, slick and unholy. Your pulse fluttered in your throat, shallow and fast, like something caged.

“Tell me,” he whispered, the words grazing your mouth. “You wanna finish what we started last night in the kitchen?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

You should say no. You know you should. Bobby’s voice still echoed in your head. All his warnings. All his rules. But all you could do was stare into Dean’s eyes—those wild, dark eyes burning with something you couldn’t name. Something ancient and wrecked and his. And he was looking back at you like you were already his prize. Like he’d already won.

He slid his fingers deeper—still teasing, still slow. Your hips jumped against his hand.

He chuckled against your lips. “You always were too fuckin’ cute for your own good.”

You whimpered. God. You hated yourself for it.

His mouth curled, cruel and soft at once.

“I’m only gonna ask one more time,” he murmured, voice low and sweet and merciless. “And then I decide for you.”

You swallowed hard. Tried to form a word. Tried to say no, even if you didn’t mean it. But all that came out was a soft, desperate sound—broken and breathless.

Dean smiled like a wolf.

“Good enough,” he whispered, and then he bit your bottom lip—hard enough to sting, soft enough to make you moan—and slid his fingers deep, curling them just right.

Your head slammed back against the door with a gasp.

“Oh, that’s it, baby,” he murmured, mouth dragging along your jaw. “That’s my girl. Fuck, you’re tight. You were made for me.”

You whimpered again, breath hitching, thighs twitching around his wrist.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Comin’ apart already. You like this, huh? Like being pinned up like some sweet little trophy, legs spread, crying on my fingers while you pretend it ain’t what you wanted.”

You shook your head weakly, but it was already too late. Your hips were rocking down into his hand, chasing every thrust, every curl, every filthy word like they were gospel.

“You’re doin’ so good,” he crooned. “Taking me so good, sweetheart. Fucking perfect.”

Your body was shaking, breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The pleasure was white-hot, crawling up your spine like fire. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in, eyes wide with helpless need.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Let go. Wanna feel you fall apart for me. C’mon, sweetheart. Gimme everything.”

And then you did.

You came with a choked cry, body spasming against the door, thighs clamping down around his wrist as he fucked you through it—low groans and breathy praise spilling hot against your throat.

“Just like that. Fuck, that’s it. That’s my good girl. So fuckin’ pretty when you come.”

You were still panting, still reeling, when he eased his fingers free and caught you as your knees buckled.

He sank to the floor with you—dragged you with him—and pulled you into his lap, your legs straddling his hips, the old flannel riding up high on your thighs.

His hands smoothed up your sides, slow and greedy, like he needed to memorise the shape of you. And then he pulled you down, mouth crashing into yours. Hot. Hungry. Possessive. You kissed him back like it might save you.

And maybe it already ruined you.

You kissed him like you were drowning. Hands gripping his shirt, thighs locked around his waist, breath hot and shaking as you let him drag you down against his lap like it meant something. Like this was still the boy who used to drive you to the gas station for slushies and let you win at poker even when you cheated. Like this was still Dean.

But then the heat started to fade. Then the weight of what you were doing settled sharp in your chest. You pulled back. Just an inch. Just enough to breathe.

“I can’t,” you whispered, voice raw. “Dean, I—I shouldn’t…”

His eyes snapped open, green and molten, his hands still gripping your hips. And then he smiled. Soft. Sweet. Deadly.

“Shhh,” he whispered, smoothing a hand up your back. “You don’t have to do anything, sweetheart. Just let me take care of you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

You froze.

He leaned in, mouth brushing your cheek.

“You know that, don’t you? I’ve always wanted to protect you. Always wanted to keep you safe.”

His hand slid between your legs, fingers curling around the edge of your panties, pulling them aside so slowly it felt like sin.

“You don’t need anyone else,” he murmured. “Just me. Only me.”

Your breath hitched.

His cock was hard against your thigh, already freed from his jeans, thick and heavy and hot where it pressed against you. You should’ve moved. Should’ve run. But his hands were on your hips again, guiding you, lining you up like he’d done it a hundred times in his head.

And maybe he had.

“I only need you,” he whispered, like a prayer. “Been needin’ you for years.”

You whimpered—low and helpless—as he dragged your hips down, just enough to let the head of his cock catch at your entrance, slick and throbbing.

“Dean—” Your voice cracked.

“I know,” he said, eyes on yours. “You’re scared. But you don’t have to be. You’re safe with me.”

And then he pressed up into you.

You gasped—choked—as he sank in slow and steady, stretching you wide, pulling you open inch by inch while his hands gripped your thighs, holding you there like you were something holy.

“F-fuck,” he groaned, head tipping back. “You feel… fuck, you feel like heaven.”

His eyes flickered. Just for a second. Black. Sharp and bottomless. And then green again—bright, burning, feral.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, hips thrusting up hard, dragging a broken sound from your lips. “You were made for this.”

You shook your head weakly, but your hips rocked into his anyway, body moving on instinct.

He grinned—mean and hungry.

“Yeah. That’s it. That’s my girl.”

His grip on your thighs tightened, pulling you down harder as he fucked up into you, thick and deep and filthy, his voice a constant hum against your skin.

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said, panting, his brow furrowed in that same reverent way he used to look at you when you curled up next to him during old Westerns. “You’re mine now.”

You whimpered, hands clinging to his shoulders like they were the only thing holding you together.

“Might as well stop fighting it, sweetheart,” he growled, thrusts getting rougher, sloppier, meaner. “You don’t wanna fight it. You never did.”

He was right. God help you—he was right.

You didn’t even have time to scream. One second you were in his lap, his cock still buried deep, your body trembling from the stretch of him—

And the next? You were on your back, flat against the cabin floor. Hard. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs. You gasped—but nothing came. Your mouth opened wide, your chest convulsed, and still—no air.

You stared up at him in stunned panic, lips parted, eyes wide, lungs heaving like they’d forgotten how to work. And Dean—Dean—just grinned down at you, all wicked teeth and devilish delight, his chest rising and falling above you.

“Well shit,” he chuckled, his voice smug and low and wrong. “Knocked the wind right outta you, huh?”

Your fingers clawed at the floor, body twisting underneath him, but he only pressed in harder, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your thigh and pulling it higher, opening you wide.

“Look at you,” he murmured, and then he thrust—deep and brutal, knocking what little breath you’d managed to drag in right back out.

“Clenching up on me so damn tight,” he growled, eyes flicking black, staying black. “Can’t even breathe, and you’re still squeezin’ me like you never wanna let go.”

You whimpered—half from fear, half from pleasure, all of it ruined.

He laughed again, meaner this time, low in his throat like it thrilled him.

“You scared?” He asked, panting as he fucked into you harder now, hips snapping into you with sharp, feral thrusts. “That little panic making you feel even tighter?”

You couldn’t speak. Could barely even think. Your whole body burned. Every nerve raw. Your vision blurred around the edges.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours as he pounded into you. “Like heaven. Like fuckin’ home.”

Tears prickled in your eyes. It was too much. All of it. And then—his voice dropped to a whisper, wrecked and reverent and evil.

“You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna fall apart with my cock inside you?”

You shattered.

Your body arched off the floor, your mouth fell open in a silent cry, and your cunt clenched around him so hard he snarled, fingers bruising your hips as he held you down, fucked you through it, let you ride the edge until your vision went white.

“There she is,” he growled. “That’s my girl. Pretty little thing, takin’ my cock like it’s the only thing she’s ever needed.”

You couldn’t stop crying. Couldn’t stop shaking. And still—he didn’t stop.

“Cry all you want,” he breathed against your cheek. “I'm not done.”

He didn’t slow down. Even after your body stopped convulsing, even after your voice had gone hoarse from the sobs caught in your throat—he didn’t stop. He moved like a man starved, like a beast let loose, like he was trying to bury himself inside you so deep no one else would ever find you there.

And then—he bit you.

Right at the curve of your neck, where your pulse fluttered wild beneath the skin. His teeth sank in, deep and deliberate, until you cried out again—not from pleasure this time, but pain. Sharp. Real. Tearing.

You felt the sting of it, the warmth of blood welling up against your skin.

His tongue followed. Slow. Lapping.

“Told you,” he muttered, voice thick, forehead pressed to yours as his cock throbbed inside you. “You’re mine.”

Another thrust. Brutal. Final. And then he groaned, loud and guttural, as he came deep—hot and heavy, spilling into you like a curse.

You gasped, body twitching beneath him, mind blank with overstimulation and the weight of him still pressing down.

He didn’t pull out. Didn’t move. Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, his breath ragged against your throat.

“You’re never goin’ back,” he whispered, mouth still wet with blood. “Bobby ain’t getting you. Sammy can fuck off. The whole goddamn world can burn for all I care.”

His fingers stroked your cheek, too gentle for the wreckage he’d left behind.

“You’re mine.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just laid there—broken and full, neck slick with blood, thighs sticky and trembling—while the wind whispered against the cabin walls and the lake sighed in the distance like it already knew what you’d done.

And somewhere, deep down—past the ache and the guilt and the shame—you didn’t feel scared anymore.

You felt claimed.

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @jesstherebel <3