#tma x y/n

[0bticeo]

jonathan sims | get some rest (tomorrow is already here)

summary:

“what do you propose?”

you take in a sharp inhale. you should leave. drag him away from his desk. but jonathan sims is a stubborn man, so he must be coaxed into doing so. 

“a massage.”

"a what?"

wc: 2.5k

tw: massage, making out, reader being a horny mess, jon being exhausted and a cranky bastard, hinted at elias' voyeuristic tendencies, usual tma ominous feelings, fluff (shocking, i know)

the analog clock reads 3:27, stark red embedded upon your retina. you sigh, fingers rubbing at the back of your neck as you step into the archives, weary bones aching.

it’s not your fault if you fell asleep in a secluded corner of the archives departement, squeezed between two shelves and piles upon piles of unlabeled statements. scratch that: they’re labeled. chronologically.

they do not make sense, however, because jonathan sims’ predecessor - whose name you curse with every breath and sleepless night you spend organizing her damn mess - left the whole department in such a state of disarray you might spend the rest of your life making sense of it. damn her. and damn your boss for being so uptight about it all.

you feel the weight of the institute, a looming force of knowledge pressed at the back of your neck, sweet pinprick of pain. you’re watched. oh, orwell, how right you were.

you make your way towards your desk, stepping over sasha’s pink slippers and picking up an empty mug. grab your keys, get out, and walk home. you’re not too far away from the institute. no trouble.

as you lean forward, palm pressed flat against a manila file, something catches your eye.

light. 

thin rays of it crawl, seep out from under the wooden door of the head archivist’s office, stark golden in dull gray penumbra.

he’s there, jonathan sims, head archivist of the magnus institute. holed up in his office, recording a statement, voice poised and measured and controlled in every way he isn’t upon being confronted with his poor sleeping schedule. 

you should leave.

you hear the soft click of a tape recorder being stopped. a long, deep-suffering sigh. a drawer opening, more muttering, some shuffling, rustling papers - oh no he won’t.

in three decisive steps, you’re before his door, your sharp knocking rinnging like gunfire in the quiet of the office. 

“who-who’s there?”

unease. suspicion.

you’re quick to answer with a long suffering sigh of your own, forehead pressed against the door.

“it’s me, jon.”

a pause. an exasperated sigh.

“what do you want?"

you take it as your cue to step inside his office, dimly lit by a lone desk lamp, dust particles turning midas-gold under its rays. your foot catches on a discarded paper - another statement, this one regarding a gambling fool of a soldier. 

(he who tries to cheat death gets the fruit of his labor and weeps upon tasting it.)

you pick it up, and let your gaze roam about the place.

a cork board takes up the majority of a wall, red strings twisting and turning in a web of confusion.

bookshelves align themselves in neat rows, cramped against one another, overflowing with statements, indigestions of facts made up and real.

a cluttered desk - a switched off tape recorder, manila folders, an open computer casting its blue glow upon the sharp edge of jon’s face.

he’s glaring at you.

“have you grown deaf since the last time i saw you?”

you let out an amused breath and make a move to put the statement on his desk. finding an uncluttered space is harder than it proves to be.

jon all but snatches the damn paper from your grip. if looks could kill, you’d be in bad shape. you lean back, arms crossed over your chest, hip pressed against the edge of his desk.

“no, merely mute with shock upon your wretched appearance.” you smile, teasing edges fading into concern. “seriously, when was the last time you slept?”

“that does not concern you-”

“it does, actually. you’re my boss. i can’t let you waste away, who would pay me otherwise?”

“elias pays all of us-”

“and he probably would have me promoted as a glorified secretary if you were to overwork yourself to death. i hate accountance, jon.”

he pinches his nose with long, deft fingers, glasses riding up ever so slightly. they reveal the deep circles under his eyes, embedded in his olive skin. you can practically see the tension oozing from him, the knots in his shoulders.

“if you’re determined to waste my time-”

“i came to help, actually.”

he raises a quizzical eyebrow, the living embodiment of judgment.

you feel his gaze rake your form, the own dark circles under your eyes, the crumpled shirt, the dust that clings to your skirt, what he’s sure is the imprint of the shelf you fell asleep against on your cheek.

you raise your hands in mock surrender. (you miss the way his gaze softens a little.)

“you’re exhausted. hell, i can feel your nervous energy from here.”

he opens his mouth, frowning, protest ready on his tongue. you cut him, merciless.

“when was the last time you’ve gotten more than three hours of sleep?”

that shuts him up. his frown deepens. you want to smooth out the wrinkles on his forehead.

“that - look, if you have nothing better to do than pester me-”

“it’s three in the morning and we’re the only living souls in this institute.”

maybe. you don’t really want to know what lies in the tunnels. or in the artifact storage. or what’s watching you.

“you’re not going to sleep at all at this rate - no, i know you’re not, because i know you. kinda.”

he sighs, exhaustion crawling out of his very marrow, and leans back in his chair. you take in the wrinkles in his shirt, now exposed because lo and behold, jonathan sims’ jacket is not sewn to his body and - 

and he’s loosening his tie, two fingers digging in his windsor knot, smooth silk gliding away under skilled fingers. you wonder what they might feel like slipping under your shirt.

“what do you propose?”

you take in a sharp inhale. you should leave. drag him away from his desk and into bed. but jonathan sims is the living embodiment of stubborness, so he must be coaxed into doing so.

“a massage.”

“a- a what?”

you laugh a little.

“don’t pretend your neck isn’t stiffer than the stick up your ass.”

“i do not have-”

“jon, please let me help.”

silence. again, he pinches the bridge of his nose. at least, he’s considering it.

you eye the piles of statements on his desk, half-discarded, half-classified. there’s a pattern in the way jon operates, even if he’s not conscious of it.

he only ever calls for your help when he’s sure the statements at hand are lelgitimate. this means he rules out those he deems written by lunatics and madmen. this means he does most of the work. this means-

“all right. but under one condition."

you tilt your head to the side, curious.

“one last statement.”

“only if i massage you while you record it.”

a glare.

“we’re wasting time, jon.”

“fine. get over here.”

you smile, palms smoothing out the pleats of your skirt as you make your way behind his desk.

he pays you no mind, long fingers selecting a manila file from a pile, opening it with care. there’s a certain stiff grace with which he carries himself, you muse as you step behind him. 

you watch the ripples of tension in the back of his neck, the fine strands of auburn hair tainted penumbra-dark brushing against his nape, and gently run your knuckle against his skin. he’s warm.

“whenever you’re ready,” you breathe, fingers resting on the back of his chair.

he coughs a little. composes himself. hits record.

“continued statement of trevor herbert regarding their latter years as a vampire hunter. original statement given july 10th 2010, audio recording by jonathan sims, head archivist of the magnus institute.”

you watch with fascination as the calm, composed, formal voice slips into something… else. something between jonathan sims and trevor herbert, and it’s fascinating, because for a brief second, split second instant of Knowing, you can See him, the tramp and his collapsing lungs, writing away his youth and hunts on bland institute paper.

you blink and it’s gone. 

there’s only you, the “lofi charm” of the tape recorder, and jon. his nape is bare. intimate knowledge settles in your mind, the fragility of mortality. bury a sharp needle there and his body collapses. 

you frown. push it back. roll up your sleeves and rub your hands together, warming them up because they’re always cold, and the least you can do is give him a modicum of comfort.

slowly, carefully, you put your hands over his shoulders. he tenses at that, briefly, until you start rubbing away the years of tension gnawing at him.

slowly, surely, you knead poor, exhausted muscles. slowly, surely, he relaxes under your touch, head leaning back ever so slightly.

from this close, you can smell him, you realize. cold coffee, dusty paper, cedarwood aftershave and something like a hint of sweat. 

“good?” you whisper, almost silent, voice lost in the quiet static of the tape recorder, in the dust-soft penumbra.

he nods, cheek brushing your wrist. your heart hammers in your chest. a strand of hair brushes the back of your hand - they’re graying a little. you wonder why he exhausts himself so. why he spends nights buried in his office, burrowing himself in piles and piles of files. 

hypocrite.

the only reason as to why you’re here, massaging your fucking boss and growing desperately wet at his deep sighs of content, is because you, too, spend much more time than reasonable trying to make sense of it all. 

the only reason as to why you’re here, taking in the gentle mess that is jonathan sims, is because you both leave at ungodly hours. because he can keep his eyes on you and so he knows that you cannot be responsible for gertrude’s murder.

you think he might trust you.

his hand settles over yours, and you startle.

he’s warm, palm large enough to cover the entirety of your hand, from wrist to fingertips. you don’t know what to do with this knowledge.

you don’t want to think of what you might do in the quiet death of the night, your hand slipping under your covers, down the apex of your thigh-

he slides your hand lower. oh. oh. 

you lean forward, until your cheek brushes his, skin on skin, and unbutton the first two buttons of his shirt. you think he might be leaning into your touch. you think you might cut yourself on the edge of his jaw, on the sharpness of his words. 

your hands meet his bare skin and you feel like you’ve caught fire, breath stolen away as you feel him in a way the cotton of his shirt didn’t allow. there is a sharpness to him. you can feel his jutting clavicles under your fingertips, sharp angel wings of bone, and your heart tightens. 

he works too much.

it’s quiet, for a while.

you don’t know what sets it off. one moment, you’re massaging him, relishing in the feeling of his skin under your hands. the next, your fingers catch a particularly tight spot in his shoulders and he groans , and fuck, you should not feel familiar heat curling in your lower belly but you do. 

you should stop. bid him good night and leave him with his precious recording. 

you don’t. 

instead, you rub at that spot, tentatively, and watch as he bites his lip mid-sentence, voice catching on a word. he’s a little breathless.

you are, too, heart hammering in your ribcage, hummingbird trying to flee its bones.

his hand wraps around your wrist and tugs you forward, free hand settling on your lower back, guiding you until you’re in his lap, looking up at him.

you think you might be dying of a heart attack with the way he looks at you, with eyes so dark you can barely make out the beautiful green of them.

“just what do you think you’re doing?” he growls.

you feel like you're on fire with how close you are. how his hand still encases your wrist in an iron hold. how you can feel warmth of him. how you can see the fluttering pulse of his throat, adam apple bobbing up and down as he swallows and fuck you want to take a bite.

your mouth feels dry.

“i- i don’t-” 

his grip tightens on your wrist. 

“answer me.”

somehow you’re closer. close enough to feel his breath on your lips, to find yourself staring up at him through hooded eyes, to find him staring back with parted lips. 

whatever’s left of your resolve dissolves into a puddle of desire. 

“jon, please, let me kiss you.”

a pause. the faintest glint of disbelief in his eyes.

then his lips crash on yours. 

you startle, hand shooting forward to grasp the nearest thing for purchase and find only him, him and the crisp cotton of his shirt, all exhaustion and boiling frustration.

he puts his mouth to you like one would to a lover’s and kisses you slowly, deeply, unraveling you like a beloved mystery. 

your body sings for him, and it’s so right you dismiss the ever-present pinprick pressure at the back of your neck. 

his palm cups it, your nape, warmth consuming that pinprick pain, until the only thing you can do is sigh in his mouth and press yourself closer.

his lips part from yours, briefly, a breath away, and it’s too damn far, so you tug at his cravat and pull him down. your fingers dig in his shirt, his hair, and he groans at the way your nails rake his scalp.

your lips part for him in a soft, whisper-quiet moan of his name, and he swallows it down almost greedily. you feel his tongue brush against yours and let out a low, needy sound, molten desire coursing through your veins.

his hand slips under your shirt, reaches for the soft skin of your side and presses up, up, up until it meets your breast and his thumb presses against your nipple in tight circles and you’re almost sobbing against his lips. 

you’re not aware that your hips are grinding against the hardness of him until his hand settles on your hip, slowing you down to a stop, and you part from him, breathless, and so, so needy.

there’s a thread of saliva between you, thin little spider-web intertwining your fates.

he looks at you, disheveled, glasses slightly askew, their lenses foggy, shirt half-opened for your gaze to meet tantalizing skin. a feast for the sore eyes.

“you might want to make me breakfast instead.”

“not like this,” he mumbles, thumb swiping against your bottom lip. “not- at least, let me treat you to dinner first.”

he chuckles at that, a little breathless, a little exasperated, definitely fond.

“cheeky.”

you peck his lip, sweetly. his hand tightens over your hip.

“look at the time, jon.” 

he rides up his sleeve ever so slightly to reveal his watch and with it, the tantalizing softness of his pulse, beating wildly against the tender skin of his inner wrist. almost four in the morning. you press your lips there, feel the yearning of his beating heart. 

he doesn’t think he’s seen you this beautiful. you, disheveled, on his lap, almost chest to chest with him, bringing his palm to your cheek and pressing fluttering kisses to his fingers. you, smiling up at him, exhausted, worn to the bone, but happy, and -

“oh.”

“what is it?”

your gaze lands on the tape recorder. oh.

“still recording. i should -”

“go home, get some sleep and finish what you started - me included - later.”

he sighs. there’s still a smile on his lips, exhaustion melting down to affection. 

"fine. end recording.”

[martinsorbit]

Moon when y/n is being friendly and nice towards him in their first few encounters: I’ve never met you in my life. you bastard. you fiend. stop this at once

Moon now living with Y/N after they get up from bed for 5 minutes to get a cup of water: Where Are My Kisses From You? Where Is My Snuggles And Cuddles That I Crave Oh So Dearly. You Are A Cruel And Unjust Partner And I Am Going To CRY.

[og post by jonathanjarchivistsims]

[emma045]

[ellaspenfrosti]

Reference sheet for Y/n for a Magnus Archive’s AU! Seeing some other fanart on here for TMA and listening to the podcast again has reignited my inspiration xD I’ll post all three reference sheets together when I finish Sun’s and Moon’s, but wanted to give a little sneak peak!

[shankss-magnificent-ass]

Odd Combat 1

Dracule Mihawk x Reader

Word Count: 1,152

Warnings: slight nsfw at the end, blood, violence, bullying (it's buggy I can't help myself)

You gripped the hilts of your dual blades, Mihawk’s sharp eyes staring at you lazily from his beach chair. 

“Are you sure you want to do this? Challenging me to a duel.” He droned, shifting his attention to the wine glass he was swirling in his hand. “You don’t seem to have thought this through. You’re so small to be fighting me, and I duel to the death.”

His arrogance and disrespect engendered hot rage to bloom in your chest. But you knew it was unwise to let it consume you because it would cloud your judgment, so you tamped it down with several deep breaths before responding. “You should know better than anyone not to judge someone on their size. The fight you had with Plembo the Tontatta was legendary.

Sitting to Mihawk’s left, Buggy laughed, “Aw look Mihawk has quite the little fan.”

And sitting to Mihawk’s right, Crocodile growled, “No, no, you don’t talk now,” Reaching behind Mihawk and engulfing the clown’s head in his palm, gently ruffling his blue locks. 

Mihawk and you didn’t acknowledge the other two men, because you carried on your conversation like nothing had happened.

The swordsman scoffed, “Yes, but you are human, and he was a Tontatta…” 

��It doesn’t matter if I’m human or not,” you retorted, “You shouldn’t underestimate me.” 

Mihawk watched you thoughtfully for about a minute before he sighed, “it would be wasteful to kill someone like you, so this won’t be to the death.” He rose to his feet, and pulled the knife out of his cross pendant, “This is the smallest I’ve got, and I’ll let you make the first move.”

While you took a moment to think about your strategy, Buggy mumbled, “Are we really going to let him fight in the guild recreation area?” 

Crocodile retreated to a safe distance, dragging Buggy behind him as he sighed, “leave him, this is apparently just how he makes friends, he was the same with me.”

You grit your teeth together and used soru to launch the first attack, slicing one of your blades straight through his knife like it was butter.

Mihawk jumped backward, avoiding the second blade that you had swung at his head, and landed on unsteady legs. You didn’t make a second move, waiting for him to realize you were worthy of an actual fight. He looked at you with wide eyes, as blood dripped from a cut on his cut where the tip of your sword has grazed him. Mihawk wiped the blood off his cheek, “Perhaps I did underestimate you, my apologies. I won’t make that mistake again.”

He stood up straight and picked up Yoru, the famous black sword, and took up a fighting stance.

After several hours of fighting, the sun had started to dip down below the horizon. The two of you had lost yourselves in the euphoria of combat. Mihawk was grinning ear to ear, it had been a long time since he had had such a thrilling fight. And it was made all the more thrilling when you disarmed Mihawk of Yoru at the cost of one of your own blades. Much to your surprise, Mihawk wasn’t beaten yet. Because he pulled a short sword from the back of his coat and nearly took your leg off with it. You dodged his blow, laughing, “of course, you have more than one blade on you.”

Mihawk didn’t respond, but he did roll his eyes when Crocodile yelled, “he has a literal pirate hoard of just blades, and he also has, like, a hundred pockets in that coat filled just with knives because he has a problem.”

You cock an eyebrow at the tall swordsman in front of you, who was poised to lunge his blade into your chest. Crocodile was right, Mihawk’s coat was lined with barely noticeable pockets, but you could see the outline of a knife or two as it moved with its wearer. You hummed, “well that doesn’t seem fair, let's even the playing field shall we?” Pinching your thumb and forefinger together you made a yanking gesture to activate your devil fruit, the move move fruit, and ripped off his coat. Buggy started to cackle at the small noise Mihawk made when the cool evening air hit his skin. Mihawk stared at his chest, and the remains of his coat, almost morning them. You shifted your stance, and his gaze followed your movement. His eyes narrowed into a harsh glare as he growled, “that was my favorite coat, you will pay for this.”

You took one hand off your blade and shrugged, “Sorry, I’ll pay to have a new one made later.”

Mihawk charged forward, incensed enough to strike while you held your sword in one hand, and knocked it out of your hand. You flipped backward, kicking his blade out of his hand, and kicked off the ground once you landed, launching yourself at his chest. Mihawk fell back with a loud grunt, “what the hell are you doing? It’s a draw, we both disarmed one another.”

You smirked down at him, as you straddled his hips, and chuckled, “I never said I was a swordsman, it was a challenge to a fight. Or are you incapable of fighting without your sword? How cute.”

Mihawk hissed, “you are one of the most frustrating people I have ever met, and I’ve met Straw hat Luffy and Shanks.” He sat up, grabbed your hair, and yanked your head back, making a moan bubble out of your mouth. In retaliation, you grabbed each side of his shirt and pulled it down over his shoulders, sending the buttons flying, and shoved him back to the ground and tried to get a hold of his hands, so you could pin him. During the scuffle you had started to grind against one another, panting as you fought. Mihawk bucked his hips up into you and growled, “I’m going to make sure you regret this.” He managed to get a hold of both of your thumbs, and he flipped you off him and rolled on top of you. Soon as your stomach touched the ground you let out a desperate whine as the ache between your legs because overwhelming without stimulation. Arching your back, you tried to buck him off, but you only managed to rub yourself against him pathetically. Mihawk grabbed a hold of your shirt collar, ripped your shirt in half, and sank his teeth into your shoulder. You gasped as he started to eagerly rut his hip against you. You threw your head back, making contact with his nose, and you managed to roll over before he recovered. He grabbed your wrists and pinned them to the ground, “Do you yield?”

“Never” you spat and bit his lip.

Mihawk sneered, “well then, look like you’ll have to learn the hard way.” And he pressed his mouth against yours.

Coming Soon

[smellingofpoetry]

Last Time?

Characters: Reader, Dean Winchester, Benny Lafitte

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: They promised each other it would be the last time.

Square/s Filled: “Age Difference” (@spnchristmasbingo), "Lingerie" (TMAS Bingo - @supernatural-jackles), "Dirty Talk" (@spnkinkevents), “Suck on my fingers and get them nice and wet for me.” (@anyfandomkinkbingo)

Warnings: age difference, smut, 18+, finger fucking, sex, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk

Rating: +18

Words count: 2460

A/N: Hi there! Not long ago I wrote a fic called “A few moments of madness” for the beautiful @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone. It was fun writing that one, especially the part where I left with that huge plot twist. I genuinely thought it was the end of the road for this story, though, until the inspiration hit me. And what was I supposed to do if not write it down? So, here we are today. I think I’m starting to figure out my way with smut, but I’ll let you judge that. Let me know what you think about it. Enjoy!

He was in big trouble.

Since his little accident with his best friend's daughter - if that's what you wanna call it - he tried to avoid Benny at all costs. He did a pretty good job if you asked him, until the Christmas holidays. He wasn't in the mood to celebrate since what happened with Lisa, and he definitely didn't want to spend Christmas under the pity glances his family would throw at him. Sunday's lunch was already too much for his own taste. So, he decided to spend Christmas alone for once. Maybe eating take-out on the couch just like a grown-up person would do. He had everything planned already until Benny asked him to join him for Christmas dinner.

Dean knew he should have ignored the bell ring - he knew it.

Either way, he agreed because it was Benny and because, of course, he felt guilty for what he did. So, now, he was stuck celebrating Christmas with his best friend and his daughter. Yes, the same girl he had fucked months ago, and he still jerked off at the thought of it, even though he would deny this last piece of information with all his strengths if anyone asked him.

Dean had a plan, though.

He had spent the prior night wide awake, planning his way through the whole Christmas dinner. It was a solid plan, and he was kinda proud of it. He just needed to stay away from Y/N and follow every step just like he had planned them.

What could possibly go wrong?

They were halfway through dinner and Dean was pretty sure he was going to hell. His plan, which was supposed to be solid, blow up in his face the moment he stepped inside his friend's house. He didn't even know how that happened, but here he was facing Y/N at the dinner table. He did his best to avoid her gaze and participate in the conversation, but if he had to be honest the only thing he could see was her bent down on his kitchen counter. Because of that he almost choked on his food on multiple occasions. Thank God his friend was too busy making sure everything was perfect for his daughter.

Yeah, his daughter…

Dean's thoughts trailed off again until he realized he was staring at her sweater a bit too much.

"Oh, crap, I forgot the beans."

Benny's voice caught his attention just in time to see his friend get up. Dean followed suit without thinking about it, too afraid to be left alone with Y/N.

"I'll go get them." he tried, earning a weird look from Benny.

"No, man, sit down. You're our guest. I'll be right back."

And with that Benny was already out of the room, leaving Dean with his napkin still in his hands, staring at the door. He cleared his throat, glancing at Y/N, who was watching him amused, before sitting down again.

"You're being weird," she told him while sipping her wine.

"No, I'm not." he scoffed, even though he knew she was absolutely right about it. Y/N raised one of her brows, watching him from the rim of her glass which earned an eye roll from Dean.

"Okay, fine, but in my defense, I just want you to know that when I came here, I had a solid plan to walk me through this..." he said, gesturing at them and the room they were in it.

"Oh, and how's going?" she asked amused, trying her very best to hide her smirk. Y/N figured she had done a poor job from the way Dean was looking at her - unimpressed.

"Clearly, it ain't working."

"Clearly," Y/N smirked, putting down the glass she was still holding.

Dean scowled at her, wanting to kiss that smirk out of her face. Wait, what? No. Absolutely, no. - he had to scold himself for thinking stuff like that about his friend's daughter, even if that same person was looking too damn cute for her own good.

"Okay, stop doing that."

"Stop what?" she asked with her brow raised in confusion.

"You know what! Never mind," he said, stubbing some of the vegetables on his plate with the fork. He didn't even like vegetables, for fuck’s sake. Y/N looked at him for a few seconds, glancing in the direction of the kitchen before leaning more toward Dean.

"Look, I know that we started on the wrong foot..."

"You can say that again." Dean scoffed, gulping down a generous amount of red wine.

"And I would like for Benny not to know about, you know..." she said, pointing at the two of them. "...us."

Dean sit up straight at that, putting down his glass and leaning more in her direction before speaking in a lower voice.

"He can never know about us," he said, panicked.

"So, could you, I don't know, act a bit more normal?"

Dean furrowed his brow, opening and closing his mouth a few times his mouth trying to find the right words.

"Yeah, right, right. I can do that," he assured her, even though he wasn't sure who he was really trying to convince, her or himself. She nodded her head with a small smile, satisfied by his answer.

"Great. And, oh, Dean, what happened between us..."

"...it can never happen again." he agreed, finishing her sentence.

Y/N was pressed against the wall, her Christmas sweater pulled up and her breast spilling out from her red bra. Her skirt was around her waist by now, while her panties were discarded somewhere on the floor. She could still picture Dean's face when he discovered the lingerie she was wearing under her Rudolph sweater.

Her breath hitched in her throat at the feeling of Dean's cold fingers against her hot skin. Y/N felt them travel along the inside of her leg until he reached her aching pussy. He ran his fingertips along her slit way too gently, making her ache even more.

"Please..." she moaned, letting her hips sway back and forth in search of some friction.

"You want more, hm?"

Y/N nodded her head enthusiastically, trying to stifle a moan and failing miserably. Dean smirked, biting down on his lips. Yeah, hell was definitely waiting for him, and he couldn't care much.

"Suck on my fingers and get them nice and wet for me, sweetheart," he whispered, taking away his hand from between her legs. Dean saw her open her mouth, sticking her tongue out for him and he had to restrain himself to not groan out loud. Damn, this woman - he thought while pushing three of his fingers inside her mouth. Y/N welcomed him without saying a word, sucking his fingers as if her life depended on it. Dean's free hand traveled down his pants, unbuttoning them to free his aching cock. He pushed them down just under his ass, taking down with them his boxer. His cock sprung free, tip red and precum already leaking. Y/N sucked at his fingers one more time before letting them free, licking her lips right after. Dean didn't even give her time to think about what was coming next and his three fingers found their way between her legs again. He circled her clit a few times before pushing inside her wet folds. He fingered her hard and fast, watching her take it thrust after thrust while taking hold of himself and giving a few strokes at his hard cock.

"Oh! God... Dean..." she whimpered, moving her hips against his hand while trying to hold herself somewhere, anywhere. She could already feel herself getting closer and closer, already tasting the pleasure when his fingers stopped, making her whine. Dean put his hands on her hips helping her move on her unsteady legs, positioning her in front of the bathroom mirror. He stayed behind her, watching her intently while his hands traveled along her body. He reached for her breasts, squeezing both of her tits in his hands and making her moan.

"You have to be quiet, now, Y/N. Can you do that for me, hm?" He asked her, licking the skin on her neck before latching his lips around her earlobe. She bit down on her lip, nodding her head at his question. Dean smiled with her earlobe still trapped between his teeth. He sucked at her skin one more time just for good measure before helping her lean forward.

"Bend down on the sink and spread your legs for me."

He didn't need to tell her twice. Y/N bent down, spreading her legs in the process. She felt exposed under Dean's gaze which made her even wetter than she already was. Dean bit on his lip, unable to take away his eyes from her glistening pussy. He took hold of himself, letting his cook brush against her folds a few times before lining himself at her entrance. He started to slowly push inside her, his eyes never leaving the mirror to watch her every single expression. Y/N closed her eyes, biting down on her lips to stifle the moans wanting to escape her. Dean let his fingers disappear between her hair, gripping a few of her strands and pulling them towards him. Y/N followed his movement arching her back and exposing her breasts even more.

"Open your eyes, babe. I want you to watch me fuck you," he whispered in her ear, feeling her shiver against him. She breathed heavily, taking a few seconds to regain control over her heart before opening her eyes just like he had asked her. The moment her eyes opened and looked at him through the mirror, Dean filled her with a deep thrust. Her whole body was pushed forward, and Y/N barely had the time to put one of her hands on the mirror to keep herself from crushing against it. She tried to follow every push of Dean's hips, matching his rhythm.

"Look at you, being fucked in your dad's bathroom by his friend." Dean panted in her ear, while still fucking her with a brutal pace. Y/N bit down on her lip harder, but she couldn't help the sound that came out of her at Dean's words. So, she put a hand around her mouth not trusting herself enough to be quiet, not when he was playing dirty. Dean smirked at her reaction, thrusting hard inside her while one of his hands went to her breast squeezing hard.

"Do you think he noticed your absence or he's too busy with the new year eve's party?" he asked her, knowing full well she wasn't going to answer him too busy pushing her hips against his hard cock. He let slip his free hand in between her legs, founding her clit.

"What would Benny think if he saw you right now, hm?" Dean felt her walls fluttering around his cock at that, making him falter for a moment.

Y/N let go of her mouth free even though she knew that wasn't a smart move, but the need to hold on to something was too much. So, she held onto the sink not being able to do anything if not stay there and take every push of Dean's cock ready to burst.

"Dean..." she whined, hoping that the music downstairs would cover her moans.

"You'd like that, don't you?"

"Oh God..."

"Say it," he told her, rubbing faster and faster at her hardened clit.

"Fuck... yes! Yes... yes..." she sobbed while the hardest orgasm of her life washed over her; her juices coating his cock. Dean groaned at the sight of her coming undone and after a few more thrusts he was spilling inside her, filling her up.

"Fuck, babe, yes." he panted in her ear, while his hips spasmed a bit more.

Dean collapsed on her, being careful to not crush her against with his weight. He breathed heavily, resting his forehead against her shoulders. Y/N rested against the cool sink, trying to catch her breath while letting her fingers travel between Dean's locks.

"That was..." he whispered, licking at his cracked lips.

"...the last time?" she asked him, scratching at his scalp making him moan.

"Yeah."

"You already said that yesterday after you fucked me on your couch..." she whispered, glancing at the mirror to look at him. Dean hid his face in the crock of her neck, grabbing at her breasts and squeezing them.

"...and the week before when we fucked in your car..." she whimpered, knowing exactly what she was doing while he bit down her skin.

"...and at Christmas dinner..."

Dean pulled hard at her nipples, making her gasp, and her core clenched around him but that seemed not to be enough to stop her.

"...half an hour later I was sucking you off, remember?" she asked, pushing him away gently just enough to turn around to have a better look at him. Dean let her move, still keeping her trapped between him and the sink, already missing the warmth of her pussy around him.

"Yeah, I remember that like I remember being balls deep inside you while your dad was sleeping three doors down," he whispered kissing her hard, letting his tongue swirl around hers.

God, she was able to make him a needing mess - he thought making a huge effort to push away from her. Dean licked at his lips, tasting her while slowly starting to recompose himself the best he could.

"We should get dressed and go downstairs before midnight," he said to her, bending down to grab her red lacy thong. She nodded her head, starting to adjust her bra before pushing down in his place her sweater. Dean kneeled at her feet helping her with her panties, pulling them up at her leg, and stopping halfway through to give one last lick at her wet pussy. Y/N shivered at that, opening her legs a bit more to give him better access at which she earned a gentle suck at her lips before he pulled her panties all the way up. Dean got up, kissing her one last time letting her taste herself on his tongue.

"You go first, and I'll follow in a few," he said to her, watching her adjust her skirt before walking to the door. She put her hand around the knob ready to turn it when she glanced at him.

"So, last time?" Y/N asked him just to be sure.

"Last time."

"Great, I'll see you back at your house then."

She winked at him before opening the door and slipping out of the bathroom. Dean closed the door behind her, resting his head against the cool wooden.

He was a dead man, but damn if it wasn't worth it. 

[pillowspace]

I've said this before, but Moon x Y/N (FNAF) and Michael Distortion x Gerry Keay (TMA) give me such similar levels of satisfaction. Dangerous non-human of sharp hands and playful laughing behaviour x tired human who technically signed up for this but also really didn't. I love it, it's my favourite thing ever

[deathbyhertouch]

Kinktober Day 5: Freeuse

(i think if they were to make an adaptation of TMA, Yasmin Finney would be amazing as Sasha/Not Sasha)

Sasha James x afab!reader

warnings: smut (18+, mdni) , freeuse, oral (sasha receiving), public sex, voyeurism, caught in the act, fingering

word count: 832

kinktober masterlist

It was another boring day down in the archives of the Magnus Institute. You were supposed to be helping Sasha and Tim organize some of the older files for Jon to analogue. It was hotter than fuck outside and Elias deemed it ‘not hot enough’ to turn on the air conditioning yet (it was the middle of July). You had all long since abandoned filing the statements, now moving on to fanning yourselves and talking to each other. 

“What’s your wildest fantasy, James?” Tim teased, loving to watch the smaller woman squirm.

“Hmm, probably…. doing it somewhere i’m not supposed to? I-i haven’t thought about it much, Stoker.” She squeaked out, her dark cheeks flushing a rosy pink. You smiled at the image, picturing yourself bending her over the desk you’re all currently melting on. Your little workplace infatuation with the shorter woman grew into a full-fledged crush on her. 

“Y/N? Earth to Y/N? We’ve lost her, Tim.” Her chipper voice pulled you out of the daydream that made you horrible wet. You blinked rapidly, a small smile on your lips.

“Sorry, what?” You asked, spurring the brunette to repeat herself.

“What’s your dirty fantasy?” Sasha asked, placing a hand on your knee, her big brown doe eyes making you weak in the knees. You gasped, the closeness of her face to yours, and her hand touching your sweaty skin. 

“I-I…uhhh….erm, bending a girl over the desk and fucking her while she works.” You rushed, the words spilling out of your mouth in a hushed tone. Sasha chuckled, her eyes twinkling as she shook her head at you.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that. That’s okay, we can change the subject if you’re uncomfortable.” She consoled you, rubbing her thumb across your knee. You were now a sopping puddle, ready to combust if she made any more contact with you.

“Tim, can you run out to that Thai place and get us some takeout? I’ll pay.” Sasha said, turning to the redheaded man, handing him a few bills. Tim nodded, standing up to stretch his legs. 

“Good idea, i’m fucking starving. Be back in 30.” He spoke over his shoulder, halfway to the door already. Sasha thanked him before turning back to you after the door shut behind him. 

“I lied, earlier. I found it really hot, i’ve been waiting so long to get you alone. Now that I’m 99% sure you are as into me as I am you.” She mused, her hand resuming its place on your leg, slowly inching upwards.

“You like me back? Fuck, Sash. C’mere.” You spat, grabbing her hips and pulling her onto your lap before crashing your lips to hers. She moaned into the kiss, before tugging her glasses off her face. You felt her tongue slide across your bottom lip, making you moan into her mouth. She giggled, grinding her hips down on your lap.

“I have an idea, you game?” She asked, breaking the kiss, much to your soft pout. You cocked an eyebrow at her, nodding anyway. She laughed, clamoring off your lap, grabbing your hand and pulling you towards the filing cabinet.

“Okay, I’m going to get back to working on these statements, and I want you to eat me out. I wanna see if you can make me finish before I finish these.” She proposed, making you smirk.

“You’re on, Sash. Now get started.” You grabbed her hips, turning her towards the cabinet. You made quick work of pulling down her pleated skirt and panties. 

You spread her cheeks, before licking a stripe from her clit to her entrance. She moaned, before catching herself and focusing again at the files. You moaned at her taste, slipping your tongue into her entrance. She gasped as you began to fuck her with the muscle. You brought your thumb up to her swollen nub, slowly circling it as your mouth began to build up a fast rhythm. 

Her arousal was leaking out of her pussy, coating your chin as you inhaled her essence. She tasted so sweet and musky, you could die here and be totally fine with it. Her hips were bucking against you, signaling that she was growing close to her orgasm.

You sped up the circles on her clit, pressing your face deeper into her warm, wet cunt. You lapped at her folds, suckling them gently as you smacked her on the ass. She whimpered, the blood rushing to where your hand left it’s mark. You chuckled into her, smacking her again. You spit on her pussy, watching goosebumps creep across her skin.

“Oh fuck, Y/N. I’m so fucking close.” Sasha whined, feeling her reach her breaking point. You slipped two fingers into her pussy, and pulled her clit into your mouth. She cried out, her climax crashing over her in waves. 

“Good girl, Sash. So fucking hot.” You cooed, helping her pull her skirt and panties back on. 

“Well, well, well… what have we here?”

Love, A

[villafordefeatedvillains]

obsessed with the fact that people in the TMA fandom know about the elias x all of one direction jokefic we wrote but like. completely divorced from its original context (friends reading one direction x readers on voice chat and replacing "y/n" with "elias bouchard" to torment our elias fictive. four years ago)

[smileylover99]

Tagged by @weprovideleverage

thank you for the tag :)

rules: answer the questions in a new post and tag blogs you would like to get to know better.

a - age: 23

b - birthplace: The North of the Netherlands

c - current time: 21:03

d - drink you last had: water as well, most times it is

e - easiest person/people to talk to: my sister

f - favorite song: god idk it's always changing imma go with the free life by Turbowolf

g - grossest memory: i've mostly blocked it out but there was this one campsite in France and when we arrived the sanitary building closest to us were nice and clean, but then for like the week we stayed there they never cleaned it 🙃

h - horror yes or horror no: no mostly, but occationally (I have also listened to tma)

i - in love?: not so far, and probably not ever

j - jealous of people?: rarely

l - love at first sight or should I walk by again?: save yourself the effort, I would like to be friends at first sight tho

m - middle name: no thank you

n - number of siblings: said sister from question e

o - one wish: long term probably like happiness, short tem a bigger appartment

p - person you called last: I had like a communication training and a week later we had to physically call an actor to do like a final practice convo before the real deal

q - question you are always asked: people don't really ask me questions?? the best i can think of is like what do you do? are you still studying? from like relatives and my parents neighbours

r - reason to smile: it's the weekend

s - song you sang last: Durch den Monsun by Tokio Hotel dkjlajdkl

t - time you woke up: at 8:00

u - underwear colour: black and white dots

v - vacation destination: I have a couple of places. I really want to see the northern light so like iceland or northern Norway for that one. I also wanna go back to Hong Kong because my last trip got cut quite abruptly. Also I want to see Tokyo.

w - worst habit: probably like scaring myself out of things ill enjoy

x - x-rays: oh shit it's good you mentioned the teeth thing cause ive gotten many a pictures of my teeth done, never broken a bone tho

y - your favorite food: I love spätzle, which i should make more often

z - zodiac sign: Leo, which is like the super social butterfly, i consider my self more a social moth, very energetic at random times and sit completely still for the rest

People who I want to get to know better: @itwoodbeprefect @ghost-faeries @pomato-queendom @localsealboy @pablothefrog (Only if you want to, of course.)

[weprovideleverage]

tagged by @snapdragon-fish

rules: answer the questions in a new post and tag 10 blogs you would like to get to know better.

a - age: 23

b - birthplace: along the rhine river in germany

c - current time: 19:48 (i broke the formatting help; edit: i fixed it :,) )

d - drink you last had: water

e - easiest person/people to talk to: my best friend

f - favorite song: uff probably sth by set it off?

g - grossest memory: found out on the third night sleeping in a mobile home/vacation home that the wall and the bed where full of ants... after i went into said bed

h - horror yes or horror no: no but i did listen to all of tma so now i feel i should change that to a solid maybe

i - in love?: no, never

j - jealous of people?: yeah... not my best trait

l - love at first sight or should I walk by again?: well no but this time in the aroace colours to give you a more "straight" answer

m - middle name: two actually! but your name does not belong on the interwebs so i wont tell ya

n - number of siblings: one

o - one wish: uhh world peace? no? well id settle for figuring out what i wanna do with my life 

p - person you called last: my boss to ask why noone is in the workshop (turns out they were sick or in the other shop)

q - question you are always asked: "how old are you?" followed by mild shock or embarasment cause just because im tiny doesnT MEAN IM TWELVE GUYS!!!

r - reason to smile: i have a cute fluffy dog :D

s - song you sang last: Zara Larsson - Can't Tame Her

t - time you woke up: 6:00

u - underwear colour: black and white stripes

v - vacation destination: dream vacation? well i share my first name with a greek godess so greece and specifically the athenian acropolis probably; next vacation? family holidays in france like every year

w - worst habit: procrastiation (hi snapdragon look i did answer! eventually)

x - x-rays: never. i did get an mri scan once? no wait i did get xray for my wisdom teeth!

y - your favorite food: Königsberger Klopse with Kapern (no i cant translate that... neither can wikipedia apparently)

z - zodiac sign: scorpio (which in most posts ive seen makes me the slytherin of starsigns even tho im a ravenclaw and also not activly mean or evil (mostly)

People who I want to get to know better: @teh-repository  @smileylover99 @ladyslice00 @accidentalkittyghost @sammy-writes-stuff (If you want to, of course.)

have a nice day!

[0bticeo]

j. sims, e. bouchard| love is an open wound still raw.

part one out of four. (part 2.) (part 3.) (part 4.)

summary.

“one of your wounds has reopened.”

slowly, you glance down to your hand. there’s a small puncture wound on your palm, surrounded by the imprints left by your nails. it bleeds, red seeping out of the flesh in neat droplets of crimson. your fist tightens.

drip, drip. 

“it’ll heal.”

“it might get infected.”

“oh, and what are you going to be able to do about it?”

“i have a first aid kit.”

wc. 2.6

tw. worms, jon patching up reader's wounds, heavily implied that elias is having the time of his life watching them go at it, fluff (in this economy?? written by obticeo??? shocking), handjob, blowjob, overstimulation (so um. non sex averse jon.)

work at the magnus institute, they said. it’s a good idea, they said. you thrive on knowing things and burying yourself in niche research topics for days on end for hyper specific information. why not give the esoteric and supernatural a try?

you blame the decent paycheck for signing the contract so quickly. 

(there is, really, nothing to blame but your own, insatiable curiosity. an institute studying supernatural happenings. how is the damn thing even funded?) 

oh, it wasn’t that bad. not at first, despite your instinct screaming not to trust the devilishly handsome head of the institute and to run away. the archives were a mess, courtesy of gertrude robinson’s piss poor organization. you did not want to know what layed in the artifact storage department. you dutifully ignored the sharp, pinprick pain at your nape, the weight settling over your skin like an accusatory finger. you’re being watched.

again, it wasn’t that bad.

then there were worms.

your fingers clench, dig in your palms. even now, weeks after the flesh-hive broke into the institute, you can feel it. smell it. 

the scent of decay, flesh rotting away, peeling bit by bit from brittle bone, and maggots. so many of them, worms everywhere, stark white fleshy mass wriggling, crawling towards you, biting you until they burrow in your flesh.

you should’ve seen it coming, really, what’s with martin being forced to reside in the archives until further notice and the occasional worm managing to crawl its way in.

you hadn’t. 

(drip, drip. 

blink, and you’re bleeding in a safe room, jon’s palm pressing down your thigh as he wrenches away the worms digging in your flesh with a corkscrew. your leg aches. your wrist is a bloody mess. all you can do is try to bite back a scream and fail, miserably. 

blink, and you’re safe, three months later. on bad days you can still feel them crawl, burrowing deeper and deeper in you, hungry, so terribly hungry.)

today, the archives are silent. the others are still quarantined, so the only noise filling the room is that of your breathing and the click, click, click of your pen. 

no martin to bring you a cup of coffee with a sheepish smile, debating over the merits of tea over coffee. no tim to prank you with the false statement of joe spooky and his encounters with the horrorsTM, holding back his laughter as you squint at him suspiciously. no sasha to gossip with, to laugh, delighted, voice lowering in a conspiratorial whisper as she tells you the latest tidbit of info she found out about jon - your prickly boss! in a band!

normally, the usual hustle and bustle of the archives (and its rowdy archival assistants), is almost enough for you to forget the permanent, oppressing feeling that you’re being watched. it’s always there, at the back of your mind, pinprick pressure at the edge of your neck. eyes, thousands and thousands of them watching you, knowing you, how you wake up screaming, nails digging bloody trails on your skin to get them out- 

breathe. 

you’re in the archives. you’re at your desk, tightly clenched hands resting on a manila folder. before you is the portrait of the founder of the institute. jonah magnus, green-grey eyes boring down upon you. you look back, tired eyes dead and unblinking. 

the watch on your wrist tells you it’s five and a half in the afternoon, give or take. the sun is declining. you’ve kept the lights off. penumbra settles over you like a blanket and you lean back in your chair. you’ve been there for three hours and haven’t moved an inch. 

you should probably go home. you should probably quit, actually. go up to elias’ office and politely tell him that you did not sign up to have your life threatened by worms, supernatural or not. 

you don’t.

the manila file in front of you contains a statement regarding robert montourke, given by one of his jailers. you should probably find a tape recorder. maybe there’s a spare in jon’s office. 

so you get up and set about getting that tape recorder. a beat. you think you catch the contours of one of these wretched worms, fat larvae half crushed by a bow full of statements. blink and it’s gone.

you all but slam open the door, only to reveal the head archivist in the flesh. he startles, almost dropping the pile of statements he’s been neatly stocking away in a cardboard box.

“what- how long have you been there?”

you stare at him, blankly, hand still resting against the doorknob.

“i- three hours- sorry, i should’ve knocked-”

“yes, yes you should have!”

your shoulders tense. he’s glaring at you with barely concealed suspicion, and all you can do is fight back the creeping panic that settles over you, because you can remember being in this very office, half leaning over jon’s desk, laughing with him, before the wall broke and the worms-

“what are you doing here?”

you take in a sharp inhale.

“i was looking for a tape recorder.”

jon lets out an aggravated sigh.

“here, in the archives.”

“i-”

“you should still be at the hospital, resting-”

“i’ve been discharged three days ago.”

he scoffs, running a hand through his tousled hair. it’s grown, you realize. a few inches, now long enough to brush the sharp edge of his jaw. there and there, creeping up his neck, his fingers, his wrists, you can see the scarring tissue of his flesh, puncture wounds like many cigarette burns. worms.

you swallow.

you don’t realize he’s in front of you until he calls your name, tone sharper than his wit.

“i’m going to talk to elias. this is ridiculous, having you work while you’re barely healed-”

“like you’re one to talk.”

he glares down at you, a scowl twisting his features. you meet his stare, lone sailor in the eye of the storm. his gaze trails over your features, takes in the scars crawling up your forearms, the skin left bare by the rolled up sleeves of your shirt. his frown deepens.

“one of your wounds has reopened.”

slowly, you glance down to your hand. there’s a small puncture wound on your palm, surrounded by the imprints left by your nails. it bleeds, red seeping out of the flesh in neat droplets of crimson. your fist tightens.

drip, drip. 

“it’ll heal.”

“it might get infected.”

“oh, and what are you going to be able to do about it?”

“i have a first aid kit.”

with that, he moves behind his desk and opens a drawer with an aggravated sigh. he rummages through it, discarding stationary and a paperback of poe’s selected tales. he’s got taste, you muse, drawing closer, footsteps silent on the carpet. at last, jon pulls out a red box and motions for you to sit down on the edge of his desk. 

“give me your hand,” he mutters.

you extend your hand, slowly, holding it up by his desk lamp. his fingers come to cradle your wrist, brushing your pulse, pressing against the faint outline of the bone. your breath hitches. slowly, he gets to work, critical gaze assessing the wound. it doesn’t need stitches. small blessings. 

he pulls out a sterile compress and pours disinfectant on it.

“it’ll sting.”

he’s gentle, jon, the compress held firmly against your palm, but not harshly, no. you let out a low hiss, pain like an inferno setting your nerve ablaze. you think you see his frown deepening at the pained sound that manages to fly past your gritted teeth.

the compress comes out stained. finally, he discards it and grabs the gauze, carefully wrapping it around your palm. 

in the dim lighting of the room, you make out the sunken cheeks, the five o’clock shadow adorning his jaw, the exhaustion creeping in the deep green of his eyes. they meet yours. your heart skips a beat, then another. silence stretches, stretches.

he’s been watching you, you realize. 

“you didn’t have to do this, you know.” 

he scoffs, throwing away the stained compress.

“somebody has to take care of you, if you don’t do it yourself.”

you let out a dry chuckle.

“hypocrite.”

“i am not-”

“no? when was the last time you ate? have you slept in the past three days?”

with each question, you get closer and closer to him, until you’re a breath away from him, tired gaze boring into his. there’s defensiveness in his eyes, protests piling up in scathing retort on the tip of his tongue.

“why don’t you take care of yourself, jon?”

you see his shoulders tense under the white cotton of his shirt, fingers flexing, gaze flickering, looking anywhere but you. something like resignation settles over his features, clouding the blazing green of his gaze.

“it’s rotten work.”

“not to me.”

your hand finds the sharp edge of his jaw, palm like a balm against his cheeks. you feel him relax, leaning into your touch, lips brushing against your pulse. you drink in the sight of him, worn to the bone, scars etched in his skin, reaching for his soul. he’s soft, in the sunset, all ragged edges tiredly melting away as you take one step closer to him.

“please, jon. let me take care of you.”

a beat. he chuckles, the sound low and rich, vibration reverberating in your bones.

“i can’t stop you, can i?”

“no, you can’t.” 

you fall into his orbit, in the magnetic pull of him. your lips brush against his, brushing hesitantly against the chapped skin. you hear a startled little sound of a gasp, surprise dying on his tongue, melting as you press yourself against him, bandaged hand splayed over his chest. do not still, beating heart. it stutters under your touch, hummingbird yearning for escape. you’d cradle it in your hands and swallow it whole, his heart, keeping it safe.

as it is, you cannot turn bones and spread the open wings of his ribcage apart, so you settle for Knowing him, mapping out each prickly edge of him. 

your lips grow firmer in their relentless pursuit of his own. he nips at you, wounded animal desperate for respite, so you cradle him against you, kissing him over and over, until his mouth parts for you, until, finally, you share the same breath.

you melt a little against him, fingers digging in his shoulders for support. the world narrows down, optical adjustment until it’s only you and the warmth of his fingers on your waist, comet tail blazing a path of desire over your clothed skin. your knees go weak.

you pull apart for air, and it feels like losing a part of yourself.

jon looks at you, green eyes dark and heavy, lips kiss-swollen and red and so very inviting. 

more…

you don’t know which of you broke the silence. doesn’t matter when jon grabs the front of your shirt and yanks you forward until you stumble in his chest. doesn’t matter when he sits back on his chair, when he lets you straddle him, slender fingers coaxing you out of your clothes. 

he kisses you against, and he’s hungry for it, like he’s longed for this, longed for you, you with your mouth like an offering, so warm and safe against him. his hand finds the back of your nape, thumb pressing down, and you dissolve in a sweet puddle of need. he tastes like nicotine and tea, bittersweet in all the right ways, and it feels like a revelation.

your hands set about knowing him, wandering the paths made up by the dips of his ribs, the valley of his chest, going further and further south until your hands press against the buckle of his belt.

“yes- ah!”

you’re gentle about it, really. palming him, tracing the outline of him through his slacks, relishing at the deep, shuddering exhale of your name. his hand wraps around yours, dwarfing yours. your mind goes deliciously blank, his long, slender fingers pulling down his slacks just enough to free his length.

need burns in your mind. 

jon chuckles, low and teasing, something like mirthful amusement in his eyes.

“it’s not going to bite, you know.”

“i might.”

with that, you wrap your hand around his cock. jon hisses, hips bucking in your grip. pink dusts his cheeks like dawn rising as he watches you, like he’s committing you to memory.

(he is. he wishes you could see yourself, stark silhouette burned in his retina, clothes unkempt, shirt half-opened to reveal the tantalizing edge of your bra, lips kiss-swollen, eyes wide and dark, hands slowly pumping his length.)

he groans, head lolling back, his hand tightening on your hip.

“you’re a tease.”

“and you’re pretty.”

he gasps at that. you laugh, and press your lips to his, speeding up your rhythm until you feel him tense and writhe, hips jerking against you. beds of wetness drip down on your fingers. you bring them to your mouth and hum, tongue darting out, licking them clean. jon’s breath catches at the sight.

you want to taste him, you realize. know each and every part of him, so you slide off his lap and get on your knees, skirt riding up your thighs. your hands run up his shin, fingers dancing over his knee as they tread the path to his core.

your tongue flicks out against the flushed head, lapping at his pre. he shudders at that, a low groan leaving his lips. you feel him twitch in your grip and speed up, pressing fleeting, fluttering kisses against the soft, heated skin. when your mouth closes on his length and you taste and know him, static buzzes in your mind. 

a hand, broad and big and warm, settles on your head and pushes you closer, fingers threading through your hair. you whine. he’s big and heavy, filling up your mouth until all you know is him. your nails rake his thighs and he moans at that. you can’t help but look up through your lashes.

he’s the picture of sin, jonathan sims. his pristine shirt is crumpled, haphazardly unbuttoned to reveal the knife-edge of his collarbone. his fingers tighten on the armrest, deliciously firm in their desperate attempt to find purchase as you bring him closer and closer to his release. and gods, the slow, sublime arch of his neck, the way his head lolls back in rapture as he comes again with a startled gasp-

you hum, delighted, swallowing every last drop.

ah, but you’re not done yet. you’re not done learning about all the sweet moans you can coax out of him, about what makes him tick and come in blissful rapture. so, you make him come. 

again, and again, and again, worshiping every precious inch of him as you go, sucking  bruises in the tender skin of his neck. mine. his moans fill the room, startled little gasp and desperate pleas for more, for you to stop because it’s too much, to please, please-

when you pull back, your breath catches in your throat. he’s a masterpiece of debauchery, glasses askew, tears of overstimulation trailing down his flushed cheeks, lips parted in harsh, ragged pants. 

you nuzzle against him with a coo, one hand slipping under his shirt, settling over his chest, over the thundering beat of his heart.

his hand settles on your thigh, his forehead pressing against yours as he desperately tries to catch his breath.

“w-wait… you didn’t get to… let me…”

“shh…” you peck his lips, the kiss sweet and chaste. “this is about you. for once in your life, let yourself be cared for.”

he nods, reluctantly, fingers tightening over your thigh in a promise.

“fine. but i’m treating you to dinner. that is non-negotiable.”

you laugh a little, smiling fondly up at him.

“boss’ orders.”

[reallycool12345]

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[postsofbabel]

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[justahumblememefarmer]

@pretty-kitten-paw I want to break this down because I do legitimately want to understand

It decentres discussions of oppression around identity into the materialist reality of your life

I would like to understand this sentence a little bit more and would appreciate some elaboration.

To me I saw people using TME/TMA as an identity or using it to identify others. It was jarring to me to see people using bigotry as an identity. I've never seen somebody describe somebody's sexuality as biphobia-affected or their race as anti-blackness exempt.

Are you saying that it's a term for use in discussions of transmisogyny that's easier than just using the term you identify as? I'm just confused as to how the term originated and what it's intende usage is.

Why are you so comfortable claiming tma people are creating binary to separate ourselves off? That's literally separatist transmisogynist terf rhetoric

I'm not claiming anybody is doing anything malicious. I'm trying to better understand transmisogyny and this terminology that I'd only seen with very little context. The first few times I saw these terms they were in posts discussing people minimizing oppression faced by trans men and denying the existence of transandrophbia. I'm trying to understand whether or not I got the wrong impression. Did I see a skewed view out of context, and can you provide a better one.

The impression I was getting from these posts was that there were some people saying "You can't experience transmisogyny because you are [insert identity here]. Only [these other identities] experience transmisogyny. And transmisogyny is more oppressive than any other form of transphobia."

In other words it felt like people saying that A, B, & C identities are TMA while X, Y, & Z identities are TME. You're either TMA or TME with no overlap. If there's a system where you're either TMA or TME with no potential overlap, that seems like a binary to me.

And I'm not saying that all people who use this terminology are saying things like this, might just be the specific individual the poster I saw was dealing with.

A two spirit person, a trans woman and a nonbinary transfem are not all the same yet are exposed to the same power structure

I think this is part of the reason that TME/TMA confused me a bit. These identities are all different. I was getting the sense that some people were trying to put these different identities all into the same bucket. Saying that all two spirit people, trans women and nonbinary transfems go into the TMA category and that's it.

Also transmisogyny isn't just bigotry at trans women. If you wanna have problems about the language we use to describe our oppression. LEARN WHAT TRABSMISOGYNY IS IN THE FIRST PLACE

All forms of bigotry are broad, complex, and invade many different parts of our lives. Transmisogyny has many different intersections with racism, misogyny, and homophobia. But generally speaking most forms of bigotry identify a specific minority group or type of identity they are targeting in their name. Homophobia has many facets, but generally speaking I think of it as bigotry towards gay people. Racism I tend to think of as bigotry towards people based on race. Transmisogyny I primarily think of as bigotry towards trans women.

I think there's gaps in my knowledge of transmisogyny. When I think about racism there's difference between te stereotype of somebody being called a slur vs things like microaggressions or even broader concepts like systemic racism. And there's also differences between racism against black people vs asian people or other racial groups. It all falls under racism, but there's still a lot of different things that covers.

I imagine that this is the kind of thing you are talking about when you say there's more to transmisogyny then just bigotry against trans women, but at the same time I don't know what I don't know. The whole reason behind this post was that I was seeing terminology I didn't understand about a community that I'm not really immersed in. And what I did see seemed to be a lot of disagreements about the terms.

What's the deal with TMA/TME?

I'd never seen this term before and now I'm seeing it in a lot of discussions. And I just don't particularly understand it. I've never really seen an explainer on where this terminology started or why people are using it.

I personally identify my gender as queer.

TMA and TME stand for transmisogyny exempt and transmisogyny affected and to me that feels very strange for a lot of reasons

1. Why are we creating a new gender-binary for trans people to fit into?

There's many helpful terms for gender identities, but I think we all understand that binaries aren't good. Replacing men and women with men and non-men isn't good. And more than that just creating a third category/gender isn't much better. There's not just man, woman, and non-binary or AMAB, AFAB, and intersex. Many people are many different things. Some people are multiple things. Some people change what they are.

2. Why are we creating a definition based on oppression?

It feels very strange to me to self-identify by what kind of bigotry you face. I would never define my sexuality as "homophobia affected".

3. Who decides who is and isn't affected by a form of bigotry?

Transmisogyny is of course targeted primarily at trans women, but like all forms of bigotry it's more about what the bigot perceives you as. A straight man getting called a faggot is still experiencing homophobia. A trans man getting told "you'll never be a woman" because somebody doesn't really understand what being trans is is still experiencing transmisogyny.

We all laugh at the bigots who accidentally correctly gender people, but at the same time that is still a person who is obsessed with purposefully misgendering and deadnaming a trans person, even if they are wrong.

So describing a trans man or anybody as "exempt" from transmisogyny is a bit strange to me. I've also seen some people using TME that argue that trans men don't experience oppression or that the term transandrophobia to describe specific bigotry against trans man is bad to use or somehow cheapening the value of the word transmisogyny.

I've also seen discussions about whether or not non-binary people are TME or TMA based on their AGAB. Which to me feels like enforcing a binary of Women and non-binary people I consider women & non-women.

I think people are the gender they identify as. I think that bigotry is complex and while certain types target certain people, I don't think anybody is necessarily exempt or immune from it, particularly if they are perceived to be a part of a group that they are not.

Would be happy to listen to explanations of this, but it just doesn't really make sense to me.

[smellingofpoetry]

Drowning

Characters: Reader, Sam Winchester (Soulless!Sam), Dean Winchester (mentioned)

Pairing: Soulless!Sam x Reader

Summary: And, sometimes, it was just too hard to keep her mind from wandering in search of him.

Square/s Filled: “Squirting” (@spnkinkevents), "Free Space" (TMAS Bingo - @supernatural-jackles), "Wap - Cardi B"(@anyfandomkinkbingo)

Warnings: angst, smut, oral (fem rec, male rec), finger fucking, sex, p in v, unprotected sex, squirting, face fucking, creampie

Rating: +18

Words count: 3173

Beta: @snowlovespie

A/N:  Hi!🖤 So, I wrote this story for the fantastic @negans-lucille-tblr and her blogiversary. Congratulation on your achievement, love! My prompt was this one: "Missing you comes in waves, and tonight I’m drowning.", you'll find it in bold. I decided to experiment a bit this time, so here we are with my first fic about Sam. I really had fun writing this one not only because I went out of my comfort zone, but also because I ended up writing something quite different from the usual with some usual plot twist, 'cause you know how much I like them. I hope you'll enjoy it. Let me know what you think. 🖤

Everything had changed after Lucifer and the cage.

She thought the worst was to say goodbye to Sam and learning to live without that giant dork. She wasn’t ready for that - nobody was.

No one told her that losing Sam would mean losing Dean too. He left that same night with a simple hug, a really too-quick goodbye, leaving her behind.

She thought that even if he stopped hunting, they could still keep in touch. She realized her mistake and felt so stupid for thinking he would have answered her. Not while he was busy living a life miles away from her and Bobby. Not while he was committed to a whole new life with his new family – with Lisa.

Yeah, that was what hurt her most. Knowing that somewhere else he was laughing and kissing and sleeping with the same stranger, someone who wasn't her.

She shut close her eyes, shaking her head to get rid of all those images.

God…she felt so stupid, still thinking about him after all this time, and the nights were always the worst because it was just too hard to keep her mind from wandering.

Missing Dean came in waves, and tonight – oh tonight – she was drowning while staring at the bottom of her half-empty glass.

She downed the rest of the whiskey and immediately asked for another round, taking the glass in her fingers with a deep sigh as the bartender served her again.

“Well, happy birthday to me.”

Y/N murmured, bringing the glass to her lips and drinking the whisky in one go, feeling the alcohol burn her throat. She slammed the glass down on the counter, shaking her head and squeezing her eyes shut.

Sensing someone had taken a seat beside her, she opened one eye to glance at the newcomer, relaxing immediately when she recognized Sam.

Right, Sam.

He was back. No one was quite sure how it had happened, but he was back, and that was what mattered - that and the fact that he wasn't a demon.

At first, when she saw him in Bobby's living room, she hoped they could just pick up where they left off. Until Bobby made her realize that wasn't going to happen. It was a very short conversation, consisting of two sentences.

Two sentences that, to that day, she didn’t know who hurt more – her or Bobby.

At least she had Sam back, which was both good and bad. Don't get her wrong: she was happy to have her friend back. Still, sometimes it was hard to look at him without thinking of Dean. Tonight, was one of those times.

“What are you doing here, Winchester?”

“Bobby told me where to find you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes as Sam raised his arm and motioned for the barman to bring two more drinks.

“What do you need?”

“Why do I have to need something?”

“Because that’s how it usually works with you, guys.”

Sam smiled and raised his hands in surrender, knowing full well that she had caught him.

“Alright, alright. I thought we could have celebrated your birthday together.”

“Thanks, Sam, but I’m not in the mood.”

Sam took the drinks and thanked the barman. He kept one for himself and handed the other to Y/N.  He remained silent for a few seconds, just staring and studying her more.

“Is this about Dean?”

Y/N scoffed at his words, looking at Sam as if he were nuts to even think such a thing. Well, he wasn't, but she had to keep what was left of her dignity.

“What? No.”

Sam frowned in disbelief. Y/N glared at him, hoping he would drop the subject, but he seemed to be on a different frequency lately.

“C’mon, Y/N, I know you used to spend all your birthdays with Dean. I was there a few times, remember?”

Y/N sighed, rolling her eyes, and letting Sam know how annoyed she was with him at the moment.

“Okay, fine, so what?”

“So, don’t let that stop you from celebrating, just because he’s not here.”

She sighed and looked down at the glass in front of her.

“He’s out there leaving his life and, sooner or later, you have to move on, and this seems to be a time as good as any.”

Y/N glanced at him, knowing he was right, and there was nothing she could say about it. She sighed, defeated, rubbing her eyes with her fingertips.

“So…”

She paused, looking to Sam for help. He seemed to sense her hesitation, so he grabbed both glasses and handed her one, which she took.

“So, we’re going to celebrate, you and me. I know I’m not Dean, but I promise you, we’ll have fun.”

They clinked the glass together before gulping down the whiskey.

They drank, laughed, and danced until the bartender hadn’t almost kicked them out. She really had had fun, though. Y/N hadn’t laughed that much in a very long time, and neither of them was ready to end their night.

So, they kept moving until they stumbled into Sam’s motel room, and one thing led to another. She’d known it was a big mistake the moment their lips touched, but that hadn’t been enough to stop her.

She couldn't even blame the alcohol. She could only blame herself and her weakness, but a year was a long time, and she longed for someone's touch. And even if Sam wasn't the one she really wanted, he was at least the one who was close enough to her, and that thought alone had hurt. So, she kissed him harder, and he kissed her back, matching Y/N same hunger. With their mouths pressed together, they began to push and pull their clothes off.

Their shirts were the first to hit the floor, leaving them both panting. Their eyes roamed over each other’s bodies. Y/N felt too self-conscious as she tried to unbutton her jeans. She unzipped them and let’em slide down her legs. Sam watched her every move, licking his lips in anticipation.

Y/N couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at her like that. She shuddered as she unhooked the clasp of her black lace bra, letting it slide down her arms and onto the floor. Sam grabbed her neck and pressed his mouth against hers. The kiss was rough and messy. He bit his lip and then ran his tongue over it. And just as he cupped her breast with his hands, Y/N wondered if Dean would have kissed her in the same way. Sam's fingers pinching her already hard nipples pushed that thought away.

She reached for his belt, unbuckled it and pulled down his trousers. The boxers were next. Pulling them down enough to free his cock, she wrapped her fingers around his shaft, stroking the tip. At that, Sam moaned into Y/N's mouth, bucking his hips against her. He ran a hand through her hair, tugging at it with his fingers to encourage her to kneel, and she took the hint.

She stroked it and, not taking her eyes off him, licked a strip of his cock, swirling her tongue around the head, tasting the pre-cum.

Y/N couldn't resist, so she took him in her mouth, closed her eyes and began to suck on his length.

Would Dean taste the same?

Would he moan the same way?

She got wetter and wetter with every lick, moan and thrust. Releasing Sam's cock with a loud pop, Y/N breathed deeply as she stroked his shaft, her other hand fondling his balls. He grunted, tightening the grip on the back of her head as his hand replaced hers on his shaft.

“Open up.”

She opened her mouth as she was told and stuck out her tongue. At the sight of Y/N on her knees in front of him, Sam growled and slapped his cock on her tongue once, twice, three times before pushing it through her lips.

She took it in, sucking as best she could, as Sam jerked his hips back and forth.

Y/N felt saliva running down her chin as he mouth-fucked her. With both hands on his hips, for balance, she closed her eyes.

She had spent several sleepless nights imagining herself kneeling, with Dean's cock in her mouth, fucking her the way Sam was doing it. And on those nights, the thought alone had made her come on her fingers all the time and one flick of Sam’s fingers on her clit would have had the same result in that moment.

Sam rocked in and out until he felt too close to the edge, so he stepped back, helped her up and quickly crushed his mouth against hers. She kissed him back as his hands moved down her body, searching for her panties. He tore them off and slid his fingers between her legs, which she spread a little, moaning at the feel of his fingers circling her clit.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. Is that all for me?”

Y/N bit her lower lip, nodding at the question, her eyes never leaving Sam's. He pressed his forehead against hers, mingling their breaths, grinning.

“Liar.”

Her eyes widened, but she had no time to say anything as he slid two fingers inside her, pushing them faster and faster, eagerly nipping at her nipples with his lips, making Y/N thrust against his hand.

“Oh, God…”

Y/N whimpered, clenching tightly around his fingers while he kept moving them, working her through the orgasm.

When it became too much, he slid his digits out and brought them to her lips, and she promptly welcomed them, sucking and moaning at the taste of herself on her tongue.

When she let them out, Sam captured her mouth in a sloppy kiss and urged them both towards the bed.

He put his hands on her hips and turned her over. Once her back was pressed against his chest, Sam's hands moved up Y/N's body, cupping her breasts and enjoying every moan as he nibbled at her earlobe.

“Hands and knees on the bed.”

Sam watched as she positioned herself in the middle of the bed with her legs spread wide, making him growl at the sight of her glistening pussy on full display. Unable to resist the urge to taste it, he stood behind Y/N and licked and sucked her folds once, twice, three times.

She bit her lips and gripped the sheets so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

Sam trailed kisses up the skin of her back until he reached her shoulders, sinking his teeth there and making her moan. She had never been more desperate to fill that void.

He nuzzled her neck, licking a strip of skin, holding her in place as he took his cock to rub it a few times across her wet folds, grazing her opening with the tip.

Y/N closed her eyes in anticipation, feeling herself stretch around his girth inch by inch.

Once buried inside her, he stood still, giving Y/N time to get used to his size. Panting into her ear, his hands roamed down her body to pinch her perky nipples. Sam moved his hips back, already feeling her breathing get heavier, feeling how wet her pussy was getting and how tight it was clenching around his shaft, so he pushed into her again. She tried to move, desperately wanting him to go a little faster, a little harder, but Sam was quicker, stopping her hips with his hands, slowing the pace.

One of his hands gripped Y/N's neck, pulling her closer to his chest. As he increased the rhythm of his thrusts, she humored Sam's hips as best she could, feeling the wetness slide down her trembling legs.

Would it have felt that good to have Dean inside her?

Usually, it was – in her dreams at least. Dean would fuck her that way, with his chest pressed to her back, a hand around the neck, and the other rubbing her clit just the way she liked it.

At that thought, she threw her head back, eyes closed, and slid a hand between her legs to rub the already hardened clit.

Sam lowered his gaze, shuddering at the sight, and as a result tightened his grip on her neck, loving the way Y/N instantly squeezed his cock, feeling her become even tighter than she already was.

She gasped as Sam continued to move at a brutal pace, wanting nothing more than to feel her finally start to come around him.

Which she did the moment she tightened her grip around his shaft, making him moan with pleasure.

Y/N felt the orgasm overwhelm her and she couldn't help but moan in pleasure.

“D… Sam!”

She bit down on her lips, squeezing her already closed eyes even tighter, and her cheeks turned red from the embarrassment of having almost moaned out the wrong name.

Sam had to smile at that, giving her a few more thrusts, letting her ride out the orgasm, and only when she collapsed flat on the mattress did he get out of her soaked pussy, causing Y/N to whimper at the loss.

She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm her wild heart, and as Sam helped her turn over to lie on the bed between the pillows, she saw him towering over her with a grin on his face.

Blushing and out of breath, she let her eyes roam over his sweaty body, licking her lips at the sight of his still hard cock, opening her legs and welcoming him between them.

Sam moved closer, running his hands up and down her legs, leaning in to greedily search for her lips.

Y/N kissed him back with equal intensity, running her fingers through his long hair, pulling it tighter than she intended and getting a slap on her red, sensitive pussy.

Moaning, she grabbed his hard cock and pumped it quickly, while at the same time Sam slid two fingers into her slit and fingered her vigorously. 

She felt herself getting wetter than she thought possible as Sam continued to hit her G-spot.

Unable to do anything but lie there and take whatever he was willing to give her, she let go of his dick and gripped the sheets beneath her, her toes curling in anticipation.

“F-fuck…”

She cried out, collapsed and spilled onto his hand, legs shaking and breathing heavily as she felt the most powerful orgasm of her life.

He looked at her in awe before pulling his fingers from her still throbbing pussy, sucking and tasting them with closed eyes.

As soon as Sam opened them, he looked at her before placing both forearms on either side of her head and pushing the head of his cock against her entrance.

He swallowed her moan with his mouth and kissed her hard and deep, letting Y/N taste herself on his tongue.

She responded to the kiss with everything she had and felt him fill her again in one quick thrust.

“God, Y/N, you feel so fucking good.”

Sam groaned, pounding her pussy with deep, hard thrusts. She arched her back and wrapped both legs around his hips. She could feel his dick throbbing deep inside her thanks to this position, and with the feeling that he was close, she clenched tightly around him.

“Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up good.”

“Yeah, come for me, Sam, please.”

She felt him tremble between her legs, and with three more powerful thrusts he burst inside her, leaving Y/N whimpering as she felt Sam's cum filling her.

His groans echoing through the walls.

Minutes later he stopped in her tight heat, running his fingers along her side, noticing her chest still rising and falling slightly, he leaned down, kissing her swollen lips.

His hand reached for her breast, squeezing and kneading it a few times between his fingers. Then, he let go and stepped out of her warmth.

Y/N shivered at the air hitting her warm skin as Sam put his hands on her knees, spreading them wider and staring at her glistening slit.

She was so fucking beautiful, all spread out for him, just him, and Sam always wondered what it would feel like to have her like that and, fuck, if it wasn't worth it.

So, he couldn't really understand why he hadn't made a move sooner.

As he watched his cum ooze out of her used pussy, Sam moaned, biting his lips, trying to hold on until he couldn't.

“Fuck it…”

He leaned down and licked at her folds, tasting her and himself on Y/N's wet skin.  The moment she felt his tongue, a long moan escaped her lips, so she slipped a hand between her legs and ran her fingers through Sam's hair.

He kept on slurping at her pussy, then slid his tongue into her slit, feeling Y/N instantly buck her hips into his mouth.

She was a quivering mess, lying on the bed with her legs spread and Sam's head between them, not really sure how much longer she could hold out.

But she couldn't help imagining what someone...

No, scratch that.

What would Dean have thought if he had walked in the room just then? What would he have thought, seeing her being fucked by his brother?

Y/N bit down on her lips and closed her eyes as she arched her back, still rocking her hips to indulge Sam's tongue.

She cupped her breasts and promptly pinched the hard nipples, trying to get rid of Dean's image, his hands, his lips, but those green eyes seemed to haunt her everywhere.

“Come for me, Y/N, c’mon.”

“Uhm… can’t.”

“Yes, yes, you can. One more time, c’mon.”

Sam's tongue filled her again as he rubbed his skilled fingers over her clit, and in no time, she could feel the pleasure building again.

Her head was still so full of Dean's image as she came on his little brother's tongue that Y/N had to bite down on her own to keep from moaning the wrong name, which was right there, about to slip past her lips.

He drank all of her juices, only letting her go when it became too much for her, and Y/N's leg immediately collapsed on the bed as she tried to get over her high.

Sam rolled over in the sheets beside her, licking his lips where he could still taste her. He glanced in Y/N's direction with a lazy smile on his face, then caught her lips for one last kiss before getting up to disappear into the bathroom.

Y/N stood still, breathing heavily, and staring at the ajar door. And even if she could still feel the buzzing in her body, she forced herself to get out of bed, ad the reality of what had just happened hit her with full force.

Picking up all her clothes, she dressed as best she could and slipped out of the motel room. Once outside, she leaned against the cool wall, breathing in the night air.

What the fuck had she done?