#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)

[writethelifeyouwant]

Made For You | Chapter 19

Summary: Dean and Sam like what they have together, and if screwing your brother screws with the universe’s “grand plan” while they’re at it, then even better. Neither of them has ever cared much for tradition or fate, but it turns out there are some destinies you can’t escape. Sometimes, someone is just made for you. 

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader / Alpha!Dean x Omega!Sam Rating: 18+ Warnings: Incest, Dub Con (Sex Pollen) Tags:  Dean x Reader, Dean x Sam, alpha!Dean, omega!Sam, omega!Reader, fuck or die, sex pollen, love triangle, star-crossed lovers, destiny, true mates, primal urges, angst, mating, kissing, p in v, knotting, scenting, kinda threesome, hurt/comfort, praise kink, dirty talk, accidental mating, squirting, overstimulation, sloppy seconds Bingo Squares:  @spnabobingo - Sloppy Seconds | @supernatural-jackles TMAS Bingo Word Count: 2.2k

Series Masterlist

Sam’s POV

Sam feels sick. No– no, actually, he doesn’t. He wants to feel sick. He knows he should feel horrified about everything that’s just happened.

He hadn’t meant to stay, really he hadn’t. Sam wants to blame it on the supernatural sex pollen, and some of it definitely can be blamed on the horrid substance. He can tell himself that he never would have stayed to watch Y/N and Dean if he had been thinking clearly. He never would have touched his baby girl the way he did at the end if he’d been of sound mind. Holding her, comforting her while she was in danger, making sure she and Dean were both safe; that’s one thing. Slipping his fingers between his daughter’s legs to play with her clit and help her cum around Dean’s knot is not as easily explained. And absolutely none of it is forgivable, Sam berates himself. 

He should be disgusted with himself… but he isn’t. As Sam breathes deeply, trying to comprehend everything that’s just transpired, he can feel his cock–rock hard and leaking almost as much slick as his hole–rubbing between the sweat-damp skin of Y/N’s lower back and his own stomach. At some point in the proceedings, his hospital gown must have gotten bunched up without him realising it. 

All of Sam’s senses feel overwhelmed and confused. His ass feels just as empty and desperate as it has since the sex pollen began to take effect, craving a knot, craving a mate. But now, he’s just mated himself to someone who can’t give him that. When Sam sucked Dean’s tongue into his mouth and licked over his brother’s lips, he swallowed down the same blood and mating hormones that Dean had just released from their daughter’s veins. Through their carelessness, and their desperate craving for each other, Sam and Dean had just forced Y/N into a mating bond that she hadn’t chosen. And now, the sex pollen that’s been making Sam crave an alpha’s cock is now also making him crave his own daughter’s cunt. Because he’s a fucking idiot. 

There’s yet another problem with this situation, though, because Dean’s cock is still knotted inside Y/N. Sam can feel the head of his brother’s dick pressing up against his palm through the base of the girl’s belly–a feeling that, inexplicably, has him practically delirious with desire. Y/N and Dean will probably stay knotted for a little while longer before the alpha releases enough to separate them without hurting either of them, and that’s if they don’t just start fucking again on instinct and stay tied the whole time. So both of the things that Sam is being forced to magically crave are also both off-limits to him right now, and he thinks it’s going to drive him insane. 

Well, silver lining, Sam thinks bitterly, if the sex pollen kills me, Y/N won’t be stuck mated to an omega she never wanted in the first place. 

“Hey, hey!” A dull tapping gets Sam’s attention and he blinks, bringing the hospital room back into focus around him, becoming conscious that Dean is lightly smacking him on the cheek. “There he is,” his older brother smiles tightly, and Sam feels his own lips pull up in a lazy smirk. 

“Shut up,” he tries to say, trying to roll his eyes, but Sam can’t feel his muscles reacting properly, the way he remembers it feeling, and his words come out blurry, his vision slurring. 

Dean’s POV

“Sammy? Sam!” Dean calls again, more forcefully this time as his little brother’s eyes lose focus again, and his lids slip shut. His jaw hangs slightly ajar and his neck begins to loll back, his stupid long floppy hair pooling on his shoulders. This is not good. This is very, very not good, and Dean can feel himself beginning to panic. The pollen is clearly beginning to take over Sam’s system. 

“Daddy?” Y/N grumbles, her head snuggling back into Sam’s chest as she tries to peer up at him. “Daddy?” she asks again, slightly more alert, when Sam doesn’t respond. “Daddy. Da– Dean? What’s wrong?” 

Dean tries to shush his mate, kissing her gently on the forehead as he tries to think about what can be done. He’s just found his brother again after twenty years. He’s not about to lose him again. No way. 

“Dean, what’s happening?” Y/N asks more insistently, pulling back to look him in the eye, the pleasure-fog that had been clouding her features a moment before almost entirely evaporated now. 

“It’s the pollen,” Dean grunts, shifting his body as much as he can with his knot still tied to Y/N. “Can you lean forward, baby girl? Need to try and move us over, give him some space.” 

“Shit, yeah,” Y/N flinches as she sits up too quickly, Dean’s cock moving inside of her and pulling uncomfortably for the both of them. 

“Careful,” Dean hisses, biting on his tongue in concentration as he tucks a hand under Y/N’s leg and pulls it around his waist more tightly. “Here, put your arms around my neck sweetheart, gonna pick you up.” The alpha sits back on his knees, gathering the omega into him and pulling her up off of the mattress. Sam’s body relaxes a little and slides a bit down the bed without the weight of Y/N keeping him upright. His legs splay open as if it’s instinctual, displaying his hole and his cock, the scent of his arousal leaking into the air around them and making Dean feel slightly faint. 

“Oh god,” Y/N whines, and Dean groans as her pussy clamps down on his knot, pulsing wantonly as she also inhales the scent of her father’s slick. “Oh fuck,” she whimpers into his shoulder, her lips skating damply over Dean’s skin. 

“You want him, don’t you, baby girl?” Dean hears himself purring against Y/N’s ear, unconscious of making the decision to speak. His voice sounds low and guttural, seductive, and he has no idea what’s coming over him. “Such a greedy little girl, not happy with just one Daddy stuffed in this pussy, are you? You want two. You want Sammy, don'tcha sweetheart?” 

“Fuck, Dean, yes,” Y/N groans, still grinding herself down onto his knot, which is not what Dean needs to be happening right now. He needs to get Y/N off of himself and on to his brother as quickly as possible, no matter how much his instincts are screaming at him for even considering pulling out of the cunt he’s currently cradled inside of. “Fuck, want you. Want you, Daddy,” the omega moans, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat, a whole muddle of arousal and emotion surging through him at the sound of Y/N referring to him as Daddy, and how much more that means now. 

“You’ve got me, baby girl,” he pants, nuzzling against her and dragging his mouth across her skin until his lips find hers. “Fuck, ‘mega, I got you. Alpha’s got you.” Dean is on his feet he realises, having picked Y/N up in his arms and stepped off of the bed. He slams Y/N’s back against the wall beside the bed, pinning her body against his, and starts thrusting into her furiously, fucking her so hard the bed beside them is quaking. His face is buried against her neck, her screams are thick and vital in his ears, stringing his nerves so tight they snap in a flash of heat as he empties himself inside of her for a third time. There’s so much cum he can feel some of it escaping the barrier that his knot is supposed to be making and dripping into the crevices between the omega’s thighs. 

“Dean,” Y/N is sobbing brokenly against him from her own overwhelming pleasure, and the alpha gets a spark of inspiration. 

Pulling his hips back a little so he can squeeze a hand between them, he lets his fingers find the tiny bundle of nerves a little ways above where he can feel his cock rocking in and out of her entrance the tiniest bit. He swirls the pads of his fingers over her until he finds the spot that makes her gasp and bang her head back against the wall, ecstasy written clearly over her face. Speeding up, he begins to flex his hips a little more, unable to control very much with his knot still so big inside of her, but hoping desperately that the increased girth is giving him the advantage he needs and rubbing over the right spot. 

“Cum for Daddy, ‘mega,” Dean commands, his jaw set in concentration. “Want you to squirt on my cock and push, push my knot right out of you baby girl, so you can go fuck your other Daddy for me. That’s what your alpha wants, Y/N. Wanna get you dripping wet so you just slide right down on your daddy's dick. It’s fucking big, take a look. Look at what I’m about to shove inside of this tight little hole, baby girl, and tell me how much you want your daddy’s cock inside of you.” 

Y/N’s body becomes almost painfully tight around him and Dean feels every muscle seize up urgently, feels the gush of slick between his legs as her body convulses around him, and with a monumental effort he drags his hips down and manages to work himself free, his daughter still shaking and jerking in his arms with the seemingly unending waves of her climax. When Dean manages to focus his vision and he catches sight of her face, he can see her whole countenance has gone slack, muscles that had been wound tighter than a spring now hanging limply beneath her skin, her eyes blinking and unfocused�� just on the verge of passing out then, not actually unconscious. 

He’ll have to take the opportunity to congratulate himself some other time. 

Dean lets Y/N’s legs uncurl from around him and lowers her to the floor, switching position and sweeping her up into his arms bridal style in order to carry her more securely around the side of the bed to where Sam is lying. He looks like he’s asleep. Peaceful. Absolutely nothing untoward. Except Dean knows better, he’s seen this kind of thing before: the omega is fading fast. 

Y/N’s POV

When you manage to struggle back to some semblance of awareness, you can feel that your pussy is still full, which soothes the foreign urgency in your body that you assume is a consequence of the pollen. But something feels different, and it takes your foggy mind a minute or two to realise what it is. No knot. The cock inside of you is big, but you don’t have the distinctive pressure at the base of your entrance that comes from being locked with Dean after he’s knotted you. 

Experimentally, you squeeze your muscles around the intrusion, moaning at the sensation of how deep inside of you the tip is reaching. It feels like the cock is somewhere in your freaking chest, it's so long. You know it’s not Dean inside of you, but it takes your memory a moment to supply the name of who else it could be. 

Sam– you remember with a gasp as your body unconsciously rocks itself against him, grinding your hips down onto his length. 

Daddy. 

Daddy’s cock is sliding wetly inside of you, and you realise now that you’re curled against his chest, his large, warm hands splayed across your back, cradling you against him. You have an absurd memory of crawling into bed with him when you were little and wrapping yourself around him just like this–minus the sexual contact, of course. That part is new, but as you give your hips another experimental swivel, still lazily feeling out a rhythm, you decide you like this part. You’re gonna add this to the routine. Not that it’s been a part of your bedtime routine in fucking years, but you have the urge to start it back up, for some reason. It seems nonsensical that you would ever consider sleeping in a different bed to Daddy–or Dean, come to think of it. 

You have no idea where these thoughts are coming from, they all seem to swarm simultaneously across your mind’s eye in a haze that you don’t have the energy or desire to analyse right now, so you simply let them swarm, and focus on the feeling of rubbing your clit against the very root of Sam’s cock because you realise in a moment of astonishment, he’s not even all the way inside of you, because of the way your body is draped over his chest. 

Holy fuck. 

A second later, you feel an orgasm shimmering through every conscious nerve of your body, your clit drawing up and twitching against your body inside its little protective folds, trying to shrink away from the overstimulation. 

“Good girl,” you hear Dean’s voice purr behind you, and you feel another hand running gently over your back as the whispers of praise drift over your skin.

Chapter 20 posting on November 15th or head to my website to binge read the rest of the fic today!

Series Tags: @outofnowhere82 @ladysparkles78 @missusbarnes-rogers @waywardandnerdy0212

We’re All Mads Here: @vulgar-library @negans-lucille-tblr @fandomfic-galore @petitgateau911 @schaefchenherde @kickingitwithkirk @little-diable @laxe-chester67 @kassyscarlett @austin-winchester67 @flamencodiva @katbratsupernaturalwhore @letsbys-library @fictional-affairs @leigh70

All SPN: @cemini-winchester @akshi8278 @stoneyggirl @deandreamernp @lyarr24 @lovealways-j @slamminmine @all-alone-he-turns-to-stone @alaufeyson @raidens-realm @tatted-trina6 @defenderrosetyler @cluz1babe @maliburenee @classyunknownlover

[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.)

[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.”

[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!

[fncreature]

I posted 724 times in 2022

That's 468 more posts than 2021!

186 posts created (26%)

538 posts reblogged (74%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@theseasonismerrybutimnot

@yb-cringe

@flyingfish1234

@theminecraftbee

@friendlyneighborhoodcreature

I tagged 334 of my posts in 2022

#save - 123 posts

#lmfao - 19 posts

#rb - 13 posts

#tma - 9 posts

#creature.save - 8 posts

#save save save - 7 posts

#oh my god - 6 posts

#peter parker x reader - 6 posts

#avengers x reader - 5 posts

#peter parker imagine - 5 posts

Longest Tag: 139 characters

#hi my name technoblade hy’pixel skyblock way and i have long ebony black hair (that’s how i got my name) with purple streaks and red tips t

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

HI HELLO HAS ANYONE ON HERE FINISHED THE A GOOD GIRLS GUIDE TO MURDER TRILOGY I FINISHED THE LAST ONE AND WHAT THE HECK I NEED TO TALK ABOUT THAT

39 notes - Posted March 9, 2022

#4

me: *hears about Jon's leg injury*

Me: oooOOOOh what... what if... what if I give Jon a cane????? ;)

48 notes - Posted August 1, 2022

#3

I can't compare to the Godlike

After meeting the Eternals, Peter makes a decision after seeing you and Ikaris

A/n: I am so sorry for not being active bc I realized I’m in a mildly toxic friendship and I’m working on it and then I felt more guilty for not posting but then I was in isolation and yada yada yada. I’m a Ikaris simp now and I watched Eternals three days ago.

ALSO! If anything here disagrees with NWH I am sorry about that, but I can’t go and see it cause Omnicron so I’m just waiting for it on Disney+ and it’s not my fault. Not set in any movie just kinda “Ajak died okay the Eternals and Avengers meet now”

“Banner, have you located the signal?” Bucky asked.

“No, not yet. I’ve never seen anything like it” Bruce shook his head.

You turned to Peter. “Maybe you’d like to give it a look, Petey? Sure Bruce wouldn’t mind another eye on this”

“She’s right, I wouldn’t” Banner called.

“Shut up” Peter laughed, giving you a playful shove, but going up to Banner’s station anyway.

“Do you guys got any theories on the damn thing?” Sam asked.

“Not yet” Bruce told him. “On the other hand, in this world we live in, nothing makes sense, so it really could be anything”

“Yeah, he’s right” You remarked.

“Then keep me updated. Y/n, make sure the science nerds keep me updated” Sam ordered.

“Sure thing, Cap” Peter mumbled under his breath.

You let out a small laugh.

~

It was the beeping that woke you up.

You groaned, turning over in your bed and sitting up, before grabbing your phone.

“Hm?” You groaned sleepily.

“I need you to get to the compound as soon as you can. ASAP” Bruce’s voice said excitedly into your ear.

“Bruce, it’s-” You paused, checking the time. “Five in the f*cking morning”

“Yes, but- Just come, okay? I need to call Sam, Bucky and Rhodey. I’ll see you. Oh! And pick up Peter, will you? Or he’ll pick you up, don’t care” And then he hung up.

You figured something had happened, so you quickly got dressed, and as soon as you were done, there was a knock on your window.

You pulled it open with a smile. “Right on time” “Thanks” Peter smiled. “No suit? Or mask?” You asked.

“The sun’s barely started to rise, it’ll be fine, c’mon. Let’s see what Bruce’s so excited about”

~

“So, Bruce, what all the- Who the f*ck are you guys?” You asked as you saw Bruce, excitedly talking with a group of people in intricate suits. And a kid.

“Finally! Y/n, Peter, these are the Eternals. Eternals, this is Y/n and Peter, two of the other Avengers”

See the full post

51 notes - Posted January 23, 2022

#2

I Hate Loving You

A/n: First fic of 2022! And also finally a Peter Parker oneshot.

Felt like angst, and that's what you get.

Warnings: Suicide attempt, cussing, reader says she hates themself, does paranoia count as a warning?

They hated you. Peter, and Ned and MJ.

They stopped conversation whenever you entered a room, and would always change the subject immediately. But they were the only people who would even talk to you, so you hung out with them to get some human interaction.

But the longer you did it, the harder and worse it got.

You walked over to them in the hallway, backpack slung over your shoulder.

“So I think I might-” Peter stopped when Ned nudged him, turning in your direction.

You looked down.

“Hey guys” You mumbled.

“H-hey” Peter stuttered awkwardly.

The worst part was Peter.

Because he was absolutely adorable.

But he hated you.

“So Ned, do you wanna do a Star Wars marathon this weekend?” Peter said, obviously changing the subject.

“Sure” Ned replied, and you walked off to your locker.

You could hear them laughing after you left, and you knew that they were laughing at you.

~

“Hey MJ” You said, and MJ looked up from her phone, immediately shutting it off.

“Yeah?” She responded.

“Er- Nevermind, sorry”

You could feel her eyes on the back of your neck.

And so it went on. They tried to hide it, but you could tell they hated you, and you hated it.

You didn’t hate them, but you hated being around them.

It was awkward and annoying and they were the only people who would talk to you.

That was why you were up here.

That was why you were on the roof of your apartment building, your finger hovering over the send button on your phone.

I know you guys hate me. I do, don’t try and deny it. It’s obvious. So I’m doing you all a favor. You won’t have to see me again. Ever You read it over a million times, still hesitant to send the text to them.

You closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and hit send.

See the full post

52 notes - Posted January 1, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Okay, I'm sorry that this isn't my usual style of content, I'll make a sideblog as soon as I figure out what to call it (lol) but anyways.

What if after Tango wakes up after the first night of knowing Jimmy's his soulmate, he feels an itch on his back. He ignores it, and goes bout his day until, when he and Jimmy are building their home together, Jimmy asks, "Tango, what is that?"

He has no idea what Jimmy is talking about. "On- On your back" Jimmy tries to clairify. Tango still doesn't know what he could be talking about. Not until Jimmy says, "Your wings. Your small, coal-stained, canary wings"

142 notes - Posted June 20, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

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[randompajamaalt]

I raise this again! I’m now taking requests/asks for pixel art, drawings, headcannons, and fics! Depending on the ask I might end up doing something more or less complicated, it really depends. I’ll (attempt to) draw basically any TMA characters, and I’ll also be accepting requests for ship art and other fandoms! This post is mainly focused on the TMA part, but if you’re curious about my other fandoms it’s right on my pinned post!

TMA ships I will definitely make content for:

Jon x Martin

Gerry x Michael Shelley

Gerry x Michael Distortion

TMA ships I will definitely NOT make content for:

Jon x Elias

Martin x Peter

Jon x Peter

Martin x Elias

Really anyone x Peter, Elias, Simon Fairchild, Gertrude, or Jurgen Leitner

Michael Distortion/Shelley x Helen Distortion/Richardson

Most other ships will probably be fine, but it kind of depends, I’ll probably decide once I get the ask. And then a few new rules can be found below!

Things I just generally won’t make content for:

Anything N$FW

Pedophilic things

Zoophilic things

Anything lgbtqphobic, racist, or otherwise bigot-y

If you want to use my pixel art or other art in things like cross-stitching or pearler-beads, I’m completely fine with that as long as you don’t try and claim the original art, credit me, and tag me in the post if you can!

I’m also fine with reposts of my art since I’m not very active on a lot of social media but again! Please don’t try and claim my art! Credit me and everything’s good! 

If you want to use any of my art as profile pictures, banners, or other such things I’m fine with that as well AS LONG AS YOU CREDIT ME SOMEWHERE! I really cannot stress this enough!

Reblogs are much appreciated, since it both spreads my work and the tags you people put are always so fun to read!

I’ll also be taking asks for some of my other fandoms, so again- check my pinned post for those! Though it’ll mainly be The Magnus Archives.

I’m not doing commissions right now, but I might start them up soon, so keep an eye out for that!

Thank you all so much for being here! Sorry this was such a long post, but I hope you have a nice day!

To, like, the three fans I have

I see you. I have eyes on you. Anyways I’m accepting requests now, so hop in my ask box if you have anything TMA or rainworld related that you want to see in my artstyle! I’m also working on a pretty big piece with our boy Jon, so that’ll probably be out soon! have fun and I’m glad at least some people are seeing and enjoying my content