Kink(s); hella daddy kink/leaning more to dd/lg, a bit of sadism, oral (receiving), etc
“D- Daddy..?” You whimpered as your cherubic eyes locked with his. This immense dark cloud turned his already piercing gaze damn near fatal. Your stomach knotted up as he roughly laid you back onto the bed, wedging himself between your legs as he crawled on top of you.
His large hands released their previous grip on your hair and throat, trailing down your chest. “You know-” He chuckled; doing that little twitch he usually did when he was trying to contain his anger, “-I thought I taught you better than that little girl..” His hands gently grazed over your barely clothed pert nipples, drawing out one of your mousy little whimpers.
Without warning, his gentle touch became rough as he pinched one of your nipples between his fingers; tugging and twirling it the more he watched your pretty face contort. “I’m gonna punish you, kitten-” He lowly growled while his lips curled up in a pompous grin, “-and while I punish you, I want you to recite our rules- every single one of them as you count each spanking…”
A/N: Happy Valentines Day! I know it’s early, but I thought I would start off the morning for my NCIS fans <3 I hope you all love this! Feedback is welcomed and appreciated! I love you all so much! <3 <3
This was requested by @jez-zolnierz:
Since your requests are open can I ask you for some fluff with Gibbs: breaking rule 12 and asking him to be your valentine? :) I wish you lovely day!
While Tony and McGee were off on a double date, you were sitting at your desk finishing paperwork. This report was something you could have gotten done tomorrow morning, but you decided to do get it done now. Besides you didn’t have a date on Valentine’s Day. You didn’t feel like going home and sitting in your apartment by yourself.
You looked up in surprise as Gibbs walked through the bullpen and sat down at his desk. He was wearing your favorite navy blue button down shirt with a black blazer over it. You always admired the way he dressed and the way he smelled. Abby was the only one who knew about your crush on Gibbs.
On the day they met, Dean Winchester is four years old. Emblazoned on the front of his light blue teddy T-shirt are the words I Wuv Hugz, and everyone who’s ever met Dean can verify the accuracy of this statement.
Everyone who’s ever met his new neighbor, Castiel Novak, knows the opposite is true. It’s 1983, and though terms like Asperger’s Syndrome and touch aversion have yet to seep into public consciousness, Cas had been sure to convey his displeasure to anyone who’s ever tried to hug him without his explicit consent.
As such, both the boys’ parents watch with considerable apprehension as Dean toddles up to the newcomer, ready to bestow upon him the signature Winchester greeting.
He throws his pudgy arms around Castiel’s slight shoulders, squeezing him as tightly as his little body will allow.
Castiel’s haggard single mother, Naomi, squeezes her eyes shut and braces herself for the ear-splitting wail that is sure to follow. To her surprise, there is none.
Instead, when she dares to look again, Cas is, for the first time in his short life, expressing physical affection, his thin arms wrapped delicately around Dean’s shoulders.
In a voice so soft no one but Dean can hear it, Castiel murmurs, “Hello, Dean.”
It’s now 1988.
Dean Winchester is nine years old, down a parent, and up a…well, he’s hesitant to refer to Cas as like a brother, though adults in his life have described it as such. It just feels wrong to him, for reasons he has yet to put his finger on.
Regardless, Cas has become remarkably close, mostly because his mother – a single parent, struggling to make ends meet – is almost never home. As his closest neighbors and closest friends, Cas ends up spending more time at the Winchesters’ house than he does at his own.
Dean still wuvs hugz, though he’s now less willing to admit to such, and Cas, miracle of all miracles, still never fails to return them. Indeed, Dean is one of the few people Cas will willingly touch.
At present, the boys are cuddled up on Dean’s lower bunk while young Sammy snoozes above them, a rerun of the Three Stooges buzzing on Dean’s fuzzy, black-and-white TV set.
99% of the time, Cas doesn’t understand the humor, fails to see the amusement in watching three people brutalize one another. But he enjoys hearing Dean laugh, the feel of his warm breath against the back of his neck. It makes him feel comforted.
It makes him feel home.
Contentedly, Cas closes his eyes. He’s just drifting off when he hears Dean say, “Oh. Hi, Daddy.”
For some reason, he sounds nervous.
When Cas blinks open his eyes, he sees why: John is standing in the doorway, glowering at them, a strange sort of contempt darkening his glassy eyes. He’s yards away from them, leaning in the doorless entryway to the boys’ room, but Cas can smell the pungent stench of alcohol wafting off of him.
“You boys’re too old to be doin’ that,” is all he mutters, before staggering away and leaving the confused duo with the vague but pervasive sense that they’ve done something wrong.
Cas glances over at Dean, who’s now worrying his lower lip and won’t meet his eyes.
Cas pats his hand. “My mommy smells that way when she gets sad,” he offers.
For some reason, it seems to help.
It’s now 1996, and in that very same room, the boys are having a slumber party. Of course, they’re not allowed to call it a slumber party, because they’re boys over the age of twelve, and rules of social conduct dictate that it be called hanging out.
But, essentially, it was a slumber party.
Cas skipped a grade, while Dean was held back one, and as such, they haven’t seen as much of one another as either party would have liked.
Still, Dean is popular, and surprisingly, so is Cas: yes, he’s undeniably nerdy and not a little weird, but there’s an inherent niceness to him that makes him a pleasant person to be around.
Dean has had the pleasure of witnessing this all evening, as Cas interacts with Charlie, with Gabe, with Kevin and Garth and Benny, and even the little gray mixed breed that recently followed Sam home. Regardless of what is being said, Cas listens to each of them with his undivided attention, head nodding, blue eyes wide with interest.
Dean is content, for once, to quietly observe, witnessing his friend for the first time through the others’ eyes.
Later that night, however, when they line the floor like sleeping caterpillars in their multicolored sleeping bags, Dean once again has Cas all to himself, facing one another in the bunk they’d shared all those years ago.
There’s a flutter in their chests that wasn’t there before, a not-entirely-unpleasant sensation that neither one can place.
Years later, Dean won’t remember what it was Cas was saying. He’ll only remember the soft, gravelly rasp of his voice, his crystalline blue eyes as they stared so intently into his own.
He’ll remember how soft his chapped, full lips felt as he found himself kissing them, the tickle of his faint stubble.
He’ll remember the instant he pulled away, and the long moment in which they just silently stared, a million wordless protests racing through their minds: it’s the mid-nineties, and the heat of the AIDs epidemic is still fresh in the public’s memory. It’s by no means a good time to be gay, or anything close it.
More than anything, he’ll remember the exact moment he decided he didn’t care, that nothing in the world mattered more than having Castiel’s lips against his own.
He’ll remember the instant Cas silently agreed with him when he kissed back.
Cas is going to medical school. Sam is going to college.
Dean is going overseas.
In the end, he really doesn’t have a choice in the matter: he never had gotten his high school diploma, weighed down by the burden of being his family’s full-time emotional (and ultimately, financial) provider.
He’d tried so hard to juggle the two, coming home straight after school everyday to clean up and make dinner, to fill the role his mother had vacated when she’d died of cancer years before, and helping Sammy with his homework every evening before he even got started on his own.
He eventually had to give up and drop out of school entirely when John left them, and he had to get a full time job at his Uncle Bobby’s garage just to make ends meet.
But never once had Dean given up on the hope of making his life meaningful, of helping others and saving lives.
When he was younger, he’d wanted to go to nursing or medical school, perhaps become a paramedic, but as a high school flunky with five bucks to his name, this option is out for the time being.
So really, his only option is overseas.
Cas knew this, and he knows he should have prepared himself better. Yet this does little to stop the tears from falling as he holds his fiance’s hands, freshly gifted engagement rings glinting in the evening sun.
Dean smiles that goofy, crooked smile, puts on a brave face as he wipes the tears away.
“Hey, now,” he says, chuckling painfully. “Ain’t we talked about this, angel? You know I don’t do chick-flick moments.”
Cas smiles faintly, nearly argues that Dean loves chick-flicks and they both know it, but he finds he doesn’t have it in him for their usual, lighthearted banter.
“Promise me you’ll come home,” he says instead.
For a moment, Dean’s facade falters, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Still, his smile remains fixedly – painfully – in place.
“I promise, angel,” he whispers.
Eighteen months later, Dean comes home. Or rather, most of him does.
They’ll both realize, with time, that Dean lost a part of himself overseas, and it wasn’t just the tip of his now-stubby left pinky finger that he’ll forever use to give Sam wet willies for maximum gross-out factor. It wasn’t just the majority of the flesh of his left arm and ribcage, that took the brunt of the damage when the bomb went off, the drum-tight, pinkish scar tissue there to remind him whenever he examines himself shirtless in the bathroom mirror.
It’s something intangible, that will make itself evident the first time he ushers Cas away from their bedroom window, mind already anticipating the crackle of bullets and the shattering of class. The first time he wakes up, heart pounding, to the crashing of a garbage truck or early summer fireworks, every instinct screaming for him to find shelter.
Dean knows he lost something overseas, a part of himself he’ll never fully be able to recover.
But he’ll be okay. They both will.
In time, he’ll finally get his GED. He’ll go to community college, and then, to nursing school, finally able to fulfill his dream of saving lives, helping others in his own way.
He and Cas will get married in the fall, and though it will take years of convincing on Cas’s end, convincing that Dean will not become a replica of his father, they’ll have kids: Claire and Ben, adopted two years apart. Dean will be startled by how completely they feel like his own.
They’ll be okay. In spite of it all, they’ll be okay. Life will go on, and it will be a good one.
But for now, all that matters is here at the airport, searching the crowd for that messy head of raven hair he knows is waiting for him.
His heart skips a beat when he finally spots it.
The years have been good to Castiel. His shoulders visibly broader beneath his usual beige trench, a veritable sea of stubble framing the familiar, chapped lips. Eyes, somehow bluer than Dean remembered them, widened when they met his own.
Dean swallowed. Make no mistake, Cas had always been gorgeous, but now…damn.
For a moment, the two just stare at each other, neither sure what to say.
Finally, Dean chuckles wetly. “Angel,” he huffs, with his best attempt at a cocky smile. “You’re…you’re all grown up.”
Castiel says nothing. Wordlessly, he moves forward, strong arms enveloping Dean’s shoulders. Dean rests his head in the crook of his neck, breathing in a shaky, relieved breath as he feels the familiar prickle of stubble, taking in the clean, soapy scent he hadn’t known how much he’d missed. It makes him feel comforted.
It feels like home.
A soft, gravelly voice rasps gently in his ear, “Hello, Dean.”
↠ jongin x f!reader; 14.5k; he’s not ready to be a king yet, but with some help jongin will rule over everything ↠ royal!au, mentions of death and stuff like that, jongin is a soft prince that you will love even if he’s innocent n smol
“I mean, I want you to be more than my housecarl,” Jongin tells you, “you’re not my mother’s gift to me. I want you to be my girlfriend. That’s what I want you to be.”
You don’t answer him straight away. The words in your mouth are jumbled and they only become worse when you look Jongin in the eyes. “Girlfriend?”
Maximilien Robespierre, who in life could not have stopped the Terror, contributed to its end in his death, by becoming a memory to be execrated and vilified, his grave a dumping ground for others’ hatreds.
Requested by: @octxgonxl - “Gibbs 45? Still loving your writing x”
Word Count: 846
Pairing: Gibbs x Reader
45. “I had a nightmare about you and I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“Gibbs!” You shouted, pounding on his door that was unusually locked at three in the morning, even throughout the night the front door was open, that’s just how he lived, “Gibbs open the door! Please!” You practically scream, your fist connecting with his door again, your heart going a-mile-a-minute.
The door was snatched open, one very pissed off and tired looking Jethro Gibbs was before you in some boxers and what looked to be an old Navy t-shirt. His hair was on end, five o'clock shadow on his face. He didn’t say anything as you lowered your right hand, un-balling it from a fist and sagged your shoulders. He could see there was something wrong but it was three in the morning and it was the first actually in-bed sleep he’d had in however many days.
“You’re okay.” You panted and bowed your head to regain your breathing. You’d ran all the way here, stupid, you could have just taken your car.
Gibbs tilted his head, moving half a step to his left to give you room to enter his home.
“Uh, thank you.” You say, now you were here you didn’t know what to say to your boss.
You jumped a bit when the door slammed behind you and you dare not move any further into his home in case Gibbs wanted to throw you out.
“[Y/N], you have any idea what time it is?” He asked in a rough voice, he must have been asleep then, you tell yourself, that’s why he didn’t answer his cell.
“About…three?” You ask, unsure of the exact time, “Listen, Gibbs, I’m sorry I woke you but-”
“But what, [Y/L/N]?” He barked through the middle of your sentence, not wanting to hear an apology, “In case you hadn’t noticed but we’re all running on empty here, alright? What was so important that couldn’t wait until morning?”
You dare not look him in the eye, you know what expression would be on Gibb’s face, “I uh…I…never mind Boss. I’ll just..” You jerk your thumb over your shoulder and turn but only make it halfway to the door before he offered you some tea. Gibbs only stored it in his kitchen for you, the rest of the team drank coffee, “Yeah. Please.”
Following him through to his kitchen you lean against the counter, watching him potter about in the early hours of the morning making you a cup of tea and himself a coffee. It was fondly domestic, nice and being able to watch his nimble fingers was a treat.
“So?” He started, waiting for the kettle to boil, “Why did you come knockin’ on my door? If you can call that knockin’..” He said with a raised eyebrow, smirking slightly at your sheepish smile.
“I…I had a nightmare about you and just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” You told him, stuffing your hands into your jeans pockets.
Gibbs frowned just as the kettle popped, announcing that it had boiled. He poured the steaming water into the mugs, “What kinda nightmare?” He asked, glancing your way when you didn’t reply, simply shrugged your shoulders, “Hey, you wake me up by bangin’ on my door, you better tell me why…”
You take a deep breath, “I don’t really know,” you take the hot cup of tea with a murmured, “thank you,” before taking a sip, “you’re in trouble or held hostage or something but you’re always hurt and I always get a phone call. I’ve had it before, only this time you didn’t pick up your cell and…I started to think it wasn’t a dream because I had a missed call when I woke, turns out that was just a cold caller but…yeah..this was the only time you didn’t answer your cell phone so I ran here and-”
“Wait a minute, you /ran/ here?” Gibbs asked wanting clarification.
“Yeah, I didn’t even think to drive, besides, I don’t think I was in the right frame of mind to drive.” He seemed to accept your reasoning with a nod. It was quiet for a minute or so, you shrug and place your cup down, “I overreacted, I’m..” You stop yourself from breaking rule twelve again and offer a little smile.
“You have this dream often?” He asked and your smile faded somewhat.
“Only a few times. But it’s been early enough to get anyway with a phone call to ask if you want some coffee fetching in..” You smirk when he did and you straighten up, “It comes with the job right? Nightmares, or not being able to sleep. That sorta thing.”
He nodded, “I’ve had my fair share. If it happens again [Y/N] don’t hesitate to ring me, alright? I might be your boss but I’m your friend too.”
You nod, mirroring him and without any given thought you move over, hugging him, he was more like a father figure whenever these talks would arise, after a hard case, losing someone at NCIS, Gibbs was always to lend an ear or a shoulder, “Thanks, Boss.”
Characters: LaSalle x Reader, Tony, McGee, Abby, Gibbs
Word count: 1,087
A/N: This was requested by @native-snowflake! I hope you all enjoy this! Feedback is welcomed and appreciated! I love you all so much! <3
It was no secret that you used to work with Gibbs in Washington D.C.. LaSalle knew that you used to rely on your old teammates here. When Pride sent you and LaSalle up to D.C. to help Gibbs, he was more than happy to oblige, especially since he was going with you. Pride knew that he could count on you and LaSalle. The two of you were a power couple; almost nothing could stop the two of you.
“Are ya excited to see your team again [Y/N],” LaSalle asked as he drove down the road, getting closer to D.C.’s NCIS headquarters. “Ah know it’s been a few years since ya’ve seen ‘em.”
“I’m sure everyone will be as glad to see me as much as I’ll be glad to see them,” you smiled. “I can’t wait to introduce you to Abby. She’s going to go crazy when I tell her you’re my boyfriend.”
Note: Okay, I’m
trying my hand at smut…kind of. I don’t know where it’s going to go, but I’m trying, ok? Slight smut ahead, but
there’s a kind of story line…?
It was stupid, really. You had only come over to go over the
most recent components of the case, but you spilled the wine all over your
white blouse. After Chinese takeout and way too many theories, the Marine
offered you a glass of wine, and you accepted. Of course, it was red and you were wearing a white shirt.
“Shit!” You cursed, immediately grabbing a napkin off of the
coffee table and trying to dry the quickly-spreading wine stain.
“ Listen, Bruce, I understand you’re upset that we didn’t use your exact design schematics for the JLA satellite, but we do have a budget, and having a zero-gravity Bat-Pole for you to change into costume when you’re already in costume when you get here seems a little – ”
“ Stuff it, Clark. I’m out. ”
“ And a fully-equipped garage for the Batmobile? We’re IN OUTER SPACE, Bruce. ”
“ Whatever, Diana. I’d say we’d see you losers in the funny papers, but it’s clear Batman and the Robin Brigade will only be front-page headline material. And not just because I own about ten different U.S. papers – ”
“ Um, Batman? I thought were we’re going to be called The Outsiders – ”
“ First rule of Bat Club, son: you do NOT question the Batman. See also rules two through twelve. You signed the charter, you should’ve read it.”
“ Geez, he’s right. And look at rule fourteen: ‘no bringing study dates to Wayne Manor, EVER’. And rule twenty-one: 'Alfred is your butler, not your manservant. If he’s picking up your socks, he may not have time to stitch up your wounds. Keep your room clean’. "
This was requested by anon! I hope you all love it <3 <3
Word count: 378
(gif is not mine)
There were times where Gibbs openly broke his own rules. Every time he broke one of his own rules, he did it for the right reason. When he looked at you, all he could do was think about rule twelve. He wanted to break that rule; he wanted to make you his.
As you padded into the squad room late at night, you were wearing casual clothing. The Marine wasn’t sure why you had come back. Maybe there was something you had missed? Or maybe you came back for him?
“Did ya forget something [Y/N],” Gibbs asked as he watched you move around your desk. His eyes scanned over your body, admiring every curve that he could. You always looked so beautiful. Sometimes it was hard for Gibbs to think straight.
“Yeah, I forgot my phone in my desk,” you mumbled, plucking the phone from the metal drawer. You turned around, walking over to your boss’s desk. “Why are you still here Gibbs?”
Music plays aloud but plays no match to the yelling of numbers across the room.
It was compulsory, being at this party meant following the one rule they had.
THIRTEEN TWELVE ELEVEN
‘If you are to attend then it is mandatory for you to give and/or receive the minimum of one kiss when the countdown is to hit one’
You shouldn’t have come, it was a big mistake especially if he’d be here.
Bodies rush past to get to their significant others and such, what were you to do when there seemed to be no one for you, no one that you wanted.
SIX FIVE FOUR
You fiddled around with the empty cup in your hand, at least it would seem as though you were too busy to give a kiss to anyone.
A figure ran past almost knocking you over in search for something, “What the hell was that for?” you yelled to them.
The figure noticed your yelling but you were too late in responding again as you felt the pressure of someone’s lips connect to yours.
You were too shocked to mould into the kiss like you would have wanted to, only staring at the blond hair that peeks out of the hat of the stranger that had just kissed you.
He pulled back, eyes shut as if he hoped you wouldn’t have a bad reaction to the kiss.
HAPPY NEW YEARS
Screams filled the room yet you could still hear his whisper, “Happy new years” he said so softly that it could barely be considered a whisper.
His scent filled your senses, could it be? Was it really him?
Discarding your empty cup, you place your hands against his heated cheeks to pull him back in.
The space between the both of you disappeared in a matter of seconds as your lips moulded with each other trying to remember each and every inch of each other. Oh, how you’d missed his kisses.
The next you were in one of the rooms rapidly removing each item of clothing, the built up tension from the past few months finally being released in loud moans and hard thrusts, it felt so good to be so close to him again.
Staring at the ceiling above with only the thin sheet of someone else’s bedding covering the both of you, you wonder how it got to here.