#And poses a better challenge than just answering for them

[thegoddessprose]

I barely see any of these, but I like this kind of challenge. I'll be answering all of these as Chiasa.

🌧️: I usually use an umbrella on rainy days because believe me, as functional as is, it's very hard to find a stylish hooded raincoat that doesn't make my hair all static-y... But there's plenty of nice umbrellas. I like the rain (better from the inside!) I love the noise the raindrops make, the way it smells afterwards... Really an example of the beauty and power of nature.

🍳: I like to think that I am, I haven't had any complaints since I was still learning. I guess I'm alright, but I'm no chef, or my father. I enjoy it when I have time, it keeps me close with my family and is all around calming. And my favorite... Oh! Kare for sure. Out of everything I make, everyone thinks I'm the best with that.

🧼: Showers are for the morning (The ones alone at least, hehe...) and baths are for the evening. I love baths! Not only are they a vital part of my skincare, but also one of my favorite ways to wind down after a hard day. As for my favorite scent... I like anything earthy or floral, but I really like eucalyptus and jasmine.

❌: My sister Quinta loved to tell me to stop "galavanting with young lovers, dressing like a sorority girl (Wouldn't you believe she wore even less on the pageant circuit...)" really, just living my life. If my skincare and procedures did their job, then why should I hide myself away and quilt and "bingo" or whatever "old biddies" are supposed to do? Hell, I recall she had the same stuff done, even just so we stay looking alike. Since she's more concerned about appearances than my own well being... I'd listen to my own parents over her if they were still here. I'd listen to my brother in law, friends, Plutarch too, but none of that means I'm bowing completely.

🏳️: When there's absolutely no other way or someone would get hurt. I didn't get this far in the fashion world, no, in life, just to give up at the slightest problem.

📖: I guess I'm a little cliche for this, but I really like romance novels... Especially the trashy ones. Plutarch's been trying to get me into the philosophy and government stuff he likes, but they're much more fun to read with him than alone. He makes them very easy to understand and he's so cute when he's all passionate like that. Sadly, I don't have a lot of time to read... Even now I'm awfully busy.

⛸️: Mm, I'm not a big sports girl. I used to do some roller skating when I was younger, but that was only a phase. Unfortunately most of the "sporting events" I've been around for were rather... Barbaric. Hopefully there'll be something a lot less violent on in the near future.

😷: I don't get sick very often, I actually do my best to stay healthy. When I do, I try to stay home so I don't pass it on, no one wants that after all! If I must go out, I'll wear a mask, and I might if I hear about something going around. I've got a few cute ones on standby, so I don't mind at all.

🥼: Ugh, thankfully no. I haven't worn a uniform since that hideous thing I had to wear at the Academy, and believe me, the minute I graduated, I cut it up for scraps. I doubt I'll be wearing one now, but if I had to go back in time and change it, I'd keep the pants and skirt separate, change that awful blue mandarin to a white button down, and add a gold tie or scarf. That would at least fix the damn thing.

🥂: I like to be surrounded by my loved ones, maybe pop a bottle or two, enjoy some good food, music, and dancing. I've been raised to believe that life isn't worth living without any joy, and what's better than everything that makes me happy close after a great thing?

🛴: I have a car (A gorgeous pink roadster with fins!) to get to further parts of the city in less official capacity, but otherwise Plutarch and I also have drivers. I like to say I do my best, but urban drivers are the worst!

🕰️: I check my handheld most of the time, but sometimes I also have a fashionable watch on my wrist.

🥰: I'd have to say the biggest thing is acknowledgement, actually listening to what I have to say and taking an interest. I'm used to people marvelling at the surface, but it can get old, especially when those people's intentions aren't always the greatest. Actually listening to me, though? That's rare and I just adore it.

🐇: I guess I used to, but just between us, I wasn't exactly sober for most of that time... Plus even a lot of my spiritual side withered away with the world.

🎺: I really like psychedelic rock and synth wave. A bit of indie too. I don't play any instruments, I think I might be tone deaf I'm afraid. One of my exes let me try his saxophone once... It didn't end too well. Thankfully, that's not why we broke up.

💿: Oils, I guess? I don't really collect anything like that, but I do collect certain oils, some to burn as incense, some to use on my skin and in baths, some just to sniff.

🧋: I like a nice pink lady. If you mean non alcohol, I like both coffee and tea. The coffee I'll take both ways, but I like my tea hot. I like a nice chamomile and I take my coffee with cream and one spoonful of sugar.

🌻 random in-character questions

an ask game where, instead of replying from your perspective, you answer as if it's your original character/muse/self-insert/etc. answering the question ✨

🌧️ "When outside during the rain, do you use a raincoat, an umbrella, or something else? Do you enjoy rain?"

🍳 "Are you a good cook? Do you enjoy cooking? What's your favorite thing to cook?"

🧼 "Do you prefer to take a shower during the morning or evening? Do you like taking baths? What's your favorite scent of shower gel?"

❌ "Would you do something that someone told you not to do? Why? Is there someone you'd actually listen to more than everyone else?"

🏳️ "What will make you give up?"

📖 "What kinds of books do you read? Do you have a lot of time to read?"

⛸️ "What's your favorite kind of sport? Do you follow sports closely or don't care at all?"

😷 "How often do you get sick? Do you stay at home when sick or do you end up going outside to, say, get some groceries? If you go outside, would you wear a mask?"

🥼 "Do you have to wear a uniform somewhere? If yes, how do you feel about it? If no, what kind of uniform would you love to wear?"

🥂 "How do you celebrate you accomplishments?"

🛴 "What's your preferred way of getting somewhere - own car, public transport, a bicycle, or something else? How well do you follow the traffic rules?"

🕰️ "What do you use to check what time it is?"

🥰 "What would make you feel happy and loved?"

🐇 "Do you believe in other dimensions?"

🎺 "What kind of music do you mostly listen to? Do you know how to play an instrument, and if not, which one would you want to learn to play?"

💽 "Do you collect anything? Why?"

🧋 "What's your go-to thing to drink? Do you prefer cold or hot drinks?"

[acourtofquestions]

Hearth to hearth, the Flame of War went.

Over snow-blasted mountains and amongst the trees of tangled forests, hiding from the enemies that prowled the skies. Through long, bitterly cold nights where the wind howled as it tried to wipe out any trace of that flame.

But the wind did not succeed, not against the flame of the queen.

So hearth to hearth, it went.

To remote villages where people screamed and scattered as a young-faced woman descended from the skies on a broom, waving her torch high.

Not to signal them, but the few women who did not run. Who walked toward the flame, the rider, as she called out, "Your queen summons you to war. Will you fly?"

Trunks hidden in attics were thrown open. Folded swaths of red cloth pulled from within. Brooms left in closets, beside doorways, tucked under beds, were brought out, bound in gold or silver or twine. And swords-ancient and beautiful—were drawn from beneath floorboards, or hauled down from haylofts, their metal shining as bright and fresh as the day they had been forged in a city now lying in ruin.

Witches, the townsfolk whispered, husbands wide-eyed and disbelieving as the women took to the skies, red cloaks billowing. Witches amongst us all this time.

Village to village, where hearths that had never once gone fully dark blazed in answer.

Always one rider going out, to find the next hearth, the next bastion of their people.

Witches, here amongst us. Witches, now going to war.

A rising tide of witches, who took to the skies in their red cloaks, swords strapped to their backs, brooms shedding years of dust with each mile northward.

Witches who bade their families farewell, offering no explanation before they kissed their sleeping babes and vanished into the starry night.

Mile after mile, across the darkening world, the call went out, ceaseless and unending as the eternal flame that passed from hearth to hearth.

"Fly, fly, fly!" they shouted. "To the queen! To war!"

Far and wide, through snow and storm and peril, the Crochans flew.

[gotta-winwin]

OT13 Reaction -- to you asking them what their fave juno pose is

a/n: hellooo!! im curious what juno poses you guys think the boys would be into... feel free to send an ask with the pose (asks with media + anon are open!) - favourite one gets its own spinoff oneshot :)

MINORS DNI

tw: sexual positions, allusions to sex, boner talk

not proofread, if you don't like it - don't interact!

seungcheol is initially taken aback at the question. you ask it so innocently, so out of the blue - and he can feel his heart skip a beat at the mere pictures that are being conjured by his mind at the mention of you in any of those poses. he regains his confidence quite quickly though, proudly pulling up his favourite pose and eyeing you as you splutter. so, honey? reminds me of that one night we...

throwing up a shit eating grin, jeonghan takes the question with ease. he's been expecting it - he knows you well and ever since you sent him that reel, he's been preparing his answer. i personally really enjoy this one he'd say while showing you, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively in a way that makes you snort in laughter. 100% expects action later. you were the one who brought it up babyyy...care to follow through?

you cannot tell me this man doesn't prefer missionary over anything else. joshua loves seeing your face through it all, so asking him this question probably isn't going to get you anything you didn't already know. he blushes at the thought of it, shyly muttering under his breath that he likes it best when he can see your pretty face and hold you.

jun blinks, not quite getting what the fuck a "juno" pose is. he nods along as you show him his "options," turning red at the particularly scandalous ones and cringing at the ones he knows ya'll can't pull off. i don't think you're that flexible, baobei. he'd say, more worried he'd accidentally break you if you guys attempted the pose.

like with anything else, soonyoung is excited to answer your question. don't be surprised if he pulls out a powerpoint specifically for the occasion, listing out the pros and cons of each pose and the probability of how much he'd enjoy it. he's passionate with everything he does - and what better thing to be passionate about than fucking the love of his life?? lowkey ends up not being able to choose just one favourite. he likes variety in his sex life, thank you very much.

wonwoo stares at you once you're finished asking, bluntly dropping his answer and moving on with his day. he lowkey thought it was already obvious what his favourite one was?? you guys do it every time?? it's his default?? he calmly (a bit too calmly for the topic) explains to you why it's his favourite, giving you all the stats. well, it's easier to move - and you're more comfortable, and- you'd think he was giving a persuasive essay by the way he goes on and on.

you know better than to ask jihoon without first sending him the reel, asking him to check his message and to watch it. he sends back a screenshot of his favourite pose, a little miffed that this was the reason you interrupted his recording session but answering you nonetheless because he loves you. he tries to return to work, although the thoughts of you in that pose is sending him reeling. ends up giving in to his urges and rushing back home to test out his theory. told you that was the best pose, he'd say after destroying your insides.

again, a strong believer that minghao is secretly very kinky but prefers missionary because it allows him to feel the closest to you. reveals to you that his absolute favourite isn't on the juno pose list because sabrina would be canceled for acting it out - gives you that look, silently challenging you if you'd like to try it. don't pretend it doesn't excite you, love.

seokmin's face is burning the moment you ask the question, stuttering violently through his words as his brain computes your question. shyly points to his favourite pose, cringing into his hands as he awaits your reaction. why would you ask me that right before i have to go to work? he'd complain, hating how inconvenient being turned on could be during practice.

mingyu's got that shit eating grin on his face similar to jeonghan's, although his is more of a i think we should test all of them before i choose one type of grin. you can tell by the way he's eyeing you that he's already picturing you in those poses. i don't know, babe, he'd drawl out, reaching over to grab your waist. i think you should give me a refresher before i pick.

seungkwan's the one that asks you for your favourite juno pose, curious to know which one you prefer yourself to be in. it ends up being a whole conversation - riling both of you up as you discuss the pros and cons of each pose, leading to you guys ending up in the bedroom. who's idea was it to talk about this again? you know what, i don't care - c'mhere.

by the way vernon's looking, you can tell he's thinking about his answer like it's the most serious thing in the world. you let him think, sitting there in silence as you watch the guy contemplate. anyone else would think he was making a major life decision, with the way his eyebrows are furrowed and his eyes are full of concentration. finally deciding, he picks one that surprises you. idk, i know we've never done it before but i feel like i'd enjoy it. and you'd look so hot like that babe.

chan sends you his favourite juno pose before you can even ask. a cheeky lil grin on his face, he asks if you guys could try it out, his eyes sparkling with mischief and his boner already prominent. he's imagining you fucked out in the position that he's chosen and he- well, it's not his fault he can't control himself. you'd look sooo hot, babe. he'd persist. i'll take care you.

[beneathashadytree]

FELINE AFFECTION - XAVIER SHEN X READER

Warnings : Xavier absolutely gives off “I’m terrified of my spouse” vibes here because he has 0 financial responsibility, reader is gender-neutral!

Genre : tooth-rotting domestic fluff <3

Word count : 1.0K words

Additional notes : My head is simply full of thoughts of that new pose of Xavier in the Glint photobooth, where he’s cuddling a cat… and the brainrot birthed this. I’m so in love with him.

Tip jar!

Masterlist

“Xavier.”

For a few beats there was no reply, and then a very hesitant, “Yes?” came from the couch they were staring at so intently—and for good reason, really. His innocent expression did not erase the truth of what they were seeing.

“What’s that in your arms?” they very patiently asked, as though the calmer they said it, the more inclined he would be to answer honestly. A futile attempt at coaxing, when Xavier knew better than to ignore the signs of an oncoming scolding.

“Nothing,” he quickly replied, sky blue eyes darting away before they could meet theirs. A very telling sign, if anything; Xavier was weak to them and would always give in with a single piercing glance shooting straight for his heart.

They arched their brow as they set their keys down on the coffee table, before crossing their arms against their chest. “So you’re saying I’m seeing things?”

A trick question. He swallowed thickly, carefully contemplating his answer and then quietly saying, “I didn’t say that.”

“A contradictory claim.” Their expression was cool, but the challenge in their eyes was anything but. “Answer this then, are you holding a kitten right now?”

He stayed silent for a few moments. “Well… no.” Not very convincing—especially not when there really was a pudgy tabby cat swaddled into his soft sweater and lazily swatting at the hem’s loose threads, and his own fingers were busy gently trailing across its head.

A strangled noise left them at the sight and his continued denial. Pinching their nose in exasperation, they shut their eyes for a second. “Care to explain, then?”

“Technically, she’s a little over two years old, so she’s a cat, not a kitten,” he mumbled, half to himself, hoping that they would just drop it. It seemed he wasn’t in the mood to be very upfront today. But he certainly looked like he was in the mood to tickle the pink paws of his new feline friend and boop her twitching little nose.

“Err… lovely,” they strained to keep their voice level and absolutely calm, definitely not freaking out over this… fascinating surprise. “And what’s she doing in our apartment?”

“It’s hers now too.” A bold statement to make, from a man who looked like—were he a cat too, that is—his own whiskers were standing on end. “If anything happens to her I’ll jump.”

“Knowing your luck, you’d survive the fall anyways.” A tired sigh, and then their shoulders were drooping, their fight dissolving all at once. They collapsed onto the couch beside him, and thankfully the cat seemed to be twice as lazy as her new owner was, because she made no indication of having gotten startled, save for a slow blink of her eyes (that was admittedly rather adorable). “Fine, have it your way.”

That sweet smile of his graced his soft features, and for a moment their heart thundered in their chest, reminding them that no matter how much they would try to deny it, they really were weak to anything he wanted—as long as he gave them that smile, of course. “She’s very content like this,” they pointed out as the cat in question yawned, leaning into his finger deftly stroking her forehead.

“I know we’re often on missions, and I didn’t want to risk negligence. So I searched for the lowest maintenance kitty to adopt,” he softly said, voice trailing off at the end and an endearingly tender look in his eyes as he continued to pet her. Glancing up at his beloved, he flushed a little at the amusement on their face. “Sorry. She’s just very fluffy.”

At that they chuckled a little, reveling in the way he let himself get carried away. “It’s fine. I was honestly just worried about precisely that. Pets are a huge responsibility, but she’d be perfectly compatible with us.” They looked down and watched as she stretched her fluffy limbs, before curling back up into Xavier’s chest, a content look on her adorable face and her tail swishing a little in her light sleep. The resemblance finally became clear. “She’s… an awful lot like you.”

“Really?” he mused, a thoughtful expression on his face as he furrowed his eyebrows a little. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Kind of hard to ignore once you see it,” they snorted a little, though they lowered their voice after they saw how the slumbering cat twitched in her sleep at the sound. “You got all the stuff she needs, though?”

“I may or may not have used up this month’s salary at the pet store.” Xavier sheepishly gave them a half-smile, though he didn’t look apologetic in the least at the prospect of having wasted a ludicrous amount of money on things that the soon-to-be-spoilt kitty may never even use.

Seriously, had he always wanted a cat this bad?

Well. There was no use in admonishing him when he seemed so enamored by the ball of fluff in his arms. In fact… maybe a small part of them fell a bit more in love with him seeing him so content with the (admittedly rash) decision he’d made, and perfectly happy with staying cuddled up forever on the couch.

“Did you name her?” they asked, curiosity lacing their words as they peered at her tiny face nuzzled against his chest. “It’s only fair you get the chance to when you brought her in.”

Really, it wasn’t such a bad idea after all, now that they thought about it. Cats are rather independent, and they knew without a shadow of a doubt that they’d definitely shower her with unconditional love and all the care that she needs. Kind of hard not to, when she was this sweet-looking and lazy all the time.

Xavier nodded, a small flush on his freckled cheeks. A look akin to pride on his face, he smiled up at his lover, slowly cradling the happily dozing cat, and said—

“Her name’s Meatloaf.”

…

“Absolutely not.”

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[rainandandy]

could you pls do some rainxfem!reader pls?? There is a serious lack of rain fics on this app and I need more😭😭 just some HC’s, fluff, angst, nsfw, love it all. Take it and bby😘

(btw LOVE your work, ur keeping me alive rn)

Thank you for the ask!😘 I will have more Rain Carradine X FemReader coming! Hope you like this

Pairings: Rain Carradine X Fem!Reader

Warnings: Jealous Reader

Word Count: 1027

Life on Jackson's Star was a gritty mix of endless work and fleeting moments of reprieve, where the dusty, metallic corridors echoed with the clanking of machinery and the chatter of miners. Amidst this stark backdrop, your relationship with Rain Carradine blossomed into something that felt almost out of place with its warmth and genuineness.

Rain was strong, capable, and fiercely protective, not just of her synthetic brother Andy but of you as well. Her friendship with Tyler, her former partner and a prominent figure in the mining crew, had initially seemed unremarkable to you. However, as time went on, their easy camaraderie began to gnaw at you, the seeds of jealousy sprouting unchecked.

You'd watch them during breaks, sharing jokes and reminiscing about past missions, their laughter a stark contrast to the usual din of the miners’ mess hall. The more you observed, the more your imagination painted pictures of a past perhaps better left behind, stirring a restlessness within you that you couldn't shake off.

One evening, compelled by a mix of curiosity and unsettling thoughts, you approached Andy. Despite his challenges with speech and the obvious difficulties his synthetic nature sometimes posed in social settings, Andy had a way of understanding human emotions, perhaps better than most humans themselves.

"Andy," you started, hesitating as you chose your words carefully, "did Rain and Tyler... were they together? Like, before?"

Andy's eyes, always so expressive despite the rest of his face remaining eerily impassive, flickered with something that might have been discomfort. "Yes," he stuttered, his voice mechanical yet tinged with a hint of warmth. "But it was a long time ago. Things change."

His confirmation hit harder than expected. You tried to laugh it off, to dismiss the tightening in your chest as just a silly overreaction. "Thanks, Andy. Just curious, you know?"

But curiosity wasn't easily sated. At the next community gathering in the recreation hall—a rare moment of leisure on the harsh mining planet—you spotted Kay, Tyler's vivacious sister, and decided on a reckless course of action. Flirting with Kay, you hoped, might just give you the answers you needed, or at least draw some kind of reaction out of Rain.

Kay, with her easy smile and flirtatious demeanor, was a willing participant in your charade. You laughed at her jokes, touched her arm lightly, and played the part of someone smitten. From the corner of your eye, you could see Rain watching, her expression unreadable.

Later, as you and Rain walked back to your quarters along the dimly lit paths of the colony, she broke the silence. "Seems like you and Kay were getting along well tonight," she said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of something else—was it amusement? Concern?

You bristled, defensive and still wound up from your own concocted drama. "What about you and Tyler? Seems like old times, huh?"

Rain stopped walking, turning to face you under the faint glow of the overhead lamps. Her laugh, when it came, was genuine and full of warmth. "Are you jealous?" she asked, stepping closer, her eyes searching yours.

As Rain's question hung in the air between you, a cool breeze whistled through the narrow passages of Jackson's Star, stirring the dust around your feet. "Are you jealous?" she repeated, her voice a gentle tease that echoed slightly off the metal walls surrounding you.

Caught off guard by her directness and the earnest look in her eyes, your initial reaction was to deflect, but the sincerity in her gaze held you in place. Before you could respond, Rain stepped closer, closing the small gap that the conversation had widened between you. Her hands reached up, resting lightly on your cheeks, her touch sending a familiar warmth through you that contrasted sharply with the chill of the evening.

With a tenderness that always seemed at odds with the harsh environment of the mining colony, Rain leaned in. Her lips met yours in a kiss that was soft at first, hesitant, as if giving you room to pull away. But you didn’t. Instead, you found yourself leaning into the kiss, deepening it, your hands moving to encircle her waist and pull her closer.

Rain responded in kind, her movements confident, her lips pressing more firmly against yours. The kiss grew from tender to fervent, a mingling of relief and passion. It was the kind of kiss that spoke of deep connections and unspoken promises, a reassurance of her feelings amid the whirlwind of doubts that had clouded your mind.

The world around you seemed to quiet, the usual hum of the colony fading into a distant backdrop to the intensity of the moment. Rain's kiss chased away the shadows of jealousy, filling the spaces with an affirming warmth that seeped deep into your bones.

When you finally broke apart, breathless and a little dazed, Rain’s smile was radiant under the sparse light of the colony’s lamps. "I mean it," she said, her forehead resting against yours as she caught her breath. "It’s always been you."

In that moment, with Rain’s affirmation still tingling on your lips, the earlier tension dissolved, leaving a clarity that brightened the dark paths of Jackson's Star. Her laughter, light and freeing, bubbled up between you, and you couldn't help but laugh with her, the sound mingling with the night air.

The path back to your quarters was filled with a comfortable silence, the type that comes when no words are necessary to fill the space between two people. Rain’s hand in yours felt like a vow, a silent promise that no misunderstanding could break the bond you shared.

As Andy turned to give you both a subtle thumbs up before heading off to give you some privacy, you realized how deeply integrated into your life Rain had become. Her presence was a constant source of strength and comfort, just as you hoped to be for her.

Your journey together on Jackson's Star might be filled with challenges, but moments like these, stolen under the artificial stars of the colony, reminded you that as long as you were together, there was nothing you couldn’t face.

[thewertsearch]

TT: Are you saying that I will succeed in the mission to destroy the sun? […] You seem rather keen on acquiring a fortune from me considering you are the one with the crystal ball. […] I myself do not care to be an oracle. But I can graciously supply you with one. […] An eager consort has brought you one of my seeds. It appears you have amassed followers who wish to please you. How fortuitous.

If each cueball is a 'seed', then each cueball can probably be developed into an instance of Scratch.

I have a horrible feeling that our Scratched session is going to feature a cueball-headed doggy - which, admittedly, is still a step up from the cueball-headed Cal.

It will accurately answer any question a curious girl can pose. Provided she can see through the surface to read its reply. […] TT: Is that possible? […] Given your title and all the tools of prognostication at your disposal, it seems to me I should be the one asking you the questions. TT: How can I see through it? It seems you weren't listening, so I will state this again in the form of a question. Don't you think I should be asking the questions from now on? […] Don't you think a clever person should be able to acquire information from someone who only asks questions? […] TT: Ok, so what you mean is I should continue humoring your leading questions until you happen to ask certain rhetorical questions that contain information I need.

Really, there's not much else you can do. He's going to steamroll the conversation either way, so you may as well just fuck around.

How does a Seer see? […] TT: With a crystal ball? TT: I already considered that. I don't think I can get the focus of the ball to "zoom in" tight enough on the cue ball's enclosure to read the answers.

Damn, and it was a good idea, too.

Jade has an affinity for Space, and could probably do better, but you're choosing not to involve your friends in any of your machinations. After all, they might try and stop you.

Vriska, famously, can see into these cueballs - or, at least, she could when she had her eyepatch. Convincing her to help would be a challenge, but Rose has been talking up her powers of persuasion lately. Time to put your money where your mouth is, Lalonde!

TT: Should I use magic? Do you believe in magic? TT: Magic is real. TT: I've been using it. Are you sure? TT: Use whatever word you want to describe it. I have magic wands, they are very powerful, and they allow me to be magic. Your questions are silly.

Silly, and a little strange, too. Rose's wands clearly have supernatural abilities, but they're not any more supernatural than the rest of her alchemy gear. They certainly appear more magical, because their supernatural effects have a magical aesthetic - but everything else is magic, too!

Like, come on. Everyone’s been flying around the Medium with rocket-powered devices that never malfunction, burn their passengers, or run out of fuel. What’s that, if not magic? Dave literally made a Frostblade, and it doesn’t stop being magical just because there’s a jpeg of Snoop Dogg on it. You could argue that some of these objects are channeling the kids' own Aspect abilities, but most of them have powers completely unrelated to the element their Player wields.

Hell, we don't even need to point to Sburb to prove magic exists. Aradia was a freakin' necromancer!

[aureatchi]

.🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ WHAT A SCAREDY CAT ! — nakahara chuuya

“aw, poor baby. movie too scary, doll?” “shut up chuuya.”

a/n. it’s spooky szn !! so of course i need to write something fit for the occasion…so,, why not do it w my fav ginger-haired!

info. fem!reader. fluff. lowercase ✎. profanities. horror movies, drinking, small argument. it gets suggestive sjwsj, neck kissing. wc. 1.9k

“oh, this is so cute.” 

you and your lover both shared an eye for aesthetics. that’s why you gazed so proudly at the coffee table in front of you when you stepped back to see the finished product—the rounded table was filled to the curved edges with your favorite takeout meal, bowls of junk sweets to indulge in after, popcorn, two wine glasses, and accompanying of course, a bottle of wine. other than the food, there were two lit candles to set the ambiance of the space, and a jack-o-lantern chuuya had carved himself. 

all were organized beside each other to make it look like it came out of a pinterest post.

“i agree,” chuuya replied with a smug smile, also proud of your combined work. he joined you on the side. 

you grabbed your digital camera resting on your couch and took a picture of the cozy scene. 

“before it all gets ruined,” you chuckled. 

chuuya then took the camera, turning the lens towards the both of you. 

“let’s take a few together,” he said, wrapping an arm around your shoulder to pose. you and chuuya were also wearing matching pajamas: black tees and halloween themed pants. 

“okay!” 

click! click! click! 

the trio included a picture of you holding up a heart with your hands as chuuya’s arm encased around you, a picture of you turned towards him with your arms around his neck (you realized the flash was very bright), and one more of you kissing his cheek. 

“awh!” you widely grinned as you looked through them, giggling to yourself when you noticed how the camera captured chuuya’s conspicuous blush in the last photo. 

“what’chu laughing at?” he asked, looking over your shoulder. 

“nothing, it’s just cute,” you replied, putting your camera away. “can we eat now?” 

“yeah,” he replied, motioning towards the snug sofa nuzzled with your cushiest of blankets.

you enveloped them around you as chuuya grabbed the remote control to browse movies on the tv. 

RANKED #1 HORROR MOVIE THIS YEAR!

“wanna watch this?” chuuya asked, hovering the selection over the movie. “i just realized we’ve never watched a horror movie together.” 

“yeah, if you want me screaming and retreating on your lap every five minutes.” 

“exactly,” he replied, smirking. “that would be nice⎯”

“too bad. i was joking. i don’t get scared easily.” 

you held an opposing smirk back, but in reality, you did get agitated easily, especially when jumpscares were involved. but you felt stubborn and didn’t want to give what chuuya wanted, so you decided to take it on as a challenge. 

and he seemed to sense your game too. “better not catch ya lying, doll. there’s consequences for everything.” 

“what do you mean by that?” you asked, your face heating up, but he gave no answer to your avail. now you really had a challenge. 

“…whatever. i don’t need to know anyway. i’m not getting scared.” 

“hm,” chuuya said as he clicked on the movie. up popped a screen with the synopsis of the two-hour film, including all of the content warnings. 

…murder, blood, sudden jumpscares…

oh shoot.

chuuya pressed play, and immediately, the movie started.

…

the first twenty minutes were actually okay. there hadn’t been anything too much to frighten you yet⎯eerie music, corporate workers, and dark rooms were the only thing you had seen so far. 

“damn, when does this good?” chuuya mumbled, finishing eating the last of your main course. 

you were glad things hadn’t been intimidating to you so far. but you also knew your lover was awaiting for something to happen, something to cause him to win.

that wasn’t going to happen. 

you were snacking on the bucket of popcorn when suddenly, a creepy humanoid creature engulfed the screen, accompanied by a petrifying sound. there was no way to see that coming⎯there was no warning. you couldn’t help but squeal and jump slightly on the couch, the bucket of popcorn following. luckily, it wasn’t so much that it fell and made a mess. 

“o-oh shoot! chuuya, i thought i saw a spider!” you said right after the moment passed, turning your head and making it look like you were searching the cushions for a spider. you knew he was watching for your reaction the entire time. 

“spider, yeah?” chuuya asked, amused. “nice excuse, sweetheart.” 

you crossed your arms. “okay! that was a mild reaction! i didn’t jump on you so that doesn’t count.” 

“scared yet?” 

“nope!” you popped the p. yet, a shiver went down your spine.

you continued watching the movie. more horror started to seep in, grisly scenes causing unease. you weren’t sure if you preferred those drawn-out sights to the jumpscares, but you could hide your reactions better with the former. you hadn’t seen any more sudden clips yet, thankfully. 

“yikes,” you and chuuya said when a corpse got shot multiple times even after they already died and then mutilated. 

“i’m opening the wine,” chuuya said about an hour and thirty minutes into the movie. 

“alright,” you replied, not opposing. you probably even supported it. maybe if you drank a little, you wouldn’t scare so easy.

especially because you could feel the plot’s climax approaching. you were already suffocating a couple of pillows on your lap in anxiousness. 

chuuya poured the glasses and handed one to you. you quietly finished yours quickly so you could have it refilled. 

“oh shit!” you shouted when the main character suddenly made a super stupid decision⎯as you probably did too by pretending that you didn’t spooked⎯of course resulting in a chase by the disgusting creature that popped out of nowhere earlier. you clutched the pillows even harder, but you couldn’t take your eyes off the screen. you needed to prove to chuuya you weren’t lying to him. 

the wine was not strong enough against the fear-fueled adrenaline that surged through you, paralleling the intensifying background music. 

stupid chuuya. he made sure the volume was cinema-loud. it did not help trying to drown out the creepy atmosphere that engulfed the entire room. 

the figure suddenly appeared in front of the protagonist with a dramatic scream.

“AHH!” you screamed too, but immediately bit down on your hand right after. 

but then it happened again. the main character turned a corner, and it popped up again, even more disturbing than the last time. 

“AHHH!” 

you screamed again, jumping on chuuya to try and bury your face on his neck. your heart was racing from the images you had seen. 

but he had other plans. 

“aw, poor baby. movie too scary, doll?” 

“shut up chuuya!” you replied, yet you still gripped tightly on his shirt. 

but then, chuuya pushed you off of him.  

“chuuya!” you tried to climb back on him, but something was preventing you from making contact with his skin. 

“…are you using gravity manipulation?!”

“i thought you said you wouldn’t get scared,” he taunted with a smirk. “eyes on the screen, brave girl.” 

“you’re so mean!” you shouted, but faced back toward the tv. he had even gone out of his way to use his ability to turn your own words against yourse⎯

“AHHH! WHATTHEFUCK!” 

you were already screaming as the creature finally caught the main character, but you weren’t alone as chuuya cursed and pulled you on top of him, horrified.

“DAMMIT. what the hell was THAT?” 

“put us down, we’re FLOATING!” you cried. it didn’t help at all that you were both scared and floating above all solid surface, even though it was only about three feet.

“s-shit, sorry!” 

he rested the both of you down on the sofa once again. you had missed most of the eerie epilogue, but you didn’t really care when your brain had now conjured a new character for your nightmares. 

chuuya poured the last of the bottle’s contents into your glasses and handed you yours. you finished the cherry-red liquid instantly to try to get some relief. 

you turned towards chuuya right after to see that he had done the same. and then, you broke out laughing. 

the ginger-haired raised an eyebrow and glared back at you as you continued to stare at him and snicker.

“i-i didn’t know YOU were a scaredy cat,” you tried to speak, but it was hard when you were overcome by laughter. your stomach was hurting and your chest was heaving, but you couldn’t stop. 

“shut up!” he shouted. 

“i-i can’t!” you replied, continuing to laugh. “how ironic⎯it’s one thing for me, but the port mafia executive? getting scared?!” 

you were only silenced when chuuya had pulled you on his waist once again. 

“if you didn’t think you were in trouble for lying, you definitely are now.” 

you immediately stopped, staring into his eyes. you had forgotten about his temper.

“wait, i’m sorry!” but your apology was futile because you were immediately lifted once again but this time, higher and alone.

“put me down, chuuya, i’m sorry!” you screamed, about eleven feet off of the floor. you really hated his ability sometimes.

“why should i?!” he observed you from the couch, trying to grab onto something but stuck inside a sphere of air. he would never try to hurt you, even while he was mad, but currently, his ego had been offended by your words.

“i was joking, chuu! i didn’t actually mean it⎯i promise! i’m sorry, i’ll make it up to you.”

you were slowly lowered, relieved once your legs hit the couch.

“i’m sorry,” he said, quietly after you had made sure you could stand on floor again. “i got carried away, plus you weren’t wrong.” he sighed at the confession.

“it’s okay,” you replied, straddling his lap. “that just makes the two of us scaredy cats. i think that’s cute.” you booped him on the nose.

“but you’re the bigger one,” chuuya provoked.

“no! you are!”

“you are!”

“you are!”

“who’s the one on my lap?” he asked, moving a piece of your hair out of your face as he smirked. “just as she foreshadowed earlier too?”

“shut up,” you replied, but he had gotten you where he wanted in the end. “want a trophy or something?”

“no, you’re just gonna make it up to me now.“

he pulled you closer, and kissed you softly, seeing if your reaction would allow him to continue.

you pulled back. “if this is what i have to do, that’s easy.” you leaned back in and resumed the kiss, lifting your hands to play with chuuya’s hair. you could still taste the wine on his lips⎯it made you feel even more high combined with the tension between you two as he kissed you deeper.

he pulled back for the both of you to catch breath and then spoke.

“you’re funny if you think that’s it, doll.”

he moved one of his hands to move your hair away from your neck and the other to cup your cheek on the opposite side.

he started kissing there, and then, sucking.

“…chuuya?”

“this is for lying to me,” he said, focusing on the spot. once he was done, he moved to another.

“and for making fun of me.” he sucked again, until your neck had two new red marks.

“…keep going.”

“yeah? want more?”

“yes. it helps me not think of that scary murderer in the movie.” chuuya laughed.

“alright, i’ll help take the scaredy cat’s mind off of the things that bring her fear.”

“hey! stop calling me th⎯”

you were silenced as he went back to what he was doing, until your entire neck was filled with shades of red.

reblogs are cherished. <3

© AUREATCHI 2023. no reposts or translations. do not steal — including this post’s banners (they’re mine).

[myprincejacaerys]

The instant Aegon laid eyes upon him, staring down at his crippled form with that cold, expressionless face of his, panic surged through him like wildfire, setting his body ablaze with terror. His younger brother’s calm efforts to hush him only fanned the flames, intensifying his distress.

“What do you remember?”

After a few laboured breaths, Aegon managed to answer.

“Nothing”

The stone mask was completely unreadable, and Aegon found himself gasping in agony as his brother gently enlaced their fingers before pushing something into the most damaged section of his burns.

Aemond leaned over him, daring to come even closer than the apparition had only moments prior, taking no notice of his brother’s anguished whimpers of pain caused by his mockery display of affection.

“You challenged Meleys”

He couldn’t breathe. His surroundings blurred into indistinguishable blobs of light and darkness swirled together as his tormentor refused to let up.

“It was foolish”

The words were dripping with saddened sympathy, and had it been anyone else, it would sound like a younger brother grieving the horrific injuries inflicted upon his beloved sibling.

But Aegon wasn’t just anyone else. Aegon knew his brother better than anyone, even more than their dear mother. Whilst that knowledge had failed to shield him from the unseen danger Aemond posed to him before, it now allowed him to see the stark absence of anything genuine in his brother’s expression.

“I remember nothing”

The words seared his throat like acid as Aegon forced them out of his throat. It was far too early for him to even attempt speaking, but somewhere in his milk-addled mind, he understood exactly how dangerous this situation was.

The outcome of this exchange would dictate his survival.

At least for now.

Aegon's capacity to discern his brother's true intentions was not a one-sided affair. His initial reaction had already betrayed him, meaning Aemond now knew for certain that Aegon has recollection of what truly transpired at Rook's Rest—the real reason he had come so close to being slain.

However-

If Aegon could demonstrate his understanding of this delicate situation, if he could persuade Aemond that he posed no threat, then perhaps his brother might be inclined to spare him.

After a moment, it seemed that Aemond was satisfied with his response. His brother placed a gentle hand above his head, a subtle yet threatening reminder of their power imbalance. Aegon closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable pain as his brother drew even closer to him.

But it never came. Instead, he felt the press of a soft kiss above his injured brow.

Aegon had never been more afraid of anyone in all his life.

- The Art of Betrayal, Chapter 2

[joseline-woodhouse]

I want in on talking about Annabel and Prospero.

Since most posts I've seen are about how nice it is to watch them being healthy for one another (it really is, I adore their dynamic) I decided to talk about how neither of them would hesitate to kill one another eventually.

First of all both Annabel Lee and Prospero are calculative people. Both of them care for only the outcome and how to get there. I have seen people call Annabel a hypocrite for protecting Prospero because he's important to her after what she did to Duke and I entirely disagree, more on the rescue from Ada later. We have established that Annabel really doesn't care that everyone in the academy (except one, if the Deans can be trusted) is doomed.

I don't think Annabel's general willingness to sacrifice people needs to be discussed.

Now, I'm leaning a bit far out the window here, but take a good look at Prospero in the left picture above, he looks more frustrated than anything. His chances just got a lot worse, he needs to rethink his strategy and on top of all that Ada is invading his personal space again.

Moving forward to what I think makes their mutual betrayal inevitable, the episodes after the Mansion Arc (this is were it gets interesting):

Until now we have seen Prospero mostly be mildly bothered by whatever is happening. When everything fell apart during the Lesson and everyone except for him apperently just did not do their job, he seemed like he was about to explode and seriously questioning his choice of team. Everyone else appeared to just want to go on with the day, Prospero however demanded answers, proving that he cares to win this entire game without getting side tracked.

Further his behaviour during the lesson shows that he actually doesn't get how anyone else would still be reluctant to kill their friends here. He was genuinely not expecting anyone to act out of empathy anymore.

And after the widow's watch affair and him witnessing Annabel freaking out after the labyrinth and smoothly asking about Pluto instead of giving an explanation, he is surely just one big-ish failure or unwillingness to take action away from openly confronting Annabel how it can be that whenever she is alone with Lenore, things go south ways, how whenever people want to act against Lenore, she calls it a waste of time despite the growingly obvious threat that Lenore poses.

I think Annabel actually does matter to him, and I think he matters to Annabel as well, but both of them expect something really specific from one another and sympathy alone means little to them.

Now about Annabel saving Prospero.

I believe this says everything:

Since Annabel is a chess player, get ready for chess metaphors:

In chess, most gambits are about giving away a pawn. Why? Because a pawn has very little value on its own and sacrificing a pawn in order to get a slightly more profitable structure on the board can actually be worth it.

Sacrificing a queen? If you do something like that, you better be 100% sure you're seeing a forced checkmate.

Not only is Prospero's spector really powerful, Prospero is also the only thing keeping Annabel in control of her own team right now. Other than Prospero who's supporting her as long as she keeps bringing results, she is stuck with Ada who is a complete wild card and useless most of the time, Morella who is only half on her team, Will who is loyal mostly to Montresor and Montresor who constantly challenges her leadership.

The way things are standing right now, everything she has build would fall apart the very moment Prospero is gone.

Also, what if Annabel and Lenore have to stay long enough for their teams to start falling apart? Whom does Annabel want to face in a one on one? Someone like Montresor who's spector can very much use brute force against her or someone like Prospero who's spector is similarly unforceful as hers?

We even saw, that Annabel can just simply neutralise Prospero's rats with her fog, leaving him with no real attack on her. While he applies her with status conditions she can use her blossoms to attack him after she used her fog to make his rats disappear like she did on the widow's watch

Annabel did not safe him because she likes him, which she does. She saved him because he is a very important piece for her game and no real threat to her in the long run.

Prospero follows Annabel not because he likes her, which he does, but because she keeps bringing results. Or at least she did until rather recently.

[wombywoo]

i know you have probably been asked this so many times — but what brushes do you typically use? any helpful videos i can reference to get portraits and overall realism sketching down, maybe ones that you used starting out? or just.. tips overall?

artists like you and m0cktails really inspire me to try and pursue a different route with my art, one that was totally unexpected but pleasantly rewarding when i tried it out!!! you have a great eye for features and overall composition of a piece, i started being a fan due to your ghostsoap art but i honestly think ive started to like seeing your OCs too haha

please don’t feel pressured to answer i know i kind of asked a lot!!

Hey there! I've briefly reviewed some of the brushes I use in some posts here and here! For the most part, I stick to one standard brush, as well as the airbrush and some other 'effect' brushes as I need them. I'm a photoshop devotee, unfortunately 😔, so a lot of my process is futzing around with their admittedly stellar editing tools

Truthfully, I don't have any concrete tips or videos for this sort of thing. I started out as a pencil artist, doing more and more realistic portraits the better I got, and then eventually turned to digital art (a bit reluctantly) So a lot of that was just self-taught; finding my own way how to implement certain techniques, and amassing a foundation that would allow me to draw all the stuff in my brain, lol

As for advice--I'd say to learn how to evolve out of your comfort zone. It's good to know what type of style or subject matter you feel you're best at--this is a natural inclination most artists have, and it informs the pieces your mind wants to create. But try pushing the limits of what you think might be 'too tedious' or 'too advanced'. More often than not, the thing holding your art back is that gut instinct of 'I can't do this, so why bother trying'. I used to feel this way about hands (enemy of the state, confirmed) And yeah, the easy cop-out is to just shove them all in pockets or behind backs etc. But in learning how to overcome that obvious challenge, I grew to really appreciate the way a hand can shape a composition. In fact, I have to hand it to--💥 ✋

Anyway! My next bit of 'advice' would be to go absolutely bonkers nuts with references. Don't listen to any fraud or fool who says using references is cheating !!!!! They lie!!!!! I swear, my art only looks the way it does because I am a reference hound who spends hours and hours on google/pinterest/stock sites for the perfect angle of the perfect pose, just so I can relate it to the image I have in my head.

For realism--look at real stuff! This sounds dumb, but it helps. Start paying closer attention to people around you; their faces, the way the light accents certain things, unique features, etc. I'd suggest figure studies if that's something you're into (I don't do studies, personally, because I just jump into massive pieces and can't do anything simple 😅 welp) but it does help immensely to study humans in real life and try to translate that onto the page

So yeah. Tbh, the best method for improving art is to simply DO IT. And the fact that you're seeking out further advice and tips means that you have some motivation--so use it! Hope this helps <3

[elminx]

Practices to Support Yourself During Mercury's Retrograde

Although Mercury's retrograde cycle is not bad and is business as usual, it tends to create stress for some people. Even if you aren't particularly mercurial, you may have to deal with the effects of other people's dysregulations from this retrograde or just the generalized "ick" that tends to accumulate from people being late, tech not working right, and the varying miscommunications which inevitably seem to materialize.

Here are a few practices that have worked for me, or for people that I love to help rebalance yourself during these rougher times. You (obviously?) don't need to do all of these practices - finding one that works for you and sticking with it will likely be more beneficial than trying to catch 'em all.

Don't take things personally - Learning to step back and be objective about other people's shit can go a long way at all times but most especially when the space weather gets choppier. This may look like taking a break from socializing or engaging less with those overly dramatic folks who make their emotions everyone else's business. Boundaries are key here: you can read my boundary spell here for ideas on magically enforcing better boundaries.

Ground, ground, ground - Mercury is a very airy planet, and its retrograde cycle can leave us really stuck in our heads. Any practice that pulls you out of your head and back into your body will be helpful during this time. This may look like sending your energy out of your feet and into the earth like roots, wearing grounding scents, focusing on your body, or simply lying on the ground. Some people find great benefits in carrying/wearing grounding crystals during these times.

Move Your Body—This doesn't have to be high-impact. Moving our bodies can ground us and return us to the now. Practices like yin yoga or other slow movements may be especially helpful here as they are focused on being in your body and really feeling what you are experiencing. Another layer is to focus on floor poses that put you close to the ground, accomplishing #2.

Focus on what you Eat - this will look different for everyone, and I'm not trying to be a food purist here. We all have foods that make us feel good (in a body way) and foods that don't. Since Mercury retrograde can increase anxiety, paying attention to foods/drinks that are prone to making you jittery and limiting them may be helpful during this time. If your anxiety settles in your gut (mine certainly does), try sticking to your safer foods during the retrograde cycle.

Calming Practices—Again, this will look different for everyone. What activities really bring you back to yourself and a state of inner contentment? Try to prioritize those for the next three weeks.

Write For Yourself - Mercury's retrograde cycles are review moments that tend to bring up many things from our past for deeper processing. Keeping a private journal is a good way to work through these challenging moments. This may look like shadow work or simply recording your thoughts and feelings as they come to you.

Media detoxing - Not only does social media often stop working correctly during a retrograde cycle, but people get really in it. It sometimes can seem like the very worst in humanity is appearing on your feed. This is your cosmic reminder that it's okay to take a break from the news and social media, and that you can unfollow any person at any time. You can always come back and reengage later if you want to.

Do less - retrogrades are an internal phase that encourages pause and reflection. Where can you create more space in your life? Can you breathe and recenter before you respond?

It's worth noting that every retrograde cycle hits differently, so you will likely feel some Mercury retrogrades more than others. The closer the retrograde aligns with your own chart, the more likely you will be affected by its energy. There are also no wrong answers here - if retrogrades make you feel energized and on top of things, great! If you're in a cycle where you want to be introspective, Mercury retrogrades can be very helpful for this process.

Do you like my work? You can tip me over on Kofi.

[nukaberries]

howdy! if this blog is still active, could you do new vegas companions react to courier six being a synth? idk how they'd find out, prolly either six telling them or a close call with a courser. it's up to you!

This puts anything I've ever requested on Tumblr to shame because this is such a cool idea?? I'm obsessed with crossing over the Fallout games - which is probably why MacCready's my favourite companion - so I find stuff like this so fun to write. I also just love requests like this because it gives me the chance to challenge myself, I feel like I write the Fallout 4 companions better (I definitely have more hours in 4 than any game), so I love getting the opportunity to write for New Vegas companions too!

//

Companions Reacting to the Courier Being a Synth (Includes: Arcade, Boone, Cass, Lily, Raul and Veronica)

Arcade Gannon When the courier reveals the truth to him, he's more embarrassed than anything that he didn't figure it out himself. He's never seen a robot look so unmistakably humanlike before, leaving him with a lot of questions for the Courier. After all, he's seen them eat, drink, sleep and bleed like any normal, breathing human would - can he even be sure this is the same courier that he first met in Freeside? For a while, Arcade will keep a wary eye on the courier, unsure what to believe, whether he can trust the courier, whether he's been able to trust them at all. Eventually, he comes back around, which is arguably worse for the courier, as they spend most of their time answering questions like "do you have an off switch?"

Craig Boone He doesn't think much of the strange man who'd just tried to ambush the courier, even in spite of the odd outfit that was surely far too warm for someone to be wearing in the middle of the desert. It's only when the courier appears shaken up and Boone finds some kind of component when looting the man that he thinks to question anything. The courier is dismissive at first and says that they simply just got caught off guard by the assailant, of course, Boone doesn't believe them but he doesn't see the point in pushing. When the courier inevitably tells him, it doesn't change much for him, he'll naturally be curious at to how the courier's existence is even possible, but as long as they're still willing to take the Legion down with him, he doesn't care what they are.

Cass Similarly to Boone, the revelation of the courier not being as human as they seem doesn't particularly bother her. She'll probably make a couple of jokes here and there, usually ones that the courier has heard a million times before. It doesn't make any difference to Cass though, sure, it's a little weird but she'd seen weirder just by minding her own business at the Mojave Outpost.

Lily Bowen She's fully aware that she's in no place to judge the courier for what they are and she makes that clear the moment that her companion reveals they're a synth. It doesn't necessarily change anything about the courier for her and if anything, she encourages them to talk about what they went through at the Institute, so long as they feel comfortable telling her. She'll remind them that she's still their grandma and she loves them no matter what.

Raul Tejada When you're around for long enough, you hear a lot, specifically whispers of robots posing as humans in the East, spying for their masters and replacing innocent people. Of course, none of that ever sounds like more than old myth to Raul. That is until a run in with what the courier later explains is a courser leaves Raul to deal with a revelation about his new friend. Admittedly, it's a lot for him to take in, especially after hearing so many bad things about synths for so long, but eventually, he figures nobody would want to make a synth replacement of him and if he's been able to trust the courier for this long, then surely he still can.

Veronica Santangelo Being a Brotherhood Scribe, Veronica knows quite a bit about the Institute already, but since hardly any of her fellow comrades have actually gone to the Commonwealth, her knowledge is limited. Still, it causes some uncertainty when the courier tells her the truth about their identity. She's only ever heard bad things about synths and this does seem like the definition of technology gone out of hand. It takes Veronica a while to warm up to the idea that her friend isn't going to bring her or anyone else any harm, but it'll take a bit longer that it would the others to earn back her trust.

[cookiiemancer]

Hi, I’m back! I had a few unasked questions that just stuck with me for a while, and I finally broke! I hope you don’t mind answer them! It’s ok if you don’t want to! 🧡

- Who’s the youngest?

- Who’s more rebellious?

- Who’s better at talking with angry adults?

- Who hates cleaning the most?

- Do they make challenges with each other?

- Have Sun or Moon (or both) ever had a fight with Eclipse? (If so, who wins 90% of the time?)

- How did Sun and Moon find out about Eclipse?

- Who’s your favorite to draw, and least favorite to draw?

Sorry if that was way to many questions! I’m just a little curious, that’s all! Hope this doesn’t bother you, either.

Hi! Please don't worry about sending too many asks! I am happy to answer to any questions and sometimes i get a nice idea for a picture. I do really appreciate every single one i receive, even if i don't answer them all :)

Who’s the youngest?

Sun and Moon are both the youngest!

Who’s more rebellious?

This one I didn't think about it to be honest. I wouldn't be able to tell right now who.

Who hates cleaning the most?

Sun! He hates messes but hates cleaning even more. He stands it better when, there's other people helping him clean.

Do they make challenges with each other?

Yes! Most of them are harmless ones, like winning games, dressing as each other (the kids love this one).

Have Sun or Moon (or both) ever had a fight with Eclipse? (If so, who wins 90% of the time?)

When it comes to physical fights, uhhhhh... Once, at the begining. Emotions were very high and Eclipse was very confused. He's stronger than you think. Other fights, well, they try not to, and if it happens, they try to get to a midpoint.

How did Sun and Moon find out about Eclipse?

They were contacted by Freddy about a prototype found in a warehouse. They found soon enough that the bot was actually sentient once powered on. Old Papa bear thought that those two would be able to help Eclipse get adjusted. It took a bit of time.

Who’s your favorite to draw, and least favorite to draw?

Fave to draw? Ya boy, Eclipse. I am quite proud of the design lol. I don't really have a least favorite. Depending of my mood or how the art comes out I do get frustrated sometimes when Itry to get a specific pose or expression and fail.

These were fun! ^-^

[storm-angel989]

Can I request a one-shot of valentino with a significant other who is on the autism spectrum and is really shy, reserved, not that into physical touch (basically the exact opposite of valentino)?

Hi friend, 

I struggle a little bit with this request, but I hope you enjoy the story! As familiar as I am with the Autism community, I also tried quite hard to make this fic gender neutral, which posed quite the challenge as I typically don’t write from that perspective. The only way to get better at is though is to practice! I do hope I did your request justice! 

<3 Mandy 

Valentino knew when he first saw them there was something different, something he couldn’t quite place. Nonetheless, the way they moved was enticing, and whenever he glanced their way, he felt something in his chest he hadn’t quite put a name to. It was more than lust, but not quite love. 

He watched as they moved carefully throughout his studio. The meticulous way they handled the lighting. How they managed to never be in the way, but still manage to get the lighting just right. He wondered how anyone as beautiful as they were had been overlooked on his stage and as instantly as the thought came, he shook it away. No, they didn’t belong on his stage. They belonged in his arms. 

“Crushing,” Velvette told him as he tried to explain the feeling over dinner one night, “you’re crushing on Reader. Just suck it up, ask them out.” 

“Yeah, Val, what difference does it make to you? You know you…” Vox began.

“This one is different, okay?” Valentino snapped. “I, I really think that…”

“Stop bellyaching and ask them out already,” Velvette snapped. “This conversation bores me.”

Valentino rolled his eyes but stood up. A quick scroll through of the VoxTech database gave him all the insight he would need to swoon them. 

“Autism? What does that mean?” Valentino asked. 

“Depends on the person.” Vox answered instantly, “It's a neurodivergence that presents itself differently in each case. As unique as the individual .”

“Oh,” came Valentino’s response. “Hm. Alright.”

For the first time in his life, Valentino did research- both on the subject, and on the human. Quiet. Reserved. And according to their bio, not a fan of physical touch. Valentino grimaced to himself, but made the mental note. He would do his best to keep his hands to himself. 

Maybe it was the quiet way he approached them. Or the mention of a date involving their most current hyper fixation. A date that ended with little more than a peck on the cheek and somehow grew into something Valentino wasn’t quite sure how he had ever lived without. Despite their difference in love languages, they fit him in a way he had never felt before.

The feeling was exhilarating.

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

Five-Finger Discount (Dean/Reader)

Title: Five-Finger Discount

Characters/Pairing: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Dean x Female Reader

Summary: It's supposed to be a simple case. A little undercover. A little burglary. A little spell. Dash of salt and burn. No muss, no fuss. So, why the hell are you getting these uncontrollable thoughts about Dean's... hands?

Word Count: 10,300

Tags: Hand & Finger Kink, Dean Winchester is a Scoundrel, Dean gets a Manicure, Fluff and Humor, Shameless Smut of the Finger Variety, Dean Winchester Talks Dirty

Notes: Because Jensen just can’t keep his hands to himself. See notes on AO3 for the offender/crime in question.

A persistent tapping on your bedroom door awakens you. It could be late evening or early morning in the windowless bunker.

Before you can check your phone for the actual time, Dean’s voice calls your name from the other side of the door.

You groan. Whatever time it is, it’s not ‘wakey wakey eggs and bakey’ time. “What?”

“Got word from Sam. He’s figured out what’s been killing the inmates in NSP.”

You sit up and feel for the lamp switch. After a turn and snick , you mumble, “Let there be light.” Your voice raises in answer to Dean. “That’s great.”

“Well, not that great.” The conversation is still happening through the closed door. “Sam figures it’s a ghost of a prisoner that died behind bars in 1870.”

“Why not great? Did you want more of a challenge? Ghosts are a milk run.”

You can hear the dramatic sigh, picture the tilt back and forth of his head, and the way his mouth mimics either you or Sam when the sarcasm leans on the excessive. Which is kind of ironic coming from the King of Snark. “Can I come in? You decent?”

“Yes.”

It’s definitely the middle of the night when you get a look at him. Dean’s hair is mussed. There are cheek and chin creases from scuba pillow diving when he sleeps on his stomach. “You got something formal to wear?”

“Huh?”

“A gown, dress, something promish or wedding worthy?”

“Promish?” That question reply to his question earns you a broad stance with hands on hips like a superhero as Dean stares you down. You twirl both hands around to remind him of the non-existent storage space in the bunker. Which should not be a thing in such a huge fortress where men dressed in three piece suits on the daily. “Sure. I have a whole rack of them hanging in my walk-in closet.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, smart ass. Well, we’re gonna have to go do this thing in less than twenty-four hours that needs you in a dress and me in a tux.”

You suck in your lips and try not to laugh at how pissed Dean appears at the thought.

“It’s a charity fundraiser in Lincoln,” he continues. “We have to act like a couple of out-of-state spenders with deep pockets to get our hands on the Hand of Glory that belonged to this ghost.”

“What about Sam? I bet he’d look much better in a dress than I would.”

Dean shrugs. “He’s got the hair for it. But we can’t risk somebody making him.”

Of course. The one time Sam goes investigating on his own. He posed as an FBI agent and poked around too many people. 

You and Dean are going to have to go shopping. The all-out kind. Max out a stolen credit card at the mall kind.

Dean is gonna be miserable. You can’t wait. Grumpy Dean, for some reason, is very entertaining.

“How about you in the dress and me in the tux?” you offer.

“I don’t have the legs for it.” Dean shakes his head. “Get a few more hours of sleep. Gonna be a busy day.”

You’ve been around Sam and Dean for a long time. Long enough to have gotten a little numb and even blase regarding certain things.

The dangers of a hunt. The stench of death. The amount of blood a beheaded vamp body can ooze.

As you tick the tasks off for the heist with a trip to a dress shop earlier and currently helping Dean pick out a tux, another thing you’ve become indifferent to smacks you right in the goddamn face.

The hotness of the Winchester brothers.

You were talking with the owner of the suit store when Dean parted the curtains of the fitting booth he’d been in for five minutes.

And there it was, dressed to the nines, cutting a fine figure in a black tuxedo. 

The plain as day fact of how unfucking-believably gorgeous Dean Winchester is.

Stephen, well-dressed and highly animated, claps hands in front of his face. “Oh. Wow, that is, it’s like you stepped right off the cover of GQ magazine,” he gushes at Dean. “Turn around, turn around.”

Dean blushes, spins on his heels, and averts your and Stephen’s gaze. You’re glad because you can feel the warmth racing over your own cheeks.

“Sir, that is screaming perfection. I don’t even think it needs to be taken in. It’s like a second skin.” You’d think Stephen was buttering him up for a sale if he was overexaggerating. But, he wasn’t.

“Well, good, cause it’s not like we’ve got time for a tailor,” Dean huffs. Then, you hear, “You’re awfully quiet. What do you think?”

“I-yeah-it’ll do.”

After Dean swipes the key card, he steps aside and lets you pass the threshold first.

“Holy shit,” you whisper.

The suite is swanky. No motels for you on this trip. You’ve got to keep up appearances, after all.

Windows that meet the ceiling give you a sweet view of downtown Lincoln. It’s not the New York skyline, but everything looks impressive from a higher vantage.

Dean pushes the squeaky luggage cart. The door clicks closed solidly behind him. “Alright. We got a few hours to get ourselves presentable. Then we head on over to the Sheldon Museum of Art.” He hangs the garment bags containing his tux and your dress in the closet. The duffle bags each get a chuck onto the king-size bed.

You nod at the reminder. Sam will be at the fundraiser as well. Between the ruse of you and Dean as the wealthy Mitchums from Kansas and Sam’s Agent Dion, you’re confident the case will be resolved before another not-so-innocent victim dies. “Too bad we can’t really enjoy a stay at a place like this.”

“Eh, overpriced. I can’t wait to get home to the bunker. It’s a lot nicer.” He rolls the cart back toward the door. “I’ll be back in a few.”

He’s gone before you can quibble with Dean over your and his idea of luxury. But yours does have windows, excessive amounts of pillows, and room service.

Dean returns to find you’ve commandeered the entire vanity counter with makeup. He chuckles. “Never seen you put any of this crap on before. Do you even know how?”

“Asshole.” You thwack his tummy, but clenched stomach muscles anticipated the retaliation. “I’ll wear makeup for this case out of necessity. I don’t believe in going into debt to keep up with the latest beauty trend. This stuff costs a fortune.”

Dean picks up a packet of press-on nails and looks at the price tag. “Well, hopefully, it’s all worth it.”

As Dean inspects your haul, you notice the dirt under his own nails. “Your hands,” you state.

“Huh?” Dean’s brow furrows. He puts down the box and stares at his fingers.

“Those aren’t the hands of a millionaire.”

He smiles. “I’ve got a great rags to riches story I can use. You see, one day I was shootin’ at some food, and up for the ground came a bubblin’...”

“Ooor, you can look the part.” You cut off his recounting of how the Beverly Hillbillies came to be and sweep a hand in his direction. “Hurry up and shower. I’ll do your nails.”

His eyes bug out. “Do my nails?”

“Relax. Just gonna tidy them up. No polish. Although there’s nothing wrong with a little color on a guy’s nails. But maybe not for this event. We don’t need you to stand out too much.” You think about how he looked in that tux and realize how much he will stand out already at least in your mind. He’s still blinking at you, processing what’s about to happen. “Well, hurry up, Jeb. That oil ain’t gonna find itself.”

You gulp at the sight of a freshly scrubbed, washed, towel-dried Dean. It shouldn’t be affecting you like this. You’ve seen him just out of a shower with his white t-shirt and sweatpants when you’ve been hunting on the road.

Maybe it’s the change of scenery. No motel. No mildew smells. No obnoxiously loud wallpaper to mask the soot and stains. No revving engines or wheels peeling right outside the door. None of the things that usually overwhelm and distract your senses.

His entire face is scrunched up in confused awe. Tools are neatly lined atop a towel on the small island by the kitchenette. Not the usual gun-cleaning ones, though. You clear your throat and pat the breakfast stool beside your seated frame.

“Is this gonna hurt?” he asks.

“Just a little detailing is all.”

He sits and eyes you warily.

A gimme gesture requests his left hand. He provides it, resting his fingers over the bridge of support yours creates. You try not to flinch in surprise at the warmth and weight. It’s not like you’ve never touched him before. But, you’ve never had the opportunity for contact to linger.

You lean down and in, lifting his fingers in inspection and deciding your plan of attack. Damn. They’re, well, you wonder how you haven’t noticed how big they are. His entire hand dwarfs yours in comparison. Dean’s a big dude. He is not as tall as Sam, but considering they’re both over six feet, you shouldn’t be surprised that his digits are substantial. You picture Sam’s hands in your mind’s eye in the usual situations. Tapping away on a keyboard. Flipping through their dad’s journal pages or some gigantic volume of lore in the bunker. Those fingers are long, but their slender and taut, proportionate to Sam’s body type and size. Jolly Green Giant size.

Dean’s? Well, it’s not that they don’t match Dean. They’re beefy, thick, and solid. All the things Dean is. But they’re more like a jumbo sausage sandwich than a hot dog that’s a little too big for the bun. Even the width of his palm seems way above average.

“What’s wrong?” Dean’s question calls out and you wonder how long you’ve been staring at his freaking hands.

“Nothing,” you mumble.

You get to work, using a nail brush that’s been soaking in a bowl of warm, sudsy water. A sturdy grip wraps around two of Dean’s fingers - it’s all you can comfortably manage - and the bristles scrub back and forth in quick passes.

Dean chortles. His fingers pull back slightly. The look on his face is one of surprise. You grin and ask, “Did that tickle?”

He snorts. “What? No. I’m not ticklish.”

“Mm-hmm.” You tug his fingers toward the brush. “Hold still then.” You continue the process. Dip the brush in the water bowl. Play Dean’s fingers like a washboard. And you delight in how his jaw clenches and body squirms. He does an adorable shimmy shake that starts at the shoulders and ends with an ass cha-cha. But you only let the torture go on for a minute or two. “Okay. Give them another wash. Then we’ll clip ‘em, file and buff, and these nails will scream private prep school and ivy league polo.”

He rises. “As long as there’s no more brushing.” He punctuates how serious he is about that with one of those fingers right at your mouth.

You swallow the urge to bite that finger.

For someone who was uncertain about the thought of a manicure earlier, Dean is back in a hurry to continue the process. You exaggeratedly shake the nail brush out of the soapy water bowl and softball it into the stainless steel sink a yard away. It clangs about like a noon bell. You raise both hands, “I’m unarmed.”

He snickers, “Not so sure.” He skirts his gaze over the remaining items. “Sharp and stabby things.”

“You have used clippers before. You’re not an actual Cro-Magnon that drags knuckles on the ground and runs nails along some flint.” You grab one stool and carry it to the other side of the island, settling into position for the next step. “Sit and stop acting like a baby.”

“Damn,” he murmurs, following orders and taking his seat from before.

“Hands,” you request.

He harrumphs and splays his fingers atop the terry towel, like a cat stretching and digging in with their claws. His hands are creamy colored and speckled pink from the washing and scrubbing. Ten digits tap along the cloth in wait. And you stare, longer than you should.

What in the holy hell is going on? They’re fingers for chrissakes. The same fingers you’ve seen on Dean all the time, day after day in the bunker or in the car or on a hunt. It’s not like he got a hand transplant or something.

“Come on, Madge.” Dean snaps two of those fingers together. “This is where you’re supposed to tell me I was soaking in it.”

“Huh?”

He rolls his eyes. “Softens hands while you do the dishes?” He adds to the dramatics and unhinges his jaw. “Come on, we’re the same age. You gotta remember that commercial? Palmolive?”

“Oh, right.” You feign recollection, inhale to steady yourself and grab his left hand. It’s down to business time. “I’ve only lost five of my last six clients. Nothing to worry about.”

“Quite the comedian,” he razzes back.

“I am. Apparently you could learn a thing or two from me. The first? A punchline isn’t funny if you have to explain it.”

“Yeah, well…” He begins.

“Maybe come at me with ‘your face is a punchline’?” you suggest.

His lids blink in confusion. “It’s not, though.”

For some reason that shuts you both up.

You spend the next minutes manipulating each of Dean’s fingers, one by one in your palm as you clip. Tick, tick, tick. You give the nails a nice straight edge and round out the sides. His nails are stumpy, boxy and twice the width of yours. His skin is calloused, toughened in the spots you expect. From the thousands of hours he’s gripped Baby’s steering wheel, handled a shotgun, cranked a wrench, slid into the trigger of his Colt. But they are soft in other spots. The patterns of lines criss crossing and connecting like a terrain map enthrall you.

He’s quiet. Watching you work. You’ve forgotten to be mouthy for this bit. It’s hard to focus on anything but this and his breathing. You’ve forgotten the basic steps of inhaling and exhaling.

It’s when you’ve moved on to filing that Dean remembers how to word. “You’re good at this.”

“I should be,” you croak out then clear your throat. “I did my older sister’s nails all the time growing up.”

“Hm, I guess Sammy didn’t get the little brother memo about doing my nails.”

I grin up at him. “Maybe you should have had him watch that Palmolive commercial.”

His laugh is soft. His eyes gleam with that hint of mischief he dons when there is no imminent threat. When life is as close to normal as possible. You wonder what it would be like to take those hands and place them around your waist. Guide him to hold you steady, secure.

He opens his mouth, stops to lick his top lip.

It’s taking everything in your power to not catapult over the island and slam your lips against his.

He finally speaks. “We should get ready.”

And your daydreaming dissipates just like that.   

Two hours later, you and Sam wait outside the St. Charbel Chapel in Calvary Catholic Cemetery. It’s the closest church and holy ground from the museum Sam had found in his research.

A fire truck zooms down a nearby street, siren wailing.

You wait for Dean. 

Things had not gone according to plan.

At the fundraiser, Sam got cornered near the crudités by a Lancaster County Sheriff’s Office deputy. From what you overheard, Sam’s cover had been blown. He was in imminent danger of being arrested by Deputy Dickens for impersonating a federal agent. Dean was off in one of the acquisition storage rooms searching for the Hand of Glory.

You all were SOL.

You did what any hunter interested in self-preservation would do. Walked over to the nearest fire alarm and inconspicuously pulled the lever. Alarms went off. In the chaos of disgruntled partygoers filing out of the building, Sam dropped the deputy to the ground with a combo shoulder check and leg sweep. You were down on the floor in a flash, asking the lawman if he was alright. Before he could reply, you held a handkerchief doused with your travel-size bottle of chloroform to his mouth and nose. A clutch could only hold so much—such an inconvenience.

Sam pushed the passed-out deputy under the appetizer station’s floor-length tablecloth. You both did a hurried power walk past the crowd gathered in front of the museum. Sam tried his best to slow down his stride enough for you to keep up wearing heels. At least you only had four blocks to cover to end up at the cemetery, the agreed-upon meetup location.

You pace in wait. “He’ll be here,” Sam states with conviction.

You never want to leave a man behind. Especially not Dean.

Sure enough, Dean’s shadowed figure jogs up the cemetery walk in the dark minutes later. You recognize his panting first.

Sam shines a light in Dean’s direction. He’s a bit disheveled from whatever he had to do to skip out of the museum undetected. The hair, styled in a neat part earlier, is now askew.

“Guessing I have you two to thank for having to hop out a bathroom window and into thorny rose bushes.”

You shrug. “Sam was about to get handcuffed.”

Dean ponders for a moment. “Context is important to determine whether that’s good or bad for Sam.”

“Dean, come on, did you get it?” Sam asks with an impatient wave of his hand.

Dean pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and flaps it open with a wrist snap. He pulls out a gnarled, desiccated object under his jacket's lapel. “I did get it, using my five-finger discount.”

The burning ritual had at least gone smoother than the rest of the evening. Sam dropped the two of you around the back of the hotel in his rental car. You both had left Baby in the connected garage and taken a cab to the museum. 

“See you all at the bunker.” He smiles, energized, and pumped from a successful hunt. He’s glowing and adorable. You realize you have gotta dial back the internal ogling of your hunting partners and quick or it’s gonna get all kinds of uncomfortable in your head.

“See ya, Sammy.” Dean grins and salutes.

“Don’t take too long to get out of town.” Sam advises, flicks his bangs out of his eye line with a shampoo commercial head whip, then peels off with a wave.

The key card lets you sneak in through the poolside.

The ride up the elevator starts quiet. You spend the time zoning out and staring at the tapered triangle of shoulder and back that makes up Dean’s tuxedo jacket.

So, dialing back the ogling is going great.

“You looked really good tonight,” Dean murmurs. You catch his gaze in the door’s reflective surface. “I mean,” he clears his throat, “you still look really good. I never got the chance to tell ya earlier.”

The attention straightens your posture. You adjust the spaghetti strap of your little black dress. “Thanks.” It’s all you can think of to respond. You tear your focus away from the eye crinkles, now the newest sexy thing you’ve failed to notice. It’s safer to inspect the corners of the floor for dust. The small enclosed space heats due to Dean Winchester occupying it.

The elevator dings and you hold in a sigh of relief. You exit first, then halt so he leads. You trail behind him in silence to the room. He opens the door. Your steps scoot past his body.

“Got time to change?” Hopeful, you’re already rifling through your duffel for your jeans and flannel.

“Sam’s right. We should probably bolt.”

You groan.

“Let’s put some miles between us and Lincoln.” It’s not really a suggestion.

“Fine.” You give in, knowing he’s right.

You aren’t tired on the drive back. The sense of accomplishment after a successful case turns most hunters into live wires, you included. 

You and Dean have been chatting about the hunt. The lackluster food at the fundraiser. Sam’s impressive Latin skills. An apparent millionaire whose breath stunk like a month old convenience store burrito. And you knew what one of those smelled like from unfortunate firsthand experience. The conversation switches to some repairs that need to be done around the bunker. A casserole recipe on Pinterest you want to try. Who’s going to get the treat of washing all the MOL classic cars in the garage. The topics pogo all over the place. You love these moments with the brothers. 

You’re an hour and some change out from Lincoln, halfway to Lebanon, when Dean has an idea.

His finger wags at a mile marker. “There’s a decent bar in Bruning. Wanna grab a drink to celebrate?”

You stare at his unbuttoned tux jacket, then your dress. “Like this?”

“Sure. Why not?” It’s not really a question as he takes the exit.

You drew the line at wearing heels in the bar. Dean grabbed your worn cowboy boots from Baby’s trunk. He leaned against the car beside your open passenger door. You tugged on boots, leaned forward, giving any passersby a free show down the front of your dress. Arms folded, Dean scowled and puffed out his chest to any male who dared to glance in your direction.

A minute later you both entered the bar and did the usual routine without speaking. Head to respective bathrooms. Clean up and make yourselves respectable looking. But as you blotted your foundation and appreciated the staying power of your makeup in the mirror - okay, maybe that setting spray was worth the price - you considered who you were making yourself respectable for?

It’s not like either one of you were expecting to get lucky tonight. The bunker was less than two hours away. No one was gonna pick up a local and take them back to their motel room.

You applied a fresh coat of red berry lipstick.

So, that left only you and Dean freshening up for… each other?

You scoffed at the ridiculous idea, ran fingers through your hair.

A drink. One drink. To celebrate a job well done.

“That’s all it is,” you mumble.

You’ve played darts for an hour. Dean’s on his third whiskey. You’ve downed four fruity rum concoctions, mainly because you loved hearing Dean order the drink. 

Entertainment was the least he could do after beating you for the sixth time.

The waitress stops at your high top and grabs the empty plates and glasses. “What else can I get you two?”

Dean clutches a dart, deep in focus, squinting at the target board. “You wanna nother Bahama Mama?”

You suppress a giggle and smile at the waitress. “Just more water. Thanks.”

“We should probably load up on the grease before we head home.” Dean peers at the waitress over a shoulder. “Maybe some fries, darlin’, to go along with one last shot of whiskey?”

“Sure thing, sugar.” She smiles, then waits for Dean to turn around before eyeing his backside in approval. With a grin, she taps your bare forearm. “Lucky you,” she whispers.

You are lucky. But not for the reason the waitress thinks. Being around Sam and Dean means safety and security. The eye candy is merely a bonus. One you are debating if you should indulge in more often or continue to restrict your caloric intake.

After all, there’s nothing wrong with appreciating a work of art.

Dean had flung his necktie in Baby’s backseat and unbuttoned his collar during the drive. The casual way he now wore the tux was even more attractive. “Probably a good idea if you lay off the alcohol. It’s definitely affecting your game tonight.” He grins.

You lean your heavy weighted head against a palm for support. “Yeah, must b’it,” you slur, more than you like. Your gaze zones in on his fingers gripping the dart. Those damn fingers have been a distraction all night. He has to be unaware he’s sabotaging any ability to focus. Dean is an outright flirt with his targets. You’ve seen him lay on the charm thick and sticky the same way he slaps peanut butter and jelly on white bread. Subtlety has never been his thing.

Speaking of targets. The dart launches out of his hand and lands dead center. “That’s what I’m talkin’ bout.” Dean performs the ka-ching motion for what feels like the hundredth time that night. Normally, it’s annoying, but you battle your lids open to stare at his clenched fist in awe. Again. He slides onto the bar stool and inspects you with a concerned smile. “You usually drink me under the table. Sure you’re okay?”

“Fine.” You hum. 

The waitress whizzes by and deposits Dean’s shot and a basket of fries. Dean’s voice floats in the air expressing his thanks to, you think he says, Linda. Then a pointed order hits you right in the face. “Hey, eat something. I ain’t carrying you to the car like some swoony duchess on those shows you binge.”

“They’ve got carriages, not cars.” You blink over and over and straighten up. A handful of fries fill your mouth. Your brain hasn’t caught up in time to tell you to shut up and chew. “Yud make a ghood ake.”

“What?” Dean smiles at you like he’s happened across his favorite Scooby-Doo episode while channel surfing.

You gulp down the gluey mashed goodness. “You’d make a good rake.”

“What’s that? Some kind of man servant? I was a handmaiden once.” He indulges in some of the fries before you eat them all. Those fingers push them past his lips.

“No. A rake’s-” You huff at the gall when he attentively licks the grease off his thumb. His tongue is quite, um, “Nimble.”

He frowns, obviously confused. “A rake’s nimble?”

You shake out the cobwebs in your brain, tripping you up with a collision of thoughts. “A rake’s a ladies’ man,” you mutter.

His spine stiffens, shoulders pop back in pride. “I do try to please the ladies every chance I get.”

“We are all well aware.” More fries thankfully save you from saying anything that may humiliate.

“Guess those aren’t your favorite characters. You probably like the stuffy types that are all serious, with their noses up in the air or stuck in a book.”

You shrug. “Nah, I go for the rogues.”

One of Dean’s brows quirk up. “The dangerous type?” One side of his mouth lifts as well.

“Yeah, a scoundrel. You know, the one you can’t quite figure out. They’ve got this bad reputation or some sordid past. But, they go after what they want. Take what they want.” You hum again and close your eyes. You can still see Dean’s grin in your mind’s eye.

“Too bad I don’t fit the bill.”

You freeze. Eyes still closed. He didn’t just… did he?

“I mean. It’d be all kinds of wrong. Me going for something I wanted, damn the consequences.”

You inhale and grip the curve of the table top. You open your eyes to find him sipping at his whiskey. “Don’t fuck with me,” you whisper.

He gives you a toe curling smile now. The glass clinks onto the table. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’m not your type.”

“I-wh-” It’s too late. You’ve never been on the receiving end of what is most definitely Dean Winchester flirting. “What makes you think that?”

He leans in. His breath meets your inhale and you take in all the spice and warmth. “I wouldn’t do a thing to mess this up. Not unless, you know, I knew.”

You nod, dumbstruck. “Yeah, that makes sense. I mean, yeah.” A whoosh of fatigue makes your head spin.

Dean smiles. “We live together, hunt together. Packed like sardines together twenty-four seven sometimes. Wouldn’t want to mess any of that up. Unless I knew, you know?”

“Knew what?” Your chin drops to your chest despite your best efforts. The weight of your body gets ready to do a face plant on the table top. You squish your lids shut tight and groan in horror at the inevitable.

But, Dean is there to save you. Again. His fingers swoop in to cradle your jaw and lift up your head. The embarrassment and alcohol finally overtake you. As you fade, you hear, “Maybe I’ll tell you when you’ll remember the answer.”

You woke up in your bed, back at the bunker. Again, with no idea if it was morning or night. No idea how much time had passed since…

You spring upright to sit. And, yeah, that was a mistake. Your head pounds. Your mouth is dry and tacky. Your stomach feels like it got turned upside down. Not that much time has passed since…

You groan and lay back down, slow and gentle. You piece the last snippets of memory together.

You stare up at the ceiling, grateful for the darkness. You want it to suck you up whole.

Did you pass out in the middle of Dean hitting on you? Did Dean end up swooping you up and putting you in the Impala? Driving you home passed out in the back seat - or God forbid the front passenger seat with you lolling about, mouth probably open and drooling - then carrying you throughout the bunker to your bedroom? Did he…?

You pat your chest and feel the spaghetti straps and silky fabric of your little black dress. You sigh. He had taken pity on you and only stripped you of your cowboy boots.

There’s a soft tap on your bedroom door.

“Oh no.” You pull the blanket over your head, mortified. You don’t think you can face him.

But it’s not Dean that says your name. It’s Sam.

“You alright? I heard you… uh… moaning.”

“Yeah,” you squeak. “Hungover.”

You think you hear Sam snicker. “Dean said you outpaced him by a mile. In darts and drinks.”

That makes you pause to recall. No, you definitely don’t think any of that’s accurate.

“He made some breakfast before he went out, if you’re hungry.”

Great, he can’t bear to face you, either. “Thanks, Sam.”

“If you’re up for it later, I could use some assistance researching.”

You take a measured breath to quell the nausea. “I’ll let you know.”

You’d chewed some aspirin and drank glass after glass of water from the sink in your room and somehow passed out for a few more hours.

You drag yourself out of bed around noon and shower in an effort to resemble something close to human. The stomach growls lead you to the bunker kitchen. At first, you smile at the plate of pancakes Dean covered with a clean kitchen towel for you. A frown follows at the odd shape of them. They aren’t his usual silver dollar pancakes stacked six high.

You tilt your head, attempting to figure out what Buttermilk Banksy was trying to create. The two pancakes, side by side on a large plate, obviously started out as circles. But then, four long tendrils were added along the top of each and a little offshoot one on the side. A turkey? Why the hell would Dean make turkeys? It wasn’t anywhere near Thanksgiving time.

“‘Bout time, sleepy head.” Dean’s voice wafts in from the doorway. He strolls in without a care in the world. There’s no hesitancy to lock eyes with you. Which is good. That has to mean you didn’t make more of a fool of yourself than you remember. He tugs on the fridge door. “Do you want something else or those pancakes enough?” He’s asking the interior of the refrigerator more than you, his head circling the shelves. “Was gonna pile on the grease but thought you might need to take it easy after last night.”

“No, this is great. Thank you.” You keep your voice low, hoping he’ll get the hint and not make too much noise.

He seems to, clicking the door shut softly after grabbing a cold slice of pizza. “Oh, I thought we’d do a movie night in the Dean cave. I bought angus ground beef for burgers. I’ll make some potato wedges. Grabbed your favorite microwave popcorn, movie theater butter.”

The menu, miraculously, doesn’t make your stomach lurch into panicked somersaults. “None of that sounds Sam approved.”

“He’s got that author signing book store thing in Stockton tonight.”

Oh, right. You’d forgotten for a moment how excited Sam was to listen to some guy read a chapter from his book on the evils of the Federalist Society.

“Think you’ll be up for it?” Dean asks, brows raised hopeful.

You smile. “I think I will.”

“Good.” He captures a third of the pizza slice in one bite. After four chews and a swallow he finishes with, “I’ll go easy on you.” The grin he flashes catches you off guard. It’s that one that if Sam saw it, he’d suspect you and Dean had a secret.

Problem was, you didn’t know what the secret was.

“We got weapons to clean in an hour. No matter what Sam says about research.” Dean taps the door sill on the way out of the kitchen. “Meet you in the library. Don’t be late.” He disappears.

You stare down at your breakfast, which is now technically lunch, and a queasy feeling erupts. But not from the hangover or the thought of eating.

The pancakes Dean made. You think you know what the shapes are now.

A pair of hands.

Time in the library with Sam and Dean is pure torture. 

You’re sat equidistant between the two of them, in the middle of one of the long massive wooden tables. Sam is on one end, flipping through page after page of a volume on corporal punishment. He’s trying to work out an easy cheat sheet - a work flow chart - that you all can use in the future. If you can identify what crime someone was charged with committing way back when, you’d have a better idea of the dismembered mummified appendage to track.

Dean occupies the other head of the table. A worn cloth laid out in front of him, all manner of weapons lined in a neat row atop it, awaiting his hands.

His hands. God, you hope the pancakes were merely a cheeky, inside joke on Dean’s part. Maybe it was a reminder about your insistence on the manicure. Or the friggin’ Palmolive commercial that, thanks Dean, you can’t get out of your head either. Because now all you can think about is Dean’s massive fingers dipped in a teeny tiny glass bowl filled with sudsy dish detergent. 

Between Sam’s page turns and Dean’s clink of weapons your brain can’t settle or calm down. You’re also trying to appease both hunters. You’re reading through a book on your right and sharpening a machete on your left. 

“That jugglin’ act might leave you with more than a paper cut if you aren’t careful,” Dean chides.

You swallow down the urge to quip something back. It’s only when the whetstone clears the curve of the machete and halts at the tip that you tear your gaze from the task and stare at Dean. “I can handle it.”

He smirks. “Oh, I’m sure you can HANDle it.” He shrugs. “Just wouldn’t want you to lose a FINGER.”

“How about you quit distracting her? She’s doing you a favor.” Sam’s brows lift pointedly at Dean. “And besides, why do you insist on cleaning weapons here when you could literally be doing it anywhere else in the bunker?”

Dean curls up the fakest smile at Sam. “Cause I love your company.” 

The boys settle after a few more grunts and scoffs at each other. You plunge nose deep into lore and wish the pages were waves pulling you out to sea. 

There’s no way Dean’s emphasis on “hand” and “finger” were accidental. Dean’s pretty intuitive. But you are a pretty good actor in your own right when you need to be. However, there’s still a chance that you said or did something when you were too intoxicated to remember.

It’s not helping that Dean’s performing his weapon cleaning like a goddamn seduction. Mr. Hand Model takes apart the sawed off, cleans the inside of and around the barrel, reassembles, and clicks all the pieces back into place. His nails look perfect, shiny and slick with the gun oil. His beefy fingers curl around the wood and steel in a way that makes you want to trade places with the firearm.

You somehow endure for 45 minutes. Last night’s indulgences are blamed in an excuse to head back to your bedroom. As you preemptively wish Sam an enjoyable outing later, Dean reminds you to rest up for dinner and a movie.

Ugh. You know how Dean gets when he won’t let something go that he finds hilarious. This could go on for a while.

It’s a trap. It’s gotta be.

Dean’s lowering your defenses with good food and good company.

It all started in the kitchen where dinner was served. He wasn’t kidding about the burgers. He made quarter pound medium rare works of art with cheese and all the toppings. The bun was Texas Toasted out. The guy even used the air fryer to produce ridiculously addicting potato wedges with a spicy paprika and chili powder coating.

Then, it was Dean cave time. No beer in sight, you were given pop to drink, with an offhanded “no repeat performance of last night” remark. You slid down the couch, groaning, pulling the hoodie over your face for dramatic effect. He grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl sitting between you on the couch and added, “You know, so you don’t pass out midway through the movie.”

You inhale the buttery goodness beside you and relax, popping back up in your seat. A swig of sugar wakes up your lethargic post-meal brain and settles the nerves that Dean is up to something. “So, what masterpiece do you have for us tonight?” you query.

He presses a button on one remote and the lights dim. Another remote in hand, another button press, and the television screen blares with an all too familiar soundtrack.

“The Empire Strikes Back.” You nod. “Good choice.”

“It’s your favorite one,” Dean reminds you.

“Yeah. Yoda. Duh.”

Dean chuckles.

Things fall into that easy going movie commentary that you and Dean are so fond of doing. It drives Sam crazy when he's watching stuff with the two of you. You’re spouting behind the scenes facts you know you’ve told Dean a half a dozen times already (like how the puppeteer who’s voicing Yoda also voices your favorite muppet, Fozzie Bear). Dean adds his own sound effects when the AT-ATs are firing, points out every Wilhelm scream, and helps Harrison Ford out by quoting all of Solo’s lines.

Leia is fixing some equipment on the Falcon and you comment, “I like the braid updo more than the cinnamon rolls.”

“Eh, I don’t know. The combo of beauty and baked goods is pretty hard to beat.”

Solo walks in and tries to help. Leia pushes him away. You sigh. “Here they go.”

Dean turns to you and raises an eyebrow. In perfect sync with Solo’s dialogue he utters, “Hey Your Worship, I’m only trying to help.”

You eye roll. “Would you please stop calling me that?” If it's a quote battle Dean wants, it’s on. If Sam were here, he’d be so done with the both of you right now.

“Sure, Leia.”

A huff for good measure. “You make it so difficult sometimes.”

Dean leans in. “I do, I really do. You could be a little nicer, though. Come on, admit it. Sometimes you think I’m all right.”

Wait. Wait. Oh no. You don’t have to be looking at the screen to know what happens next. Leia hurts her HAND trying to turn a lever. You clam up at all the fucking context this scene now holds for you and Dean. You can’t say the next lines. Because you know that Solo grabs Leia’s HAND as she says, “Occasionally, maybe… when you aren’t acting like a scoundrel.”

That’s when last night’s rum-infested confessions cut to the front of the memory queue. You adore scoundrels, rogues.

Dean doesn’t miss a beat, though. He even gazes down at one of your HANDS. He continues the performance. “Scoundrel?” Face half cast in shadow, his lids widen, irises still manage to catch the light and entrance you. “Scoundrel?” A huge grin emerges. “I like the sound of that.”

Solo is massaging Leia’s HAND the whole time.

Leia whispers, “Stop that.”

Dean replies, “Stop what?” Though he’s not questioning the screen. He’s locked eyes with you. Daring you to break away first.

Leia answers, even softer. “Stop that. My hands are dirty.”

Dean tilts his head, uncaring. “My hands are dirty, too. What are you afraid of?”

“Afraid?” Oh, Leia, Don’t egg him on.

“You’re trembling,” Dean’s voice is softer. He’s edging closer, but there’s only so much distance he can cover with the popcorn bowl in the way.

You decide now’s as good a time as any to try and act your way out of a paper bag. “I’m not trembling.” You coat your response with steel.

Dean is only encouraged by your participation. “You like me because I’m a scoundrel. There aren’t enough scoundrels in your life.”

You ponder for a moment. “I happen to like nice men.”

“I’m nice men.” Dean offers with complete sincerity.

You scoff. “No, you’re not. You’re…”

The music swells. Solo and Leia kiss.

But, you and Dean just stare at each other, for what feels like an eternity. You know C3PO is gonna interrupt the lovebirds at any moment. It’s the only lifeline you have, so you wait for the robot with the worst timing in history to save you from embarrassment.

“Guys?” Sam’s voice calls from the hallway.

You snap, stick straight, your back pressed against the seat. Sam must have come in through the garage.

Dean sighs. “Yeah, Sammy. Come on in. Back so soon?”

The door flings open. Warm ceiling lights from the hall halo Sam’s figure. “You know how they say, never meet your heroes? Totally valid advice tonight.” Sam stumbles into the room, all lanky limbs, and sinks into the cushy side chair. He runs fingers through his hair, his profile scrutinizing the screen. “Jedi?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Seriously, dude, how are we related?”

The three of you watch the rest of the movie without much commentary.

And you and Dean do not quote any other lines.

You cleaned up the dinner mess, alone, in the kitchen. You insisted it was the least you could do and Dean didn’t put up much resistance.

You find Dean’s bedroom door open on your way to your own for the night. You stop in the doorway to thank him again.

He’s putting away some shirts in his dresser, back turned. He looks comfy, cozy, showered, and perfect. You compose yourself in a split second when he senses you and cocks his head to the door. “Hey, everything okay?”

It’s his usual question, always assuming something needs fixing or solving. But, you sense extra concern in the tone this time.

You nod, wanting to ease the tide of Dean Winchester’s worry. “Thank you. Tonight was fun.”

“Yeah, even with Chewbacca?”

You chuckle. “Be nice.”

He waves you in as he wraps up his laundry. You oblige and sit by the tiny corner table. “Yeah, you’re right. Solo actually wouldn’t mind Chewy hanging out with him and Leia.”

You smile. Apparently, it’s Star Wars character dissection time. “So, if Sam’s not Chewbacca…”

The drawer squeaks closed. “Luke.”

“Han doesn’t mind Luke. Annoyed, sometimes. But, everyone annoys Han at one point or another.”

Dean sits at the edge of the bed, facing you. He stretches, hands entwined and arms raised overhead. A white t-shirt hugs his form here and there. You get a glimpse of perky nipples pressing against fabric. “Luke was competition. Before the brother-sister bombshell,” Dean states.

“Yeah, guess so.”

“But, the three of them, they made a good team,” Dean continues.

You nod, deliberate and slow.

“It only takes one person to start getting feelings for another one in the trio and then the whole galaxy is in jeopardy.” Dean taps the pads of his fingers together.

You sigh. You didn’t want to have to rat yourself out. But, Dean’s got a point. So, how do you go about telling him you’re finding him unbelievably attractive all of a sudden? And how do you ease his apparent worry? What, you’ll do your best to keep it in check? It won’t interfere with the work you do?

“We’re a good team, right? You, me, Sammy?” Dean cuts through the silence with the questions. He scrubs at the nape of his neck.

“I-I’d like to think so. But, you’re right, Dean. It can throw the whole balance off in a good working relationship if someone starts to catch feelings that aren’t reciprocated.”

His eyebrows form a distraught mountain peak. “So, it’s true?”

He looks so unhappy at the possibility, but you’ve gotta be an adult about it. “It just started happening during the last case.” You shrug. “But, I don’t have any intention of acting on them.” A hand raises. “Don’t worry.”

His lips purse tight. Nostrils flare. He’s deep in thought. Finally, he says, “But, you won’t know if you don’t act on it.” He nods more to convince himself now. “You should talk to Sam about how you feel.”

You blink, dumbfounded. “Huh?”

“Hey, I gave it a ‘good ole high school dropout that earned his GED’ try. We have established that I am not your type.”

“Wha-?”

“I’ll be fine with the two of you being a thing. I want to see you and Sam happy. If that means you both, together, that’s great.”

Your hands circle in front of you. “Whoa, whoa. Back up a minute.” Suddenly, your heart is racing.

“What?” He’s got that vacant puppy dog expression, every muscle in his face relaxed, wide open eyes.

You steady your breathing. “What made you think you were my type?” You can’t help the question. You only hope it doesn’t sound belittling or sarcastic. Right now, it’s your last defense of self-protection and attempt at fact finding. You gotta know if you are misinterpreting the revelation that Dean may in fact be upset if you and Sam were an item. Because… he wants you two to be an item?!

“You were acting… weird… ever since Lincoln and the manicure.” He twiddles his fingers. “I was picking up signals that weren’t there, I guess.” He shakes his head and mumbles. “Or, I probably was looking too hard to find something that wasn’t there. Like those times you tell me I’m sniffing around the wrong dog’s butt.”

You squish your lids at how crass you can be. It’s giving you less reasons to think he could find you attractive in any capacity. “Okay, but why was that so important to know?”

His arms extend from side to side. He’s getting riled up and more than a little miffed. But, you know that might work in your favor. His mouth tends to run on autopilot and the truth comes flying out. “Our, I don’t know, petri dish of co-existing in this jack-in-the-box wouldn’t get fucked up. I wouldn’t go off half-cocked and do something I’ve been wanting to do for a while unless I knew, for sure, that you felt the same way I did.” His hands retract and fall in his lap. He’s not looking at you, instead staring at his socked feet. “But, you don’t.”

You’ve got actual fucking butterflies beating their wings like bongo drums in your stomach. “What have you wanted to do for a while?”

His eyes track up to you. He’s inspecting you, hard. That’s doing nothing to quell the excitement inside. “What’s the point in telling you that now?”

“Because, maybe… you’re wrong and… you are my type.”

Dean’s lids lift a quarter of an inch. It’s a minute, micro reaction. But you catch it.

“Maybe I’ve been ignoring it for a while, because, like you. I didn’t want to mess things up. I love Sam.” You swallow, ready to bare all. “But, I haven’t been thinking about what his hands could do to me,” you whisper.

Dean inhales, sharp and quick through his nose at that confession. He exhales, adding, “Don’t fuck with me.”

You can’t do anything but grin in a way that you’re sure makes you look like a goddamn idiot. “I should have said that to you numerous times today. The pancakes. The gun cleaning. Freakin’ Han massaging Leia’s HAND!”

His lids widen. “Hey, it was me testing my theory. Like when we gotta douse someone with holy water to make sure they aren’t possessed. All but the movie, though. Swear I did not remember that scene until a few seconds before it started happening.” He sits up, rubs palms on his sweatpant clad thighs. “Well, okay, I didn’t remember the hand thing, but I wanted to see how you reacted to like THE best scoundrel ever.” Now, he’s grinning. “Been thinkin’ about my hands, huh?”

You roll your eyes merely to play along. “Alright, don’t get a big head.”

He cocks his head like a devilish rogue. “No need for a big head when I’ve got big hands.”

The giggle escapes before you can lasso it.

Dean slides his gaze up your seated frame. It’s a filthy, seedy expression. And hot as fuck. He stops to stare at your mouth, then licks his own. When his eyes meet yours, he commands, “Come on over and show me what you’ve been thinking of.” He pats his thighs. “I’ve got a nice warm seat for ya.”

He’s kidding, right? He wants you to sit on his lap. As if you’d even consider it.

And, yeah, you aren’t considering it. There’s no time for consideration when your legs have already propelled you out of the seat. You give his bedroom door a swing in a passing thought about closing it for privacy.

You can see the look of surprise on Dean’s face as you march over to the bed. But it’s mixed with want and eagerness. He opens his arms in welcome.

Warmth prickles your cheeks at the forwardness you display in accepting the invitation. One knee props up on the bed beside him. You anchor hands onto his shoulders, feel those fingers fan and lock onto your waist, and you bring the rest of your body up to straddle his lap.

You sigh, staring down at that kid in a candy store grin of his, and marvel at how very right it all feels. You settle, your ass firmly atop his thighs. The heat of him is immediate.

“Been wanting you like this,” he whispers, his nose brushing the skin exposed around your collar. A hand molds to the side of your neck, holding you in place. You shiver at the lips skirting upwards along the channel of your throat. “Now who’s ticklish?” It’s meant to tease, but his voice has lost that hint of mirth. It’s deeper, daring you to deny his observation as anything other than fact. “Maybe you aren’t ready for my hands. All.” A kiss at the juncture where your lobe meets your jaw. “Over.” A peck at the tip of your chin. He threads his fingers into the base of your hairline. He eases your head with a smooth tilt down. You lock eyes with his green ones once again. “You.”

The only response you can give is to connect your lips to his. Feeling the pliant, soft give of his mouth against yours. Then his insistent lean up and forward, forcing you to stand your ground while seated on his lap. You have to demonstrate your want is equal to his.

And you want. You so want.

Whatever you’re doing, his approving moan eggs you to continue. With each swipe and dip and dive of your lips, your mouth opens a bit more. The access encourages Dean’s tongue to taste. He laps at you gently, swirls around just enough that your core begins to ache. He pulls away and you groan. You’re drunk with desire, heavy and heady. 

Your lids blink open slow and sleepy. Thankfully you find Dean’s looking as blissed out as you feel. He’s inspecting your reaction through a hazy gaze. His hand captures the side of your face. Five pressure points sink into your skin. His eyes flicker to your mouth to watch his thumb outline the curve of your lip. The pad tugs and drags at your skin.

It’s only a second of wordless communication between the two of you. He asks with a lifting of his lids. You agree with an affirmative blink.

His thumb delves into your mouth, up to the first knuckle. You wrap your lips around. Suck with the gentlest of pressure.

His mouth lifts into a slight smile. “Good girl,” he whispers.

And, fuck if that doesn’t open your floodgates. You’re slick and ready.

Dean’s other hand runs along the waistband of your yoga pants. “You been thinking about my hands all over you…” His thumb glides under the fabric of your panties. “Taking you apart, piece by piece.” He delves farther down, until he taps the top of your mound. His jaw clenches at your gasp of anticipation. His thumb hooks under your tongue against the floor of your mouth to express just how in command he is right now. “You gonna do what I say, Your Worship?”

You nod. You’ll don a pair of cinnamon buns if he tells you to right now.

He smirks, cocky and full of confidence. “The better I make you feel down here...” He works his thumb between your folds and presses against your clit. You squirm in his lap. “The better you suck with that beautiful mouth, yeah?”

You nod again. He releases the pressure in your mouth, circles your bundle of nerves. He slips and slides while his fingers splay over your stomach to anchor in place. You latch onto his thumb again and suck on it like a straw

“Pretty sure this isn’t as wet as you’re gonna get,” he comments like a fucking weatherman. After only a few seconds, he sighs and shakes his head. “Too many fucking clothes.”

You’ve only sparred with Dean a handful of times. Every time, he’s bested you with graceful movements and quick action. He disengages from you for what must have only been seconds, spinning you around in his grasp and pinning your back to the mattress. He’s whipping off your t-shirt, pants, and underwear. Leaving you in only your bra.

He leers over you, hands running up the underside of your thighs. He kneels onto the bed, all of his clothes still on, to wedge against your ass. All of you is on proper display for him. And he takes it all in.

“Right, Gorgeous. Where were we?” One hand rides its way up your chest back to your mouth. You accept his index finger between your lips this time. His other hand resumes playing with your clit. “Hm. Much better.” 

A gasp escapes from your mouth. Your tongue ejects his finger so you can point out, “Who’s the one with too many fucking clothes on now?”

“All good things come to those who wait, darlin’.” He settles further, criss crossing over top of your flesh. His legs sandwich your right thigh while he strums your pussy. The hope of what else is to come pokes into your side through his sweatpants. He doesn’t give you a chance to reply, slipping his finger into your mouth again. The pull of his left hand guides you to lean your head toward the right. He settles his beefy forearm onto the mattress above your shoulder.

His chest pins you down in a kinky wrestling move. Teeth snag your ear lobe. He applies pressure to the swollen flesh over a ridge of bone, then uses a flicking motion that makes your thigh twitch in delight.

You're sloppy with your technique of licks and sucks as he feeds you another digit. But, really, how is any gal supposed to mind their manners with Dean Winchester fingering her? You groan, helpless, as he explores your folds, finds your entrance with two tips. “I know you got a thing for my hands,” his hot breath tunnels into your ear canal, “but, if you want, I can fill you up real good with something else.”

You can’t reply with any actual words, only moans of agreement. The erection pressing into your hip bone sure does feel substantial. If it’s anything like his fingers - two fingers are currently surfing around your tongue and rubbing against your palate - he’ll have no problem filling you up.

To ground yourself in the reality of the situation, you snatch at the hem of his shirt and tug. Your pelvis tilts up at the slow insertion of one of his other fingers down below. “Damn,” he pants into your ear. “How long’s it been since someone took care of you, all nice and proper? So- so tight and wet.” He hums. “And warm.” A languid slide out with one finger, only to be accompanied with another when he pushes back inside. “Feel so good. Gonna feel even better around my cock after I make you come… Princess.”

You will not ever admit to the fact that you squealed with Dean’s fingers in your mouth. That you convulsed after only seconds of him playing with your clit and stretching open your hole.

Fireworks continue to skyrocket in your head. Your body tipped into the oversensitive zone. You’re aware of every bit of him plastered against you. He’s made you slick with arousal and sweat. Layers of fabric cling to skin. You should be suffocating with him laying atop you, but he feels like a weighted blanket. Warm, secure. Dean’s fingers don’t retract from your mouth or pussy. They are frozen in place. Your teeth nibble one set. Your muscles spasm around the other. 

He hasn’t moved. Hot breath huffs hard into the crook of your neck with an occasional sharp inhale and hold. You close your eyes. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that you could fall asleep like this.

“Was that… too much?” He deep-throat whispers in your ear now. “I may have gotten a little carried away.”

“N-mph-,” you chortle around his fingers.

“Shit, sorry.” He pulls his hand away from your mouth, the other slowly out of your hot core. Matching sighs release from you both.

“No,” you heave, and his chest rises up and off. “It was… awesome.”

He’s in your face now, all green eyes and pink lips, a veil of freckles along the bridge of his nose and forehead. “Yeah?”

You squint, trying to focus on all the glorious aspects. He’s studying you. You get the feeling he’s really not sure. “Why is the ladies man doubting himself all of sudden?” you tease, rocking to shuffle him out of the daze.

A shrug. “It’s you. I don’t always read you right.”

You lean your head back into his memory foam in an attempt to make full eye contact. “I don’t know how many ways you can misread giving me a mindblowing orgasm.”

He blinks, cautious. “Is what I did going to… you know… change things between us?”

“Oh.” You stop, dart your gaze to the ceiling past his shoulder for dramatic effect. “Oh, absolutely. I mean,” you pause, “how could it not?” You shake your head and feel his entire body go rigid. “It’s gonna be so awkward and uncomfortable around here.” 

When you dare to look at him, there’s a hint of something you don’t see often on Dean’s face. You think it might be fear.

You can’t bear it any longer. “I mean, I can already imagine the disgusted look on Sam’s face when we start making out right in front of him.”

Within seconds, the expression turns to one of relief and amusement, accompanied by the charming cockiness that’s gonna turn you to goo at the most inopportune moments from here on out. “Well, we don’t have to tell him right away. It might be fun to, you know, sneak around right under his nose.” He relaxes, sinks into you again. “I could have you all sorts of ways, in all sorts of places, doing our best not to get caught.”

You smile. “Don’t want to tell your brother you’ve stolen my heart with that five-finger discount of yours?”

He chuckles, rolls his eyes, then cups the heat of your folds again. “I mean, I sucked at Biology, but pretty sure this ain’t your heart, darlin’.”

“You’re wrong, you know?”

He blinks, all sass and spectacle, “This IS your heart?” He squeezes.

You peck his lips, roll your eyes, and curl arms around his waist. “No. Solo’s got nothing on you. YOU are the best scoundrel.”

A breathtaking kiss makes you all lightheaded. When he finally pulls away and allows you to exhale, he lifts one side of his mouth into a confident grin. “I know.”

THE END

[athena-gunpla]

RG 1/144 Organisation of the Zodiac (OZ) Mobile Suit OZ-13MS "Gundam Epyon"

She's finally done!! Treize Kushrenada's answer to the Wing Zero has been sitting in my backlog since at least March so it's great to finally get this kit finished!

This was my first modern RG experience, and it feels like a completely different grade compared to early RGs such as the Wing Zero EW and Exia I've built in the past. Rather than relying on a pre-built inner frame, Epyon's build is closer to a MG or HG kit. The level of detail on the internal parts is really incredible, and I was almost disappointed to cover them up with the external plating - although the external detail is also quite extensive, much more so than other RG kits.

A neat detail on Epyon is the inclusion of UV reactive trans-green parts for the cameras and beam sword. This allows them to glow under UV light and makes the kit look a lot better than with the foil stickers that most other kits use.

This kit comes with a large beam sword, attached directly to the suit's reactor output with a conduit attached to the hip, as well as the iconic heat rod, which has been pre-assembly moulded like the old RG inner frames. The sword handle is long enough to be held with both hands, and the shoulders allow for more than enough articulation for the kit to hold it in both hands in a variety of poses.

Despite the size of the wings and sword, minimal effort is required to get the kit to stand upright (although it is a very back-heavy kit and if posed wrong will tip over backwards). Epyon comes with two special adapters for the Action Base 5 system for it to be displayed in airborne poses.

The main gimmick of the Epyon is its ability to transform into a dragon-shaped Mobile Armor called the "Wyvern". This transformation is really well implemented, and doesn't require the removal of any parts except the hands and shield. Unlike HG kits, which require you to take apart and re-assemble the kit, the RG Epyon has a specially designed pelvis that allows the legs to swing back and over, becoming the neck and head of the Mobile Armor mode.

The Mobile Armor mode works really well, and is just as posable as the Mobile Suit mode. In fact, I found this mode a lot more balanced, due to the repositioning of the wings.

This has been one of my favorite RG builds so far, and I encourage anyone who wants a fun but challenging build to pick one up.