#He and Flint better make up

[drifting-pieces-blog-blog]

Breaking down the comics: The Stranger.

Moon Knight, Issue #15: Ruling the World from His Basement. 

Look at how beautiful that cover is! 

This is an interesting one. A weird villain, political and racial issues, and some deep Moon Knight issues with trust, identity, and betrayal. 

So the comic opens with a Japanese Envoy being shot in the arm. There is narration here, but it isn’t the usual sort. It makes it clear that 1. These are Japanese "jerks" and we aren't supposed to really like them. 2. This is not the first assassination attempt. 3. The fleeing figure that shot him has a very familiar silhouette. A moon shaped sort. 

Cut to Central Park, we see Moon Knight chilling in a tree. 

"Man do I feel aweful. Too much stress, too many hours riding around in Lockley's stinking cab, not enough sleep or food... All combining to send the sledgehammers crashing on my skull." 

Moon Knight once again asserts that he is not Lockley, Steven, or Grant. And he's feeling stretched thin. They aren't taking care of the body. 

At this point, they don't have their jobs. There is no real gate keeper, care taker, protector... There is only fighting and Marc who holds all the trauma and self destructs at the drop of a hat. 

So here he is, called to meet in the park at night by Detective Flint and someone new. 

Sargent Gwenn is with Flint. He tells Moon Knight about the assassination attempt on the Japanese trade minister. 

They mention that "after Lennon, Reagan, and the Pope, you can understand why we weren't thrilled." 

Yeah, the 80s weren't great for people with power. 

Turns out, the meeting is a trap! They're there to arrest Moon Knight for the assassination attempt! 

"Did my homework. Learned you once worked freelance. Took on jobs for hire. An odd little group called The Committee was one of your clients. Anybody can turn bad. Especially someone who was semi-sour in the past." -Flint. 

This takes us back to Werewolf by night. Moon Knight was hired by The Committee to track down Jack Russell. 

Which shows that Moon Knight himself used to work for hire. Much like Marc Spector. 

One has to wonder about that. Perhaps it was when they first came back from the desert and the death experience. Marc only knowing one way of life and trying to do better than mercenary work but not knowing how. Moon Knight blending? Still unsure of his own individuality? 

Anyways, the cops surround Moon Knight and Flint walks away. 

Moon Knight feels betrayed by Flint. "You're making a mistake, Flint! And you're going to regret it!" 

He easily fights off the cops. They don't have the training he does. 

They open fire on him and he easily avoids the bullets. Perhaps instincts from their time on the battlefield. 

"I mean it Flint...You're wrong! Dead wrong! And I'll be hanged if I'm going to pay for your mistake!" 

Moon Knight is not in a good mood. Probably could have handled things better, but at this point he is feeling persecuted and attacked. The body already is feeling terrible and now it's in danger. 

He runs off only to see the cops put a woman in danger when they shoot down a tree that starts to fall towards her. 

He saves life and still manages to get away. 

The police remark on the fact that Moon Knight just saved an Indian woman. Flint asks Sargent Gwenn "Are you sure it was Moon Knight you saw at the airport? Absolutely certain?" 

He comments that it doesn't make sense, but he's been around a while and "anybody can turn bad." 

Moon Knight makes it to Jake's parked cab and quickly changes back to Jake. 

The headache continues, but Lockley heads out to try to figure out why he's being accused of something he didn't do. 

He heads to Gena's diner. He apparently gave her phone number as the one Flint can use to reach him. 

While he's talking to Gena and Crawley, you see a Japanese family in the background complaining about the service. They eventually leave after being ignored. 

An interesting thing to include. Especially with the Japanese dignitary in town. 

And while it is written and displayed to show them being a bit rowdy and demanding of service, it also clearly shows Gena only interacting with Jake and Crawley. 

While talking about the incident at the airport, Jake complains about his headache getting worse. 

Gena asks him when the last time he ate was, as it's after 9pm. 

"Nine! I forgot about Grant's charity shindig at the mansion!" 

He runs out without eating. 

Back at the mansion, we find an extremely upset Marlene. It's after ten. 

"Tell her ta hold her horses just a little longer till I can change ta stuffed shirt Steven Grant." He mutters at Samules as he parks his cab. 

When Marlene comes at him for his tardiness. 

"Please, Marlene. I've got an excruciating headache and I'm in no mood!" 

"Trouble, Steven?" 

"Only as Moon Knight. Grant, Lockley, and Spector are just fine, thank you." 

"I'm sorry, Steven. I shouldn't be so selfish. I know the pressures you're under. Trying to be four different people... But you're not really having trouble again, are you-Psychological trouble?" 

"No, Marlene, I'm not. You helped me out of THAT dark hole...And I'm still standing on firm ground." 

Ohhhhh he's a liar.

Liar liar, Steven! Denial is a strong one here. 

Marlene takes a cheap shot and it hits home here: 

"I know YOU'RE alright, Steven... It's just Marc Spector I worry about...And sometimes Jake Lockley... Even Moon Knight... I know it's stilly, but I sometimes think you won't be able to keep them all under control. That they'll do something to spoil what we've made of you." 

OOOHHHH snap. With as much infighting as they already do, that was a call to arms and Steven heard it. 

Moon Knight was already complaining about Lockley's cab, lack of sleep, and lack of food. Lockley was resentful of fancy pants Steven. And now she's gone and put the fear of Marc ruining things into the mix. 

I'mma say it: Marlene is a complicated character to like in early Moon Knight. 

You are supposed to like her. She's self sufficient. She can handle herself. She can fight. She puts up with all the Moon Knight stuff. She rescues them on more than one occasion. She's compassionate and often comforts them and seems to help stabilize and ground them. 

But she is also pretty toxic a lot of the time. 

She plays favorites, makes them question who they are and what the others are up to. She even often makes them question their own mental health. 

Steven joins his party and greets his guests. He puts on a show of the socialite but: 

"Privately, behind the social mask, he is still haunted by Marlene's words." 

The next day, we see a man at the toy shop purchasing doll clothes. He says they are for his friends. Many many little friends. 

I'll say it, he's a white man and it's clear he's in the upper class part of town. He smiles and greets all the fellow white people around him. 

As he walks, we have narration. 

"In this section of the city, you can't notice it. You'd almost think the problem didn't exist. Indeed, it's almost like it used to be... 

But as he nears his home, it becomes more and more apparent, the grim reality facing him and every other god fearing American." 

We see pictures of a smiling black man, a black woman, an asian man.

"Yes. Here the problem is all too obvious. The fragmentation and disintegration of American society. It's gotten so an honest working man can't even live where he belongs. He's forced now to live among the very filth which is causing the problem." 

He enters his home and goes to the basement where he has control of his environment and rules his own world. 

It goes on to mention that here, he isn't alone. His friends give him ideas much like the TV and bible do. 

He pulls out the doll outfits he bought, little army outfits. 

"Time to face the problem, my friends, and I have some gifts which should help us. We all know what the problem is, don't we? Foreigners. Foreign Devils. Slowly but surely extinguishing the light of America." 

He rants about the "invasion of America". About the dilution of American blood and the fragmentation of the economy. 

He talks about the underselling of American made goods with cheap and inferior products, forcing American businesses out of the market, lost jobs, crime waves, drugs...

He then talks about a hierarchy of ethnicity. How "blacks have been here so long they're almost American". He talks about how because of the Asians taking all the work, the Blacks have to turn to crime. 

He dresses the rats as soldiers. 

He then talks about Moon Knight. Moon Knight saving the life of the Indian woman, in particular.

"He's been stained, blemished. He's evil. I hate him. They're wrong, of course, but they tell me it's called Xenophobia. A fear of strangers... Of any one different..." 

He claims he will kill them all. 

Side note: This is still relevant. I remember growing up in the 90s there was a huge "Made in America" movement. It comes back every few years. Encouraged to purchase American made only to support our economy as if there aren't other problems with big business vs. local small business. 

I also remember the increased news and feelings that were pushed on us about the foreigners taking all the jobs. 

This is still happening. There are still too many people that feel and teach this. 1980s is still relevant today. 

Anyways: Back at Grant Mansion.... 

Moon Knight is suited up and ready to go. But Marlene and Frenchie tell him not to go. The police are still after him! 

But Moon Knight has learned that the Japanese minister is supposed to go do something big soon and the threat on his life is still there. 

"The three of us have worked hard to make Moon Knight worthy of respect. What do I do with my respect if I don't even try to stop that assassination?" 

Marlene and Frenchie have nothing to say. They hate it, but they let him go. 

But as he flies away on the chopper: 

"His primary goal, of course, is to prevent a death- But even as the chopper lifts him from the roof, he feels the nag of a secondary goal as well... To prove that last night's headache was just that- and not the residue of a memory blackout. God help him if he has to fight himself." 

OH FUUUUUUU---

Memory blackout headache? Fighting himself? 

Things are not fine at all in Moon Knight land. The fact that he is aware of time loss and headaches being a symptom is just… This is fucking amazing. DID was not classified properly at this time, much less well researched or discussed. And the fact that Moon Knight is aware of it means that this is a problem the system has encountered before. 

As much as the system is in denial and covert, it’s just one more little special little nod to the fact that Marc Spector has been dealing with this for a lot longer than since he was killed and brought back. 

Here, we arrive at City Hall where the Japanese minister is about to give a speech. 

The Mayor talks about the important of maintaining relations with Japan. About how we accept imports into New York and send exports to Japan. 

He talks about friction with 'some Japanese Imports..." 

Again, I'll say it. 1980s. There was a lot of asian racism taking place that lasted well into the 90s. Along with the 'red scare' and cold war, we were not on friendly terms with China. Vietnam had just ended. Korean war was glossed over and forgotten. 

Not to mention that most Americans can't tell anyone apart. Today, the tensions have subsided, but there is still a lot of Asian racism present in America. 

Moon Knight arrives at the scene. He...He does his thing... 

Frenchie: How will you approach zee scene?" 

MK: Only way I know how.

With Style. That's how. 

He lurks on the roof tops and waits. 

And he sees a man dressed as a giant rat with a gun running towards the stand. 

He dives down, but the police spot him. 

The rat calls himself "Xenos". (Little on the head there). 

The bodyguards manage to protect the Minister until Moon Knight tackles the rat. 

The rat makes a run for it and dives into an open sewer! 

But the police are closer and head in before Moon Knight can add a count to his sewer man tally. (I was so disappointed). 

The police lose him in the sewer. But now the police at least know he isn't Moon Knight. 

Later at Grant Mansion, he's watching the news and has a sudden realization. 

"Not disappeared... But blended in." 

The rat is pissed and decides Moon Knight is the problem and must first be eliminated before he can go after the foreigners again. 

But here we see Moon Knight heading to a house. 

"Getting this address wasn't easy. Steven Grant had to tug pretty hard on more than a few strings..." 

It's a cop's house! 

He slips inside easily. He starts to look for signs that this is the cop he's after. 

He browses the book shelves, noting that he seems like a bit of a "Right-Wing nut". 

Then he finds a scrapbook. 

Yeah... The "Holocaust propaganda". This...This is a big deal. This is dangerous. This is even more of a problem today than it was in 1980s and that's depressing. I won't go on about this, because that would be quite extensive and long.... But just know that including this in a Moon Knight comic was pretty important. 

(also history lesson! "The House of Rothschild". A 1934 American film. 

It's about a Jewish banker with five sons and how they went on to become a powerful bank. It's based off the real Rothschild. It discusses using financial backing in times of war to make money and eventually become the richest, most powerful people/bank in the world. (a very very basic summary) 

It was supposed to be an attack on Nazism and anti-semitism while Hitler was coming to power. It was made by non-Jewish people and cast with non-Jewish people. The Jewish Anti-Defamation League had major concerns about the film. 

It won a lot of awards and some Jewish leagues and papers endorsed it. 

However, a scene from the movie was used in German antisemitic propaganda and it seemed to encourage fears and resentment of Jewish people holding all the money and belief that this was the reason Germany lost WWI and fell into depression. 

So... That's interesting! ) 

Moench had a lot to say with his Moon Knight comics. 

He wrote for other comics, of course, but I feel like he only really said things like this and included things like this in his Moon Knight run. 

Anyways, Needless to say, Moon Knight is not thrilled. 

He finds a hidden room with a makeup table for his disguises. 

"A makeup mirror. It fits...But what scares me the most about this guy is the similarity between us. We both play roles adopting different guises to--" 

He doesn't get to finish his potentially destructive thought as he's immediately hit in the head by a jar of goo. 

He realizes that it's rat food he's been covered in, and the rats are hungry! 

Two things I want to say about this page. 

There he is face down on the floor again. 

He spends the next few panels rolling on the floor. 

There is no way that the rat guy can know that Moon Knight is Jewish. But what he says to him is heavily coded. Things Marc probably heard a lot growing up when bullied by antisemites. It’s a little too close for home. 

Moon Knight has a little freakout here. He rolls around, flinging rats everywhere and yelling "Get off me!" 

He's been under a lot of stress lately. 

Now he's trapped in the house of someone that idolizes Hitler and tells him that he deserves to die while under threat of being eaten by rats. 

This is not going to do wonders for his mental health and stress. Not to mention past trauma. 

He calls up Frenchie to give chase to the rat guy. 

He rips off the rat mask and finds someone he doesn't know. He is unsettled at first until he realizes that he's wearing makeup and a fake beard. 

(Considering Jake wears a fake mustache I'm not sure why he's so surprised)

And the rat Xenos man is Sargent Gwenn! 

They fall into a hardware store and Gwenn gets the upper hand! But then he steps on a rat trap and Moon Knight manages to punch him out. 

He drags Gwenn out to the police and finds Flint. 

"I'm sorry. Gwenn was a good man. But like I said. Anyone can turn bad. Even a cop. There are stresses. Frustrations." 

"Yeah. I know all about it. Now if you'll excuse me, Flint... I think I feel another headache coming on." 

He returns back to the mansion and you see him talking to Marlene and Frenchie, still in his Moon Knight outfit with the mask off. 

"--Not that I ever actually BELIEVED I was the assassin, but...Well, like a certain cop has said...Any Mind can go bad, and maybe, in a way, I did do it... We seem to be living in a nightmare these days. Maybe in a way, we all did it." 

Frenchie: A sobering thought, Marc.

Marlene: Yes, but at least you have the strength and sense to admit something like that, Steven. Maybe if we keep at it, keep trying, we'll all wake up someday soon..." 

Here the comic ends. 

So let’s look at this issue. 

Go back to the asian family sitting at the diner asking for service and eventually leaving because they are ignored. 

The Indian woman that was put in danger by the police. 

The use of Holocaust denial. 

The rich white neighborhood that fades to the poor crime ridden and predominantly black neighborhood. 

The hero of our story is the son of Jewish Immigrants that fled genocide. On the surface, he is a white man and fits into Xenos' little fairy tale. 

All while the story of tolerance, racism, antisemitism, classism, and genocide is taking place….Moon Knight is struggling with his mental identity and overall health. 

The topic of taking care of the body and communication between the four of them is not resolved, but we get to see him talking about his fear that he has a new unknown alter that is hurting people. 

It’s the current day trope of “There’s an evil alter” that has done so much harm to the DID community. But in this case, it’s Moon Knight that is afraid. He has reason to doubt himself and with his fear of Marc and what Marc can do and does to himself, perhaps he was even afraid that it was Marc causing harm. 

A lot of people are afraid of the mentally ill (DID, bipolar, Schizophrenics, and PTSD in particular) and their reason is that they are afraid the afflicted person is going to hurt them. 

Many times, when surrounded by this ideology and considering the time period where it wasn’t uncommon for someone to be deemed hysterical and locked up for failure to blend into society… A lot of people internalize and start to believe things about themselves. 

Told over and over again that something is wrong with him, that his sanity is fragile, and that he is being watched like a hawk for any slip up of not knowing who he is, Moon Knight starts to doubt himself. 

Xenophobia was the topic of this issue and that means “Fear of Strangers”. 

Moon Knight’s fear was fear that the stranger was himself. 

This issue wanted to show that anyone and everyone is capable of racism. Just because you are not white does not mean you cannot be racist. Just because you fall into a persecuted person category doesn’t mean that you can’t prosecute someone else. 

We can all do better. The first step is recognizing it and trying. 

[patrice-bergerons]

I'm just emotional about Lieutenant McGraw, the son of a carpenter's mate, who must have possessed the same cunning, the same ability to play men to his own ends we see from Flint to have risen in the ranks in the Navy, who has seen hardship and sees the world as a practical, hard place; Lietuenant McGraw with this darkness inside of him, being attracted to Thomas's light. Putting himself in the line of fire for Thomas when he himself harboured significant doubt about his plan to issue pirates with pardons.

People can say what they like about you, but you are a good man. More people should say that—and someone should be willing to defend it.

Getting to know Thomas—it must have felt like flying on a dreary winter's day, when the plane finally rises above the last of the grey clouds and you are met with sunshine and it is so brilliant it is almost blinding. Getting to know Thomas must have perhaps felt like there was some salvation for him in that light too. A place where he could do better—be better. A home.

[sesamestreep]

“requiem for methuselah” crazy ass episode for many reasons. Kirk is being fully insane, like I don’t actually think, even controlling for how quickly and easily and readily he seems to fall in love with anybody at the slightest encouragement, that he’d go that bonkers for that android woman he just met while everyone on the ship was this close to dying, but that’s neither here nor there, because in the background you’ve got an equally but much more subtly insane episode for Spock, who extremely uncharacteristically admits to experiencing an emotion (or nearly experiencing, whatever) and that emotion is ENVY of all things. And then spends the rest of the episode warning Kirk away from this new love interest (something that doesn’t usually happen, even when Kirk has very inadvisable love interests) and is, in the end, the person who accurately identifies that Rayna’s competing love for Kirk and Flint is ultimately what overwhelms and destroys her with the most killer line in maybe history???

And then to wrap it up we get an equally uncharacteristic sort of denouement scene (TOS loooves to cut an episode off right after the actual climax, leaving little time for falling action or character reflection, or to stick a sitcom-y button on the end where the gang all smiles and laughs at their misadventures and everything resets to zero, which is not a criticism, it’s just the style of that era of tv, honestly) where Kirk is literally miserable over Rayna’s death (again, kind of unusual for a lot of his love interests, he tends to be able to move on pretty quickly) and Spock goes to see him and he falls asleep right in front of Spock (also odd) and then when Bones comes in to give the final word on Flint, Spock waves him off from waking the Captain (tender) and Bones gives him that awful speech about how it’s sadder that Spock can’t even imagine the love Kirk felt for this random android woman than it is that Kirk lost her in the first place (debatable but also rude) and how his great tragedy is that he can’t love at all like they can and how all he wishes is that Kirk could forget about all of this and move on. AND THEN, to have Bones leave and Spock go over to Kirk and very gently, tenderly, reluctantly touch him and put his hand to his forehead and tell him to forget and HAVE THAT BE THE END OF THE EPISODE??? What am I supposed to do with that??

[dootznbootz]

Odypen definitely and equivalently adore each other BUT I weirdly can't see them as the type to actually say "I Love you".

They still definitely vocalize their love for each other but it's more so in "My Joy", and "Extraordinary Woman", "Strange Woman/Man", etc. And very cheesy lines (both say some cheesy shit in the Odyssey, and he definitely does in the Iliad as well. "Joy like a drowning sailor seeing land" bit???)

I could see "I adore you" but even then, that's probably during very specific moments but the actual "I love you"??? I just typed it just now for fic shit and... It weirdly just didn't feel right and I don't know why. 😅

Idk maybe it's kind of because I see them as over the top in ways, they love wordplay and riddles and I think they'd almost think "...That's not good enough >:( " about it??? I don't know???😂

[urcadelima]

can’t stop thinking about silver’s final speech to madi describing flint’s unmaking as a description of himself as he returned to madi after thinking she had died. Whatever.

[mssorceressupreme]

Wanna Be Yours | F.W

———

Pairing: Fred Weasley x reader

Summary: helping a younger student resulted in you and the first-year walking into a prank not meant for you, and as you do so, you catch Fred's attention. the next day he tries to apologise with another prank and it backfires, but this only resulted in him falling even harder for you, he just knew wanted to be yours.

Warnings/tags: hufflepuff!reader (well it suits anyone really :D), love at first sight, he fell first and HARD, fred needs you so bad, pranks gone wrong, teasing, fluffy and cute, fred's a simp a/n: inspired by "Wanna be Yours by Arctic Monkeys"

———

The courtyard was alive with the soft hum of spring—branches swaying in the breeze, birds chirping from the castle walls, and a few students milling about on the cobblestones. Fred crouched behind a large stone pillar, his mischievous grin matching the one plastered across his twin’s face.

Huddled in a corner, the four of them—Fred, George, Lee and Oliver, were planning a revenge prank on Marcus Flint and Draco Malfoy for their obnoxious antics during the Quidditch match earlier.

“Are you sure about this?” Oliver Wood asked, trying to sound stern but failing as he bit back a chuckle.

Malfoy had spent most of the game taunting Harry, and Flint’s borderline dirty play had cost Gryffindor two near-goals. That didn’t sit well with Fred and George, so what better way to get back at them than with a prank.

“Hundred percent.” Fred said, smirking as he held up a pouch of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. “Alright, we rig this near the tree. As soon as they walk by, poof! Total chaos. Then, George, you release the Dungbombs—”

“Already got ‘em primed,” George said, patting his pocket with a devilish grin.

“Don't forget the slime and feathers!” Lee added, holding up a jar of fluorescent green goop in one hand, and a bag of feathers in the other.

Oliver, who had reluctantly joined but couldn’t resist some payback, frowned. “Let’s make sure they’re the only ones who get caught in this mess though, yeah?”

“Relax Wood,” Fred said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s a foolproof plan. Nothing can go wrong.”

“Trust us,” George said, “We’ve calculated everything.”

“Right,” Lee affirmed, “It's simple charm, a bit of instant darkness powder, and—bam! Feathers, slime, and a nice little puff of stink powder for good measure.”

George cackled, clapping his twin on the back. “Beautiful. They’ll be too busy cleaning slime and plucking feathers off their robes to bother us for weeks.”

“That's what they deserve for acting like twits during the match.” Lee chimed in. "S'pose they do deserve it." Oliver chuckled, his reluctance turning into enthusiasm.

The trap was simple but effective: a hidden tripwire enchanted to release darkness powder, then a rain of slime and feathers from above, followed by the dungbombs. All they had to do now was wait for their targets. "Now, they're supposed to walk pass here any moment..." Fred told the others, as the four of them watched eagerly.

Fred’s eyes glinted as he nodded toward the enchanted tripwire stretched across the cobblestones, ready to unleash chaos on Flint and Malfoy the moment they stepped on it.

Everything was perfect. Until it wasn't.

From behind a stone archway, you appeared with a small Ravenclaw first-year in tow.

It wasn’t Malfoy or Flint who walked into the courtyard first.

It was you.

You were laughing softly, your eyes crinkling with warmth as you guided a nervous-looking first-year Ravenclaw girl who clutched her books tightly to their chest. The poor kid had taken a wrong turn, and you volunteered to show her the way to the library.

In your arms, you helped carry some of her load, making it easier for the first-year.

“Don’t worry,” you were saying, your voice kind and steady. “The library isn’t far. Just through the next hall and up the staircase."

Fred’s eyes locked onto you, and for a moment, the world seemed to slow down. He didn’t hear anything else. It was like the world had narrowed to just you—the way your hair caught the sunlight, the easy grace in your step, and the way your smile seemed to light up the entire courtyard.

How had he not noticed you before?

“Is Fred broken?” George whispered to Lee.

“Looks like it. Never seen him go this quiet before,” Lee replied, smirking.

Oliver elbowed Fred, snapping him out of his trance. “Mate, you’re staring.”

“Shut up,” Fred muttered, his eyes never leaving you.

"Who is she?..." He continued, holding true to Oliver's statement.

“Who?” Lee asked, following his gaze. He snorted when he saw you. “Her? Oh no. Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft, Fred.”

Fred didn’t respond. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from you but he was quickly snapped out of his trance as you approached the tree.

Oh shit. "Not the tree, don't walk past the tree..." He muttered to himself, hoping you would somehow magically hear him.

It was no use. Disaster struck.

You were met with instant darkness, coughing slightly as the powder released a thick fog around you and the first year.

Before you could grasp the full situation, a torrent of green slime and feathers rained down from above, coating you and the first-year from head to toe. The Dungbombs exploded seconds later, filling the courtyard with an awful stench.

The first-year yelped, clutching her books as the slime dripped down her robes. You froze for a moment, stunned, before shaking your head with a soft laugh.

Fred winced, guilt twisting in his chest.

“Oops,” George muttered, though he didn’t sound all that sorry.

Lee burst out laughing, "Merlin, did we just traumatise a first year?!"

“Poor kid,” Oliver said, though his lips twitched with suppressed laughter.

Fred, however, barely heard them. He was too busy watching you. Instead of panicking or getting angry, you crouched down immediately, brushing feathers off the first-year’s face.

“Hey, it’s okay,” you said gently, your voice soothing. “It’s just a bit of slime and feathers. Another tip, beware of silly pranks, it's all part and parcel of the Hogwarts culture." You comfort the kid, trying to lighten the situation by laughing softly, "Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

The first-year nodded, her lower lip trembling, and you smiled, guiding her toward a nearby fountain.

Fred couldn’t stop staring. He didn't know who you were, but he did know this, he wanted to be yours.

You were covered in slime and feathers, an absolute mess, yet you still looked radiant.

There was something about the way you put the first-year first, your patience and kindness shining through, that made his heart thud in the best way.

You helped her cleaned as much as you could off her robes, murmuring reassurances the entire time before chanting, "Scourgify!", instantly her robes were as good as new.

Only after she was cleaned up did you finally turn your attention to yourself. With the help of the cleaning spell, the feathers were out of your hair and the slime off your sleeves in no time.

“Merlin! Fred, you’ve got it bad,” Lee said, smirking.

“Oh, leave him,” George teased. “He’s clearly in love.” Fred’s ears turned pink, but he didn’t care. For once, he was speechless.

“How come I’ve never noticed her before?” The red head murmured, more to himself than anyone else. He was certain he would’ve remembered someone like you. “Maybe because you’re too busy pranking people,” Oliver said dryly. "Who is she?" Fred asked, ignoring Oliver's remark. "Seen her around a couple of times, especially in the library, she's in Ron's year." Oliver hummed, watching as you conversed with the first-year.

“That explains it,” George quipped. “She’s too smart to bother with Fred’s idiocy.”

Fred scowled, but his gaze remained fixed on you. There was something magnetic about the way you carried yourself, and he felt like everyone had disappeared, you were the only one in sight, to him.

He knew he had to make this right. He needed an excuse to approach you. Right! An apology. And of course, he had to impress you.

The Ravenclaw girl finally gave a small laugh as you finished off explaining the pranking culture at Hogwarts. “Thank you, I-..I think I know my way to the library from here now.” she said softly before hurrying off. ___

The next day, Fred had a plan. A proper one.

Breakfast in the Great Hall hummed with the usual morning chaos: the clink of cutlery, the murmur of conversation, and the occasional bursts of laughter from each houses' table.

Fred stood at the entrance, trying to look nonchalant but failing miserably. In his hands, he clutched a bouquet of enchanted flowers—slime-free this time—that were charmed to sing a cheerful apology tune when presented.

He wiped his palm against his robes for what felt like the hundredth time. “This is foolproof,” Fred muttered under his breath.

“You say that every time,” George pointed out, his tone dripping with amusement. He nudged Lee, who was barely containing his laughter. “What do you reckon? Will he get through two words before tripping over himself?”

“Five Galleons says he’ll combust,” Lee said, grinning.

“Will you two shut it?” Fred snapped, though the tips of his ears turned red. “This is serious.”

“Serious,” George repeated, mocking Fred’s tone. “You’re holding a singing bouquet, mate. Nothing about this screams ‘serious.’”

“Just watch,” Fred said, his voice low but determined.

That’s when you walked in, and Fred’s stomach flipped.

You were laughing as you entered, your head tilted toward one of your friends. That laugh—light, carefree, and far too distracting—was etched into Fred’s memory, playing on a loop since the previous day.

The sunlight streaming through the tall windows hit you at just the right angle, illuminating your smile. You were radiant.

Fred’s heart thumped in his chest as he stepped forward, the bouquet held out like a peace offering. “Hey!” he called, catching your attention.

You turned to him, eyes widening slightly in surprise. “Yes?” you said, the corners of your mouth quirking up into a curious smile. What did he want from you?

Fred grinned, his confidence teetering on the edge of unraveling. “Listen, about yesterday—”

But before he could finish, the bouquet let out a sudden pop. A puff of pink smoke erupted, followed by an earsplittingly off-key version of “I’m Sorry About The Slime” that echoed through the Great Hall.

Fred barely had time to react before the bouquet detonated in a second burst, showering him in glitter and knocking him flat on his back.

The Hall erupted into laughter.

Fred groaned, staring at the enchanted ceiling, which now looked even farther away than usual. He could hear George’s loud, obnoxious cackling somewhere to his left.

“Five Galleons,” Lee said smugly.

Fred grimaced, but before he could even begin to think about recovering, a familiar voice broke through the laughter.

“Guess I’m not the only casualty this time.”

Fred turned his head, blinking in disbelief. You had flopped down beside him, lying flat on your back on the floor as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Glitter sparkled in your hair, and your grin was wide and unapologetic.

“What are you doing?” Fred asked, his voice caught somewhere between bewilderment and awe.

“Making sure you’re not the only one who looks ridiculous,” you replied, shrugging as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s only fair.”

Fred let out a breathless laugh, his embarrassment momentarily forgotten. “You’re mental.” But he loved it.

“Takes one to know one,” you shot back, glancing at him with a teasing smile.

From across the Hall, George shouted, “Right on, Romeooo!!” His voice was exaggerated and dramatic, and Fred could practically feel the heat rising in his face.

“Oi shut it, George!” Fred yelled, though his tone lacked bite.

You laughed again, and Fred swore his heart might actually burst. “You’ve got quite the fan club,” you said, gesturing toward the group of students, particularly, Fred's 'boys', who were now openly watching the scene unfold and chortling.

“They’re a bunch of idiots,” Fred muttered, though his lips twitched into a reluctant smile.

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. “You know,” you said thoughtfully, “for someone who’s usually so good at pranks, this was a spectacular disaster.”

Fred groaned, running a hand through his now glitter-covered hair. “Tell me about it.”

“But,” you added, your voice softening, “I appreciate the effort and the apology.”

Fred looked at you, his heart stuttering. “You do?”

“Yeah.” You leaned closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “And between you and me, I think you pull off the glitter look better than anyone else here.”

Fred laughed, the sound loud and genuine, and for a moment, the rest of the hall faded away. “I reckon you pull it off better than I do.”

“Why thank you, it's actually my dream to be covered in glitter. Shining as bright as a quidditch trophy is the goal." You joked, but Fred smiled warmly.

You do shine bright, he thought.

As you stood up, you reached out a hand to help him up. Fred took it without hesitation, warmth spreading through him at the simple gesture.

“Come on, glitter boy,” you said, your tone teasing but fond. “Let’s get you sitting somewhere before you injure yourself again.”

Fred let you lead him to a bench at the side of the hall, his hand still tingling from where yours had been.

As you both sat down, he turned to face you, his usual confidence returning in a slow, steady wave, “I’m Fred, by the way."

You laughed, tucking a strand of glitter-dusted hair behind your ear. “I know. You and George are kind of hard to miss.”

Fred’s grin widened, his chest fluttering at the sound of your laugh. “Yeah? Well, you’re kind of hard to forget...uh?" As if on cue, you told him your name. "Y/N." You smiled. "Y/N..." He repeated back, how fitting, a pretty name for a pretty girl.

Your eyes softened, and for a moment, you studied Fred's features. He did the same, glancing at your lips occasionally.

You'd always seen him from afar, to you he was just a prankster, a jokester, busy with his schemes, you'd never thought you'd actually come face to face with him.

But now that you did, you saw him in a different light, almost.

“If this is how you usually apologise,” you said, your voice light again, “I’m scared to see what happens when you’re not sorry.”

Fred chuckled, shaking his head. “Stick around, and I’ll show you.”

You leaned back slightly, your smile lingering. “I just might.”

And in that moment, Fred knew—he didn’t just want to impress you. He wanted you, all of you, your wit, your laughter, your sparkling eyes.

He just wanted to be yours.

[zairaalbereo]

“Please don’t do this.”

So after binging the whole four seasons of Black Sails last month, I’m now on a more leisurely rewatch… or so I thought.

But god everything hits so much worse or better or harder knowing about Flint’s past and motivation now. And then this scene came up, and I’m just… fuuuuuck. Crying, screaming, throwing up. I’m not okay. This is devastating. (Did I mention I cope with art?)

On my first watch, Flint killing Gates truly shocked me. He would really kill his friend just because he wouldn’t go along with his plans? To not have to give up on the Urca? Sure, Gates is going against his command. It’s mutiny, but Gates seems to be trying, and he sounds so bloody reasonable. And more importantly, he’s been a loyal friend up until now. A fatherly friend (I want to throw up). And even now he’s… trying to protect Flint, right? (Fuck. Seriously. Feeling ill.)

But yeah, I was shocked. And as he whispered broken apologies to the friend he just murdered, I wondered… could I forgive him for this?

And now…omg now it’s like watching a completely different train wreck happening, and it all makes perfect, tragic, horrible sense. The way the whole scene mirrors James McGraw’s futile attempt to convince Hennessy of their Hail Mary plan to save Nassau. Every step. The urgency when things have already gone sideways, but James refuses to give up, because it can still work. People just have to listen. Let him explain. Have a little faith. Back then he trusted Hennessy, and now he still trusts Gates. He trusts them to understand, asking them to believe in him. He doesn’t see it coming. (How does he not see it coming this time?)

And then the moment the floor is ripped out from under him. And it’s all there, on Flint’s face, in the moment when Gates says “They know.” It’s not the mutiny. It’s the betrayal. The way Flint’s face falls, and for a moment he looks just like James McGraw in Hennessy’s office. The same devastation and disbelief when he asks “You told them?” And of course for him it is the same betrayal. It is the same fight, to prove Thomas right. To stand against those who took him and everything else away from James.

And Gates, that poor bastard, doesn’t even understand what sin he is committing. He doesn’t even see it as mutiny. He sees it as doing the right thing, containing a madman. (Omggg…) And then there is Flint, reliving the worst moments of his life. And that point it doesn’t feel like it’s about the Urca anymore. It’s an emotional massacre, to which Gates seems completely oblivious. When Flint asks if he will see him get hanged, only to be promised an opportunity to flee for him and ‘Mrs Barlow’, Gates thinks he is doing him a kindness. Like Hennessy probably thought he was doing him a kindness, saving him from the gallows. It’s all right. Flint just has to leave, vanish and never be heard of again. He should be grateful. And the way Flint’s eyes close briefly in disbelief that this is happening. Again. The way he pleads with Gates, just like he pleaded with Hennessy. So unlike Flint. But once more he is told that his actions are unforgivable. Simply too much. He’s not just rejected, but he is abandoned. He is cast out for who he is and his supposed sins. A monster that can’t be allowed to exist amongst the rest of them.

The whole scene is executed so brilliantly, the way he fluctuates between James’ almost innocent appeals to be understood and Flint’s anger at being denied. But he keeps trying until the last moment. And then, when he acts, it’s not a calculated move. It’s pure desperation, the only purpose to do something, to stop what is happening. Because James McGraw didn’t. But where James McGraw hesitated, where he maybe still hoped, still didn’t comprehend, and where he still thought he had something to lose… Flint doesn’t. And yet we can see it break him. We can see how it breaks another part of his soul. 

(And of course it will happen again. Screaming. Crying. Throwing up.)

[jinwoosbabyboo]

𝙸 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚂𝚞𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝙸 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝙷𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝙸𝚝

The lads men and their nuerospicy adhd/add reader A/N: Your mental health matters and don't sacrifice it for anyone. These are a few things I deal with. Everyone's experience with adhd/add is different. [Requested by: luxis-journal]

Time Blocking

I have to be there by 5:30pm, but I need to shower and do my makeup so I need at least 2 or 3 hours for that, but I should give myself time so im not rushing because I hate being rushed and I know I'm gonna want to eat before I go so I should make time for that and picking out an outfit will take some time so I need to start getting ready at like 11am you know incase there’s traffic and im not rushing

Zayne doesn’t question it and just gets ready in 30 minutes while you still run around getting dressed Rafayel rushes you just to piss you off and immediately regret it when you tell him to leave without you because you’re not going anymore Xavier when you tell him the rundown of your getting ready time he’s confused until he wakes up an hour before you need to leave and you’re still getting ready Sylus happily just watches you get dressed while he’s still in bed

ADD/ADHD Pause

That moment when you need to turn the lights off, but you need to grab your car keys off the kitchen counter, but your jacket is still in your room so you can’t turn the room light off just yet and you need to grab your travel mug from the fridge so now you’re just stutter stepping in one spot trying to do everything at once

Zayne tells you to grab your drink while he grabs everything else Rafayel puts his hands on your shoulders and directs into your room to grab your jacket and then asks what else needs to be done Xavier quietly grabs everything for you Sylus grabs your chin, tilting it up to look at him and simply says “One thing at a time sweetie”

Nightly/Tired Zoomies

Hysterically laughing at anything and thinking of everything funny that’s ever made you laugh right before bed or when you get tired. Crackhead energy.

Zayne sweetly smiles while you tire yourself out and cuddles you when you lay down and pass out in his arms Rafayel is cackling with you and not just laughing, but also adding onto the jokes you both end up laughing until you’re in tears Xavier he’s already knocked out while you’re still up laughing at videos on your phone Sylus teases you the entire time which only makes you laugh more then makes you lay down because he knows you’re just sleepy

Non-verbal and/or Overstimulated

Those moments when you just don’t feel like talking and everything is pissing you off especially unnecessary noises

Zayne leaves you be and just sends you texts to check on you. Turns on your favorite show when he’s about to eat so you don’t yell at him for making too much noise Rafayel still wants your attention so he just lays on you hoping it would make you feel better. it works for a while until the sound of his breathing starts irritating you “Why are you breathing so loud?” “Im sorry for being alive??” Xavier leaves you alone and just leaves you little snacks in case you get hungry he knows you’ll come talk to him when you’re ready Sylus simply texts you when you don’t feel like speaking sends the twins in to see how irritable you are because if you get snappy with them he knows you’ll bite his head off

Vocal Stimming

A new random sentence or song snippet every week from “FLINT LOCKWOOD” to “Say its fine (fiiiinneee) happens all the time” to just random noises when the silence is silencing too much

Zayne just looks at you and goes on about his day Rafayel gets them stuck in his head now he’s randomly saying it too Xavier questions it “Where did that come from?” Sylus just lets you do your thing chuckles from time to time because he finds it cute

[bettystonewell]

TO YOU I BELONG: CHAPTER 4

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader

Summary: Dean isn't looking for a mate, and the last place he expects to meet his soulmate is while on a case. Fate ain't real. He still has free will, and saving you is just another part of the job. Except, monsters aren't the only things you need saving from... 18+ only MDNI

Chapter Word Count: 4.6k words

Chapter Warnings: hurt/comfort, fluff, referenced physical abuse, referenced sexual assault, language, Dean pre-gaming, fingering

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

Sparks flew. Was that the crap everyone always spoke about? Because Dean kind of understood it now.

His body from head to toe was buzzing with excitement, and the closest thing he could liken it to was that blend of exhilarating and nerve-racking jitters he encountered during a fight. His fists flying and landing on another man (or monster) held the same principle as flint hitting tinder, didn’t it?

Yeah. That fit.

But while beating Dick, and any other brawl he’d experienced, required movement and forethought, this kiss was simple and far less complicated than any other he’d shared before.

His soulmate and her delicate lips touching his. Succulent and savouring, with just the right amount of wetness. Even making a soft squelch when his mouth pulled away from yours to get a good look at you.

Your hair was messy against the pillow. No longer knotted and clumped together, as it was three nights ago when he’d found you in the park. It picked up highlights from the lamp he always kept on in the corner of his room.

That same light, which made even the cheap steel of his shotgun on the wall sparkle like silver, now cast shadows over your injured shoulder and neck. They hid some of the fainter bruises while darkening the deeper punctures gathering around that perfectly rounded D, and sharp angles of the Winchester W.

The letters were more prominent now, but they failed to compare to your fully developed black eye.

“You better put some more ice on this today,” he said as his thumb swiped a gentle trail below the colourful ring.

Your smile was infectious, even with the injuries. Your fingers cupped his chin, twisting his head to inspect his own, left, right, then left again. “I think you need it more than I do.”

Yeah. The two of you made quite the impressive pair. Not just with the matching marks from Dick on your face, but by the way you’d fit into his life and not just his bed.

Not that any night moves had gone on - yet. Things had remained PG at second base. A little tongue and boob action here and there, but nothing more. He’d never push you to third because he needed to make sure this was what you both wanted. It didn’t hurt to know each other first, even if the process took place under his sheets. He wouldn’t have it any other way, and there was plenty of time.

“Penny for your thoughts.” Your fingers scratched through his stubble to gain his attention. “You’re spacing out again.”

With a cocked brow and a smirk, he lowered himself down to recapture your lips. He needed a bit of courage before he brought up the nitty gritty of your cycle and his suppressant taking. He’d been meaning to do it. The idea of his world with you in it was fast becoming more real as each extra hour he spent with you passed, but with it was the matter of claiming you, and all that entailed.

Nips from his teeth, licks by his tongue. One hand pushed through your hair while the other massaged every inch of your own baby-smooth skin below.

His elbows and knees balanced his upper half to hover above you, which was both a blessing and a curse. If he could feel his cock beginning to bear a life of its own on your leg, then you most likely did, too.

Fuck.

Dean rolled off to the side, bringing you with him to rest your head against his chest instead. He pulled the covers with you to drape them across your shoulder. Close and cosy, but away from his clear arousal, choosing it best to leave the pressure in his pants over putting it on you.

“I, ah, just need a sec,” he breathed through the grin plastered over his face.

If only you’d give him one.

Your hand patted his sternum, but your leg wrapped over his, bringing your knee close to his semi.

“Not that I’m complaining, sweetheart, but you’re making it hard for me here.”

“Pun intended?” You asked, earning yourself a light smack on your rear.

It was playful, but after what you’d been through, he regretted it, even though you didn’t seem to mind. And his hand remained, running soothing circles over the firm muscle and the fabric that covered it.

“I’m not that fragile,” you said all too knowingly.

“And I can’t wait to find that out for myself. When you’re ready.”

Your walk still held that awkward gait it had in the motel, but you insisted nothing was wrong, hiding every sigh and cringe behind a smile or bouts of small talk.

“Are you leaving that up to me, Doctor Winchester?” More pats from the tips of your fingers struck his chest with each syllable of his name.

“If it were up to me, you’d have seen one,” he leered. Google might’ve said an injury like yours took up to two weeks, but it wasn’t a medical professional. Neither was he.

“They’ll start asking questions,” you whispered.

“So? We lie. In case you didn’t know, I’m good at that. Comes with the job.”

Your quiet snort brought a smile to his lips. Humour always worked, until it didn’t…

“I noticed,” you said. But then you shook your head and your hair shuffled under his chin, bringing with it a fresh wave of your sweet omega scent that went straight to his groin.

How was he supposed to keep this up? (Or down rather.)

“I just want to forget it happened. The sooner his mark fades, the better.”

Dean couldn’t agree more, and he used that statement as his opening. “Did it hurt? The first time, I mean.” It wasn’t a very good one.

“No. But I got lost in the moment,” you said, lifting yourself up onto your elbow to look at him. “Have you ever?”

“Me? I guess I didn’t make myself clear on the ‘me being dangerous’ part, huh?” Dean brought his hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear that had fallen. “Sam met his soulmate, too. But a demon killed her.”

You had spent little time with Sammy to form any connection, but Dean still recognised the empathy and fear that dampened your eyes. Guilt, no doubt, setting in his. Would what happened to Jess be the deal breaker?

“Since we lost her, we’ve both been on suppressants, so I’ve been able to avoid my ruts and the risk of claiming anyone.”

“So, no sex at all?”

“I’m not a saint. I still hooked-up.” And this was not where he wanted the conversation to go. The last thing you needed to hear was how promiscuous he’d been. “But I avoided anything substantial.”

Okay. That was worse.

“Did you ever—” Sleep around? Have casual partners before you met Dick? What was he thinking? “I mean, was Richie the only guy or—”

“Don’t worry, you’re off the hook.” You chuckled. “There were others, but only the one claim. Well, two…” Your head lowered and your fingers played with the old shirt he’d worn to bed.

“Did you ever try for pups?”

“We did,” you said. “But nothing stuck. Just another thing to be thankful for.”

As much as it hurt him to see you sad again, Dean couldn’t agree more. He hated the thought of anyone growing up in that environment.

Not that your apartment was anything less than the apple pie life he admired. Out of all the homes he’d visited, yours had been better than most, and if it weren’t for mixtures of Dick amongst it, Dean could have lived there himself given the opportunity.

Well, perhaps in a different location. Moving your things into this room would be ideal.

But the idea of a guy such as Dick being a dad? Someone that hit his mate out of jealousy...

His father may have been shitty, and maybe he didn’t treat Dean and Sam the best. Giving a gun to a six-year-old was the wrong thing to do in Dean’s eyes, even if he’d enjoyed it back then. Neither was growing up on the road the way they did. At least John Winchester never struck them until they were adolescents.

As for Dean, he wasn’t ideal either, but claiming you meant no more suppressants and that meant the risk you’d conceive. He wasn’t stupid.

Was he okay with his hypothetical pups living in the bunker if he claimed you on your next cycle and knocked you up as well? It would be the safest place for them, whether he was actively hunting or not. But would that be enough?

Wait. Was he really more worried about the safety of your potential rugrats than he was over actually bringing them into existence?

“Dean?”

“Mmm?” His throat couldn’t produce much more sound than that. A lump had garnered there, having realised and accepted that his inner alpha was besotted to make you all round and heavy with his pup. Stupid instincts.

“If that’s a deal breaker for you, I’d understand.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’m an omega. My body is supposed to grow pups, but I don’t think it can. And I dunno what you want, but—”

His hand cupped your chin and with a gentle nudge, encouraged you to raise your head back up so you could see that he meant what he said next. “You know how I keep telling ya I’m dangerous?”

You nodded.

“It’s ‘cause I’m worried things I’ve pissed off could hurt those I care about, including you.” His lips curled upward. His newfound want may have been squashed before it had even festered, but he wouldn’t let that add more to the burden you’d already placed on yourself. “No pups means less people for me to protect. That’s not a bad thing. And I will protect you, if you’ll be mine.”

Your eyes twinkled under a layer of tears.

While he still held questions about your heat and how long he had before he could claim you, right now, he needed to get lost in you and encourage you to do the same. Even if it stayed above the belt.

That was all peachy, in theory, but over the course of the following week, Dean was sure having a hard time keeping things, well, not hard.

His inner alpha yearned for you to be his. Hell, he wanted you, too. However, he was so adamant about not going all the way with you until your body had healed that he had turned himself into the poster boy for that typical kid in a candy store. Forever looking, never relieving the perpetual aching that had made a home between his legs.

Your scent, your warmth, your touch. Everything about you drove him crazy, and while he loved every second he got to spend with you, on the seventh day since your arrival in the bunker, he needed to get himself spent before he took you out for the evening as he’d planned. There was only so much a man could take, let alone an alpha, and he didn’t want his knot ruining the night.

So when he found himself a moment in the garage alone, he couldn’t help but take care of things.

His firm grip pumped his dick at a furious pace, willing his impending orgasm to bust out as quickly as possible.

The pants he breathed bounced off the cement pylons and steel scaffolding. As did skin slapping against skin and his belt buckle jangling in the air. When he gave one final satisfying thrust to blow his load into the oil-rag he had on the ready, your name was on the tip of his tongue. The memory of your nipples hardening beneath his thumb in his mind.

It was risky, jacking off the way he had. Against Baby’s rear bumper where anyone could catch him by walking up the central stairs, but that had also been the thrill. What little there was of it.

Sam rarely ventured down here and you, he presumed, were still being occupied with him, making it the perfect opportunity for Dean to deal with his preparations in peace.

He grinned as he scrunched the evidence into his fist and threw it in the trash. There was no point trying to wash the thing, and he wouldn’t attempt to explain where it had come from if he got caught adding it to the machine.

He had a job to do though, and with his cock still out while he waited for the base to deflate enough to tuck it back comfortably into his pants, he twisted himself around to make sure he had everything he needed in the trunk.

Cooler of beer, blankets. He’d pre-gamed himself. Check, check, and check. Dean was on his way to being a fucking gentleman. He just hoped you wouldn’t see right through him.

When he’d finished preparing, he washed his hands, tucked still not-so-little Dean away and walked the halls in search of you, as predicted finding you with Sam in the library with a screen in front of each of you.

The taller sasquatch form of his brother typed on his keyboard, while your smaller omega frame stared, clicking here and there on the trackpad of Dean’s laptop.

His initial reaction to your furrowed brow had him wondering if he should have triple checked his search history before lending the machine to you, but as he moved closer, he recognised that familiar twang of sadness in your scent. It wasn’t good news.

“Hey.” He hopped up the wooden steps and made the beeline for you. His fingers, following their instincts to comfort your latest grievance, whatever it was, magnetised to your exposed shoulders.

Though the dress you wore gave his hands easy access to your supple flesh and his eyes a feast from above, he was careful to avoid the patches of skin that were still healing. His brief session in the garage may not have been enough to get him through the night though.

“So. What did you find?” he said, his tone conveying a ‘hit me’ attitude.

“He drained my bank account.” You stifled a sigh, but with Dean being as close as he was and hovering over you, not only heard it, but he caught the split second movement when your chest heaved. “He even racked up my credit card. Sam hacked into the records.”

“Does it say what he bought?” Did that really matter?

“Gift cards,” Sam said. His scowl meeting Dean as if he were the culprit.

Fucking Dick. The guy was smarter than they’d given him credit for. This was exactly the kind of thing Dean and Sam used to do before Charlie set them up with their forever balanced bank accounts. If that made them assholes, then what did it make Dick?

“You think you can hook her up to what we have?” Dean asked.

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Your head twisted to Dean first, seeking an explanation, but when he refused with a shrug, you directed your confused expression to Sam, who had resumed tapping away at his keyboard.

While you were distracted by gaining Sam’s attention, Dean leaned down so that his nose touched the shell of your ear and whispered, “How long have I known ya?”

Nothing could dampen his mood, even discovering Dick was more of a dick than you all had realised. It would seem his preparations for a date night had come at the perfect time.

“Eight days?” Your voice was just as perplexed as the last glance you’d given him had been.

“And how long have we been cooped up in the bunker?” he further asked.

You frowned, giving off a ‘what the hell kind of question is that,’ vibe. “A week. What’re you—”

“Too long to not have taken you out already.” His arms stretched, but both sets of fingers remained on your shoulders as he stepped to the side and looked at you expectantly.

“But my eye.”

Yes. That had worsened again. Now brandishing a deep purple ring around the top of the lid and below it, appearing painted on. It was a sight to see, but so was Dean’s.

“And? I’ve got one too,” he said, releasing you to hold out his hand for you to take.

“Yeah. That makes it worse. People are going to talk if we’re out in public looking like this together.”

“So. Let ‘em.” He shrugged. Though Dean could understand the embarrassment. He didn’t exactly enjoy the idea of some random Joe Citizen taking one look at him and thinking he was the alpha who’d caused your injuries. Especially when he had his own. “Besides, I’ve thought of that,” he said, and pulled you up himself.

He wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Really?” you asked.

“Really,” he said, before shooting a look behind him. “Don’t wait up, Sammy!” he then chirped as his arm wrapped around your waist, escorting you past the ornamental blades and giant telescope thingy, through to the door in the back of the library.

He knew you were still waiting on any explanation, given you focused on him over the path he led you on, but he enjoyed humouring you. The element of a good surprise, emphasis on the good, was so few and far between in his life.

“Where we’re going is for me to know and you to find out, but I’ll let you choose the cuisine,” he said, decking his smirk with a wag of his brows. “Burgers or pizza?” That last part he trilled.

Whatever you chose was neither a win, nor a loss, but he’d judge you on what flavour or kind you selected. No soulmate of Dean Winchester would ever eat a plant-based burger - in his presence. They’d also never opt for pineapple on their pizza, he hoped.

Okay. These things weren’t exactly deal breakers. At least, not up there with the chance of your death at the hands of a demon extracting their revenge on him. Or you, with whatever drama you’d endured unsuccessfully making your ex-mate a baby-daddy.

There were shortcomings and insecurities-a-plenty. It was just lucky your choice in pizza toppings was enough in his eyes to make up for them. What could he say? He was simple, and it was the simple things in life, like pepperoni and cheese, that kiss and all the other sweet moments he’d shared with you.

He couldn’t be happier, though he sensed your mood was waning. Damn Dick and his thieving ass. The asswipe had ruined the scene Dean had been going for.

He had chosen the perfect spot. Somewhere secluded. In a small clearing, about twenty minutes away from the bunker, and his brother. With plenty of tree cover and soft ground to place the blankets down.

Baby’s low beams cast light over the setup, shining through the beer bottles and capturing the stray wisps of hair that fell around your face.

You were perfect. In fact, this whole situation was still perfect, and Dick had ruined nothing. Even the breeze nipping at Dean’s chin was a blessing in disguise.

He slid the empty pizza box out of the way so he could pull you into the space between his thighs. Flinging your legs over his thick one and bringing your rear right up against his crotch.

For now, his balls were alright with it. His inner alpha didn’t mind, either. It had the perfect view of Dick’s claim, and all it wanted to do was, well, that was better left unsaid. Using his teeth on your healing skin wasn’t quite what you needed at that moment.

He’d be wrong. Sort of.

“You okay?” his low voice rumbled from his torso to yours.

“Yeah.”

You may have nodded, but he caught the purse of your lips as they forced a smile. He had become more and more attuned to your sensitivities with each passing day, but even Sam or any other human, alpha, omega or beta could tell you weren’t being truthful.

“Omega?” he pressed further.

But you shook your head and moved your hand to brush over Dean’s initials, peeking out below your loose neckline. It was a distraction for sure. The ruffling of the pretty fabric wasn’t helping when it fanned your scent up to his nostrils.

He brought his hand down to cover yours. His long fingers spread out, touching the very edge of your mating gland and the fading puncture marks from dickwad’s jaw. It caused your breath to hitch and a faint shockwave to travel up his arm to the same patch of skin on his body.

That…was…interesting.

You must’ve thought so too if your scent was anything to go by. There was a definite spike in the almost constant state of arousal that followed you.

“Does that feel good?” It wasn’t like he hadn’t touched you there already. He had done so when cleaning your injuries in the motel. Right?

Well, no. His fingers had come close, but he’d been so meticulous about not adding any foreign material to your open wounds that only the fabric he used to clean them had pressed against your skin.

Earlier in the library, it had been the same. But now your chortle and a flash of a broader smile met his gaze, and he was damn confused.

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s just stronger than I was expecting.”

“What is?”

“Our bond.” Your eyes lit up. “You haven’t claimed me, but it’s starting.”

What was starting exactly? Dean knew the logistics of claiming. He had to bite your mating gland when he came inside of you, but until that happened, he didn’t see how any bond could start. Yet here you were excited. And so was his inner alpha.

It clawed away at him again, scolding through snarls and odd commands like, ‘Scent her,’ ‘Kiss her on his mark,’ and all Dean could think was, ‘Seriously?’ because that was the last thing he’d ever thought of doing.

Not that he felt repulsed by you there. He just didn’t want to touch you anywhere near it until it healed completely and all traces of Dick were gone.

But what if the annoying beast in his head had a point?

“Fuck it,” he mumbled, greeting your questioning look with a smirk that made blue steel drop its panties. If the touch of his fingertips on that part of you had excited you the way he thought it had, he was going in for more.

“Dean?”

He swooped down to drag his lips over the faded bite, pulling them together to plant a not so chaste kiss there. Your mewl went straight to his cock, and while it was so damn worth it, his resolve was screwed.

The smell of your arousal only grew stronger, flooding his nostrils and mind with all things good and not so proper.

Would you protest if he moved lower to take your tit in his mouth?

Shit. Nope, nope. Abort, abort. Fucking abort. He needed to focus on the task at hand and think of something less lewd. It was a shame his libido didn’t get the message, because it asked, “When’s your next heat due again?” which, yeah, wasn’t what Dean had in mind. Not even close.

“It’s usually at the start of the season.”

“So we have another month? That about right?” he said between kisses and nips.

“Mm-hmm.”

Dean snickered into your neck at your sudden lack of coherency. He may have taken care of himself, not that it was apparent with the bulge forming in his pants, but as far as he was aware, you hadn’t done the same, and it was no wonder you were putty in his hands. “Don’t think I can wait that long to have you,” he drawled.

“You could have me now?”

He groaned and leaned back up to meet your eyes. “You’re not healed yet.” He’d seen the wince you’d made over one particularly rough speed hump. Dean had winced too - Baby’s rims had packed a beating - but that was before he noticed your discomfort.

God. If only he could have you. It was no longer a want to sink his knot into you. He needed to. But that stupid mother-fucking ‘but’ he had put on himself wouldn’t allow it, even as your thighs rolled against each other to seek friction.

“It’s fine, Dean.” You brought your hands up to splay over his firm chest, twisting and shuffling your body to face him better. “I told you I’m not fragile.” Your fingers headed straight for his right pectoral muscle and placing of your initials over his tattoo.

“I wasn’t doing over five when I hit that bump.”

“That was one time,” you scoffed.

“Yeah, but that ride was gentle. I might not be.” Dean raised his brows and flashed a feral smirk. “You want my knot that badly ‘mega?”

“It’s not just me.”

You had him there, more so when your hand dipped between you. Your fingers were inches from the defined outline on his leg when he caught them.

His dick twitched in protest, but he still pulled your arm away and wrapped it around his lower back instead, entangling his own with it. His grin widened at his antics, but then you melted into him and his cheeks burned at the stretch. He would definitely get used to this.

“Guess not,” he said. “But you ain’t getting in my pants tonight. ‘Specially not here.”

Frustration seeped out of your pores and Dean felt a pang of guilt.

It sounded cheesy for his liking, but this clearing was the last place he wanted your first time with him to be. He’d sooner fuck you in a sleazy motel with thin walls than on the lumpy ground you sat on where someone could come by.

Out here was better suited for a quick romp. With clothes on and prior knowledge of your body and how it ticked.

Here the air was cool and he could only imagine what it might do to an exposed breast or pair of opened legs. The shiver you’d give as it tickled your sensitive parts would be a sight to see.

While that was tempting, he needed to know you were somewhere comfy and warm when things got down to business, so for now, “Would you settle for my fingers, sweetheart?” he asked

That caught your attention, and he took your whimper as a yes.

His hand dipped down to slide along your thigh, caressing every portion of silky smooth skin as he moved closer to your core.

The way you opened up for him and the soft breaths you blew into his ear had him in his zone. But that warmth and wetness, when he slipped two fingers under one elastic waistband, had his cock screaming for attention at the same time. He couldn’t win.

“D…Alpha.”

It was exactly what he’d wanted to hear in the shower that night.

“Yeah?” he said with confidence against your neck.

His tongue swirled patterns over your mating gland and mimicked the movements of his padded thumb below. “You let me know if it gets too much, alright?” he warned, before his middle finger slid through your folds and into your slicked up entrance.

The come hither was slow for both your benefits. His motions contained as he familiarised himself with the right spot on luck alone. A mental note already in place for when he sealed the deal.

To his relief, you moaned. His deep alpha growl nipped at your throat in response as kisses and scent left a trail in their wake.

Screw Dick and any other. You were his. Dean would be yours. It was only a matter of time before he made his claim, marking you as such, and he couldn’t fucking wait.

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

Mm-hmm. I know I talked with someone about blue balls. Though when I read back over this myself, I’m trying to look past how quickly she trusts him and put it all down to, but they’re soulmates and it’s that getting to know you stage, rampant because it’s the omegaverse…

Things are heating up in here. I hope that didn’t disappoint. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover in this story - silly me lets her ideas get away with her (this started as a 9 chapter plan)… The first half covers dealing with the after affects of Dick and these two lovebirds learning and growing together. Just don’t get too comfortable with the fluff. Hints for the second half are littered throughout and in the tags

Chapter 5: Languishing 21/03

“Omega,” he rumbled into your ear.

“Alpha,” you purred back. Your smile, demure and telling, practically screamed at him to, ‘check this out,’ and boy did he.

Your core was so close, yet sheathed between your clothing and his, and when your eyes looked upon him, twinkling even in the dim lighting of the bunker’s night mode, his cock twitched in approval. He could get used to this kind of welcome.

“I missed you,” you said, before adding, “guys,” to the end when you noticed Sam watching you with interest.

To Dean’s disappointment, your legs unhooked themselves, and he set you on the floor again. Losing your weight made not only his arms empty, but his heart as well. His inner alpha growling in discontentment at the way you halted your affections around Sammy’s presence. Worse still, when you gave him a hug, too.

Oh yes - next chapter is their first time!

@globetrotter28 @ambiguous-avery @arcannaa @jollyhunter @zepskies

@reluctanthalfwayoptimism @supernotnatural2005 @applelovesposts

@jaydensluv @foxyjwls007 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373 @waynes-multiverse

@kazchester-fanfiction @maddie0101 @ladykitana90 @luvr4miya @amyjam78

@stoneyggirl2 @winchesterwild78 @missywinchester15 @deansbbyx @kr804573

@lyarr24 @salemslostwitch @mostlymarvelgirl @ladysparkles78 @multiversefanfics

@31miw-inkpsycho @yoursrosie @Theantisoci-alone @roseamie13 @krazykelly

@my-stories-vault

@montlynamechange @deansimpalababy @justherefortheficandsmut @emma1998sblog @livingdeadblondequeen

@spn-fanfic-reblog-writes @losers-clvb @looneyoompa @linkilocks11 @nellybellyy

@smut02 @The_House_Of_Rose_And_Ember @somethingsaladsomething

If you'd like to be tagged in this or any of my other works, please let me know, or you can add yourself HERE

[call-me-kermit]

Oh I got a good one, How the God of War characters would react to reader kissing them for the first time eather on the cheek or the lips or both. Please definitely add Atreus. Please

Smooches

Warnings: Cuties being cute.

Genre: Headcanons

≫ ────── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ────── ≪

Kratos

It was a total shock to Kratos when he felt your lips against his temple.

You would never guess he was dumbfounded and awestruck by the sudden affection.

He didn't respond with words or even look at you, just kept on with his task.

He wracked his brain trying to think of what the kiss had been for.

What made you think to do it?

All he had done before was take the flint and start the fire you were having trouble starting.

After all, he needed that fire going so he could cook the fresh game.

He didn't quite understand until Mimir, the smartest man alive, told him after you'd excused yourself from the room.

“You've been married before, brother! How do you not realize that women relish being taken care of?”

So you kissed him because he helped you?

That's it?!

That's ridiculous.

He totally started helping you out more often though.

Not because he yearned for you to kiss I'm more often.

No.

Definitely not.

He only wanted to show you how to do the things you should know how to do already.

Smooches were just a bonus.

Atreus

He'd liked you for so long that by the time you'd kissed him it was like a damn breaking open and river water finally resuming the course it was meant to flow.

Even if it was just a sweet peck on the cheek while sitting beside each other at the campfire.

A peck that lasted a second.

But to him, it felt like everything was finally the way things should be.

He smiled and shuddered and tried to find words or the courage you had to reciprocate.

He stumbled under himself for a few long moments hating how stupid he must have looked.

He was afraid his awkward response ruined the mood.

He almost had the heart to blame you, you did this to him after all.

But that embarrassment only lasted a little bit before he was reassured this a longer kiss on the other cheek.

He settled for comfortable silence enjoying the moment.

Not before kissing your hands of course.

Such a gentleman.

Mimir

He really enjoyed the moments you stole him away and walked with him, sat with him, talked for hours about nothing and everything.

You'd find a log, or field and lay him in you lap, laugh and talk sweet to him.

It was one of these moments, were you stopped him mid story, lifted him up close and kissed him sweetly on the lips.

He was saddened at first, insecurities about being just a head filled him.

He cares for you, absolutely, there was no doubt he'd be happy to spend the rest of his days with you.

But he felt you deserved better than an old man with not body to hold you with.

You didn't seaem to mind, and since he didn't really have the guts (metaphorically and literally) to voice these concerns you just kept coming back for more smooches.

“You deserve better, love.” He finally spoke. “A man who could hold you.”

He didn't believe you when you said none of that matters to you.

He argued his point for a few minutes.

“Well, you have no legs to run away from me. So your fate is sealed, my love.”

He almost laughed until you kissed him again.

Indeed it was.

Sindri

The first kiss between you wasn't necessarily a real kiss.

But it made his heart swell up more than anything he'd felt, ever.

It was a long-fought battle, some nearly died.

He'd not been there with you Kratos and the rest.

But when they all returned without you, and told him of the struggle he was a second from demanding where you were.

He was scared.

Only for you to walk in, wound wrapped up, armor rinsed of blood and grub.

You'd taken time outside to clean yourself before entering his home.

The relief of seeing you alive and well was enough to make him smile so purely.

Then, as you approached, scars of near death in your eyes, you smiles back and blew him a kiss.

It made him stubble over his feet as he met you halfway, a gesture he'd never thought of anyone doing for him.

He considered for a moment kissing you for real, but his stomach twisted and he settled for returning the hand gesture.

He revealed it the way it wiped the pain in your eyes and made them glow with beautiful life again.

It wasn't anything extravagant or overly romantic, but it was something sweet and simple.

Perfect for both of you.

Heimdal

All he'd done was throw an insult in the direction of some hag who was too invasive of yours and his business for his liking.

You were for the few people he tolerated and it irritated him that someone would sully your name out of petty spite.

The next thing he knew, you were on him. 

He was more surprised he didn't see it coming.

He had no time to even process what you were thinking before you laid one him.

Then he realized you didn't even think about what you were doing until you were doing it.

Kissing the life out of him.

He enjoyed the fact your instinctual reaction to him “defending your honor” was to rob the air from his lungs.

It was such a little thing that got suck a big reaction.

He didn't mind at all, even after you pulled away and apologized.

He just smirked and pulled you back in.

Baldur

He’d been angry, throwing things, breaking furniture, seething, and cursing his mother’s name.

Another dead end, false lead, trying to find someway to break his curse.

You just stood there watching sorrowfully until he called enough to know he would hurt you if you approached.

You’d been by his side since the start, trying to help.

Watching him go mad.

When he did calm, and sat, panting and gritting his teeth, you took a seat beside him.

He could not feel the way you hand gently touched his shoulder.

He could not feel, the hand you placed over his chest and stroked to try and smooth him.

That made him angry all over again.

He wanted to feel your touch more than anything.

He never had the chance of being close to you like this before his curse.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched you lean in and place a soft kiss on his jawline.

His anger slipped into despair, as he wished more than anything to feel the warmth of your embrace.

The softness of your skin.

The taste of your lips.

At least he could still feel you in his heart, but it wasn't enough.

≫ ────── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ────── ≪

•Kermitts Masterlist•

[superficialdomina]

Down Under - Part 4

Word count: 2.9k

Part 2 Warnings: 18+; minors DNI. SMUT! Smutty smut! Masturbating (F). Orgasms (F). Thigh riding. Effects of sex-infection (and the inherent dub-con). If you want to avoid any of this, stop reading when we go to bed 😅

Part 3

Series masterlist

Image credit

Part 4

There wasn’t much to do, since you didn’t have much in the way of gear. You gathered a pile of firewood, then pulled large armfuls of bracken out of the bush to fashion a makeshift bed. It would hardly be comfortable, but it might be an improvement on the hard ground. While Loki arranged wood and stones into a campfire shape, you began collecting handfuls of dry leaf and twig.

“What are you doing, Agent?”

“Um… Just getting some kindling? I think I have a flint in my pack…”

Loki gave a low chuckle. He mimed the two-handed motion of pulling back a slingshot, and aimed it at the teepee-shaped pile. As he released the invisible draw, a small fireball materialised; it flew through the air and crashed into the logs, which generously burst into flames.

“Satisfactory, yes?”

More than that, you thought lustily. Your mouth twitched as you stared after him, skin warmed by more than just the fire. That shouldn’t have been so arousing. Right?

Twilight was fully settled by now, the sun well-and-truly below the tree line. Urgent tasks complete, the two of you seated yourselves on one side of the campfire, watching the dancing yellow-and-orange that licked up into the darkening sky.

“Are you hungry?” Loki asked.

Starving, you realised. “I already ate everything I was carrying.”

“Mmm,” he said, feigning consternation. With another graceful flourish of sparks, he produced a small loaf of dark, dense bread, and some hard cheese. You immediately began to salivate.

“Loki, you’re brilliant!”

His mouth curled, then he cleared his throat. “It is nothing. If we were better equipped,” he continued, as he hacked off chunks of bread and cheese with his dagger, “I would make us some lefse. But it is only truly delicious when fresh off the griddle.”

“Lefse. That’s – that’s bread, right?” you asked through a mouthful of the delicious, chewy rye.

“Tch. Is it bread.” He closed his eyes in fond memory. “If it is mere bread, it is the most soulful, delicate bread you have ever tasted; indeed, its grace and tenderness is tempered only by its humility.”

You stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. “That was very poetic, Loki.”

Loki opened his eyes to scowl at you, but his irises twinkled provocatively. “What can I say? I miss my homeland, and I am a romantic at heart.” He paused, light echoing off the semicircle of exposed skin at his neckline. “That is your second compliment to me in as many minutes.”

“I guess so.”

“Be careful, Agent – I might start to believe I am winning you over.” He chewed and swallowed another bite of cheese, and you were distracted, imagining his pretty mouth latched filthily to your nipple. “I have a small confession,” he said, settling down to gaze again at the fire. “I have visited your continent once before.”

You sat up. “What? When?”

He chuckled again. “A few hundred years ago, before the Europeans came. My mother insisted that I needed a vacation. I was interested in your wildlife… So I spent a few moons exploring it.”

“Where? Here?”

“The plains, mostly.” He smiled into the distance as he remembered. “The Wiradjuri people welcomed me to their Country; shared with me their dance and music. It was the season of ‘fat fish’; I recall we ate very well.”

You briefly hid your face in your hands. “So when I was spouting all that shit about the southern stars…”

“As I said – I am familiar.”

 “And you’ve never said anything to me?”

“I don’t believe we have ever conversed at length.”

You paused. It was true; in the time you’d known him, you’d never gone out of your way to speak to him. He was someone important, you’d always told yourself, and you were no-one. But it’s more than that, you thought, a little ashamed. You’d found him arrogant, and cold, and standoffish. Now, you thought of the way he had led you safely through each squeeze in that tunnel; he’d seen the fear on your face, and hadn’t hesitated to find a way to make it as tolerable for you as possible. And just now - I would make us some lefse…

“I… No, I suppose not.” You felt you owed him something honest in return. Or maybe it just seemed like a moment for truth-telling. “I – I didn’t want to come back. Home, I mean.”

“Oh?”

“I just… I guess I didn’t want to face some things I thought I’d left behind for good.”

His eyes narrowed knowingly. “I see. An old lover, perhaps?”

“Worse,” you made a face, “family. Family… differences.”

“Ah. I can relate.” He swallowed his last piece of cheese, then brushed his hands together to clear way the crumbs. “What was the nature of disagreement?”

 “My Dad and I… We never got along.” You paused. That was the euphemism you always used – ‘we didn’t get along’. You let go of a deep breath. “He – he hated me, I think. Hated all women, maybe. But he especially hated that I wanted more from life than his shitty fishing village. That I went to university, wanted a career. That it wasn’t my life’s ambition to just… sit around fetching his beer and cleaning up after him.”

His face was almost impassive; only a hint of sadness in his eyes betrayed his pity.

Your eyes were stinging. “The last Christmas I went home, he was on at me, worse than usual. Ungrateful, failure, ruining my life, blah blah. My mum made, like, a token effort to pacify him, but I think she resented me, too. And I just realised – I’d had enough of him. Fuck him. And I - I left. And I didn’t really think I’d ever come back.”

“And now?” he asked quietly. “How does it feel to be home?”

“Complicated,” you said, reluctant. When he waited for more, you added, “I’d forgotten how much it’s a… a part of me.”

You caught his eye, then quickly looked away. It was all too alluring; the firelight, the secrets shared. The carved lines of his Adonis belt above those Goddamned moleskins, which were revealed each time he raised his arms…

You had wanted to ask him if he would repeat his trick from a few nights ago; to cast his illusion and open the sky for you again. But it felt too vulnerable. Too intimate, now that he knew what it meant to you. Too tempting.

So instead, you stood, brushing the grass from your pants. “Thank you for the meal, Loki. And for… listening. I’m going to get some sleep.”

“Good night, Agent.”

“Night.”

The scene was vague, as though watched through a dense fog. Your skin was hot with desire. There were hands… mouth… And him. Nothing more or less than shadows and touch, but you knew he was there. Loki, his name appeared on your lips. Loki. And then, crystal clear, a vision of his perfect, pale ass sinking beneath the surface of the water…

“Ngguuuh,” you groaned, waking just as you were about to cross the precipice into an inevitable wet dream. You quickly slipped a hand into your underwear, chasing release. A few circles of your swollen clit were enough to push you over the edge; with a muffled cry, you came hard into your hand.

You lay back, breathing as heavily as if you’d just run to the summit. A twinge of shame rattled you. Loki. You should’ve nipped those lusty thoughts of him in the bud. The imaginary Cosmo headline flashed through your mind: ‘So you had a sex dream about a teammate?’

The thought made you chuckle out loud, then quickly clamp your free hand over your mouth. Oh God, I hope he didn’t hear… Anything. You listened carefully for a few moments, but Loki didn’t stir; relieved, you rolled over to let sleep reclaim you.

But it didn’t. Squirming a little, you noticed the ache still tugging at your sex. Am I still up for it? That was surprising. Usually in the case of such a dream, one quick orgasm was enough to put you straight back to sleep. Sometimes you didn’t even wake up for them.

You slid your hand back down into your underwear, legs falling open as though in invitation to yourself. You moved more slowly this time. Your fingers traced the sensitive skin at the crease of your thigh, drawing random patterns that tickled and warmed and excited. They crept inward, fingertips running over the moistened lips, collecting slippery arousal and carrying it up to ghost over your clit once more. Again, repeating the circling pattern: thigh, dip, slick, clit. Each time a little deeper, a little firmer, a little more.

The warm night carried the scent of your arousal to your nostrils, and you brought your free hand up under your shirt to palm your breast. Your nipple hardened at the faintest graze; you spread your fingers, catching the stiff, peaked skin between them. You gasped softly at the instant pleasure, electricity zipping from this newly activated erogenous zone straight to your parted thighs. Your two hands worked in symphony, strumming your nipple and clit in perfect time, and your hips circled and bucked of their own accord.

The dull ache became an urgent summons, and you moved your hand from your breast to sink your fingers into your own needy cunt. So wet, you thought hotly, the realisation spurring you on. You spread and curled your fingers; felt them fill you, seeking that soft, precious place of pleasure within. You began to pump them, slowly at first, then faster, in perfect, filthy rhythm. Your dominant hand still rubbed at your clit; still dipped inside you again and again to bring up hot, liquid pleasure, allowing your fingers to glide and slip, faster and harder, over that swollen little bud. You were slick and sticky with your own generous arousal.

“Ngguuuuuuuaah,” you moaned aloud. So close. Your eyes were closed, mouth open and panting as your hips jerked up into your hand. You were beyond caring if Loki heard you, if anyone heard you. “Just a little… more…”

And as though the thought of his name had summoned him, Loki’s long, lean body appeared in your imagination once again. Loki wading out into the pool, his dark hair fanned out across the water. Loki’s pretty, pale face in your hands, your legs around him under the surface, the invitation clear in his mischievous, twinkling eyes. Loki, beneath you, sinking into you as you sat astride him, riding his infamous cock, which twitched as he unloaded into you –

“Fff-uh… oh, ffuhhck-k,” you gasped at last, your body seizing up and trembling as you pushed yourself into a strong, extended climax. Ten, twenty, thirty seconds, wave after powerful wave pulsed through you, abs and teeth and toes clenched in pleasure. Until finally, spent, your hands fell heavily away, flopping boneless to the ground, and you could shakily draw breath again.

And in that moment of post-orgasm clarity, you remembered. The crash of breaking glass. Spattered aerosols of ugly, pink fluid. A rush of stale air as the mask slipped from your mouth. Is that what’s happening to me?

The sheen of sweat was still fresh on your skin when you felt the soft pulse of desire again - and you knew for certain what was going on.

Fuck, you thought. Fuck. I have to tell Banner his antifungals don’t work.

You were floating on your back in the plunge pool, your naked skin lit by a sliver of late-risen moon and soothed by the cool water. You concentrated hard on each breath: inhale, 2, 3, 4… exhale, 2, 3, 4...

Your body felt as though it were humming; an ebb and flow of desire that sang in your blood. You’d lost count of the number of times you’d rubbed and fingered yourself to orgasm; each climax brought temporary relief, but every time the thrumming need returned, stronger than before. Maybe if you could put it off as long as possible… But you knew there was no resisting it forever.

You heard the splash Loki made as he waded in to you, but you didn’t raise your head. It was only once he reached you that you opened your eyes to see his beautiful face, etched with concern. The water reached his waist; the milky skin of his bare, muscular torso glowed faintly in the moonlight.

You concentrated harder on breathing.

“Agent? What’s wrong?”

Inhale. “I think I’ve… been infected.”

Loki was calm. “Have you alerted the others?”

“Yes.” Exhale. “I called and called until I woke them. I had to tell them that the antifungals don’t work. They – they found a sample. They’ve got an idea for a treatment.” You steeled yourself for what you had to say next; it was made all the harder by the proximity of his long, lean body.  “Loki, you should go. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, but I don’t think you’re safe here… with me.”

He chuckled shortly. “I believe I can fend you off, mortal.”

“I’m serious, Loki. It’s taking all my concentration now to not grab you and… and…” Even in your current state of arousal, you had to pull that thought back. You tried again. “We don’t know how it spreads. What if I infect you?”

“Our good Doctor believes I am immune.”

“Yeah, but he thought those pills would work.”

“Agent, I am not leaving you,” he said with finality. “You heard the outcome for the people of the village; lives lost through malnourishment. Not to mention your obvious inability in this state to defend yourself from enemy attack.” He softened. “If I must force you to drink in order to remain hydrated, I will; but I will not leave you alone here.”

You took another deep, shaky breath. “I… OK. Thank you, Loki. I’ll – I’ll try to keep it together.” I hope, you added silently.

 “Are you in pain?”

“No… it doesn’t hurt.” The thrumming in your sex rose another notch, screaming for attention; each sentence was more difficult than the last. “Just this… urge. Like this deep hunger, or - something. And then I – come – and there’s relief for a bit, but… Then it starts building again… And it’s so… strong… Nngaah.” You gave in to it, hands moving of their own accord, the need to touch yourself overpowering. But the movement disrupted your star-float, and you found yourself thrashing wildly in the water instead.

“Shhh, it’s OK. I’ve got you.” Loki’s hands were on your bare skin, pulling you towards him in the dark water, stilling you against his broad chest. He was wet and slippery, but firm; your fingers pressed into his shoulders hard in desperation. You were almost sobbing with need.

You felt his knee pry your legs apart below the water. With his hands on your waist, he skilfully manoeuvred you, setting you down on his thigh. You felt the wet satin of his boxers against your naked skin, the thin fabric doing nothing to disguise the solid ridge of femur that now slotted between your legs.

“Is that better?”

You couldn’t make words. Stop it! you screamed silently at yourself. He’s the fucking Prince of Asgard! But the temptation was too great; you could only gasp with relief as the hard muscle met your bare pussy, involuntarily squeezing his thigh between yours. His strong hands held your hips steady, keeping you frozen in place, until you whimpered pathetically.

“Loki… I’m sorry…”

He softened his grip, his shoulders flexing gently, guiding you as you rolled your hips to move against him. The friction, the pressure; it was better in that moment than any touch you could have given yourself. You ground down against him, greedily rubbing your clit across the length of his endless thigh. More, please more. Even in the water of the pool, you could feel the slick arousal that you were trailing over him.

The world around you faded. Your eyes were closed now, the better to concentrate on the bliss of his hard quadriceps muscle against your desperate cunt. Faster. Harder. You moaned aloud when his hand, no longer needed at your hip, moved to roughly palm your breast. You arched your back, pressing into his hand as he caught your air-hardened nipple between the soft pads of his fingers. He pinched and tweaked, sending little bolts of pleasure to your sex, where he continued to meet each of your rolling thrusts against his rock-hard thigh.

You could feel your next climax building like a rising tide; slow, steady, relentless. You whimpered again.

“Please… More…”

And with a surge of arousal, you felt his lips close around your nipple. You opened your eyes to watch as his tongue generously swirled and strummed. His own eyes were closed, his dark eyelashes fanned against his pale skin, his cheeks hollowed as he sucked hard, drawing you further into his mouth, as though he would never have enough. It was utterly beautiful.

The thrum in your sex rose to a deafening crescendo. Wild, messy, you ground down hard against the mass of his thigh; he pressed back against you, thick and taut and powerful, his pretty mouth still coaxing sparks of pleasure from your nipple. You threw back your head as you came, crying out into the night.

Then you collapsed into his arms.

Part 5

Tags in comments xx

[six-improbable-things]

I could talk for hours about the finale of Black Sails, but especially how masterful of a choice it was to have Jack narrate the final episode. I love him, and this is such a beautifully fitting end to his story. Someone once said that Black Sails is a show where no one gets what they want. That the man who has spent his whole life obsessed with making a name for himself — to the point that he risks his chance at wealth and freedom and life to keep that name —, is now telling the story of someone else, a story in which his part is hardly mentioned it at all, is a just the last in a near-endless line of amazing narrative choices.

And what’s perhaps the most interesting is he very well could have altered the tale. He says aloud something Silver and Flint have seemingly always known: it doesn’t matter whether the story is true when it’s told, it only matters if people believe it. It would have been easy to insert himself into a grander role in that story. To paint himself as a key player in the final events that went down on the island. In the fate of the Urca gold. (And given that he was technically the one who recovered it, it wouldn’t be unwarranted.) But he doesn’t.

He’s always been one of my favorite characters. Jack the schemer. Jack the clever fool. Jack who doesn’t know when to quit. Jack who is so unflinchingly loyal, despite the lies and schemes that surround him. Jack who cannot let things go. Jack who was told that he would never sail under the black again and is now the only one still doing it. Jack who loves art. Who appreciates its power. (“Fine art has felled empires.”) Of COURSE he would be the one to close out this story. When you look at it, despite the irony, there really never was any other option of who would tell this story. And that’s one of the most beautiful things about Black Sails. How despite being able to trace each and every choice that led the characters to their final fates, despite the twists and turns and surprises, somehow, at the end of it all, it all feels inevitable. Like any true tragedy should. In a good way. Like everyone is ending up exactly where they belong, for better or worse.

[eriace]

hate enough to kiss ; chuuya nakahara

oneshot & angst ft. lime ↪ in which chuuya nakahara and y/n can’t stop fighting long enough to admit she care—until one fight gets too personal, and she exposes how deeply she really sees him. ↷ chuuya nakahara ; bungou stray dogs (requested by anonymous)

RAIN HIT THE Port Mafia rooftop in needles, cold and relentless. Chuuya’s cigarette sparked in the dark, the cherry pulsing red with each drag. He was already two bottles deep—again—and leaning against the rail like he didn’t have a single care in the goddamn world.

That was always what pissed her off the most.

“You really think brooding with a bottle makes you look cool, huh?” Y/n snapped, arms crossed and boots echoing sharply on the concrete.

He didn’t look at her. Just exhaled smoke and muttered, “Was peaceful until you showed up, princess.”

“Aw, how romantic.” She stalked closer, eyes flashing. “You should get that tattooed next to your whiskey label of the week.”

“Keep barking, mutt. Maybe I’ll start listening.”

And just like that, the fire caught.

They clashed like flint and steel, two tempers sharpened into blades. Voices rose. Insults flew. Chuuya’s coat snapped in the wind as he turned to fully face her, jaw clenched, hair sticking damply to his cheek.

“You think you know me?” he growled. “You think yelling at me like some stuck-up brat’s gonna make me care?”

She laughed bitterly, head tilted. “No, I think drinking yourself stupid every other night will kill you faster than your enemies, but hey, what do I know?”

Silence.

Cold, ugly silence.

Chuuya’s mouth opened, then closed. His eyes flickered—not with anger this time, but something else. Something vulnerable. He hadn’t told her how often he drank. Not the times. Not the brands. Not even the specific roof he liked to sulk on when the city felt too loud.

But she knew. She knew.

“You count my bottles now?” he said quietly, stepping closer.

“No,” she bit out, “I count the times you stumble into meetings with bloodshot eyes. The times your hands shake when you light up. The times you pretend you're fine because God forbid you admit you're drowning like the rest of us.”

Her voice cracked just slightly at the end. She hated that.

He stared at her. No witty comeback. No snarl. Just... watching. Like she was something dangerous, or maybe something he wanted to memorize.

“Why the hell do you care so much?” he asked.

“Because I hate you,” she hissed, but her eyes were wide and burning. “I hate how you act like you’re untouchable. Like you don’t feel anything. Like nothing can hurt you, but I see it, Chuuya. I see all of it. And it makes me sick.”

She was heaving now, chest rising with each word, fury and pain wrapped tight around her ribs. She turned to storm off—until fingers curled around her wrist.

Firm. Warm.

She yanked back. “Let go—”

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he interrupted, voice low, rough, unreadable.

She blinked.

“You scream like a banshee, pick every fight, and you get under my skin like no one else.”

He tugged her closer, just enough for her to feel the heat off him, his breath fanning against her rain-damp skin.

“But goddamn, Y/n... when you get like this?” His voice dipped, husky and maddening. “I don’t know if I wanna strangle you or kiss you until you shut up.”

Her breath hitched.

He leaned in, inches from her mouth, teasing the space between fury and desire like a fuse waiting for flame.

“You wanna hate me, sweetheart?” he whispered. “Fine. Hate me. But don’t act like you don’t want this too.”

Her hand fisted in the front of his shirt before she could think better of it. Her lips crashed against his like a challenge, sharp and desperate. His response was immediate—hungry, greedy, raw.

The rain didn’t stop. The city below kept humming. But on that rooftop, everything else went still.

Chuuya pressed her back against the metal rail, hands gripping her waist like she might disappear. Their mouths moved in a blur—teeth, tongue, breathless moans swallowed between kisses. The fight bled into passion, all heat and lightning, no room to breathe.

“Still hate me?” he murmured against her jaw, lips brushing just below her ear.

“Shut up,” she gasped, pulling him back in.

Her body burned where he touched her—fingers digging into her hips, one hand sliding up her back, the other tangling in her hair. She tugged off his hat and tossed it aside, earning a low chuckle against her lips.

“That’s my favorite hat,” he teased.

“Cry about it,” she bit back, even as she pulled him closer, nails scraping lightly against his nape.

They didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

Because anger was easier than fear. Bickering was easier than heartbreak. And kissing was easier than saying I need you.

But maybe this was the only language they spoke.

Maybe this was enough—for now.

© eriace ;; don’t repost my works.

[alleyesony0u]

evbo wakes up in pvp civilization remembering only three things — his name, his age, and his birthday. he knows it’s some… vague date. he tries to keep track of his days in his home. he is turning fifteen in a few months, after all. wouldn’t want to miss the big one five.

he tries to keep track of the days in his cell too. markings scraped on the walls that tell him time has passed. too much time. one day he wakes up with a horrible feeling of dread deep in his gut. like a black hole. when he goes to mark the day on the wall, it takes him a moment to register the fact that it’s his birthday. congrats kid. you’re fifteen now. do you like chocolate or vanilla? buttercream or fondant? a year from now you can get that car you wanted. for now, how about that exciting new video game or a pair of new kicks?

happy birthday, kid. they’re opening up the door now with shiny blades and prayers. or shiny blades and looks of cruel glee. do you really think they care? do you think when your blood stains the crevices of all the tiny markings on your wall they look at it and think, happy birthday kid, you’re fifteen?

happy birthday, kid. you’re still waking up with a gasp and a new scar, morphing into all the old ones on your skin. that pillow is comfortable, maybe you lay there for a while and dream. not the best present in the world but it’s better than nothing, no?

happy birthday, kid. the guard coming to collect you is the better one, even with all his sneers and insults. he leads you to the red gate and wishes you luck and when you turn to look at him and say “it’s my birthday today. i’m fifteen.” his mask will slip and he will look upon the wobbly kneed calf in horror as the stone door grinds shut behind you.

happy birthday, kid. you’ve died again and the guard coming to collect you is the worse one. he shoves you forward and his patience is tick tick ticking. you could tell him it’s your birthday today, but that wouldn’t change much. birthdays don’t divert destinies.

happy birthday, kid. you’re sitting in your own gore but you’ve managed to snatch a flint and steel at one of your respawns and a twig from one of the trees you pass by on your way down. you light the twig with the flame and it is warm. and it is light. and your cell is so very cold and dark. you close your eyes and make a wish. or two. or three. i want to save tabi. i want to go home. i don’t want to die.

you blow out your makeshift candle and the cell is cold and dark again. not for long though, because the door opens again and your blood spatters on the walls and floors. again. happy birthday, kid. you’re fifteen. remember what you were born for.

and as the day dwindles to its close, a man adorning a golden crown, dressed in yellow opens the door. he says, “fifteen, huh?”

and you ask, “you know my birthday?”

and he says, “of course i do. it’s just practical.”

[sinisterexaggerator]

Sidetracked

The Ghoul (Cooper Howard) x F!Reader

Summary: Your mother is the matriarch of one of the largest merchant houses and crime families in the state of New California. Her reach extends as far as the Mojave. She has ten children—you are only one of them—yet you dare to have the gall to steal from her for a better cause, a different future. Will you be able to make a new life for yourself? Will her hired merc, the Ghoul, turn you in for caps so that she can take her sweet revenge? Or, will you strike a bargain with the man himself?

Warnings/NSFW 18+ for: Foul language, PiV sex, doggy-style, cunnilingus, sass, brat-taming, mild non-con elements, fingering, cum eating, tit-fondling, roughhousing, face-sitting, cat and mouse chase, and use of rope as a restraint. There is a mention of you/reader having a mother and siblings.

Word Count: 6.7k

Notes: This is my first time writing for the Ghoul, though I have written for both Hancock and NIck Valentine in the past! I'm a slut for Cad Bane (Star Wars), another hot n' sexy bounty hunter with a bad attitude, so diggin' the Ghoul tracks. This reader and her backstory are loosely based on the Van Graffs from Fallout: New Vegas.

Reblogs / likes / comments appreciated! You will find the ending makes a part two entirely possible, depending on if I ever decide to write one. :D

Ao3

“Here, kitty, kitty…”

The bastard had a voice like flint—smooth, with a hard edge—a needle of frustration piercing the Ghoul’s otherwise calm disposition. He’d been hot on your trail for days, but his little plaything had always been one step ahead—until now, that is—the bounty hunter having finally cornered his quarry in a rundown, ramshackle, shithole of a town that had a bare-bones population of one—you—not countin’ the ferals.

You were cowering behind refuse outside a dilapidated warehouse, he was inspecting his top-break custom revolver, preemptively reloading after wasting shots on two necrotic roamers that had almost interrupted this little shindig. The barrel snapped back into place with a resounding crack that made you wince, convinced he wasn’t out to kill you, though he was putting on quite the show.

“Here’s the thing, sweetheart—the way you’ve been hoarding bullets for that ten millimeter of yours, I’d say you were about out of ammo. ‘Course, that won’t do you a bit of good now you’ve got five or six man-eaters just to the south, and me right here in front of you. Thinkin’ it’s about time you and I had a little heart-to-heart, whaddaye say?”

“Fuck you!” you seethed, teeth clenching as you grappled your wounded arm. The bullet hole had been placed there by none other than your pursuer some two miles back, the trek through the barren wastes taking its toll—along with a fair amount of blood loss—yet you would persist.

You had managed to lose him outside New Reno in a place that used to be called Silver Springs. A settlement had cropped up, but of course the shopkeep had been all out of stims, and there was no medical doctor on hand.

Once the streets started to clear, you knew he had arrived; you snuck out the back like a proper scoundrel before he could sniff you out, giving yourself at least one hour’s head start.

“Now, that ain’t necessarily off the table for a pretty girl like you, but one thing my momma taught me back some two hundred years…” he paused for dramatic effect, the shit-eating grin he bore edging its way into thick, mocking words, the Ghoul’s charming drawl sending unwelcomed prickles down your spine.

“It’s fine to play with your food, as long as you still eat it.”

Fear overtook you, adrenaline coursing through your veins as your fight or flight response threatened to kick in. The hunter was merciless, hounding you like a bloodthirsty dog out to appease its master—the woman had who had put the price on your head, and a hefty sum at that: your own mother, the matriarch of your dear family.

You stalled for time, attempting to concoct a plan of action in order to get yourself out of this mess. “I’m sure you’d love the way I taste,” you quipped, looking desperately to the left and right for any semblance of an escape route—you may as well have been trapped between a rock and a hard place, either forced to give yourself up, or to risk your life at the hands of irradiated zombies that would just as soon tear you apart as they would look at you; you only had three bullets left.

The Ghoul sucked his teeth, a two-stop articulation of his tongue, clucking the roof of his mouth. He found you to be amusing, a cynical shake of his head signaling he wholeheartedly disagreed.

“Ya know, the old lady didn’t specify dead or alive… We could always test that little theory of yours, if only you’d come out, come out, wherever ya are,” the demon taunted, standing to his full height as he left the cover of an old newspaper stand.

The merc adjusted his Cattleman crown, stepping over bits of debris and rotting wood, distressed leather boots dusting up dirt as he traipsed lazily toward the sound of your voice.

“I imagine what with havin’ nine other kids, she ain’t too worried ‘bout losin’ one —especially a traitor.”

“I’m not a traitor!” you shouted without thinking, voice laced with indignation. You kept your place, despite the Ghoul inching his way forward, thinking perhaps he could be persuaded to your side.

“Mother hoards resources, has anyone killed who looks at her funny, refuses to cooperate with the New California Republic, and all in the name of profits!” you glowered. “The whole family is greedy! Just waiting around for her to die, fighting over whose next in line to run our ‘Empire!’ I’m sick of it!” you emphasized, tone rising in pitch as your temper began to soar.

“Well, now I’ve heard everything…” He was closer now; you clutched your weapon so hard your knuckles changed colors, knowing you wouldn’t stand a chance against this asshole if he got his hands on you. Your mother was always hiring mercs to do her dirty work, and this was no exception.

“Sick of bein’ rich and powerful? Always gotta be one good one outta the bunch,” he lamented, tone dripping with sarcasm, the Ghoul reminiscing on pre-war oligarchs and their self-righteous offspring. He vaguely recalled a princess being a do-gooder, until the royal family had called in a hit and done her in.

He halted his trek through the sand, giving a curious tilt of his head. This would be the first time you saw the man up close, peeking out to be met with two hazel eyes, bichromatic, like radial sunbursts, blues and browns culminating together like sand and ocean in a mix you had a hard time denying was anything but beautiful.

You scowled, readying your pistol. “The world’s fucked!” you growled, “and someone’s gotta unfuck it, get it? Even if only one piece at a time!”

You bit your lip to distract from a sudden flash of pain in your bicep, your next few words riddled with ache, an audible quaver unable to be obscured, even by your anger. “It may as well be me! Someone who has something to give back,” you argued, wanting to use your family’s powerful position to others’ benefit.

The Ghoul didn’t bother to move, watching as you recoiled to take cover once more. He was well aware of your gunshot wound, thinking maybe he could talk some sense into you before things escalated, not that he cared either way—he would get paid regardless.

“Too bad about that arm,” he commented offhand, feigning concern; you thought he sounded bored, realizing he was humoring you by letting the conversation go on for this long.

That, or he liked to hear himself talk.

“Now, you decide you want to behave yourself, I got somethin’ to patch that up, and maybe you’ll just make it out of this alive.”

“Or—” he paused, what was a brief silence feeling like it would stretch on forever. You grew impatient for what you knew was going to come next: some kind of threat of intent to injure, or an appeal to any remaining gumption—you had plenty. “—I could put a bullet in that pretty head of yours and drag you back to Redding; seems like a waste on two counts, one being the ammo.”

“That’s about as far as I’m willin’ to elucidate,” the Ghoul warned, his voice decidedly calm, easily demonstrating the seriousness of your predicament and demarcating his lack of patience. “So, what’ll it be? You bein’ a good girl for me, or are ya gonna make this hard?”

It was obvious this man would only answer to two things: brute force, or cold, hard caps. You had neither, at least not on hand. What you did have were those three bullets. You dared to use one, knowing that the Ghoulification process did not make one immortal on all counts.

You had enough target practice back home to be a fairly decent shot, but the gunslinger was faster. He sidestepped for you to barely graze the edge of his tattered duster, threadbare from overwear, having nearly exhausted its utility.

A smirk played out across the Ghoul’s plush mouth, stretching his withered skin. He shook his head, not thinking you’d have the guts to go and do that, though he was impressed you still had any fight left in you. “Self-preservation must not be in your wheelhouse.”

Shit. Why hadn’t you kept any of those energy weapons on hand? You had buried them, the same as the money, far out in the desert below the cracked foundation of a crumbling homestead. You meant to distribute them, along with the caps, to disparate settlements. To buy water in abundance from roaming caravans, hoping to find yourself in some other trade—one that wasn’t soul sucking and abhorrent.

You wanted the people to be able to protect themselves from your fool of a mother and her parasitic spawn, those among your siblings who had no independent thought. She spread them out across the Mojave, made them into managers and enforcers for the various branches of her mercantile empire, directing them to do her bidding.

Unsanctioned deals were rare; no one had the gall to go behind your mother’s back. No one but you, it seemed, but she sure as hell wouldn’t let you off the hook just for being family.

“Guess that means you’ve gone and picked the latter, eh, sweetheart?

The Ghoul’s footsteps advanced as he closed in on your position. The bits of scrap and trash you were hiding behind did little in the way of shielding you, leaving you open and vulnerable to whatever it was the hunter had in store.

You were out of options; you fired your last two shots.

The first one missed, but the second nicked the bastard’s hat, the Ghoul stopping in his tracks long enough to pick the Cattleman up off his head. He observed where you had marred its brim, scowling before replacing it back where it belonged, thinking this had just become a little bit more personal.

“You’re gonna regret that,” he said, his voice dangerous and rasping, causing your spit to all but evaporate, assisted by the dry heat of this godforsaken tundra.

The time had come for you to bolt, though your odds of escape were poor. You had little faith in your ability to outrun this man, but all you could do was try.

Clutching your wounded arm, you crawled out from behind your makeshift barrier. No sooner had you turned to flee than he made use of his toys, easily snatching you around your waist by way of a braided rope.

You’d been lassoed like an untamed mare, the Ghoul determined to break your spirit, if not your legs, dragging you backward across the sand one inch at a time. You squirmed like caught prey, tugging at the length of rope that bound you. It was to no avail, as the knot was tight, this not being among the Ghoul’s first rodeos.

“Let me go!” you screeched, digging in the heels of your boots to slow his backward pull. There was no way you were going quietly without a fight, not if this might be the last thing you ever had the chance to do of your own volition.

The Ghoul chuckled wryly, finding this whole bit to be amusing. “If I had a cap for every time I heard that, bettin’ I’d be rich.”

You were angrier than a rabid Yao guai, finding unfairness in your situation, wondering why it was that bad things always seemed to happen to good people, or those who tried to be anything but cruel.

If there was one thing you had learned in this life, it was that money talked. It was a shame that it was all you had to bargain with, or so you thought, but only if the Ghoul bought into your offer and there was no telling where his morals lay.

For all you knew, he could be doing this for fun—caps might be a bonus. And it was hard to say if he'd be willing to cross your clan, even if you could match what your mother was paying him.

“Please,” you started, trying to invoke his decency, calling out to any that might be left beneath that ghoulish exterior, though your captor was known by and large to be rather rough and tumble; you would not allow yourself to get your hopes up. “We can strike a deal—I’ll match your price. Hell, I’ll do better—just tell me how much!” you grated between clenched teeth.

“Now ya wanna talk. Little late for that.”

You had been unsuccessful at your attempt to escape, the man in the hat jerking you up by the back of your shirt before he spun you around, forcing you to face him.

You were shocked at his countenance up close. Never before had you been this near to a ghoul, always making it a top priority to stay far from their kind. Maybe it was out of fear of them going feral, or the fact you did not wish to witness what you might so easily become under the right circumstance, afraid to look this precursor to death in its eyes.

And yet, this man teetering on the verge of decomposition, somewhere between a warm body and a rotting corpse, wasn't so far gone that you couldn’t make out his humanity, however twisted, lingering somewhere inside those expressive viewports to his soul.

“It’s never too late,” you replied, unable to curtail that part of you that was rebellious, “only if you say it is.”

“And I do have the upper hand,” the merc reminded you, wrapping the loose end of the rope left hanging succinctly around your wrists. He resorted to bundling the surfeit in a double knot; there was no way you were breaking out.

You bared your teeth like a wild hound as you struggled helplessly. The bounty hunter admired the tenacity by which you had held your own, the fact that you were quarrelsome, not so ready to give in. He patted your cheek like he would man's best friend; if you were going to behave like an animal, he was going to treat you like one.

“It’s a long way back to Reddin’. You may as well quit while you’re ahead—otherwise, this whole situation is liable to be unpleasant, more than it already is.”

“Five hundred caps,” you blurted out, staring at him squarely, suppressing all your innate instincts, the only things left to you that seemed like a logical response. Instead, you would assay to reason with him—he wasn’t feral … yet.

The Ghoul searched your face. He must have found something there he favored. You produced in him a small inclination of his neck, as if he might be debating your proposition.

Then, he smiled. “Your maw’s paying me a thousand,” he said in that aloof, forbearing drawl.

“Fine, two thousand,” you returned, standing up straight, though the man towered. You found your heart was pounding, but not for the reasons you had first assumed.

He eyed you then, glancing down toward your chest, studying the way it rose and fell with every trembling breath. His gaze would travel back up, the Ghoul noticing the fast, rhythmic beat of your pulse point standing out from the smooth column of your throat. Your blood pressure was elevated. You reminded him of a mouse caught in a snare.

“And just where’re keepin’ ‘em?” he asked, one hand encased in a thick leather glove patting you down, starting at your hip and working its way below your belt line, groping at the meat of your thigh. “Don’t assume you have two thousand caps just hidin’ in your underoos. Figure I would have noticed.”

Your breath caught; you could not think straight. He continued until he had reached your ankles. You were tempted to knee him in the face, but you knew you wouldn’t get far—not like this. You withheld, knowing that to make a deal might be your only chance.

“Is that the best excuse you have for touching me?” you shot back, defiant.

By this time, the Ghoul had stood back up to his tall stature. He reached for your waist, planning to grope there, too. You cursed yourself for wanting it, staring back once more into his deceptive, deep brown eyes, flecked with hints of blue.

“Can never be too careful. One, you may be packin’ somethin’ else, though I’d be sure you’d try to use it by this point. Two, don’t think bein’ a gentleman is part of my reputation around these parts, and I ain’t above doin’ what needs to be done to ensure I survive—not that you’re much of a threat.”

That riled you up. Maybe that was the point. You bucked against him, once more endeavoring to loosen your restraints. “Fuck you.”

His cocky grin returned, the Ghoul snatching you up by the point of your chin. “Now, you already said that once already. I ain’t too sure that thought didn’t cross your mind. Bein’ alive this long, somethin’ I’ve learned is how to assess my surroundings—and that includes a person’s body language.”

You shot daggers from your eyes, but a thought occurred to you. As far as ensuring your own survival, you weren’t above doing what needed to be done, either. “Would you let me go if…”

“Look at that, already makin’ suggestions, not botherin’ to refute my claim, but willin’ to bang a ghoul. Suppose there ain’t much a person wouldn’t do these days to get ahead.”

“As if you haven’t done worse things,” you snapped.

“Never said I hadn’t,” the Ghoul squeezed either side of your face before letting go to come around behind you. You stiffened, unsure of his next set of moves.

“But that ain’t one of ‘em. Killin’ ya? Now, that’s fair game, but takin’ advantage of a woman is somethin’ altogether different, and that ain’t a game I like to play,” he purred into your ear.

“The offer’s on the table,” you seethed, giving him your own nasty smirk from over the peak of your shoulder, “got some Rad-X in my jacket—better make it count.”

The Ghoul turned his head to spit in the sand, as if your words had left a bad taste in his mouth. He traipsed back around toward your front, giving you a look that equated offense, combined with a full-on sneer.

“You couldn’t handle me, little rabbit. I’d break you like a twig.” He couldn’t help himself, taunting you further, “’course maybe that’s what you want; somebody oughta bring you down a peg or two, and it sure as hell ain’t gonna be your momma.”

“I bet you couldn’t even make me cum, you fucking prick,” you snarked back, your words accompanied by the jarring sound of your laughter. It echoed across the dunes, continuing long after you had stopped. It set the Ghoul’s blood to boiling, as his fuse was short. Disrespect wasn’t something he often tolerated, even when the subject matter was figurative at best.

Time to give you a healthy dose of stark reality.

The Ghoul whipped you around, not being courteous to the likes of your wounded arm. You screamed in protest, but he simply pressed the flat of his boot against the round of your ass, pushing you forward toward town, or what was left of it.

“What are you doing?” You stumbled over your own two feet, even as the bastard jabbed his gun against the small of your back.

“Acceptin’ your challenge, rabbit.”

“Are you serious right now?”

He was silent as he marched you onward, forcing you to enter the skeletal remains of some poor soul’s squalid dream house. Once inside, he took hold of your bindings, twirling you back around to face him as he pinned you firmly against what was left of the kitchen table.

“What I wants the money,” he leered, “but why don’t you go ‘head,” the Ghoul dared, “tell me what it is you want.”

Your eyes widened as his gloved hand stretched out to palm the shape of your breast. “Freedom,” you interjected, even as your breath hitched in your throat; even as you made a little sound, a chirrup like that of a bird.

“You sure?”

The Ghoul’s hand traveled, releasing your tit to cup the flesh of your thigh. He gave it a pinch before it snuck downward, slipping up under your hamstring, coercing your groins to align with a crude jerk of his arm.

You gasped, so sudden was your closeness, staring down into the vacant pit of his nasal cavity before your eyes shot up, matching the intensity of his stare.

“Do we have a deal?”

“You gonna show me where you hid those caps?”

“You gonna fuck me, cowpoke?”

You felt something—movement inside the pocket of your jacket. The Ghoul located the Rad-X you had so brazenly rubbed in his face, then stuck two fingers straight into your mouth, forcing it wide open.

“You’re gonna need these,” he said, shoving the pills down your gullet, coaxing you to swallow by curling a knuckle against the base of your throat.

You nearly choked, gagging without water as the Ghoul grinned like a Cheshire cat, tourmaline eyes monitoring your reaction, enjoying this little moment right before he unhooked his holster, tossing his revolver down onto the ground.

“Asshole,” you hissed, coughing for good measure, trying to dislodge what felt like a rock trapped in the center of your esophagus.

“The name’s Coop,” the Ghoul jeered, “for when you need somethin’ to moan—won’t be long, kit.”

You assumed “Coop” was short for Cooper. You laughed, mocking the merc before you—he’d walked right into this one, and you weren’t about to let the chance slip by. “Won’t be long? Just like every other man,” you japed.

The Ghoul growled; it quieted you down substantially, finding yourself twisting under his hold as he raked into your hair. He bit into the glove of his opposite hand with blunt, stained teeth, spitting it out to join his holster on the ground.

“Now I think I understand,” he remarked, his temperament having changed, his disposition one of muted animosity as he strained to keep his cool, “all ya are’s a brat, and I know how to deal with brats.”

You felt a pinch at your waist, a tug. The Ghoul pulled at your zipper, shoving one hand down your newly unbuttoned pants. At the same time, he lifted your ass up onto the table with the strength of his bicep; you wriggled atop its surface, trying to scootch back out of range. He’d drag you back by clawing into your jeans, compelling you to remain eye to eye.  

“Where you going, darlin’? Fun’s just gettin’ started.”

It was as if time stood still, the Ghoul’s desiccated fingers finding the protuberance of glands nestled between the folds of your labia. You meant to fight back—to kick, to punch if you could, though your arms were bound—but all you managed was to melt into his touch.

“Shit,” you whispered, as you so readily succumbed, not wanting to admit to yourself you found him anything but ugly. Instead, you angled your hips as he dipped one digit inside you, his rough thumb already swirling circles as he watched you quiver, the Ghoul’s mouth halfway parted in silent ridicule.

Then, he had to go and ruin it by talking.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

You gasped as he curled his finger inside you, slipping in one extra after the fact, pressing the two together against the anterior wall of your sex. He knew exactly where to aim, sending sparks out from your belly toward your already slick loins. You moaned despite yourself, leaning forward to better meet his reach.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had an itch to scratch long before my time—maybe that’s why you’re so foolhardy.”

“Just shut up,” you fumed, rocking in time to the pace of his rhythm; the Ghoul slid right out of you with a wet schlurp, raising his hand to spread apart the sticky sheen that clung between his fore and middle finger, licking it clean with a swipe of his tongue.

You were agog with morbid fascination, yet pissed as fuck he had stopped when you felt something building up deep inside you, wanting to cum though you would have to deal with the repercussions—the fact he would never let you live it down.

“Now, that ain’t no way to talk kindly to your elders,” the Ghoul said with a mischievous lilt. “Manners’ll get you a lot further than you might think, ‘course I don’t expect much from your generation. You all ain’t right in the head.”

You snapped your teeth, nipping thin air, purposely aiming for the spot his nose would have been, had it not long ago completely rotted off. Coop snagged you by the jaw, giving your face a good and irritating shake.

“Remember, you asked for this, little rabbit.”

You heard the rustling of fabric, a shuck. The Ghoul used both hands to clasp you around the hips, having finally taken the time to discard his other glove.

“Come on, then,” you dared, ignoring the pain in your arm. The flow of blood had waned to a trickle; you would live. In reality, you wanted to touch him, grope him, feel him, but you doubted the Ghoul would bother to untie you to entertain your fantasies.

Coop had his cock at the ready; it was hard and girthy but not malformed. Yet his foreskin was as mutated by the radiation as much as the rest of him, though it did not frighten you. “You’re on my schedule, so you best just hold your horses. The more fuss you make about it, the less inclined I am to indulge you, hear that?”

Then, he smiled an infuriating smile, “and now we both know just how bad off ya are.”

Whether or not you were impatient was beside the point; the man was maddening. You cinched your legs around his waist and pulled him close, the Ghoul making a show out of holding onto his hat.

“Giddyup,” you demanded, sneering.

That did it; something clicked in the Ghoul’s brain to where he lifted you up off the table by your collar. He didn’t say a word as he roughly spun you around, pressing his palm into the curve of your lower back, pressuring you to bend over.

A solid, hard slap to your ass caused you to yelp, followed by the bastard yanking down the seat of your pants. You struggled for air as you felt the Ghoul’s cock spread you wide open, burying itself up to its hilt inside the soft, squishy confines of your cunt.

“Cooper,” you breathed, inhaling and exhaling more rapidly. You dug your nails into your palms as your cheek was slammed straight down onto the table, the Ghoul holding you resolutely by the head. He steadily pumped into you, rolling his hips hard with every thrust.

“Don’t think I heard you,” Coop needled, picking up the pace, gaining momentum so as to increase friction, determined to fuck the fire right out of you if he accomplished nothing else. Hell, he hadn’t even warned you. He’d figured there’s no need. You had been rarin’ and ready from the get-go; you just needed a little in the way of “foreplay” to loosen you up.

However, you could not deny the stretch; the feeling of fullness; the tingle that traveled from the cusp of your navel all the way down to the throb between your legs, the Ghoul’s long, deep strokes knocking against your erogenous zone with such precision you doubted you would last for long.

“Stop-don’t—don’t stop,” you whispered, unable to elevate the sound of your voice, every drive of his cock into you stealing more of your breath away. He was kind enough to let up off your face after he was sure he had you secured, nowhere for you to go between his dick and the table.

The Ghoul snickered as he dredged you backward, over and over, using the flesh around your middle as handlebars, balls flouncing against the underside of your mound. Then, he reached one arm around, gripping you by the chin; he toyed with you, running his bare thumb across your bottom lip, skimming your teeth.

“Didn’t figure I would.”

You gave a little huff, twisting your wrists against your bindings; the Ghoul glanced down and chuckled, “just gonna have to make-do.”

You pushed backward in response, your ass cheeks flush against his thighs. You brought a gasp to your own lips, feeling a tiny flare of pain as his cock nearly brushed against your cervix.

“Not fair,” you complained,” can’t touch you, kiss you,” you said, suddenly coming to terms with the fact that you wanted to. Your fingers waggled arbitrarily behind you as you floundered in reaching for him, though the Ghoul slowly slipped his arm down, trailing your breasts, stopping to cop a feel.

“No,” he agreed, “but I sure as hell can.”

You rattled out another disjointed moan, Coop’s fingers tweaking your nipple before his hand vanished back between your legs. It slid past your waist and belly, skirting your thighs, before he grazed your clit, rubbing a pattern as he let up a little, deciding to make you ride it out nice and slow.

“Just like that,” you crooned for him, arching your back, lifting your lumbar region higher the best you could at this angle, nearly slipping when Cooper kicked your feet farther apart with his boot. His free arm scooped you up around your waist in a viselike hold, stringent and rough.

He switched his thumb for his trigger finger, aided by his middle, rotating them together in unison against sensitive nerve-endings, causing you to expel a filthy, debasing sound.

The Ghoul chuckled like a deviant into your hair, his lips pressed firmly to your scalp.

“Coo-Coop—” You bit down on your tongue, the Ghoul’s grip tightening around you, pulling you backward in a poor imitation of a hug. His own teeth bore down on his lower lip, his balls continuing to slap your undercarriage as he was close to blowing his load.

The head of Coop’s prick kept diligently massaging your G-spot, the pressure inside you tantamount to a wellspring of indescribable pleasure, never in your life thinking you’d lock hips with a Ghoul.

“’Bout to make good on that bet, ain’t I?” your captor purred into your ear, whirling those fingers, all the while jouncing into and off of your haunches. Your cunt was slick and saturated in your own wetness; you were so close you could practically taste it.

“Coop! Cooper!” you yelled, the Ghoul keeping his same tempo, only increasing his speed when you called out his name good and proper.

“There’s a good girl, wha’d I tell yo—”

“—No, Coop! Ferals!” you screeched.

Out from a backroom, drawn in by the smell of sex; the clamoring of voices—two shuffling, putrid rovers wearing rags had puttered onto the scene—you getting fucked by one of their ilk as they failed to react for a hairbreadth of a second, your Ghoul ripping his hand up and off you to stretch his arm out across his back.

Strapped to his shoulder was the sawed-off vintage shotgun he always carried—backup, as it were. The Ghoul broke it free of its straps, even as he kept driving it home.

You couldn’t believe it, watching in horror as you were being pushed toward the edge of an orgasm, the sounds that ferals made, with their fried vocal cords, something that would haunt you in your dreams until you made it to your deathbed. They were only a few feet away, coming in from outside, a hole in the wall plenty of room for a body, human or otherwise, to squeeze right through.

“You weren’t invited to this party.” The Ghoul took aim and fired just as you started to cum, the echoes of your lust filling the room as blood, brain, and viscera splattered radially, adding a bit of color to otherwise drab walls.

“Fuck, shit, shit!” you intoned, unable to hold off, even as the second ghoul rasped its anger, its quick, herky movements sending itself in your direction.

With Coop balls deep in your cunt and your hands tied, you were at the mercy of whatever happened next. Luckily, your mother’s hired gun was as good as she’d hoped, sending the other roamer sprawling as your gummy walls tightened, coaxing him to bust his nut.

The Ghoul released his load at the same time he fired off the last of his slugs, unable to control himself, the flex of your cunt so snug, it syphoned out every last drop. He had let go of his concentration once his job was done, spraying down your insides with his infertile sperm.

You both took a breather, Coop lying against your back as you went limp against the table, afraid to let your guard down for if any other ferals decided to show up. He had already tossed the gun, needing a moment to recuperate, assuming you were both in the clear.

You stood there, feeling something warm oozing out of you, then Coop slid lazily down onto his knees, pushing your legs apart wider. You sucked in a breath at the feel of his tongue, the Ghoul endeavoring to eat you out from behind.

You couldn’t keep from trembling, your knees nearly buckling, the Ghoul swallowing his own spunk as he licked a line all the way from your entrance to between your folds, teasing your clit, showing you no quarter.

You made your lewdest sound yet as he sucked your little bud between his lips, the feeling too intense so soon, but that wouldn’t stop him from having his way with you.

Both his hands found your ass cheeks, spreading them for ease of access, the Ghoul’s tongue disappearing somewhere inside your pretty puss. Your whole body stiffened before it relaxed, doing everything in your power not to just fall down flat on top of his face.

It seemed he had already entertained that same idea, for better or worse, the ghoul snatching you around your waist, this time with both arms. He laid back as you came crashing down, having physically coerced you to sit right on his mean, smug mug.

The Ghoul chortled darkly as you struggled to push up and off him, your buttocks smashed up against his forehead while he dined. That snaking, warm organ slipped in and out of you until it found your clit again, paying special attention to that part of you in particular, lapping at it like he would a pre-war ice cream cone.

“Cooper!” you breathed. The man tensed until he realized, this time, his name was an exclamation of you being wholly satisfied. He did not stop, not until you were a convulsing, heaping mess, the only thing you were disappointed with, the fact he didn’t have a nose to hump.

Your wriggling seemed to have tickled some part of his gray matter, not wanting to let go until he had nearly licked you dry was it not for his own saliva. You were panting; exhausted; nothing but a pile of useless flesh and bones by the time he shoved you off, persuading you to roll over onto your back.

You suddenly found yourself to be staring up at a dark sky—the house you occupied barely had a roof left to it.

“What the hell was that?” you asked, intaking large lungful’s of oxygen, trying to regain your equilibrium while you stayed put on the cold, hard ground.

The Ghoul laughed then, straight from his belly, wiping his mouth off on his coat sleeve before both his arms stretched out to either side of his prone form.

“A good time.”

After a few minutes, Coop seemed to come back to himself, fiddling with his junk to stuff himself back inside his trousers. He turned his head to look at you, the joviality having left his voice; he took on a more serious demeanor and tone when he spoke next.

“Now, where were we?”

---

Coop had been decent enough to help you up. He’d even shimmied your pants back around your hips and waist, staring at you like an overconfident ass as he’d fastened the button, but you refused to say a word.

He knew you’d enjoyed yourself, there was no denying it—but now came the hard part. What you didn’t realize, was the deal had been more or less muddled from the start.

“So, I tell you where the caps are and I’m free to go, right?”

The Ghoul was quiet as he surveyed the million granules of sand that lay in all directions, the desert night lit up by thousands of glittering stars. It was pretty like this, he thought. Not a cloud in the sky.

“Stars sure are pretty, aren’t they?” He paused, as if collecting himself. “You know, people used to use stars to navigate, before road maps and compasses. They identified patterns and movements in what they called our ‘celestial sphere.’ Lost art, I reckon. Found their way to all kinds of places; one in particular always stays true north—Polaris’ the name.”

Then, he turned to look at you, his eyes gleaming from underneath the wide brim of his hat.

“And just where are those caps?” he asked, not bothering to answer your question, but instead presenting one of his own, waiting patiently to see just how well-behaved you might wind up now that you’d been laid.

“Not too far from here, buried,” you said, “just outside New Reno about a mile or two, at a homestead with a barn out back.”

“Now, that sounds out of the way to me. Reno’s to the east. We need to be going north—can follow that star I told ya about—and we got a long way to go, thanks to you.”

“Wait, what?” you argued, jerking once more against the rope that bound you, against Coop’s hand that had a hold of your restraints, the Ghoul giving you a cold, crooked smile. He had forced you out here after you’d been made decent, quoting he knew a safe place to hunker down, just up the road, “if you were interested.”

“You’re comin’ with me, sweetheart. Gotta make sure you ain’t tryin’ to play no double-cross—if we’re going for those caps—otherwise, your momma’s out there waitin’ back in Reddin’.”

“But I thought we had a deal!”

“Need collateral—you’re it, rabbit.”

“I swear, they’re there. I’m not a liar!”

“Didn’t peg you for one, but like I said before—can never be too careful.”

You glared at him in disbelief, watching as the Ghoul removed an inhaler from out of his coat pocket. He took a hit of whatever drug, then stepped around to loosen the bit of rope that he had wound about your wrists. Once he had a bit of the excess, he circled back around, wrenching you forward this time, as if you were caught on a leash—a short one at that.

“Hey! I can walk!”

“Best get started, then,” he mused.

“Why?” you demanded, your temper flaring up again, the heat of your blood coloring your cheeks as you flashed your teeth in a snarl. “Why go to all that trouble?! Why lead me on, why fuck me, if you weren’t going to hold up your part of the bargain?”

“Never made a bargain, if you think about it.”

“Then what?” you asked flippantly, staring him down with the most wicked glare that you could muster.

The Ghoul gave you a sidelong glance, arrogant as ever, adjusting his hat so that it fit snug against his skull.

“That’s what they call ‘gettin’ sidetracked’.”

---

Fallout Masterlist

[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from Science Friday:

Flint Hills rancher Daniel Mushrush estimates that his family has killed maybe 10,000 trees in the past three years.

It’s a start. But many more trees still need to fall for the Mushrushes to save this 15,000 acres of rare tallgrass prairie.

Whenever other work on the property can wait, Daniel and his brother, Chris, don helmets and earplugs, grab their tools and pick up where they left off.

“It’s a lot of old-fashioned chainsaw work,” Daniel Mushrush said. “Walking rocky ridges and cutting down trees.”

The Mushrush family is beating back a juggernaut unleashed by humans — a Green Glacier of trees and shrubs grinding slowly across the Great Plains and burying some of the most threatened habitat on the planet.

This blanket of shrublands and dense juniper woods gobbling up grassland leads to wildfires with towering flames that dwarf those generated in prairie fires.

It also eats into ranchers’ livelihoods. It smothers habitat for grassland birds, prairie fish and other critters that evolved for a world that’s disappearing. It dries up streams and creeks. New research even finds that, across much of the Great Plains, the advent of trees actually makes climate change worse.

Now a federal initiative equips landowners like Mushrush with the latest science and strategies for saving rangeland, and money to help with the work.

Satellite imagery and a better understanding of how trees and shrubs spread could help landowners replace a losing game of whack-a-mole with a more systematic course.

Mushrush calls the approach, promoted by the Natural Resources Conservation Service’s Great Plains Grassland Initiative with guidance from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, a morale builder.

“It works,” the third-generation rancher said. “We’re still overwhelmed with how to do this on 15,000 acres — but we have a plan.”

Each time he thinks about the Manhattan area, which is much more infested with juniper woods and seas of sumac, wild plum and dogwood thickets, he feels the threat creeping toward his home in Chase County.

“If a coral reef is worth saving, if some pristine mountain stream is worth saving, then so are the Flint Hills,” he said. “It’s not easy work, but it’s worthy work.”