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zmediaoutlet · 4 years ago

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fic: there will be better days

I’m so glad about the ending of Supernatural. It found its way, in the end. This fic is me drawing out that sensation as long as I could. I hope y’all like it, but it was written in a small way for a special group in a special discord, because I’m so glad we got to experience this dumb happy thing together. <3

title: there will be better days pairing: Sam/Dean rating: E length: 9500 words tags: Post-Season/Series 15, Spoilers for Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Heaven, First Time, Pining Dean Winchester

summary: Sam and Dean settle into their heaven.

(read on AO3)

They stand on the bridge, in quiet, for…

How long? It doesn't matter. Dean keeps his hand on Sam's back and Sam's shoulder tucks against his side, Sam being kind enough to slump down against the railing so that the position works, at all. The view's beautiful. Some woods, a river. A place Dean doesn't recognize but that hums with steady life. What a miracle, that death can bring them something new.

He's splitting his attention, though. The trees, the flowing water, the late-summer feel where the bright gold of everything burnishes down toward fall, it's a sweet goad toward peace, but. Dean's eyes drag away, every few minutes, and it's just—Sam. His eyes steady on the rush of the receding water, and his hair tucked behind his ear, and his back, steadily rising and falling under Dean's hand. Not pulling away. Not fidgeting, or impatient. Like he'd be content with this, exactly this, as long as eternity stretches out in front of them.

A bird flits by, blue-and-white against the green of the trees. Sam's eyes follow it and he smiles, just barely, a pull of lips that makes Dean's heart thump sorely against the inside of his ribs. His body keeps thrilling, reminding him, over and over: Sam. Sam. He slides his hand up to Sam's shoulder and squeezes, and Sam's eyes slide to his face. "Ready?" he says.

Sam doesn't ask for what. "Yeah," he says, soft and easy, and Dean drops his head, laughs. Something that had been knotted in his chest, for years and years, loose now—everything in him, free.

He steps back, and Sam turns to keep him in sight. Dean spins the keys to the car in his palm, grinning. "You want to drive?" he says, tipping his head at the car.

Sam blinks. Shakes his head, and swallows, and when he speaks his voice is thick. "No," he says, and clears his throat, and shakes his head again. "No, I want you to drive."

On the road Dean gives Sam a version of the same explanation that Bobby gave him. "We can go see him," Dean says, glancing across the seat, and Sam smiles and says, "We will," but he says, "Later," and Dean's—yeah, he's good with that. Later. They have forever, to do anything they want.

It's hard to wrap his head around. He doesn't know how long he waited, for Sam. A lifetime. The length of a drive. It felt—feels—like infinity, like every second is stretched and slow and exactly as long as it needs to be. The roads out here are gorgeous, empty, room for the Impala to stretch her legs, and Dean knows in a strange and centered way that if he wanted he could drive forever, and at the same time if he parks it'll have been ten minutes, as far as his mind's concerned, and he won't have missed a thing.

The radio's playing Zeppelin, quietly. Has been since Sam got into the car. Tangerine, right now—does she still remember times like these?—and Dean looks over to find Sam looking right at him. Dean's not sure Sam's turned his head, the whole time. He could make a crack—it rises to his lips, take a picture or what, got something on my face?—but it feels distant. He gets the impulse. Sam smiles, his back against the passenger door, and Dean smiles back sort of helplessly before he turns it back out on the road, and leans back in his seat, and settles into the drive.

Anything they want. Anything they could need, or dream of. There doesn't seem to be any real requirement to sleep, or to eat, or to do—anything. Time, slipping strange, and a stasis of a kind if they want it. That isn't what Dean wants, but he's not totally sure, about Sam.

The world changes around curves. Massive trees obscure the turns and it feels like a new road with every switchback. A short way past and there's—a house. Not a house Dean's seen, but he rolls slower, and Sam finally looks out the window at something that's not Dean, so—a house. Okay, Dean thinks. He can deal with a house.

Two stories, and a basement, and an attic full of dust. Dean goes into a sneezing fit when he opens up the hatch and Sam sniggers at him. It's not perfect, by any means. There's a sagging porch, and the sink in the first floor bathroom doesn't work, and there's some seriously fugly wallpaper that's peeling, and a stained carpet in the rear bedroom that, yikes, did something die on it? Would that even be possible? But Sam says, "This'll work," with content in his voice, and Dean looks around and tongues the inside of his cheek and thinks, well, yeah. This'll work fine.

There's food in the fridge, when Dean opens it. "I'll fix something," Sam says, and Dean looks at him in total surprise. A lifted shoulder, like Sam's been able to make anything other than eggs and bacon and bad, bad pasta his whole life. "What? I learned."

He did. They have chicken, roasted broccoli that Dean admit doesn't taste entirely like farts, these crispy potatoes that are—well, goddamn. There's not a dining table and so they sit out on the porch, a six pack of cold beer between them, watching the night settle in. It's cool but not cold. The lamp on the porch flickers, and Dean smiles, because he's damn sure that's not a ghost and instead that he's gonna have to rip out the wiring and start fresh.

Sam leaves his empty plate on the step behind them. He leans his elbows on his knees, and looks out at the darkening sky. The treetops are shadows against deep purple and Dean wants, very badly, to put his hand in Sam's hair, to feel his neck, his back. To settle himself against the fact of Sam's spine, his ribs and lungs, all of him here. Breathing, and here. "You learned to cook, huh," he says, instead of doing anything else, and gets to watch Sam turn his head, just a little. He's still wearing the same clothes he showed up in. Strange things, that tug a little at something Dean feels like he used to know. Sam turns his head but he doesn't look at Dean; Dean just gets his three-quarter profile, and the shape of his mouth turned a little solemn, and his eyes as they flick over the view of the dark, surrounding trees.

"Yeah, I did," Sam says, after too long. "I…"

That's all, for a few minutes. Dean puts his plate down, too (mostly clean, other than some broccoli he's not gonna be forced to eat), and shifts down one more step so they're sat right next to each other, and presses his knee against Sam's. Sam looks at their knees instead of at him.

"I wanna hear everything," Dean says. He reaches and gets Sam's hand, and squeezes it, and Sam's eyes close. Shit he wouldn't have done before, but hell—he's dead, he gets to. "Everything. Okay? Every—dumbass repair you screwed up on the car, and if you took Chinese lessons at a community college, and who won the World Series, okay, because I remember, we had a bet, and I need to know if I owe you or you owe me."

Sam swallows. "Jesus," he says, under his breath, and then laughs, a little. "Jesus, we did have a bet. That was—uh, that year it was the Dodgers." He swallows again, and when he opens his eyes they're wet, and a tear rolls down very slowly, against the crease of his nose, and his mouth hitches up at the side in a piled-up dimpling fold, and his chin creases, and Dean squeezes his hand very tightly. "Dodgers. But I can't remember which way you bet."

God, Sam. Dean knocks their shoulders together and lies: "Damn, I bet they were gonna lose. How's that figure, huh? I go down and my team does all in the same year? Shitty luck." Sam shudders out another laugh, wet, and nods, looking down at their clasped hands. "Guess I owe you, Sammy. Whatever you want, okay? Figure, we got time up here. I can figure it out."

Sam's chin is still shaking. A tear falls onto the back of Dean's hand, shockingly hot. Sam takes a deep breath. "I'll think of something," he says, when he can get his teeth out of his lip. Their knees grind together, close enough that Dean might get a bruise, if there's still such a thing as bruising. Sam sniffs, hard. He always was a sloppy crier. He looks at Dean a little sidelong, and smiles kind of embarrassed. Like Dean isn't an inch from losing it himself. "I kinda—I watched a lot of soccer."

Dean rolls his eyes, theatrical, and releases Sam's hand. "Of course you did," he says, layering on the disgust, and it's enough that Sam snorts and dashes his hand over his face, and when Dean gathers up their plates Sam's enough together that he can repeat his old dumb argument that there's a lot of strategy to find interesting in soccer, and anyway over the years the U.S. got better so it wasn't even really like rooting for foreign teams. Dean brushes it off, like he always did, and the argument's dumb but it feels—right. Something locking in, something solid. He washes the plates by hand in the sink and Sam dries them, and stacks them in the rickety cupboard Dean's definitely going to build a replacement for, and then he braces his hands on the countertop and closes his eyes again and breathes, slow. Calm, now, but still something built up inside that Dean doesn't know.

It doesn't bug him, like it might have, before. Dean chews his lip, and drains the sink, and tosses the dishrag over the faucet to dry, and says, neutral, "Hey." Sam makes a small noise, so he's not in some other universe. "Just—one thing. How long?" Sam turns his head, looks at Dean, and Dean lifts a shoulder. "It's—with how the time works, up here, I got no idea. How long was it, for you?"

He looks the same, is the thing. The same as he did when Dean was standing there, in the dark, with that strange numbness everywhere south of his spine and a stillness creeping up in his heart. The terror of that moment has already faded but the rest of the feeling is right there—looking at Sam and loving every single part of him. Pinning him into memory, exactly as he was, with his goddamn stupid haircut and his wide mouth. A few greys, at his temples. His body, lean-but-muscled, trim from running. His eyes, beautiful, even as panicked as they were, even as he told Dean that it was okay.

It wasn't. Dean knows that, now. Sam's cheek sucks in, on one side. "I was 68," he says. Dean feels the air go out of himself, a little. That's—jesus. Sam doesn't look sad about it. Not exactly. He slides his hands into his jacket pockets, tipping his head. "I was—I was in bed. It wasn't bad."

Dean bites the corner of his mouth. "Guess that makes you the older brother, then, huh?"

Sam smiles, just a little. "No," he says, and doesn't elaborate more than that.

There are two bedrooms, upstairs. That first night they sleep in the living room, watching old movies on an old TV, Dean in a recliner that's ridiculously comfortable when he kicks the footrest out and Sam on the couch. He wakes up at dawn to Sam still sleeping, his arms folded around a pillow like he always used to do, still in that old jacket, that hooded sweater bunched up and twisted around his waist. Dean recognizes it, now. He dreamed it. His heart feels like it can hardly take knowing, but there it is, anyway. His face is soft, sleeping, and Dean gets up with his back aching just a little—turns out that there are still aches—and he crouches down, and he settles his hand on Sam's jaw, and runs his thumb over the sharp-angled turn of his cheekbone. Sam opens his eyes, slow but not like he was even really asleep, and he looks at Dean looking at him, and Dean just—it's enough. If it was just this, for eternity and past it, that would be—that'd be good.

There's a library, in the house. A small office kind of room, off the kitchen, but Sam says the books change, when he goes in and out, so it stays fresh. The fridge always seems to have something in it. There's always gas, in the car, although sometimes little things need fixing, and in the garage there are things that Dean can use to fix it, so he gets to spend afternoons contented under the big black bulk, while Sam hands him things from the toolbox, and is distracted half the time from reading so that he hands Dean the 3/8s wrench instead of the 5/8s wrench, but that gives Dean an opportunity rag on him so it works out, either way.

"Mom and Dad are here," Dean says, one day. He's doing the wiring, on the porch. As good a place to start as any. Sam's helping, kind of—actual electric work apparently wasn't one of the things he learned, over the years. "They've got a house, Bobby said."

"That's great," Sam says, and when Dean looks down he looks like he means it, soft smile and all, but Sam doesn't suggest they visit, and Dean thinks—well, later's still always on the table. They haven't gone anywhere, really, except for drives sometimes through the mountain roads, and Sam's gone for his runs in the early dawn before Dean wakes up, and Dean's found on a path through the trees a good creek, where he's fished with Sam mostly ignoring him, reading again in a lawnchair with his bare feet kicked out into the soft grass, but still paying just enough attention to smirk behind his book when Dean doesn't catch anything.

They don't really stay apart for more than the time it takes to leave a room and come back. Even with those runs, Dean only knows they happened because as he's waking up Sam comes back with sweat in his hair, and Dean gets to make fun of him for stinking up the place before Sam rolls his eyes and clatters into the bathroom to turn on the creaking ancient shower, and he leaves the door open when he does so Dean can hear the water running, and the splashing, and how Sam's apparently started to hum. He doesn't sing, but Dean recognizes the tunes anyway. When Sam comes out Dean has breakfast ready—they take turns on dinner, but for some reason Sam doesn't like to make breakfast, anymore—and they eat, and then there's some project to do or a movie to watch or a book to finish, and—Sam's right there, solidly content. Like he's making up for lost time, and taking his sweet time in doing so.

Whisky, one night. In the cupboard. It's good—some Scottish blend Crowley had left in the bunker, once, sharp and sweet and rolling smoke down the throat—and they're out on the porch again, on the new bench this time, watching the sunset come down. Sam's mostly holding his glass, rather than drinking, but he looks okay. Head leaned back against the wall, and his shoulders relaxed, broad and strong. He doesn't seem to mind that Dean watches him as much as he does the sky, but he's looking thoughtful, and finally Dean says, "Tell me." Sam rolls his head against the wall, and meets Dean's eyes. "It's been on your mind, all day. Spit it out, man."

The corner of Sam's mouth lifts. "You would've made a good therapist, you know that?" he says. Dean raises his eyebrows. "I've been… I had a son."

Dean's jaw drops. "That's—" he starts, and his brain doesn't supply anything else. Shock—bewilderment—joy, and it's the joy that wins out, and he punches Sam in the shoulder and says, "Frickin' mazel tov, dude! That's—what was his name?"

"Ow," Sam says, half-laughing, clutching his arm. "What do you think? I named him after you."

"Great choice, pick the handsome brother," Dean says, nearly automatic, and Sam rolls his eyes like he's supposed to, but Dean's still spinning through it, taking it in. Sam—with a little boy—and Dean wants to know everything, everything, but Sam's gone from content to content-but-pensive, and Dean makes fun of him for going emo a lot, but this is… "He a good kid? Doing the name proud?"

"Yeah, he is," Sam says. He huffs, after a second, like he's remembering something—some memory that Dean doesn't share. There's been a lot of that, really, although Dean's not sure Sam notices when it happens. "You'd hate his taste in music, though. And he drives an electric car."

"Heathen," Dean says, and Sam raises his hands in surrender, and then leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Dean looks at his back, broad in the grey t-shirt. He sips at his scotch. "We could—probably see him. I'd like to meet him. And you must…" Miss him, is what he wants to say, except that his heart seems to catch up to what it means, what Sam's saying. That he had a boy, a kid, and he was old enough to drive and have shitty taste in music, and it was a whole life—that the kid had a mother, and Sam had a world separate to this one, and of course Dean knew that and Dean always wanted that for him, and that was true, that wasn't ever a lie no matter what else Dean felt, deep inside where he never, ever intended for it to matter, but. Dean misses Jack, sometimes, in a soft sore way—misses Ben, even, when that pain's far-distant and not even truly his to feel—but what Sam's going through, that's different, and Dean doesn't know how to touch it.

Sam shakes his head, though. "I do," he says, answering what Dean couldn't say out loud. "But I—no, I don't want to see him. Not yet. He's living, and I think—I hope he's doing the best he can. I was kind of an old dad. Old-fashioned maybe, too, but I taught him right, I think, and he'll be okay. I want to just—let him live. In my head. You know? And later, when he's finally—god, he'd better be really old—then. I'd want to see him then."

Dean gets it, and doesn't. He's not sure he could've waited another minute for Sam, if he'd been forced to. He picks up Sam's glass, abandoned on the bench between them, and holds it forward. Sam takes it, and accepts Dean's clink when it's offered. "To Dean," he says, and Sam huffs and gives him a slanted look back over his shoulder, but he nods, and repeats it, and they finish the bottle between them that night.

Funny, that they ended up in the mountains. Kansas was all flat prairie and farmland and endless horizons, and Dad used to joke sometimes when they'd drive across the country's flat middle that you could roll a marble all the way from Abilene to Lincoln and the only way it'd stop is if someone picked it up. Up here it feels—different. With the hills, and the trees. Like they could be hemmed in, if they were feeling bad about it, but instead it just feels like shelter. A place of their own. A place to make their own.

Sam left the bunker, he says, one day. A fishing day, when Dean's got his cooler full of cheap beer and Sam's working on yet another friggin' book, though this time he's at least enjoying the cool air, watching the birds and the river more than he's got his nose in some old dude's ancient wisdom. "Couldn't stay," he says, and Dean—yeah. That makes sense.

Little revelations, now and then. Sam doesn't seem to be in a hurry to tell them, but he doesn't seem to feel bad about them, either. Like they're sorrows mostly dealt with, or details that don't matter in the grand scheme. Dean never had a place, when Sam was gone from him, but even the car—he couldn't drive it, when Sam wasn't there in the passenger seat beside him. He gets how the bunker could've been less a shelter than a prison, when the halls were empty, and the silence got too thick. "I left it to him," Sam says, after a little while. He tucks his bookmark into his spot, tucks the book under his arms. Dean's just holding onto the fishing pole at this point, barely paying attention to the line, but Sam's watching it for the both of them. "I didn't—take him there, ever, but I told him about hunting, about the job, and I left a letter. Explaining it all, with the key and everything. It's there if he wants it."

"Good," Dean says. Sam glances at him. "Someone should use it. He's a legacy, too."

"Yeah, he is," Sam says, and it's quiet for some reason, and then he nods down at the creek. "You're getting a bite, dude—" and oh damn it, see, this is why Sam's a distraction on fishing trips, and Dean fumbles the rod and cusses at his brother and Sam just laughs, and the afternoon's easy, and Dean finally does get a damn fish and brings it home and considers leaving the guts under Sam's pillow, but instead he fries it up with dill and cornmeal and Sam makes nearly orgasmic noises, eating out on the porch because Dean still hasn't built them a table, and Dean says, "Jeez, dude, get a room," and his ears are pink but—he's happy. Sam's happy. That's been the only goal, this whole damn time. A falling-down house in the mountains, with the two of them totally alone, turns out to be as good a place to be happy as any. Go figure, Dean thinks, watching Sam suck his fingers and then turn his eyes hopefully toward the kitchen for more.

A drive. There's a road that snakes up high, ending in an empty lookout point, and Sam convinces Dean to come further—a hike, up to the very top of the mountain, where the trees start to thin and there's a view like—

"Holy shit," Dean says, when he heaves himself up over that last friggin' boulder, and Sam says, "Right?"

A vastness. The forest is thick and the sky's this clear, depthless blue, and the valleys and hills spread out in front of them untouched. Like they're really the only people in all of heaven, nothing but them and the trees and the house. Sam stands with his hands on his hips, looking out, looking like a damn model for that weird orange hiking jacket he's wearing, and Dean sits down on a handy flat rock and feels the sun on his back, takes it in. "You know, I thought the memory thing would've been okay, honestly," Dean says. Sam glances back at him. Instantly knows what Dean means, from the way he's furrowing his massive forehead in disbelief. "I mean, maybe it would've gotten boring, I don't know. Stuck on our hamster wheels forever. But there was good stuff, in there, and we—I mean. We would've been together. Right?"

It had been brutally painful, at the time, but in later years Dean had thought about it. Approached it cautious, like something that would break if he touched it. Soulmates, he thinks, now, deliberate inside his own head, and Sam smiles, like somehow he heard it. "Yeah, I guess so," he says. He tips his head. "Could've watched that memory of you turfing it into the pasture on that wraith hunt about a hundred times, I think."

Dean raises his eyebrows, says, "Ha," while Sam grins at him, but then Sam looks back out at the view. "Would've been some choice ones of you, too, you know," he says, but then shakes his head, even if Sam's not looking anymore. "This is—better, though. Glad Jack did it like this."

"And Cas," Sam says, and, yeah. Cas.

Dean takes a deep breath. He hasn't gone there, in his head, really. Castiel, free of the death he'd cursed himself to, free of darkness. Dean drags his hand over his stubble, remembering. The dark, reaching out. He looks out at the clear, bright day. "He was in love with me," he says.

Sam turns his head, but Dean's focused on the trees—past them—through to that day. All the time after, Dean never said anything about it, out loud or even in his head. They hadn't had a body to burn, and Sam hadn't asked questions, careful and kind in that way Sam had learned to be once he was older, and it had been an old bruise, unhealed, that Dean didn't like to press on because what was the point? It doesn't hurt now, but it's…

"He told you?" Sam says, and Dean nods. A pause, again, and Sam comes and sits down on the rock, too. His hands are clasped between his knees and Dean looks at them instead of the trees. Broad and tan, and big, and calm like everything in Sam is calm, now. "And you didn't know?"

Dean looks up, sharply. "Did you?"

Sam's mouth tilts. "I wondered," he says, and Dean huffs, leans back on his hands, looks up at the clear sky. A breeze, just chilly enough that he's glad of his jacket. Sam shifts, beside him. "Did you want to see him?"

It's asked—a little careful. Like Sam doesn't want to influence him either way. Dean imagines it—praying, and saying—what? He doesn't answer, and Sam doesn't press him, and they sit there for a while, in quiet, with the breeze bringing the smell of the trees.

"I didn't marry her," Sam says, after a while. Dean lifts his head—another revelation. Sam's slowly rubbing his thumbs back and forth, a dry chafing, looking out at something Dean can't see. "She was a really good person. Good mother. I wore a ring so people wouldn't ask questions, but I—I think she would've said yes, if I'd asked, but I didn't ask. She moved across town, when Dean was ten. We got along fine—hooked up a few times, even, after we split, but it just…"

"Never came together?" Dean offers, when the pause has gone too long, and Sam lifts a shoulder, his mouth curling wry as he looks at Dean. "I know the feeling."

Maybe it was some cruelty of Chuck's. To make it impossible for anything else to feel true. Dean tips his leg out so it touches Sam's, and Sam huffs, and touches Dean's knee, and the heat of him sinks right through the denim before he pushes to his feet, and offers a hand to help Dean up, too. They walk back down the trail, back to where Dean parked the car, and they drive down the winding roads with sunset spilling through the valleys behind them, and when Dean parks in front of the house the porch light's on like they left it, and Sam's getting out and saying something about maybe burgers, for dinner, and he'll make potato salad if Dean'll take care of the cooking, and Dean has to pause, with his heart suddenly thick and full in his chest, and thinks—well, if it was intended to be a punishment, then shit if Chuck didn't get it wrong.

They have burgers, and potato salad. Sam doesn't put in enough mayo and Dean tells him so. They watch The Right Stuff, and Sam listens mostly patiently to Dean filling in all the extra details about the astronauts before he tells Dean that he's a nerd, and Dean says, "Oh, if anyone's the nerd—" and they bicker, and wash the dishes, and Sam's beautiful, is the thing. Beautiful. Whole and healthy and content, in the lamplight in the house they're building. Beautiful his whole life, from when he was a little kid and Dean was wiping his snot-nose with the edge of his t-shirt to when he was a bitchy asshole of a teenager to when he was a high-handed and distant adult to when he was just—Dean's brother, paying him half-attention in the mornings, getting all his jokes, being bossy and being kind and being himself, and himself is all Dean ever wanted him to be.

Sam picks up one of the endless books that he's left on the kitchen counter. "You going to keep watching old nerd movies?" he says, a dimple tucked into his cheek.

Dean's chest feels somehow tight and full of molten gold, all at once. "Sammy," he says, and Sam hears the change in his voice, and blinks at him. Dean knows what Cas had meant, those years ago. How it could feel so entirely perfect, just to hold it like this, under your heart. To acknowledge it and know it for true. "You're it, for me. You know that, right?"

A slight tightening, around his eyes. He searches Dean's face but Dean—he doesn't know what expression he's wearing. It hardly matters.

"Our whole lives. I never—there wasn't ever really an option, for something else, but I don't think I ever even really wanted something else. Ever since I was little. It was you and me in my head, no matter how I thought about the future. I wanted you to have more but I never pictured anything else for me, not really. Even when I got the chance. Never came together, you know? But I don't think I wanted it to. All I wanted was you." Sam's lips have parted. Confusion there, but concern too, and Dean smiles at him. "I guess this sounds—this isn't like a goodbye or anything, or a… I don't know. I just… wanted you to know. In case you hadn't guessed."

Sam lays his hand on the counter, like he's looking for something steady. "Dean," he says, and then doesn't seem to know how to follow it up.

Dean shakes his head. "Didn't mean to drop a bomb on you," he says, and it's that loose knot again, an untangled free thing. Easy, when this had never, ever been easy. When he'd died for it, and lived through way worse than dying. Here, looking at Sam's expression—shock but also not quite shock—his other hand still clutched around his book—it feels like nothing but right. He smiles, looking at Sam's eyes. "After the life we had, man, this is the cherry on top. I don't need anything more than this."

He goes to bed. Sam's still standing there, in the kitchen, when he does.

Time moves more because they expect it to than because of any rules. Sam's been studying it, sort of, out of curiosity more than anything else, and he says he thinks that if they wanted it to be it could be about two pm in a warm July forever. Dean's noticed, even if he doesn't much care. How long have they been here, and still it's those last days of summer creeping into autumn, where it's cool in the shade and the sun's warm, and it doesn't snow, and if it rains it's just for long enough to make the house feel cozy and right, and then when the sun comes out again the world's washed-new, and he doesn't have to dig his car out of the mud.

It's raining the next morning, and Dean lays in bed with the covers pulled up around his shoulders and enjoys it, knowing there's nowhere to go. His room is his room only because it's the bed he picked, with the north-facing window and the view of the car, if he wants to glance down and see it; they leave their doors open, almost all the time, and they hardly have possessions that need keeping anywhere. He lifts up on an elbow after a while, and looks over the foot of the bed down the hall, and on the opposite end by the stairs Sam's door is open and he's a solid lump, in his bed, still snoozing through the rain, and Dean's heart folds up in his chest, looking. It tends to do that.

He goes through some morning things. Making the coffee, and sipping at a cup while he eats a slice of toast. He goes into the library and picks something off the shelf, and carries it back upstairs, and then it's the solitary, strange contentment of a morning crap (the door closes for that at least, and he'd wondered why that was something that stuck around in heaven until he experienced the weird peace of an unhurried morning), and then a coffee refill, and then it's still raining and he thinks—yeah, back to bed, crawling in with his coffee and his book, his back to the headboard, the house warm, the sifting rain outside nothing but soothing.

"Hey," he hears, and looks up.

Sam—oh. In his flannel pants and one of those v-neck sleeping shirts, black this time, his hair rumpled, leaning in his doorway. He closes his book and lets it fall down by his leg. Sam's eyes follow it, with a small frown.

"You really went for the beauty sleep, huh?" Dean says, as though the clock means anything. Even in heaven, he feels weird when Sam catches him reading. In that time in the bunker—after Jack disappeared—he'd started again, like he used to when he was in his twenties. Dumb stuff, nothing like what Sam would pick, but he liked the stories. Sam's never made fun of him for it, but he still—well, still.

Sam's still looking at the book but the silence has stretched, with the patter of the rain filling the space between. "I stayed awake for a long time, last night," he says, finally. "Thinking about stuff. What you said. Other things, too."

He seems okay. Not bitter, or angry, or even particularly stressed about it. Still, "Sorry," Dean says.

Sam shakes his head, and looks up at Dean's face. "Don't be sorry." He pushes a hand through his hair, sort-of smiles. "Figures, you wouldn't say anything until you knew I was a sure thing."

Dean snorts. He moves the book over to his bedside table, leaves it with his empty coffee mug. He pulls his knees up under the blanket, making room, and Sam comes and sits at the foot of the bed, one knee pulled up onto the mattress, looking at Dean steady and—and okay. They're okay.

"I had a dream last night," Sam says, finally. Dean nods—the dreams come pretty steadily, up here. Never nightmares, just invention, and memory recontextualized. "It was about… when Azazel had Dad. You remember that? Forever ago. All I wanted was to kill him. All you wanted was for us to be together. Remember?"

Of course, Dean remembers. The way he'd dragged Sam away from another fire. Sam looking at him with almost-pity, when he'd finally admitted what he wanted.

There's not a trace of pity in him, now. He pulls his knee up against his chest, comfortable. "You know, I thought about it," Sam says. "After you were gone. How everything felt—incomplete. Half-a-loaf. Even…" He shakes his head, and Dean wonders what goes there. He'll find out someday. "We were always breaking the world for each other. Normal siblings don't really do that. I don't know if you realized."

"I bet Mary-Kate and Ashley would give it a shot," Dean says, and Sam smiles at him, but rolls his eyes, too. "Sam—"

"I wondered," Sam interrupts. He lifts his eyebrows, a little, and Dean hears it as the echo it's meant to be. Despite everything he can feel his cheeks going pink. "If it wasn't just that we couldn't find something that was better, but that we never would. If you'd…"

He trails off. Dean picks at the blue yarn-ties on his blanket, watching Sam's face. Turned now, toward the rain outside, lit beautiful with morning. "I wouldn't have said anything," he says. Sure, somehow. "Even if we'd had—hell. Another decade, just you and me. When I said this was enough, I meant it."

"I know you did," Sam says. "And I know you wouldn't have. Because you wouldn't have wanted to ruin anything for me, right? If I had some outside shot—some kind of normal I might've dug up?" Dean nods. Sam nods, too, and then reaches out and flicks his knee through the blanket, hard it enough that it nearly stings. Dean claps his hand over the spot and smacks Sam's hand away, but Sam's already retreating, hands up, smiling. "Truce, truce. Just saying. I wouldn't have tried for anything, if you'd been there. It would've just been me and you and the dog."

The dog. "Did he—" Dean says, distracted, and Sam says, "Old and kinda fat, and happy as he could be."

Sam's just looking at him, along the length of the bed. "Sammy," Dean says, and chews his cheek for a minute. Sam's patient. "I know it wasn't easy, that I was gone. But I'm still glad you got that shot. Glad I didn't ruin it."

"You didn't—" Sam starts, and then closes his mouth. He smiles at Dean with his lips closed, and then breathes out slow through his nose. "I'm glad you're glad," he says, instead, and maybe that's all the compromise they'll ever get, on the subject. Dean's not sure Sam gets it, smart as he is. That Dean would've always wondered. That there would've been some horizon, distant and gold, that Sam might've always looked to, and imagined something different.

The rain's slacking, outside. Sam looks out the window again, at how the sun's drawing out, the light changing. "Do you want to try to figure out the cabinets today?" he says.

God, Dean loves him. "You can work the band saw," Dean promises, and Sam rolls his eyes again, and stands up, and says, "Let me shower first, before all the excitement," and Dean watches him step into the hall and then into the bathroom and hears the shower come on, through the open door, and he thinks it'll be a good day. Inevitable argument over what color to stain the cabinet doors notwithstanding.

It sits between them. Dean didn't feel tense about it but saying it aloud nevertheless makes him feel almost weightless. He knows that Sam's thinking about the conversation—going over past conversations, and things they've done, and choices they've made, over and over, because Sam's an egghead who had to puzzle things out forever before he can come to some kind of peace with them—but that's okay. They're still together and nothing's ruined, and the house comes along. They work on the kitchen for a while, Sam pulling down the horrible wallpaper while Dean does the woodwork, and there's a week nearly where they build a fire outside every night and dinner's what they can rig up over the flames—hotdogs, and kebabs, and mac and cheese even that gets a weird smoky flavor to it, and honestly it's about the best version Dean's ever had.

When Sam starts talking he comes at it obliquely. They're watching a movie—Moonraker, just as dumb and wonderful as Dean remembered it—and right over the top of the scene where Jaws is whaling on the guards, Sam says, "I didn't sleep with anyone for almost fifteen years."

"Makes sense, your game is terrible," Dean says, and grins when Sam sighs. "What do you mean? After the breakup with—"

Sam still hasn't said her name. "It just didn't…" Sam shrugs. "It wasn't important somehow."

"Plus you would've thrown your back out," Dean says.

"Yeah," Sam says, dry. "Plus that." A pause, while they both watch the end of the fight. Roger Moore was a way better Bond than people gave him credit for, Dean's always thought. "How long for you?" Dean makes a sound. "Before… You used to brag about it, you know? But you didn't come home bragging for a long time."

"You trying to get me to say just looking at your goofy mug every morning was enough?" Dean tips his head on the couch to find Sam raising his eyebrows, actually surprised. "Hah. Well, it was."

"Seriously?" Sam says.

Dean shrugs, not sure why it's coming as a shock. He doesn't actually remember himself, even though it's closer in memory for him, when he last had that urge—to just go for a hookup, to let off nervous energy. On the screen, Bond's punching someone, and Holly Goodhead's in trouble. "No need to try to fix what ain't broke, as they say," Dean says, and he can tell Sam watches his face for a while before Sam turns his attention back to the movie.

Later: Dean's peeled back the scary carpet and it turns out there's good wood flooring underneath. Go figure. He's trying to decide whether he wants to cut it out in pieces or roll the whole thing up and see if he can get Sam to carry it. Sam brings him a cup of coffee, while he's standing in the doorway to the bedroom and frowning, and then says, "I never thought about being with a guy."

Dean slops the coffee, a little. Good thing he's tearing out the carpet either way. "Uh, okay."

The corner of Sam's mouth tugs up. "It just never occurred to me," he says. "Not really."

Dean takes a sip from his mug. Even in heaven Sam manages to screw it up, somehow—this time, way too strong like he used three times the amount of grounds needed—but it's Sam's coffee, and Dean's so damn gone for him that he's fond of the sludge, too.

Apparently he's been silent too long. Sam tips his head, leaning against the doorframe, opens his mouth and closes it again.

"Do you really want to know?" Dean says, after a minute. He'd answer, he thinks. If Sam asked. What would be the point of keeping it secret, after all, with what they both already know?

"I think you just told me," Sam says, quiet, but shakes his head, and then jerks his chin at the carpet. "If you think I'm carrying that whole thing downstairs you're insane."

"Worth a shot," Dean says, and they put it away, for another day.

Later: they're painting, in the hall between the kitchen and the living room, and it was a long bickering session to come up with the color but Dean thinks that Sam was really arguing just to argue and not because he cared, at all. It smells like paint, which in theory is unpleasant but which really Dean's always kind of enjoyed—because it means there's a project being done, and progress being made, and that always settles something, in his bones—and Sam's got a full on handprint of slate blue on his ass that Dean thinks somehow he still hasn't noticed, and which should cause some entertainment when he does—and Sam says, standing back and squinting at his edging work, "How did you know?" Dean grunts, not following for once. His brush needs to be cleaned. Sam reaches up and fixes a line, carefully swiping blue away from the ceiling, and says, "About us. When did you know?"

Dean pauses, fingers all tangled with the brush in the murky water. Sam's frowning up at the ceiling, patiently doing his part. That's a question he never really asked himself, and he doesn't know the answer. Too easy to say always, even if sometimes that feels like the truth. November 1983 is another answer, but of course that's wrong, too. From the first time Sam smiled at him. From the first time he guided Sam's hands around a gun and helped him pull the trigger, and they nailed that empty Coke can like it was a vamp, at thirty paces. From the day Sam left, at that shitty house in Utah, and Dean stood in the dark street with his heart bleeding out 'til it was empty. From the night Sam died, and Dean knelt in the dirt with him and understood how it felt to die, too, and yet still be forced to stand up and keep living, and to have his whole body reject it, everything in him knowing: no.

Sam crouches down by him, and nudges Dean out of the way, so he can clean his own brush. "I didn't get it, I don't think," Sam says, when Dean hasn't responded. He riffles his fingers through the bristles, blue blooming up so that Dean can't see his skin. "Not for… Man, I don't know. It might've been when I thought we were going to lose you to Amara. Maybe earlier." He draws his brush out of the water and squeezes the wet out, and Dean watches his hands, like he does so much of the time. Capable and square-palmed and long-fingered. Blue paint stuck under his fingernails. He rests his brush on the side of their paint tray and his hands lace loosely between his knees, where he's still right there, inches from Dean. "Wish it hadn't took me so long."

Dean looks at him. Sam's looking back, not really smiling but with his face soft. He stands up, after a few seconds, and from Dean's crouching vantage Sam looks impossibly tall. "C'mon," he says, easy. "Let's finish this up. I want to watch you fail at fishing at some point today."

Later—

There's no real time, and therefore it's no particular day. Days have passed and yet the days are still gold, and beautiful. Sam goes for a run, and comes back, and they have breakfast, and they shower, and it rains briefly midday and so Sam reads in the armchair while Dean watches a movie—Godfather II, and he tells Sam he's a barbarian for reading through it, but Sam calmly ignores him like he always does—and then the rain stops, and Dean thinks, maybe a drive, and so they go for a drive, with the late afternoon sun pouring down. They park, in front of the house, and Dean gets out, and he's thinking about dinner—Sam's turn to cook, but Dean wants steak and Sam's never actually gotten the hang of steak—and Sam says, "Hey," and so Dean turns, and there with the driver door still open on the car, Sam steps up close to him, and takes Dean's face in his hands.

Dean's heart thuds slow, in the base of his throat. Sam's been this close before but he hasn't had quite that look in his eye. He stands still, waiting, and Sam's mouth twitches into a quick smile, like he's had some funny thought that he'll share with Dean, later—and Sam leans down, and when their mouths press together it's...

Sam pulls back, after not long enough. "Is that okay?" he says.

Really asking. Dean's holding Sam's forearms, his lips warm. "You're supposed to be the smart one," he says, and his voice comes out raw. "You figure it out."

His eyes are closed. Sam laughs, softly, and Dean takes a breath, and then there's Sam's mouth, again, soft but insistent, just the right amount of pressure. Sam's very good at this. Who knew. Dean's hand slides to Sam's chest and he parts his lips, and Sam takes the invitation as it's given, licking just barely inside. They're both unshaven but the scratch of Sam's chin feels good. Sam's nose brushes his. Dean pulls back, and tilts so their foreheads are touching, and there's an infinite universe of time around them and he could just stay—here. Right here, with Sam's breath mingling with his, and Sam's hand on his face.

Once they've started, though, Sam doesn't seem to feel the need to stop. "Bed?" he says, quiet, and Dean nods, and then—Sam's room, with the sun coming in the window and the thick blue blanket soft under Dean's hand. Sam sits beside him and leans in and they kiss—again—for ages, Dean's arm around Sam's neck and no sound but their lips meeting and parting, and the breeze soughing against the house.

Sam's—happy. That's the only thing Dean can think, over and over, his heart thrilling for it. "Is it weird?" Dean says, at one point, and Sam touches his cheek with two fingers, and drags them soft along Dean's stubble to his jaw, to his chin, and shakes his head and then laughs and says, "Yeah, but who cares about weird," and Dean says, fervently, "Not me," and Sam laughs again and presses him down to the bed and kisses him, again, and again.

Clothes go away, slowly. Boots, and jackets, and Dean pushes Sam a little upright and unbuttons his shirt, careful, while Sam watches his face. "Do you know what you want?" Dean says, not pushing either way. When the shirt's open he spreads his hands on Sam's chest—god, even through the undershirt, it's—but Sam's shaking his head, and Dean tries to focus, even if focus seems a billion miles from here. "And you never…"

But no, because Sam told him. Sam lays his palm on Dean's stomach, warm. "What did you want?" Sam says. Gentle almost. "The first time you—when you thought about it. What did you picture?"

"Who says I pictured anything?" Dean says, and Sam just smiles at him, and, yeah, okay. So Sam knows him better than anyone. So what.

Naked, Sam is… It's not like Dean never saw it before, but he never let himself look, like he's looking now. Never with the sense of right, that he feels now. Sam's looking right back, which somehow comes a surprise. Dean lets Sam tug off his jeans, his boxers, and he's left on his back on the bed, and Sam stands there and his eyes go all over—from Dean's chest to his dick to his feet, for some reason—and Dean feels himself flushing, but it's more because—

"I didn't think it'd be like this," Sam says, and yeah. Yeah, that's it. Sam's flushed, too, a little red come into the hollows of his cheeks. His dick's half-hard, swinging heavy against his thigh, and Dean wants it. Wants Sam. It should be complicated but it isn't. He spreads his legs, and Sam kneels on the bed and then fits himself there, so Dean's thighs can slide against Sam's, and there's the warm glance of his belly, and his chest against Dean's, and how his nose brushes Dean's cheek and how his hair falls forward, and the dense familiar physicality of him. How he's Dean's brother and how he's—everything, everything else that ever mattered.

They rub together, kissing. Sam's fingers find his nipple and play with it, slow and insistent. Sam's hard, thick, pressing into the crease of Dean's thigh, and Dean nudges under Sam's jaw, kisses his throat, drags his thumb down between Sam's pecs. "Do you want to," he says, against Sam's skin, and Sam's hand cups over the back of his head and he doesn't have to say anything for Dean to know.

There's lube, in Sam's bedside table. Dean laughs, while Sam blinks surprise at it. This perfect house. He pulls Sam in close again, and he doesn't think it'll take much—hell, they might not even have to bother—but he wants it, like this is a first time they might have had, some perfect day that never existed on earth. He drizzles the lube over Sam's fingers and Sam knows what to do, reaching below, and Dean spreads his legs wide and sinks into the pillow, into how it feels. "Do you like it?" Sam says, curious and a little pleased, and Dean hooks his arm around Sam's neck and drags him down for a kiss so Sam won't ask such dumb friggin questions. The slow drag and stretch of Sam's knuckles inside—and he's not going far enough or deep enough, because he's done this to women maybe but never to a guy, but it feels good, anyway.

They don't move from that position. Dean reaches down and tugs at Sam's wrist, and gets a slick dragging hand on his hip, instead. Sam kisses his cheekbone, shifts his weight, and the press inside—ah—thick, and just that first bright sting that makes it count for something, but it doesn't hurt beyond that, and it's just the slow parting drag of Sam, inside him, until he's as far as he can go and stops with his hips pressed right up close. Dean holds him there, feeling. Sam's breath against his cheek, and his weight held tense on one elbow, and their chests rising and falling together. Dean's dick presses against Sam's belly but it doesn't feel important, right now—it's more that they're—finally, they're—

"Please say I can move," Sam says, breathless, and Dean gasps in and then laughs, dizzy, says, "Jesus, you've been waiting on me? Get the lead out, come on—go—"

It lasts—

For the time it takes Dean to curl his hips up and feel how Sam jolts, hard inside. For the time it takes Sam to lift up higher, getting enough space between them that he can see Dean's face, and for him to fit his hand around Dean's jaw and press his thumb against Dean's lower lip and look him in the eyes, startled, like even after everything he's learned something new. For the time it takes Dean to wrap his thighs around Sam's waist and arch, and for Sam to bury his head down into the curve of Dean's throat, and for Dean to hold Sam's shoulders, and for it to be…

Perfect, Dean thinks, after.

They're on their sides. Dean's leg is still caught around Sam's hip. Their heads are on the same pillow and Dean's got his hand on Sam's chest, and Sam keeps tracing some nonsense shape into the skin over Dean's ribs, and the sun's still out, and the breeze is still gentle, and it feels in a way like no time has passed, at all. Like this is still their first day in heaven. That first moment, when Sam appeared on the bridge, and Dean's heart thumped into place, like it was beating again, at last.

Sam's hand settles flat on Dean's side. Dean looks up from Sam's chest, and Sam's waiting there, to meet his eyes. A smile, small. "Good job, tiger," Dean says, and Sam's smile goes deeper, and Dean rolls his eyes, and tugs Sam's chest hair in retaliation. Sam mimes pain but all he does is pull Dean an inch closer, and sigh.

"Do you think we could've made it work?" he says, eventually. Dean hmms, asking. "Before, I mean. When we were alive. It feels like…" He shakes his head, a small movement against the pillow. "I don't know. Like we wasted time."

"Maybe," Dean says. He shifts, stretching out his legs, and lifts up on one elbow. Sam tips his head back to keep looking at Dean's face. Dean looks back, unhurried. The straight line of his eyebrows, and his tip-tilted eyes. His mouth, relaxed in contentment, and the slope of his nose, and that mole that Dean feels the weirdest fondness for. He touches it, and Sam blinks, and Dean smiles at him. "It worked out, though. Don't you think?"

Sam's mouth tips, a dimple peeking up in his cheek. He looks as glad as Dean's ever seen him. "Yeah," he says, finding Dean's hand. Their fingers tangle together, caught warm against Sam's chest. "Yeah, it worked out okay."

#wincest #carry on spoilers #my writing

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baoshan-sanren · 5 years ago

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Prologue

to the fucking NieLan arranged marriage AU I can’t stop thinking about

By the time the sixth small clan folds under the Qishan Wen pressure, the Sect Elders acknowledge that something must be done. They do not panic; these revered old cultivators, who had fought wars in their youth, are much too dignified for such a base emotion. But most admit to feeling uneasy by the recent developments. Unease is acceptable. Unease is not fear, or dread, or that fluttering feeling in the pit of their stomachs, the one that senses the disaster on the horizon before their eyes can perceive its shadow.

They gather deep in the bowels of the Kai Tower on a calm, fragrant evening in the early summer, to discuss the matter. The Koi Tower is an obvious gathering place; the eldest among them, Jin ZiHan, has seen three wars, a dozen deadly floods, and more idiot Sect Leaders than he can shake his golden cap at, Jin Guangshan among them. The others show him little deference, but it is enough to make the Jin Sect base a natural gathering place. Nie MeiLing, only a decade younger, could reasonably argue for an equal ground between them, but she cares little where they meet. The Jin Sect lavish cushions suit her old bones well, and the black dragon tea only found in Lanling makes the presence of these old, patronizing windbags almost bearable in comparison. Lan XiaoChun, the youngest among the eldest, but the least prone to tedious verbal outbursts, settles near her as always. She prefers his company, for no other reason than the blessed silence it brings. Jiang YuXuan settles on the other side of her with a polite greeting. There are others, each sect boasting of at least three cultivators who, by rights, should have been bones and dust decades ago. MeiLing has her two younger brothers with her, but unlike the others, they sit behind her in silence. She still remembers that lovely winter day, two and a half centuries ago, when she beat NianZu with her saber until he cried. Nie men had always possessed more hair on their chests than brains in their heads, but they could learn respect if one beat it into them.

It is her opinion that Jin ZiHan should have been beaten until he cried as well. All of the Jin Sect could stand a little less embroidery and a little more beating. Watching the old windbag flutter about with his practiced smile that never reaches his eyes, she takes a calming sip of her tea. Riches without dignity, smiles without compassion. The Jin Sect has little to recommend them except material comforts. But compared to the Qishan Wen, they are the lesser of the two plagues, and certainly not her problem to worry about. It was the Jiang Sect leader’s formidable wife who had decided to marry her offspring into that particular bejeweled snake pit, and all the more fool her.

Jiang YuXuan inquires after the current Nie Sect Leader and his brother, and MeiLing gives an equally polite but superficial response. The question is only a courtesy, one she does not return. Jiang FengMian’s health holds little interest, and the Violet Spider probably chews steel and spits out arrowheads for breakfast. Their children are equally as uninteresting, although she supposes Cangse Sanren’s brat is close to coming of age these days. She would not mind knowing how this child is getting on, but this would invite more conversation than her constitution is prepared to handle.

It takes an abominably long time for all the pompous elders to settle their creaking bones, and to finish their pretentious clucking before getting to the job at hand. By then, MeiLing’s tea has gotten cold, and her patience is growing thin. She lets them fuss a while longer, but she is not the only impatient one. Lan XiaoChun is silent as always, but there is tension around his oddly-colored eyes, and the line of his jaw seems slightly more pronounced.

MeiLing sighs into her cup. Jiang YuXuan had courted her once, so many lifetimes ago, that she can no longer find the pretty youth he had been in the heavily lined face by her side. The Jiang men, with their established reputation for soft-spoken steadiness, were never of any interest to her. She had not wanted a man who bent his spine to the world like a willow in high wind. But Lan XiaoChun had been another matter. Had he ever offered, she would have likely agreed to that match without opposition. Her spine might be steel, but his is a rocky mountain side, unlikely to bend unless the Heavens themselves upended the earth. But he had never asked, snd she had long ago stopped feeling slighted. No man in the world ever knew a woman’s true worth, and the Lan men are no different.

“Lady Nie, you have said very little,” Jin ZiHan simpers, bringing her back to the present.

She takes a sip of her rapidly cooling tea. She had said nothing because they had said nothing. Oh, they had spoken at length, as all men do, loving the sound of their tongues flapping. But their plans are no more than farts in the wind, and her hip is beginning to ache despite the plush Jin Sect cushions.

“Marriage,” she barks at them, and watches their brains turn the word over for an excruciatingly long moment before tongues begin to flap again.

“My tea is cold,” she says to the air, and hears NianZu scramble up behind her.

He will find a servant, or if he must, he will brew it himself. In the meantime, she can feel her hair growing more gray with each useless string of words leaving Jin ZiHan’s mouth. A nap in a secluded garden, thick with the scent of peonies, is exactly what she needs right now.

“The arrangements can be settled between the concerned parties at leisure,” she says loudly.

Her voice, long schooled to cut across the din of useless flapping of self-important men, leaves silence in its wake. She uses this silence to turn to Lan XiaoChun, and bow her head slightly.

“I offer the hand of the Nie Sect Leader to either of the Jades of Lan. I will let you decide which one is more... suitable to the task. Now, if you will excuse me, these old bones must rest.”

The shocked silence follows her out of the meeting hall, but her thoughts are already elsewhere. She is looking forward to Lan XiaoChun’s attempts to wriggle out of the offer very much, but this is a battle for another day, one she will win with little effort. Now however, a long nap under the plum blossoms is infinitely more appealing.

#cql #mdzs #the untamed #nielan #ficlet #original characters #because #anyway #i've fallen into this pit and it's all over for me #m #arranged marriage au pt. 1

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 4 years ago

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Goodnight, Aaron (Aaron Hotchner x Reader) Chapter 3

Summary: Day 2 of the trial, a Sunday where Jack is allowed to choose his own adventure with Sebastian along for the ride.

AN: I hope you are all taking care of yourselves <3 and that tomorrow is kind to you.

Tagging: @sunlight-moonrise, @clean-bands-dirty-stories, @genevievedarcygranger, and @davidrossi-ismydad

Chapter 2 // Masterlist // AO3 Link // Chapter 4

“Morning, Jack,” Sebastian greeted the soporific Jack Hotchner as he entered the kitchen. Jack mumbled back and climbed into his place at the table. Sebastian set the place, poured his cereal, got his juice out as well, before joining him in breakfast.

They ate in quietude, that is until Sebastian’s phone buzzed with a text.

Once he’d read it, he held the phone out to Jack across the table, “Hey, do you wanna talk to your Dad? He’s free to call you quick if you want.”

A bolt of energy shot through Jack and he clutched the phone tightly.

There was Sebastian’s watchful eye remaining on Jack while he was clearing up the dirty dishes. Jack knuckled one of his eyes every now and again, but there was no doubt that he was beyond excited to speak to Hotch. His legs swung under the table.

“I love you, Daddy,” Jack said before he passed the phone back over, but Hotch had already hung up. Pocketing it, Sebastian finished up his breakfast with Jack officially cheered up – for now at least.

“I was thinking we could go out somewhere, treat ourselves.”

“The zoo!” Jack crowed immediately

“The zoo?”

“I haven’t been for ages and ages!”

“Well, I shall see if that’s possible while you go brush your teeth.”

Completely unplanned, Jack was dressed in a green polo that matched Sebastian’s shirt. Not the pattern but they were the exact same shade.

“My mum used to dress me and my sister up in similar outfits when we were kids,” Sebastian said as he was tying up his laces.

“Sometimes, Henry and me wear the same things,” Jack replied, double knotting his shoes up. A wise move.

“Who’s Henry?”

“My friend, his Mommy works with Daddy.”

“Ah, gotcha.”

The drive over had a much more confident sing-a-long. Sebastian played the same CD (but just the songs that Jack liked) and Jack was starting to pick up on some of the lyrics. Or at least what they sounded like. He was currently favouring that of Sara Bareilles. So much so that, after they circled the car park of the zoo and found a space, they finished the song before turning the engine off

As they were lining up to buy the tickets, Sebastian bent over and whispered to Jack, “I know you’d much rather have your dad here instead of me.”

“I don’t mind you,” was the reply, and a shrug to boot.

“I don’t mind you either, kid.”

And the second they entered the park, map in hand, Jack was grabbing at Sebastian, pulling him along, “Come on, I wanna see the elephants!”

The pair did pause to glance in the direction of the other animals, give them their moment of glory. But their focus and their hearts were set on finding the biggest land mammal, past the bug house and the birds, along to where the wider paddocks were situated.

Across a wooden bridge, they finally landed at the edge of a wooden barrier, about five feet from a ha-ha wall that wrapped around the elephants’ land. Jack stood on his tiptoes, his chin on the wooden slat.

Already knowing the answer to his questions, Sebastian said, “Can you see alright? Or do you wanna go on my shoulders?”

Jack fidgeted, scuffing his shoes on the dirt path, “Yes please.”

And he raised his arms over his head. Sebastian ducked down and lifted Jack over his head with some difficulty. He didn’t tell Jack that though.

“Now, don’t go farting on me, young man,” He patted Jack’s leg.

“Thank you, Seb.”

From his elevated position, Jack cheered up. He made sure not to hit Sebastian when his legs stretched out in excitement at the baby elephant trotting about the enclosure. He waved to the baby elephant who waved their trunk clumsily back at the crowds, eliciting a series of “awws”.

“Baby elephants stay with their mothers for their whole life,” Sebastian read off the plaque, “And these ones are from India. That’s where my mum’s from!”

“Is that why you sound like that?”

“Like what?”

“All funny,” and Jack flapped his hand about.

“Nah, that’s my dad’s fault. From the exotic land of Bolton.”

“Is there any animals from there here?”

“Probably not, bud.”

“That one’s the Mommy,” Jack pointed out the elephant the wee baby was now showing off to. He laughed loudly when another baby elephant submerged its whole head into the artificial watering hole for a drink, “It’s still learning!”

A gentle meander took them all the way back to the café, once again ignoring the other animals. They were thinking with their stomach.

Upon arriving at their destination, Jack went for the classic fish, chips, and peas. Sebastian had made a New Year’s resolution to not order something just to get the chips on the side, so he went for the lasagne and broccoli.

“I used to call them ‘baby trees’, made me feel like a giant.”

“What about peas?” Jack scooped several of the vegetable up onto his fork.

“They’re boulders, the kind that roll all the way down mashed potato mountains.”

“I don’t have any mashed potatoes though.”

“Maybe next time. Eat your boulders.”

Third time lucky, the other animals were given Jack’s attention. His second favourite after the elephants? The meerkats. There was a bubble at the centre with a tunnel underneath the desert-like paddock that he could go into and poke his head up. He waved and shouted (albeit muffled by the thick glass) at Sebastian, who waved back and took some photos. Back around by Sebastian’s side of the wall, Jack would hold the meerkats’ attention with a clementine segment pinched in his finger and lure them around the wall’s edge. Then he would eat the fruit.

Sebastian preferred the otters, slipping and sliding down the stream. His laugh trilled with the kids that watched the otters cawing at each other. Chattering between their little whines, they wriggled around in the pool.

Just as Jack was adding to his birthday list every other item in the gift shop. Sebastian’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

About to fly back to Virginia, will be in around nine.

All good our end, hope it’s good with yours too

And Sebastian sent his reply with the photo of Jack hypnotising the meerkats with the promise of citrus fruit.

Jack was very clearly worn out from the day but still had enough energy to tap his toes along during the drive back. The news that Hotch would be home that evening was what got Jack through until dinner time. Sat on the countertop, he watched TV placidly, while Sebastian got on with the tuna pasta. He did get to pour the sweetcorn in, a proper little chef.

“Thoughts?” Sebastian asked when Jack chewed through half his plate, apparently without breathing.

“It’s nice,” Jack said, his mouth half full, “I like the chips.”

The crushed salted crisps sprinkled on top were just a bonus that Sebastian’s dad had introduced to the world. His best invention by far, besides his two kids of course. And Jack ate it all up with gusto.

As the dishwasher was being loaded, out of nowhere, the front door unlocked and not even halfway open before Jack was up on his feet and shouting, “Daddy!”

He sprinted full force and was caught in his father’s arms just as Hotch stepped into the flat. Hotch, despite seeming very worn out, cradled his son like he was a newborn.

“Hey buddy,” He whispered into Jack’s hair, “How have you been?”

Jack’s reply was muffled in his suit jacket, “Good!”

“How was your time with Sebastian?”

“We went to the zoo!”

Sebastian caught Hotch’s gaze over Jack’s shoulder, and immediately Sebastian busied himself with clearing the table, “Lucky you caught him on his way to bed.”

“Come on,” Hotch patted Jack’s back, “Let’s get you off to sleep.”

He carried Jack off to his bedroom, leaving his briefcase at the door. Sebastian watched them go with a half-smile. One that disappeared when it turned to the chores at hand.

First things first, he placed Hotch’s dinner onto a plate and placed it in the oven, still warm from the initial cooking. Of course, he didn’t put the salad in the oven. He wasn’t an idiot. Then it was putting the leftovers in the fridge, scrubbing at the dishes and cutlery, cleaning down the table, sweeping up the stuff. Somehow he was always more productive when the repercussions were next to instantaneous.

“Did Jack go down OK?” Sebastian asked once Hotch had returned to the kitchen.

“Yes, he’s quite worn out from your trip.”

“How was the case?”

The question was offered with a levity that Hotch understood as merely checking in, not an attempt to mine the grisly details from his mind. That much was clear when Hotch set his gun down on the table and Sebastian tensed before moving around and away from it. Hotch then picked it back up and deposited it in a drawer.

“It was fine, glad it was over quick. Is that my dinner?” Hotch opened the oven, standing clear of the hot air that escaped from it.

Nodding, Sebastian passed the dying up cloth between his two hands, “Yeah, plus salad, crisps – sorry, ‘chips’ - for the top.” He corrected himself only because Hotch’s eyebrows knitted at his choice of words.

“You put chips on top of your pasta?” He said slowly.

“Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

Looking unconvinced, Hotch closed the oven again, “How did you find your time with Jack?”

“He’s a good kid, we had fun today. Plus, he didn’t kick up a fuss eating his five-a-day which is a bonus,” Sebastian twisted the dish cloth around, “You’ve done a good job raising him.”

Hotch nodded with what Sebastian was saying, and while his face stayed neutral, his eyes held a glint.

“Then you wouldn’t have any objections to becoming his nanny full time, would you?”

Offer sank in and Sebastian’s face broke out into a toothy grin, “Yeah? Even with the crisp-chips?”

Hotch’s shoulders dropped about half an inch of tension, “Do you have your documents with you? We can get the paperwork done tonight.”

A little undainty on his feet, Sebastian went to his room and grabbed his folder of his important paperwork that was still in his unpacked suitcase. He tried to keep his clothes neat now that they were out on the carpet.

“Can I get you a drink?” Hotch asked, already pouring himself a scotch. He had served his dinner while Sebastian was out of the room. He’d even sprinkled a few chips on top like Sebastian had suggested.

“I’m good with water, thanks,” and Sebastian sat opposite Hotch’s place at the table.

“You don’t mind if I eat while we do this? I haven’t since lunch time.”

“Go ahead.”

Sebastian waited until he was a few forkfuls into his meal before speaking again, “Thoughts on the chips?”

He had to severely mute his reaction as he watched the corner of Hotch’s mouth quirk up and stay there, “Surprisingly good.”

With glee, Sebastian snapped his fingers, “Success!”

Once settled, Hotch and Sebastian discussed fees, records, emergency contacts. A copy of the background check Hotch had already completed sat atop the contract. Hotch let Sebastian read through to his leisure while he polished off his dinner. By the time his plate was cleared, Sebastian’s signature had been scribbled alongside Hotch’s on the few dotted lines that concluded the sheets of paper.

“You’re officially hired,” Hotch slid a pair of newly cut keys across the table. When Sebastian pocketed them, he held up his tumbler.

“To having a job,” Sebastian clinked his glass against Hotch’s and took a sip, “Thank you. Forgot to send you this yesterday by the way.”

And he sent the photos off to Hotch’s number. Not a moment later, Hotch’s phone beeped and he picked it up, his thumb swiping over the photos. To fill the quiet, Sebastian asked, “Do you have a preference on what I can send you and when while you’re away? I don’t wanna bother you too much while you’re working.” His rambling faded as he watched Hotch’s face soften.

“Send me photos whenever you can.” Hotch’s voice had melted too, warming Sebastian’s already soporific heart.

Sebastian stifled a yawn before swallowing, “And I think that’s the end of my day approaching. Goodnight, Aaron.”

“One more thing,” Hotch slipped his phone into his breast pocket, “Why did you move over here, Sebastian?”

“I had a pen pal over here, we met on holiday when we were kids, and I wanted to move away from home. So I got a Visa and moved in with her.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Satisfied, Hotch began to clear up his plate, “Goodnight, Sebastian.”

Sebastian went to say goodnight but, remembering he’d already said that, he just left for his bedroom.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner x oc #aaron hotchner fanfiction #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #my writing #wc: 2k+#r: male #series #goodnight aaron

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therewasatale · 4 years ago

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Kindred spirits

On Ao3.

There are countless interdimensional service and food establishments across the multiverse. In some cases, the building or the interior itself is travelling from world to world, sometimes buying items in one dimension and selling them in the next one. In other cases, only the opening door appears in different or even multiple worlds, and the interior is situated in some kind of pocket space. Probably because the rent is cheaper that way.

One of these latter places was the "Beasts Den", a small smoky pub which served as a refuge for everyone who was obsessed with exotic or magical animals. It was a strange niche for an establishment but considering the vastness of the universe, it would have been stranger for it not to exist. As it is all people in the multiverse who had that strange gentle insanity which led to someone naming a twenty-meter-long scaled beast with claws longer than kitchen knife and multiple tentacles "Fluffy", had the potential to find this place.

It appeared as an old wooden door scratched and burned multiple times with the letters "Beasts Dean, Animals welcome" hammered into it in metal letters. It was usually found when those aforementioned people were at a low point in their life, and they needed some company aside, or with their little house pets.

And if someone, Rubeus Hagrid was in need of something to get the weight off his mind, and some stiff drinks would have been a great start. Honestly, he would have considered it a great continuation, and probably finish as well, but it didn’t turn out well the last time. He was heading towards the Hog's Head but turned down between two houses when he noticed something unusual. He knew Hogsmead like the back of his hand but he never saw that battered door before. And now he was in front of it in a back alleyway.

He knew he shouldn’t.

Unknown new doors appearing in a wizard village were usually the result of some prankster, or something even more sinister, but Hagrid didn’t care anymore. It looked like an inn, seemed welcoming, and he really, really needed something to drink. He pushed down the door handle, and to his surprise, there was no shower of confetti or fart noise, but it opened into an actual pub.

The room was filled with the smell of something acrid, smoke, alcohol, and thousand more, not many of them pleasant. There were perches, boxes, and cages everywhere, hiding serpentine or furry shapes which watched the patrons with suspicious eyes. On the perches sat a variety of critters from birds seemingly made out of pure crystal to a lemur kind of primate which had membranes under its arms. To Hagrid's surprise the patrons were just as varied as the animals.

There was a person wearing a trench coat and a matching hat, feeding chicken nuggets to something similar to a small demonic dog. There was also a young man around his twenties with a red and white patterned baseball cap playing with a couple of similarly designed small balls and drinking a half-emptied mug of beer.

On the other side of the pub a muscular woman wearing animal pelts was letting her bear drink from her wine glass as she gently petted the animal's head. Hagrid didn’t even get the usual stares regarding his height and stature as he lumbered in. He walked to the counter and took a seat beside a solemn looking brown-haired woman who wore slightly singed thick letter clothing.

The barstool barely creaked under him when he sat down and as he moved around it adjusted to his size. He leaned against the counter and let his earlier melancholy flow back into him. It was a wonderous place, but right now it just reminded him of what he had to give up. He sighed as he raised his hand.

A big man, almost his size stepped up to him on the other side of the counter He had a mass of scars for a face, and an eyepatch, but despite this he wore a surprisingly gentle smile on his face.

"Good evening. What can I get for you?"

"Evening. A pint of beer, and after that keep it coming, please. I had a rough day. "

The barkeep nodded with an all-knowing smile. During his long time as the barkeep in the "Beasts Den" he seen this countless times. In his opinion a good barkeep didn’t asked if the patron didn’t want to speak, and more importantly never judged. He just provided a port in the storm.

"Aren't we all. " Huffed the woman right next to Hagrid. She was drinking sherry from a wine glass and wore an expression just as downcast as his own.

"Mhmm." Answered Hagrid as he got his mug of beer. He contemplated to say something or not, but after a bit of deliberation he decided that he needed it off his chest, and besides if someone, the strange people in this pub would understand it.

"I had to give up my pet. He grew up to be too big, and the principal said I couldn’t keep it around the school where I work as a groundskeeper." The half giant sighed and emptied his glass in a couple of big gulps. "I loved that little rascal. "

"I am really sorry." Said the woman with a gentle expression and patted the man's shoulder. "I know how hard is can be to lose a pet. Sybil Ramkin by the way."

She extended her hand the groundskeeper of Hogwarts took it into his shovel sized ones and shook it.

"Rubeus Hagrid. And yes, its, really hard." Hagrid could feel tears welling up in his eyes. He reached into his pocket and started dabbing them away with his half-charred handkerchief." He…he was feisty, but I know its jut because that’s how he showed his love. I-I will always miss him. I remember when he was little, he always tried to bite off my fingers." Sobbed Hagrid slowly and heaved a mighty sigh.

"It's all right, just let it all out," smiled gently Sybil and petted the man's giant hand.

"My poor Norbert is now away somewhere in Romania in a sanctuary. I don’t even know if he will like it there. Anyway…" Hagrid shook his head and wiped away his tears as he got another pint of beer from the barkeep. "…I don’t just want to vent on you. Why are you here? You said you had a bad day too?"

"Oh yes, I have some problem with poor Thaddeus here." She leaned to her left and patted a big carrier box beside her chair. Something hissed at her as an answer. "He is a rescue, but he is bit cranky, have a dull color and already an adult, so I'm afraid no-one will want to adopt him. I can't keep him with the others because he is really territorial with them. I am afraid I will have to put him down." Sybil sighed and it was her turn to take out a handkerchief and use it to wipe away a couple of big tears from her face.

Hagrid nodded solemnly as he looked at the box, when a sudden wild idea appeared in his head.

"I could take him." He said before his head managed to consider any consequences.

"Don’t say things like that." Waved the woman as she got hold of her emotions. "You don’t even know what he is."

Hagrid deflated a little bit and nodded. It was true, and, he had a habit of picking up all sort of critters without first learning how to properly take care of them. He emptied his mug of beer again before starting to speak again.

"Sorry, I just feel empty after losing my dragon, and…" Sybil choked a bit on her own drink and placed it down between a couple of big coffs.

"Dragon…Your Norbert was a dragon?" She coughed as Hagrid nodded again wondering what became of her.

"Yeah, a Norwegian Ridgeback. He became too big, and I had to give him away to a Dragon Sanctuary. What?" Asked Hagrid because the women were looking at him as intently as if she was trying to stare holes into him.

"How big is too big?" She asked suddenly.

"I…what?" Asked Hagrid completely baffled.

"How about, two feet maybe? No bigger?" Asked again Sybil hurriedly and leaned closer with a very determined expression.

"Uh…If Norbert would have been just two feet long there would have been no problem keeping him, yes. But he wasn’t, and…"

Sybil reached down and raised the small box from beside him, eliciting a disapproving gurgling noise from its resident. Through the holes on its side one could see a serpentine body, little stubby legs, a dull green color, and two suspicious little eyes.

"Have you ever had a Narrowe-Eared Smut?" Asked Sybil as she deposited the box in the lap of his drinking buddy.

Hagrid blinked a couple of times and gently wiggled a finger near one of the holes. The answer was a small but spirited gust of flame.

"Not yet." Answered the half giant with a warm tone in his voice. "But I would like to try."

"Well, I have a small booklet with me." Smiled Sybil gently. "Someone who loves dragons can't be a bad person, and at this point I would do anything to spare poor Thaddeus from the chopping block. " The woman's hand disappeared inside her pockets and she deposited a couple of items into the counter beside her sherry glass.

A golden pocket watch, a couple coal tablets, a small metal spoon, a notebook and a couple chewed up pencils. Finally, from the bottom of the pocket appeared a small booklet titled.

"Swamp Dragons and you: The Narrowe-Eared Smut and its care." She slid the paper towards Hagrid and smiled.

"There, everything is there that you need to know about the breed. "

Hagrid, still a bit shell shocked nodded, and slid the booklet inside his own, just as cluttered pocket. As Sybil slowly put everything back into her pocket, she glanced at the pocket watch she took out the first time, then flushed.

"By the gods, it's this late already? I have to be at the palace in half an hour and I need to change before that. Sorry Hagrid but I really have to go. Hello, dearie." She patted the box gently as she stood up and placed a handful of coins on the counter. "If you have any question find me at the Ramkin residence, you two have a dragon of a time together. " Chuckled Sybill before storming out the door.

Hagrid only caught a glimpse from view outside, but the graffitied alleyway seemed much different from the one which he stepped in from.

"Wai-" The half giant tried to say something, but his talking partner was already out of the door. "Palace? Ramkin residence?" He muttered as he glanced down at the little box inside his lap. "I have never heard of such places."

The strange little creature answered with a small bubbling noise and belched a little cloud of smoke.

"Neither did I heard of swamp dragons. Well…It looks like I have something else to do instead of just moping." Hagrid smiled and placed a couple of coins on the counter before taking the box with him stepping out the door.

He found the alleyway just the same as it was when he stepped in. It wouldn’t be polite from a magic bar to not make sure that people somehow always get home after a night of heavy drinking. Glancing back, he wasn’t even surprised to see that the door had disappeared behind him.

"Well, I don’t really know what happened but one thing I do know." Hagrid looked down at the creature which was trying to scratch out the side of the box. "We are going to get along like a house on fire. " Smiled Hagrid and begin to walk home.

What he didn’t know that it was in fact a hut on fire, multiple times. And more than a few scratches and bites. But despite that, he wouldn’t have traded Thaddeus for all the treasures of the world.

#Discworld #Harry Potter #discworld fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #sybil ramkin #lady sybil #rubeus hagrid #hagrid #The Emperor in Silver #gnu terry pratchett #harry potter fandom

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fartlovingblkguy69 · 1 year ago

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The Little Men’s Toilet Slave Part 2

And with that he turned around and I got to see the most magnificent ass. It was big and round, muscular with a nice layer of fat and hairy as fuck! I’ve never seen an ass so hairy before! This is the type of ass that I ordinarily would have wanted to bury my face deep in and rim for hours but given what I knew was about to happen I wanted to throw up! This was made worse by the fact that when he bent over teasingly, I was assaulted by a smell akin to hot sewage mixed with garlic and there were stains and dingleberries all throughout his filthy forest of a crack. As he backed up to my face he reached back and further spread his cheeks allowing me to see his hole underneath a thick ring of fur and his hole opened and pushed out, releasing a nasty sbd before slamming his hole down on my nose. Fssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhh “Ah, I need to get rid of some more gas before I open the flood gates or else I’ll drown our new toilet bitch and then he’ll be no use to anyone! Let me see the footage we’ve shot so far while I relieve myself!” he said rubbing his aching, bloated stomach. He sat there farting away with his filthy hair hole sucking my nose in and constantly dripping a sample of the sludge that was about to fill my mouth into my nostrils. It was getting harder with each fart for him not shit all over me. I could tell, but he wanted to drag this out as long as possible and to be quite frank I was in no hurry to get to the main even myself. Finally after half an hour he slowly stood up and groaned “Open your mouth toilet! It’s time! I really can’t hold it anymore! If I smell or spill any of this I swear to God I’m gonna vomit all over your cute face and i don’t want that so after I make you swallow I’ll let Josh (the hot asf blond guy from earlier) and his boys stomp the fuck out of you! This can go easy or it can be extremely painful! Your choice!” He gently patted my stomach and started to sit back down. I reluctantly opened my mouth and watched in horror as before he was even seated his hole seemed to spasm and out pushed the biggest pile of slop I’ve ever seen! It was soft, lumpy shit, not quite liquid, but definitely nowhere near solid and it stunk like rotten eggs that had been left under the burning sun for days! It quickly filled my mouth and with much effort Kyle managed to pull his hairy hole shut. “Hurry up and swallow that! There’s so much more inside me and I will let it out all over your face if I have to! Don’t chew, just swallow! You can savor my shit another time! I’m in too much pain right now!” I struggled to swallow, my throat burning and closing, gagging and trying not explosively throw up the toxic waste that was in my mouth and nostrils and felt like it was penetrating every part of my being. He slapped my stomach and said “Round 2! Here it comes in 5 seconds and remember what happens if it doesn’t end up in your mouth!” I hurriedly swallowed and opened my mouth right as the next blast came bursting out. This continued for 6 mouthfuls over the course of the next 40 minutes with many wet farts in between each torrent of loose, sludgy shit. Finally he exclaimed “Damn that felt great to let out! I can’t believe how much better I feel! You can’t imagine how much pain I was in! Now lick me clean!” as I sat there and thought to myself, You were in pain? What about me you piece of shit! You narcissistic asshole! What the hell is wrong with you? But I knew better than to say any of that so I just lay there licking his entire crack clean in silence before moving to his disgusting hole. He smiled down at me and affectionately rubbed my very full, very bloated belly. “I think you deserve a reward for being such a good helper! I can’t wait to give it to you later! I think you’ll like it! In the meantime I gotta get back to filming! Anyone else need a bathroom break with the new toilet?” Of course there stood Josh with an evil smirk on his face. Here we go again! (To Be Continued)

#gay shit #face farts #hairy male #human toilet #gassy farts #im lactose intolerant #fart kink #male farts

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thecleverdame · 6 years ago

Text

East of Nowhere - Year Two

Sam x Reader

Series Masterlist

Summary: You and Sam are strangers trapped in a desolate mountain town where you live alone, isolated from the outside world, for five years.

Warnings: language, violence, smut, talk of past trauma

Words: 8.5k

Beta: ilikaicalie

This story is complete (44k) and available now on Patreon for a pledge of 2.50. >>CLICK HERE<<

YEAR TWO

One Year, Three Days

“This is the one.” You stand beside Sam in the fading light of the afternoon, the wind tossing his hair around his face. Crossing your arms you pull the jacket tighter around you. You’ve been inside every house in the residential area of Shadow Hill, but none of them felt quite right, not until this one.

It’s at the very end of the cul-de-sac, where there’s more room between the houses, not to mention the edge of the forest in the backyard, which flanks your new home with thick pine woods.

You know just by looking at the outside that this one is the right fit. The deep blue siding reminds you of the color of the ocean in books, a rich blue that feels calm and peaceful.

“You sure this is the one? How do you know?” Sam inquires, tilting his head, trying to determine what makes this place different from the other forty houses you’ve spent days inspecting.

“I’m not sure,” you shrug, admiring for another moment more, then grabbing the wrist of his jacket, pulling him toward the steps. “It just feels like us.”

Once inside, your instincts are only confirmed. The living room is warmly lit with a soft fire, filled with overstuffed chairs and rich colors. Leading off the main living area is a grand oak dining table, big enough for an entire family. The kitchen is new and sleek, pots and pans hanging from hooks above the island. This house feels like a home, almost like someone’s lived here before.

“I like it,” Sam nods in approval, pouting his bottom lip. “Let’s check out the second floor.” You follow Sam upstairs, finding several bedrooms with large beds, each more luxurious than the last. It’s a far cry from the shitty little hotel room that you’ve shared for the last year.

“Why are there so many pillows?” Sam squints, “no one person could possibly need that many pillows.”

“They’re decorative. I like them.” You smile at him, swinging your hips like a happy-go-lucky child.

“I won’t even attempt to fight you for a room, you choose the one you want.” Sam grins, nudging open the door at the end of the hall, peering in. You frown, a sudden reality hitting you for the first time. “What?” He asks, his smirk falling at your abrupt shift in attitude.

“It’s gonna be a little weird not sleeping in the same room, that’s all.” You walk past him, inspecting the bathroom, thrilled to see a soaker tub big enough for three people. The look on his face is hard to read, “I’m used to waking up and seeing you right there, talking and farting in your sleep.”

Chuckling, Sam shakes his head “You don’t even want me to tell you some of the noises you make.” You raise your eyebrows and he continues “Yeah, I’m not the only one who talks in their sleep. Oh, don’t stop, harder....lots of sex dreams.”

“Sam!” You yell, slapping his arm. You drop your eyes out of embarrassment, giggling because you have a pretty good idea of who you were dreaming about. When you look up, there’s a broad smile plastered across his face, chest shaking as he quietly laughs to himself. “I hate you,” you grit slapping him again.

“Who am I to say what it was about, maybe you’ve just been dreaming about a really great full body massage.” He cracks himself up, leaning into the wall for support.

“You’re a real comedian.” You sigh, trapped in the space between embarrassment and amusement. “I want this room, the big one.”

One Year, Five Weeks

You think the house will help to alleviate some of the tension between the two of you and, for a couple weeks it does. Sam has one rule above all others, you don’t separate. You get it, you understand why it’s important that you’re always within earshot. In theory, anything could happen, but the fact is nothing ever happens. Your lives become a mundane routine, planned around books and spells and meals that’s wearing you down day by day.

The little things Sam does drive you crazy and not in a good way. Like the way his spoon always hits the side of his bowl when he’s eating soup or how he chews on the ends of all the pens until they’re twisted into mangled plastic. He leaves the toilet seat up and the milk on the counter and he always has to know where you are, every fucking moment.

“It works better if you use the scrub brush,” Sam recommends, sipping his coffee.

“I like the sponge.” You side eye him, elbow deep in rubber gloves and dirty dishes.

“You know, you don’t really have to do that. If you just wait, they’ll clean themselves.” He leans against the counter, seemingly intent on watching you wash.

“No, I do have to do it. Otherwise, they’ll sit here all day and every time I come into the kitchen, I have to stare at a sink full of dishes.” The organized scientist in you has reared its ugly head. Sam’s a wonderful man in so many ways, but he’s obscenely messy.

“Why are you mad?” Sam asks, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m not mad,” you grit, jaw clenched.

“Really? Because you seem angry.”

This is the point in cartoons where steam blows out of someone’s ears. Every bit of resentment, indignation, and sexual frustration is boiling to the surface.

“I said I’m fine.” You turn away from him, dropping a bowl to the floor where it shatters with a sickening crack. “God, damn it!” You scream, clenching your fists.

To Sam, this seems like a massive overreaction, but for you, it’s about so much more than a broken bowl.

“It’s not that big of a deal. You get the big pieces and I’ll grab the broom.” Sam moves toward the cupboard.

That’s when you erupt.

“Sam, for fuck's sake stop telling me what to do! Jesus, I’m capable of cleaning up broken glass!” You shake with rage.

“What the hell is your problem?” He shoots back, both ready for a fight.

“You’re my problem!” You scream. As if it had been planned, you step with all your weight directly onto a sharp shard of glass that cuts into your foot like a knife through butter. You shriek, falling onto your butt, coming down hard on your tailbone with a sickening smack on the tile floor. “Fuck, ow….ow.”

Sam crouches in front of you, with his hand around your ankle before you have a chance to process what’s happening. He lifts your foot up to get a better view and cringes, “that’s deep.”

“Let me go,” you kick at him, not hard enough to do any damage, but enough to get a point across.

“I need to get it out,” he scoffs, tightening his grasp.

“I’ll do it myself. I said don’t touch me,” you hiss, pulling your leg back again. This time, he lets you go, you wince as you scoot away from him.

“I’m just trying to help.” His tone betrays the words and there’s venom under the surface.

“I don’t need your help, I’m fine.”

He watches from the other side of the kitchen as you inspect your foot. He was right, it is deep, maybe three or four inches sunk into flesh. It’s a thick gash that’s pooling blood all over the light grey floor. Your stomach turns a little when you realize that you’ve backed yourself into the corner and have to pull it out of your own foot.

The pain comes without warning as if seeing the injury triggers the physical response. A sharp ache rises from your foot and up your legs and tears well over your eyes before you can stop.

It fucking hurts and suddenly you’re worried maybe you’ve managed to really injure yourself. What if you hit a tendon or actually did some permanent damage? The distress rises to your chest as you break out into a sweat.

The pain spirals and the blood isn’t stopping. God, you hate the sight of blood, it’s always made you lightheaded.

“Sam…” you panic, voice trembling.

“Here, let’s get you up.” Without missing a beat, he scoops you into his arm and carries you to the living room like he’s done it a thousand times before. That’s all it takes for him to forget what a bitch you’ve been; he hears the fear when you say his name and all is forgotten. After jogging to the bathroom, he reappears with a small bag.

“It hurts,” you spit, covering your eyes with your arm. You don’t want to look, the thought of all that blood and glass makes your stomach turn over.

“I bet,” he raises your leg into his lap, blood dripping all over his jeans. He doesn’t seem to care, though. You feel his wide hand slide under your yoga pants, halfway up your calf, squeezing lightly. “I’ll take care of you.”

With those words, Sam bears down, holding your leg still with a firm grip and rips the glass out. Not only is there pain, but more concerning is the steady stream of blood gushing out that is warm and slick, streaming down your heel. You don’t speak, you just make a strangled noise that Sam responds to by squeezing your upper thigh.

Your eyes pop open and the look on his face makes you feel even worse, “It’s bad huh?”

He nods tightly, “You’re gonna need stitches.” When you whimper, he just nods. “Don’t worry, you won’t remember. Gonna get you real drunk first.”

One Year, Four Months

You twirl spaghetti around a fork, coiling the noodles in just the right amount before popping it into your mouth. “Oh my gosh, Sam” you nod enthusiastically, “this is really good.”

“See, I’m getting better. I used the recipe this time,” he grins and you both dig in.

You’ve been swapping childhood trauma stories all night and now it’s your turn.

“We used to go on these camping trips when I was kid. Every year, my dad would pack up way too much shit in the back of our station wagon and drag us out to the middle of nowhere.” Sam sits back in his seat, sipping his beer. He likes when you tell the stories, he always seems fascinated by what was usually your boring, run of the mill childhood memories.

“Your dad’s an outdoorsman?” he inquires, crossing his ankles.

“Big time. He was in the army and when he got out, he spent years teaching wilderness survival. He’d live outside if he could.” You pour yourself more wine, then you continue. “So, he decides that we’re going to the Smokey Mountains for two weeks. He drags the whole freaking family out there, my mom and sister, my cousins and asshole uncle Ted. I didn’t care about any of them, I was so excited just to spend time with my dad. He’d taught me, what I thought at the time was a lot of bushcraft skills, I mean, I was just a little girl, but I knew how to build a fire and get a fish off a line, so I thought I was hot shit. I was desperate to prove myself. I never wanted to be like other girls my age, I wanted to hunt and fish and chop trees. I don’t know, I guess I thought it was the best way make my dad proud. So, we’d been there about a week when I decided that I wanted to go off on my own adventure. I packed a bag and wandered off. My cousin, Ryan, was supposed to be watching me, but he was too busy reading comics and no one else noticed.”

“Oh no…” Sam winces, rocking back in his chair.

“It gets better,” you promise. “I followed the trail for a while and then decided that I was fully capable of making my own way in the world and I ventured off into the woods. I probably walked for an hour before I decided I wanted to go back to camp, but it was too late; I was so lost. I walked in every direction and had no freaking idea which way was out. I was eight years old, with a ‘My Little Pony’ backpack and a pair of pink binoculars. I wasn’t dressed for anything more than a trip to the park and the sun started to go down….I was so scared, Sam. This huge storm was rolling in and when it started to rain, I just remember curling into a ball and crying”

“What did you do?” Sam’s enthralled, picking at the label on his bottle.

“I started thinking about my dad, he always said that if you aren’t finding a solution, you're contributing to the problem. So, I looked for a solution, which in my case, was finding the thickest pine tree I possibly could and crawling underneath. It hurt like hell, I was all scratched up, but I knew it would at least keep me out of the rain. And that storm, God, I hate thunderstorms to this day. It was so loud and there was so much lightning. I remember being curled up in the mud under that tree, freezing, and telling myself out loud that I was going to be alright. Even as a kid, I knew that I had to make myself believe that I was going to survive and I was capable of handling the situation. It was going to be awful and I was going to cry - but that was okay, as long as I made it through.”

“You were out there all night?” Sam leans forward setting his drink on the table.

“Yup. It was almost twenty-four hours before my dad found me. I was wet and dirty, but I was in one piece. You know he didn’t even yell at me? He just hugged me and told me he loved me.”

“That’s incredible, the whole thing,” he shrugs his shoulders, “I’d like to meet him.”

“You will,” you take a sip from your glass, pulling your knees up to your chest, “he’s gonna like you. He’s a ‘get shit done’ kind of guy. You kinda remind me of him.”

“Yeah, we’ll see.” Sam’s been less and less positive as the months go by.

“Yeah, we will,” you confirm.

Sam’s still for a moment, his eyes shifting as his own thoughts rush in.

“When, ah, Dean and I were kids, my dad was gone all the time. My first real memory is being in this smelly, dirty motel room and crying because I just wanted my dad to stay with me. I didn’t understand why he left, you know? Dean must have gone out or something because I distinctly remember that when he came back to the room, I turned my pillow over because I was afraid he’d see it was wet and he’d know I was crying.” Sam loses himself in that memory for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck.

“How old were you?”

“I don’t know, four maybe? Young enough that no one in their right mind would leave Dean in charge of me.” He scoffs and takes a drink, “That’s just how it was though. My mom died and dad needed to hunt, needed to fill that void.”

“Sounds to me like he was coping the only way he knew how t,” you suggest. Sam’s talked about his father before and you know there’s never ending layers to that relationship.

“I don’t hold it against him, not anymore. He did the best he could under the circumstances. For a long time, all I wanted to do was everything that he hated. Just be a normal guy, get married, have a couple kids, and be a better father than he ever was.”

“What? You don’t want that anymore?”

“I’m thirty-three and, forgetting for a moment that we’re stuck in Shadow Hill, I’m deeper into this life than my dad ever was. If you care about people, you don’t make them a part of this life.”

“Maybe you don’t get to make that choice for other people,” you shoot back. “Everyone has their shit, Sam, and I’ll give it to you that your shit is crazier than most, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be happy.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He gulps down the last of his beer, “I’m going to bed.”

One Year, Five Months

You’re going alone, you’re going no matter what he says because you don’t care about his rules anymore.

Sam’s reading in the living room, so engrossed in The Handmaid’s Tale that he doesn’t really hear you when you square off your shoulders and say, “I’m going for walk.”

He just smiles up at you, completely oblivious to whatever you just told him, “Whatever you want.”

If we’re being a hundred percent honest, you know it’s going to piss him off. But, there’s no way you are both going to survive without a little alone time every now and then. If it keeps up like this, one of you is going to kill the other.

You wander down the street and behind the houses to Miller’s Path, leading out of the town and into the looming pine forest that surrounds every side of Shadow Hill. After walking for some time, you veer off the path, heading toward a clearing in the distance.

You maneuver through the brush, the trees of yesteryear, fallen in storms long forgotten. The seasons have been harsh, stripping away the bark and outer layers, yet rendering them all the more beautiful. They have the appearance of driftwood, twisting in patterns that remind you of seaside waves; even the color of the moss is kelp-like. They are soft and damp, yet your fingers come away dry.

You tilt your head upward, feeling your hair tumble further down your back; the pines are several stories tall, reaching toward the golden rays of early fall. Birdsong comes in lulls and bursts, the silence and the singing working together as well as any improvised melody. A new smile paints itself on your face, rose-pink lips, semi-illuminated by the dappled light. Before you know it, your feet have begun to walk, body and mind both on autopilot - it's around noon and you don’t think you’ve been gone that long.

You find the clearing, trotting happily back out into the sunlight.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Sam’s voice booms, snapping you out of your solitary moment. You whip around to the sight of him standing at the edge of the tree line, his chest huffing and eyes wild.

“What, I’m just...out here.” You’re caught off guard more than anything else, stumbling over your words. Sam’s mad, breathless, nostrils flaring, pissed the fuck off.

“Just hanging out?” He throws his arms up, stepping closer to you.

“I was just taking a walk, I told you where I was going…” You step back, he looks like he might throw you over his shoulder and lug you back to the house himself.

“You’re acting like a damn kid sneaking around. What if something happened to you?”

“Nothing is gonna happen to me. What do you think is going to happen, Sam? Nothing ever fucking happens here. It’s just the same shit day after day and it’s driving me insane. It’s making me resent you and it’s not even your fault, I know that. But, I need to be able to take a walk or go to Tolliver’s or do just one damn thing on my own.”

“Y/N-”

“I’m not done! Let me finish. Look, if I could choose anyone to be here with, it would be you, Sam, it really would. I had no idea I needed you in my life before I met you, which I know sounds nuts and makes no sense whatsoever, but it’s how I feel. I like spending time with you, but I need time to be alone, I feel like I’m going crazy.”

“What if you decide you want to go for a stroll and you never come back? You just disappear. Huh? What then?”

“If I’m going to disappear, it’s going to happen whether you know where I am or not. I could be sitting next to you on the couch and poof, gone. Just like that,” you snap your fingers for added effect and he winces.

“Okay, sure, let’s just throw caution to the wind. You don’t care, right? Whatever happens, happens!” He’s screaming, pointing at you with an accusatory thrust of his arm.

“I never said that,” you glare, “stop being so dramatic! God, I hate you so much right now!”

“Screw you,” Sam, spits, lunging toward you and the next thing you know his mouth is crashing into yours. You’re still in shock, mouth hanging open as his tongue snakes past your lips, meeting your own. He tastes like almonds and salt and it is fucking wonderful. His arms engulf you, enveloping you in a crushing embrace, pulling your body flush with his. You tip your head to the side, mouth opening further to give him full access, a move which he accepts eagerly, his tongue exploring deeper as this kiss becomes less about rage and more about a year and half of sexual frustration. Somewhere in the back of your mind, it occurs to you that despite how good this feels, you’re still pissed. Groaning into his mouth, you place two hands on his chest and push back, parting in a breathless smack. Sam looks down at you, his shoulders rising and falling with the rhythm of his breath.

“You kissed me.” You meant it as a question, but instead you’re just stating the obvious.

“Yeah,” he flexes his jaw, “I did.”

“Well...I...” Just a moment ago there was so much you needed to say, but your head is swimming and you can’t think. “I’m not saying that I didn’t like it, but I wasn’t done-”

In the distance there’s a faint noise, growing louder. At first, you both look from side to side, but the closer the sound gets the more you realize it’s coming from above you. By the time you identify the noise as paper fluttering in the air, you can see the mystery object plummeting down toward the ground and it lands with a heavy thud on a patch of grass. You both inch toward it, Sam moving in front you with his arm out, “Don’t get too close.”

You stay behind him until you realize what you’re looking at and step forward as he grabs at the back of your shirt. “It’s alright, it’s just a book.” You bend down and pick up what appears to be a very worn, very old copy of Pride and Prejudice.

“What the..,” Sam’s voice trails off as you show it to him. There’s a feather sticking from between the pages and you open it to reveal a small line of text that’s been underlined by hand.

Glancing up at Sam you clear your throat read the text, “Sometimes the last person on Earth you want to be with is the one person you can't be without.”

“What is that, like Jane Austen?” he asks, completely perplexed.

You suppress your urge to comment on the fact that he recognizes Jane Austen when his face twists. You can watch the flutter of realization cross his face. “What?” You shift the book in your hands, “what’s wrong?”

“Someone’s watching us,” he snorts.

“But,” you hesitate trying to decide what the right questions are, “who?”

“I don’t know, but literature’s greatest hits don’t just rain the from the heavens. That was meant for us.”

“This is freaking me out.” You wipe your mouth, feeling the weight of the novel, and looking behind you.

Sam’s words sink in; someone’s watching.

He looks from you to the book, then up to the sky. There’s a moment of silence before he loses it. “What is this? A lesson?” he shouts, turning in a circle with his arms outstretched. “We’re listening, we’re fucking listening! Hello?” Nothing. He’s fuming, his cheeks bright red and fists clenched. He looks like he’s ready for a fight and not the kind that utilizes words. He wants to break something, frantic for anything to hit and watch his knuckles bleed.

“Sam,” you reach out, grabbing his wrist. He recoils when you touch him, pulling back as if he’s going to smack you. It’s muscle memory, something dormant left over from too many years of staying constantly vigilant and sleeping with a gun under his pillow. He cocks his fist and you stumble back, nearly falling over as he catches you.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to-” his face scrunches, to your surprise there are tears welling up in his eyes, “I wouldn’t hurt you.”

What Sam can’t tell you is the combination of emotions coursing through his veins. He’s so frustrated that he can’t even control his own reactions and it makes him feel painfully impotent.

“I know, Sam,” you drop the book to the ground and wrap yourself around him, pressing your head over his heart, “I know you wouldn’t.”

One Year, Seven Months

After the ‘Dr. Darcy Incident’, as you dubbed it, Sam does his best to give you more space. And just like you predicted, your relationship with him begins to heal itself almost immediately. Time away eases the urge to pick at each other and allows you to enjoy your time together again. It’s a morning like any other, except Sam isn’t there when you wander half asleep down to the kitchen. Sam’s always awake before you, a pot of coffee already brewing by the time you crack your eyes open for the first time. You assume he must need the sleep and try to recreate his normal morning routine, so that by the time he wanders into the dining room, there’s two eggs and wheat toast waiting for him.

“Good morning,” you greet him, setting your plate next to his.

“Good morning,” his voice is low and he blinks at his eggs.

“You still asleep over there?”

“I think so,” being the man that he is, he just throws you an appreciative glance and digs in. He spends the rest of the day going through his normal routine; run, weights in the basement, then a shower and off the to the library to grab a few books he wants to add to your growing in-home library. By that evening, he’s looking pale, dark circles forming under his eyes. He tells you it’s just a cold and that he just needs some sleep. You don’t think twice. Maybe he’s not feeling well, but it doesn’t set off any alarm bells. The following morning, you’re up earlier than usual, feeling uncharacteristically rested. Lacing up your sneakers, you hit the snowy pavement as the sun is rising over the horizon. It’s a beautiful morning, too cold for a walk, but it’s perfect as you pick up speed out of the neighborhood and head towards town. For several miles, all you hear is the controlled sound of your breath and your feet hitting the ground. You push further and faster than you ever have before, extending your route up the hill past Hill’s Cinema (the one room movie theatre) and winding back down around the city center park. By the time you’re trotting back to the house, the sun is high overhead and the chill of a bitter winter day is creeping in. Covered in a thick sheen of sweat, you head for the kitchen, pour yourself a glass of water and drink it. After a few moments, you happen to see a foot peeking from around the corner near the bottom of the stairs.

“Sam,” you call high pitched. You don’t want to look. The tight grip of fear rises in your chest as you round the corner and find him sprawled on the floor, face down still in his pajamas. Dropping to your knees, you turn him over. The moment you touch his torso, you can feel the sweat soaking through his shirt, he’s drenched. “Sam, can you hear me?” You brush away the damp hair stuck to his forehead. He’s burning up, his whole body is radiating heat. You’re not sure what to do, the only semblance of medical training you have is from watching re-runs of House on daytime cable. Shaking your hands in a panic, you try to mentally put together a list of priorities. At the top of that list is his breathing, so you press an ear to his febrile, damp chest and listen. He’s breathing shallowly, but his heart is galloping a hundred miles a minute. He’s so hot, you know it has to be dangerous, his body temperature must be cooking him from the inside out.

“Sam!” You yell, right at the shell of his ear. He’s three times your size and you know there’s no way you can move him on your own. “Sam! Wake up!”

When he doesn’t move, you do the only thing that comes to mind, you slap him, hard and fast right across the face. He jerks and his eyes flutter open with a groan. Thank God.

“Hey, can you hear me?” You hover over him, his eyes rolling back into this head for a moment before settling on you.

“What?” he slurs, his face contorting.

“You gotta help me Sam, you have to get up.” You move behind him, lifting him into a sitting position and fuck if he isn’t ridiculously heavy, his limp body doing nothing to assist you. “I can’t do this by myself. We just have to get to the shower, it’s right there.”

You grab his face and turn his focus to the small bathroom just off the entryway. “Okay,” he gulps and squeezes his eyes shut, “I’m dizzy.”

“I know, but we gotta do this now. Come on.” You stand in front of him, taking his hands and pulling with every ounce of strength you can muster. With a minimal amount of assistance, you hike him up, his arm grasping at your shoulders. The two of you shuffle down the hall, his weight threatening to take you both down. You get him into the shower, where he collapses onto his butt with a thud.

“My brain feels like it’s boiling,” he rubs a hand over his face.

“You’re gonna feel better in a minute.” In reality you have no idea if what you’re doing will help in the slightest, but he doesn't need to know that. You climb in the tub behind him and he instantly falls limp between your legs, his back crushing your chest as his head leans back on your shoulder. The fever is practically pulsing through him, his cheeks are bright red and heartbeat still quick, threatening to beat out of his chest. With your shoe, you kick at the faucet until a burst of freezing water erupts from the shower head and gushes over the both of you. You both yell in shock as the icy stream soaks your clothes and washes over your skin. After a few torturous minutes, the drop in temperature seems to calm his body. You’re shaking, teeth chattering as you feel his hand grip your knee. He turns his head toward you, his face at your throat.

“This is not at all how I imagined taking our first shower.”

“First?” You laugh, completely exasperated, chin trembling, “talk about presumptuous.”

You wrap an arm around him from behind, squeezing his wide shoulders and kissing his cheek, “You scared the shit out of me, Sam.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “didn’t mean to.”

Once he’s fully coherent, you give him aspirin, find him a change of clothes, and tuck him back into his bed. He grabs your hand as you walk away, pulling you beside him. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

You smile, patting his chest “It’s what we do, right? You and me ‘till the wheels fall off.”

One Year, Nine Months

Sam has no intentions of going through your stuff, he’s just out of toothpaste and you’re out for a run. He pads into your en suite bathroom, feeling like a kid who’s trespassing in his parent's bedroom. Neither of you have ever said your rooms were off limits, but there’s an unspoken respect for personal space. He pulls open a few drawers, pushing around lotions and q-tips when he sees it. He knows what the pills are the moment he lays eyes on them. Amelia’s were in the same pink, little plastic case she pulled out of her purse every time the alarm on her phone went off. Looking behind and satisfied you’re nowhere nearby, he pops the case open, to find half the pack empty.

You’re taking birth control pills.

If he’d asked you about it, you would have told him that you found them in the pharmacy a year ago, right after the ‘almost kiss’ and figured that taking precautions was the smart thing to do. You didn’t know where this thing with Sam was going, but it felt like it might sneak up on you someday and you didn’t want any more surprises.

Sam looks at the pills again, weighing out several scenarios until he hears you bounding up the stairs. He hastily shoves the pack back in the drawer behind an open box of tampons. He finds the toothpaste just as you swing through the doorway, sweating and breathless.

“Jesus Christ,” you jump startled at the sight of him.

“Sorry,” he smiles tightly, waving a tube of Crest, “just trying to brush my teeth.”

One Year, Ten Months

You slide on sock feet over the hardwood of the living floor and take a seat at the edge of the arm chair. “I’m going to the greenhouse.”

“You want me to come with you?” Sam glances up from his nest on the floor with a pen between his teeth. He’s sitting cross legged in front of the coffee table, books and notes everywhere.

“No, I’m good, I need some quality time in with my African Violets.” You tie your sneakers, watching him as he shakes his head and makes a note on an already crowded legal pad. For a moment, you let your mind wander. The intellectual in you, the woman that loves historical fiction and collects vintage copies of the periodic table, can’t help but be insanely attracted to this man.

He will never know how utterly delicious he looks in a v-neck t shirt, barefoot, and lost in some obscure text. Sam’s always a little sweaty and at this very moment, there’s a sheen layer of perspiration right at the hollow of his throat that’s nudging your mind in a thousand directions. It’s been way too long since you’ve had sex, but you don’t hold onto hope because Sam might as well be the president of the Shadow Hill Abstinence Society.

“I’ll bring you lunch,” he offers, without looking up.

“Sounds good, see you later.”

You hop on your bike and enjoy the ride to the greenhouse. It’s on the far side of town, a little over a mile, and you shiver in the cool morning air, your thin coat doing little for the brisk ride.

Green Thumbs, as the sign reads, is a fully functioning hot house as big as a barn. The heat hits you in a wave as you open the frosted glass door, enjoying the smell of the flowers and earth that overtakes your senses. You check on Sam’s plants first, the ones he asked you to cultivate for spell work. You fuss over the Mugwort and water the Lady’s Mantle before moving to your orchids that require repotting. At first, you didn’t know if you’d be able to grow anything, with Shadow Hill wiping the slate clean, but the greenhouse has proven to be space that allows change to stick. Your flowers and herbs grow tall and strong, perhaps better than they should. You lose track of time, surprised when you hear movement behind you.

“Hey you,” you see Sam and turn to greet him with a sweet genuine smile.

Sam gulps. It’s hot in here and you're in a tank top that’s sticking to your sweaty, glistening body. There’s dirt smeared over your stomach and arms and a little just beside your nose. Your hair is a wild mess, barely contained by the failing ponytail. He’s been having a harder and harder time with his own self control when it comes to you, but this is the moment he knows that it’s only a matter of time before the dam breaks.

“Sandwiches,” he holds up a paper bag, looking at you with the familiar yet strange look he gets from time to time. You have no idea what goes in that head of his, but you’d like to find out. You wash your hand off with the hose and join him on the small wooden bench for turkey sandwiches. He hands you a bottle of water as you catch his eyes wandering over your body.

You glare at him, “I know I’m a filthy mess. I promise I’ll shower before I sit on the furniture, okay, dad?”

Sam just chuckles, looking at roses and biting into his food, “You’re so far off base you don’t even know it.”

One Year, Eleven Months, Two Weeks

A deafening crash of thunder rips you from your slumber, as your heart beats nearly out of your chest. The second boom makes you jump, as lightning illuminates your room. It’s so loud, that it sounds as if the heavens might crack open from the power. Rain is falling heavily on the roof as you crawl out of bed and look out your second story window. The clouds look low enough that the far mountain peaks appear claustrophobic at the proximity. Between the flashes of lightning, there’s an inky darkness that sinks into the marrow of your bones. You glance at the clock next to your bed, but it’s black. Great, the power must be out. You don’t like storms. Most of the time, you’re an adult and you can power through it, but this is loud and bright and something feels uneasy and electric all around you. You make your way across the hall and rap at Sam’s door.

After a moment, you hear, “Y/N?” You turn the handle and creep inside as he sits up, shirtless and dazed.

“I um, I just...the storm woke me up,” you shift from one foot to the other, standing in his doorway.

“You want me to get up with you?” he mumbles, trying to shake himself from his sleep.

“No, I’m being a baby, go back to sleep. I’ll read or something.”

Sam throws back the sheets on the open side of his bed, and nods with his chin, “Get in here.”

You don’t hesitate, you crawl in beside him, and he pulls the cover up to your waist. You don’t know if he’s fully coherent or not, but he rolls into you, as if it’s no big deal. His body presses into your side, his face burying into your neck and his hand sliding across your stomach and coming to rest on your hip.

Shit.

You lay like that for a while, now more awake than ever before in your life. Everywhere he’s touching you feels excruciatingly sensitive, like you’re in overdrive. Sam’s breathing hot at your neck just under your jaw and instead of softening with sleep, it’s only getting faster and faster. A crack of thunder roars down from the night sky and you involuntarily jerk. Sam’s hand tightens around your hip, his body pressing into your side as he murmurs, “I’ve got you.”

You feel the shift of his head as his lays a soft kiss to the skin of your neck, it’s not a grand gesture, but it’s supremely intimate as you lay here in his bed. He kisses you again, this time moving down a little further, just the tip of his tongue darting out to taste your skin.

Your breath catches in your throat as you tip your head away, giving him more access. His hand moves from your hip back over your stomach, resting his palm just below your belly button.

“Can I touch you?” he murmurs at the shell of your ear. You exhale in a desperate, fractured moan.

“Yes,” you whisper, nodding.

Sam pulls at the hem of your nightgown and before you know what’s happening, it’s up and over your head, leaving you completely naked. He makes a guttural grunt of approval, pleased to see you’ve forgone undergarments. Still on his side, he leans over and cups one of your breasts with a calloused hand, taking your nipple into his mouth. You gasp, his wet tongue sliding over the hardened bud before tugging gently with his teeth.

His fingers play down your abdomen, barely grazing, as his touch sinks lower. You feel his fingers swipe over your sex, the tip of his fingers delicately stroking over your lips. When he feels that you’re wet, he pushes further, coating his fingers with your own slick. The pressure of his finger shallow inside you makes you quiver, your thighs falling apart.

Continuing to mouth your breast, his finger moves upward, out of your pussy to find your clit with expert efficiency. He rubs over the little bundle of nerves, eliciting a buck of your hips.

For what seems like a lifetime, he works your body just like this. His hand between your legs and nipple between his lips. His finger moves back and forth across your clit, rubbing and coaxing soft moans as you rock your hips up into this hand. Sam rolls his tongue over your nipple, then clenches down sending shocks that reverberate in your nether regions.

“I’m going to taste you,” he explains calmly, pressing a kiss between your breasts, moving downward placing his lips at the crown of your ribcage.

“Sam,” you puff, his words only adding to the anticipation, just a vague outline of what’s to come next, leaving him to fill in the details. The caress of his lips travel down your stomach, stopping for a moment to trace the outline of your belly button with his tongue. As he moves lower, he readjusts his body, crawling between your legs, hooking his hand behind one of your knees and bending your legs, using his shoulders to hold your shaking thighs open for him.

There’s a scrape of his teeth over the mound of your sex and you feel his breath before anything else, hot and warm with his face so close to your apex. Then his fingers; Sam uses his thumb and index finger to peel you open, revealing the throbbing little bundle of nerves.

There’s a tight swell of anticipation building in your stomach, but it’s nothing to prepare you for what comes next. With the tip of his tongue, slippery and warm, he scoops up and over your clit, once, twice, three times.

“Sam,” you groan, your back arching as he repeats the same, slow lick, just his tongue and fingers to hold you open. With his free hand, he reaches up, spreading his palm wide over your stomach, holding you down. Without warning, his whole mouth engulfs you, running his tongue flat and hard over the sweet spot that now controls every inch of your body.

Sam’s fantasized plenty of times about what you would taste like, but it’s different, better than he imagined. You’re salty and metallic in his mouth, making him only want more. He has a plan for this first time, what and how he wants to pleasure you. Between the noises you're making and the insistent thrust of your hips into his face, he knows he’s right on target.

He could do this for hours, incandescently happy with his head in a vice grip between your thighs, with a mouth full of tangy slick.

You don’t know long he’s down there, fifteen, maybe twenty minutes? All with his tongue making spine-tingling circles around your most sensitive parts. He knows what he’s doing too, changing his rhythm, adjusting the pressure of his tongue to keep you from coming, he doesn’t want that yet.

He knows you want more, he almost fucks you with his fingers, but he wants the first thing you feel pushing inside to be his cock. He wants you to come for the first time while he’s in you. He wants to watch you pulse and shake while he’s sunk deep. His dick is rock hard, grinding against the sheets as he thinks about it.

“Sam,” he scrapes his teeth over your clit when you call his name, groaning into your pussy. His tongue dips down, teasing between your folds before moving back up to his focus area. All you want is something, anything to fill you up, his tongue, his hand, his cock, the specifics don’t matter.

“You want me inside you?” he asks, looking up from your thighs.

“Please, God yes,” you groan at the sight of him, crawling back up over your body.

He settles his hips between your own, pushing his sweatpants down his thighs. His hand brushes stray hair out of your face and then he kisses you for the second time since you’ve known him. His lips meet yours, diving deep with a scoop of his tongue.

Lost in the bliss of his body weight and mouth, you feel his hand between you, then the head of his cock rubbing over your clit and between your folds. There’s the sweet moment when he presses the tip into you for the first time, slowly sinking as you stretch around him. You moan into his mouth, his kisses deepening as he slides thick and stiff until he’s fully seated.

You feel impossibly full, it’s an incredible sensation that sends pleasure shooting out from where he’s sunk inside you. You wiggle your hips, canting up to his, desperate to take as much of him as you can.

Breathless and panting, Sam’s mouth parts from yours. He reaches up to grab the rung of the headboard for leverage and drops his mouth to the hollow of your throat, kissing sweat soaked skin as he moves, pulling out and thrusting back into you with a force that makes your eyes pop wide.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, reaching for the pillows, the other hand clinging to his arm as his veins bulge with tension.

“You feel so good,” Sam groans as he’s trying his best to make this last. He wants you to remember this first time as intense and incredible, but he’s not sure he can last as long as he’d prefer. You’re so tight around him, like he’s balls deep in hot silk. You’re squirming under him, rubbing your pretty little body up into his like your life depends on it.

He looks down at you, your lip caught between your teeth, naked and straining at the sheets. Sam thinks you twisting under the weight of him is the best thing he’s ever seen in his life. He fucks you hard and slow, pushing all the way in and grinding his hips in slow circles that turns you to into a quivering mess of wet, raw nerves.

His mouth is everywhere, at your mouth, neck, biting at the ball of your shoulder. He moves from those mind blowing grinds to a steady rhythm as the rooms fills with the rolling thunder and the wet, carnal slap of his body into yours. You’re both close, the pumping of his hips faster and harder than before.

“Can I come inside you?” he pants, a growing desperation in his voice.

“Oh God,” you sink your nails into his back, frantic to pull him deeper at the very thought. “Yes, Sam, don’t stop.”

He props himself up on his elbows, his hips snapping fast as your breasts bounce with every thrust. Your nipples are still hard and he can’t help but take one back into his mouth, sucking hard as his hand snakes between your bodies.

His thumb presses over your clit, flicking up and down as he slows his movements. He grinds slow, just like before and you tip over the edge. You come in a glorious crescendo of pulsing nerves and taut muscles, clinging to him like a life raft.

Sam feels it, your body throbbing around his cock as you chant his name. You’re so beautiful, head thrashing to the side, mouth open, lost in the pleasure.

Before your orgasm has completely ended, he’s moving again, quick hard thrusts that make your muscles clench. Sam comes with your name on his tongue, filling you with everything he has, rocking slowly as he empties, twitching inside you. His forehead falls to the crook of your neck as his movements slow to a snail's pace. You rub his back, hands trailing up and down until he’s totally still.

Kissing you, he pulls out then flops onto his back and you lay side by side, silent in the dark as the rain continues to fall in sheets outside the window.

Sam brings your hand up to his mouth, kissing softly. “I’ve wanted that for a long time.”

“Me too,” you confess. This has wide ranging implications, none of which you want to think about right now. You’re sated with Sam and pleasure and that’s where you want to stay for the rest of the night. You feel him shift onto his side, his hand over your stomach again, dipping between your legs to feel the wet of your thighs, the product of his hard work and your arousal. “I need to get you into a shower.”

“The power was out…” You glance to his bedside clock which is lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Looks like it came back on,” he sits up.

“Not yet, I want to lie here a little while longer.” When you protest, he moves back to you, pulling you into the crook of his arm where you're both sweaty and overheated. “I just wanna be like this, just for a few minutes.”

“Whatever you want,” he concedes, not five minutes later he’s snoring gently.

But you don’t fall back to sleep. You lie in the dark, as the storm rages outside. You think about Sam and Shadow Hill and wonder if all this will actually last.

This story is complete (44k) and available now on Patreon for a pledge of 2.50. >>CLICK HERE<<

Tags: @smallgirlbigpersonality @mereka18 @gryffindorable713 @trainlikeawinchester @winchesterprincessbride @bamby0304 @saxxxology @notyourtypicalrose @mariekoukie6661 @little-big-mac2 @emoryhemsworth @mystrie @atc74 @holyfuckloueh @bunnybaby121115 @mogaruke @darkmystress00 @jaspesangriento @kazuha159 @mirandaaustin93 @crispychrissy @schilj79 @wilde-abandon @hennessy0274-blog @bojabee @miss-samantha-winchester @impalaimagining @andkatiethings @astephez @ladycynthia @mrswhozeewhatsis @lenawiinchester @feelmyroarrrr @mrs-meghan-winchester @har-rystyles @mistressofallthingsgeeky @theamuz @maui137 @stars-and-seas @vale0413 @impala67trenchcoat @curly-haired-disaster @ericaprice2008 @livelikeawinchester @althehufflepuff @itsthesamegametoday @bohowitch @spnwoman @just-a-normal-eccentric @gallifreyansass @StoneyGGirl @lonely-skys @81mysteriouslyme @missrandomista @soupornatural @stars-and-seas @natura1phenomenon @jarpadandjensenaremyheroes @81mysteriouslyme @likhelbentin @mrooks0205 @zombiewerewolfqueen @winchesterprincessbride @squirrel-moose-winchester @fortisetgloriosusinarduis @closetspngirl @dominodoll @rainflowermoon @cleighwrites @camelotandastronauts @imarockstar45 @thebeastinside19 @courtney-padalecki @itsthesamegametoday @virtualgirlfriendsan @daisymoder72 @fandom-is-my-middle-name @mysticmcu @luciferseclipse @malinda1997 @sunlight-dean @rockhoochie @collette04 @sandlee44 @ohnowin-chester @maddiepants @fandom-princess-forevermore @geeksareunique @femdeni314 @lazinessisalliknow @samwinchesterssexyface @the-yellow-girl96 @that67chevy @that-weird-asian-gorl @lmitchell78 @snffbeebee @fandom-is-my-middle-name @calaofnoldor @prettyinplaid94 @squirrelnotsam @spnwoman @luciferseclipse @daddys-littlewhitegirl @fanfictionjunkie1112

#East of nowhere #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester smut #sam winchester fanfic #series

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currebunz · 5 years ago

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Commission: Attack on Titan AU Parks and Recs

AO3 Link

A thick air hung in the office, crushing everyone's motivation for the day. The source of this bad energy came in the form of the ex-husband of the health advisor who worked in the same office area. The employee themselves were very nice and actually very apologetic for the situation. But the ex-husband was more than happy to be in the office. That was because he was here for an IRS tax audit. The Department of Trost had never had such a cold day before, even with the air conditions on high. whenever the man walked by, it was like a cold breeze went by. The younger and new hires were on high alert, flinching whenever the man was within sight. Sasha dived under her desk on her break as he walked by to look over Connie's shoulder. It was like watching a horror movie with a monster that didn't kill anyone. "I haven't had single thought with that guy walking around," Reiner said quietly while he was in the break room. Bertholdt had an open lunchbox in front of him but wasn't eating. "You think he can hear me chew? He told me chewing violated public health guidelines" he muttered quietly. "He's even gotten to Bert!" Reiner told Jean. "I can see that! Keep your voice down. That man has the ears of a hawk" Jean said as he covered Reiner's mouth with his hand. Everyone was quiet as they heard approaching feet. They let out a sigh at Marco entered the breakroom. "Hey....never mind" he turned around and walked back out. "That's cold Marco" Jean said quietly. "I don't blame him, I don't even want to mess around with that guy on patrol" Reiner groaned. He sat down next to Bertholdt, making the man eat his lunch before his break ended. "I just don't get it, how can someone be that evil?" Jean asked. "Easy, he's an ex," Annie said as she walked to the microwave. She stuck her hot pocket in and turned it on for a few minutes. "What's that supposed to mean?" Reiner asked.

Annie cleared her throat, turning to them with a cold stare. "An ex is filled with nothing but disdain for their previous partner. Imagine, after breaking up you go to work and now hold the fate of your previous partner's job in your hands? You would be swallowed up by the immense power and go mad" she explained. All of the men stared at her in an eerie shock. The microwave beeped and she opened the door. "Or, at least that's what I would do," she said as she blew on her meal. Annie walked back out without any further comments. "My God, she is right" Jean groaned as he leaned against the counter. The ex-husband was obviously making their lives hell just to get back at their partner! "What a bastard! Why is he making us suffer too?" Reiner complained. "It's probably just to spite everyone," Bertholdt said as he finished his lunch. "Thanks, Reiner" he grinned to his partner. "Don't sweat it, but you need to eat. Forget what that guy says" Reiner frowned as he saw Connie dash by. "He's coming!" he hissed briefly before continuing on his way. Reiner, Bertholdt, and Jean gathered their stuff and quickly left the break room. Back on the floor, Eren was typing slowly. His eyes were glued to the keyboard as he hit one button at a time. His shoulders were stiff and his brow sweaty. "Erin, are you done yet? I need those papers soon" Armin called over the desk to him. "I'm trying but Brian said I type too loud" Eren explained. He tried to type a bit faster, but his keys began to click with each movement. "Jaeger! I thought I told you to keep it down!" a loud voice cut across the office. Eren jumped up from his table and stood at attention. "Sorry, sir! I'll be quieter sir!" he shouted before sitting back down. His head fell forward onto his keyboard and he groaned loudly. "Sorry, Eren..." Armin whispered sadly. "It's not your fault he has the ears that could hear a mouse fart" Eren sighed as he sat back up. The space bar was indented on his face, making his delete the extra spaces on his work. "It's like I don't even know how to type anymore" he groaned as he looked at the single sentence, he had worked on for the past 30 minutes. Brian would come over to his desk if he so much as yawned, telling him to hurry up but be quiet about it. "How are you holding up Armin?" Eren asked. "Oh, you know. Brian thought I worked too fast, so he gave me Sasha's work and has her cleaning the carpets. I've only just started the work for next quarter, but Brian insists it's better to be ahead" Armin prattled off as his vision began to tunnel. He reached for an energy drink to his right and tilted the can upward until the last drop fell into his mouth. "I can smell colors" he sighed as his eyes focused on the screen. Eren looked on in horror, the usually calm and collected Armin was now a nervous wreck. Eren would always get help from him as he finished his work early each day, but now Eren wanted to help Armin. "I'll take some of it off your hands, I can...uh.... write it out for you" Eren grabbed a stack of papers and began writing down the report rather than typing it. Armin could type it out later since he wasn't a loud.

"Thanks, Eren. I don't want to stay late and have to wake you up to let me in again" Armin said in a shaky voice. He had only managed to sleep for five hours this morning before Eren woke him up to go to work. The two of them had staggered to the office and were immediately given a pile of work to deal with. That hadn't even been the worst of it, Mikasa who usually greeted them had been affected too. The woman usually was cool and stoic as nothing seemed to bother her. But that morning, she wore a cheerful smile and brought everyone coffee. "Hey guys, working hard or hardly working?" she laughed as she grabbed Eren's shoulders. Neither of her friends was able to respond right away. It was like she was a whole different person. "Uhh, working hard?" Eren said as he passed glances to Armin. "Mikasa, do you feel okay?" Armin asked. "Oh, Armin! You're so funny! I feel as good as the sun is bright. Brian was telling me that a cheerful mood brightens the workplace so I just thought a smile would help everyone better" Mikasa explained. As she said this, she took Eren's pen and wrote in his notebook. He read "HELP ME" written along the top of it. "R-Right...cheerful," he said quietly. "Well, I'm off to reorganize the permits. Brian said it was a real pigsty in there!" Mikasa gave the guys a thumbs up before speed walking off. As she passed Annie, she gave the woman finger guns. Annie simply stared at her in disbelief. She walked over to Eren and pinched the man's neck. "Annie! What the hell?!" he shouted. "Yeah, this isn't a dream. I need this Brian guy to hit the road so I can have my wife back" she said angrily. Annie took a long sip from her coffee as she glared at the office Brian was using. Currently, Levi had been busy with a national meeting and would only be in his office a few days out the week. While he was gone, Brian made himself comfortable in the office. Rearranging the desk and even bringing food in there as Levi had forbidden. Erwin had tried to stop him but as with everyone else, Brian had whipped him into place and did as he liked. He had even turned Ymir into a gopher, running her back and forth from other departments.

Historia was putting a wet towel on Ymir's forehead while she downed a bottle of water. "That guy is like the if someone mixed raw concentrated evil with salt and limes" Ymir sighed as she fell into a chair. "The devil's margarita" Connie gasped. Ymir shot him a dirty look before turning to Historia. "Thanks, babe" she smiled tiredly. "Anytime honey" Historia kissed Ymir's cheek as she ran off to finish her work. Below them, Sasha was on her knees holding a pair of tweezers. "How am I supposed to clean the carpet with these?" she sighed as she picked out another crumb of granola. She dropped it into the small bag on her hip. "Why don't you use the vacuum?" Connie asked her. "Brian said it is a waste of power and since I am always behind, I can at least do this" Sasha sobbed. Even Levi never made her clean like this. "This is crazy man, how are we gonna get rid of this guy?" he groaned as he held his head in despair. "Good luck with that Connie, I'll make sure to redistribute your stuff to charity," Ymir said lazily. "H-Hey! I'm not gonna do it!" he argued. Sasha hugged his legs, crying loudly. "Please Connie! I don't wanna see another dust bunny again!" she bellowed. "I know, I know. But he is too scary!" Connie hugged Sasha as the two comforted one another. Just then, Marco dashed into the office. "Guys! Levi is coming!" he said in a panic. The entire office stopped, not a single person typed. Marco dashed to his desk and everyone held their breath as they tried to look normal. Their eyes darted between Levi's office and the front door.

Hinge entered the office first, laughing loudly about something. She stopped as she spotted Sasha on the floor and Mikasa happily arranging a corkboard. "Good lord," she said quietly as she looked around. Levi walked up behind her, pushing her in the middle of her back. "Hange, what have I said about blocking the entryway?" he said in an annoyed voice. "Safety regulations, blah, blah. Just look" she said as Levi stepped around her. His eyes scanned the office without any emotion on his face. right away, he ran his finger along a file cabinet, noting the amount of dust that had accumulated. He walked over to Sasha, staring down at her. "Get up" he ordered her. Without even a breath, Sasha stood up and began shaking. "Get the vacuum and clean the floor properly," Levi said with a pointed glare. "Yes, sir!" Sasha took off running to the utility closet without looking back. Levi turned his gave to Eren and Armin, glaring at the large stack of papers on their desks. "Eren, stop playing with your keyboard and take half of Armin's work" he continued. Eren quickly scooped up the mess of papers and began typing loudly. Levi glanced at Ymir and Historia, not saying anything as he went to his office. He opened the door without knocking, earning a glare from Brian. "Where is Erwin?" Levi asked calmly. "He is out getting donuts, why?" Brian said back just as calmly. Everyone was still "working" while holding their breath. With Levi's absence, they had forgotten how much of an unstoppable force. It was like watching to lions facing off. "He should be here completing the month's summary, we have front desk employees that can get deliveries" Levi lectured the auditor as he walked slowly into the office. His eyes scanned every corner, noting each change Brian had made. "I see you have made a mess of my office" he continued. "A mess? I think I made it look better than before" Brian argued. Levi's eye twitched, obviously angered by the man's idea of "better".

"It's still my office and since I am back, you can leave now," Levi said as he pointed to the door. "I don't think so, I still have plenty of work to do. As you may remember, I'm handling your office's audit" Brian stood up and held Levi's stare. No one said anything for a while, battling with just their eyes. Erwin came rushing through the door wearing a sweater tied over his shoulders like some golf club dad. "They ran out of chocolate dipped so I got chocolate glaze..." he trailed off as he saw Levi standing in the office. "Oh..." he began to back away, but Levi caught him by the sweater. "What the hell are you wearing?" he said in a low voice. Erwin wasn't sure how to respond, shrinking in his husband's presence. "He is wearing Royal Polo, it's fashion. You could learn a thing or two" Brian announced proudly. Levi turned back to Brian with a look of pure death. "That's it, you're coming with me" Levi dragged Erwin out and shut the door. He led everyone into the break room for a powwow. "Why the hell all are you all acting like whipped puppies?" Levi asked. "Brian is terrifying! We can't take it anymore!" Sasha cried loudly. "He made Sasha clean the carpet with tweezers for a whole week. A week!" Connie explained. "He took all of Jean and my bobbleheads. Even the limited editioned ones" Marco explained. "And he calls me bobblehead! I don't look like a bobblehead!" Jean said angrily. Mikasa's persona broke for a moment, allowing her to glare weakly. "He made me say 'totes', I can't even sleep at night without reciting Gossip Girl scenes," she said tiredly. "Levi, he broke my wife!" Annie said angrily. "Yeah, and he makes me run back and forth to relay info that he could just say over a call" Ymir joined in angrily. "He made me his secretary, I told him I was the head of archives, but he said I looked like a secretary" Historia reported. “Brian told me I was too big for the office and makes me work in the hall” Reiner growled. “Me too, he put me in the storage closet because I bloke his view of the office” Bertholdt added in.

"It's worse than I thought, scratch that. Erwin's outfit is worse than I thought" Hange said. The man coughed, removing the sweater over his dress shirt. "I'm afraid even I can't stand up to him. He made me shave my beard since it was unsanitary" he explained. Levi's face was calm but everyone could sense the rage in him. They knew that Brian had crossed the line by altering how his husband looked. "This has gone on long enough. I'm calling in a favor" Levi said as he pulled out his phone. He dismissed everyone to go back to work as he talked on the phone. No one knew what he was planning as he cleared a table in the center of the office. Brian had walked out and looked around in mild confusion. "What is this?" he asked. Hange stood behind Levi, wearing a wild grin. "Welcome to the battle royale. Right here, right now. Operation soaring falcon is in its final stages" she announced. Levi sat down in one of the chairs as a large man entered the office. He was carrying a large gallon jug full of clear liquid. The man placed the jug on the table and shook hands with Levi. "Corporal" the man greeted him. "Swanson," Levi said back just as curtly. Everyone watched as Swanson pulled the cork off the bottle. "Ugh, what is that? It smells like Jet fuel" Sasha groaned as she covered her nose. "That's Swanson Family Mash liquor. Made from the finest corn ever grown on American soil. Its only legal use is to strip the varnish off of speedboats" Swanson explained. "It's time to settle this" Levi said as Swanson poured him a glass of the drink. "An old-fashioned prairie drink-off" Brian sighed as he removed his blazer. He took his own glass, holding Levi's stare. "If you win, the Trost Parks Department is yours. And if I win, you finish your audit with a perfect score and leave" Levi began. "Pour it, I'm thirsty" Brian challenged him. Levi and Brian took a shot of the liquor, closing their eyes as it burned down their throats. Everyone flinched despite not drinking it themselves. Another round down and neither batted a single eye. "Had enough?" Levi asked. "Of this watered-down baby formula? Not even close" Brian shot back with venom. By now, the entire office was watching things unfold. Neither party showed signs of getting even tipsy. Brian took another shot, burping after swallowing his glass. He began sweating, wiping it off and trying to pretend the alcohol wasn't hitting him quite yet. Levi held eye contact with him as he lifted the jug and chugged what was left of the liquor. "Oh my god" Connie gaped as Levi finished it with a loud sigh. "Game set!" Hange announced with a wild laugh. Levi rolled his eyes and looked down at Brian. "Now get out of my fucking department" he ordered him. Brian clumsily scrambled to his feet, gathering his stuff and stumbling out the door. Everyone began cheering and hugging each other. Levi closed his eyes, holding the bridge of his nose. "Everyone be quiet! Clean this place up and someone get me a cup of coffee" he shouted. Everyone was instantly quiet, shuffling around to fix the adjustments Brian had made them make in Levi's absence. Historia brought Levi a cup of coffee and he went back to his office with Erwin and Hange. Peace was restored in the Trost Parks Department and no one ever heard of Brian ever again.

#aot fanfiction #AOT AU #AU #Commission

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talesfromtheindigoghost · 6 years ago

Text

Good Intentions: Entry 3

Do you want to know the funniest part of all of this?

I’ve actually tried going to therapy to get help processing all of this. The more I think about it, the less traumatic and bizarre it sounds but that pretense just falls to pieces once I start talking about it out loud. That’s kind of the point of getting help, though, isn’t it?

The view from my patio isn’t as dazzling or profound as what I assume is heaven but I still love to watch the sun rise over the woods and bring its light and warmth to whatever might be wandering around the yard. Squirrels, raccoons, possums… plenty of feral cats, sometimes even deer, if I’m really lucky.

A fat, orange tabby cautiously peeks her head out from the window of the modest shed I helped build a few years back. I watched her squeeze through, despite it barely being ajar, amazed at how her drooping belly seems to pour out like dough out of a can of biscuits. I can’t help but smile as she turned and lets out a noise and, one by one, her four children slink out of the window and follow her to the food and water I’ve made a habit of leaving out every day.

I’ve done this since as long as I can remember, for as long as stray cats have wandered near. One of the times I had to go through all of that, the thing that used to be me managed to wander into the garage before I got back. That’s where I used to leave the food and water for the animals. I think seeing what it had done to that poor little kitten really messed with me, and what really pushed me into giving therapy a chance.

She was nice, and to be honest, I still consider going back but I always got the feeling she thought I was making everything up. To be fair, of course, I wouldn’t believe it either. Hell, I go through it, and I hardly believe any of it is real. Maybe the funniest part wasn’t that I went to therapy, but that I told the truth when I did.

Sort of.

I wondered to myself; how do you really explain this to someone? How could I possibly convey the sensation of dying to someone who’s never died before? In what way could I ever tell someone that by that point in my life I had already successfully killed myself more than thirty times?

The answer, it turns out, was a lot easier than I expected. I told the truth, but dressed it up as… creativity, for lack of a better term. My deaths became attempts, my journeys became colorful metaphors for how I was feeling. Weird how just being honest can be such a relief sometimes.

The things that used to be me became reflections.

She had explained to me, after I had broken down and confessed how guilty I felt over the death of that kitten, that it hadn’t been my fault at all. That there was no way I could have possibly known that the kitten was sleeping under the hood of my car when I started it. That was the only way I could think to describe what I had seen without making it sound like I was some monster that had a psychotic break and mutilated an innocent baby cat.

The best I could do, she suggested, was to forgive myself for an unfortunate accident and that I could learn from the experience to take steps to ensure it didn’t happen again. That’s why I started putting food in the shed instead of the garage. Sure, it’s not as close and convenient, but I do have this perfect view to watch them live their happy kitty lives.

It was great advice, actually. I don’t know what I would ever do if one of my reflections were to hurt something other than myself ever again.

I started being more mindful in my attempts to resolve my situation. She helped me realize that I can take precautions without sacrificing my unique needs. Of course, as far as she knew I was just some suicidal weirdo struggling to make it through every day who uses far too colorful language.

I can see the kittens circling their mother excitedly. They’re just as that age where they should be learning to eat on their own but they would still much rather get a good knead of milk. I close my eyes, hoping to hear their mewling carried on the wind blowing in over the trees. I catch the scent of trees and mud, of black licorice.

I’m glad I survived.

It took me over thirty trips to wherever the hell I go when it happens, but I do find myself glad to be back every time now. A shiver runs through me as the breeze hits me a little colder than expected, roughly reminding me that I’m still in my pajamas. I think it bothers the guys at the gate when I show up wearing something dumb.

The red dude looked offended enough to puke the one time I had arrived wearing a “WHO FARTED?” t-shirt and cargo shorts. I’m not even sure if they can die over there but I could’ve swore he was about to have a stroke. These pajamas weren’t funny or anything, I just liked the cow print on the pants. I forgot to ask what they thought, damn it.

Maybe that’s just the euphoria of the sunrise talking.

I look back only a few hours ago and I remember weeping, beating on my own forehead in frustration while I tried to talk myself out of another suicide attempt only to turn around and cry harder as I forced myself into it. I felt the bottom of my stomach sink into the abyss before vanishing entirely as I tightened the rope and doubted myself, wondering if it was all one psychotic delusion, sweet talking myself into finally dying so I can–

I realize, quite suddenly, that I’ve gone there and back again fifty times now. I hate it just as much as I hated it the first time, but I need answers. I demand answers. I want to know why this is happening, even if it takes an eternity of passive aggressive visits to their front gate. I give my soda can an experimental shake, just to confirm it’s empty, before cautiously inhaling as it passes my nose on its way across the deck and off the side into the recycling bin down below. I thought I smelled licorice again.

Maybe I should get myself a cake. That feels right. What do you have written on a cake like that? Happy 50th? Congratulations? I could always just wait another month and call it a birthday cake but then I couldn’t really do anything too morbid without bumming someone out. I wonder if the things that used to be me go well with ice cream?

My mind recoils imagining the sensation of a thick rope of black licorice hardening as it touches the ice cream. Cold and hard, like trying to chew into gummi bears just as you take them out of the freezer. The kind of strong, resistant type of chew that leaves your jaw tired and aching to the point where it’s hard to focus on the flavor. Still, I always eat it anyway. The thick, sickening scent of black licorice causes a sensation that feels like a growling stomach.

I try to distract myself by going back inside after one last loving glance towards Mama and her band of mischief makers. I try not to think about the feel of black blood filling my mouth, consuming my entire world with its overwhelming presence. Even as I strip, I fight against its call. I fight to ignore it as it knocks on my front door, as the knocks turn to pounds.

I can’t tell if I actually smell it or if I simply want to. The water is too hot, nearly burning me as I stand with my head under the shower, hoping and hoping the pain will force me to forget that delicious scent for a moment.

“It’s okay to cry when you’re overwhelmed.”

A quick, painful slap across the shower valve shoves me abruptly from the boiling pot into the ice bucket. A sob bursts out of me from the sudden shock, and I feel the immediate pain of relief as I let myself cry under the cold water.

I cry, and I cry. I cry so hard I almost throw up but there’s nothing inside of me but bile and woe. My now shivering hand fumbles with the valve, regretting the impulsive decision to freeze myself out under ice cold water and carefully bringing it back to a more comfortable warmth. I feel it all. I felt the scalding flow turn to icy knives and then finally into comfort.

I hate the clarity of it all. My thoughts are clear, thorough, even as I stand here bawling my eyes out in a desperate struggle to understand the existence I’ve been cursed with. I can feel the sadness and despair pulling me into an unknowable abyss abandoned by any and everything that can possibly existence. Uncertainty tears away at the very foundations of my mind as I wail and sob, begging the universe for some kind of final answer.

My heart aches with lost love. I find myself lost in a sea of emotions over the pain of rejection. I scream and curse her name, that horrible, vile woman who left me. I pine for her beauty and touch, a deep and powerful bloodlust growing in the hateful depths of my broken heart. I’m determined to make her regret what she’s done, even if it costs me my life.

My cries grow heavier, angrier, and the boiling acid of my hatred burns through the walls of my soul and drips corrosively onto my bones. I grind my teeth, craving the sensations of her delicate flesh submitting to my bite that I may consume her as I so rightfully deserve to.

The cloying stench of black licorice and its profane, irresistible temptations flood my world and swallow my very being. I’m not sure when I stopped crying but I’m far more alarmed by the violent, growling grunts exploding out of my body as I start trying to break a hole in the wall with my forehead again and again.

It wasn’t until this moment that I remembered that I’ve never been in a relationship before.

I don’t recognize any of these thoughts.

Nor do I recognize the dead thing shambling through my bathroom door, a thing that used to be someone, shrieking out its black, bloody hatred through a grey, blackened maw of fleshy mush.

This one isn’t mine.

patreon: https://www.patreon.com/indigoghost

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#horror #cw: suicide mention #cw: gore #psychological horror #writing

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fidemcanem · 6 years ago

Note

❛ ♡ ❜

send ❛ ♡ ❜ to suddenly hug my muse // accepting

@lupiinee ---- cut for length (2k+)

T-3 DAYS

It’s a Monday morning.

Sirius’ body may be upright, but his soul is still in bed; he’s barely human by any recognisable functional standard. He dresses through sheer force of habit ---- James’ tie, Remus notices, and not his own, ends up around his neck, messily knotted and twisted to one side ---- but James merely snatches Sirius’ in return, so no harm done.

His eyes are half-open, sleep-heavy; he shuffles instead of expending the energy to raise each foot and let it fall again. He’s grumpy and he’s rumpled, and all somehow with that indefinable air of elegance that seems to seep from his pores. The tie, skewiff, manages to look like an artful statement of rebellion, rather than the result of stumbling fingers. His hair, unbrushed and still mussed from sleep, still falls in tasteful disarray that people might spend hours attempting to emulate.

(It is, Remus thinks, all rather unfair. Sirius has no regard for ordinary people, who have to tame their hair and straighten their clothes, and darn up their socks and manage to look passable where he looks ---- right.)

“Breakfast,” Remus says, in a soothing voice, like he’s talking to the dog and not to the boy. “C’mon. Bacon and tea and toast and marmalade.” Often, the promise of a good meal is all it takes to motivate Sirius. His table manners are shocking (a deliberate affront to his upbringing, no doubt, or perhaps it just hadn’t mattered much to Walburga to rebuke him when he was still a favoured son ---- too late now to change him, either way) and even a mouth full of food can’t shut him up, but at least he can be reliably tempted away from idiocy at any given moment with the promise of some chips.

Merlin knows where he puts it all; he’s certainly not growing.

This morning, though, it seems that even the Eden that is breakfast can’t penetrate the fog that is his brain. Sirius grumbles something indistinct under his breath, and half-turns as though to meander his way back to bed.

“Oi,” James says, and lobs a balled-up pair of socks with uncanny precision to smack Sirius right in the temple. He wobbles. “I’m hungry, you lumpy cushion. Let’s go.”

Remus takes pity on Sirius, whose hand rose to ward off the incoming sock-missile a full three or four seconds too late, pawing ineffectually at empty air after the injury had already been done. He takes Sirius by the shoulders, and turns him back towards the door that Pete has been holding open impatiently.

“Bacon, Padfoot” he says once more from behind Sirius, and steps close to wrap his arms around the shorter boy in a hug, using the embrace to shuffle him steadily towards the door. “Just think of the bacon.”

Sirius makes a noise that might be acquiescence or might just be defeat, and reaches up to clutch at Remus’ arm with clumsy fingers, and lets himself be guided, one swaying step at a time, towards breakfast.

T-2 DAYS

The tree they’re leaning against is their favourite; broad trunk and thick foliage provide a perfect and shady spot on summer days, and it’s far enough from the castle doors that it’s never too busy at lunchtimes and after school, a little too far for most to be considered convenient. Remus sits, idly shredded a leaf with his nails, watching James and Peter play exploding snap.

It’s impossible to predict who’ll be victorious. James has impeccable reactions, honed by years of quidditch, but a tendency to get distracted by Sirius, or Peter’s jibes. Peter’s got a good eye on him, and knows James well enough by now to exploit his weaknesses.

Though he prefers the sun ---- lounges in it, soaking it all up like he’s storing the heat to fuel that bright fire that burns inside him, drawing people inexorably towards him like moths in the night ---- Sirius is next to Remus, who knows full well that more than twenty minutes in the sun will leave him pink-red and tender on the bridge of his nose and across his cheeks.

It’s nice, the idle quiet punctuated only by the detonations of the cards and the cries of defeat from either James or Peter. Even Sirius seems to be quieter than usual, his laughing observations reserved to a few choice, teasing remarks.

Impulsively, Remus leans in towards Sirius, nestling close that they’re pressed close together all down one side: shoulder to elbow, elbow to forearm, and Sirius’ knee overlapping Remus’ thigh where he’s sitting cross-legged.

Sirius shifts into the touch, like Sirius always does ---- a boy who longs for nothing more than to human contact, affectionate touch, whose movements always account for the position of his friends, effortlessly solving the three-body problem to ensure a closeness to them all ---- and it seems only sensible for Remus to reach up and drape an arm across his shoulders to pull him closer still. Usually, it’s Sirius who drags Remus into a hug.

Now, with the tables turned, it’s clear to see that adjusting to fit himself into Remus’ arms is an effortless thing, for him. Remus wonders what that’s like: to be so confident of who you are to carve a space with such admirable ease for yourself anywhere you feel you ought to belong. His eyes are closed and his head his tipped back into Remus’ shoulder.

When his eyes open, the clear grey of them is startling in the summer sun, and there’s a smile curling at his lips, lifting one side of his face more than the other.

“Did you know you’ve a freckle under your chin?” Sirius asks, and reaches a finger up to poke gently at the alleged spot. Remus’ hand comes up to follow the touch, self-conscious of the soft warmth of Sirius’ touch. “I think I’ve got one there, too,” Sirius continues, conversationally, and cranes his head up to show Remus the long line of the column of his throat, summer-golden skin marred only by one or two dark freckles.

“So you do,” says, and pokes it in return; it seems the done thing.

“We match,” Sirius says, and there’s a tone of such satisfaction to his voice that Remus can’t help but wonder if, despite the shade, the tips of his ears are reddening anyway.

T-1 DAY

They’ve been camped out in this corner of the common room all evening, claiming it as their own. It’s got the squashiest armchair, Remus’ favourite, which Sirius had unceremoniously evicted a second-year from. He probably ought to feel bad, about that, but the best he could manage was a reassuring smile as the boy had reluctantly sloped away, and a grateful groan as he’d sunk into the cushions, which Sirius had magnanimously fluffed up for him, first.

It’s still a week until the full moon, but Remus is tired and a little stressed, and the ache in his bones is beginning to creep in and settle like a fine film ---- not enough to hurt, as such, but enough to make itself noticed. Enough to make him aware of each muscle in turn.

“Poor old man,” Sirius teases. “Ought to get you a walking stick. Why don’t you pop your teeth in a glass, and I can pre-chew your snacks for you.”

“You’re disgusting,” Remus remarks, dryly.

“You’re ungrateful,” comes the easy response. “Fine then; gum helplessly at everything. See if I care.” Remus feels like he ought to toss a pillow at Sirius, but is loathe to lose one of his. Peter thoughtfully solves the problem for him by smacking Sirius with one of the cushions from the sofa. There’s a brief, laughing scuffle, until Sirius flops onto the floor, leaning half against the sofa and half against James’ legs, shirt untucked and hair messy and legs stretched out in front of him.

They do absolutely nothing at all: not one of them is frantically trying to finish homework, not one of them is also reading a book, or playing wizard chess, or even talking to anyone else. It’s an evening just for the four of them, and they lounge and laze and talk about all sorts of nothing.

It’s only when the fire is dying low and the common room is mostly emptied that they stir from their little huddle. It’s Sirius first, levering himself up from the floor with a groan. His back pops audibly when he stretches his arms above his head, raising himself onto his toes like a puppet whose strings are all being pulled.

“Now who’s an old man,” Remus observes. James perks up at one of his favourite lines of teasing where Sirius is concerned.

“Geriatric old fart,” James joins in, happily. “Have to find you a nursing home, soon.”

“Don’t worry,” is Peter’s contribution. “We’ll take good care of you. Only the best.”

Sirius stretches again, reaching his hands out to each side and twisting his torso back and forth, as though he’s limbering up for something.

“Well,” he says when he’s done, arms dropping back down to his side. “As the eldest, and obviously the most mature,” ---- Remus snorts ---- “I’m for bed. You young hooligans can stay up late if you like, but I’ll be the one laughing in the morning.”

“Age before beauty,” James quips.

“And being sorely lacking in both, that puts you dead last,” Sirius fires back.

“Well, I’m going to,” Remus says firmly, because here’s a back-and-forth they’ve all heard a hundred times. Creative as those arguments might get, it’s too late to be putting up with now. Sirius offers him a hand and Remus takes it, letting Sirius pull him to his feet.

“Night, children,” Sirius grins, and Remus laughs a fond, despairing laugh, and they wander up to the dorm without James and Peter.

“All right?” Sirius asks, with false casualness, when he catches Remus absently massaging an aching shoulder with the heel of his hand before he gets into bed. He appears so abruptly in Remus’ vicinity that he might as well have apparated. There’s concern painted across his features, and he looks as though given half the chance, he’d personally tend to Remus’ every ache and pain in any way he could think of. His face is very intent and very serious, and he looks at Remus with an intensity that almost burns.

“I’m fine,” Remus answers, just like he always does. And then, because Sirius is not always so easily reassured, he pulls him into a brief hug. It’s slightly alarming, the choked-off, strangled noise that Sirius makes, and Remus ducks behind the hangings on his bed, unsure what it might signify.

T-0 DAYS

“----and I suppose it would have made sense if they’d been presenting a strong opposition, but they could barely hold a formation together. What’s the point in using your keeper offensively if the rest of you aren’t even making an effort, I ask you?”

James and Sirius are lounging, as they often do, on the same bed. All squashed up and tangled together. Sirius is a little less vocal than usual, letting James do most of the talking, but James is more than happy to fill the silence with talk of his latest quidditch match.

“----don’t you think?” Sirius tunes back in with a small hm? and blinks owlishly as he tries to remember what James was talking about. He apparently fails, and James is left a little baffled when his friend reaches over to grab his face, one palm on each cheek, and look into his eyes with a desperation that’s frankly alarming.

“James, I want to kiss Remus,” he says, faintly. All he can think about is the way Remus had hugged him last night, hands sliding around his waist and head ducked to tuck against his neck, and the tickle of breath that had wrought a surprised, yearning noise from him that he’s fairly sure he’d been unable to hide. He’d barely slept, after that, lying there in the dark and feeling like a traitorous pervert for thinking about Remus’ hands on him, on what it might be like for those long fingers to brush against bare skin instead of his shirt.

His next word is low and pathetic and spoken with all the meaning he can muster: “Help.”

#lupiinee #;drabble: m #this is why i'm slow at memes my goodness #also i know we've already talked about this but it was too perfect not to

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008chrisbailleul · 2 years ago

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How it feels to turn into a Werewolf; so after your injuries heal (and it doesn't ALWAYS happen miraculously fast), it starts as just thoughts...or whatever you think thoughts are. Sometimes it's triggered by hunger, other times by an attractive woman (depending on what you're into, I'm into chick's), other times it's anger. The thoughts then start to talk to you. "I'm coming for you", "I'm down the street", "I'm in the next room", "I'm in the room with you". At first the thoughts are easy to ignore...but eventually you start to think you're losing your mind. You go talk to a professional and they chalk it up to PTSD and give you pills. The medication works for a few weeks and you start to feel like your old self...sort of. You go out with friends to try to feel normal, but you start to feel sick, like the flu or something. You go home to rest, but you can't get comfortable. You're agitated, you're sweating profusely and you feel anxious, your guts are doing cartwheels and your mouth is dry. Then all of a sudden your senses become overwhelmingly acute...you can hear your neighbors on either side of you talking while they eat. You hear their chewing, you can smell their food. You catch a faint scent of fecal matter and cologne, your male neighbor just farted at the dinner table. You smell your female neighbor and her boyfriend. He just drank and beer, and she has the scent of him and another man on her as well as estrogen. She had had sex before coming home to him. All the sounds becoming overwhelming and your head starts to throb. As you're doubled over on the floor trying not to throw up, you feel like you've been lit on fire and start sweating so much you think you're about to melt or spontaneously combust. Your flesh starts to tingle and it feels like a million needles are pushing outward from under your skin. Your eyes focus long enough to see thick course body hair ripping through your flesh. That's when your bones start to pop out of their joints in your hands as they grow to twice the length of their natural size. You feel your spine start to curve into a question mark while your shoulders snap out of their sockets and spread. Your spine creaks and crackles as your vertebrae stretch as both your legs dislocate from your hips to accommodate their new forward position to make running on all fours easier. All the while the flesh on your face bubbles and undulates as your facial structure rearranges the bones in your upper and lower mandibles to make room for the teeth that protrude from the sneering growling maw that was once your mouth. Then a calm washes over you as the pain slowly drains from your body. As you slowly stand up, all you joints crackle, snap and pop into place as your new body syncs with your new nervous system and your new nervous system syncs with your razor sharp and laser focused mind. That's when you realize that the human part of your psyche still exists, but is no longer cluttered with fear, guilt, hate, heartbreak or love. Your new mind craves Nothing but the Hunt.

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seenashwrite · 6 years ago

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Dearest Nash, I've touched on this before in (I believe) in a discussion re: why some mainstream fics get oodles of notes while more original ones do not, *but* I wanted to get a bit more specific here. There are certain writers here whose writing has a definite vibe to it (if you will) that separates their work from others, and your name is one of the first that comes to mind. Bear with me, because trying to detail what makes your writing stand out is difficult while trying to articulate a Q

^ this is a gif with parts 2 - 4, just FYI

Hmmm… this is a bit of a brain buster. But I can answer it, and I think succinctly, maybe with a touch of that Spidey sense you mention:

Thank you for your inquiry, hope that helps!

I kid. But this is a brain-turner. And a characteristic which, like you say, ain’t limited to me. I’d honestly throw comedians under this umbrella, too, not because I’m necessarily gunning for a laugh every time, but because it’s pretty much their job to take a “basic” (a tenet or fact of life or present reality or whatever) and present the observation with a twist. I think of storyteller comedians specifically, your Patton Oswalt-s, Maria Bamford-s, Kathy Griffin-s, and John Mulaney-s.

So if I can sum up, assuming I’m tracking with you, what you’re more or less driving at with the “how” is this –> Is there anything beyond simply personality, or an auto-pilot thought cascade (for lack of better terminology) that contributes? Are there things someone could do/be proactive about, to perhaps cause this same sort of reaction to happen in their brain?

I think there just might be.

Folks reading this, let me ask you a question, and you cannot look it up:

What was the name of the Sherpa guide who led Sir Edmund Hillary up Mount Everest?

His name was Tenzing Norgay.

Nash, what in the name of the frozen corpse of George Mallory does this have to do with Lion’s question?

I shall tell you.

My father told me that fact when I was quite young, so young I legit couldn’t even ballpark my age for you. The context was that having little facts tucked away in your brain may come in handy. Not in a Jeopardy kind of way, more in a conversational way. I’ve no idea why the man thought the Sherpa guide who led Hillary up Mt. Everest would ever come up during a conversation with enough regularity to justify my knowing that fact (aside from him randomly quizzing me throughout my life) but hey, I guess it just did.

But speaking of Lil’ Nash, the situation for her was that she was the eldest of all the Nash litter by miles… like seven or eight years, I’m not bothering to check. So I had a lot of alone time, and my grandmother was my chief babysitter, so prior to kindergarten and then til I was in about second grade (so: all day long during the week, then every weekday after she picked me up from school), I was pretty much always at her house. Yeah, there were toys, but not a lot to do. And I’d read. I’d been reading on my own for a decent while, not because I was some prodigy but because my dad read to me *constantly* when Lil’ Nash was Itty-Bitty Nash, and it “took”. My mom also, every time she went to the grocery store always - and I mean always - brought back a book for me. It might’ve been an Archie comic—-

Mandatory #fuck the CW’s Riverdale tag

—-or a Babysitter’s Club, or Sweet Valley High, Judy Blume, Madeleine L’Engle, Zilpha Keatley Snyder, you get my point. Some small paperback. It would piss Dad off because he’s a cheap bastard and two buck books once or twice a month were really gonna cut into the savings [eyeroll] but also, in a way, because I’d kill it in a half day/a day. Wouldn’t put it down. After awhile, I started writing my own silly little kid stories, then - and this is where the creative writing love came about - I started writing soap operas for my Barbies. (When I was older - like, 5th grade? 6th grade, maybe? - none of my peers were still playing with Barbies, and I got made fun of when, at a sleepover, they saw my stash. And I was like - No, no, no. Those aren’t for playing. That’s my cast.)

Time went on, and when I was bored at post-church lunch/dinners, I would also read the old encyclopedias at my grandmother’s, the ones from the late ‘60s/early ‘70s that she had for my mom and my aunt. As I got even older and became fascinated with rooting through the boxes in gran’s basement, looking at all the cool old clothes, I stumbled upon my aunt’s collection of Whoa-Hooooo Shit There’s No Way My Grandparents Knew You Read These books. Those kinda Harlequin-esque ones, except my aunt’s tastes run close to mine, none were the same shtick with different covers, shmultzy-sappy romance, there was always some sort of intrigue along with the sexy times, and she also had, like, every legit V. C. Andrews (meaning: not the ones from the ghostwriter, this was way before her death) book.

What is my point? I read a LOT. Now-a-days, other than fanfic (which… straight up: I don’t read a lot of that, either. I peace out on probs 80% of it before the third-to-fifth paragraph. It’s gotta sell me fast, yo) I haven’t read fiction in probably, oh…. 12 years? I think the last ones were the first couple Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood. Wait, no! I lie! I read the 50 Shades books when I was traveling 2x/wk for a job about 4 years ago, and I needed the laughs. It worked. Oh my days, that woman can’t write. The screenplay might’ve been worse, it goes her, then Buckleming, then everyone else. It’s bad. In any event, past decade or so, it’s more historical stuff and true crime and science stuff and all that old fart jazz.

Okay, so that’s #1: Read. And not just anything, be well-read, and that doesn’t mean developing some level of expertise, by “well” I’m saying to cover the spread. You’re building your tool kit, is all. You won’t use most of it, but it’s nice to have options. You also don’t always have to get this stuff from reading now-a-days, because podcasts. Cover the spread there, too. Lemme look at my bookmarks….

[Spongebob narrator voice: A few moments later]

I’m back. Science - Skeptic’s Guide to the Universe; General current stuff without being news - CGP Grey’s Hello Internet; current events with shittons of pop culture, past and present - Greg Proops’ Smartest Man in the World; fun history stuff - The Dollop; entertainment stuff - How Did This Get Made.

#2: Keep a notebook with you and jot down turns-of-phrase that spark something in your brain - things you read on websites, on twitter, in articles, things you hear people say (real life, TV, movies, podcasts), and write it. Don’t snap a pic with your phone or make a note in your phone. There are studies behind this, I’m not hunting them down, you’ll just have to trust me, but there are, and it goes to being reflexive, a brain “muscle memory” thing, if you will. You’re not doing it to plagiarize, you’re doing it to dissect it, kind’ve like you did with the example you gave on me —> went from punch action to punch spiked with booze to a punch with a spiked gauntlet.

Which leads to #3: Mental dictionary. I have a large vocab repository, and it stems from the tons of reading - I stop and look up stuff if I either don’t know it, or it’s used in such a way that I think they’ve got it wrong and want to double-check that maybe there’s another usage I don’t know - and also stems from a drive to combat the (still fairly thick) deep South drawl I can’t kick, and not for lack of trying. But see, I couldn’t have whipped out that progression if I weren’t aware that one definition of “spike” is “to add alcohol to”, or of the common shtick in stories of spiked punch like at high school proms typically, or knew about the existence of spiked gauntlets / old school armor.

And I guarantee you that a good chunk of people didn’t really “get it”, and just thought “Nash Be Nashin’, that nutty gal”. So they “get it” on that level, but don’t Get. It., if you see what I’m saying. And that’s fine. Maybe it got something cranking in the back of their mind and it’ll hit ‘em in the middle of the night, or they’ll be watching Game of Thrones or something, see a gauntlet and be like “Oh goddamnit, I just got a throw-a-way one-liner from three years ago” and have a chuckle.

Related, re: looking stuff up and things that people “get”? I didn’t know fuck-all about Twilight, but it seemed of import to the folks around 5 years younger than me, the Nashlings wouldn’t shut up about it, so I got a good working knowledge of it. Same with Harry Potter, and through it I got to “know” J.K. Rowling, who I find to be an exceptional writer, so that was great, and I’ve watched the movies for the most part over the years at Christmastime, and I don’t give the first shit about what “house” I’m in, nor do I care about what Patronus I’d fart, but I have a working knowledge of what those are, and horcruxes and who Snape and Voldie are, you get my point. I can keep up. But to do it, I had to take the time to look it up. One thing I would not trade for gold is Michael Sheen chewing the goddamn scenery in that battle segment from the last Twilight movie. Have I watched the movie? No. But that scene is the shit. And that baby CGI is horrific on several subtle levels. And not-so-subtle. I’ve digressed.

Back to those notes: So if you’ve got these notes jotted, you might see something else and think “I feel like that could’ve been snappier…. why do I think that….” And you’ve got a resource at your disposal, that little notebook. Hell, jot that thing down - things you think could be done better. I have in many documents a highlight around chunks of scenes for my big dog story where it says in bold above or below “DO BETTER”. Meaning: there’s a better way to get from A to B, but I’m just not quite there yet. I’m pretty quick on the uptake and can crank out something snappy on the fly (like say, in CASPN chat or when banging out a short reply or thank you note) but there’s definitely times I gotta slap a DO BETTER on it and walk away til that snappy something-or-other light bulb goes off.

Here’s a recent one where I backtracked, matter of fact - that noir spoof thing I wrote? Along with my co-writer, Moscato? There was a line that I couldn’t hit with a good zinger, so I just said moments were going by like a fat hamster on a wheel, which is cute, but not really grooving with the setting/the vibe. Less tipsy, when I was correcting some inelegant formatting and a misspelling [sigh], I went “Oh! Why didn’t this occur to me last night? Right. Wine.” So the line is now about moments dragging like a rolling donut with a copper on its tail. Get it? The cop’s a fat ass. The donut-cop stereotype.

…….Fine, it ain’t my best, but it fits better. Moving on.

And this leads nicely into #4, and a specific tip I can impart - assuming you’ve got a passable-to-high level of vocabulary in your tool belt, practice messing around with making nouns into verbs, and twisting random stuff into descriptors and using bizarre words/things in metaphors/analogies. Like, I say “adulting” quite a bit. Ali - @littlegreenplasticsoldier - I thiiiink was writing recently about Sam being drunk, and he’s a tall wobbly Jenga tower on his last Jenga. Going back to the noir, pulpy detective style, try messing with the whole “S/he was like a ___ that ____”. Add on to stuff that’s well known - He was like a dog with a bone, if the bone was a ____ and he was a ____ and we were in a ____. (I have *nothing* in mind to fill those blanks, by the way, feel free to twist it into sumpin’)

What else…. okay, here’s a #5: In drafts, let yourself wander, and see what kicks out. It can be fueled by silliness or anger, but I don’t reckon you’re gonna get the “snappy” you’re aiming for if you’re down in the dumps and going full-court-press angst. The best stuff, IMO, comes from the space in between goofy and pissed, and that is The Land Of Snark. You can always re-style it to bend more dry or wistful should you need to, certainly, depending on the situation.

Have a sample of a primo Nash Digression that was fueled by ire in a recap from Season 12 (episode 19). I had said - RE: the random inclusion of the character Joshua, which still pisses me off because they burned a character that held massive potential for future stuff as he’d been shown to be the only angel with direct access to Chuck, so, y’know, that could never come in handy, like ever again in the series, right? - the following.

Mandatory pre-emptive #fuck Dabb

[Spongebob narrator voice] A few moments later —>

On god, I have no idea where that came from, and here’s where we go back to ol’ Spidey up there, because end of the day?

All that other stuff’s the foundation, sure, but there’s always gonna be the weird iggy, the thing that can’t be learned or taught, whatever the quirky synapse is that fires off in my/our brains. In my experience, it’s an ADD-ish sort of jam mixed with the Nostradamus effect. Meaning, (A) we’re at Level 10, rapid fire thought processing >50% of the time, and (B) throw out enough stuff for long enough, some of it’s going to stick. And I whiff it plenty. Multiple times in CASPN chat I’ve been like “Whoo, tough room” when something falls flat.

A specific example: @mrswhozeewhatsis - and I think you saw this, but anyone else seeing this may not have - gave probably the most fantastic analogy I’ve seen regarding the whole “getting it” thing, and while it was on the topic of meaty plots that get too far into the weeds (my specialty) and how it can lessen appeal to a broader audience, it still applies here.

She said “Sometimes, when I’m reading something of yours, I feel like there’s a joke I’m missing. It’s like watching Spaceballs without having seen Star Wars.” I say that to say - nobody’s gonna land references that cover the spread 100% of the time. And, y’know, fine. I figure maybe it’ll prompt someone to do a quick google for - well, let’s use Spaceballs. Most folks will no doubt get the Star Wars part, but maybe not Spaceballs. Maybe they’ll check it out, find something they enjoy. Or learn a new word. Or get a brainstorm for a story. Who knows?

Last tip: Don’t actively mimic anyone’s style. Much fail. And I don’t only mean because if they’re on a social Venn diagram with you, would likely recognize themselves in your stuff——

Takes a moment to wave to the peeps still trying with me! #bless your hearts

—–but because it’s fucking hard. I did it broadly on the noir thing, that’s not a hard thing, to homage generalities, but the way I’m messing with doing this on that silly Princess Bride series? Purposefully styling it like Goldman? It’s good challenging and all, and it is making it feel more in the groove with the book/movie, but I have to be in the right frame of mind or it’s like fingernails on a chalkboard, and when I have pushed it, then gone back, it’s sloggy, soggy garbage.

I say all that to say: it’s an amalgam of brain-wiring/personality, and world/life perspective(s), and knowledge acquired over time. The first just is; the second will evolve in myriad ways, maybe for the better, maybe for the worse; the last is the one where you/we have control, we can fill bucket after bucket of information, and the well won’t ever run dry.

Sorry this took so long. I kept adding and subtracting. This is the edited version, if you can believe it. Welcome to Nash Brain. 😉

#Dear Nash #becominglionhearted #Writing Advice #and / or #Writing Stuff #maybe #Writing Tips #unsure #we'll go with all of it #ah I know #Writing Style #that's the ticket #Queueby Dooby Doo #Dad's on a blog post and #he hasn't been queued in a few days

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mygiantesslove · 7 years ago

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Mother & Son: Underfoot by Azra

Chapter 7

Phil's passions rose as he wrapped his arms around his lover's curvaceous form and pulled her close to him, heart beating fast as her heavy, succulent flesh pressed against his. Nervously, Phil leaned down and kissed his way softly along her neck, feeling her flex and react to his every ministration. He could feel her weight shift; pinning him down to the ground but twisting and turning on top of him. Giving in to temptation Phil planted a long, wet kiss directly on his mother's big toe.

The rain sloughed against the window but Debra didn't wake up. She had strapped her minuscule son to her foot at night for weeks now and while once she had taken pleasure in his attempts to escape her dominating foot she enjoyed even more now his nightly dalliances with it, believing her forcing him to acclimatize to life on her foot, including treating her left foot as his girlfriend "Debbie", was taking it's toll on him. She luxuriated in the fact that covering him in so massive a part of her body was having this effect on him. He still resisted being put up her huge, smothering ass all the time, but she wasn't going to give up and deprive her son of the joy of living in his own mom's arse, and besides, he had the rest of his life to get used to her ass.

Of course, Debra didn't know her son was having an affair with her foot while she slept; her body merely reacted to the sensation of Phil's minuscule body rubbing and pressing against it, and Phil's addled mind had taken this as displays of affection from "Debbie." He had grown used to calling her after his mother rather than his girlfriend for a few reasons; Debbie was older than him and always liked to be in control; Debbie's butt ( or heel) was much bigger than his girlfriend's; and Debbie loved to face-sit him (or as his mother loved to tease, she would "stand on his head") just like his mom did. Phil could feel the memories of Lashondra slipping away from him into the ether as he spent more and more time kissing and fondling his mom's foot. Sometimes he'd wonder what Lashondra would think if she saw him cheating on her with his mom's left foot, but then her toes would wrap around his head and squeeze him out or she would stand on his face and suddenly that didn't seem to matter.

Tonight Phil was taking advantage of his alone time with Debbie and had been making out constantly. This kind of time was rare, for weeks now Phil had woken up attached to the bottom of his mom's foot and would spend the day being crushed in her work-shoes, or wake up in her buttcrack and spend the day in the seat of her underwear absorbing her farts and helping her relieve her stress at work. He licked his girlfriend playfully, right on the big toe. Her skin was thick and slightly salty but free of scent after his mom's shower. He stroked the curvy ball of her foot and ground his hips slowly against her sole. Phil's mom giggled softly in her sleep and he imagined it was her giant foot teasing him. He let out a low sigh, determined to take his pleasure wherever he could, and buried his face in his mom's big fleshy toe.

Hours passed.

The thunder roared outside as rain crashed against the darkened window. Phil buried his head between his mom's toes. He hated thunderstorms.

Ever since he was a kid, when he had been caught out in a torrential downpour on his way home from soccer practice, he had been terrified of the drenching rain and deafening thunder. Only Cailie had got him through it; the knowledge that he had to protect his little sister, sniffling and shivering in the rain, drenched to the bone and eyes wet with tears, kept him going on with a brave face until their mom had finally found them one block from the train station. His mom's body shifted in response, stroking his face reassuringly between her big and middle toes.

Phil suddenly felt cold. Attached as he was to his mother's sole he became suddenly aware that his back was open to the rain pattering against their bedroom window. Instinctively he pulled on his mother's toes and sole, seeking warmth and cover from his fears, but it wouldn't budge. For the first time in months, he couldn't get his mom's foot to rest on him.

"Please mom ..." he begged, pressing her toes over his ears, "please rest your big foot on top of my body! Please stand on me and bury me in your sole! Please save me from that terrible thunder ..."

"Debbie, Debbie!" He said, beginning to kiss the big toe desperately, "Come on, it's me, your boyfriend! Please sit on me! Stand on my head, anything! Come on, do me like you normally do!" He began humping his hips against the soft sole of the foot again until a loud thunderclap awoke him.

"Wait, what am I doing here? I can handle this." He looked over, just off in the distance was his mom's dozing ass. "Mom's ass is the biggest, heaviest I've ever seen. I bet I won't be able to hear anything in there!"

He slowly pried himself off the foot and gave it a goodbye kiss, before setting out for his mom's asscrack.

The walk to his mom's ass took a while, with Phil pressing his head between his mom's closed thighs everytime lightning struck outside. It was difficult in the pitch darkness, but eventually, the bed-silks started getting warmer from his mom's body heat and the familiar smell of her methane began to fill the air reassuringly. At last, after bumping into something soft and warm, a flash of lightning showed he was face-to-face with his mother's ass.

Phil pressed his right ear against her lower cheek and closed his eyes. If he concentrated he could hear her bowels rumbling, preparing to expel gas into the air and, more often than not, into her son. Four months. It had been four months since his sentence inside his mom's ass had begun, with extended stays in her foot-prison as well. But Phil shook his head - he didn't really believe he was being punished by his mom anymore. It was clear that his mom just ... really enjoyed this. Did she really believe he belonged in her ass? That it was her own son's duty to endure being stepped on by his mother every day?

A thunderclap.

He looked down. He was standing to attention again. Phil closed his eyes. And then he did the most normal thing in the world - he pushed his face into his own mother's ass and with a gentle sound his face slid up her buttcrack.

Shhllpp.

After a few seconds strong wiggling the rest of him followed his face up his mom's butt.

He was so pleased to get away from the rain and the thunder that the smothering nature of his mom's buttocks crushing down on him didn't bother Phil. It was warm in here, like a pleasant sauna. It felt like those maternal buttocks were hugging him, protecting him from the storm. His mom's body heat was warming him up as well and he began to breathe through his mouth, at least for a few minutes until it filled with his mom's ass-flesh. He smiled happily, it was second nature to him now to allow his mom's ass-flesh to fill his mouth. It felt so safe in here. The thunderous sounds of the storm were cut off, his mom's body-heat warmed him from the cold and the crack of her gently-dozing ass let in just enough air to relax comfortably. It was, he decided, better than a Queen-size bed.

"How does it feel? Is it good? Is it good?" She wiggled her bum on him, and then pulled her cheeks apart to let him fall out. As he landed on the bed she reached down and picked him up, smiling as she did so.

"Mom, you ... you knew I was there?"

"Of course I did, sweetie! Every time you crawl on your hands and knees into my ass I feel like a wild woman like a fire has been lit inside my bum! I'm so proud of you!" She said, pulling Phil in for a big kiss. "But then, there's also a problem ..." she smirked.

"You decided to use my glorious bottom for your own ends did you?" His mom smiled down at him. "There's only one punishment for that sweetie. The pressure-cooker!" She grinned, and dropped her only son into the crack of her ass, and squeezed tightly. For the next twenty-four hours, Phil wouldn't be released from the warm oven of his mom's ass even for a second, and she would continuously squeeze his body and grind her little son between her two huge buttocks. He would be dehydrated unless he continuously let her ass's sweat into his mouth, and there was only one thing to eat. Worst of all was the air supply - in order to stop his mom from suffocating him he would have to push his own head through her butt-cheeks and into her asshole, prying open the ring of her anus with his face and breathing in her methane for the rest of the day while her anus chewed on his neck. Debra loved this, both because of how good it felt to do it and because it was great for keeping her glutes toned and round. Afterward, she would always sit on Phil's face as a thank-you for helping her exercise her lovely bum. But that was a long time away now, and she simply got ready to go downstairs for breakfast.

#giantess #g/t #g/t writing #foot crush #butt crush #mother

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thenewnio · 4 years ago

Text

Cinema Squad: The Funny Moments

Treasure Planet

The episode begins with the Squad going into space. No, really.

The scene where B.E.N. pops out of absolutely nowhere to scream in Jim's face, which startles Jim and elicits genuine fear from the Squad.

The contrast between Jim's struggle against Scroop versus Junnsuke's need to sneeze.

Koichi's reaction when the Legacy sets sail:

Koichi: WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOA!!!! Space... Space race! OH! We're goin' through space!

And then soon afterwards:

Koichi: I just remembered... We have to breathe air. Oh SNAP! Oh NO!

BOOOOONES! NOOOOOOO!

Takahiro tries to tell a story, when Scroop suddenly makes his first appearance. The Squad's simultaneous reactions are hilarious.

Takahiro: One time I fell down... OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOH!

Miki: OH JESUS! JESUS LORD HAVE MERCY!

Koichi: NO! NO, GO AWAY! WE DON'T WANT'CHA!

"Didn't expect Satan to make such an early appearance in this."

Koichi referring to a manta bird as a "Flip Flap".

"PUT 'ER THERE!"

"Tell me...when you see...a Radio Shack..."

The opening moments make it clear that the whole Squad are all crammed on the couch like sardines.

Takahiro: Hey, welcome to squish couch!

Junnsuke: Whoooo! Squish couch!

Takahiro: We thought it would be a good idea to fit all of us on the couch.

Junnsuke: It was not a good idea.

Takahiro: It's really hurting!

Ame: It's really uncomfortable.

Koichi: I'm the one getting the blunt end of the stick! When Junn got on the couch I got squished into the arm!

Junnsuke: The blunt end of the stick...?

Koichi: Hey, man, it hurts! The blunt end! Cause it hurts.

Junnsuke: The short end?

And then moments later...

Junnsuke: Alright, first to six!

Sanzo: Alright, if I could just get my arm in here, Ren...

Ren: Ow! Oh! Oh my god! Oh my ribs!

Miki: I wish all our viewers could see this right now. They'd be so pleased.

Junnsuke trying to take a selfie while Muntz is chasing Russell, Kevin and Dug.

Ame: NOW IS NOT THE TIME FOR A SELFIE, JUNN! (cracks up)

CAREFULLY ESCORT KEVIN!!!

Ame's midstory interruption at the Spirit of Adventure.

WHOA! That's huge!

DOGE!

Miki's reaction to Kevin.

"OH, SURPRISE, B****!"

"OH MY GOD HE'S GOT A GUN!"

The dogs flying the biplanes turn the Squad into giggling idiots.

"Let's go on a butthole sniffin' adventure!! COME OOOOOOOOOOOON!!!"

Stuart Little 2

After Stuart defeats Falcon and the latter falls into the trash can, he lets out one last fart.

And soon afterwards: "Well, he's dead."

The Squad joking about Mr. Little getting spam in his mailbox. "I am a Prince, from Nigeria! All we need is your bank account information!"

Junnsuke and Miki's... unusual pronunciation of the word "baby".

Junnsuke's brilliant "incoherent homeless man" impression.

Imagine Margalo breaking the camera lens.

Ame ends the episode with "Get out of here. There are better things you could be doing. Like homework. Or bungee-jumping off your roof."

You just got New York Timed, b****!

Near the beginning of the episode, Koichi idly makes a sound that sounds something like "danattadan"(Ten out of ten). Junnsuke is adequately amused by this sound enough to start a monologue that leaves the others in tears.

Junnsuke: (In a thick Italian-American accent)—You go to store, an' you get danattadan. You go buy sum' meat! At da shaap! Dey say, "DIS GRADE-A MEAT!" I take it out! I touch it, I stretch it... danattadan. Bring it home, chookh it up wit' a little spice! (Koichi: AAAAHAHAHA, YOU SAID CHOOKH IT UP!) A little THYME, a little solt n' peppa... I eat it, put it in my mouth 'n' chew! ...Danattadan.

Where there's a will, there's a smith.

ACCIDENT!

Junnsuke mentioning the Falcon Punch.

Junnsuke tells a story about how a fan accidentally called Sequelitis Seq-qualities.

Koichi notes that 6 is now his favorite stitchpunk, and lauds the filmmakers for conceiving the character. Immediately after, both 5 and 6 die. Junnsuke's sadistic laughter reveals this was entirely planned.

You are scared. SCCARRY.

Near the end of the film:

"Yay! We did it!"

"EVERYONE'S STILL DEAD."

The Squads' overblown reaction to 9's Disney Death.

OH SNAP, THEY"RE ALL DEAD!

"Oh noes! Oh god! Oh nose god!"

The Seamstress really creeps Junnsuke out.

Junnsuke: Gimme a gun, I wanna blow this memory out of my head.

Fighting for your right to...

Junnsuke starts speaking in some kind of weird New York/Bostonian accent and begins rambling. And it is glorious.

Junnsuke: Ya know, I go to the theatah. I look up a movie like, Erry Potta, or I look up a movie like, Supurmin. I go watch it. I sit down, I eat my papcorn, I drink my cola. I come outta the theatah, I go "Mmmm. I really like dat movie." Den outta den!

Junnsuke: Dis mummy comes up to me he says "eh," he says "you wanna unwrap me," I say "okay, whattya look like on the inside, alright?" I unwrap him slowly and I'm like "this isn't gonna be gooooooood," BOOT DEN, I see is a beautiful face undaneath an' I say tanattatan!

The Squad essentially sum up their dynamic.

Ame: Junnsuke?

Junnsuke: Yes?

Ame: What's wrong with you!?

Junnsuke: I think everything.

The episode begins with the Squad conjecturing that hell is like a subway train, finishing with a claim that "we are the Stephen Kings of stupid."

"Infiltrate the Junk Factory!"

Imagining "baloney" as someone's trigger word, and then as a horror movie.

Takahiro: (singing) My baloney has a first name. It's F - E - A - R...

"WE DIE, WE DIE TOGETHER!"

"WELCOME TO HELL." "Oh I've been there. It's sunny. You wouldn't think so being-" "THE SUN...THE SUN is because we recently re-adjusted the blinds. On the windows TO HELL!"

"OH MY GOD, HE EXPLODED!"

"NOOOOOO! CURSE YOU, SCIENCE!"

"NINE. I CAN SEE THE FUTURE. NINE, IT'S NOT PRETTY."

Miki: (as 6) I CAN SEE EVERYTHING!

Junnsuke: (as 9) Jus'- Hey-hey, d' you wanna hang out man?

Miki: (as 6) I can see... 9, I can see the future! 9, IT'S NOT PRETTY! I like cupcakes.

Yellow Submarine

The opening moments of the commentary.

Koichi: Welcome, everybody, to the happiest effing movie in the world.

Junnsuke: Or the one that makes you feel the worst.

Koichi: Yeah, probably both.

The Squad talks about the Blue Meanies' hands:

Junnsuke: They're hands at best... Birth defects at worst.

"I'VE GOT THE BOOB!!"

Fred trying to recruit heroes to save Pepperland, as dramatized by the Squad:

Fred: I need your help! Quickly!

Citizen: I've got four pots full of water! Will that help?!

Fred: I, uh...

Citizen: Larry knows what time it is!

Citizen#2: I can read calendars!

Citizen: He has it roughly down to the month!

The Blue Meanie impressions. Sweet Jesus, the Blue Meanie impressions, which quickly devolve into Skeletor impressions.

As the film progresses, the Squad slowly lose their minds.

Takahiro imagines that, every time someone makes a strange face, it's because they're letting a fart off. Eventually Ren starts adding the appropriate sound effects.

What's with the clouds?

WHAT'S WITH EVERYTHING??

Junnsuke's impression of the Glove during "All You Need is Love".

Glove: THIS DAY'S JUST GOIN' TO THE PITS.

Shiskabob them! Bring me the onion rings!

Don't forget the roasted tomat-O!

The Squad's reaction to Jeremy.

Miki: WHAT IS THAT!? WHAT ARE YOU!?

Junnsuke: I've made a decision... I've made a decision. I'm gonna go down into the basement. I'm gonna turn on the dryer. I'm gonna climb inside.

"FISH!"

Poor Ame repeatedly getting her mind blown by the way the submarine works.

The Squad repeatedly bringing up the animation's Narm qualities.

"If ducks were a person, they'd probably be Hitler."

The second Max first opens his mouth, we get a barrage of jokes playing up his ethnicity, whatever it is.

Junnsuke said a director friend of his told him that you can tell a shoot is going on for too long when people start busting out the Gay German voice.

Junnsuke: Zeht up ze shoot pleaze...

"You haven't seen the last of the gay pride movement!"

WHY DOES THIS EXIST!

Junnsuke leaving to shoot himself and the accompanying audio.

Their near-simultaneous reaction to the Vacuum Monster.

Junnsuke: WHAT THE?!

Koichi: WHAT IS THAT?!

"If by OK you mean like on the inside I’m just going ‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!’, then yes, I’m quite OK."

"Freeze!"

"It's like The Point!, if it was designed to just break your brain."

The discussion of different accents that all sound equally silly. "We don't hate anybody, we just think everybody sounds stupid, including us!"

“I don't know if my brain can take this movie.“

"I am warning you with peace and love!"

Miss Spider's Sunny Patch Kids

Junnsuke has the hiccups. Miki attempts to cure him of them by promising him 100 dollars if he hiccups again. After a few seconds of silence, it seems like it's worked...only for Junnsuke to hiccup again.

Miki: I will give you a hundred dollars if you hiccup again.

Beat

Junnsuke: I think it worked...What. *hic* Ah, I hiccuped!

Miki: No you didn't!

Junnsuke: A HUNDRED BUCKS!

Miki: No, I didn't hear it!

Junnsuke: A HUNDRED BUCKS!

Miki: Edit that out!

(Flashback to a few seconds ago)

Miki: I will give Sanzo a hundred dollars if you hiccup again.

Text on screen: PAY UP MIKI!

Becomes a minor Running Gag, when Miki ups the ante to 200 dollars, and again Sanzo hijacks her words.

Junnsuke: You're not really going to pay Sanzo 200 dollars.

Miki: Two hundred dollars if you hiccup again.

Junnsuke: But that doesn't mean anything—

Miki: TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS Sanzo.

Shortly after

Junnsuke: Feeling like I'm probably going to hiccup again. *Hic* There we go.

Text on screen: THE MONEY IS MINE!

Whenever the gang resorts to giving the movie the MST treatment.

Miki decides to narrate the film like a nature documentary.

Junnsuke mercilessly making fun of the animation.

Junnsuke gets increasingly defensive and loud about their decision to watch a movie intended for young children. Sanzo decides to just pretend Junnsuke is drunk.

Sanzo: Junnsuke, what's ten times ten?

Junnsuke: Te—seven.

The end of the episode, with Takahiro's dramatic rant about all their wasted time being interrupted by Koichi. Takahiro's utter deadpan makes the scene.

Takahiro: No... but what is it? What is it that makes us?

Koichi: (cutting in) HIIIIIIIIIIIIROOOOOOOOO?! WHAT ARE YOU DOIN' OVER DERE HIIIIIIIROOO?!

Takahiro: Hold on, son. Let me finish.

Koichi: DAAAAAAAAD, HIRO!

Takahiro: Eat your peas.

Koichi: BUT I JUST WANNA TOUCH YOUR BIG, BLACK HORSE!

Takahiro: Touc- eat your peas.

Miki: (Laughs) Touc- what did you say?

Takahiro: You would ha- You would have to ea- You would have to touch the peas before you ate them, but please... just eat the peas. I don't care how you do it, a fork. A spoon. Your fingers. It doesn't matter to me as long as they're in your mouth.

Koichi: I'LL USE MY FINGERS, DAAAAAAD!

Koichi's epic high-pitched scream upon first seeing Spiderus.

Junnsuke: What the frick that's the face of a God Hand!

Junnsuke's very first words upon finding out what movie they're watching.

Junnsuke: Screw you, Ame.

Koichi ranting about the patronizing in Blue's Clues and Dora the Explorer.

Puella Magi Madoka Magica: The Rebellion Story

Junnsuke watching the others watch the ending.

Junnsuke: What do you think's going on?

Takahiro: I don't frickin' know!

Koichi's hysterical cries of "BUMP BUTTS WITH HER! BUMP BUTTS WITH HER!!"

Never leave Junnsuke & Koichi alone in the room.

This...for lack of a better word, joke:

A man is boarding a plane, carrying a dead horse. When asked what it is, he replies "That's my carrion luggage".

"Wait, this ends in diarrhea."

"Curse this iPhone 7."

"iPhone 200"

I'm late for class!

The Princess and the Frog

Goodbye, boobs.

Farewell. Charlotte!

The Squad getting into a serious, scholarly discussion about the difference between a b**** slap and a pimp slap.

Upon Facilier's death, a celebration of Chanukah followed by unexpected coughing.

The Mood Whiplash in going on an adventure full of good times, then having Ray dying for real.

The Squad's reaction to "I FOUND A STICK!!!"

Even better is Tiana's facial expression.

"MAH GOODNESS!"

"Follow your stupid dreams."

Every single scene involving the Squad's imitation of Ray's Cajun accent.

Hey! Hey! Hey! Woo!

Dinotopia

When Cyrus thinks he has a chance at survival… only for the Fish to charge at the Reginald Volly. Everybody immediately loses it as it tears the sub apart.

Koichi begins the episode asking Miki a very important question.

When the group make it to The World Beneath.

Junnsuke: Nice place. Shame if someone were to take a dump in the middle of the floor.

When Karl gets shot in the leg, Takahiro says in a comforting doctor voice, "I'm sorry, he's going to be black forever". The whole group burst into uncontrolled laughter as Takahiro tries to say, "I'm sorry all, I just said it without thinking!"

"I do apologize for my actions, even though they were totally and completely justified."

Koichi talking about how he used to wish he could be a paleontologist when he grew up and thinking you found dinosaurs in the ice, so he would go freeze his dinosaur toys and then pretend to dig them up in his backyard. Except he did it naked... while very little, of course.

Disney's Robin Hood

Before the movie begins, Miki & Takahiro have a laugh.

The Squad recreates how they're staring at Takahiro.

Everyone gets the hat!

Junnsuke tells the story of the time he and General Ivan took a selfie together in front of a burning house.

"Yer breakin' my balls, Hiss! BREAKING! MY! BALLS!!!"

19th Century Youtube Comments:

Junnsuke: (old-timey voice) Dear Sir or Madam! I have reason to believe you are a homosexual!

Takahiro's knowledge of history is... somewhat lacking.

Sanzo: Going back to 1848...

Takahiro: That's when when the wheel was invented!

Sanzo: It is not...

The Squad acting gay for Sanzo leading to Junnsuke's story of "The Ding-Dong Club". It has be heard to be believed.

Takahiro is so stunned that he actually has to pause the movie to go out of the room and ask Enko whether or not Junnsuke is telling the truth. Cue a half minute of silence... and then Takahiro thundering into the room in complete shock before recounting the conversation complete with Enko impersonation.

Takahiro: *Throws the door open* OH MY GOD! ARE YOU SERIOUS?!

Right after Takahiro does the Enko impression, both him and the rest of the Squad more or less collapse into laughter.

The shock at how a baker's dozen means thirteen. MIND! BLOWN!

PAY YOUR TAXES!

RHINO MANIA!

Koichi's literal version of "adding insult to injury". "Your penmanship is subpar!"

The Land Before Time

Ren audibly ripping a pair of raggedy blue jeans so badly he has to throw them out. They get a posthumous dedication at the end of the episode.

The Goshdangodon.

The Rescuers Down Under

Takahiro's repeated dramatic gasps, which never fail to make Miki crack up.

Junnsuke lies to Koichi.

The jig is up!

Junnsuke's "Australian" accent.

"OI! THAT'S A SPLENDID NAME THAT IS!"

"WHERE'S MY TREAT?!"

Takahiro's intro line.

Takahiro: When a man graduates from the Ding-Dong Club …he joins the Ding-Dong-Force.

DICKORY!!!

The Jungle Book

At one point, Koichi somehow not only mistakes George of the Jungle for the live-action Jungle Book movie, but says that it had Tim Allen in it:

Junnsuke: Aw, you know! Good ol' Tim Allen family classic, The JAAAAAAANGLE Book!

"OH, IT'S MOWGLI!"

The Squad is obligated to read off promotional blurbs for the 2016 live-action remake of the film... which they play off as messages brought to them in the beaks of increasingly ridiculous birds, including a rainbow one that grants wishes and one that sounds like Bill Cosby.

One of them isn't even a bird. It's a guinea pig.

A bird message is usually preceded by them making flapping noises and going "Hey, what's that?" During "I Wanna Be Like You", Miki tries to bring the next bird in, while Koichi begs her to put it on hold for a minute as he's getting into the song.

Miki: Yeah I know what you mean— hey hey, "woo-woo"!

Koichi: What?

Miki: What's that? What's that?

Koichi: …Oh, come on.

Miki: No, what's that?

Koichi: Not right now, Miki.

Miki: (High pitched) What's that? What's that?

Koichi: Miki!

Miki: (Even higher-pitched) What's that?

Koichi: No, don't interrupt this part! This is good!

(the others start cracking up)

Miki: No, what's that?

Koichi: Not on this part!

Junnsuke: It's just a bunch of monkeys, Koichi!

Koichi: (Laughing) No!

Takahiro: Yes it is!

Koichi: But IT'S MY FAVORITE SONG!

The others then continue to interrupt the song.

Sanzo: YOU AIN'T NOTHIN BUT A HOUND DOG!! (Ame laughs so hard she starts wheezing)

"Yeah, I'm about to fight a man-eating tiger who wants to destroy me, I'm totally safe."

When Shere Khan yanks Kaa's tail like a door ringer:

Junnsuke: Someone's at the door! Could somebody get that?

Koichi: Sure, I'll get it.

(door opening sound; Enko enters the room)

Enko: Hey, guys!

Junnsuke: OH WAIT, THERE WAS ACTUALLY SOMEONE AT THE DOOR?!?!

Note that they don't actually have a doorbell, making this an instance of pure comedic timing. Them trying to explain what just happened is also hilarious.

Takahiro: Screw the fourth wall, let's break the fifth and sixth while we're at it!

This exchange:

Koichi: (as Mowgli) How do I know I can trust you?

Junnsuke: Maybe a friendship bracelet could do the trick?! (They both laugh incredulously)

"Servants! Bring me a chicken! I want to slaughter it!"

The Jungle Book 2

Oh bloody hell... every single goddamned thing. But if you want specifics...

The running gag of "REMEMBER DEES?!"

Takahiro asks if Junnsuke can call him "daddy" from now on. "But not in, like, a sexual way." Junnsuke suggests instead calling him "father". Upper-Class Twit and Hilariously Abusive Childhood ensues. "Father, will you fetch me the water bucket?" "NEVER!" "I'M NOT YOUR SLAVE!"

Thank God. You found the pause button.

"OH LOOK, HE'S A HIDDEN MICKEY!"

FOR SHIVA!!!

Junnsuke's impromptu beatboxing session at the end of the episode.

Just before Kaa hypnotizes Shanti:

Shanti: Who's there?

Junnsuke: PEDO SNEK.

Ame: STOP CALLING HIM A PEDOPHILE!

THE VERY BEGINNING. "I WANT TO BANG EVERYBODY!"

Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga'Hoole

The opening skit introducing Enko!

During the scene in Twilight and Digger's hollow, Enko bakes some cookies for the Squad to eat. But then they notice that Takahiro has not eaten one yet.

Enko: How are the cookies?

Junnsuke: (muffled) They're fantastic.

Enko: They are also filled with the power of (Deep voice) DEVILS.

Junnsuke: (to Takahiro) Eat a cookie! What's wrong with you?

Takahiro: I'm full. Of beer.

Koichi: (muffled) I'M FULL OF THE DEVIL!

OOOOOOH, KLUDD HAS THE POWER OF DEVILS!

Junnsuke: What is the sound of 3000 mice clicking "unsubscribe"?

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!

The Adventures of Tintin

After Barnaby gets shot:

Takahiro: What's the prognosis, Junn?

Junnsuke: MUUURRRRDERRRRRRRR!

Their general confusion at the film's start.

Flushed Away

"Tip: Bananas are rich in potassium."

"YO THAT FISH KNOWS WHATS UP"

This episode's Title Drop appears!

Bee Movie

NOT THE BEES!

Enko ends the episode on a Logic Bomb.

The mock game show "Who Farted":

Junnsuke: Welcome back to WHOOOOOOO Farted?! Your host, ME! And also the answer.

The words "Please don't sue" pasted on the thumbnails for the video.

Junnsuke claims that the person who sent them this movie is a demon. Koichi asks for a photo of said person to appear on screen. Sho from The World Ends With You appears.

Brave

"Get back here. Get back here. Get baack here. Start a family."

The ending.

(Long silence)

Takahiro: (BELCH)

Ame: (Laughs) The end. That should just be the end. (Laughs)

Tarzan

Junnsuke and Takahiro's impression of Takahiro on Nyquil.

How do I life? What do buttons do?

The Squad close it out by suddenly cutting off their sentences with screaming at the top of their lungs, and then being very silent afterward, reacting to each other's screaming.

Junnsuke: Well, thank you for joining us, today on the CINEMA SQUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!

Koichi: (at the same time) Can I ask you a GEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!

Everyone else: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!

(beat)

Junnsuke: (chuckling)

Miki: Well, that was... up to standards.

The Wiz

Jeez in a danghole.

Junnsuke: Next time on Cinema Squad... can we find out what 'jeez in a danghole' means?

Enko: It's when a girl takes her--

"Welcome back to Joe's." It just comes completely out of nowhere and is never explained.

"GERUNDS. YOU SAID 'GERUND' ON THE SHOW."

Kiki's Delivery Service

"DUDE! Did you know breathing helps you live?"

The first five and a half minutes with Takahiro telling a story about a series of bizarre, nonsensical texts one morning from Junnsuke revolving around Tumblr. When Takahiro starts to bring it up to him one can actually hear Junnsuke and the others trying to keep straight faces. It has to be heard to believed.

DAVID KARP!!!

The Legend of the Sky Kingdom

"We've never slept together, have we?"

Right from the start, Ren wants to know "Why are we doing this again? My day was going so well..."

Takahiro asks, "This movie should be fun, right?"

This should be enjoyable, but...

The Road to El Dorado

SNIPES!

Zambezia

Junnsuke pulling the 'updog' joke on Takahiro and his happy, maniacal laughter when the joke works for the first time in his life. Made all the funnier by Takahiro asking it as 'what is updog' in the whitest possible fashion.

Nova Seed

The episode begins with the Squad over-loving the people who sent them the movie.

Takahiro's reaction to the film being over.

During the climax, Koichi wants a sandwich.

"I've been shot… with the gun of LIFE!"

The words “piece of crud" (said in an overly gruff voice) becomes something of a running joke in this commentary.

When Koichi sees Nova, he immediately starts raving about how hot she is and how much he wants to sleep with her... and keeps going long after the conversation has moved on.

Junnsuke: Who's this girl?!

Koichi: OH! OH! I WANNA SLEEP WITH HER! I WANNA SLEEP WITH HER! Junnsuke: Who's this girl?!

Koichi: I wanna s-

Junnsuke: Why'd she got green skin?

Koichi: I WANNA GO TO SLEEP WITH HER!

Junnsuke: Why'd she got a white hair all cut in a bob?

Koichi: I WANNA GO TO SLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP WITH HER!

(Much later)

Ame: How come he’s a bug, but he’s not the size of a bug?

Koichi: I wanna go to sleep…

Ame: ...How come he’s a bug, but he’s not the size of a bug?

During a discussion of sound effects:

Junnsuke: You ever thought about doing mouth foley?

Takahiro: I have not and I'll thank you not to say things like that. That's not how I'm gonna get ahead in Hollywood.

Bionicle: The Legend Reborn

The episode opens with Koichi saying "Oh, crap."

During The Reveal that Metus was the traitor the whole time:

Takahiro: OH HEY, METUS! GOOD TO FRIGGIN’ SEE YOU!!!

“SCREW YOU, METUS!”

"Nothing a band-aid won't fix."

Meeting Ackar gets them excited:

Junnsuke: IT'S FREAKING ACKAR THE GLATORIAN!!!

The Dark Crystal

“Screw you, welcome to Cinema Squad.”

"Look at us, a couple of cards."

Koichi quoting his favorite line by Shakespeare:

Koichi: Doth light on yonder window breaks? ...I dunno.

Takahiro: (Laughs) Yeah, maybe. If you just give it a sec!

Steven Universe: The Movie

The entire thing, but the gruff Brookyn voices, clown pants, and gratuitous violence jokes were particular highlights.

"Listen to the honk on this, man!"

"I'm Carson Daly! Does anyone still know who I am?"

"Jesus! Murder Girl just came out of nowhere!"

The very beginning of the commentary has Koichi and Junnsuke singing a very mangled and mumbled version of "Prince Ali." It ends, and the commentary begins proper, with Koichi screaming "YOU'RE GONNA LOVE THIS GUY!"

The ending, where Ame starts singing The Song That Never Ends.

Ame imagines a scenario where everyone is afraid to approach Spinel during her breakdown.

Ame: You just know that everybody has to remain silent for at least thirty seconds.

Miki: Yeah...

Ame: Because anything where you're like, "Hey, don't worry about it..." she'll be like, "NO!!!!"

"I can cry and program at the same time!"

"I FOUGHT IN KOREAAAAAAA!!"

Ame!Spinel: "I know something you don't know."

"Well... this is a fine pickle!"

"SCABADIGOOBER!"

The Squad have a serious debate about the merits of the Ding-Dong Club.

Junnsuke spends about five minutes giving an impassioned speech defending the Ding-Dong Club.

Their impressions of Smash Mouth.

PreCure♡Futari wa Pretty Cure: All Stars Memories

Their reaction to Miden.

And in the middle of his reaction, Koichi catches Junnsuke plucking nose hairs.

Koichi: Ech! Ech! EEECH!

The Running Gag of Takahiro pronouncing "DVD" as "Dee-Bwee-Dee" as a reference to how there's no "V" sound in the Japanese language.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHH THAT’S THE BEST THING I’VE EVAH SEEN!!!”

Motto! Ojamajo Doremi: Secret of the Frog Stone

Ame's weird drugged drink mixing scenario. (She switched her poisoned drink with Miki's... and then mixed them together too.) It gets more and more surreal until she suddenly snaps back to gushing over how much she loves Ojamajo Doremi.

Junnsuke rediscovered the "steamed hams" meme, leading to:

"Mmm, steamed hams."

"What if I were to [x] and disguise it as my own [x]? Delightfully devilish, Junn."

"This is a fine mess of turnips we've gotten ourselves into!"

The entire "black magic" schtick.

Koichi: "Yo! How I disappeared that bunny!? He smoke doobies real goooood!! That's how he disappear! He in the graaaave, son!"

“It's a beautiful steeeeaaak!“

Oblivion Island: Haruka and the Magic Mirror

Junnsuke has told long, hilariously dirty stories (Not to mention the goddamned Ding-Dong Club) but acts embarrassed about telling the viewers what time he woke up.

The Squad’s abject horror at the force-feeding scene.

Koichi: OH MY GOOOOOOOD!

Junnsuke: Oh, Jesus!

Takehiro: Oh, dang!

Sanzo: This is a kid’s movie, right?

Gulliver’s Travels (1939)

"This is the boopinest movie I've ever watched!"

Snitch hides a lantern under a bale of hay.

Takehiro: Did he just hide the lantern under the extremely flammable straw?

Junnsuke: (imitating Snitch) Look... I'm not a smart man.

And then when the spies’ lair catches fire:

Junnsuke: THIS PARTY'S ON FIREEEEEEEE!

[punch, punch] "Start talking!"

The Squad constantly Lampshading the fact that Gabby is the Butt Monkey of this film.

The Last Unicorn

Two words: tree boobies.

"You're not a very good wizard! There, I said it!"

Porco Rosso

Takehiro mentions that someone called him adorable when he says 420, like "an old man learning the new lingo".

420's been around forever, yo. Flippin, I was smokin when your mom was... sleeping with me. Before you were... I'm your dad, I've been meaning to tell you.

Swiss Family Robinson

Takehiro describes Fig Newtons as looking like dog doo mixed with straw. Junnsuke immediately agrees.

Miki’s unexpected Big "SHUT UP!" to Francis.

Nine months later...

Carnivale

Hey, uh, I was wondering...

Junnsuke looks over here.

"Everything about this movie is strange and... spooky."

Miki winking as the climax begins.

Padak

The Cinema Squad Drive-Thru.

The Squad imagining Anago as the "You Know I Had To Do It To 'Em" guy.

Mirrormask

The commentary starts out with Junnsuke splayed upside-down on the couch as he attempts to describe what he's feeling about the movie they’re about to watch.

Helena and Valentine encounter a sphinx. The Squad’s voices go up about an octave each.

"Sphinxes can't read!"

Their reaction to the spider on the Black Queen’s face:

“OEWW MY GAAHD!”

Raya and the Last Dragon

Their reaction to the film's opening sequence.

Con-baby Noi completes the Squad’s lives.

Their shock at Deng Hu having lured Sisu into a trap.

Ren: Sisu get outta there, get ou—he's made of rock!

Junnsuke: Oh my god! OH MY GOD!

Ren: She set you up!

Junnsuke: She's murdering you!

Ren: She-y-you se-you set her up!

Junnsuke: Holy crap!

Ren: You set her up.

Junnsuke: She’s dead!

Later, the Squad give a Mass "Oh, Crap!" to Sisu’s actual death.

Their panic about the Druun during the climax.

Okay, bye. *Smooch*

The Squad parody the messages from the UAC's holographic man.

Juunsuke: Hello. Welcome to Disneyland. If there are demons around, run.

Koichi: Hello and welcome to Disneyland. Feel free to move to the line to the left and PANIC!

The Return of Jafar

Takehiro’s insistence on referring to Iago as "Petey Parrot."

Any time Koichi calls Aladdin "A-lad-DIN".

The entire "Forget About Love" segment including the Squad joking about Jasmine singing off-key.

During the climax, when Iago is injured by Jafar, Enko begins punching the mic. Junnsuke contributes by pretending that Enko is punching him instead, while Enko shouts "Oo ma ma! OO MA MA!"

#featuring my OCs #I may add to this

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