#and now ive got my replacement boots from last year FINALLY but they replaced the original 6 size

[tuliptiger]

I hate my feet. I used to wear a size 6 and now my right foot wears 2 sizes up because my fucked up pinky toe decided to go number in a 6. Blast it all it's made work boot buying this year hell.

[supernaturalfreewill]

Words: 5,103 Gabriel x Reader Warnings: none! A/N: This is part of a series! Read Part 1 first!

Your name: submit What is this?

The first door standing open down the long hallway was obviously your bedroom, and Gabriel wasn’t shy about stepping inside. At first, he simply stood in the center and glanced around eagerly, bouncing a little on his feet as he surveyed the space.

Cas followed him in much more tentatively, but curious as to what his purpose was.

“This is it, huh?” He strolled over to the small desk in one corner and picked up an open notebook and some loose papers, studying them closely. Apparently, nothing there really held his interest because he abandoned them quickly and started sliding open desk drawers.

“This is—I think this is what humans would call an ‘invasion of privacy,’” Cas said.

“Gabriel, I really don’t think you should—” Cas tried to argue, but the archangel simply shushed him and opened the cover. He ran his fingers over your handwriting—the impressions were deep on the page and he liked the slanting, hurried cursive. “Ghouls in Minnesota, Vampire in New York, Werewolf in Arkansas… This is nothing but hunting notes,” he said with disappointment, flipping through the pages.

“What did you expect?” Cas asked him.

“Something with a little more insight into who Y/N is, perhaps,” Gabriel said, shutting and typing the journal closed again and replacing it in the false bottom of your drawer, kicking it closed with his boot. “Hopes, dreams, roots, deepest secrets… that sort of thing,” he said.

Cas’s brow drew down low over his eyes again. “Knowing Y/N, I seriously doubt you will find any of that in writing in here…”

“Well, that’s just wishful thinking. Best case scenario. I will just have to get creative,” he said. Gabriel spun and looked at the small bedside table. There was a novel sitting on it and he grabbed it, opening it to the bookmark. “Y/N is an avid reader, hmm?” he said, more to himself than to Cas. “This is an ambitious read.” He studied the bookmark which was a folded piece of paper. When he opened it, it was a printed photo of you, Sam and Dean, and Cas. Sam had his arm draped over your shoulders and all of you were smiling for once. Gabriel stared at it for a long moment and Cas watched his expression soften into a thoughtful, faraway look. Finally, he folded it up again gently and replaced it in the novel, leaving it on your side table just the way he had found it.

Next, Gabriel went over to the dresser and glanced at Cas with a smirk on his face. “You know, it’s strange but most humans keep their delicate underthings in the exact same place—top drawer—” he said, grasping the handle.

Cas slammed his hand into the drawer keeping it closed and Gabriel looked at him in surprise. “I really think you’ve done enough spying.” Cas’s voice and expression were stern now, but it only elicited a mischievous glint in Gabriel’s golden eyes.

“Spying? I’m just trying to get to know this Y/N better,” Gabriel argued, doing his best to sound innocent. “I mean, so far all I know is she’s related to the two meatheads and hangs around with you. And, though it may be a surprise to you, that doesn’t actually tell me anything I’d like to know.”

“If you want to get to know her, why don’t you just go visit her now? Or wait and meet her when she’s back.”

Gabriel gave Cas a skeptical look. “Oh, yes. I’m sure Sam and Dean will have no problem with me sniffing around their Baby Sister. They’re not known to be particularly suspicious or protective.” His tone was dripping with sarcasm. “Especially after all those Dead Dean Days…”

Cas grimaced a little at the thought. “Well… you also saved them by facing Lucifer. They will not have forgotten that. You redeemed yourself, at least in part,” Cas said, tilting his head in his familiar habit.

The archangel looked surprisingly uncomfortable with Cas’s sincerity. “Fine. Enough snooping. Come on, brother,” he said, laying a heavy hand on Cas’s shoulder. “Let’s grab a drink and you can tell me all about losing your grace and what mortality feels like.”

Cas frowned, but he didn’t object. He was glad just to get Gabriel out of your room…

_ _ _ _ _ _

Several weeks later

You leaned your head back on the pillows and let out a frustrated groan. “UGH! Where is this doctor?!” you demanded.

Sam gave you a look. “I’m sure he’s on his way,” he said gently, trying to placate you.

You threw off your blankets and climbed out of the hospital bed onto your feet, moving a little hunched over as you rolled your IV stand with you.

“Whoa, whoa! Hey!” Dean jumped up and stopped you. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I can’t stay in that bed another minute or I’m gonna lose it!”

“We’re not even sure if you’re going to get released today, so you might as well get used to the idea that you may have to stay in that bed for a couple more days,” he retorted. “So, get back in bed!”

You vehemently pointed a finger in his face. “HEY. You’re not my doctor! You don’t get to boss me around!”

Dean drew himself up to his full height and gave you a severe look.

You didn’t waver. “I’m not scared of you!”

This drew a laugh from Sam and when you glanced over he was shaking his head. “Y/N, please just at least sit down. I’m sure the doctor—”

“—is in!” As if on cue your doctor strolled through the door, you chart in his hand. He gave you a big smile. “Alright, Y/N. Hop back up on the bed again, would you? Let’s see how you’re doing.”

He hadn’t even examined your incision yet and the words were spilling out of you. “Can I go home today?” you asked urgently.

This elicited a laugh from him and he gave you an appraising look. “As soon as I know, you’ll know,” he said diplomatically.

You tried to be a good patient and sit perfectly still as he checked your incision but you couldn’t help fidgeting and chewing your bottom lip. The doctor straightened back up and crossed his arms. “Well, no sign of infection. Incision seems to be healing nicely, so—” “YES!” you exclaimed.

“SO,” he continued through a smile, “I’m going to release you but with very strict instructions. I need you to really hear me right now, Y/N. Okay?”

You nodded eagerly. “Yes. I’m listening.”

“NO lifting anything heavier than a few pounds—you know what, no lifting anything, okay? Absolutes seem safer with you. And you are NOT to be doing anything physical for 3 more weeks, at which time you can start with some easy physical activity. Long walks, some stretching, that kind of stuff. And you will need to get another post-op check-up around then too.”

You nodded. “Okay. I got it.”

“Now, your brothers here ARE now in charge since I can’t be there to keep you in line,” he said, a knowing smile on his face. He must have overheard you and Dean from the hallway.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you argued.

“I’m not kidding. You need to let them take care of you. And you two,” he said, pointing at Sam and Dean in turn, “need to make sure she rests.”

A gruff laugh escaped Dean. “Easier said than done.”

“I know,” the doctor said. “I’ve been dealing with her for only about a month. You two have been dealing with her for a lifetime,” he joked, shooting you a glance.

“I’m right here, you know!” you burst out. “I can hear everything you’re saying!”

The doctor laughed and held out a hand to you. “Y/N, it’s been a pleasure to watch you recover. Now be well, and rest.”

This time you didn’t have anything snarky to say and just grasped his hand in yours and shook it. “Thank you. For… not letting me die and stuff.”

He laughed and shook his head. “You’re welcome. Gentleman,” he turned to Sam and Dean who both shook his hand and thanked him repeatedly. “The nurse will be in shortly to take care of that IV and check you out. Take care.”

You watched him go with a triumphant smile on your face. Sam and Dean both looked a little anxious, however. “Oh, come on, guys! He said I’m fine. We can go home!”

“You heard the doctor though. Seriously, Y/N. You’re on house arrest,” Dean said forcefully.

“Whatever. I don’t even care. Just get me out of here,” you said climbing down to your feet again. Soon a nurse came in and removed your IV. You kicked Sam and Dean out of the room so you could change out of your hospital gown for the first time in what felt like years. Another few minutes and you were stepping into the hallway, a huge grin on your face.

Sam shouldered your bag and gave you an appraising look. “You alright?” You were still a little hunched over. Straightening up completely still made you sore.

“I’m great,” you said. “Look! I’m wearing actual clothes!” You glanced down at the sweatpants and t-shirt you had pulled on. “Sort of.”

Dean couldn’t help smiling at you fondly while shaking his head. “You sure you don’t want me to go grab a wheelchair? It’s a bit of a walk.”

You scowled at him.

“I’m being serious, Y/N,” Dean said, the gravel in his voice deepening. “You’ve only done short walks around the floor.”

“There is no way in hell you’re getting me in a wheelchair.”

You managed to make it out to the Impala, though Dean had insisted on driving right up to the exit to pick you up. You slid into the back seat and sighed. “Oh, I missed you, Baby,” you said out loud, sinking in to the familiar seat and breathing in that particular smell that always made you remember road trips and hunts and late-night cheeseburgers.

Dean smiled at you in the rearview mirror. He lowered his voice and turned to Sam. “You talk to Cas?” he asked in an undertone.

“No. It still just keeps going straight to voicemail,” Sam said. “But he texted me again… to explain the origins of pineapple,” Sam said, a tight smile on his face. “It took like 30 texts.”

“What the hell is going on with him? He’s been weirder than usual.”

“Well, he has been trapped at the bunker alone for kind of a long time…” Sam said.

“He could have talked with us if he would ever answer his goddamn phone,” Dean countered, turning onto the highway. “Maybe he’s finally cracked.”

“Who?” you asked, leaning forward and resting your hands on the back of the front seat.

“Nobody,” Dean said. You scoffed.

“That’s convincing…” you said under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

“Why don’t you just focus on getting all healed up and let Sammy and me worry about everything else, alright?”

“You know, it’s weird, but my cells do that part pretty much on their own. It doesn’t require much conscious thought on my part. So, if someone has cracked—”

“Nobody’s cracked,” Dean said gruffly, hands steady on the wheel.

“You just said—"

“I just said nothing for you to worry about,” Dean said finally.

You let out a frustrated growl and changed tactics. “Fine. I’ll change the subject,” you said smugly.

“Thank you…”

“Any news on Gabriel?” you asked loudly, sinking back into your seat comfortably.

There was a long, silent pause from the front seat and you could see that Dean’s grip on the steering wheel had tightened.

Sam turned partially around, one arm on the seat back and looked at you. “You know there isn’t.” “No, I don’t know that. You two are obviously keeping something from me, so I think it is fair to assume you’re keeping other stuff from me too.”

“We really don’t know anything about Gabriel,” Sam said, sincerity written all over his face.

You chewed your bottom lip anxiously. Sam took in your expression. “Have you—seen him again?” he asked.

“No. No, nothing like that but since that happened, I just have this feeling—he said we would be seeing each other again and it’s like, in my core, I know that’s true.” You looked up and caught Sam’s eyes, they were steady on your face and narrowed slightly in concern. “I know that doesn’t make any sense and I know you and Dean said he’s gone but it’s such a strong feeling. I don’t really know how to explain it.”

“I believe you,” Sam said. “For now, I guess we just have to wait…”

Many hours later, Dean finally pulled the Impala into the underground garage at the bunker and opened the door for you. Inside, an archangel and a graceless angel perked up as they heard noise in the garage. Cas shot upright and glanced over at Gabriel, who only smiled serenely back at him.

“Showtime!”

Cas gave him an apprehensive look and started off in the direction of the garage immediately. Gabriel followed, but at a leisurely pace, seemingly completely unconcerned.

But Cas didn’t know that this was mostly an act. There was a strange sensation in Gabriel’s chest and it was growing the closer he came to the moment when he would see you—meet you—for real this time, not in some mind dreamscape. He couldn’t even explain to himself why but he felt that this moment was going to change everything for him in some way—he knew no reason why that would be true. He had been fascinated with you since he first became aware again and had been thrust into some role connected with you… but he had this feeling, like a heavy block of cement in the middle of his chest sitting on top of his heart which was maddening in its oddity. It was like expectation and something more had solidified and despite all his trying he couldn’t shift it.

Dean pushed through the door into the bunker trailed closely by you, and then Sam hauling your bag and his own. “Cas?!” Dean roared. “Are you alive in here?”

Cas came hurrying around a corner in the hallway and his expression stopped all of you dead in your tracks. His blue eyes were wide and his face was quite pale, further making the shocking blue stand out.

“…what’s going on?” Dean asked. He was immediately reaching for his pistol.

“Don’t panic, but there’s someone here—”

“How is that supposed to make me not panic?!”

“Cas, do I need to get Y/N out of here?” Sam demanded over your shoulder, already trying to move around you to shield you protectively.

You were surprisingly quiet and Dean looked over his shoulder at you. Your heart was pounding in your chest. “Cas, who is it?” you asked quietly.

He only swallowed at the tightness in his throat and opened his mouth to offer some kind of explanation, but no sound came out. You felt like you didn’t really need him to answer anyway. You already knew.

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

A second figure now came around the corner and Dean dropped his duffel bag where he stood, his fists clenched.

“Welcome home, Winchester Clan!” Gabriel said cheerfully, his arms spread wide.

There was just a stretch of tense silence between all of you which the archangel finally broke again. “Dean, if you wouldn’t mind just stepping a liiiittle bit to your right so I can—”

“What the hell are you doing here? How are you here?!” Dean demanded, his jaw tensing.

“That’s how you want to start this?” Gabriel asked, a grimace on his face. “Come on, Dean. I’m here to help. I’m not here to kill you over and over again. Not this time. I promise. Scout’s honor.” He made a small cross over his heart with one finger. Gabriel tilted his head, trying to look around Dean to get a better view of you, but it wasn’t necessary because the next moment you stepped around him slowly.

He couldn’t help the small smile that grew on his face. You found the golden light in his eyes staggering, just as you remembered it from your vision.

“…you,” was all you could get out. Sam and Dean exchanged a tense glance.

He bounced a little on the balls of his feet and slipped his hands into his pockets, actually the result of nerves, but he was hoping it just made him look nonchalant and nonplussed. “Me.”

“You’re—but you’re… What are you doing here?” you asked quietly.

“I told you we’d be seeing each other again, didn’t I? You didn’t believe me?” he asked, cocking one eyebrow at you. You didn’t answer, just peered at him intensely.

He inclined his chin a little as he studied you. “Here—” he said. He moved around Cas and started toward you but was immediately met with loud yells and threats from the Sam and Dean causing him to stop abruptly and raise his hands, palms out. “Guys, guys, guys! Would you two just chill? Really! After all we’ve been through… I’d like to heal what’s left of that nasty gunshot wound if Y/N will let me. Or are you opposed to that? Because she’s in a lot more pain than she’s letting on. I’m guessing she’s hiding it so you two won’t go all crazy protective over her for the rest of her life.”

“No, I’m not!” you argued. Gabriel gave you a skeptical look.

“I can feel it,” he said. When he spoke those words there was something almost desperate in them. “Let me heal you. Please.”

You swallowed hard at the nervous lump in your throat and stepped around Dean again, giving him a small glance. “It’s okay,” you said.

Gabriel stopped right in front of you and gently touched two fingers to your forehead.

You straightened up immediately and breathed in a deep breath, completely filling your lungs, something you hadn’t been able to do without pangs of pain since you’d been shot. Your shoulders relaxed and you gave him a grateful but perplexed look. “Thanks.”

“Welcome home,” he said again, but this time it was quiet, like it was only for your ears. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the fingertips that had just touched your skin. They felt strange, almost like the sensation when your foot falls asleep.

Dean suddenly interrupted the moment by pushing past Gabriel and heading toward the front of the bunker at high speed. Cas turned and jogged to catch up with him, wilting a little under the scowl Dean sent his way.

“Cas, you couldn’t have given us a heads up?” Dean asked angrily.

“You don’t think I tried? He broke every single phone I had and all the new ones I managed to get a hold of. And it’s not exactly like I could just fly over, is it?” he finished bitterly.

Sam stopped next to the two of them and dropped his duffel bag. “So… all those weird texts weren’t from you,” he said with sudden understanding.

Cas looked confused. “What? Weird texts? No. What weird texts?”

The Winchesters and Cas suddenly heard laughter behind them and turned to see Gabriel standing in the doorway with a satisfied smirk. Their expressions were stern.

“Oh, come on! That series of texts about the fuzzy toilet seat lid covers? The ‘bedtime thoughts’ texts? Pure genius on my part. You have to see the humor in this!” Gabriel simply watched as the muscles in their jaws twitched.

Dean rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. “Goddammit. What the hell is going on?” He turned and looked to Sam who was still just staring in Gabriel’s direction with somewhat wide eyes.

“It’s really not that complicated, Dean. I was sent back to watch out for Y/N. And that’s really all I know.”

This caused deep wrinkles in both Sam and Dean’s foreheads. “Okay, first of all, your definition of ‘not complicated’ could use some adjustment. I would say a DEAD archangel coming back to life is pretty complicated. Second, why does she need anyone more than us watching out for her?” Dean growled.

“Well, seeing as she was just shot and almost died I don’t think I need to really answer that question,” Gabriel snarked back.

Dean’s jaw and fists tensed and Cas stepped forward to put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from attempting to throttle the archangel. Gabriel only smiled serenely.

“That wasn’t their fault,” you argued, having just appeared behind Gabriel in the doorway, feeling sick again because you knew your brothers were already blaming themselves. “It could have been any one of us.”

“But it wasn’t,” Gabriel pointed out.

You looked suddenly weary. “I don’t know why we’re still talking about this at all. I’m completely fine. Better than fine now that I’m magically healed me up. I feel like there are more important things we should be discussing.”

Gabriel raised a finger, like he had a sudden idea. “You’re right. Chiefly, I need to know everything about you. Your likes, your dislikes, formative childhood experiences, deepest darkest secrets—”

You crossed your arms over your chest and were about to snark something back at the archangel but Dean beat you to it. “Alright. That’s enough!” he growled. “You were supposedly sent here to protect her, not be a total creep. You’ve just met her and you’re already trying to invade her privacy,” he said gruffly, his green eyes piercing on the angel’s face.

“Well, technically I think he already—” Cas tried to stop himself but it was too late and your eyes snapped over to Gabriel as he winced and anxiously ran a hand through his hair. Your mouth was hanging partially open and your expression was incredulous.

“What the hell did you do?” you demanded. When he didn’t answer and only shrugged vaguely, the corners of his mouth pulling down in a frown, you turned to Cas again who was doing his best to look anywhere but in your direction. “Cas… Cas! Look at me!”

Gabriel spun and locked his eyes on Cas as well. “Brother, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll be quiet…” he said through his teeth, keeping a forced smile fixed on his face.

“We all know you aren’t good at lying, Cas. Even a lie of omission. Are you really going to lie to me? After everything I’ve just been through?” You purposely tugged on his heartstrings and walked toward him so he had no choice but to glance at you as you moved closer. “Cas, I almost died. And you’re not going to tell me what this archangel who is supposedly here to watch out for me was up to?”

Gabriel shot you a look that was both a little stunned and impressed. “That’s low,” he said. You raised your eyebrows at him and then turned back to Cas again.

You could see the internal turmoil crescendoing until it finally burst out of him. “He went through some of your things in your room. I tried to stop him but—”

“Dude!” Sam exclaimed, his jaw clenching with anger. Dean shut his eyes against the rising tide of rage and his fists tightened. `

Your jaw dropped open again and you turned back to Gabriel and away from a very conflicted-looking Castiel. “What the hell!?” you demanded angrily. “Haven’t you heard of privacy? What exactly gave you the right to go through my room?”

He looked a tinge guilty for a moment before rearranging his features into a questioning expression. “Well, I think I should know a little about my charge—”

You shot a glare at him that was piercing and Gabriel felt his throat tighten. “Your charge? Let’s get one thing straight right now… I’m not your ‘charge’. You do not get to boss me around or make decisions for me.”

Gabriel tilted his head and gave you a peculiar look. “Well… strictly speaking I don’t think that’s true… You see, I’m supposed to protect you which means that I get to decide—”

You interrupted him angrily. “No. No, you don’t get to decide.” You looked at Cas and your brothers who all looked pretty unhappy about what had just played out. “I’m going to bed. Goodnight.” As you started down the hall, you heard his footsteps following behind you and as you reached the door to your room you spun to face him. “What do you think you’re doing?” you demanded.

Gabriel looked around as if he was expecting you to be talking to someone other than him, but he saw no one else. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“I’m just doing my job. You said you’re going to bed so I’m going to watch over you and—”

You angrily bit the inside of your cheek. “No. You’re not. You can stay the hell away from me while I sleep. You’re not setting foot in my room again.”

“Oh, come on! Y/N, please. You’re not really mad about—”

You turned abruptly and slammed the door in his face. Okay, so maybe you were really mad… “You know I can just appear in your room! I’m an archangel. An oak door isn’t—” The door whipped open again and you stood there fuming.

“Go away.” Your voice was quiet but Gabriel could easily hear the anger in it and for now he decided just to back off. You slammed the door in his face again and he sighed heavily, running a hand back through his hair.

Sometime later, Cas wandered down the hall and found Gabriel sitting on the floor, his back up against the wall just beside your shut door, his legs stretched out in front of him. Gabriel looked at him as he approached.

Cas didn’t say anything, just took a seat beside the archangel on the floor, stretching his legs out in front of him and staring at his shoes. Gabriel broke the silence first. “Look how far I’ve come,” he said, his tone clearly sarcastic. “I used to lead legions and now I’ve been assigned as some kind of glorified babysitter and here I am, a fallen archangel, sitting on the floor outside her door.”

“You probably wouldn’t be sitting here on the floor if you hadn’t botched that meeting with Y/N so spectacularly,” Cas mused. To his surprise the archangel actually laughed and glanced over at him.

“Yeah, I think you’re right about that, Castiel.” Gabriel sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. “I have a tendency toward self-destructive behavior.”

“When I was an angel, I mean—with my grace, so did I,” Cas said. “Perhaps there is something about being so-called ‘immortal’ that makes us reckless with our own lives.”

Gabriel sighed again heavily. “Perhaps.”

Cas looked over at him and he could see genuine worry on his brother’s face. “Don’t worry. She’ll be fine in the morning. She’s tough. Strong. But kind-hearted. She’ll let you make up for it.” Cas fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. “I see such a mixture of Sam and Dean in her.”

This only drew Gabriel’s brow down more deeply. “That’s what I’m worried about,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t know why I was sent to protect her, but I do know how reckless the Winchesters are with their lives. And all without a single drop of grace.”

Cas’s lips curved ever so slightly in a thoughtful smile. “Yes. But selfless.”

Gabriel glanced over at his brother and felt a pang in his heart for his graceless friend. “Do you miss your trench coat and suit?” he asked him.

Cas’s eyes lifted in surprise at the question and he glanced down at his sweatshirt, picking a piece of lint off the sleeve. “I do. But… it felt wrong wearing it somehow. Like being in a suit of armor while not on the battlefield.”

Gabriel nodded and leaned his head back against the wall. A few moments of comfortable silence passed before he broke it. “I’m sorry for being such a dick since I arrived. All the phones… all the lying… all the snooping. It’s strange to say but I had a level of-—anxiety,” he tilted his head in a question, not even entirely sure that was the right word for what he had been feeling, “about meeting Y/N. And I still messed it up.”

Cas sighed again and patted a gentle hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Tomorrow is a new day.” He climbed to his feet and looked down at the archangel, a strange sight sitting like a child on the floor during time-out. “Tomorrow. Goodnight, brother.”

[writefinch]

Dear Dairy, Pt.1 (cn: noncon, Mm, kidnap, emphasis on *forced* feminization, induced lactation, milking, bondage, drugging, induction of gender dysphoria in a cis guy, things of that nature)

7th July 2018

Cold day today. I dusted off my scarves for the first time this year. Not literally, they'd been vacuum sealed and packed away when the weather turned in October. I threw out the red and yellow knit scarf, something I should have done last year, as it's far too Harry Potter. I was going to pick out the UMIST scarf but that felt a touch dull for the first scarf of the year. In the end I picked out the green silk paisley, which I felt provided a contrast with the pink shirt. I wore them with the second-hand grey Armani that I've yet to have tailored; I haven't yet decided if it's worth the trouble. I'm leaning towards yes, as I received two compliments today, one from Jason's database administrator, a charming and flirtatious--to say nothing of attractive--lady from Perth. We've talked about the possibility of meeting up for drinks at some point, and I'm increasingly inclined to take her up on the offer.

Experiment C2 is adjusting to his newfound freedom since his release last week. It was sad to see him go, and I'll cherish the time we spent together, our first night especially when he violently objected to the idea of servicing me. Oh, how he kicked and fought, clawing at his neck chain, scratching me, biting, swinging wildly. He bloodied my nose rather viciously and left me in no mood for sex that night, to the extent that I almost let him go entirely.

Of course, his demeanor changed altogether after I bagged him. A clear plastic bag over his head, taped around his neck, watching him gasp and writhe for air that isn't there, screaming his silly little head off until he's sure that he's taken his final breath, then tearing a tiny hole over his nostrils. I let him suck in four generous lungfuls of air before I bagged him the second time, and I went through seven bags before allowing him a rest. After that he became such an agreeable and solicitous cocksleeve you'd have thought he was raised in a merchant marine!

Still, he was unsuitable both physiologically and psychologically for the experimental interventions, and I only have so much space in the cellar, so I had to let him go. Some of my social acquaintances are keeping a close eye on him. He's been told that running his mouth will lead to nothing but the cold grave, and I believe he's a bright enough lad to take that to heart.

I'm beginning the search for his replacement tomorrow.

20th July 2018

I've found him! I've found him I've found him, he is everything I've been looking for, he is perfect, it is as if God placed that boy on earth for no other purpose than my need for him. I can barely contain my excitement.

He is an itinerant surf bum, twenty years of age, single, underemployed, estranged from his family. He has flowing blond hair, a few wisps under his chin that can barely be called a beard, deep brown eyes, and a lithe, rangy figure that seems to be slowly growing into the top-heavy carrot-shaped build of a classic surfer. He's been living in town since May, surfing most days, doing temp jobs, lodging in the spare bedroom of a friend of mine.

What a perfect physique! His body is accustomed to being dashed over rocks and whipped by surf, what fun I will have finding and surpassing his tolerances for pain! Oh, to restrict and ration out air to a boy who has trained himself to hold his breath underwater since he was a young teenager, to see those taut muscles stretched over a rack, I cannot wait, I can't wait.

I won't speak or write his name. I now take every action with the foregone conclusion that he is mine, and that he is already Experiment C3. In my mind, he is already in my cellar.

My friend has kindly allowed him to get behind on his rent, and C3 apparently plans to move to Sydney in ten day's time, driving out across the country in his decade-old Ford Ka, surfboard strapped to the roof. When he disappears a few days before that, people will assume he left to avoid paying his rent.

They won't be wrong, in a sense. C3 won't be worrying about rent for a long, long time...

26th July, 2018

It hasn't been an easy choice, and it is in fact a decision I've been struggling with for some time now, but I've decided to let my hair go grey. I'm almost forty for heaven's sake, and I noticed my first grey a year before the financial crisis. Ever since then I've been religious in my application of dye and toner, carefully concealing each and every one of the pale little buggers that pops up, but it's gone from something I'd do after a haircut to something I'm doing twice a week. I won't rush it, I'm going to ease off the dye over the course of the next year or so, but by next July I'll be au naturelle salt and pepper.

Work remains dull but tolerable. I know I'm blessed to be able to do most of my duties from home given my hobbies, but there's a certain sense of removal from everything, as if it's not really a job at all and I'm back at university doing a coursework-intensive compulsory module. On the other hand, I do enjoy going to the office in a way that I did not when I was going there five days a week!

Experiment C3 is screaming his head off again, I think. It's very faint, and I've turned off the air conditioning in the sitting room so I can hear it coming up from below. I suppose I can't blame the boy, given the circumstances. He hasn't seen me since the drugs wore off, and he's in the same configuration I first kept C2 in: his feet are in snowboard boots and locked into clips in the floor, his neck is in a steel collar connected to an eyebolt on the floor by a one-metre chain, his wrists are cuffed and pulled up towards the ceiling by another chain, he has noise-cancelling headphones strapped over his ears blaring white noise, and he's wearing a blindfold snug enough to prevent him from even blinking underneath it.

He's been there for seven hours now, since three in the morning. He can neither stand nor sit nor lie down, he cannot turn around, he cannot see--though it is pitch black in the cellar even if he wasn't blindfolded--he cannot hear his own voice, and I very much doubt he has any idea how he got there.

As I said, I haven't been down to see him properly yet, so I'm monitoring him at a distance via CCTV and also his pulse and blood oxygen readings. I'm keeping him watered through an IV drip and I'm not at all worried about feeding him just yet, though I'm sure he'll be getting hungry given that I emptied out the contents of his guts with an enema while he was still unconscious. I want him properly good and woozy from sleep deprivation before I introduce myself, either forty-eight hours or until his vitals get a tad skiffy, whichever is shorter. By my word, I am not an impatient man!

Of course, given the close monitoring required, I'll only be getting a few more hours sleep than he will. I suspect I'm getting the better half of the deal. Ah, the poor thing just wet himself. He needn't worry, it's all going into the bucket between his feet, and it'll go to good use later.

I've calmed myself down since his capture, for practical reasons as much as anything else, but I am still abuzz with energy. I am already looking forward to writing my next entry!

28th July 2018

I introduced myself to C3 today.

He spent an impressively long time in the stress position before he was unable to push his legs and instead dangled from his wrists, almost twelve hours, at which point I let the wrist rope go slack and allowed him to collapse. To prevent him from sleeping I intermittently blasted him with high pressure cold water whenever his pulse dropped below 100, for about a further four hours until I decided he'd had enough rest and strung his wrists back up.

He lasted five hours that time, so I let his wrists down again and stood sentry with a paintball gun, giving him a good and proper three-round burst whenever he stopped whimpering. Up again, barely an hour, down again, where I pinned him to the floor with wiring from an electric fence, set to deliver low-intensity zaps across his arms and chest whenever it seemed as if sleep was a possibility. He only got a few shocks, I think the first few put him in such a state of alarm that he didn't dare relax enough to be given another.

I strung him up a few more times, sometimes combining the motivators--his quivering thighs made a delightful target for paintballs as he tried to hold them in a crouching squat--until we reached the forty-ninth hour. I then played my recorded introduction tape through his headphones. It was identical to the one I'd played for C1 and C2, which was itself similar to the one recorded for B4 through B9.

Of course, as the deaf and blindfolded boy was crouch-squatting in place hearing my voice tell him that his old life was forfeit, that he was livestock now, that he would be used as a sex slave, that disobedience would only lead to misery, and the details of the hormone treatments he would be on, I was standing in front of him, masturbating.

My timing was impeccable. Just as the last lines of the recording said "if you're wondering when you'll meet me, I'm right in front of you," I came all over his whorish face. I'm afraid I'm no Peter North, I've no more than four spurts and the first one is always rather watery, but I nailed him right between the lips with one burst and smeared the rest over his face with the tip of my cock. He froze up rather delightfully during the whole ordeal, barely flinching as I cleaned off the tip in his hair.

I took the microphone and spoke directly into his headphones. I told him he'd been in his predicament for two days so far, that he was to obey my simple instructions, and that if he did he would be allowed food and allowed to rest. I told him that I would not require him to speak at any point during these instructions, and that if he so much as whispered I'd keep him strung up without food for another two days. He nodded in agreement, which earned him a hard slap, as I'd not asked him to nod or shake his head. I told him then to nod if he understood, which he did.

I freed one of his arms at a time, telling them to keep them in place and move them only as and when I told him to move them. He obeyed--a far quicker learner than C1--and I put him into the straitjacket. I unlatched his boots one at a time, putting him in ankle cuffs with a short length of heavy chain between them. I injected him in the buttocks with his first dose of anti-androgens, a painkiller, and his hormonal cocktail, and I removed the IV from his arm.

At that point I led him to his cage, a 2x3 metre cell, 1.5 metres high. I removed his blindfold, though it did him little good as it was pitch black in the entire room--I'd switched off the lights and was working via a set of light amplification goggles--and pushed him onto the wipe-clean bedroll.

"Lie still like a good little boy until the lights turn on, and then you can help yourself to some food," I said to him. He made a sound as if to respond, then silenced himself, lying still in his bonds.

The lights were on a timer, and they came on harsh and bright when I was upstairs, watching him through the CCTV on my desktop with a fresh pot of coffee. Three of the walls of his cage were walled off with a tarp, allowing him to see about a fifth of the basement through the remaining wall. Inside his cage was his bedroll, a doggie bowl full of oatmeal and bananas, a small plastic trough filled with fresh water, and a litter tray.

I considered staying up and watching him, seeing the fear grow in his eyes, his first attempt at eating cold food without the use of his hands, the humiliation of pissing in a litter tray, but I was exhausted. As soon as I've finished writing this entry, I'm going to take a well-deserved nap.

4th October 2018

The truffle salt from Coles is a waste of time. Don't misunderstand me, it's useable, it's palatable, and it has the necessary truffle aroma. "Has" is the key word there, it's got the half-life of Fermium and after a week in the cupboard it's now just table salt with black specks in it. I think I'm going to invest in some decent truffle oil at Christmas.

C3 is coming along marvelously. The combination of injections and a high-fat, high-calorie, vitamin-rich diet have had a visible impact on his physique. His skin has softened even further from a clear and healthy surfer's complexion to almost peachlike smoothness and he now has visible jiggle on his thighs, stomach and buttocks. Most importantly, he's now the not-at-all-proud owner of a set of A-cup breasts, complete with sensitive, pebble-sized nipples.

His breasts are extremely sensitive. He's told me as much directly, but I've confirmed it through experimental means. A few light stripes under the nipples with the cane used to bring a wince to his face when he first came under my care, now it brings him to his knees, and the mere sight of the thing leads him to cry and whine rather prettily.

He did have some issues with portion control, in that he wasn’t eating the full servings of food I had prepared for him. This was unreasonable and short-sighted on his part: while plain, I have not asked him to eat anything that I wouldn't willingly eat myself, and while I am not a professional cook I am certainly a talented amateur.

The solution was a simple one: if even a smear of food remains in his dish, I do not feed him for the next two to four days. I only had to enforce this rule twice, and he's finished every meal I've put in front of him for the past two months.

He's gone without sleeping for the last forty-eight hours, he's gone without speaking for the last three weeks, and I've added a low dose of LSD to his drinking water. Tonight he should be somewhat tractable for the induction of a hypnotic state. I am not trying to control his behaviour--there's nothing I want him to do that I couldn't compel him to do through more reliable means--but for an in-depth interview. In concert with a lie detector and a regulated dose of barbiturates, I am going to make him bare his soul to me.

There are a few specifics I'm interested in, such as confirming my assessment of his sexuality and gender identity, and it never hurts to shore up my security by inquiring of any planned means of escape or rescue, but in great part I am doing this for morale effect: I want him to have no respite from me, even inside his own mind. He will learn that he has no more control of his thinking than he does of his eating, sleeping or exercising.

Speaking of which, I had to leave him in an armbinder for a few nights when he insisted on doing press-ups in his cell. The additional restraints distressed him greatly, and he's seemed afraid to even move lest I restrain him further. That was back in August, and I have since acquired an elliptical trainer which I allow him to use daily, good behaviour permitting.

I will write again tomorrow with details of tonight's interview, and I only hope it's more productive than C2's interview was.

5th October 2018

Well, that was elucidating.

I left C3 unrestrained for the interview. It was his first time free of shackles and cuffs outside of his cage since he'd arrived, as I wanted him to be relatively comfortable and I was confident that his drug cocktail would prevent any serious escape attempts.

He is not a natural hypnotic subject and I was only successful in inducing a semi-trance state. I don't think he achieved a trance, but I think he believed he was in a trance, and for my purposes that was more than sufficient. He talked for hours and provided an unabridged history of his life so far. His parents, his brothers, his schooling, his love of surfing and camping, his romantic attachments and rejections, his childhood friends and bullies, his fear of dogs, his earliest memories, his deepest shames, enough to fill a short memoir.

The interview lasted for ten hours, with breaks every two hours to allow him to pee (as I'd also allowed him to drink lime cordial from a cup while he spoke) and to adjust his dose of drugs and deepen his trance state. He cried frequently and easily. He bears a great amount of shame and guilt for someone so young and so relatively innocent--raised by Catholics, naturally--and spent half of the fifth hour in uncontrollable hysterics. I let him rest his head in my lap and stroked his hair as he cried, and he clung on to me like a man drowning. Once he ran out of tears he had a bout of cathartic laughter, and after that a calm passed over him, and he remained in a state of detached, cooperative calm until I ended the interview.

Of course, most of this was filler and background information for the parts that truly interested me: his sexuality and gender identity. Both were perfect. His sexuality is less important but still delightful. He is entirely heterosexual and repulsed by men. He still has nightmares about the one time I have molested him so far, when I coated his face with cum shortly after his chapter. You wouldn't believe how hard I got as he told me that!

He sometimes masturbates in his cage, which he tells me is mostly from boredom than any sexual desire, and he fantasizes about sex with women. He has little interest in sadomasochism, no interest whatsoever about taking a submissive role, and aside from a weak interest in pegging he is plain vanilla. He has fantasies about sex in public, fucking multiple women, being woken up by receiving oral sex, and seducing older women.

His gender identity is much the same: male, through and through. He has insecurities about being slight and physically unimposing--related to bullying in school--and about being insufficiently masculine. He takes pride in the callouses in his hands and the scars on his body from surfing, and wishes that the thin, pale stubble on his face was thicker.

It's of little surprise then that he finds the changes from the hormones to be a cruel and unwanted imposition. His breast growth makes him feel powerless and disgusted with himself, he can feel his muscles weakening, the tenderness in his breasts is terrifying and degrading, and even the topic of penile and testicular shrinkage made him choke up and sob. He says that even when I allow him to sleep, his mind feels clouded and he finds it increasingly difficult to identify the particulars of his emotional state, which swings and changes in ways he is not used to.

Again, I must reiterate how promising this is. My experiments concern the induction of sexual neuroses and physical development on non-consenting subjects. C1 was unsuitable because he--well, she, more likely--was a little too keen to embrace the role I had planned for her.

C3 is sleeping now. I haven't actually left our impromptu "therapy room" and he's drifted off with his head in my lap. He needs the rest. I have big plans for him, after all.

24th October, 2018

I took a trip to the cinema today. Specifically the single-screen cinema in the back of the adult bookshop. C2 is turning tricks for the manager. I don't think it's his first career choice but for some reason he's been unable to get a job anywhere else in town. He tried being an independent streetwalker for a while, which didn't work out well for him as he was quickly picked up by the local police and treated rather roughly. Almost as if they were keeping an eye on him!

The manager of the adult bookshop got in touch with him, I believe he was waiting for him outside the local lockup in fact, and informed him of a safe, reliable means of plying his trade. Now he sucks cock in the back room cinema along with a handful of other whores in exchange for a roof over his head and ten percent of the ticket sales.

He was apparently given a second tour of the police cells for not handing his tips over to the manager in a timely and honest manner, so his left eye was still swollen shut when I saw him today. His garb was delightful: pastel pink yoga leggings with the Adidas stripes down the sides, and a duck egg blue midriff-cut t-shirt with "BOY" on the chest, with a female gender symbol in place of the O.

I sat down next to him in the otherwise empty cinema and flashed him my ticket, which had set me back $84--worth every penny--and he flashed me a charming smile. There was no glimmer of recognition in his eyes, like all of my experiments and side projects he'd never seen me without a mask. He put his hand on my thigh and told me his name, which I've already forgotten. The feature began, a rather energetic video from the noughties with Kelly Wells, Hillary Scott and Layla Riviera, prompting C2 to get on his knees in front of me. He gagged a little when he unzipped my jeans, not because I was unwashed but because I'd applied a generous quantity of deodorant and aftershave so that he would not recognise me via scent.

I enjoyed a slow, leisurely blowjob for the next hour, where he displayed all the basic techniques I'd so painstakingly taught him as well as a few new ones he'd picked up more recently. There's something to be said about consuming porn this way, not just the oral service but also watching the film from the beginning, without skipping forward to my favorite parts or switching between videos, letting myself slowly build towards my climax at the same pace as the on-screen action. I came just before the money shot, pulling out to cum all over C2's face as Kelly Wells guzzled piss on the big screen, and let C2 lick and suck my balls until the credits rolled.

Before he or I got up, I took out $20, waved it in front of his eyes, and then used the notes to wipe cum up from his face. He flinched at the roughness, scowled, told me to cut it out, and put his hand on my leg as if to push away from me. I said three words.

"Punishment position three."

It was as if I'd reached inside him and squeezed. He let out a pitiful squeak, straightened up on his knees, pushed out his chest, put his hands behind his back, closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and let his tongue hang out. I stuffed the cum-soaked banknotes between his mouth.

"Be good, C2," I told him as I stood up. He didn't move a muscle as I walked out of the cinema, and as the door closed behind me, I heard a single muffled sob. It was an enjoyable experience and I certainly needed it after the last few days because C3 has really been a handful.

It began on the weekend when the first signs of lactation appeared. C3 has been getting increasingly upset with the changes to his body, his widening hips, his weight gain, his shrinking musculature, his shrinking genitalia, and his C-cup breasts. The breasts are especially upsetting, he complains that they ache constantly and are tender to the slightest touch. In any case, when the first droplets of milk dribbled out of his nipples something snapped.

Through tears, he told me that he refuses to eat, that he cannot live with the things I am doing to him, and that I should either let him go or kill him. Obviously this is unacceptable. I told him I was not treating his request with any seriousness, and that if he did not eat his meal, he would go without for the next several days. He nodded forlornly, but still refused the food.

I strapped his hands into leather mitts to prevent him from improvising methods of self-harm, and continued as normal. For the next three days, he refused to respond to commands or obey orders, remaining silent and going limp. He wailed in pain when I caned his soles and slapped his tits, but he continued to wallow in self-pity.

He was ravenously hungry by Wednesday, but when I gave him the opportunity to eat, he would not. I left the bowl of food in his cage overnight, and in the morning it remained untouched. He had not thrown it out or despoiled it, he had simply ignored it in an admirable, if misplaced, display of willpower. I gave him one final warning that there would be serious consequences if he did not eat now. He refused, so I applied the consequences.

I fitted him into a padded restraining board, on his back, his arms, legs, chest, stomach, forehead, chin, wrists and ankles held in place by canvas straps. He could not move an inch, not that he was trying particularly hard. A hollow dildo gag with a breathing hole went into his mouth, principally to prevent him from trying to bite off his own tongue. I catheterized him and inserted a hollow plug into his backside, not overly gently in either case, much to his consternation.

Then, intubation. I fed a heavily-lubricated silicone hose into his left nostril. He thrashed and twitched, as is expected when such a procedure is performed without the aid of benzodiazepines. Undeterred, I asked him to start swallowing, lest the tube end up in his lungs. He did as much gagging as swallowing, but after a few eventful minutes I felt the tell-tale glide of it being pulled down his esophagus and into his stomach.

Once the tube was taped in place under his nose, I attached the free end to a pump until it drew fluid out from within him. A few drops of this fluid onto pH paper revealed it to be stomach acid, which hopefully meant that the hose was not in his lungs. I then attached the hose to the feeding machine, and explained to C3 exactly how it would work.

He would have his meals and water combined into a slurry, kept at a cool four degrees celsius, and injected into his feeding tube. The pressure inside the hose would make breathing difficult or impossible while the food was being pumped, and the volume of his meals--around a litre and a half of slurry--meant that each feeding would be spread out in thirty second bursts, delivered semi-randomly over the course of an hour.

As I told him this, I undid my belt and began to masturbate. Despite the obvious temptations, I had not molested C3 in an overtly sexual manner since that first facial at the beginning of his captivity. By combining molestation with removal of autonomy, I wished to impress upon him the importance of obeying me with whatever autonomy I allow him to have.

I pressed the button on the feeding machine as I approached my climax. C3 squealed and gurgled like a drowning cat from the sensation of ice-cold sludge pumping through a tube in his sinuses and down into his throat, choking as the diameter of the tube expanded enough to cut off his breathing. He thrashed in his restraints with such force that he almost moved the gurney beneath him!

Seeing tears stream from his eyes was too much, and his eyes were precisely where I aimed. I landed a good few ropes on each eye, which he scrunched shut in disgust. When the tube stopped pumping I pried open his eyelids with my fingers and made sure a good quantity of my burning, stinging cum got in each eye, then smeared the rest across his face. He tried to blink it out, with little success, and before he could do much else I applied the padded blindfold. He hates and fears the eye-shutting pressure from the neoprene padding at the best of times, and wasn't overjoyed to wear it with his eyes gunked up with sperm.

He's been like that for the last three days, unable to move, speak or see, fed three meals a day through his nose. The only interaction he's had is when I've unrestrained his individual limbs and allowed them some movement, one at a time, to prevent bedsores and deep vein thrombosis, and when I come down to grope his sensitive tits. He is only able to relieve himself through the catheter and through enemas.

After a few days of stick, he's almost ready for the carrot. Tonight I am making pork carnitas with soft tacos, which he has told me is his favourite meal. I have also purchased one of the Harry Dresden books, which he told me he is an avid reader of. When dinner is ready, I will make him an offer: he will ask me for normal food and apologize for forcing me to use the feeding tube. In return he will be allowed out of his restraints and returned to his comfortable cage, along with his favourite meal and a good book, which he will be allowed to read during his spare time as long as he behaves himself.

I hope he accepts, for his sake and mine.

16 November 2018

C3 had his first true milking today! I've been teasing dribbles of milk from his nipples with my fingers for weeks, but today the volume was so high that I had to deploy a handheld breast pump. He whimpered for the duration but was obviously relieved by the reduction in pressure. It was as if he found the whole ordeal rather humiliating.

The milk is rich, a touch gamey, and less sweet than expected. I don't think the taste will be anything to write home about while his stress levels are so high, and I think that will be the case for some time. I've taken half for myself, and I'm mixing the other half into his food.

He's been docile since the force feeding. The intensity and inevitability of the punishment is part of it, but the rewards are equally important. My deal is that he can ask for anything once. Obviously I laugh at certain requests--he's not getting a phone or a two-way radio--and some things require compromise, but otherwise I have been accommodating. His cell now contains a lamp he can turn on or off, two dozen books and graphic novels, an old mp3 player, and a box of wet wipes. His relief from the constant boredom of being confined in a cage for twenty hours a day is palpable, and he has chosen the comfort that obedience brings over the misery that stems from disobedience.

He has asked if he'll ever be free from this basement and I truthfully said yes. One day he'll be walking around outside free of physical restraints and he will sleep at night in a bed he can truly call his own, though I'm unsure if he'll ever truly be free of me. He takes comfort in the fact that he has not yet seen my face or anything that might identify me, as he reasons that I am therefore not incentivized to bury him in a shallow grave to protect myself. His conclusion is correct but his premise is wrong; he'll know who I am eventually and I still won't fear him.

I'm currently milking him once per day regardless of his feelings on the matter, and I think this has hidden from him the fact that he now needs to be milked. Without his daily milkings the pain in his breasts would become unbearable, and soon he will develop mastitis if he's not milked. This will form another important part of his development: begging for things that are distasteful but necessary. With the exception of the wet wipes, there is nothing inherently humiliating in the things he's asking for. I believe he'll find begging to be milked intensely humiliating, and more humiliating still because of the tolls I'll extract from him when he goes down that road.

A brief note on his physical changes: his breasts are bigger but they remain C-cups for the time being. There are now a striking set of stretch marks on the sides and undersides of his breasts, along with some smaller, subtler ones on his thighs and buttocks which have also thickened up nicely. At some point I'm going to give him a regular schedule of retention enemas until he gets stretch marks on his belly befitting a pregnant little broodslut. His skin is delightfully soft and I'm shaving his face daily until the home electrolysis kit arrives. The combination of hormones, daily exercise bike sessions, and a lack of any upper body resistance training has changed his physique from a surfer's build to a more bottom heavy one.

As soon as I have finished writing this entry I am going to give him two gifts. The first gift is an ear piercing. It will be home to a yellow plastic tag, a miniature version of a cattle tag. The second gift is his name. He's not C3 anymore, and he's certainly not whatever stupid name he called himself before I acquired him. He has lovely tits and he's a milk cow, so his name will be Cowtits.

Cowtits. I think it suits him.

[wichitalk]

This is a wip ive had for uhhhh less then a week lmao

Its 730 words, but its unedited so far :]

Lemme know what u think!

It was hot. It being the action of revival. The train station was always just unbearably humid and warm at all times, but actually being revived was something else entirely. It was like Wilbur was being dissolved, and he was, his atoms were fizzling and being replaced as the train sped through the cinderblock tunnels.

The last thing he saw before exiting the train was Dream’s grin, punctuated by the man's sharp teeth. Then he was plunged into darkness, the change was like flipping a light switch and Wilbur could suddenly feel the gravel digging into his hands.

He knew where he was.

There was a pickaxe next to him, simple iron clearly left here in a hurry. He picked it up and swung it at the opposite wall from the button, hacking until the cobble breaks. His boot hit the stone to break it down further, and he stepped out into the cool night.

A grin spread across Wilburs face, and he stumbled through the hole in the wall and stared up at the sky, breath catching in his throat. His communicator buzzed in his pocket, he took it out and stared in confusion at the blue stains and, was that sheep hair…? He shook his head and clicked it on, tapping over to the general world chat.

Awesamdude: Tommyinnit is now officially banned from the prison, any action he takes to enter the prison or go near it will result in his immediate arrest and demise.

It had been thirteen years since Wilbur had died, he was bound to have missed something but it couldn’t have been that much. Last he checked Awesamdude wasn’t on the server, and there wasn’t really much of a prison either.

He shut off the communicator, now wasn’t the time to worry about Awesamdude, or the prison, or whatever Tommy had fucked up this time. He slid it into his pocket and walked farther out of the hole in the wall. In place of the floor was glass, a single layer of it capping the crater.

He laughed, had he really done that? Had he fucked L’manburg that badly. If all of this wasn’t his fault, he had certainly set a catalyst for the replication of his final move, and that idea was so much fucking better.

Footsteps interrupted his laughter, anger evident in the stomping.

“You’re going to break the glass if you keep walking like that.”

“I don’t fucking care if I break the glass,” Tommy practically spit the words out, stopping ten feet away from where Wilbur was.

“Hello again, Tommy.”

“What the fuck.”

Wilbur ran a hand through his hair, he wished he had the beanie to hold it back but it got all scuffed in the blast.

“I didn’t have a mirror in the train station y'know, so you’ll have to tell me if I look different.”

Tommy looked him head to toe, and for the first time Wilbur’s gaze drifted behind Tommy, to the small boy and the tall lad standing fifteen feet back. The short one had fluffy brown hair, curling to completely cover his eyes. But it was the scar that gave it away to be Tubbo, it was still grotesque, covering the majority of the skin on the left side of his face, ribbed and mutilated in a way that was unique to being executed via firework.

The taller one was someone Wilbur had never seen before, he cleared six and a half feet and his skin was pitch black, spotted with white almost like vitiligo. His hair was also a mix of black and white, and it was tied in a small ponytail behind his head.

Tommy was talking again, questions about why the fuck he was back, what the afterlife was like, and what Dream had said to him were all repeated again and again.

“Listen to me Will, just tell me what he fucking said to you and why you’re-”

“This is my personal sunrise, Tommy.” Wilbur interrupted. He looked around the crater, buildings soared and small houses sat around it, obvious signs of life after he had died.

Wilbur spoke again, this time looking Tommy in the eyes. “I have so much to do, goodbye for now, Tommyinnit.”

As Wilbur strode away from the group he heard the tall one say:

“What the fuck have you done Tommy.”

Wilbur grinned.

[spookiifi]

A Survivor

Yeah. You don’t have to forgive me for this angst fic.

Warnings: violence, blood and gore, lots of angst, abuse, kidnapping

---

One moment Sasha was instructing Mandalorian servants, the next she was seeing spots and falling through a black hole.

She awoke in a dimly lit room, the air was humid and she could smell the dust. Sasha tugged at her hands, only to find they were bound behind a chair. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest.

They were never Mandalorians. These pirates used shadow holograms to break in and steal her.

“What do we have here? Looks like the damsel in distress is finally awake.”

Xeo, an elder pirate turned her chin towards him and he flashed a grin. “Smile for us, pretty girl.”

Sasha spit in his face. “Rot in hell, slaver scum.” Xeo snarled and punched her across the face, she was sure he broke her nose.

“Quit that! We need her in perfect condition!” A Trandoshan bounty hunter called from across the room. “Contact Kael and tell him we’ve got a new deal. A fair lady for a fair price.”

“We’re going to be rich.”

Who knew what they could do to her; Sell her for ransom and easily turn her into a slave again? Send her to another location light years away?

‘No, not this time,’ she scowled and quickly browsed through her escape options.

The vibroblade.

It was a gift from Maul. She always kept it with her in case of an emergency like this.

As the group joked and drank, she fiddled with the weapon in her back pocket. She had no idea how they didn’t notice it when they knocked her out. Maybe they were too busy gloating about their upcoming success.

A Zygerrian known as Pantera, who clearly had one too many, stumbled over to Sasha. “Your man can’t help you now, your highness.”

“I don’t need him to help me. That I can do myself.” She kicked upwards, hitting the Quarren between his legs. Her hands were now free, and she took the opportunity to knock her skull into his.

She was trained by Maul to be a warrior, and now was the time to show her strength. ‘Harness your anger and use it to your advantage. Feel it flow through you.’ She wasn’t going down without a fight.

Sasha could feel the force as plunged her dagger into a Twi’lek’s neck. He clutched at his throat, helplessly trying to keep blood from spilling onto his chest. His gurgling ceased as he fell to the floor.

She tried to map out weak spots on the pirates, yet there were too many moving to tell. It was time to go.

“Pantera, now!” Sasha screamed as a round pierced through the back of her shoulder, another through the leg. “Now look what you’ve done, ruining the prize! I said set it to stun!”

She struggled to stand as another bounty hunter pressed his boot into her thigh.

“At first, I wanted to take you in alive. I don’t think the boss cares anymore.” The Zygerrian slammed his foot down on her leg, and she screeched. Tear droplets formed in the corners of her eyes. “Oh, don’t give me that. It will be over soon.”

A blaster shot rang out.

The bounty hunter’s body flopped next to Sasha, the color draining from his eyes.

Someone crashed through the door and the heavy boots of Mandalorian guards thundered through the old building. Somewhere Sasha heard Maul screaming her name, then furiously yelling at Savage to destroy every last pirate.

Boiling white anger coursed through the brothers’ veins. The pirate’s cries meant nothing to them; only weak roaches who blocked their path. They never stood a chance against Maul and Savage as they sliced through the remaining scoundrels into ribbons.

More blaster shots could be heard in the distance, and Sasha’s consciousness began to fade in and out. She blindly groped for her vibroblade, instead she was met with a set of tattooed arms.

Tears streaked down her face. “M-Maul…I can’t move,” she winced as he lifted her off of the cold ground. “Careful!” Ripples of pain traveled down blasted shoulder, she was losing blood fast.

“I’ve got you, my love. Keep your eyes on me.” He rushed aboard the ship with the soldiers, “Stay awake, you have to stay awake.” He never let go of her hand as an IV drip was hooked to her wrist. “I can’t afford to lose you.”

Sasha spent weeks recovering in the medbay. Maul never left her side unless it was mandatory. On most occasions, he’d have Savage keep her company until he arrived.

Maul brought her books from the library to read while he was gone. Then she’d summarize the story when he returned, trying to make light of the recovery.

He was much more aggressive during meetings, snapping at the slightest remarks. Servants avoided him as much as possible.

Eventually, Sasha’s shoulder fully healed, leaving a scar where she was hit. Walking proved to be a difficult task, and it took several weeks until she could support herself. In the early morning hours and evening, a medical droid provided a checkup along with physical therapy.

The very first night Sasha was moved back to her own room with Maul, he became clingy. He never wanted her out of his sight. The Madalorian guards who usually accompanied her were replaced by him. Maximum security took hold of the palace.

Maul would never let this happen again, he swore on his life.

---

Tagging: @tinalbion @a-dorin @maulieber @lestrange2703 @angryp1xel @alicedoestheinternet @queenfurball @botherbother-blog @brilliantbutbatty @zabrak-show

[pinkispoggers]

Years After

Warnings: smut and baby yoda and kinky Caillou

Caillou had divulged this kink about five years after they had been together. Baby yoda, being the prude that he was, refused at first. Not surprisingly caillou had been able to talk him into it. And he had to admit it was....erotic. He trusted Caillou and wouldn't be in the bathroom now shoving a plug up his ass if he didn't. Baby yoda grabbed the lube from underneath the sink and slathered up the toy. He then put a dime sized amount on his fingertips and began teasing the edge of his entrance. His cold fingers inside the hot space felt amazing and with a slight bit of pumping he was able to prepare his hole for the medium sized toy. Thinking about what Caillou would do to him tonight almost sent him over the edge right there. If he thought this was torturous, Caillou would absolutely undo him if he broke his commands. 

The feeling of the toy was there as he tediously worked through his daily routine. Every time he moved the object would shift and penetrate him even further, driving him wild. He grabbed his cell and started texting his lover sending him lewd messages like: 

“Come home and fuck me already” or

“Can't wait to feel your rough hands around my cock”

The messages would make Caillou just as crazy as he was making Baby yoda. He grinned deviously knowing that Jet would have to wait just like he. 

Finally 5:00 arrived and it would only be about an hour before he was home. Per instructions, Baby Yoda entered the bathroom again and lubed up his pulsing tiny member. Just the slightest stimulation had precum oozing out of the tip. He pumped into his fist watching as his face contorted in the mirror. His face was flushed and ragged moans kept creeping out of his mouth. Slapping sounds met his ears as his hand fisted down the shaft. 

“Ngh...damnit..” 

His breathing was getting more labored and every pump brought him closer to release. A deep burning sensation traveled down his abdomen and he knew if he kept pumping he would spill. He tore his hand away which was sticky and wet with precum. Washing it off, he exited the bathroom and tried to sit patiently while he waited for Caillou. He couldn't even sit down he was so hard. 

Finally he heard the keys twisting in the lock and Caillou came strolling through the door. He pounced on him before he could even get the door closed, running his fingers on his shiney cancerous bald lookin ass head. He kissed him hungrily nipping at his lower lip with his teeth. He guided caillou's hand to the bulge in his pants. 

*Baby yoda coos, throat coated with lust"

Caillou laughed and pulled Baby yoda by the hand into the bedroom. “Someone followed instructions well.” He pushed him down onto the bed. “How do you want to be rewarded?”

Caillou's teasing made his breath hitch. Of course he wasn't going to make this easy. 

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Im gonna need more details than that. Tell me exactly how you want it. And I might give it to you.” 

Baby yoda huffed and tried again. “I want your hot, calloused hands to pump my hard cock until I'm screaming. I want you to fill up my tight entrance and pound my prostrate as my back arches off the bed in tantalization.” 

Caillou is nodding at his words. “What else?” 

“I want to taste your sweet mouth as you fuck me, my legs wrapped around your shoulders as you thrust into me. And I want to watch your face contort in pleasure as you fill me up and we cum together.” 

“You want it bad.” 

Baby yoda let's out a breathy yes. 

Jet pulls out a brown bag from their closet. “I'm sorry to say that it's not going to be that way.”

A gag is pulled from the sack and Jet dangles it in front of him. “You're a filthy peasant and should be treated as such.”

Caillou skillfully positions the gag over his mouth and straps it in place. 

“You remember what to do when you can't say the safe word?” 

Baby yoda nods. Fire was their safe word to use if anything got out of control but when gags entered the mix all the sub had to do was make a thumbs down and the message was clear. 

Caillou begins to unbutton his shirt slowly. He lets it slide down his arms and it lands with a thud on the floor. 

“Don't you want me, baby?” Jet smiles at his prize and kicks off his shoes and pants. When he was down to just his boxers, Caillou turned so Baby yoda could see the white tan lines on his still very white bald ass. He slides the underwear down slowly making an extra show of squeezing his bottom and rubbing his front. All Babt Yoda could do was watch greedily, hungrily, as he drank all of him in. 

Finally Caillou turned around where his dick sprang freely in the air. 

“Can't wait to bury this balls deep in your ass.” 

Jet's dirty talk made his skin quiver. He reached out to touch himself but Caillou slapped his hand away. 

“Naughty peasant. You'll be reprimanded for that.”

A rope is pulled out and Baby yoda's hands are quickly bound behind his back. All he can do is watch helplessly as Caillou lubes up his own penis and straddles the bed. He pulls Baby yoda boots and pants off and fingers the butt plug still lodged in his ass. 

He pulls it out and it's quickly replaced with another one. What the? Oh, shit! It was vibrating. Baby yoda's moans were so guttural they escaped through his gag. The toy was almost hitting his sweet spot. Fuck, how long was Jet going to torture him? 

“Ive decided you don't need your sight, peasant. I'm going to take it from you.” 

A wrap was placed over his eyes where he could only see darkness. 

“Im going to torture every last inch of you.” 

Baby yoda doesn't see that Caillou has a dull kitchen knife in his hand. He had placed it in the freezer so where the illusion of sharpness would be created. 

A sharp, piercing sensation starts over the Baby's left nipple and he screams through the gag. The pain felt good with the stimulation of the plug. And Baby yoda finds himself writhing against his bonds trying to find some way of release. This earns another cut from Caillou, this time over his right nipple. 

Caillou's own cock is pulsing red from The Child's feral moans. They come from deep within his throat and elicit shivers down the kidss neck. 

“Quit being naughty, slave, or I'll cut something else off.” 

Caillou runs the blade right above the kid's naval. Pants squirm their way out of the gag. Caillou beholds the beautiful sight before him. Baby yoda lying stomach up, legs spread wide, with a blue vibrating toy pulsing out of his anus. Moisture is beading at the tip of the head and Caillou bends to lap it up. Finally he can't stand it anymore and rips the wrap away from Baby yoda's eyes. He grabs the red ball over the gag and pulls his lover up to meet him. The gag is undone and Caillou mouth is over Baby yoda's, sucking at the pink muscle and running his own over every crevice and crack. The Child's breath is hot against his mouth. He has no hands to give him leverage so he uses his legs to meet Caillou's mouth. This creates a somewhat clumsy session but the ragged, primal ness of the act just makes Caillou hornier. Baby yoda's whimpers into his mouth. He comes away for air, saliva connecting at their tongues. 

“Caillou, please..” 

This time it's a desperate pant and he knows its high time to provide the man with a release. With one fluid motion, Caillou pulls out the butt plug and seats Baby yoda over his cock. The shaft goes all the way in, sliding in with a lewd shlurp. Baby yoda let's out an almost feminine like moan as Caillou rocks into him. His fingers claw into his white thighs leaving red marks. 

The Child throws his head back as Caillou seats and unseats him. He slams into him each time, his thrusts going deeper and deeper hitting that sweet spot. He can feel his own cock go hard as he watches the skin of baby yoda's ass being jostled around. 

“KiNkY CaIlLoU!” Baby yoda screams out as Caillou slams him down. A white substance shoots out and coats his fingertips.

He feels his lover go limp on top of him, the muscles in his legs turning to jelly but he himself has yet to climax.

He pushes Baby yoda's face down onto the bed, his ass in perfect view, and Caillou continues to pound him. He grips his thighs as support and each thrust makes the skin jiggle.

“Fuck, baby, I'm almost there...just a few more...ngh!”

The men cry out in unison as Caillou's cum fills The Child's hole. Semen drips down the kids legs as he pulls out. 

Exhausted, the two collapse on top of each other and curl into the others outstretched arms. Baby yoda traces patterns on the others jawline as he tries to regain his breath. After a few moments, Caillou gets up to go fetch a warm washcloth. He gathers Baby yoda into his arms and begins toweling off all the sticky substances. Each spot the towel touches, he kisses. After they are semi clean, Baby yoda curls himself against Caillou's chest. Their aftercare period always involved Caillou having a smoke. It relaxed him after a particularly rough session and being able to watch Baby yoda fight sleep with his half lidded eyes fluttering was always a perk. 

“Quit fighting it, babe. You know you're always tired afterwards.”

“S'no.” the child mumbles something else unintelligible and Caillou continues to stroke his back until he was asleep. 

As he pulls his warm, sleeping partner against him, Caillou for the hundredth time that day thought how lucky he was to have him. 

[cherry3point14]

Accidently in Lust

Pairing: Dean x Reader Prompt: You are a cousin of Eileen, and need a place to stay (house burned down? Have to go into hiding?) Your parents were hunters, and while you didn’t follow suit, you know the life. So who does Eileen call for help? The Winchester’s, of course! Sam offers you to stay at the bunker, and Dean reluctantly agrees. You find Sam a joy, but his cranky, melodramatic brother drives you crazy with all his grumping about “someone in the way...” By the brilliant @divadinag (there is a second part to the prompt, the best line in this thing comes from the second part, but I’m keeping that as a surprise. Just read it.) Words:10,947. Warnings:NSFW adjacent. Dirty talk and a little teasing mostly. House fire, brief hospital visit. Unresolved plot (WHAT). A/N: My last follower celebration fic! It’s another one that I just kept writing for so it kind of got saved till last because I couldn’t stop and really I still wanted to keep going. I hope y’all enjoy. And I hope you’ve enjoyed the six days of fic (even if this one was a day late). Now back to WIP’s!

Ao3 link if you prefer.

You open your eyes slowly, barely, being woken in the middle of the night. There’s an alarm somewhere that beeps incessantly, the noise thankfully waking you, along with the sound of coughing that you quickly realize is your own. Your eyelids cling like sleep is gluing them together. Except there’s not, you rub at them half consciously and they still don’t want to open. Something stings them into submission making you squint and see the dark world around you between the smallest crack.

Smoke?

You sit bolt upright despite still having a foot inside your dreams and adjust your vision as much as you can, as quickly as you can. Something is glowing yellow and orange outside of your bedroom door and smoke billows into the room in rolling grey clouds. Even in the middle of the night, you can see the way it rushes to the ceiling leaving black stains on your once pristine walls.

Something in your head finally catches up and adds all of these clues together. Of course, by that point, your coughing had intensified. The smoke determined on stealing the oxygen from your lungs and replacing it with acrid stinging. Random fire safety tips come back to you, ingrained in your head at a young age. You need to move, or you’ll pass out, the smoke will make you sleepy and sleeping will make you dead. You’re sitting too high up, so you sink to the floor, opposite to the direction of your door, giving you precious seconds to think. There’s a little more oxygen down here which your brain is as thankful for as your chest.

The window. You need to get to the window.

The frame is hot when you get there making it seems like the bones of your house are the source of the heat and not the fire itself. Luckily you can see the bright red of a fire truck pull up precariously on your front lawn, but they’re barely boots to the floor as you feel yourself sink to your knees again. Just a hand raised above you banging on the glass even though you know it’s not enough for them to see you and it’ll never be enough for them to hear you.

From your vantage point on the floor, you start looking for something hard, something you’ll be able to smash the glass with but while your hands blindly navigate your room the ratio of smoke to air continues to increase. Your lungs feel weighed down and this is the moment your mind decides it’s awake enough to acknowledge the thick drumming of a headache.  

You don’t want to, you fight as long as you can, trying to grip a forgotten boot in your hand when you feel the worn leather against your skin. Hoping it will invigorate you enough to rise up and break the window but just as soon as you’ve touched it then your fingers then start to go slack and your eyes, that you’d struggled to keep open in the first place, start to close with finality.

Now when you open your eyes in a hospital bed you’re grateful to be awake. Every second of being in your room, close to being burned alive, is carved so deeply into your memories that you almost expect to be surrounded by grey wisps and orange glows even now.

The ceiling above you is harshly clinical as if it could never be blackened by smoke stains, it’s soothing to your soul. Your body is stiff from immobility and your arms each have their own devices attached, one home to an IV and the other has a heart rate monitor. The mask over your face pinches at your skin as a hint of a smile plays on your lips when everything connects together in your brain, you were alive.

Apparently rousing from sleep had caused enough movement to let your visitor know you’re awake. Just like that, your vision is filled with Eileen as she leans over you and her face splits into a bright smile.

Through the plastic covering your mouth, you question the obvious, “Eileen?” Either she can still read your lips through the mask or she gets the idea. She nods and answers with an even brighter, “hey you.” Seemingly you’re not the only one pleased that you’re alive.  

She backs off enough to allow you to sit up and she’s patient as it takes you a while, but she doesn’t return to the chair. She’s sitting on one crossed leg at the edge of the bed like when you were kids. The Saturday afternoons she’d help you correct your fingers while you learned to sign or correct your maths while you learned trig.

Your limbs protest any sort of movement but lying down while awake is uncomfortable, it makes the hair stick to the back of your neck, so you tell your muscles to get over it. You move your hand to pull the mask down and regret the decision instantly. Although your face is thankful to take it away your lungs and windpipe are not. You’re not sure what they were pumping into you but sucking in that first lungful of air from outside of a tank sets everything alight. You can feel the scorch that paints your throat and extends down into your chest. It hurts enough that you wince, consider putting the mask back on and have a too vivid flashback to your house fire all at the same time. You’re resilient though and stubborn, refusing to go back to reliance on the mask if you can help it. Instead, you huff out that painful air and hiss your way into a shallow but consistent breathing pattern. Smaller bursts of pain preferable over deep, fiery breaths.

Eileen has always been observant so it’s not a surprise to meet those concerned eyes when you look up. The smile has fallen into a sad frown as she watches. You force your lips to curl upwards, a hand at your chest to with a familiar sign and, “I’m fine, really.”

She laughs at you, it’s soft and light, and you remember why you always love hearing her laugh so much because she never holds back, “you were in a fire, you don’t have to be fine.”

“Ok, everything hurts. You happy now?” You try to joke but she can spot the grain of truth behind it just from the way your lips clench tightly.

She takes a deep breath and you’re jealous. Although you’re more concerned that there’s something she’s not telling you, something she feels like she needs to say and she doesn’t want to. You know her well enough to read her. Eileen doesn’t often play coy or hold many things back, another thing you loved about your only cousin, but at this moment, she’s pretending she doesn’t know the words. It’s a strange sight to behold.

You touch her hand, pulling her focus back to your face so you know she understands when you press her, “what is it? Spill.”

Her face aches with whatever her secret is, but she can’t change who she is. Eileen is not someone who avoids the truth even if she doesn’t like it, “it was them.”

She doesn’t need to say more for you to know what danger she’s talking about, the tone is enough. The pack your parents were hunting before they became the hunted. It had been years and you’d figured since you didn’t hunt yourself, that you were safe. Out of sight and out of mind. But apparently not, they’d found you.

Your hands move slowly, conveying the worried tone of your voice in the deliberate speed of your fingers, “what am I going to do?”

You know it’s a lot to ask but Eileen knows things. She lives the life your parents had, the one you’d grown up in but rejected the first chance you got. And you’ll do anything she tells you to because there’s no one you trust more in the world. If she tells you to move to Alaska because werewolves don’t like cold, then you’ll do it, no questions asked. You just want to be safe again instead of almost being killed for your dead parent's short-sighted vendetta.

She looks at you with a mingled expression of sympathy and worry, the same kind you remember her wearing at your parent’s funeral, “I’m going to take care of it.”

Your brow furrows, hands fast and voice concerned now, “no. I can’t ask you to do that. Don’t get dragged into this. Just tell me where to go.”

The last thing you want is your last living family member getting involved. Sure, she hunts regularly but this pack is brutal, and Eileen is the closest thing you ever had to a sister, even if you only see her every few months.

She has that smile though. The one that you know means she’s ignoring you, or she has something up her sleeve. And you might physically feel like seven shades of shit but seeing the way her eyebrows raise playfully still elicits the same reaction it always has from you. You roll your eyes like she’s a bad influence and this is all a prank.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got some friends I think can help.”

Someone from the fire brigade had shown up to tell you they didn’t suspect foul play, which was laughable, and you’d had to go through the minutia required to give to your insurance company all the while wondering how he still had his job. Structural damage they said. Brought your home to the ground. The only things you had left were a few surviving boxes from the basement that magically survived, your car and the clothes on your back, currently being a hospital gown.

Then Eileen shows up like the angel she is and tells you she’s arranged somewhere for you to stay. You ask question after question but she’s cagey about details, apparently, you can’t even have your mail forwarded there. So obviously, you’re already imagining some creepy shack off the beaten track where you’ll be living with two hippies and a drug dealer.

This was your sweet, lovely Eileen though. Part of you knew she wouldn’t do that and a much more suspicious part of you was wondering why she was being so secretive. You couldn’t not get your mail since you were trying to repair and replace your entire life. You reluctantly agree to her terms and ask to know the town you’ll be staying in at least, so you can get a PO box.

Lebanon, Kansas.

Ever thinking ahead she’s brought you her old laptop to tide you over until your insurance money comes through and you spend the hours before you get discharged researching Lebanon or trying to figure out where she could be taking you. There are a few motels but there are motels in every town so why would she be taking you a state over to hide you in a Super 8? If anything, you’re a little surprised she’s not taking you further away from the problem. Your only reassuring discovery about your new mystery abode is that Lebanon, on google earth anyway, doesn’t seem to have a shanty town built of corrugated metal sheets so, there’s that.

She brings you jeans and a flannel to wear when she comes back to pick you up and you find yourself trying to resist wrinkling your nose at the thick material, but ultimately failing.

She laughs and tells you, “you’ll fit right in.”

“Into what? A Canadian lumberjack convention?”

Her laugh gets bigger like it’s coming from the deepest recesses and you feel like you’re missing a joke when she assures you, “something like that.”

Before you set off she takes you to pick up your car, which you’re very excited to see again, except in doing so you see the remnants of your home. It horrifies you how much of it has burnt away and you wonder how bad it got while you were still inside. The parts of it still standing don’t look stable enough to survive a breeze and everything is rotted by fire. As you’re getting into your car and preparing to follow Eileen to Kansas you see it. In the stone foundation, the only thing to truly survive is what clearly looks like a deeply carved, large claw mark. You shiver at the sight of it, unexpectedly glad to be driving away from the town you’ve called home for all these years.

Lebanon reminds you of so many other slices of small-town Americana. Main street has a tiny post office that you can just tell the same guy has been working in for twenty plus years. City hall is what you can only describe as ‘cute’ for the size of it and there are pickup trucks as far as the eye can see. You have a sneaking suspicion that if Lebanon didn’t have the claim to the geographical center of the 48 states then it may have fallen off of the map a long time ago.

She doesn’t stop at any of the quaint houses with their expansive front yards. She keeps driving. All the way through to the other side of town until you’re sure you’re about to leave Lebanon again.

Suddenly she has a turn signal on and she’s pulling over besides, what initially, looks like an abandoned building. You pull in behind her and jump out not bothering to mask your confusion and horror. If you were shooting a movie about a long shut down mental hospital then this might be your perfect filming location but as a hideout you’re concerned. You’re half expecting this to be her way of tricking you into a hunt.

She calls you over and when you get to her you see the secure door and downward steps that her car had been hiding from your line of sight. She wants you to stay in some underground lair? Were you going to be staying with a bond villain? This definitely felt like where a bond villain might live had they made their home in Kansas.

You reach out for her shoulder stopping her before she takes the stairs down, “where are we?”

There’s that smile again, knowing and full of secrets, “they call it the bunker. Just come on you’ll see.”

The bunker? This is some wartime crap.

You know deep down that Eileen isn’t going to have brought you somewhere to die unless she is possessed, which honestly you hadn’t checked for and should you have checked for that? It’s been years since you thought about those kinds of precautions, could the pack have recruited monsters other than werewolves?

She bangs on the door and the sound seems to travel forever indicating the depth inside. It’s a few torturous minutes before it’s pulled open to reveal an exceedingly tall guy with long hair falling in his face. Well, falling in his face until he spots your cousin and sweeps it back with one hand, partnering the motion with a grin that lights up his features. His eyes crinkle absurdly looking at Eileen and now you understand why you’re here.

He signs, “hey, you made it. I was starting to think you wouldn’t get here before dark.”

It’s the first time you look at her since the door has opened and you can see this unabashed adoration radiating off of her, especially as the guy's hands move through the words.

At least that explains it, why she called upon this particular friend to help out. It calms your nerves a little bit. She never had a taste for bad guys, he must be on the level at least.

They both smile at each other for longer than is really necessary and it takes you clearing your throat for Eileen to remember why she’s here. “Yeah, the drive was fine. Sam this is my cousin Y/N. Y/N, this is Sam Winchester.”

You offer your hand to Sam as if you hadn’t witnessed whatever mating ritual just happened, “hi Sam. Nice to meet you and thanks for having me I guess. Although I’m not quite sure where here is.”

He smiles back at you, not in the love-struck way he just stared at your cousin thankfully. “Hi Y/N. You’re totally welcome when Eileen told us about the fire and… well, we wanted to help.”

He moves to let you both in and you pick up on something he said, “we?”

The bunker door closes with a sense of finality that makes your heart skip a beat. “My brother, Dean. He’s around here somewhere. He’s um- happy to have a house guest.”

You can tell from his tone that if you turned around Sam would be avoiding your eye contact.

“I promise you guys won’t even notice me if I can help it. I’ll help out and stuff.”

At the bottom of the stairs Sam’s hand falls to your shoulder supportively, “seriously, it’s fine. In fact, I’m gonna go grab him. Give me a second.”

And away he goes. Off in the direction of somewhere leaving you to marvel at the room you are currently standing in. It’s stunning. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say you’ve stepped into a time warp but a beautiful one at that. You could appreciate the exposed brick, the high ceilings and the walls of books you could see. From here it looked like an entire library. You only shut your mouth and stop staring around like a kid in a candy store when Eileen calls you, “Y/N?”

She’s taken a seat at an illuminated map table and you plonk yourself down opposite her, taking the moment alone to tease, “so Sam huh?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” Her eyes dart to the direction he’d gone, just in case.

“Sure, sure. You’re not both in love or anything.” You wiggle your head mischievously to get your point across.  

She answers you with a glare, so you continue, “think how tall your children will be!”

This time she cracks despite her better judgment, cheeks blushing, but it turns into a flushed warning when the shuffling of feet signals Sam’s imminent return.

“This is ridiculous Sammy. We’re just taking in strays now?” An unfamiliar voice grumbles at a volume obviously intended to be heard.

Sam spits something out under his breath, since he clearly has a little class, before he pulls his brother into view with too wide eyes, “Dean this is Y/N who will be staying with us while we help Eileen with the werewolves. Y/N this is my brother Dean.”

You jump up out of your seat and hold a hand out to him like you had for Sam except your face is already pulled tight in a thin, false smile, “nice to meet you, Dean. Don’t worry I’m fully house trained.”

This only serves to make him sulk and roll his eyes when he submits to shaking your hand.

It becomes something competitive, shaking Dean’s hand. Both of you thickly shrugging your arms like you’re trying to shake the other off and yet neither of you daring to let go. It carries on in silence until he squeezes a little too tightly and you pull back with pursed lips and a deep frown. You didn’t know much about Dean Winchester, but you didn’t need much to know he’s an ass.

Sam pushes his hair back again, but this time it’s accompanied by an awkward, “well…”

Dean cuts him off with a clipped question, “what’s the deal with these werewolves?”

Eileen mostly takes the lead on explaining the pack since the last time you encountered them was almost ten years ago. Even then you hadn’t really come into contact with them, you’d just been aware of their existence. Plus, it seems like she spent the time while you were in hospital getting shit done. Shit being research.

The information makes you feel a whole lot worse about this situation as you sit and listen to what they’re suspected of being responsible for. Suspected because they’re smart, in the way they move around the country to avoid hunters and never leave enough evidence to be caught.

Hunters have managed to take out one or two of them every so often, but the backbone of the pack remains. In fact, their intelligence and savvy begs the question. Why the hell are they after you?

They seem too organized to want some childish revenge for what your parents did, especially since ultimately, they killed your mom and dad themselves. And anyone worth their salt could see you’re not a hunter. You’re not a threat.

So, why go to the effort of burning down your house?

It didn’t make sense and it didn’t exactly fill you with hope for the future. A future where maybe you’d get to own a house and things and be normal again.

“Quit daydreaming short stack.”

Dean’s hand knocks on the table in front of you pulling you out of your head. You scowl at him because it seems like the correct reaction.

“Sorry, what?” you direct your inquiry to Eileen and Sam ignoring him completely.

Sam snaps his eyes from a brief look at Eileen and you almost feel bad for putting them in the middle. Almost. “I was just saying that we should try and track their next supposed whereabouts before we go after them. They’re too smart to stick around your hometown waiting for you. They’ll know you’ve moved”

Dean makes a gruff sounding affirmation and then cocks his eyebrow in your direction, “assume you’ll be coming so you can get in the way sweetheart?”

“Firstly, pick a nickname and stick to it cowboy. Secondly, hell no. I said I was raised by hunters, but I never wanted to be one. I’ll leave this to the pros.” You motion with a hand the three people sitting at the table excluding yourself. Annoyance makes way to a wave of guilt that eats at your insides as your own words rattle around the inside of your head. The brave face you’ve been putting on since leaving the hospital slips for a moment. “I mean, I won’t be able to help. I’m so sorry I’ve got you all involved in this.”

Your voice is small. Eileen knows you well enough to know how you’re feeling just from the way your eyes cast downwards and she’s out of her seat in a second. She wraps her arms around you and you hold on for dear life. Not quite caring that you’re having a break down in front of two strangers you met an hour ago. The last thing you wanted was to be involved in this life again but now that you don’t have a choice you realize the absolute last thing you want is for her to get hurt. You have friends but she’s the last of your family. A thought that makes you hold her a little tighter.

When you eventually let her go you nod like it’s all that needs to be said but also throw a questioning glance in Sam and Dean’s direction.

“Don’t worry about them either. They’re the Winchesters.” She tries to be reassuring but there’s a slight joke to her tone.

You frown and ask genuinely, “is that supposed to mean something?”

It’s Dean who sounds affronted by this, “unbelievable. She doesn’t even know who we are. I thought she knew the life?”

The glint in Eileen’s eyes tells you she planned to annoy Dean with that one.

Eileen and Sam help you with your four pathetic boxes and set you up in a room that looks military in its uniformity. You didn’t know much about the bunker, having spent the majority of your time discussing the pack, but the room made you wonder if the bunker was indeed military. Or ex-military based on the fact that it was stuffed with hunting weapons and the occasional beer bottle dotted about the place.

Eileen also has some more clothes for you from somewhere. Another thanks, she’s probably getting sick of seeing your hands make the sign, and she tells you she’s staying in the room opposite you.

You don’t know why you’re surprised she’s staying here but you’re grateful that you won’t be left alone.

Going through your boxes puts you somewhere between nostalgia and sadness. One box was filled with papers you’d never need, report cards from school, some essays from college, a utility bill from four years ago. The usefulness of the documents decreased the further you dug until you hit glossy, thick paper and pulled out a bunch of photographs. There weren’t many, maybe forty or fifty tops, but they were your entire life. A few of you as a toddler, tufty hair pulled into a ponytail on top of your head, making you look like a pineapple waddling around. There was the obligatory first day of school picture, gap teeth and holding a lunchbox with a pink dinosaur on it. A picture of you winning a spelling bee. One of you and your mom in the kitchen making dinner, another of you on your dad’s shoulders at a theme park. The little pile of memories made your chest ache. In your teenage years, and again when they’d died, you’d harbored resentment towards your parents. For raising you in a world where everything scary was real and for the things they’d trained you to do. But looking at these pictures all you saw were two people who loved you and, despite the jobs they did, gave you as normal a childhood as they could.

Another box was filled with old clothes. You’d have been thankful for this except they were clothes from your college years that never made it to goodwill. Sorority t-shirts, shorts you haven’t worn in years because you don’t have the flat butt of a nineteen-year-old anymore, a stolen football jersey from your ill-advised jock romance freshmen year and a collection of Halloween costumes that were mainly hot girl animals.

The remaining two boxes are disappointingly full of crap. They’re like that drawer every home has in the kitchen full of single, different size batteries and takeout menus, except you have two boxes full of random nonsense. Why past you had elected to keep this junk you’ll never know. There are at least four corkscrews and some nails that are all bent and unusable. These boxes seemed to be an indication of the hot mess you could sometimes be.  

You stack all the boxes in a corner deciding there’s nothing worth unpacking. You had no idea how long you’d be staying here and while it was nice to have your remaining worldly possessions there wasn’t anything exactly useful in there. The only thing that stays out are a few of the pictures, there’s three of you and Eileen at different ages and you hope she’ll get as much a kick out of them as you do.

There’s a knock at the door that you think will be her, so you shout, “come in,” without thinking much about the other two residents of the bunker.

When the presence behind you, looking over your shoulder, is much taller than you expect you spin around holding the photos to your chest.

Sam smiles apologetically for scaring you, “sorry, just came to tell you we’re going to go get some dinner if you’re interested.”

Your stomach growls appreciatively at the idea of real food over hospital pudding cups, “that sounds good.” He starts walking away again when you remember what’s in your hand. “Sam? Want to see the cutest thing ever?”

He stops by the door with a quizzical expression and a restrained grin, “that’s a bold claim.”

You wave the photos in your hand teasingly, “not really. My dear hunter cousin at seven years old is indeed the cutest.”

His eyes light up in recognition and he’s back by your side in a second.

“Prepare yourself, Sam, once you see these nothing else is going to be this adorable again.”

“Oh, I’m ready.”

It’s always a little awkward staying in someone else’s home, even if that home happens to be a weird hunter bunker. The first hurdle is always breakfast. Is this a shower and dressed household or will you look like a moron while they all sit there in PJ’s?

Luckily when you wake up after your first night in residence you’re too desperate for coffee to care. You’d slept in the football jersey since it was the only thing you had that seemed comfortable enough for sleep and you just about manage to slip on some sweats before stumbling the barely remembered route to the kitchen. You don’t meet anyone else on the way or when you get there so you start the search for coffee all on your own, like a grown up.

“Out of the way,” Dean’s voice is thick with sleep. He shoves you a little to get to the coffee and starts making a pot thus ending your attempts to be helpful. Upon inspection, he’s the dictionary definition of not a morning person. His eyes are barely open and everything about him is moving on autopilot. That’s not to mention the robe. You’d never have imagined Dean as a robe guy. You always thought robe guys were the ones who sat out the front of their house in a lawn chair, no job to go to during the day and a case of beer next to them. Then, thinking about it, you consider that last night you’d seen a cooler in the back of his car, as a hunter he didn’t always have a job to go to and now he’s wandering about in a robe. You just needed to find out where he stashed his lawn chairs it seems.

“Mugs are over there,” he orders while adding water to the machine.

It seems morning pre-coffee Dean is the same amount of an ass as normal Dean but with none of the snarky attempts at charm. Where before he’s been annoying, now he’s just unbearable. The feeling seems to be mutual with how frustrating he’s finding you.  

You grab four mugs and he rolls his eyes so far into the back of his head you wonder if they’re coming back, “Sam’s already out for a run.”

“And I’m supposed to know that how?” Maybe you’re cranky this morning too.

“Well, I just told ya doll.”

He’s a hunter, you remind yourself. He’s trained in things you aren’t. Do not try and kill him because it will end badly for you.

Putting away one of the mugs you hop up on the counter, kicking your legs aimlessly while you wait for the machine to give you both what you desperately needed to function.

He looks like he wants to make a comment about you sitting there but he wisely keeps to himself, instead opting to sneer at your jersey, “Iowa?”

“Go Hawks.” You mumble with as much enthusiasm as you can muster this early and a half raised fist.

“You a fan or…?”

You shrug, “it’s where I went to school. You were a hawk’s fan or an outcast.”

Another sneer but you don’t care what for. The machine beeps and you jump down with a mug in your hands.

He snatches the pot from the machine and pours his, shuffling away before you can tell him exactly how much of an ass he is.

It’s been two days and you’ve never wanted to hear about a werewolf attack more.

Well, that’s not what you’re waiting for. There’s a specific pattern Sam thinks he’s figured out. Eileen whispered that he’s a pretty smart at one point, which from her means Sam’s a genius and he might know the meaning of life. They both seem to be enjoying sitting together whispering about things on their respective laptops.

The hospital had given you very specific instructions to rest for the first week or so and you can tell you need it. Standing up for too long makes you lose your breath and on more than one occasion you’d had to use your inhaler after having a shower. You didn’t have too much pride to let yourself recover, you just had too much pride to let anyone else treat you any differently while recovering.

So, every time Dean gets annoyed with you, grumbling about you taking up all the sofa or complaining that you’re taking too long in the bathroom, you narrow your eyes at him instead of explaining that you needed an extra minute.

Now it’s been two days of this and you’re ready for him to leave. Does it sound harsh trying to kick a man out of his own home to go and fight your battle with a bunch of werewolves? You didn’t care if it was harsh, Dean was a dick and you were sick of him.

Even Eileen and Sam were starting to wear on you if only because watching them dance around each other was exhausting. She looked at him like he hung the stars and he looked at her like she was the sun, yet neither of them was doing anything about it.

You tried to help. You brought up the cutest cousin stories you could think of when you’re all eating together. When you’d all had a few drinks and started talking about the past you’d casually mentioned how Eileen always had a thing for tall guys. They’d both blushed but still nothing. He hadn’t even mentioned the pictures you’d shown him. He just grinned like an idiot when you told him the stories behind them and then locked the information away for him to, apparently, never use.

You’d even willingly had a conversation with Dean and asked him how he could stand it. He’d said it’ll happen eventually and walked away grumbling. Helpful as ever.

Thankfully on day three Sam calls everyone to the library and excitedly explains that he has a lead out in Omaha.

Eileen beams with pride, “thanks great, Sam!”

Even Dean seems excited to be getting out, which may be the first time you’ve seen him excited about anything.

Nobody wants to think about or mention the fact that this is all a little too easy, too fast. You’re just hoping that this could all be over and they’re all itching for a good hunt.

They’re ready to go in an hour. Eileen is taking her own car separate to the boys. Only you see the crestfallen look on Sam’s face. Dean explains over and over again about the security of the place and not to open the door to anyone like you’re a child.

“I get it. Stranger danger. Be good and stay indoors. I don’t even know anyone in Kansas, not exactly going to be throwing a party as soon mom and dad leave.” You hike a thumb in the direction of the wannabe lovebirds having a brief goodbye before hitting the road. It’s not like they’re going to the same place or anything.

Dean’s face is still stern, disbelieving you, “just be careful, they came for you before. We don’t know if they know you’re here.”

It’s an oddly heartfelt sentiment that makes you cock your head at him wondering if he isn’t totally the arrogant dick you’ve come to know and be annoyed by.

“I promise. I’ll stay indoors. Won’t even answer if a girl scout brings me cookies. Although I’ll need to go to the store at some point.”

It’s clear from his glare that Dean doesn’t like it, but he nods, probably remembering that all there is in the kitchen is bread, beer, and half a day-old burger. “You know how to shoot a gun right?”

“I’m not taking a gun to the market.”

“You take a gun or you’re not going. Silver bullets. Don’t be an idiot.”

And then they’re gone without anybody actually saying goodbye. The rumble of the Impala and Eileen’s car fading into the distance. The sound of the bunker door when you go back inside only serves to illustrate the emptiness of the place.

You did ask for some peace and quiet.

Memories of smoke and fire licking at every wall of your home are what makes you listen to Dean. You visit the gun range and spend some time relearning your way around a firearm. You always had knives and baseball bats in your house, salt and iron. You might have chosen not to be a hunter but you’re not stupid, you knew what was out there. But it’s been years since you fired a weapon. A gun never seemed necessary in your town with how few things out of the ordinary occurred.

Maybe Dean has a point. Or maybe the way he said it was enough to scare you. Either way, you practice. Their arsenal is, unsurprisingly, well stocked. In a little time, you’ve found a gun that fits in your hands without feeling bulky. Then it’s a little longer finding the right size silver ammunition.

By the time you’re done your body is drained and you elect to eat toast, because you have bread after all, before shuffling off to bed with plans to go out and about the next day.

Sleep isn’t easy that night. As impenetrable as the bunker appears it’s the first time you’ve been alone since the fire and you only realize that fact when you’re lying there fitful at 2 am. The silent darkness of the place is eerie. You notice the absence of other people in your bones. Ungratefully you’d be thankful for anyone right now.

You’d already had a text from Eileen letting you know they were there and had set up a base of operations in a typically crappy motel room. That was hours ago. You didn’t know if they were already out looking for the wolves or anything. In the time it takes to bring up your text history you’ve convinced yourself that’s why you can’t sleep. You’re worried about her. You fire off a message with no pretense.

You’re not out hunting tonight right?

It’s an aching few minutes before she replies.

No. I was asleep. Why are you awake? Don’t answer that, I’m going back to sleep.

You smile at the phone as it illuminates your face. Imagining her sleepy frown as she probably silenced her phone and rolled back over.

Talking to somebody for even a moment is enough that your body lets you get some shut-eye.

You’ve noticed yourself steadily getting better over the days they’ve been gone, you even email your boss and start taking assignments again, glad of having a job you can do remotely. Even with work, there’s still not enough to keep you busy.

At one point you find yourself doing research, and enjoying it for a few hours too, that’s when you know you need a hobby or something.

It’s not the boredom that forces your hand though. It’s the laundry basket.

You didn’t have a lot of clothes. Pretty much just the ones Eileen had given you. You’d picked up a few extra non-flannel items when you’d gone grocery shopping, with a gun tucked in your jeans as per Deans request. Still, you didn’t have a lot. Maybe three or four pairs of jeans. Some t-shirts. So, with everyone gone you take advantage of the empty bunker. That meant washing everything all at once while you wandered around in your football jersey.

It wasn’t anything obscene, you’d dated a linebacker for crying out loud and the thing was long enough to wear as a dress. The point was you were in the laundry room washing your clothes when you smelt it.

If it hadn’t been established before, boys are officially disgusting.

You know they washed their clothes at some point. Neither of them smelled terrible or anything but clearly, there was a window allowed by one or both of them between clothes becoming dirty and clothes being washed. And here they were left to fester until laundry day finally came rolling around.

You’d asked the universe for a hobby and the universe had unfortunately provided. You had two boys stuck inside adult bodies to look after. They could consider it payment in lieu of rent.

You put on the first load which is all, god help you, flannel. There are actually too many flannels to fit in one go so you have a half load still to wash. Then you use the time waiting for the machine to start skulking through the bunker mentally listing other jobs to be done. The bathroom needs to be scrubbed. It’s clean but it needs a deep clean. The kitchen needs to be reorganized too, there are canned goods that expired in the sixties. Not even getting started on the state of the dungeon.

The list becomes so detailed that you take a second trip to the store for more supplies, bleach obviously, food cupboard staples, something to dust with. You know, normal household things.

By the time you’re finished with the bathrooms, the tiles are a different color whereas you have taken on a pink hue from exertion. Not that you care about the sweat because when you shower before bed it will be in a bathroom with white tiles.

The kitchen gets a similar treatment and while nothing changes dramatically every surface shines under the lights of the room, clean enough to eat off of. You’re incredibly satisfied with your work so far but your breathlessness reminds you not to push yourself too soon.

You’ve forgotten the laundry now and only have time to move the flannels to the dryer before showering off the grime sticking to your skin. The process only adds to your exhaustion, the hot water on your skin makes you warm and comfortable adding to your readiness for sleep.

That night you don’t toss and turn. You close your eyes and find sleep easily.

Now that you’ve found the secret to contentment while living in the bunker it becomes increasingly difficult to stop. When Sam calls and tells you they’ll be home that evening the words sound like a challenge to your ears.

By the time the bunker door opens in the early evening you’ve got dinner in the oven, a pie ready to bake, you’ve washed and changed their sheets and they all have a pile of clean laundry folded on their beds. Including Eileen. You don’t want to pre-emptively use the term amazing, you’d let them come to that conclusion on their own, but you’ve discovered a hidden ability to look after people.

They all stumble in carrying heavy bags and stomping boots down the stairs as you come prancing out of the kitchen with a self-satisfied grin, “dinner is in twenty minutes.”

Eileen’s face is your favorite because she looks at you like you’ve sprouted two heads. Sam seems appreciative, then again, he doesn’t know how out of character this is for you. You’ve never been a nester, even in your own home it was barely lived in. Dean, however, oh poor Dean, he looks like he’s chewing his mouth to bits to stop any semblance of excitement from showing on his face.

Eileen drops her bag with a thump, “Y/N are you feeling ok?”

“Actually, I’m feeling a lot better. Laundry in the basket please.” You turn to walk back into the kitchen when you remember your achievements from the day before. If possible, your grin is even wider as you look back over your shoulder, “just wait until you see the bathroom.”

That’s when Dean panics, “what have you done to my shower?!” With that, he’s off to inspect the damage.

Sam’s mouth becomes a serious line, “what did you do to it?”

“HOLY FUCK!” comes echoing from the direction Dean left in.

“Cleaned it, Sam, I cleaned it.”

In twenty minutes they’re sitting obediently while you bring a lasagna to the table. This is the quietest they’ve all been since you got here and all it took was making a meal for them. Or they’re all still in their heads about the hunt.

When everyone has food in front of them you sit down next to Eileen, with a little less of your Stepford wife act, as you dare to ask, “who wants to tell me how it went?”

“Killedsomesonsofbitches,” Dean says with a mouthful of food.

His words, not the way he says them, lights a spark of hope in you that must play out on your features because Eileen puts her hand on your shoulder and shakes her head. “We think we took out a few low-level guys. We still didn’t find out why they’re after you.”

Your head slips down until your chin is against your chest. You play with the food in front of you without an appetite anymore. It was a fools dream to think that the first hunt, days after the fire, would be enough to get you your freedom but goddamn you had still hoped. You’d thought about what new city you might move to and how much online shopping you’d do to replace your wardrobe.

The air has soured, not that you intended it, but your dejection settles over the table like a hazy fog. While they all sit there suffering it you recognize how selfish you’re being. They still killed some of the pack, risked their lives, saved people. They may not have saved you this time, but you were safe. You were the one, out of all the victims, getting to live in the magic bunker where your enemies couldn’t get you.

“I’m sorry, I appreciate you guys trying.”

Sam looks up from his plate, understanding, “we’re going to figure this out and in the meantime, the pack needs to be stopped.”

It’s still a win is what he’s telling you. Confirming your own thoughts really.

“What’s that smell?” Dean has cheese lodged in the corner of his mouth and he whips his head up completely oblivious to any other conversation that has happened.

You’re caught off guard for all of a second before you find the words, biting back being offended that he can’t tell by smell alone, “a pie. I figured by how you wolfed one down at the diner my first night you liked them?”

In your peripheral vision, you can tell Sam is highly amused by your questioning tone. Dean ignores him. “Apple?”

“Cherry. And I have ice cream.”

He turns to Eileen now and gives her a solemn nod. Somehow you feel like you just got a seal of approval you didn’t know you wanted.

At some point, since they got back bunker life has settled into a pattern of just life.

Sam gives you the all-clear despite not being a trained medical professional. You thank him even though you don’t really need it from him, you know you feel better.

Eileen spends evenings with you and you both talk about the mundane things you never have time to discuss on regular visits. For you, it’s the bureaucracy of your job, detailed reviews of your favorite TV shows and the last date you went on. She tells you about the hunts that don’t make the newspapers, some of the pits stops she’s made since you last saw her, and she avoids talking about Sam. In a very pointed and not at all obvious way.

Dean gives you whiplash. The guy who called you a stray when you first arrived now thanks you for dinner each night and gets up ten minutes before you, so the coffee is ready when you wake up. He’d probably never admit to the second one, but you’ve noticed the distinct lack of wait times for caffeine the last few mornings.

There are also the comments. It started small. You’d take his plate and he’d toss you a wink as he leaned back with his beer. Then the way he’d call you sweetheart changed. The word lost its tang, sharpness replaced with softness. The changes were so subtle at first that you didn’t even notice your own behavior change in kind. The level of contempt you held for him the first few days didn’t crumble into a heap, but it gently thawed like ice on a hot day. So slowly that you didn’t notice it happening, you’re just left scrambling to comprehend when you realize your relationship has already changed.

Your moment of comprehension is when he’s watching The Magnificent Seven and you’re working on your laptop. He wanders off to get a beer and brings you one without asking, which you accept with a mumbled, “thanks Deano.” You’re pretty sure the nickname is new except your mouth drags out the ‘o’ sound like a practiced art. He doesn’t react like it’s out of the ordinary either. Suddenly your fingers stop clacking at your keyboard while you wonder how long you’ve been calling him calling him Deano. Or any nickname that isn’t laced with malice. And for that matter how long have you and Dean been spending time sitting in the same room together, alone, without feeling the need to argue or complain about the other?

He doesn’t seem to notice the change, or at least not at the same time as you, not in this minute. Maybe he’d already noticed or maybe he’s just as oblivious as you’d been until now.

“What’s up, fun size?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the TV as he asks, he doesn’t need to for you to see the smirk.

You can feel the heat rise in your cheeks because he thinks he’s caught you staring. Actually, he’s caught you thinking with your eyes coincidently trained in his direction. You don’t think he’ll care about the distinction.

“Nothing. Just trying to think of a word.” You’re a good liar and he seems to buy it.

He believes it enough to test you at anyway, “word for what?”

You look back at the screen, at the paragraph you’d been writing, the sentence half finished. All of it might as well be hieroglyphics for how well you can read it now.

Instead of getting trapped in the lie your mouth seems to take over, spouting off words like truth, “oh, erm. You know, attraction to something you shouldn’t be, there’s a word on the tip of my tongue…”

Where that sentence came from will haunt you till the end of days. You’re walking a fine line. Every second between you speaking and him turning his head ticks loudly in your ears.

“Temptation?” He offers. His cadence is completely innocent, his face is anything but.

You panic. Obviously. Dean is looking at you like a predator circling its prey and you’re wondering when the air in the room because so thick. It weighs down on your shoulders stopping you from moving away even if you wanted to.

“Yes!” You practically shout, your voice high and breaking, “that’s what I was trying to think of thanks.”

You look back at your screen and feign typing. Your fingers move over the keys but the letters being typed are a string of nonsense. He knows you’re faking and you know he knows, but for some reason, he has mercy on you. You dare not look up again, but your entire body is astutely aware when he’s not watching you anymore. It’s like a source of heat leaving you. Your heartbeat returning to its normal thump when his eyes are back on his film as if nothing happened.

The lump in your throat only allows you to swallow it down after another minute as if it’s waiting to ensure the coast is clear. You pause, stretch your fingers, and delete the lines of keyboard smashing as if they never happened. You can’t erase what just happened between you and Dean though even if you aren’t entirely sure what to call it.

Glances at him now are brief so as not to arouse any more suspicion. Finally, your mind settles on a title, not for the change between you two but a heading for the days to come. You creatively call it; was Dean Winchester always that fucking attractive?

Further to your previous claims about boys being disgusting you’d like to amend that to hunters. Hunters are animals.

Eileen was not as bad as Sam and Dean, but they did all have a somewhat similar mindset. You understood that when they were on the road saving lives and killing bad guys was probably more important than making sure they had enough clean socks. It’s just, none of them are on the road right now. If anything, they’re looking for cases to tie them over between wolf stuff.

Why then do empty the laundry basket only for an entire week’s worth of clothing to appear within the hour?

You were more than happy to continue looking after the mundane chores while they were here. You weren’t willing to be involved in the mess of hunting and this was how you could help. It eased the guilt of being a burden and stopped you from going stir crazy.

Still, that didn’t mean they could walk all over you like this.

You huff and sigh the entire time you go through their rooms. Having imaginary arguments under your breath in case one of them found you and complained that you hadn’t asked. You scripted your responses to anything they might say. Oh, they want some privacy? Maybe they should have thought about that before they decided to live like greasy faced teenagers. Not that any of them do catch you collecting their dirty clothes, it’s just better to be prepared with your defense.

You’re sorting through everything in the laundry room when you almost jump out of your skin. Someone has snuck up on you silently. Not a creak on the floor as a warning.

It’s Dean. You know it’s Dean when two hands settle on your shoulders sending goosebumps crawling along your arms. Goosebumps he chases away as his hands travel over your skin, the slightest of friction heating you through.

“What’cha got there sweetheart?” He drawls, breath hot on your ear and voice resonating down your spine.

It wasn’t the first time he’d played with you like this, since the sofa incident, but it was the first time he’s started the game with no preamble.

Your try to cover the crack in your voice with sarcasm. You try at least. “What’s does it look like? Laundry.”

He leans over you a little letting his gaze fall to the clothes in your hands, still sorting of their own accord, and probably also giving him a fairly decent view down the front of your shirt. The movement pushes his chest, solid and firm, against your back. He’s careful to pull his head back without moving away from you keeping you resting against a hard wall of muscle.

“Well doll, if you wanted to get into my underwear, you could have just asked.”

He must be able to hear the gulp, the way your chest pounds, even the tense curl of your toes is deafening. Your body is loud enough to drown out a crowd let alone Dean when he’s close enough to feel the lines of his body against yours.

There’s a reason you haven’t given in to this right? Ah yes, you currently live together. You owe them your life for giving you somewhere to live and hunting your enemies. You refuse to pay for that with sex. Although the more you resist the less it feels like a form of payment. With his hands on your waist, he nudges you a step forward until you’re pressed between the cold metal of the washing machine and the raw heat of him.

No, this wouldn’t be payment or in thanks. It would simply be fucking hot sex between two very consenting adults.

Still doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.

“Dean,” you whine, shocked by the neediness with which you say his name. You’d intended it to be cautioning but instead, you sound wanton and desperate.

“Y/N.” That’s almost enough to break you. He hardly says your name, electing to call you one of his myriad of nicknames instead. In fact, you try and remember if you’ve ever heard him say it, but his lips make you forget further back than 30 seconds ago. He’s careful not to press them to you yet but you know exactly where his mouth is. From behind your ear, he moves slowly over the length of your neck, stopping on your shoulder at the hem of your shirt like he’s waiting patiently to ghost over the covered skin.  

It’s not fair. He’s spent days catching you when he can. While you’re reading in the library or walking back from your car. Sometimes it’s nothing more than a comment or a teasing hand somewhere on your body and then he’s gone, but this is an assault. Any other time in any other situation and you’re fairly sure you’d already be in bed with him, but the bunker is too delicate an ecosystem to disturb.

You turn in his hands and he only just loosens his hold on you enough to do that. As soon as you’re facing him you catch your mistake. He’s easier to ignore without looking into those eyes of his. Cut emerald that shines just for you as he raises his head back up to height.

“Dean,” you repeat and this time it is as warning as you intended. You’re still unable to push the word ‘no’ past your lips though like it’s too final to will into existence.

The problem with Dean Winchester is that he loves the sound of his own name, or he must do with the way he takes it as a challenge. The hands at your waist lift you up to sit on the edge of the machine you’d been pressed against. He slides himself achingly closer, pushing your knees apart to let him in. You’re a heartbeat away from wrapping your legs around him, not that he can get any closer to you. Annoyingly he knows how to wind you up even if he’s barely touched you.

Your eyes are imploring as you slide both hands over his chest, that in itself is a mistake. He feels perfect under your fingers, “we can’t.”

His grin could only be described as wicked, “says who?”

The last vestige of lucidity pushes through the heat that thrums through your body, “me.”

His mouth is close enough to yours that you don’t have to imagine what his lips feel like, he’s close enough for you to taste his words on your tongue as he whispers, “we’ll see about that.”

You close your eyes in anticipation of giving up only for him to disappear. Nobody holding you up and no thick fingers drumming against your hips. An actual whimper escapes you when you open your eyes. Panting like you’ve run a marathon, clinging to the edges of the metal beneath you for dear life and legs still parted where you’re sure Dean had been.

The speed of his exit makes you doubt, half a mind to write it off as a very coherent dream, were it not for a whistle close by that disappears into the distance with the sound of heavy boots.

The next day Eileen finds a salt and burn. She’s desperate to get out and work a job and Sam offers to go with her. He says he can track the pack from there and come back if needed. Surprisingly she actually agrees. By the time they drive off into the sunset you’re half expecting them to never come back.

Dean didn’t come to see them go. Worryingly he hasn’t been around for hours and doing a brief lap of his favorite places; bedroom, garage, kitchen, he’s nowhere to be found. You didn’t really see him at breakfast either, the coffee was there but Dean and his robe weren’t.

The only reason you know he’s still here is because his Baby is in the garage tucked away safe and sound. But the bunker feels as empty as it did when they all left you. The only noise in the corridors is your own footsteps. Dean has proven he’s sneaky, but this feels like he’s actually disappeared, and you don’t like it.

You call out to him in the end. Hoping to lure him out with his name like you’ve spurred him on already. It doesn’t work. You text and call him wondering if he’s dumb enough to leave his phone on loud, but you don’t even hear the vibrate of a device let alone a ringtone. The call goes to voicemail and the text remains unanswered.

They’d only been gone an hour and you’d lost Dean already.

There’s only one other way you can think to get him to show himself. Chores.

“Dean. I’m doing laundry. And I um…” You stutter a little bit as you attempt to narrate your activities. Not entirely sure what enticed him in the first place. “I- I’m wearing nothing but my football jersey. I’m washing all my clothes, and this is the only thing I had left to wear.”

It’s difficult to sound sultry and loud at the same time, which is why you failed miserably. Dean doesn’t show his face so you move on.

“Dean! I’m baking a pie and my hands are all sticky. I’m covered in this sugary pecan filling that I guess I’ll just have to lick off my fingers one by one.” You felt pretty confident that one was going to work but there’s not so much as a shuffle of feet. Not even when you moan for good measure and add, “I just love the taste of nuts!”

Some of these were difficult to say with a straight face.

You think you’ve got just the thing to get him as you run to his bedroom. The door swings open to an empty room, as you expect at this point, and you leave it open on its hinges so that your voice will carry as far as the bunker can take it.

“Deano! I’m just making your bed for you but wow, these sheets are soft. Maybe I’ll just lay down on them for a few minutes if that’s ok with you? I’m exhausted with all that work.”

You spread yourself out on his bed as alluringly as possible. One leg crossed over the other and hands behind your head essentially pushing your chest forward. You clamp your eyes shut but peek after a few minutes expecting to see him relent and appear in the doorway. You could worry about getting out of here when you knew he was alright. If you wanted to get out of here.

He still doesn’t show.

You’re starting to genuinely worry. You didn’t want to call Sam because they’d drive back before finishing the job and really you didn’t want them thinking you weren’t even capable of looking after the bunker. Not that the bunker was in danger, Dean was or might be. You hadn’t been here long enough to know every room or hiding spot. What if he was genuinely hurt somewhere, passed out or worse?

You pad into the war room all cute ideas out the window. This time when you call for him your voice wobbles with anxiety but it’s loud enough to echo. “Listen this isn’t funny anymore. Where the fuck are you? If you’re hurt just make any noise you can, and I’ll find you.”

It was impossible really. How silently a sturdy man like Dean could move. Without even disturbing the dust in the air. You close your eyes on a blink and open them to see him standing feet away. He’s barefoot in sweats and a tee, maybe that’s his secret, but looks mostly unharmed, the smirk he’s wearing is apologetic.

“Didn’t mean to scare you doll.”

You put a hand on your hip and stare him down with all of the anger you can find, which isn’t much because mostly you’re relieved as hell. “What did you mean to do?”

He chuckles and scratches the back of his neck, “thought maybe you’d miss me. Then when you started trying to tease me outta hiding I was kind of hoping the next step would be you getting naked. Thinking about you on my bed nearly did me in.”

You shouldn’t reward this kind of behavior. It’s ridiculous, he’s an idiot. You had your reasons not to give in.

Relief was a bitch though that weakened you more than any of his teasing had. And you loathe to admit you did kind of miss him, “I was all laid out waiting for you.”

He doesn’t move. After all the torture he’s waiting for you to reach him this time and your steps are careful.

“You were huh?”

When you’re standing toe to toe it’s your hands that explore him first, palms flat against his chest as you smooth them upwards towards his neck, “after all of those promises you made me, you never came.”

He’s looking down at you with lust blown eyes, curled lips and a little shake of his head, “I must be a very stupid man.”

Just before crash your lips to his you let out a quiet reply, “glad we agree on something.”

[macbookpro-hard-drive]

weak [connor m. x fem!reader]

like what i do? consider buying me a coffee!

look i know ive been like. dead. but i sorta pushed myself to finish this in order to post Something

im so sorry ive been so inactive hhh ive been busy with work and college and 

warnings: 

         The first time you met Connor Murphy, he’d been leaning against a washing machine with a book tucked underneath his arm, fumbling with his wallet. The soft swears spilling from his lips seemed to fill the air, and part of you wondered whether you should just come back and do laundry later - considering the demanding weight of the basket in front of you was starting to become grating - or if you should just go in and do your laundry, despite the intimidating air he seemed to carry around him. The weight of your laundry basket barked at you, and you made up your mind and walked in, apparently immediately grabbing his attention. He looked up, saw you standing there awkwardly as you made eye contact before hurrying over to an empty washing machine to start making sure you had sorted shit correctly. The sound of a heavy sigh grasped your attention, your shoulders jerking slightly as heavy footsteps grew closer. You looked up, and there he stood - taller than you and built like a beanpole, hair pulled back into a low, lazily crafted bun.

        He didn’t say anything at first, sort of looking down to his wallet for a moment. Then his eyes caught yours as he shut the empty leather wallet, and jammed it into his pocket. You immediately grew tense as you nearly dropped the shirt you’d pulled out, and then your nails dug into it as you watched this complete stranger approach you. He sighed, then frowned, and shoved his hands into his pockets.

        “Fuck, sorry - hey, uh, do you have any extra change? Fuck, sorry - I don’t have anything smaller than a twenty and, uh-” he paused, “I ran out.”

        “That wasn’t smart,” you said without thinking, before immediately growing flustered. You dug into the bag you’d swung carelessly over your shoulder before heading out to do laundry, pulled out the coin purse you kept full of spare change - which was mainly shit that your parents kept sending you, as a ‘just in case’ you need it for whatever reason, despite the fact you’d been fine and more collecting coins rather than using them - and tossed it to him. The weight crashed into his chest, and he looked from the little black bag to your face.

        “What the fuck do you have in here?” He asked. Maybe your bag was growing a little heavy.

        But you failed to suppress a small smirk and answered him anyway. “Coins.”

        His eyes flutter from you to the bag and then back to your face. “... Gold coins?” He asked, unzipping the little pouch. Then he paused, before finally replying to you as he strode back over to his laundry. “Thanks.”

        “I want that back, y’know,” you said.

        “Yeah. Whatever. Sure. I’ll pay you-”

        “The rest of the bag, dumb ass.” You clicked your tongue, “don’t pay me back.”

        “Whatever.”

        So you continued what you were doing silently, debating whether you should plug in your headphones and turn on a podcast or something - or maybe see if this stranger will watch your shit just in case and run back to grab your laptop and plant down somewhere and see if you can knock out a bit more of one of your papers. You stood there in silent debate, realizing that this dude still had all of your change in his hands right as you went to find your quarters. You looked back to him, and he was just standing there, toying with the zipper mindlessly. He didn’t look back to you.

        “Yo. I’d like to do laundry, dude.”

        He looked back to you. “Oh. Yeah. Right.”

        The next thing you felt was your bag hitting your chest, and you watched this dude smirk as he turned back to what he was doing, now finding his phone and fumbling around aimlessly with it instead. You debated asking his name - but in the end, you really didn’t care at that time. He finished his laundry, thanked you for your shit, and then walked out - hopefully with a plan to fold that shit once he got back to his dorm room. You plugged in your headphones, and left the sound of three brothers distract you from the bullshit amount of time you’d be sitting here. Could you leave? Sure. Did you trust it? Absolutely not - not after the last time when some asshole stole one of your hoodies. Sure, you got it back - but not without a few stains that you immediately struggled to wash out, causing for you to waste a fuck-ton of change with multiple washes.

        The next time you met Connor was late at night inside a coffee shop that wasn’t too far from your campus. The one in the building was closed, and you’d rather go buy a cup from wherever rather than try to find any coffeemaker and make it for yourself. Honestly, you just didn’t want to wake anyone up with the smell of burnt coffee - that would be a string of apologies you didn’t want to have to make. So you sunk into your boots, shoved your wallet into your sweatpants pocket, and set out to the nearest place you could find that was open - a small local joint, according to your phone. You were relieved to find that it was in fact open, and escaped into the shop, the sweet smell of coffee greeting you. The tired eyes of the barista greeted you, and you felt bad for coming in so late - how much longer was this place open anyhow?

        She let out a soft sigh, stretching as she walked over to greet you. College student. You could feel the exhaustion radiating off of her. You glanced at her name tag - Joanne - before she finally greeted you. She rolled her shoulders back, the soft pop audible even to you as she forced a smile, “welcome to the Bean Hut,” she said, “what can I get for ya’?”

        You glanced to the menu, rocking back and forth as you searched for something. You rattled off your order, trying to keep it as simple as you could so that she wouldn’t have to strain herself too much - because jesus, you were actually starting to get concerned for her health. You glanced over to the emptying case of different treats. She caught your gaze as she punched in your order, pausing as she debated something internally.

        “If you want something, get it. We throw away what we don’t sell,” she said, “waste of food but, fuck, what can you do?”

        “How much is the banana nut bread?” You asked. She rattled off a price, so you bought a slice for your roommate and a chocolate croissant for yourself, watching her unfold a paper bag with THE BEAN HUT printed on the front in stereotypical hipster coffee shop font. After a moment, you hurried and unfurled your money, handing it to her as you heard the front door of the shop open with a jingle, and glanced over your shoulder while taking the bag from her.

        You hadn’t introduced yourself to him before, as you didn’t have the chance to, but you immediately recognized the stranger as being laundry-boy. How many lanky dudes with man-buns were there on campus anyhow? Besides, you really couldn’t forget how fucking cold his eyes were. He scanned your face, taking in each detail as he tried to pin something to you because you were familiar but he just couldn’t pinpoint where.

        “Welcome to the Bean Hut-” Joanne had begun, only for Connor to glance from her to you, “oh. Connor. The usual?” She asked. 

        “Yeah - hot chocolate and a-”

        “A vanilla bean scone,” she finished, already in the process of punching in his total, “I know.”

        You looked over to this Connor, jamming your hands into your pockets, “are you gonna need some extra change this time, Connor?” It was dumb and it was nothing but it was enough to get his attention, as you caught his eyes flickering to you for a second as he opened his wallet.

        He pulled his card out of his wallet, handing it over to Joanne to run. He sort of smiled and said, “thought I recognized you,” before turning to face you. “I’m good. Thanks.”

        You weren’t sure if he was being friendly or what. That’s just how this dude seemed to speak - sorta unwavering, always with cold eyes and his hands hidden away in his jacket or jean pockets no matter what. But you just sort of forced a smile, rocking back and forth on your heels as you glanced over to Joanne, busy at work with making your drinks. “You come here a lot?” You asked, looking back to Connor.

        “Yeah. Usually.” 

        “Busy?”

        “No,” he sort of shrugged, “I just like the hot chocolate.” He left it at that, not pushing forward. You were a stranger - he didn’t have to spill his entire life story to you. This was just a fluke in fate, a mistake where your paths crossed again and it probably wasn’t meant to happen. At least, that’s what Connor thought - you looked like you were nothing like him, bundled up in warm sleepwear while he was stuck looking like he was going out for the night again. Connor didn’t do that. Connor didn’t like going out with his roommate to parties, he didn’t care for drinking unless he was home or somewhere he couldn’t fuck things up. You sucked in your cheeks, giving him a once-over.

        The first time you’d seen Connor, he’d only been in a t-shirt and sweatpants - the usual college attire, you’d come to learn - but now he stood before you in jeans that were baggy at the knee and ripped (factory ripped, you’d decided at the lack of fraying), leather jacket over a unzipped hoodie over plaid, and worn leather boots that you could see staring to stretch away from the soles, begging to be replaced soon. You finally spoke up, cutting through the awkward silence that had drawn between you, “going somewhere?”

        “Didn’t change.” He looked over to you, “are you working on a paper or-”

        “Yep,” you popped the ‘p’, “research paper. Physics. It’s boring.”

        “Boring?”

        “To most people, yeah.” You shrugged, “I mean, it’s cool and all, but I don’t even need it for my major. I just wanted the science credit-”

        “So you chose physics.” Connor stared at you with bewilderment, “y’know, there’s easier classes on campus-”

        “I took AP Physics my senior year in high school. I’m not going in blind, hon,” you tried to suppress the smallest little smile. He just stood there, watching you badly fighting back a smile, and then the crumple of a paper bag caught his attention as Joanne slid a medium-sized coffee-cup over to you, and then a bag to Connor, before turning back to her job.

        You barely had the time to take your drink and turn before Connor stopped you. “Hey,” he’d called, causing you to glimpse back at him over your shoulder. “It’s Connor.” He said, reaching back to the counter behind him, “my name- I mean,” he stumbled over his words, “Connor Murphy.”

        After a moment, you smiled. “[y/n],” you said, “nice to meet you, Murphy.” Then you were gone, the soft chime of a bell marking your exit as you took your walk back to your dorm. Connor Murphy. You committed the name to memory. Something told you that you’d meet him again - somehow. You lifted your cup to your lips, fighting back to urge to tear it away as the burning liquid spilled onto your tongue as you let the warm caffeine seep into your body, into your entire being. You’d have to go back sometimes. Maybe you’d run into Connor again. 

        If you were honest, you’d never been that much of a party person. Or, well, rather - you’d never been a ‘let’s go party with complete strangers and get wasted’ kind of person. Parties with friends? You were down - but now you were sitting in the corner of a room with a red cup in your hand, guarding the drink with your life. You’d lost sight of your roommate, slightly cursing that fact since she’d asked for you to keep an eye on her if she started drinking - which had happened almost ten minutes after the two of you arrived. On the better side of the spectrum, she’d worked up the confidence to finally talk that guy in her intro to theatre history class that you could tell was into her, and maybe they’d be making out somewhere. On the other hand, you’d get up and find her sometime soon, ditching your drink for the night because it was shitty beer, not even the kind of stuff that you could normally stomach. You’d hoped that maybe someone would have pitched in, maybe brought wine coolers or something with any more flavor than that sad grain water shit. But you’d stopped looking after a while, dodging between drunk freshmen and listening to girls coo over the smallest things - which made you fight back a smile, because drunk girls were always adorable in your opinion, some getting more giggly, and on the rare occasion you’d had one asked if you’d eat and try to feed you peanuts when you’d admit that you hadn’t. It was a sweet notion - fuck anyone who said that drunk girls were embarrassing. You’d punch a fucker for harassing a drunk girl, or any girl.

        The music seemed to increase in volume after minutes, leading you to finally push yourself out of your seat, finding the kitchen and dumping the shitty beer into a sink before you wandered with the intent of finding your roommate. To your surprise, she’d been sitting out back with journalism-dude’s arm around her shoulder, laughing at some video on his phone, headphones shared between them. You only smiled as you turned, wandering around inside with the hope of finding somewhere quiet. Bedrooms were a no-go, since you didn’t want to walk in on anyone fucking (the risk alone was too much for you, because how do you walk away from that sort of thing? You weren’t sure.) and bathrooms were only a somewhat safer bet. After a while of wandering, you’d finally found an unlocked bathroom that seemed empty when you knocked. And lo and behold, you opened the door to find a certain scrawny dude sitting in the bathtub, phone now pressed to his stomach as you pushed your way inside.

        “Are you fucking stalking me?” Connor said, staring at you with furrowed brow as he watched you shut the door behind you.

        “Shut up, Murphy.” You hesitated to lock the door, but glanced back to him, “mind if I-”

        “God, fucking please,” he scowled, before shifting slightly, giving you enough room to sit beside him if you wanted.

        You weren’t about to turn the offer down. The door clicked locked, and you crossed the tiny bathroom to sink into the spot next to him, snagging your phone from your back pocket in the process. “So why are you here?”

        “Roommate dragged me here.” Connor looked over to you, clicking his phone on and off mindlessly, “some shit about wanting to get out and enjoy college. You?”

        “Same thing, I guess,” you shrugged, “roommate’s crush was gonna be here and she wanted to talk to him. So I came along to make sure she doesn’t get into trouble-”

        “And now you’re doing that by hiding in a bathroom.”

        “She’s with that dude and they’re watching something together. She’s safe for right now, dude. I’m not shitty like that,” you frowned, “c’mon, Murphy. Do I seem like the kind of girl to just abandon her friend like that?”

        He shrugged, looking back to his phone for a second. “[y/n], right?” He asked, finally looking back over to you. You nodded. He shifted again, pressing his back against the corner as best as he could. “What’s your story?”

        “My what-” You’d started, “Murphy, what the fuck-”

        “I’m just trying to make fucking conversation.”

        You stared at him, watching as he rolled his eyes and went back to his phone without a word. Fine. “I was raised in a town not too far from here, I took a bunch of AP classes in high school so that I look pretty fucking good on applications, and now I’m here. Nothing special.” 

        He glanced over to you, not really responding at first. And finally, he sucked in a breath, and put his phone down as he finally turned his attention to you. “Guess we have that in common.” He said, and you perked a brow at that. “The ‘nothing special’ shit.”

        “Spill your story then, Murphy.”

        He smiled a little at that before looking away, licking his lips before he finally settled on a starting point. “Uh, I guess - I’m from out of state, I have a sh-” He stopped there, “I have a pretty okay sister and okay parents,” he said, both feeling a bit strained for him to say. “I, uh, dealt with some shit in high school, aaand now I’m here in a bathroom at a party.”

        You shifted, trying to find comfort in sitting against the edge of the tub and the wall. “I feel like you’re leaving out details. C’mon. Spill shit.” You paused for a moment, “you say something, I say something. Go.”

        Amusement flickered in his eyes as he smiled again, “alright. I took tap for years as a kid. Loved it,” he said softly, “and then I threw that out.”

        You nodded, pursing your lips together. What could you tell him? “I have a dog at home. Her name is Pepper and she’s the best girl in the world.”

        “I played baseball as a kid.” He drummed his fingers against his leg, “and threw that out later, too. It was fun, though.”

        “Nice.” You hummed for a moment, mentally scrolling through your library of things to tell. “I was in a production of Cinderella when I was ten as one of the stepsisters. It was the best fucking shit, and I kicked ass in the role.”

        He chuckled at the thought. “I wrote a lot of shitty teen poetry in high school.”

        “I still write a lot of shitty teen poetry in college,” you smirked as you brushed hair from your eyes. “Shitty teen poetry is fun, Murphy.”

        You watched him shift against the uncomfortable tub and wall. “I smoked a lot of weed.” He shrugged, “I don’t smoke as much anymore.”

        “Surprise, surprise.” You rolled your eyes, “never saw that one coming, Murphy.” Before he could protest, you elbowed him, “I’m kidding. You only somewhat look like a stoner.” You let out a heavy breath, trying to come up with another fact. “I have a little brother. He’s in high school.”

        “I have an annoying little sister. She’s also in high school. Jazz band.”

        “He’s on the soccer team - but he has been thinking about taking art classes again. He used to draw a lot.”

        “I draw a lot.” Connor said, “considering I’m an art major.” He smiled at you, “tell your brother to go for it.”

        “I’m undeclared.” You let out a sigh, “not sure yet. Maybe I’ll major in English or something.” You couldn’t fight back a smile, “can you draw me?”

        “Can I? Yeah, definitely, if you’re paying.”

        “Guess my poor college ass is just gonna have to take a rain check, Murphy.” You finally stole a glance at the time. “I should probably go check on Tessa. Walk me out, Murphy?”

        You pushed yourself up and out of the tub, spine popping in the process as it ached from the awkward curvature of the tub and wall. You stepped away, only to be surprised when Connor rose too, stretching as he stood, shirt riding slightly above his hips and giving you a glimpse of a sliver of skin. You tore your eyes away from that. You almost expected him to notice and greet you with a crooked smile and a “like what you see?” But he didn’t, double-checking his pockets for his phone and wallet - you begun to doubt that he would have even noticed your little glance. You unlocked the bathroom door, stumbling out into a quieter hallway with Connor in tow, and you wandered downstairs. When you couldn’t spot your roommate, you fished out your phone, only to find a single text there for you.

        Tess: journalism guy coming back w me, sorry

        You groaned slightly as you turned back to Connor, about to say something when he merely showed you his phone, sort of pinching at the bridge of his nose with annoyance. You understood why the moment you read the text.

        J: wont be back tonight. enjoy the dorm to urself.

        “Great. Our roommates are fucking,” you clicked your tongue, “or that’s just a really fun coincidence.”

        “He never shuts up about Tessa.” Connor jammed his phone into his jeans pocket, “c’mon. You’re staying with me, I guess.” He took you by the wrist, guiding you out of the party.

        “Cool. Fun. Sleepover with art major Connor Murphy. I’m down.” You said, excitement just oozing out of you - absolutely. Completely. Good thing he was guiding you, or you’d probably melt into a fucking puddle. You were glad Connor couldn’t read minds. He didn’t need to hear your stupid snarky shit.

        “You’re taking Jer’s bed,” he shrugged, “he won’t care. And if he does, then tough shit for him.” He released your wrist, letting you fall into step beside him. “Sorry.”

        “For what? Our roommates happen to be into each other. It’s just a coincidence, Connor.”

        He didn’t verbally respond. He only shrugged at that, and the two of you continued on your walk towards your dorm. Thirty minutes later, you’re standing in his room and he’s already stripped off his jacket without a second thought, before he started digging through his clothes. You didn’t expect for a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants to hit you a second later, as he looked over to you, eyes flickering down to the shirt that’d fallen to the floor. Minutes later and he turned away from you, making some comment about how he would say something about the bathrooms, but he didn’t need to risk someone finding ‘some girl on their floor’ right now. You only shrugged, turning away and changing as quickly as you could. His shirt and pants were longer than you expected, honestly - and maybe that was because he was a tall dude. 

        “That’s J’s bed.” Connor motioned toward one, “take it. He can deal.” He threw himself onto his own bed, comforter shifting.

        You walked over and set your phone down on the nearby nightstand before finally sitting down and watching Connor. “You draw, right? Can... I see some of your work?” 

        He just sorta glanced over to you as he plugged his phone in, the soft chime filling the pause in the air. Connor shrugged as he stood, walking over to his desk, picking up one wire-bound sketchbook that’d been sitting in the corner, holding it out to you. “Class shit.” He shrugged again, before picking up a smaller, Moleskine one that had been carelessly thrown on top of his laptop, and he tossed that one to you as well. “Pocket sketchbook. I draw random shit in that one.” And he gingerly picked up another, a landscape one, and walked that one over, sitting down beside you. “Aaaand watercolor shit.”

        You set the watercolor book and his pocket sketchbook on the bed beside you, flipping open the wire-bound one he’d first handed to you. Pages upon pages of tonal work - different objects, all with shadows dancing in different places - greeted you before gesture drawings saw, messily scribbled down with features often ending up slightly smudged. Connor watched you flip through the pages, before shutting the book once they turned blank. Next was his watercolor - one he seemed a bit more careful with, from how he brought it to you with careful grasp. You flipped it open slowly, a picture of a landscape there to greet you: lush greenery, mountains, and a lake. For some reason, you couldn’t shake the small home-y feeling you’d gotten from it. When you flipped through the rest of the pages, there were other landscapes, and some paintings of birds, and then the last was a vague sketch of a figure, done completely in greys. You shut the book, and Connor took it from you to deliver it back to it’s place on his desk.

        The last was Connor’s pocket sketchbook. You slipped the band off, opening it to find the first dated image was from over a year ago. Page after page was filled with the most mundane things - a girl with an ice cream cone, her grin wide and hair being blown in the wind; a sleeping dog,, a boy with an arm in a cast seated at a desk, trees, sometimes even pill bottles.

        “That’s from when I was fucking sick,” he scowled, “and my mom wouldn’t let me out of the house to do anything.” He tapped the sketch of the NyQuil bottle, “so I drew the shitty cold medicine she’d brought me.”

        You nodded, flipping through. Every so often, you’d find pictures of the same girl: some of her lost in music, some of her just curled up in an chair. When you finally looked up to say something to Connor, he licked his lips, already knowing your question. 

        “That’s my sister, Zoe.” He shut his eyes, shifting uncomfortably beside you.

        “She’s pretty,” you sort of hummed, “you’re really talented.”

        He sorta chuckled at that. “Thanks.” He slipped the sketchbook from your hands.

        “Kinda sad I don’t have anything to show you, unless you wanna read some shitty poetry.” He snorted at the comment. You elbowed him, “c’mon. I’m not kidding. You showed me your art, I can show you some of my amazingly shitty poetry next time we meet.” And then you paused, looking to where you’d set your phone down, and picked it up. “You,” you began, “should give me your number.”

        “Why-”

        “C’mon, Murphy. The universe obviously wants us to be friends or something.” You picked up your phone, pulling open the contacts, “why keep fighting that?”

        He couldn’t really argue with that. He took your phone from your hand, closing out of your contacts and opening messages, punching in his number before sending a text. Barely a second later, his phone buzzed, and he shoved your phone back into your hands. “Done.” He stood, stalking across the room back to his bed.

        You rolled your eyes at the string of emojis he’d sent himself, all taken from your most recently used. Original. You set your phone down, before finally crawling into his roommate’s bed without a second thought. “Night, Murphy,” you’d called out, and then a lamp flickered off, and eventually you managed to fight the foreign feeling of another person’s bed enough to drift off to sleep.

        Connor was a welcome figure in your dorm room - one floor below where his was. He’d often swing by after his classes, glad to find you curled up in bed with your laptop set on top of your lap desk. At first it was Connor sliding in after he came from classes. Later it turned to Connor bringing you a hot chocolate and a chocolate croissant, and more dumb conversation to keep you company while your roommate was usually out. Other than Connor’s visits, the two of you had started heading over to the library for study sessions, or out to a coffee-shop just to sit around and people-watch while talking about whatever life shit the two of you could come up with. Sometimes it’d be about his sister and things he did when he was a kid, other times it’d be you gloating about your brother’s soccer skills. 

        Connor had stretched himself out across the end of your bed, phone resting on his stomach as he stared up at your ceiling. You’d been invested in this story about some shit one of your friends had gotten into back during your freshman year of high school, typing at your laptop without pause the entire time. He marveled in your ability to multi-task, honestly, because he knew he would have veered off into typing at least half of his thoughts up by mistake. You slowly trailed off, voice growing soft as you stared at Connor, his focus intensely placed on your ceiling.

        “You okay?” You asked, stretching a leg out to nudge his arm. He finally glanced back over to you, propping himself up on his elbows.

        “Are you staying here for Thanksgiving?”

        You were caught slightly off-guard by the sudden question, but shook your head anyway. “No - why?”

        “Just... wanted to ask.”

        “Are you?”

        He shook his head after a moment. “Mom wants me to come home.” He paused, “but if you were staying, I could have probably gotten out of it-”

        “Do you not want to go home?” You interrupted him, closing your laptop and moving your lap desk aside. “I mean - you could come with me if you want, but you’d have to put up with my dad asking if you’re my boyfriend.”

        “No - fuck, I mean, I want to go home. Just...” He paused, “I don’t know. There’s a couple assholes I’m not looking forward to seeing.”

        “You’re from out of state, right?” You asked, forcing a small topic change. Connor had appreciated it, and simply answered you with a nod. “How are you getting home? I don’t see you driving anywhere, so...” You sucked in your cheek, “flying? Bus?”

        “Flying. I’ve uh... got a flight to catch Friday after-”

        “I can drive you? To the airport, I mean,” you clarified, “y’know. So you don’t have to Uber or anything.” 

        He stared at you. You writhed slightly in discomfort, shifting blankets around you before breaking your gaze away from his. “Okay?” He said, “why?”

        “... Because we’re friends? Because I might be heading out that way anyway since I literally pass by the only airport around here when I drive home, and I thought “well, gee, I could give my friend a ride” since I care about art major Connor Murphy, my snark-master of a pal?” You smiled, “unless you’re leaving from somewhere else?”

        “No - I mean, I am leaving from-” He stopped for a moment, “yeah - that’d be great... thanks.” 

        Zoe picked him up from the airport. She’d been leaning against her car that’d once been his, arms folded across her chest as she stood, waiting for him to finally move his ass and get out there. The sound of his bag rolling behind him filled the empty silence that he’d grown used to, the weight of his carry-on luggage starting to grow more and more frustrating with each step. He’d only thrown a couple books in along with his sketchbook, and now he was regretting it because his neck was stiff and his spine was stiffer and - fuck, did he ever mention he hated flying? His ears had popped and everything was still slightly muffled despite the fact he’d tried almost every trick he could come up with. The idea of a hot shower was utopian to him. Zoe didn’t greet him with a hug, but with her usual steely eyes as she popped the trunk before sliding back into the driver’s seat.

        Great. A fantastic start to Thanksgiving break. Only more thrills would await him. He shoved the handle of his luggage down, almost carelessly throwing the bag into the back of his sister’s car. With a slam of the trunk, Connor ignored the glare that Zoe threw him as he climbed into the passenger seat, his carry-on bag nestled in the floorboard between his legs. His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He was greeted with a picture of you, smiling with your arm around some kid - “hope you had a great flight! 2nd fave art geek here thanks u for ur wise advice of ‘go for it’” - and he smiled slightly at your nickname for your brother. 

        Zoe caught a glimpse of his phone, barely a millisecond before he clicked it off. “Who’s that?”

        “Just a friend,” he shrugged. 

        “When’d you meet her?”

        “... September. Laundry girl.” He said. Zoe nodded. For the few times Connor had spoken to his family (as for the most part, they left each other alone, and it had usually been Cynthia calling Connor for an update in how he’s doing before passing the phone to Larry and then to Zoe), he was glad to see that Zoe remembered his little story of you.

        “Oh.” Zoe pressed her lips together. He looked over to her, watching her expression. She was thinking - probably trying to figure out as much as she could from that little glimpse of you as she could.

        “If you want to ask something, then fucking ask.”

        Zoe landed on one of the most obvious questions. “Is she single?”

        Were you? He didn’t recall you having a girlfriend or a boyfriend or anything. Besides - you’d probably spend more time with them than with him, right? Connor was... fine company, but definitely not better than a partner. “I don’t think so.”

        “Is she your type?”

        “I don’t have a-”

        “You like cute girls who aren’t afraid to say shit to your face, geeky boys who are shy - but if any of them are shorter than you then you’ve probably thought about dating them at least once.” Zoe looked over to him, “you have a type, Connor.”

        As he sat there trying not to gawk at how bold her statement had been, at how sharp her tongue was, his phone buzzed once more. When he looked down to see your name, he was glad to see the words “(but if you ever need an out, i’m here <3)” printed across the screen. He fought back a smile as he texted you his thanks, trying to ignore the glance from Zoe that would surely be followed up with more questions. To his surprise, she kept her eyes on the road and her mouth shut. Which, in his experience, usually meant that the moment they got home, she’d probably casually drop the “Connor has a girlfriend” bomb in front of their mom and then she would take to questioning him. To his surprise, she didn’t. At least, not until halfway through dinner while Connor was still prodding at the vegetarian lasagna his mother had made, absentmindedly answering her questions.

        Then Zoe said it, casual and cool after a long sip of water. The moment she set the glass down and begun to clean up around her, it just slipped out casually, “Connor has a girlfriend.”

        Before he could refute it, his mother was already beaming at the mere aspect of him having a anyone in his life. “Connor, is this true?” She was ecstatic and it slightly hurt him to crush her hopes.

        “No, uh, she’s just a friend,” he said, glaring at Zoe as she strode past to put her dishes away, “we, uh, met when doing laundry. Her building’s water got turned off for a few days,” he began to sink into his seat, “and she helped me out.”

        “What’s her name?” Larry piped up, surprising Connor. He was sure his dad wouldn’t care enough to ask questions. But the moment your name rolled off his tongue, his father nodded, mulling over your name alone. “Sounds nice.”

        The rest of the conversation was dominated completely by questions, making Connor dig up all the information he’d learned about you. The fact you were from not-too-far from campus, your little brother, what your parents did, your major - the fact you were smart and took Physics made his mother smile, because something about the idea of him (potentially, in her eyes) having a smarty-pants girlfriend pleased her. Most likely because it meant you could maybe help him and cue the whole study-dates turning into real-dates montage as the two of you fell for each other, since she had always loved the prospect of movie romances. He shoveled the rest of his meal into his mouth, thanking her before escaping to the solitude of his somewhat-empty room.

        Then came the day he ran into Jared Kleinman and his friends, overhearing the nerdy boy brag about “all the pussy he was getting at college” arrogantly. Fucking hell, Connor felt bad for whoever Jared’s roommate was - either the poor dude was legit getting sexiled over and over, or he had to deal with Jared trying to talk big game. Of course, as fate would have it, Connor couldn’t just walk into one of his favorite ice cream parlors, get his favorite flavor, and walk out - Jared had to spot him.

        “He-ey, Connor!” He called out, Connor glancing over his shoulder before paying for his cone and crossing the room, jamming his free hand into his hoodie pocket. Jared didn’t give him a moment to greet him or anything, “How’s college?”

        “Fine.”

        “Meet anybody?” He smirked a little, “I mean, I’ll be surprised to hear anyone would approach your psycho ass, but there’s always miracles.” He snorted.

        “Does it matter?”

        Jared feigned pain at the remark, “C’mon, Connor,” he immediately lowered his voice, “there’s no shame in being a virgin.” With a click of his tongue, he leaned back in his chair, now smirking again his stupid arrogant Kleinman smirk. Now he remembered why he couldn’t fucking stand Jared.

        Before he thought it through, he replied, “Yeah, well, good thing I have a girlfriend then.”

        Immediately he regret it as Jared immediately lit up, smirk never leaving. “Really? You got some proof there, Connie?”

        He nodded, and internally thanked the fact that you had a habit of taking selfies of the two of you - and was even more glad to find that he hadn’t deleted the few you took with his phone after he sent them to you. He never could have brought himself to do it - but he brandished his evidence, which was a picture with you pressed into his side, beaming with joy that you’d managed to steal his phone long enough for the picture. The phantom touch of your hand at his waist returned as he remembered just how close you’d actually been to him. “Her name is [y/n],” he said, watching Jared take in every aspect of the photo, just trying to scan the smallest hint that he was lying.

        Apparently, he found none. “Okay, then,” he said, “how long have you two been dating?”

        “Almost four months,” he lied, “we, uh, met in a gen ed class.”

        “Y’know, you could be lying, Connor. You two should Skype with me sometime,” Jared draped one arm over the back of his chair, “or, better idea: maybe you could bring her here for spring break. I’m sure your family would love to meet her, huh Connor?”

        He was gonna fucking kill him for being so fucking smug. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll talk to her about it.” Which translated to he’d have to convince you somehow because he can’t just let Jared know he lied.

        He waved Jared off, ignoring the cold drips of ice cream running over his fingers as he escaped to the safety of his - well, Zoe’s - car. The moment he turned on the engine, the gravity of everything he just said crashed down onto him. There was no way you’d actually agree to fake-date him, right? At least whenever Jared called or whenever you were here with him. And then the two of you could part ways and pretend the entire thing never happened and he’d come up with some elaborate reason why the two of you broke up. Connor let out a heavy sigh, picking up his phone and opening it to your contact info.

        This was going to come crashing down around him, wasn’t it?

[letstalksymphogear]

Symphogear, EP. 2 (Cont.)

Meanwhile...

A certain someone is having some flashbacks.

You’re going to see a lot of water symbolism around Kanade when Tsubasa is thinking about her. Feel free to use your imagination for that one.

“fuck yeah!”

“im so FUCKING MAD”

Hibiki’s B-Friend squad, known lovingly as the Anime Janai squad, ask Hibiki if she wants to go eat somewhere, which is the equivalent of asking a dog to play fetch. This is always guaranteed for a yes.

Unfortunately, she wants to look Responsible in front of her girlfriend. So she turns it down, with all the pain and gritted teeth anyone can muster in the most adorable fashion.

This is their running joke, and their aptitude for this is frightening. My theory is that they are passively the Gods of this world, and are perfectly aware that this is a work of fiction, but continue to live their lives gleefully to await the action that unfolds.

“i know bikki said no cause she luvs me and wants to be responsible but i wont lie i really wanted pancakes today”

More than you’ll ever know.

“you comin or what, we got pancakes ready, not that ill let you eat them. cause i ate them. all of em.”

“right i forgot- your opinion means jack diddly to me.”

And so she is arrested. Again. Sorta needlessly this time. I am pretty sure Tsubasa really just likes whipping out those handcuffs. Those things are like, comically huge. And that big buzzing noise is just funny.

“the test results are in! and you ARE the protagonist! whoops!”

“hey we’re gonna be relevant later right? i read the contract and we dont really get any lines until like next season and”

“speak another fucking word and i will rip your tongue out manually with my nails because i SWEAR to god i didnt do acting school for 15 years to blow this shot because of your bitching for fucks sa-”

They tell her aside from the first shock she’s fine but Hibiki ain’t having it. She wants to know why metal parts spring out of her like a bad Michael Bay movie.

“sit back. this is gonna be a long one.”

The show begins explaining the relics owned by each relic user, which so far have been two.

Sorry, my subs are broken. Tsubasa’s is Ame-no-Habakiri. Kanade’s, which is now Hibiki’s is Gungir. Relics are ancient technology from ancient times with ancient power capable of... ancient things. They use music and singing to activate. That’s all you really need to know. The relics are usually refined into amulets such as what Tsubasa wears, and they’re usually fragments of the original thing.

“all those years of karaoke are finally paying off”

Tsubasa points out, though, that using them isn’t as simple as singing a song and calling it a day.

You have to work hard to use them due to the nature of compatibility.

Hibiki asks the million dollar question. “I don’t have a relic, though.”

Naturally, she’s wrong. Back when Kanade accidentally impaled Hibiki, it left pieces of her relic embedded inside of her. This has been sitting there for years, and shockingly enough, no other doctor has noticed this and Hibiki has never felt any discomfort about this.

Tsubasa puts two and two together. Take a good look; this is the emotional equivalent of witnessing someone split an atom under a microscope.

The atom is officially split.

This is the face of someone who witnessed her girlfriend die to save a random person in her hands as she turned to dust, only to meet the survivor several years later and learn that she now owns the very thing that had her life saved in the first place, coming back to haunt her.

Naturally it’s not Hibiki’s fault but Tsubasa... let’s just say she could use a round of therapy or two. Or ten.

“i need to get her a pony.”

Hibiki, desperately wanting to cut the middleman of this needless growing angst between her and her girlfriend, keeps asking if she can tell someone about this. Literally just one person. They could probably just make whoever she wants to tell sign an NDA too, right?

“no”

Genjuro pulls the superhero secret identity motive. Others knowing means your friends and family may be at risk, since being a Symphogear is Serious Business.

“this is gonna suck”

Sam Reimi’s Spiderman strikes again.

Hibiki is successfully recruited into the 2nd Division ranks as a Symphogear, much to Tsubasa’s chagrin.

Sadbasa.

“cant believe she’s my teammate now to boot”

Hibiki tries to be nice and offers a friendly handshake, but unfortunately she hasn’t leveled their bonds enough to make it happen. Coincidentally, crisis strikes. It’s the Noise. It’s always the Noise.

Hibiki feels like joining Tsubasa, feeling as though she has a lot to prove. All of this has happened in the last 5-8 minutes.

“shes got guts, ill give her that”

An asskicking brews in the middle of the road. Tsubasa, naturally, fights like a pro. Hibiki... gets a good kick in.

It only pisses her off more. Tsubasa knows that Hibiki is using the gear wrong. There’s a fucking spear built into that thing, she thinks. You don’t need to fight hand-to-hand combat. What idiot would punch these things? I mean, I kick, but my kicks have swords on them. It’s not the same, damnit. It’s not the same!

Hibiki is a strange and special case. She has 0 idea she’s stepping into the shoes of someone else (or rather, a weak idea; she knows it belonged to someone else but she never genuinely met them), and she has no combat prowess and sorta fumbles everywhere. Tsubasa gets angrier because she’s projecting her own insecurities into Hibiki, because she thinks that Hibiki is trying to replace Kanade, when Hibiki is just trying to save lives, period. This is ironically what Kanade was inspired to do back when she was alive.

It’s one big case of emotional telephone that everyone is losing.

“fighting crime is fun!”

“MOOOOROOOOOOON”

Tsubasa fails her aspect of the trust fall, and thus Hibiki hurtles down to her doom unwittingly.

Solos the giant monster, like a True Gamer would.

Blows everything up, as stated in her contract. The explosions remind her of Kanade’s hair, you see. Big, red, and wild.

“did i do a good job? huh, tsubasa? did you see that kick? ive never kicked like that before! hey tsubasa! did i do good? was that good, tsubasa? this is my first time so i really dont know what im doing but i think that was good!”

“im not really good at stuff right now but i promise to improve and do better since i have literally only known combat for a few seconds, tops”

“...”

“you absolute motherfucker. first you show up to the concert me and my girlfriend hosted. your dumb ass doesn’t even LEAVE THE DAMN CONCERT HALL like everyone else did. it just stood and stared like an absolute moron, and my GIRLFRIEND had to SAVE YOUR DUMB ASS because your LACK OF BRAIN CELLS couldnt make your LEGS RUN. and she DIED FOR THAT. and now you not only come to the school I’M IN, to STALK ME for ANSWERS on WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED instead of MOVING ON WITH YOUR LIFE, you also WEAR MY DEAD GIRLFRIEND’S SUPERHERO OUTFIT, immediately MOVE IN TO GET IN HER POSITION, try to WORK WITH ME without knowing JACK SHIT about combat, and act as a GENERAL NUISIANCE SINCE DAY FUCKING ONE.”

“im going to fucking murder you.”

“hey wait okay maybe i did some mistakes but murder is not conducive to teamwork here okay lets just chill a moment and-”

It was at that moment that Tachibana Hibiki knew, she was in deep shit.

[slut4supersoldiers]

Someday. Maybe. Chapter 7

Summary: Throw together a boy and a girl and another boy and 5 middle-schoolers, two adults, a little girl with telekinetic powers, and a monster from another dimension and you’ll get the perfectly strange story.

(AKA: I suck at writing summaries.)

Pairing: Steve Harrington X OC (fem reader) X Billy Hargrove  

Words: 1K.  This is sort of a filler but the last two chapters (9th most likely being the last will be bigger)

Warning: Angst-ish, Strong language, fight, bullying.

I do not own Strangers Things nor the GIF.

PART I

PART II

PART III

PART IV

PART V 

PART VI

MASTERLIST

REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Next morning I rolled out of my bed and after doing my entire routine I headed downstairs like I did every day. I was not surprised when I noticed Flo’s absence. Since the mysterious decaying of pumpkin fields struck the small town of Hawkins Hopper was constantly busy and consequently Flo had to take care of the police station along with few officers.

Hawkins was getting colder as we neared the end of the year. I quickly grabbed my car keys and jacket from the coat hanger and headed out. But before I could rush into the warmth of my car I suddenly halted. Jacket. Billy’s jacket. I was so busy pushing the painful exchange with Steve at the back of mind that I forgot about Billy and last night.

A smile crept on my face as I marched upstairs to my room and picked up Billy’s jacket that I had laid on my dressing table. I ran my hands over the fabric of the jacket my smile only widening as I thought of Billy.

I admit that when Billy walked in the school with his head held high and chest puffed out I wanted nothing to do with him. Was he attractive? Yes. But he was also the classic example for the sexy but trouble stereotype and that clearly was something I always tried to (operative word: tried) steer away from. But since my last night Billy Hargrove, my opinions about him changed slightly. I had no intention of throwing myself in the arms of the blonde haired, heart-throb but I couldn’t deny that he was the only sense of comfort I had felt in a while and I wanted more of that.

Shaking my head at my thoughts I rushed downstairs straight to my car. I drove to the Henderson household only to find Dustin impatiently waiting outside his house. On seeing my car he ran over and sat in the passenger’s seat.

“Hi Dusty. How was Halloween?” I asked him. My voice coming out chirpier than I had anticipated.

“It was so cool and I took all of Lucas’ nougat bars. I also hung out with this new girl Max. Best night of my life (Y/n).” He flailed his hands as he excitedly talked about his night

“Nougat? How do you like that?” I scrunched my nose as I briefly glanced at Dustin.

“Okay (y/n) first off all Nougat is what heaven must taste like and secondly is that all you got from what I said. Did you not hear about me hanging out with a girl?” I could practically hear the disbelief roll off his tongue.

“Sorry Dusty. Who is this lovely lady?” I inquired.

“She is new in town her name is Maxine but she prefers Max. She plays video games and she has fiery red hair and sh- Hey wait whose jacket is that?” Dustin reached out to grab the jacket that laid across my lap.

“Nobody’s” I bit my lip as I tried hard not to smile. Damn me and my teenage hormones making me all giddy.

“Oh look you’re blushing. You’re red. Is it your boyfriend’s? Wait is it Steve Harrington? He is Nancy’s boyfriend, right? Honestly I never liked them together especially after I found out you like him. I mea-”

“Hold up Henderson! Firstly I don’t have a boyfriend and how did you find out I like Steve?” I ran a frustrated hand through my hair.

“Well I might have accidentally read your diary. But I thought you liked him I didn’t know you still do. Do you?” I could see Dustin shifting in his seat.

“I don’t know.” I grabbed onto the steering wheel tightly as all the happy thoughts slipped away from mind and were suddenly replaced by the haunting memory of mine and Steve’s conversation from yesterday. “But it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care about me. Don’t think he ever did.” I heaved out a sigh as Dustin sat back quietly. I mentally thanked God for the silence.

After driving in the comfortable but slightly awkward silence I dropped Dustin off and headed towards the parking lot of Hawkins High. Like always I drew in a deep breath and got out of my car. Before I could delve on the thoughts of Steve Harrington I saw the one person I had been wanting to see since the morning. Billy Hargrove. He was at his usual spot; perched on the hood of his car blowing out cigarette smoke.

From Billy’s behaviour towards me around his friends compared to his behaviour in their absence I had concluded that he did not want to be seen with me when they were near. So I was not surprised when he nodded in my direction, seeing as he was alone that moment. Maybe I should’ve walked away and ignored him because I would only end up getting my heart and hopes crushed, the more I got attached. But I didn’t turn around because 1. I had his jacket and 2. My rational-self had bid me adieu a long time ago. So I smiled and walked towards him.

As I raised my hand to give him his jacket, Billy grabbed my wrist. “Are you okay?” He asked while crushing the cigarette under his boot and putting it out.

I looked at him; confused. He shook his head and looked back at me.

“I heard what happened between you and Harrington, never got the chance to ask yesterday.” He narrowed his eyes at me as if trying to gauge my reaction.

I smiled at him and before I could continue Carol’s shrill voice fell on my ears and just like that Billy dropped my hand. His concerned expression was suddenly replaced with a more stoic expression.

“Ms.Freak-enstein is now stealing things.” Tommy chuckled as he pointed to Billy’s jacket in my hand.

“Aw (y/n) I knew you doodled Mrs. Hargrove on the back of your books but this is crazy. I’d say you beat Byers in the obsessed stalker department.” Tommy doubled back in laughter as Carol pouted feigning pity.

“Carol, shut the fuck up.” Billy half-heartedly mumbled. I was used to Carol and Tommy but Billy’s nonchalant attitude and lack of interest to stand up for me, hurt. But it looked like Carol didn’t register his voice.

If I was frustrated before I was murderous the moment Carol opened her mouth again. “Didn’t mommy tell you not to steal?”

My anger got the best of me, the sudden surge of emotions dictated my actions and before Carol could say anything else I slapped. The imprint of my hand was now visible on her pale cheek The next thing I know Tommy was holding a shrieking Carol back while Billy’s arms were wrapped around my waist, stopping me from causing anymore trouble; ironic.

With the anger pulsing through my veins I jabbed at his ribs with my elbow to free myself. With one last glare I threw his jacket to the ground and shoved past him to my car.  The sudden wave of emotions that took over me was creating a havoc in my head. I was tired of constantly getting hurt and being made a fool out of simply for trusting someone or giving them a chance. So for the sake of my sanity I decided to skip school.

The moment I sat in the car I let the tears flow. I could still feel some stares linger on my hunched figure. Sparing myself any further embarrassment I drove away.

After driving around without a destination I decided to head over to the police station. Maybe engaging myself in some other work would help me take my mind off things. I finally arrived outside the station. Making sure I looked presentable I walked towards the station. Too busy thinking about the lies I’d tell Flo to keep her from worrying about me I accidentally bumped into someone. Before I could fall back from the force two hands reached out to hold me.

“Sorry. It was my fault.” I refused to look at the person before me. I had faced enough embarrassment already.

“It’s okay kid. Something on your mind?” As soon as the familiar voice fell on my ears I looked up. A very concerned Hopper was looking down at me with furrowed brows.

“Yeah. All good.” I gave him a half-hearted smile and tucked the rogue hair strand on my forehead behind my ear.

“You don’t look okay. (Y/n) have you been crying?” He drew his hands back and narrowed his eyes.

Averting my eyes from his scrutinizing gaze I shook my head, “No. Like I said I am fine.”

“Okay but if somebody is giving you trouble let me know, yeah?” He ruffled my hair a little making a small smile appear on my face.

“Yes chief.” I saluted him as I finally gave him a proper smile. He nodded.

Hopper finally got into his car and drove away. And I finally made my way into the police station.

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@wefracturedmotivation @thoughstofaredhead @savannah-m-99 @spideyjoy @peanutlicker5000 @lovelydreamer-2000 @mysticfluffyness

[lulachamberlainfanclub]

I enjoyed the whole game, but the moment that made my heart sink was that conversation with the switchboard operator in act IV. It felt like she was talking directly to me, not Shannon. It made me think, and what if all this effort I'm putting in my life is pointless and I'm just part of The Machine?

Oh jeez, yeah. That scene is so resonant to me that I transcribed it for the blog.

It used to be up until two years ago that I worked as a projectionist for a fairly upscale Los Angeles movie theatre chain. After about a year of hard labor scooping, selling, and eventually sweeping up popcorn, I got moved to the projection booth. This was the summer of 2010, and our theatre still showed 95% of its movies through 35mm film projection. I was so proud to be a projectionist. It was a tactile job with a century of incredible history. A final human touch between the director’s vision and the audience’s eyes. I’ll admit to getting fairly emotional when Terrence Malick shipped a letter with every single print of “Tree of Life” calling my profession “the last remaining artisans of movie exhibition.”

About two years after I started as a projectionist, my theatre announced that they would soon switch from 35mm film to 2k digital projection. This was quickly becoming the industry standard, and for good reason. The digital “prints”, really just a terrabyte hard drive with an encrypted movie file on them, were cheaper and easier to produce, ship, track, and control than film prints. The actual on-screen image wasn’t as good, but a digital print would never scratch or tear. A few of my coworkers jumped ship when we made the change. We went from a team of about a dozen to ten.

The first few months of digital projection were disastrous. None of us had been properly trained, which was made things even harder when the new digital projectors and servers were constantly faulting and failing. Sound and light cues didn’t hit correctly until we trained ourselves to work around the system’s failings. The company never listened when we said things weren’t working - they knew that the early days of digital projection would be difficult, and they weren’t the ones who had to take the blame for that difficulty so what did they care?

The writing had been on the wall for a while by the time the company announced that they’d be moving from manual digital projection to full digital automation. Nobody in the projection booth at all, just a single central server updated weekly on-site, that would run sixteen separate screens. We’d be losing our position as projectionists, so we’d be booted back down to ripping tickets and selling concessions.

If you’ve ever tried to sync more than one laptop to a single printer, you know that computers aren’t exactly 100 percent when it comes to networking. It took the company four more years from the announcement of automated digital to the day they first implemented it. It took another year after that for them to try their first full day of automated projection. Again, nothing worked. The projectionists who used to cue lights and sound and push buttons and lower faders were now tasked to stand next to the servers as each movie started - just to make sure things went smoothly. They never did, of course. We had to manually cue lights and sounds, just like always. But our bosses could use that as an excuse to devalue our labor. “All you do up there is push buttons.” “Anyone could do what you do.” “We never see you actually working.” Our team dwindled from about ten people at any given time to between six and seven. I guess one thing I can’t complain about was a lack of shifts.

Poppy: You know… there’s something that bothers me about the process, besides the fact that I’m training my replacement, who isn’t even human… Here’s what I mean: how long do you think it should take to time my every move and recreate that timing in an automated switchboard? Rough estimate.

Shannon: A couple days?

Poppy: That’s what I said, but this has been going on for over a year! And a very dark thought has started to nag at me… What if there is no cheap machine that’s going to replace me? What if it’s cheaper just to keep me here, filling in for the rhythm of the operators… What if I’m the cheap machine?

This exchange brought about a profound sadness in me. I felt like I was at my own funeral. What the hell was I doing standing around for $12.75 an hour babysitting the robot that would replace me? Three months later, I quit with no notice. I walked into my boss’ office and told him I had a new job. After eight years I left, without even saying goodbye to anyone. Coincidentally, fifteen minutes later another projectionist quit on the spot, and that same night still another put in her notice. I’d like to say I started a labor revolt, but everyone had just been planning to quit and nobody told anyone else.

Shannon: Why don’t you just quit?

Poppy: In this economy? No, you’re probably right. Working in silence for peanut shells, waiting to be replaced by a robot… It doesn’t sound very dignified, does it? The reality is that I’ve been working here my whole adult life. I came here as a girl, and I’ll leave as a middle-aged woman… I don’t know if I’m ready to be her yet.

[voidsumbrella]

so ive been using window 7 since high school, right, first on my laptop, and i stuck with it for my desktop bc windows 10 had only come out pretty recently- windows 8 had been such a fucking mess that i wanted to make sure it was, yknow, functional. i continued not upgrading bc i found the format to be kind of irritating, and also bc im lazy and have a pretty firm "if it aint broke dont fix it" policy. i continued not upgrading after they discontinued support bc i have become increasingly bitter about how much corporate spyware is crammed onto every electronic on the face of the planet.

this was fine until last year, when i finally started running into programs i actually wanted to run flat not working on win7, and by programs i mean games, and by games i mean elden ring. so i dissected my old gaming laptop, removed the 2 500gb hard drives, shoved 'em my desktop, and used one of them to dual boot the thing to windows 10, which i had to spend enough energy on setting up in a way i was comfortable with that by the end i was just like "ill use this... later..." and then didn't. i still haven't played elden ring.

im now running into more programs that aren't compatible, including csp 2.0, and i want that align tool badly enough to bite the bullet and switch to using win10 full time. this means i have to swap which drive is running which- win10 needs to be on my main hard drive (2tb, runs faster) along with all my files, win7 needs to be on one of the 500gb drives with any older progams incompatible w/ win10 (the other 500gb drive is for overflow storage; i like to micromanage my file organization).

it doesn't appear to be possible to just switch them simultaneously, which tracks, that feels like a bit of a tall ask. so the gameplan then became to:

1) empty the storage drive and merge both the 500gb drives into one 1tb partition

2) shuffle files onto flash drives so my win7 side is under 1tb (~200gb, no i do not have any one device that fits that, i had to play data tetris on like 4 different ones, if someone wants to give me $100 to get a better external that would be great)

3) make a disc image of the win7 data on my 1tb external

4) wipe the 2tb drive, move the win10 data onto the clean disc (possibly by merging the partitions?)

5) restore the file data to win10

6) re-dual boot and restore all win7 data on the 1tb side

7) make sure all my shit got shuffled over properly; move anything fully win10 incompatible onto external storage (may involve wiping external hard drive, we'll see)

8) factory restore win7 to default settings, fully clearing file data

9) repartition the 500 gb storage unit; untetris all the overflow data back into place

10) manifest an extra hundred dollars or so and purchase an external drive with 4+ tb data as i should have done like 5 years ago ._.

im currently on: step 3! and have been for roughly 3 days now, bc large backups are Fucking Slow and it took me a hot second to find out that win7's native backup+disc image creator straight up won't process a 2tb disc, you need to download some other software. also because tech problems are bad for my blood pressure, and i have other shit to do in my life.

the backup software (it actually came with my external but i never actually installed, because i havent had to backup the entire drive and os for this pc before. the os backup was technically. like 7 years old. from my laptop. and i never thought to replace it, i just kept the files updated as needed) is currently like halfway through and if it gives me another error message before it finishes i will. i dont know. lay down and cry, probably.

did i ever actually post the tech saga. i havent been able to use my desktop properly in like a week.

[lazyfox411]

happy birthday keith: a sickfic

so a little while ago, I put out a post asking for suggestions on what to write for keiths birthday. @radiofreekerberos suggested shiro throw keith a surprise party (thank you sm btw), and I tried a lot of different ideas but nothing was coming lol so went to my default which is sicfics. and even then here I present the worst thing ive ever written :P

but the only way i wouldnt write for my boys birthday is if i was dead. 

Fall was a pretty good season. Pretty colours, Halloween, pumpkin spice everything, perfect jacket and scarf weather—usually. Today, Keith had realized too late, was perfect raincoat and boots weather.

He shivered, pulling his sweater tighter around his shoulders. He was already miserable, and now this. Granted, it was just a light rain, but he had also been plagued with a persistent case of the sniffles. After sneezing and shaking all day, suffering through school and work like a braindead zombie, Keith was more than ready to go home and rest, rain be damned.

When he had clocked out of work, he'd felt a nagging in the back of his mind, like he'd been forgetting to do something. But he'd done everything he was supposed to, hadn't he? Clean the tables, sweep the floors, empty the register, lock up. That was it. He'd done it all. Maybe he just felt off because he wasn’t usually the one to lock up he diner. It was Hunk’s diner, and he was usually the last one out, so naturally the one to lock up everyday. But today he'd left Keith in charge for the last hour before closing time, claiming he had some sort of important business to take care of. He refused to say what this business was, which was odd because Hunk usually never kept secrets. It was pretty much physically impossible for him, and even today he'd looked like he was about to burst.

It was odd, Keith thought, Hunk had been avoiding him most of the day. Unlike the odd feeling of a forgotten obligation.

Keith checked his bag. He went over all his possessions, taking inventory. Textbooks, work clothes, pencils and papers. A few assignments his professor had handed back today. Keith was actually pretty proud of those; they’d gotten good marks. Maybe he was forgetting an upcoming college project. He checked his phone, but there were no reminders.

After coming up emptyhanded, he decided to push away the feeling and just focus on getting warm. The rain was freezing, and his teeth were chattering, nose running, fingers numb. He wasn’t sure if it was raining harder now, and that was why he couldn’t see, or if his vision was just going blurry because he was exhausted. He didn't care. He just wanted to be home, in bed. His clothes were soaked now, and his shoes pooled with water wherever he stepped, squelching on the pavement.

There were about two blocks to go until he would be home. Keith tried to focus on that. He plodded along, head down, trying and failing to avoid all the puddles. When he looked up to cross the street, his body couldn’t keep up with his eyes, and the world started spinning much too fast and he was stumbling out into the street.

A flash of headlights and the too-loud sound of a horn, the screech of brakes. The car slammed to a halt just feet away, spraying Keith in a shower of dirty puddle water. The driver screamed at him, but Keith couldn’t make out what was being said over the torrential downpour and the ringing of his ears. He scurried out of the road, trembling even harder because now not only was he freezing, but holy shit he'd almost been hit by a car.

The apartment door was locked. Shiro must not be home, Keith figured. He liked sharing an apartment with Shiro. It was easier on rent, and it was nice to not be alone. Keith had been alone a lot, and while he did like his solitude, Shiro had made him realize that being all alone all the time wasn’t all that great. Keith clumsily wiped the water from his face as he searched for his keys, and he didn't want to admit it, but he wouldn’t be surprised if a few tears had been wiped with it, because now he was thinking about a little raven-haired kid, all alone on the streets, no idea who his mother was, no clue where his father went, scared and hungry and tired and ready to give up. Until Shiro had taken him in and given him a real family, for the first time.

Keith finally found his keys, and as he slid them into the lock he was silently berating himself for getting so emotional all of a sudden. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he get a grip? And why was he so cold? Pointless questions swirled in his mind, and the more he thought, the worse it got, until he found the strength to grip the door handle. At least he was pretty sure he did, he still couldn’t feel his fingers, all he wanted to do was get inside and go to bed, but there was still the feeling he'd forgotten something and not knowing was making him feel sick to his stomach—

“SURPRISE!!!”

Keith nearly toppled over backwards from the sheer force of the six voices all screaming in unison. He blinked, trying to take in the scene in front of him. Shiro, Hunk, Lance, Pidge, Allura and Coran were positioned around the room, wearing pointed paper hats and cheering and throwing streamers. Pidge had three kazoos sticking out of her mouth and was violently blowing out a tune that sounded oddly similar to “Here Comes the Bride,” and she was spread out like a starfish, holding a sparkly happy birthday banner that was nearly as big as her. Evidently it had been made by Lance, who was covered head to toe in glitter and waving around a bunch of balloons. Hunk stood behind the kitchen table in front of a cake. The yellow headband he always wore had been replaced by a weave of ribbons.

“Happy birthday, Keith!” Lance shouted. Keith just stared at him.

“You didn't forget your own birthday, did you?” Shiro asked. He had a large red gift box held in his arms.

Keith blinked again. He could see Allura and Coran out of the corner of his eye. Coran had his hands held behind his back. Allura’s were pulled up under her chin, excitedly awaiting Keith's reaction.

Keith continued to stare. The room fell silent. The banner drooped. The gift was set down. The balloons stilled. Keith just stared, at his friends, the decorations, the cake. It was too much. Too much noise, too many sparkles, too many people. Too much for his rain-soaked, pounding head to compute all at once.

He felt his face grow hot. His knees went weak, and he sunk to the floor, and before he could stop himself, he was sobbing.

He didn't process what was being said, but he heard voices, words. They sounded worried.

“Oh, dear.” Allura.

“Perhaps we surprised him too much.” Coran.

“Aw, gee, man, you walked all that way without an umbrella?” Lance.

“Guys, he doesn’t look so good.” Hunk.

Keith felt a pair of tiny hands gently finding his wrists, and he curled his fingers around them. Through a haze of tears, he saw light glinting off Pidge’s glasses. “Hey, Keith, what’s the matter?”

“I-I-I-I’m-I’m ss-sorry,” Keith cried. He wiped furiously at his eyes, fists stilled balled up with Pidge’s teeny little fingers. He could barely talk, his throat felt so tight. How could his face fell so hot when the rest of him was freezing cold?

“Hey, it’s okay, Keith, it’s okay.” Keith felt a strong, warm hand on his back, and he leaned towards it, into Hunk. Hunk was warm, and it helped ease Keith's shaking.

“I’m sorry,” Keith repeated.

Shiro looked down at him thoughtfully. “What’s wrong?”

“I just…don’t feel very well.”

Suddenly there was a hand brushing his bangs from his forehead, blessedly cool on his too-hot face. Keith sighed in relief as Shiro moved closer and shifted the hand to cup his cheek, and press against his brow.

“He’s burning up,” Shiro said. Keith got the feeling Shiro wasn’t talking to him anymore, because everyone else seemed to jolt to attention.

“You mean he’s sick?” Lance asked worriedly.

“Aw, Keith, why didn't you say anything?” Hunk frowned.

“Didn't give me much of a chance,” Keith mumbled, chasing the last traces of tears from his face. He was still shivering.

Shiro wrapped an arm around his shoulders and helped him to his feet. “Let’s get you some dry clothes, huh?”

Keith nodded, and before he could protest Shiro was scooping him up off the ground. There wasn’t really any sense in trying to wriggle free now, Keith figured, was there? He coughed wetly, congestion settling in his lungs. He really should have taken an umbrella.

“We’re terribly sorry, Keith,” Allura said softly. “We thought a surprise party might be a good way to celebrate your birthday. I see now we were wrong.”

Keith shook his head lightly, managing a soft smile. “It’s okay, Allura.”

“Is there anything I can do? Perhaps Coran and I could run to the drugstore to get you some medicine?”

“Ye—” Keith was cut short by a harsh coughing fit.

“That would be great,” Shiro answered for him.

Shiro brought him to his room, helped him towel off his hair, and found him some dry pyjamas. Keith changed, and crawled into bed. The soft enclosure of blankets made him sleepy, and he vaguely thought that this was the most content he'd felt all day.

“You do know it’s your birthday today, right?” Shiro sat next to him on the bed.

“I, uh…might have forgot.”

Shiro sighed. “I’m really sorry, Keith. This whole surprise party was my idea. I know we never really did anything for your birthday other years, but this year I thought you might enjoy it. I'm sorry I've ruined your special day.”

“Shiro, you didn't ruin anything. I'm sorry I messed it all up by getting sick. I—" Before he could say anything more, there was a knock at the door, and Lance, Hunk, and Pidge appeared. Hunk held a steaming mug of tea in his hands, which Keith accepted gratefully.

“How do you feel now?” Lance asked. He sat on Keith's other side.

Keith decided to just be honest. He'd probably already made a fool of himself anyway. “I feel cold.” The rain had somehow seeped into his bones, and now he was chilled all the way through. Shiro put an arm around his shoulders and rubbed the goosebumps that dotted Keith's bicep. Lance found his way to Keith's side, and Pidge spread herself over his legs. Keith felt their warmth, their love and support, and he was pretty sure it was the best birthday present he had ever received. He told them as much.

“Oh, speaking of presents,” Hunk jumped up, “you still haven’t gotten to open yours.” He ducked out of the room and returned moments later with the red box. “From all of us,” he said.

Keith inspected it closely. Nobody had ever really given him a birthday present before, other than Shiro, and that had always been something like a candy bar, or a pair of socks. Not that Shiro didn't care, of course, he just knew that Keith didn't like making a big deal over things like that. This year was different, though. Keith had begun to come out of his shell, and Shiro had noticed, or else he wouldn’t be surrounded by all his closest friends right now.

Keith tentatively tore at the paper.

“Come on, dude, don’t be scared,” Lance grinned. “It isn’t gonna hurt you.”

Keith ripped the rest off, and opened the box. From the folds of tissue paper inside, he produced a thick, leather-bound book.

“Open it, “Shiro encouraged.

Keith flipped open the cover. The paper inside was a warm, off-white colour, thick and grainy. Each of his friends’ signatures were scrawled around the page, around a photo of the seven of them laughing and making silly faces. It was a scrapbook.

He turned the page, nervous under his friends’ expectant eyes. This page was filled with more photos, candid shots of playing video games with Pidge and Lance, him and Hunk with frosting on their noses, Shiro spraying them all with the hose, selfies in bathroom mirrors, sitting at coffee shops, walking down trails. Keith kept turning pages, a smile creeping up his face as he remembered all the days these pictures had been taken. There were other things, too, a movie ticket, a receipt from the hospital when Keith had broken his arm, a fallen leaf from the national park. There was so much, but all of it had one thing in common: every photo, every memory, was of a time when Keith and his friends had all been together.

“Wow, guys, I…I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

“We’re glad you like it,” Hunk smiled.

“And look,” Pidge’s eyes glowed as she thumbed through the remaining pages, “we left you some blank ones, so that you can add your own stuff.”

Keith couldn’t help the dumb grin that was splitting his face. “Thank you,” he repeated. “I can't believe you guys did all this for me. I'm just so sorry I messed it all up.”

“No way,” Shiro said. He tightened his grip around Keith's shoulder. “You didn't ruin anything. We’re sorry we forced this onto you.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, this is one birthday I'm sure to never forget,” Keith said. It was true. Not because he was sick, not because he'd burst into tears—though that would probably haunt him for some time—but because this birthday had been spent with people he cared about. And they, in turn, cared about him. Keith rested his head on Shiro's chest and let his eyes flutter shut. He felt Lance's breathing even out next to him, Pidge on his legs, and Hunk’s warmth by his feet.

By the time Allura and Coran returned with the medicine, the five of them were all asleep.

[stevedonnellyfaith-blog]

Newly Married (Post 21) 1-29-14

                        Until recently I thought the first several months of my marriage were a holy and well-deserved beat down for being a truly selfish and disagreeable bozo for most of the first twenty three years of my life.  In the last several years I have come to view my newlywed months as something else entirely – husband boot camp.  During the days and months leading up to December 30th, 1988 I very much looked forward to marriage because my girlfriend would then be able to move in with me and I wouldn’t have to drive ten hours each way between Newport, Rhode Island and Baltimore, Maryland each weekend.  Also I wouldn’t have to cook for myself, do housework or go shopping. I would be able to come back from my navy courses each day and spend time with someone who I loved and who loved me, but mostly I intended to goof off more.  I had a lot to learn.

Anyway that was my vision of marriage and it sort of worked out that way for several of weeks but less than a month.  Reality never quite matches fantasy.  For instance, Pam, I discovered, had never wanted to learn to cook growing up.  So we ate grilled cheese and easy stuff while she worked on refining her culinary skills.  Realistically, that was small potatoes – which it would have been nice if she knew how to bake or mash, but she didn’t.  Everything else, though, was pretty good as our apartment was a nice little suite on the top floor of a renovated mansion from the robber baron days of old Newport. Pam and I felt truly blessed … until she began to throw-up uncontrollably.  

She had suffered through horrible nausea while growing up, but she had grown out of the syndrome at about the age of ten or so.  Barb, Pam’s mom, had told me about her hospitalizations and ER visits while Pam and I were dating.  Pam would catch the flu, begin throwing up and continue until she was brought to the ER and received an IV treatment to restore her equilibrium.  Usually after taking a bag of fluid on board, Pam was ready to head home.  It sounded very difficult and unusual to me, but never having been hospitalized myself, I had trouble relating to the experience.  I was glad that she had grown out of it, though, or so I thought.

After the vomit count crept into double figures, I took my disheveled spouse to the base hospital where we discovered that we would cease being newlyweds and become parents much sooner than expected.  While we had successfully acted out the first several weeks of our married bliss to the written script, that draft was tossed into the waste can and unceremoniously barfed upon.  Act Two opened in a sterile hospital room.  I had expected to play a role in a romantic comedy and had landed in a melodrama.  I was disgruntled.  I believe I sulked a good deal and was otherwise insufferable.

Our marriage bed was exchanged for one that came with a nurse’s call button for Pam and an uncomfortable chair in the near vicinity for me.  I ate her hospital food when she wasn’t able.  I tried to convince Pam to come home so things could be more closely match my vision.  Couldn’t she just make herself feel better?  I discovered that hormonally she could not.

During Pam’s hospitalizations I visited her daily for several hours after class, but at bedtime I needed to drive on home to a lonely apartment.  She was released periodically, but she never stayed home for long.  When she was discharged and at home for short periods, I did the housework and waited on her quite happily.  Within 24 hours I was usually driving her back to the hospital to begin my uncomfortable chair sitting again.

In the yoyo of check-ins and discharges I also discovered that Pam had very bad veins.  An average nurse often required four or five painful sticks before a usable IV could be started.  Unfortunately, not all the nurses that Pam and I saw on our frequent ER visits were average or above.  She got stuck quite a few times and her small and curvy veins became rapidly bruised and scarred.  Vein options diminished.  Finally Pam developed an allergic reaction to Compazine, the anti-nausea drug that they were giving to her.  I remember Pam’s breathing got labored and she developed something that resembled lockjaw. At that point the staff began to move very fast and I was shuffled out of the room.  Several weeks into my life as a husband I saw my wife coded for the first time.  

Although inserting a central line in through Pam’s carotid artery into her heart was a relatively routine procedure for the hospital staff, it certainly was not routine for me.  I think it was then that the doctors offered us an abortion for the first time.  It is tough to keep track, of how many times we were offered abortions and with which kids over the years.  All six of Pam’s pregnancies were difficult. I think we changed obstetricians a couple of times when they became too insistent that we use birth control, but we couldn’t really fault the doctor in this case for making the offer.  Pam had a central line and her arms were scarred and bruised beyond usability.  We never discussed having an abortion.  There was no need.  While we hadn’t planned to have a baby so early in our marriage, we were already parents in our minds.

Things smoothed out after Pam received her central line.  When I graduated from the professional course I was taking, Pam was discharged from the hospital in time to help me pack what little stuff we taken to Rhode Island into our 1987 Nissan Sentra. We headed south toward Maryland and then Virginia Beach. Pam’s nausea ended for our first pregnancy right around the time that we left New England.  For me the period had been a difficult one that I don’t remember with much nostalgia.  Under unusual pressure, I had often acted immaturely and selfishly.  But while I don’t remember our Newport crucible fondly, I now understand that I drove down I-95 a much better husband than I had been months before as I drove north from Annapolis with my new bride.

I continue to learn to lead my family through serving them.  My service to my wife and children has improved over the years but I continue to work to replace my selfishness with the selflessness that is required by Jesus’ example.  In Newport I learned the true meaning of the words “in sickness and in health,” that I had distractedly mouthed at my wedding on that December day in 1988. While my husbandly responsibilities were completed on the 16th of February 2013, my fatherly responsibilities remain.  My expectation is that I will be held accountable for ensuring that all four of my children eventually reside with Pam in heaven.  Luckily, they are good kids so Jesus’ yoke is as light as he promises.

[totallyrhettro]

The Lone Jedi, Chapter 3

Word Count: 2149 Rating: This chapter: G. Overall story: explicit Warnings: None Summary: Jedi Knight Rhett McLaughlin managed to escape the purge of the Emperor to become one of the last of his celibate order. After years of a solitary life, he finds himself with a former slave for a friend. Despite his efforts to maintain anonymity and the jedi code, he starts to realize that doing either is easier said than done. Notes: Star Wars AU; Events take place between episodes III and IV

First Chapter

Previous Chapter

*See the end of each chapter for additional notes on star wars terms*

Link POV

Link woke to an unfamiliar smell. It was bittersweet, with a soft undertone of citrus. It smelled wonderful and he found himself inhaling deeply before even opening his eyes. Then he remembered what had happened in the jungle. A rush of terror came over him and his eyes flew open as he started to sit up.

“Careful now,” said a voice. Seconds later Link realized that the advice was worth following. As he tried to sit up pain shot through his back and he stopped immediately. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.” Link turned towards the source of the voice. A very tall man with dirty blond hair was kneeling nearby. He wasn’t looking at Link, however. He was staring into a small pot set over a fire, stirring its contents slowly. It took the injured man a moment to recognize the stranger as the robed figure from the village. His long, brown robes were gone now, revealing light tan clothes and tall, dark boots. His face looked kind, but tired, with dark bags under his eyes. “Where am I?” Link asked, trying to stay in a somewhat lifted position. His body wanted to lie back down and sleep but his mind wanted answers. The stranger finally turned and faced him, but only for a moment. “We’re in the mountains. I thought you would be safe here while I tended to your wounds. You’re lucky to be alive, my friend.” He took a small, wooden cup and poured the pot’s contents into it. Then he carried it over and handed it to Link. “Here, drink this. It’ll make you feel better.” “What is it?” Link asked, taking it from him. “Herbal tea, My own recipe. It’s hot,” he added quickly, as Link went to take a sip. “Thank you.” He blew on the amber liquid before taking a cautionary taste. It was good. Unlike anything he’d ever had before. “You’re welcome. I’m Rhett, by the way. What’s your name?” “Link.” He gave a small smile, which the taller man returned before going back to the pot and putting out the fire. While Link slowly sipped his tea, he examined his new surroundings. It was a far cry from the luxurious rooms of the Hutt palace, but certainly much nicer than the cargo hold he was last in. Stone walls surrounded a large courtyard, many of which were crumbling, some merely lines in the grass. A granite pathway led from what was once an elegant archway, through the yard, all the way to a massive sloped building. The pathway was cracked with grass and weeds now poking through it everywhere.

Trees seemed littered about, some marked with stone rings while others grew randomly. They were small compared to the trees of the massive forest. Near the archway a huge statue of a person stood but it’s face had long been worn away by the elements and was unrecognizable as even man or woman. One of its arms was gone but the one that remained held aloft a sword of some kind. It looked familiar, like something out of legend, but Link couldn’t quite place it. Beyond that a road lead out of the yard, down and away, presumably down the mountain. As Link gazed out over where the road disappeared from view, he could see they were most definitely not in the woods any longer. Even from his low spot in the grass he could see the land fall away into nothing. Then, in the distance, he could just make out the green tops of the trees. “It’s so far away,” he noted aloud. He had never left the forest before. Though he had often seen the imposing might of the mountains, it was always from a great distance. He never dreamed he would ever be in them. “What is this place?” “My home,” Rhett answered, not looking up. “It’s nice and quiet here. I like the solitude.” “But these buildings…” Link started. Rhett looked at him now, his expression unreadable, and slightly waved his hand dismissively. “They’re not that interesting,” he stated. Link thought about that for a moment. A small part of him agreed, believing that these crumbling ruins were of no interest to anyone, but that just didn’t settle right with him. “But they are,” he insisted. Rhett raised one eyebrow, quizzically, looking slightly amused and impressed all at once. Link looked back at him, somewhat irked that this stranger was finding something about him funny. “What are they?” “You should rest now.” The tall man took his now empty pot in hand and stood up, stretching. “I’ll tell you about them another time.” Link started to argue, but Rhett continued and his voice seemed so kind. “I promise.” With a last, caring smile, he headed off into the mysterious building and was gone. Link very much wanted to get up and follow, if only to have his many questions answered, but he felt his energy was sapped just from that short conversation. Finishing off the delicious tea, he laid back down and let his eyelids fall closed. He drifted off to sleep listening to the chirping of songbirds and the gentle breeze blowing through the leaves above him.

~

He woke hours later, still alone. The sun was much lower in the sky; the leaves and branches of the tree above him no longer providing protection from its glaring rays. He blinked in the light before raising a hand to shield his eyes. It was his bandaged hand and it took him a second to realize that it didn’t hurt anymore. After a moment he decided to test his back by sitting up. His body moved slowly, still stiff, but the intense pain had subsided, replaced by a dull ache. He still felt a bit weak and quite light headed, but his curiosity was gnawing at him. After glancing around and not seeing his mysterious savior, Link stood up slowly. “Ah!” he exclaimed, as he got to his feet. Bandages matching the ones on his hand and torso that he hadn’t noticed before were wrapped around his feet. The weight of his body now bearing down on the soles of his feet sent spikes of pain through them and up his legs. He immediately leaned against the tree trunk to alleviate the pressure. After a few moments, the pain faded back to tolerable levels and he tired to walk on them again, this time being careful to walk as softly as possible. They still hurt, but he was determined to explore and learn more about this place and who this Rhett person was. He gingerly made his way towards the large building that he had seen the blond man enter, the only obvious entryway in sight. It was dark inside, with only a few small torches lining the walls, most of which were in much the same condition as the ones in the courtyard. Some, however were still intact. Intricately etched stone that once was brightly colored now faded to its original brown and grey. Sconces that held torches which had gone dead long ago were affixed on the walls and the few pillars that were left standing in a long hall. The left of the main hall had been fashioned into a stable with a messy straw bed beside a half-filled water trough. A leather saddle hung on a wooden hitching post made from a large tree branch, or possibly a small trunk. Link wondered where the kybuck this stable had obviously been made for was. He remembered seeing it earlier, but there was no sign of it now. The torches led him down the hall past various smaller doorways, each a plain archway leading into smaller rooms filled with various unmarked baskets and crates. He wondered what they contained, but past them all in favor of the far end of the building and the doorway which led back outside into what appeared to be a huge garden. Much of the garden was overgrown, covered with thick patches of plants he didn’t recognize, but one area, near the building he had just exited, was well groomed. The ground was tilled with care. Voluptuous fruits and vegetables grew among green vines and up wooden stakes placed just for them. A few potted plants were placed nearby as well, some on the ground while others were scattered on old wooden tables covered with dirt, plant parts and several gardening tools. A wide, cobblestone road ran between the garden and the building, and stretched off along the length of them both. It led left and right then turned around the corners of the wide open area. This inner courtyard was surrounded on all sides by tall buildings, very similar to the first; dark grey stone figures of varying heights and structural stability connected by a single brick wall that encompassed the entire complex. The sound of flowing waters brought Link’s attention away from his appraisal of the surroundings. He couldn’t see it, but he could hear it coming from ahead, beyond the gardens. Careful not to step on the tended plants, he walked across the soft earth and through a small opening in the overgrowth. On the other side of a tall, ivy-covered wooden fence that no longer kept out anything, was a smaller, enclosed area and a massive fountain. It was over four feet across and twice that tall, an off-white rectangular obelisk towering over the surrounding brush. Clear waters poured from a slit near its top and fell into a small pool at its base. In front of it, sitting on a curved bench made from matching materials, was the bearded figure, Rhett. He was facing away from Link, hunched over, completely ignoring the world around him. As the brunet approached, the other man turned around to look, and Link could see tan cloth in his hands. They were the same color as the clothes he was wearing. “You shouldn’t be wandering about,” the man said. “You could hurt yourself. Most of these ruins aren’t safe.” He placed the cloth on the bench beside him, a needle and thread on top, before standing to greet his visitor. “What are you doing?” “I uh, I was hemming some pants.” His tanned face blushed slightly. “The sun can be brutal in the daytime, but it gets fairly cold up here in the mountains at night.” Link walked over to the bench and examined the cloth more closely. They were pants, identical to the ones Rhett was currently wearing, but a line of neat stitching marked where they had been shortened. “You’re not exactly dressed for cold weather.” Link glanced down at his attire. A thick, gold-plated belt held up a gauzy maroon loincloth that hung down to his knees. His chest, normally bare to the elements, was covered in white bandages, but that too was not made to keep him warm. “Thank you,” he said, softly. It’s not that he had never been given things. He practically wanted for nothing when he was a servant of the Hutt, but this was different. No one had ever given him something without him asking, just because they wanted to. No one had ever given him a gift before. “I was hoping to have them done before you woke up.” Rhett couldn’t seem to look directly at Link, much to the confusion of the shorter man. People were always staring at him, they never stopped looking. It was hard to understand this stranger from the mountains. “I never thanked you… earlier. For saving me from that… thing… in the woods. You saved my life.” “You’re very welcome.” There was an awkward pause as Link struggled with finding a way to express the many questions that were running rampant in his head, unsure where to begin. He was confused about why he was having such difficulties just talking to this tall stranger. He never had problems speaking to anyone, even his masters. He always knew where he stood with them. “Are you hungry?” Rhett asked, suddenly. Link hadn’t thought about it, but the question made his stomach rumble, as if answering for him. “Starving. I guess I can’t remember when I last ate.” Even the meager travel rations they gave Link and the other slaves couldn’t have truly been considered food. They were just nutritious enough to keep the cargo alive.

"If you like, I can make some grebnar stew. It’s getting close to supper time.” “Yes, thank you.” Link didn’t know what else to say. People didn’t usually ask his opinion on anything. Rhett smiled at his response though, and he couldn’t help but smile back. There was something so kind in that bearded face, gentle and caring. He was like no one he had ever even heard of and he felt drawn to him. That sensation, too, was a first.

Next Chapter

Additional Notes:

Kybuck:  an animal originally from Kashyyyk. They look very much like the Tauntauns found on Hoth, if you crossed one with a horse.

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[motleymoose]

The Devil’s Backbone

Challenge: @sdavid09 ’s Tale Teller’s Winter Writing Challenge 2016

Prompt: Farm/Country AU & The Devil’s Backbone by the Civil Wars

Characters: Jody Mills x Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester x Donna Hanscum; mentions of Bobby Singer x Jody Mills, Garth Fitzgerald IV, Charlie Bradbury, Ellen and Jo Harvelle, Rufus Turner, OFC (Jax, Ben, Marlene)

Words: ~3,210

Warnings: Language, fluffy angst

Summary: Life had a way of providing Jody Mills with lemons, but she had always been too broke to make lemonade. Yet sometimes there are mistakes one can’t afford not to make.

A/N: I loved writing this. It just came out on its own. No beta, so all mistakes are my own. Feedback is appreciated! <3

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Farming is a thankless job.

From sunup to sundown, Jody Mills worked. There wasn’t a day that went by when something didn’t break down or escape. If a day did happen to pass by with nothing springing a leak or tearing down a fence, Jody would find herself sitting at the local bar early on in the evening, enjoying a watery beer and rambunctious company.

Those days were few and far between.

And, damn, did she need a beer.

Driving in the last staple, Jody straightened up, stretching out her stiff back and sore shoulders. “Fuuuck me,” she groaned, gazing back at her handiwork. Fixing fence wasn’t something she enjoyed, but at least it would keep the cows in, if even for a short time. Tucking the hammer under her arm, she shook off a glove, letting it fall into the fresh snow, and pulled out her phone. It was late, judging by how fast the sun was disappearing on the horizon, but not late enough for her to pack up and head inside to the warmth.

Sighing, Jody pulled her glove back on, grabbed the bucket of staples and tools, and trudged back toward the four-wheeler. The cows were starting to gather up around the cattle guard, mooing plaintively. She knew it was a long shot, but she fiercely hoped the tractor would start despite the cold. If not, she knew she’d be out way past dark finishing up chores.

I’m getting too damn old for this, she grumbled internally as she revved the ATV and bounced across the frozen pasture, a tally of the next day’s work already forming in her mind. …………… “You really need to hire somebody, girl.” Donna handed Jody the corkscrew as she dug into the dishwasher for wine glasses. “You’re going kill yourself trying to run everything on your own.”

Popping the cork, Jody filled the glasses with Pinot Noir, handing one back to Donna. “I’ve been running it by myself since Bobby died. The only thing that’s changed is I’m getting older.”

Donna took a long sip of wine before biting into a chocolate chip cookie. “Yeah, well, everything else is getting older, too. You’ve spent half your time just trying to keep that old farm house from falling down around your ears!” She flicked crumbs off of her chest as they moved into the living room.

A fire was lit in the stove, and between the warmth and the wine, Jody could feel her defenses relaxing. She plopped into a recliner and pulled a brightly colored quilt over her lap. Donna’s dog Jude got up from the rug in front of the stove and climbed into her lap. Scratching Jude behind the ears, Jody sighed heavily. “Okay, fine. Let’s say I do need to hire someone.” She paused, ruminating. “I can’t pay much of anything, and I don’t have time to train them how to run a tractor or do anything else farm-related.”

Stretching her legs out on the couch, Donna nodded. “That knocks out teenagers and anyone from the city.” She took another drink of wine, her brow furrowed. “Maybe someone retired? I think Marlene was wanting to get Rufus out of the house. And Ellen was saying she was going stir-crazy being cooped up with Jo over the holiday break. Surely one of them could help?”

Jody shook her head as she talked around a mouthful of cookie. “Couldn’t pay either one of them enough. Besides, Ellen’s got the bar now, and Rufus just had his shoulder replaced.”

Rolling her eyes, Donna got up from the couch and went into the kitchen, returning with the bottle of wine and the plate of cookies. “You’re just too damn stubborn.” She topped off Jody’s glass and emptied the rest of the bottle into her own.

Jude’s head shot up when the backdoor banged open. “We’re home!”

A tall, handsomely scruffy man trundled in with a toddler asleep on his shoulder and another trying desperately to push past him.

“C'mon, Dad! I’m freezing!” the boy whined as he ducked under Dean’s arm and dashed into the living room. He launched himself at Donna, giggling as she blew a raspberry on his neck.

“Boots off the couch, Jax,” Dean admonished quietly as he shifted the sleeping Ben in order to kick off his boots. The wiry preschooler grumbled under his breath as he stomped back to the door to take off his winter gear. Dean arched an eyebrow, giving Donna a knowing look. She tightened her lips in an effort to suppress a grin. Rolling his eyes, Dean padded across the living room and shooed Jax ahead of him. They disappeared down the hall, Jax trying to wheedle a later bedtime out of his dad, and Dean barely holding back his laughter as his eldest son continued to come up with excuses. Donna watched them go before turning back to Jody.

“His brother’s back in town,” she whispered, keeping an eye on the boys’ bedroom door. “Got laid off at Boeing. Dean didn’t even know he was in the area until Garth told him.” Donna glanced back down the hallway, taking another swallow of wine. “Sam - he hasn’t been in a good place in a while. Ever since Jess left…” She looked back over her shoulder and beamed. “Hey, toots.”

Dean returned, dressed in a t-shirt and joggers, and dropped onto the couch next to Donna. He snagged the glass from her hand and finished off what little that remained. “Hey yourself. Need a refill?” He gave her a cocky grin, barely dodging a pillow as he pushed off the couch and shuffled into the kitchen for another bottle.

“Something a little sweeter, please!” she called after him before reaching for another cookie.

Jody watched her friends as they teased one another, a pang of emptiness sharp in her chest. Bobby had been gone for almost six years, but she still missed him. Memories of the way his eyes twinkled when he smiled, how warm and comfortable and engulfing his hugs were, the scratchy roughness of his beard on her neck… It was too much to bare. Attempting to hide the tears that were welling up in her eyes, Jody buried her face in Jude’s dense fur, hoping Donna wouldn’t notice.

Luckily, Donna was a little too good at drinking wine, and also too distracted with finding someone to work for Jody. “Hey hey hey, wait. That’s it!” she exclaimed, taking the newly filled glass from Dean and curling up against him when he sat down again.

“What’s it?” Dean quirked an eyebrow, glancing between the two women.

Donna slapped him playfully on the chest, sloshing a little bit of moscato on the blanket. “Sam! If he hasn’t found anything yet, that is.”

Dean’s face turned dark for a moment as he gulped his drink. “What exactly are we talking about?”

Shifting Jude back to her lap, Jody explained, “Donna thinks I need a hand on the farm. Which I do, I guess. I can’t quite keep up with everything like I use to.”

Shaking his head, Dean set his mug down on the coffee table and leaned forward, causing Donna to slip sideways behind him. “Listen, Sam… he’s a good kid. S'been rough since Jess left. He’s - he’s probably not the most reliable at the moment.”

Donna had pulled herself up out of the cushions and was squeezing his shoulder. “Maybe working out there would help him clear his mind.”

Snorting derisively, Dean leaned back into the couch, propping his feet on the coffee table. “He’s broken, babe. Ain’t nothing going to clear his head until he pulls it out of his ass.”

Looking up at the clock above the wood stove, Jody stretched and gently dislodged the sleeping pooch. “Listen, you guys talk it over.” She stood, ambling over to the pile of boots by the door, finding her own. “If you think he’s a good fit, you’ve got my number. I gotta get going; Charlie said she be in early to take steers to the sale barn.”

Donna got up and tripped over to Jody, giving her a big drunken hug. “I’ll call you tomorrow, love.” She pulled back, a goofy grin spread across her face.

Dean appeared beside her, looping an arm around Donna’s shoulder. “C'mon, you lush. Let Jody get going.”

Smiling, Jody bid farewell, and crunched across the frozen ground toward her rusted truck. It was always fun getting together with her old high school bestie, but sometimes Jody wished Donna wasn’t so persuasive. Shaking her head in defeat, Jody turned her high beams onto the deserted blacktop, taking her time to wend her way home. ……………… Three days had passed without seeing hide nor hair of Donna, but Jody wasn’t worried. Her friend was good at making drunken promises that wouldn’t come to fruition right away. She expected probably in the next month or so Donna would finally remember and send Sam out to work.

She mulled the pros and cons of hiring help as she climbed the windmill tower to tighten the brake. She was so caught up in her own thoughts that she didn’t hear the large diesel dually pull up underneath her perch. It wasn’t until the tall, muscular driver slammed the door that she looked down. Waving, the stranger shoved his hands into the pockets of his Carhartt, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears to keep the biting wind at bay. Intrigued, Jody began her descent, carefully choosing her foot- and handholds on the slippery steel. She was still six feet off the ground when her boot hit a particularly icy rung, sending her feet out from under her.

“Watch it!” a deep voice growled as strong arms impeded her fall.

Surprised, Jody gaped up at the giant of a man holding her awkwardly in midair. The stranger blushed, setting her down on her feet. “Umm, thanks,” she murmured, straightening her ratted hoodie over her frayed overalls. “That could have ended badly.”

Nodding, the man stuck out an ungloved hand. “Good thing I was here then.” He beamed mischievously. “I’m Sam Winchester, Dean’s brother. He said you had some work that needed done?”

Eying him for a moment, Jody accepted his handshake. “Yeah, shit’s breaking faster than I can fix it.” She paused, wondering what the hell Donna was getting her into. “Do you know how to run a tractor?”

Sam’s eyes lit up, and his smile widened. “Lady, I was born on a tractor.”

“Good.” She smirked back at him as she motioned toward the house. “We just shipped steers off to the sale barn, so the herd’s a little smaller. Won’t need as much hay to put out.” She began walking toward the four wheeler, picking up supplies as she went. “You wanna follow me, I’ll show you where everything’s at.”

“Alright.” Sam headed back for his truck - and damn, was that a nice truck - waiting patiently for Jody to get ahead of him. …………………… The wintery months came and went like a screaming banshee, with little to no break from the howling winds and freezing temperatures. Already halfway through March, calves were starting to hit the ground, and Jody was thanking her lucky stars for giving her help like Sam.

Both Donna and Dean were utterly surprised that Sam had even stuck around past December.

Of course, they couldn’t know the real reason he had stuck around for so long. Jody knew all the shit she’d get from her friends if they found out she and Sam were sharing a bunk.

She had a good thing going, and she wanted to keep it that way for as long as she could without any outside input.

The work and the weather were good for driving any thought other than the task at hand completely from his mind. They were getting on good, and Jody could even feel a connection forming between the two of them, something she hadn’t felt since Bobby.

It was well past lunchtime when they finished with the grinding. A heavy cloud of dust and hay floated lazily around the tractors as Jody shut down the bale processor and climbed into the cab to kill the ancient Case. She signaled for Sam to head up to the house while she finished checking over the equipment. Satisfied, she followed him up the drive on foot. As he pulled around the back of the machine shed, Jody kicked off her boots in the pump house and headed into the main house to make them some lunch. she hadn’t even gotten out of her coveralls when a knock came at the door.

“Hey, Cas. What can I do for you?” Jody greeted the Deputy Sheriff, inviting him into the spotless mud room.

Castiel removed his sunglasses, smiling at Jody as he dragged his shoes along the boot scraper before entering. “Afternoon, Jody. Just getting in?” he asked, noting her halfway unzipped winter gear.

Looking down quickly, Jody shrugged. “Storm’s suppose to be in later this evening. Thought we’d better get shit down before it got here.” She led him into the kitchen, pulling out luncheon meat and cheeses from the fridge. “Sandwich?”

Shaking his head, Castiel drew out a barstool, taking a seat across from Jody’s busywork. “I heard you hired on Dean Winchester’s little brother.” It wasn’t a question.

Slowly, Jody spread mustard on a slice of bread, choosing her words carefully. “I needed the help. I’m not as young as I use to be, Cas.”

Humming knowingly, Cas shifted slightly on the stool, fidgeting with his sunglasses. “I know, Jode. It’s just… We got a warrant in. For Sam.” Castiel watched Jody like a hawk as she stacked meat onto half of the sandwich. “He’s a fugitive, Jody. I need to take him in.”

Ignoring Castiel, Jody finished making her meal and pulled a plate from a cabinet. She placed the sandwich squarely in the middle of the chipped dinnerware, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and joined her old partner at the bar. “I don’t care what he did, Cas. I can’t just let you come in here saying you need to arrest him.”

Sitting silently for a moment, Cas pushed back the stool and placed the sunglasses on top of his head. “Listen, the Sheriff’s been gunning for Sam for a long time now. A personal vendetta, I reckon.” He turned back around to face Jody, his eyes pleading with her. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Keep safe, Jody.” He walked out the door, pulling it shut behind him.

Jody stared at the space Cas had occupied for a moment, the cogs turning violently in her head. She had known that Sam had been in and out of trouble since his wife had run off on him, but she didn’t know that he was putting himself in jeopardy of going back to jail.

Finishing her sandwich, Jody threw a couple more together for Sam and headed back out, making a beeline for the machine shed. If she knew anything, it was that she didn’t need this shit, not when she had finally gotten her life back together after Bobby’s passing. It scared her to death, but she knew she was going to have to confront Sam. And, no matter the outcome, she wouldn’t allow her feelings for the youngest Winchester to blur her judgement. ………………. Sam was squatting underneath the faded green Deere, cutting twine from around the front axel. “Be out in a minute!” he hollered, a ball of shredded red twine flying out from behind the tire.

Jody picked up the wad and tossed it into the bucket near the wall. She laid the paper bag full of sandwiches on the oily workbench and fished the cold beer from the pocket of her coveralls. Leaning up against the large back tire of the tractor, Jody waited patiently for Sam to come out. She didn’t have to wait long.

“Hey, you.” Sam’s eyes twinkled as he straightened up and strode over to her. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her to him, kissing her forehead gently. “What did you bring?” He pulled back, a smile still spread across his face. Seeing the troubled furrow on her brow, Sam faltered. “Everything okay?”

Sidestepping the tractor and Sam, Jody went back to the work bench, fiddling with the sack lunch she had brought out. “Cas stopped by…” she trailed off, swallowing back the sorrow and the anger welling up in her throat.

“What did he want?” His voice was shot with steel, eyes hardening as he approached her.

“You didn’t tell me you were on the run.” The tension was almost palpable; she couldn’t control the hurt in her voice any longer.

Cursing, Sam slammed a fist into the workbench, startling a mouse from behind a toolbox. He watched as the little varmint scampered through the gap between the door and the frame. “What did you tell him?”

Numbly, Jody laid out the sandwiches, cracking open the beer with the stationary bottle opener screwed into the side of the table. “I told him to leave,” she said simply.

Exhaling sharply, Sam hung his head, scrubbing at the back of his neck with a greasy hand. “Listen, Jody-”

“No, you listen. I took you in,” she snapped, drawing herself up to her full height. “I’ve risked everything having you here. Hell, I even invited you into my bed, Sam! The least you could do was tell me you had a warrant.”

Shame faced, Sam leaned back onto the bench, eyes glued to a spot on the floor in front of him. “I-I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Jody. I thought I’d be safe here for a little while, that the whole thing would blow over.” He gazed back up at her, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. “I don’t want to cause you any trouble. I’ll finish up chores before I go.”

Jody stared at him, stunned. “Go?” she repeated, her voice small and weak in her ears. “That’s not what I’m saying, Sam-”

Sam shook his head. “No, it’s better if I leave. They can’t do anything to you if I’m not here.”

“But Sam…”

“No buts.” He finished off the last of his beer, folding the paper bag neatly into a smaller rectangle. “I need to finish up feeding the bulls.” Avoiding her eyes, he walked toward the wicket gate, pausing before he opened it. “I won’t forget what you’ve done for me.” With that, he exited, leaving only the bitter March wind in his place.

“I love you, Sam Winchester,” she muttered, pulling the door closed behind her as she watched him unhook the Case from the processor. In her heart, she knew he had to leave, but she didn’t like it. Maybe one day he’d be able to stop running.

And just maybe she’d be there, waiting for him.