#but the dead waters has been p decent

[baekuras]

Update on Acheron: There still hasn't been a good sphere drop so we are keeping her on the +9spd physical dmg one

So...Atk Boots:

vs SPD Boots

[undermine-the-instinct]

Title: There Is No Better

Synopsis: Senjurou is a rengoku, and he has to deal with the consequences of that. That doesn't mean he has to do it alone though.

Pt 1 is here folks

Warnings: Toxic parent relationship, one instance of physical parental abuse, self loathing thoughts, angst.

Notes: Not beta-read. Senjurou centric but reader is pregnant (wife to the late Kyojurou!). Senjurou calls reader Ane-ue, which is a respectful term for an older sister. Japanese honorifics are used.

Wc: 6.5k (it's a long one folks)

Senjurou Rengoku could not be better.

He could hardly force himself out of bed in the mornings, content to lay in his brother's futon as if his scent hadn't long been gone. He's ashamed to say his Ane-ue has, more than once, had to coax him out and get the day started.

But after that he follows the motions of a schedule ingrained. He makes sure to take a decent portion of Ane-ue's chores too.

For instance, he's taken to taking Father's meals to his door, instead of Ane-ue, and weathers his father's indifference or annoyance with a grace so far removed it feels more oft like pity.

He doesn't interact with his father much beyond this. It has been years, even before Ane-ue, since he begged his father to take care of himself.

He draws water from the well, he helps prepare the food and tea, he cleans, he trains, he sweeps the grounds, he does everything he is supposed to.

Everything feels so dull and gray.

There are some spots of color. Mitsuri-chan and Obanai-san visit, bearing enough food to feed a battalion, odd combinations that Mitsuri-chan says pregnant women are sure to love.

Ane-ue laughs and says she could hardly eat it all, to which Mitsuri-chan tells her she is now eating for two. Obanai-san urges more food on his plate, eyes soft and knowing.

Lord Tengen and his wives come over as well. His wives pat his hair and fix his collar and help with chores. They surround Ane-ue and coo over her belly and hug her when she cries. Lord Tengen affectionately rubs his shoulders, says he misses them too, so quietly he wonders if he imagines he spoke at all. They let him be sullen and brooding and silent, without trying to make him smile or laugh.

They understand that grief is a heavy weight not easily lifted.

Gyomei-san does not visit often, but they have tea and pray together when he does arrive. Sometimes he plays his flute, and sometimes he weeps with them. He has taught Senjurou how to make a whistle with a leaf, little songs to pass the time.

Shinobu-san is kind to, when they arrive for the weekly check ups she does for Ane-ue and the baby. She tells them they can visit whenever, stay for as long as they like. She gives them vitamins and daily exercises. She lets Senjurou cry on her shoulder and tells him she knows what losing an older sibling is like, the anger, the sorrow, the uselessness.

The uselessness.

Soft spined. Bystander. Weakling. Meek.

Just as you've always been.

Senjurou wishes all demons were dead already, so that it would be okay to live in the world with his kind of existence. So he could be meek, because his brother's legacy would be fulfilled, because there would be no demons to threaten his home.

Of course, he is a Rengoku. He knows how to wield a blade, and he knows he will defend his home if need be.

He just knows he won't be the first to do so.

He knows Ane-ue would draw her blade and be the first to defend her home, not keen on losing another, not ever again.

He knows that his father would drop his drunken stupor, and pick up the mantle as first defender to his home, because that is a mantle that he has never forgotten. Discarded, but never forgotten, like a book left in the corner to collect dust. Yellow paged and soft from old age and disuse, but there, a reminder.

Even the child in Ane-ue's womb would grow to hold a blade, to become a demon slayer and fight demons, to wear a flame patterned Haori just as his brother once did, just as his Ane-ue has done and will continue and will eventually pass down.

He can't do this. He is not built for this. He is candlelight, small and easily snuffed. He was not meant to burn a righteous tempest.

Days blend into one another, and he thinks. Or he doesn't think much at all, head so far gone in the clouds that he is hardly present. He stays by Ane-ue's side. Throughout the days, and throughout the nights.

Every week, once a week, Father leaves his room after dinner and lights the torch. He sets it up, bright and blazing, and he only leaves after Ane-ue has settled herself in front, eyes wide in the face of fire. Senjurou joins her, and he stalks off. After the allotted time is up, he returns to put out the flame. He sits with them in silence for a few moments, until Ane-ue's eyesight is no longer imprinted with flames, and they retire to bed.

Tonight, he sits by Ane-ue's side as she stares into a blazing torch, a hand on her growing belly. He counts. She blinks once every two minutes.

"You don't have to stay here. I know you're probably tired. Go to sleep, I'll be there shortly." But Senjurou just shakes his head.

"I will wait. I don't want to go to sleep alone." And that's how it is. They stare at the flame for the appropriate time, and Father takes it out and they go to bed, he and Ane-ue always Ani-ue's futon.

When the sun rises, there is a dread, sitting in his belly as always. Another day begins.

Senjurou has made his choice. He has not said it out loud or hardly put it together in his head, lest he be crushed under the weight of shame. But he knows Ane-ue knows. She knows when he does only the basics of their training, to keep his body flexible and in shape. How he could hardly stand to hold his bokken.

She knows and she says nothing. She only smiles at him each time, accepting and gentle. He wants to cry but he's gotten better at holding his tears back, at ignoring the bubbling tide.

It swells and he turns away.

He is sweeping the front of his house when a young man in a green and black checkered haori approaches his front step. He is holding his ribs and there is a wicked looking scar on his forehead, and a box strapped to his back.

His name is Tanjiro Kamado, and he asks him if he knows of his brother's passing.

Of course I know, he muses. It's the single most devastating thing that has ever happened to me.

Still, he knows his manners, and when the boy says that he is here on behalf of his brother, that he has come to deliver his final words, his heart jumps and he wants to drag the boy inside, shake him till the words fall out, scoop them out and hold them close to his chest, propriety be damned.

Ane-ue would kill him if he doesn't offer him some tea, at least.

"And what would that worthless fool have to say?"

Shinjuro Rengoku steps out, and Senjuro feels all his muscles tense.

"He had no talent. He was a worthless swordsman, and thus, his words are worthless too."

Kamado looks pale, his face is pasty and sheening with sweat, and his worry alternates between him and his father.

His father leans against the doors, and takes a swig from his jug.

"A person's talent is decided the day they are born. Either you're part of the blessed or you're just another piece of trash."

He shrugs.

"Kyojurou thought he was blessed when he was just another ordinary, useless fool. He kept reaching when I told him over and over again not to. So why wouldn't he end up dead?"

"Hold on! That's way too far. Please do not talk about him like that!"

Father doesn't even look at Kamado, but raises a brow.

"And who are you?"

"I am…with the Demon slayer corps!" Father makes a soundless 'ah' and nods.

"Another one of the masses."

"My name is Tanjiro Kamado! I've come to–"

"Deliver Kyojurou's last words, I heard you the first time. I recognize you."

"You do?" Father is bedraggled, and his face is covered in stubble, but his voice is the dead calm Senjurou fears before he explodes.

"Tanjiro Kamado and his demon sister. I've heard. I've also heard she's placid, but yet I still wonder why she hasn't been killed. A demon is a demon, and if you lack the spine just let some other bloke do the job then." Kamado jerks forward, and Senjurou is caught in the middle.

"Father, they are guests, so please–"

"Guests? Have you lost your–" he looks up, and his sentence is cut off, mouth hanging slightly open. The jug falls and shatters sour sweet on the ground.

"Those earrings…! I see what it is! Have you come to mock us, boy?"

"Father, what?" What?

"Those earrings, that hair and scar….You're a user of Sunbreathing aren't you? Did you come here to gloat?!"

"What are you talking about? Sunbreathing? Gloating? That's not what I came here for. Please listen–"

But Father rushed forward and with a quickness he hadn't used in years, pins Kamado down.

"Father please, stop this madness! Can't you see he's not well?!" Senjurou rushes, and grabs his arm, because he's scared of his Father but he can't let this continue, and he is promptly smacked away. There is a harsh sting to his nose, and he feels the wetness drip down. His eyes heat.

Father looks at him and scoffs.

"The tears, always with the tears. I told you I didn't want to see any more pathetic sniveling after the funeral, didn't I Senjurou?!"

"That's enough!" Kamado breaks out the hold (very impressive), and he doesn't look so pale with the red flush of anger across his face.

"Talking so ill about your first, striking your other son, do you not have a heart?"

"Don't get cocky boy!" Kamado helps him up while he tries to stem the flow.

"Your hair, your earrings, that scar. I read all about it in the book. The Sun breathing technique is the original, all other forms just mimic it! Cheap imitations!

"But I don't care if you can use sunbreathing, I don't care about whatever mission led you to my steps. My son was a worthless swordsman and a worthless slayer to put his faith in you and your sister. I won't make the same mistake he did." Father snarls, and Senjurou thinks of embers and dragon breath.

"What arrogance you have to show face here."

"Arrogance?" Kamado's eyes are wide and he steps forward. He trembles.

"What arrogance? I am desperate! I am racked with guilt and anger and sorrow because I could not save your son. I am ruined! I am Devastated! Can't you see how devastated I am?!" He looks close to pulling his hair out and his voice shakes. Senjurou trembles in turn.

"You're just…a miserable old man!" Senjurou isn't given to expletives but holy fuck this man is rushing towards his Father with his fists raised and that is not a good idea.

"Wait, my father is a former Hashira!" Father reaches, grabs him under the arm and raises his own fist–

The next moments happen almost in slow motion.

The shoji doors slam open, and a blur races. Ane-ue raises her hand, and she slaps Father so hard, his body tilts to the opposite side, and the subsequent crack! makes him cringe. And in the same move he used on Kamado, she pins Father to the ground.

"What former hashira? I would be the current Flame Hashira if I weren't pregnant!!"

Oh, Gods and Heavens above.

Father has enough sense to not resist or try to buck Ane-ue off, but Senjurou is having a heart attack, he and Kamado are frantic, urging her to get off.

She scoffs and does so, but she picks Father up the scruff of his neck and shakes him a little, like a puppy.

"This boy is barely older than Senjurou and you're trying to fight him like he's a grown man? What is wrong with you?"

"Okay, okay, I got it woman now get your hands off of me! Aren't you supposed to be resting, or something?"

"Aren't you supposed to be sober?" He shakes off Ane-ue's hold, and spends a good minute glaring at the Kamado boy, before Ane-ue smacks him upside the head.

"Get out of here already! I don't know what kind of funk you're in, but go walk it off. Shoo, shoo!" And she shoves him past the front gate, and when she returns, she is smiling a bit sheepishly and dusting her hands.

"I am so sorry for the commotion. Please, would you like to come inside for some tea?" Of course, Tanjiro Kamado accepts, and he is led inside the Rengoku family home.

"So those were the last words…my brother left behind." He stares down into his cup, half full. He can see Ane-ue, a few tears slipping silently down her cheeks. She wipes them away.

"He was valiant until the end. Thank you so very much." They both knelt, and Kamado quickly rushes to bow as well.

"No, no! Forgive me for coming short."

They rise, and his sister's eyes fall upon the box that Kamado set to his side. It moves, a small shuffle heard inside. Senjurou watches but Ane-ue smiles.

"We're a bit further inside, so I'm sure it would be alright to let your sister out of her box. I'm sure it's uncomfortable being cooped up inside all the time."

Kamado waved his hands, a polite smile on his face.

"Oh, we wouldn't want to impose."

She tilts her head.

"You're not imposing, I'm asking. In fact, I insist."

"We wouldn't want to unsettle you while you're in such a fragile state–"

With a creak, the box fell open. And with a tumble, Kamado Nezuko flops out, slowly growing to the size of an average girl. It is unnerving, it is unnatural, but Senjurou trusts his sister's judgment holds firm, months later. Still, his skin crawls.

Her flower pink eyes rove across the room, until she scoots towards her brother, who pats her. Kamado chuckles nervously.

"Well, there you have it. Welcome to the Rengoku estate, Nezuko-chan. You're the first demon we've ever had a guest." The demon girl blinks up at his Ane-ue, and Ane-ue smiles.

Nezuko sits up, and shuffles forward, her eyes fixed on his sister with soft focus. Ane-ue, despite her words, stiffens. He recognizes from the flare of her nostrils, flame breathing. He knows she hides a tantō in the folds of her clothing.

But Nezuko just rests her hands on her swelling belly. And after a moment, she smiles behind the gag. Ane-ue breathes, and strokes her hair. Ash and embers. Ash and embers. Senjurou shakes off the sparks.

"Thank you, anyways. You've taken a load off our minds. Father is always badmouthing my brother…I could never do anything. Thank you for coming all this way."

"It's all I could do, as his charge."

"Is that right?" Ane-ue asks.

"Yes! He accepted my comrades and I as his disciples on the train before we fought against the first demon. Though it was a mere few hours, he taught me plenty, and I'm sure he would have taught me well had he…survived." The mood falls back down, but it's a weight Senjurou is familiar with. He urges Kamado to pick up his cup.

"I also came here…because Rengoku-san said I might find an answer here, about my Hinokami Kagura, and Sun breathing."

"My Father said something of the sort, when you first arrived. Sun breathing. The first breath technique. I'm afraid I don't know much about it." They turn to Ane-ue, who purses her lips.

"Neither do I. Kyojurou never mentioned anything of the sort to me either. But if Rengoku-san spoke of it, he must know something."

"Rengoku-san said the answers might be found in the Flame Hashira chronicles."

"It might, Kyojurou only had the chance to read them briefly. He keeps them in the room but with your father gone…" A light flashed in her eyes, and she hurried Nezuko off her lap with a soft apology, shooting to her feet.

"Please, stay right here, I'll go get them." A breeze pushed their hair back as she flew out the room.

Senjurou looks at Kamado, who looks at him, and they smile awkwardly. Kamado beckons his sister, but she stays in place, looking at him. It is hard for Senjurou to feel relaxed with a demon mere feet away, staring sunset pink into his face, but he tries not to fidget.

Luckily the moment doesn't last that long because Ane-ue flies back in, an old book in her hands. She shakes her head as she shuts the shoji doors, stray hairs stirring in the wind.

"Ha, new record. You wouldn't believe the mess in there. I cleaned it three days ago, he ruined it in that little amount of time?" She shakes her head again and hands the book gingerly to Kamado.

"Is what you want to find in here?"

All three of them gasp as he opens the book. The cover was intact, and the book was soft from old age. But the book, it was destroyed; the pages were torn and ruined, hardly eligible.

"How…?"

"Was it like this from the start?"

"No, the Flame Hashira Chronicles are stored very carefully. I believe it was my Father who tore those pages. I'm so sorry." Senjurou is mortified. All that history, all that knowledge, just destroyed?

But, isn't he doing the same thing?

"Are there any copies? Or anything you can tell me?" Kamado turns his gaze to Ane-ue, whose face falls.

"I wasn't born into the Rengoku household. If I had become a Flame Hashira then perhaps I could've… I'm so sorry. You came all this way only to learn nothing useful." She hangs her head.

But Kamado shakes his head, his red brown trusses.

"It's alright, please do not worry. I'm going to train harder, that's what I need to do.

"I know how to perform the dance, but I have not yet mastered the Hinokami Kagura. I physically cannot keep up with it. I can't will my body to move the way I want it to. That's my fault, my low stamina is to blame. That's what I need to work on."

Ane-ue's eyes sparked back to life, and she stood on her feet in a flash. Even in her precocious state, her breath still sparked with flames.

"Maybe we can't help you with your dance, or sunbreathing, but we can help with your training. Kyojurou often made training logs, what he could improve on, increasing strength or stamina or speed. I'm sure that could help you too! Let me go look for it!" And she rushed out the room before anyone could say anything.

Senjurou blinks back his shock, and turns back to the Kamado siblings. He feels the awkwardness start to seep back in. He doesn't really speak to people near his age often enough.

Nezuko is (still) looking at him, head now in her brother's lap. The bamboo gag in her mouth bobbed, as if she were trying to say something, but she just leans into her brother's hand.

"Thank you, for all your help and kindness so far." Senjurou looks at the young man, his eyes kind and grateful.

"It is no problem, it is the least we can do." He shakes his head.

"I want- I need to get stronger quickly, so I can protect more people. I can't, the way I am now. If I had been stronger that day, to just…snap my fingers and be powerful enough in an instant to save Rengoku…"

Me too, he thinks, me too.

"But there is no such method. All I can do is struggle. No matter how grueling or frustrating it is, it's all I can do. I have to move forward. I'm not just fighting for my sake." He looked to his sister, content under his hand.

"I know the consequences of failure. I can't suffer from them again. I can't." Senjurou feels the tears falling down his face. Only it didn't feel like a tide, pulling him under. More like the ocean, lapping at him in soft waves.

"My nichirin sword never changed color. Nichirin swords only change after you've acquired a set amount of skills, but mine never did. No matter how hard I trained, it just never did. And I suppose its because…. I never had the will or drive. So I took that as proof of my inherent failure, as a Rengoku. I've always been too meek, too soft and non confrontational. A failure in my father's eyes."

"...I don't regret trying to headbutt him. No, I regret not headbutting him."

That startled a laugh out of him, it was so sudden.

"What would that have accomplished?"

"That would have made everyone feel better."

"Not my father." Kamado shrugs.

"He deserves it." He laughed again, but it had a bitter tinge.

"Well, normally, I would have trained under my brother and become his Tsuguko, a Hashira in reserve. Ane-ue has taken that position, though she's had to take leave for her pregnancy. And I…"

Red eyes flash in his memory. He sighs, weary. He is so tired.

"I'm going to forget about being a swordsman, and try to be useful to others in some other way. Since Ane-ue is not blood related, the Flame Hashira line will be broken, and our long history will no doubt be damaged. But I'm sure that my brother…will forgive me."

His voice cracks. He could perfectly envision it; the warm sturdy presence of his brother, and when he turns to look, a smile. Benevolent and kind. That would be his response, no doubt.

His heart breaks a little.

He feels a hand to his head, and startles up, blinking into pearl pink eyes. Nezuko strokes his head, once, twice, before patting his cheek with a warm palm, careful with her nails.

He didn't think a demon's hands would be this soft.

"Do what you feel is right." Tanjiro Kamado has a gleam in his eyes as he takes in the two of them, something warm and sorrowful, like nostalgia.

He smiled. "If anyone tries to badmouth you, I'll headbutt them!"

"And I'll punch them!" Ane-ue burst through the shoji doors, and the boys jump. Senjurou has to reach out to steady the table. Nezuko is the only one nonplussed, patting his back as if in comfort.

"Sorry, that took so long. But here! I'm sure these would help you." Three journals she handed to Tanjiro-kun, and he quickly flipped through them, smiling up at her in gratitude.

"Yes, yes, this will surely help. Thank you so much!!"

"It's the least we can do. And Senjurou?" He knows that tone. He looks up at his sister, but her gaze is more kind than stern. She cut no corners.

"Why did you never tell me you felt this way?"

Senjurou wants to look away, but he doesn't dare.

"....Because you would have denied it, and I don't deserve it."

Her eyes burn.

"'Don't deserve it'? Senjurou–"

"But it's true, is it not?" He's not one to cut off his Ane-ue, but he feels like he is suddenly being swept up into a frenzy.

"I've been training, but my sword has never changed color. I don't have as much stamina or speed or strength as any other slayer. I don't have any other qualities I can turn into strengths, like Mitsuri-chan, to make up for my shortcomings. Even with my brother gone…I can't even turn that into a strength. I'm weak."

He thinks of flower pink eyes and calloused hands, and the work that they do, the tragedy that went into both. He has callouses on his hands too, but not like those. Not like those.

She hums.

"There are those that live up to expectations, like your father before, and surpass them, like Kyojurou. There are slayers that take their pain and use it to fuel their strength. Like Lady Shinobu, Or Sanemi-San, or dozens of other slayers. Or, they use their love, like Mitsuri-chan, Oyakata-sama. But one of the things that we all have in common, besides our despair over the world, is love for it." Her eyes don't stray.

"And love for the people in it. Both the ones still here and the ones that have passed." She moves to sit and Senjurou helps her settle down smoothly. She grabs his hands and squeezes.

"The Demon Slayer Corps is a movement that spans generations, we are driven by hope and love, and passion. And all our anger, and all our sorrow. All those centuries worth of emotions is what inspires and guides us."

She moves her gaze, and Senjurou finds the Kamado siblings at the end of it.

"But the problem with a movement that lasts generations, is that the trauma also lasts generations. More people are hurt. Some people are just born tired. Angry. They give themselves over to any cause that accepts them, and that's how they fall through the cracks. They're taken from their homes and families. Children become fodder, or demons, or slayers.

"A movement that lasts generations means the hurt is allowed to spread for generations. And as a Slayer, it is my duty and honor to fight against this sickness. Sometimes, the only way to get rid of the sickness is to burn it with fire. And some people throw themselves into that fire. If it keeps the flames burning, so be it. If it keeps the sickness from spreading, as it should. If I'm the last, then let it be. Just like Kyojurou. Just like me, when the time should ever arise. Its not a matter of if, Senjurou, its when."

Ane-ue sighs, and she suddenly looks so tired. It's not the dark circles under eyes, or the slight stray hairs, or the frown on her face. Her face is smooth, the crows feet at the corner of her eyes fading from the absence of laughter. The calluses on her hands are starting to fade. She is still so young.

Her voice croaks as she speaks. She clears her throat.

"But what is left over after the hurt? After the world has been burnt and salted? Who's going to rebuild the towns and houses and roads? Patch all the wounds? Who's going to stitch the clothing, or cook breakfast in the morning?" Senjurou doesn't know he is weeping until she smiles at him and it's blurrier than usual, and he would feel embarrassed if Tanjiro-kun wasn't weeping with him.

"And some people are born soft. And that's a good thing. I think that's so good. I would hate for my baby to be born in a home where soft is a bad thing. Because if humans could harness the power of our anger and hatred, Demons would have been eradicated already. But all we have is our desperation and hope and love, and we have to prove that's enough" Her tears fall when she strokes her belly.

"That's why I have so much hope for you two. It's why Kyojurou and I chose to pick up the blade. To protect you, and all that is like you."

"But it's not supposed to be like that." He cries.

"I'm supposed to be a Rengoku. I'm supposed to be better. I have a legacy to uphold and I'm failing that. I'm just…" He chokes.

"Senjuru, there is no better. You are my brother and that brings me so much joy because you are you." She shuffles closer, and draws him to her side with an arm around his shoulders.

"I was supposed to be something else too. I was supposed to be so many things, things I thought I wanted and some I definitely didn't. But I'm glad I'm here now. I'm glad I married your brother. I'm glad I'm your sister and I'm glad I'm going to be a mother. I'm not glad so many things went wrong, but I'm happy with who I am, and where I ended up. I'm so happy you're here too. And I know Kyojurou would be happy with you as you are, and as you will be, whoever you choose to be. He wouldn't want you to berate yourself like this."

"He's gone now. I'm supposed to protect you. I'm supposed to take care of you." She huffed a laugh.

"I think he left us to care for each other, and that includes your Father too. I miss him too, Senjurou," and now her voice fully breaks.

"Every moment of every day and night. But the world has to go on, and we have to live with the hurt."

"I just feel so small." His face crumbles and she draws him tighter.

"And that's fine too. Not every night needs to be burned away with fire. Sometimes, we just need a candle to guide us through it. "

"Set your heart ablaze." Three heads turned to Tanjiro-kun, who was wiping his tears away unsuccessfully.

"That is what Rengoku-san told me. No matter how devastated you may be by your own weakness or uselessness, grit your teeth and look ahead, because the world isn't going to stop and wait for you.

"I keep those words in my heart and use it to strive forward. The world is always moving, and often cruel. But I think it's good also…to have love for it. For what good is there. So I will keep my kindness. I will keep my soft heart. Even if others say that it's my weakness, that it's useless. Which I don't understand because wouldn't you want someone to be kind to you, especially at your worst? Especially when your time comes?

"That's why, before I am a demon slayer, " he looks at his sister, his tears like raindrops.

"I'm an older brother. I'm the eldest son. And this is what my family has taught me. I will keep it."

"What does it say to all my predecessors if I chose to keep my 'softness', if it means forsaking my history?" Senjurou mumbles.

Tanjiro-kun shrugs.

"What does it say to the living if you don't? To your brother's memory? The world is full of cruel things. I've already seen too much of it. I want there to be soft places too." Tanjiro-kun smiles, fragile.

"I think you could be one of them. I think you should."

"Kyojurou would always speak so happily about returning home to you on every one of our joint missions," his sister mumbles into his hair.

"I think you already were, long before any of us knew."

"Ane-ue and I will restore the Flame Hashira Chronicles ourselves. I will also ask my Father, and send you word of anything through our crow."

The early sunset made his red brown hair shine like molten coals, his eyes as soft and kind as summer. Looking at him reminded Senjurou of an ocean horizon, shining and crested with golden froth.

"You are kind, Senjurou-kun. Thank you, and your sister, for your help and hospitality." He bowed. Senjurou laughed, a little scoff.

"I should be thanking you, for bringing my brother's last words to us. You were kind to defend me, and I am grateful. I'm...glad I got the chance to meet you, to talk to you. Please get home safely."

A nod, an adjustment of the box on his shoulders, and Tanjiro turned to leave. Senjurou gathered his courage.

"Wait, Tanjiro-kun. Here." His brother's nichirin sword guard lay in the cloth, polished to a shine.

Ane-ue pressed it into his hands with a watery smile, a knowing look shared between them, and pushed him towards Tanjiro-kun when it was time to leave.

Without the sword guard, Ani-ue's sword would need a new one, if it was ever going to see battle again. But Senjurou knew that Ane-ue would never have the heart to replace such an integral piece of his sword.

It would be laid to rest, finally.

"I…! Surely I can't accept something as valuable as this!"

He pressed it insistently into his hands, holding it before…letting go.

"I want you to take it with you. I'm sure it will protect you."

"...If I must. Thank you." He waved him off till he disappeared in the distance, and stood there against the red sky, breathing in, out. Finally, he stepped inside.

Father had already returned, thankfully without a fuss. The alcohol must have quelled his rage for the time being. Better now then never.

Kneeled in proper seiza. Hands in lap. Back straight. Voice neutral, to avoid any dispute.

"Our guest has already left, Father." The sweet sharp smell of sake must have sunk into the wood of the floor, because his father's room always smelt of it. He knew few people could tolerate the scent, and he once found it unbearable, but his nose grew accustomed. It was a mess just like his sister said.

"...Tanjiro Kamado. And his demon sister."

"Nezuko Kamado." His father's eyes cut to him, and he jolted, a little.

"A demon is a demon. It doesn't have a name. And you let it into our home?"

"...I trust that Ane-ue's and my brother's judgment still holds firm all this time later." He thinks of soft hands. Calloused hands. Both so kind.

His father scoffs, turns away again.

"Your sister's brain is muddled. Too many...events for her to handle. And what good are the words of a deadman when they go against everything he supposedly lived for? All those years struggling and despairing, becoming a hashira, killing countless demons. Now you make exceptions for one? Why, because it never killed a human?"

Hm. It's the first time Father really acknowledged his brother. It was odd. It left a sour tang in his mouth. His brother should have heard this, not him.

"I trust their judgment." He scoffed again, and rested his cheek against his hand. He sipped from the jug.

"Tanjiro-kun came to give us my brother's final words. He had some for you. They–"

"What do I care about that? It's probably just his gripes about me. I don't want to hear what I already know."

"But Father–"

"Don't make me repeat myself Senjurou." Senjurou pushes because he has to.

"But my brother's words–"

Father shoots up, shadowed by the sunset at his back. His eyes, rimmed red, keep Senjurou pinned, the words sitting on his tongue, heavy.

"....Get out of my room Senjurou." He doesn't look to see if he has. He just turns away, knowing that he will.

And he almost does. He's done it before. But if he ever was a Rengoku, if he was ever his brother's brother, he wouldn't leave his Father here.

"...'Take care of yourself, Father.'

"Those were the only words my brother left for you, Father. I'll be going now." There was no response as he shut the door, and he didn't linger to hear anything else. Let him have his moment of grief, reflection, whichever.

Ane-ue was serving dinner. She looks up and smiles, and he smiles back, taking the spoon from her. They eat in silence. And retire to bed in silence.

There are some spots of color. Giyuu-san visits, and he is so quiet that Senjurou can't help but see a man immobile in his awkwardness. A kind man, kind enough to spare a demon and give up his life for brother and sister, and his sister likes to tease him.

Sanemi-san never sends any letters, even after they've been encouraged to write to him. First out of courtesy, then acquaintanceship, then friendship. He sends boxes of mochi, tea, sweet fruit and toys for children. Senjurou doesn't know if the toys are for him or for the baby.

A few weeks after Tanjiro-kun visits he wakes up, next to his sister with an odd feeling. She is sleeping and he is pressed to her front and he feels it again, just under his ribs. His eyes widen.

The baby kicks his ribs again and again throughout the night, and he stays up to feel them. His eyes tear up a little, (from the pain, of course, they're strong, they are Rengoku after all), and he wonders what their name will be.

Tanjiro-kun writes too. He includes stories of a Zenitsu and Inosuke, or yellow boy and boar-head boy, as his brother had called them. He laughs so hard at these stories he cries, and he doesn't care if his Father hears and gets annoyed, because the first time he did that and every time he does it after his sister smiles like she just saw the sun again after a long winter. She asks him to read them to her and she laughs too, and then she jolts and holds her belly, a grin at her lips when they kick. (Senjurou seriously doesn't know how she can smile with getting her ribs kicked in from the inside. It hurt from the outside with him.)

Father…writes more often. He is more a brooding silent then a seething silent nowadays, and he doesn't glare as often. He is helping them restore the Flame Hashira chronicles. He helps Ane-ue or himself cook, or just does it himself sometimes. Supervised by Ane-ue of course, he hasn't cooked in years after all. He even ruffled Senjurou's hair one time, as they passed each other in the halls. He helps with the chores and goes out to get supplies for them. He helps Ane-ue put on her shoes on family walks, and Senjurou feels a little like a scab, tender and healing.

Every week, once a week, Father leaves his room after dinner and lights the torch. He sets it up, bright and blazing, and he stays. They talk, low under the crackling of fire. Senjurou wonders if this brings back memories for him, of a mother Senjuro hardly remembers.

Tonight, he sits by Ane-ue's side as she stares into a blazing torch, a hand on her growing belly. He counts. She blinks once every two minutes.

"It's so late. Why don't you two go to bed? I can take out the fire myself."

"...Ruka and Kyojurou would yell at me from beyond the grave if I left you here."

"If they aren't already. You nearly burnt the house down cooking dinner tonight."

Senjurou pops in.

"To be fair, he's hardly cooked in years. Only the food was burnt tonight, at least, and that's the best case scenario."

"....Stare at the flames so we can go to bed already." Senjurou smiles. He hasn't flinched in months.

There are still days he wakes up, cold and gray. Ane-ue still weeps when he or Father help her into her shoes when she can't bend down anymore.

But in the morning there is breakfast, and chores, and a letter waiting to be replied to. There is a lightness in his chest that feels like ocean froth, like wind in a whistle, grass growing out of stone, a warmed hearth, a new name being chosen. He has made his decision.

[viralarcadian]

hospital is kind of. eh

like w campton manor the bones of something decent was there but the execution kind of kills it

anyways. the deal of the movie is you have a father-son duo (a-hung and his unnamed Taoist priest dad) who hold "underworld" tours to allow ppl to see the ghosts of loved ones. they're holding this tour in a SUPER abandoned hospital that closed back in the 90s bc of a spat of suicides causing bad press, bc the clients had loved ones who died there:

and meng miao-ru, whose sister miao-ten was a nurse and one of those aforementioned suicides, and whose death she blames on ppl like xiao-lin making the lives of the staff hell by trying to sue them into oblivion

su xiao-lin, whose husband hong sheng died on the operating table during what was supposed to be minor heart surgery and whose death she blames on incompetent surgeons

a-hong's dad can only see ghosts as easily as he does bc hes basically at death's door w late stage cancer, and this becomes important only at the very end

so bad stuff happens. they accidentally attract the attention of an EXTREMELY aggressive ghost who is only ever referred to as "the demon"

the demon is cool. she's a ghost mom who can turn into smoke and possess ppl by flying into ppls mouths, esp if theyre like the dad and are just full to bursting w yin energy. she pushes around a wheel chair that has a department store dummy of a small child and i hate the dummy. i do not like the dummy. esp when the bad cgi gets put over its face

miao-ru dies p early on, following what she believes to be her sisters ghost out of a window. miao-ten continues to be important to the plot bc hey look, she was the nurse on staff when hong sheng went in for his surgery!

but way more importantly she was the nurse on staff for the demon's son

surprise! if you were paying attention at all during the opening credits and the bit at the beginning w the vloggers, you'll remember that the first suicide was of a mom setting herself and her sons body on fire, him having crashed and died after his own heart surgery

it's EXTREMELY obvious that's who the demon is, but none of the main characters seem to recognize her.

the demon possesses a-hong's dad, then unpossesses him after trying to kill a-hong and xiao-lin and so it can cut hom open w a scalpel a bit later, and the rest of the movie is spent trying to not get killed by her

a-hong almost gets his heart ripped out by the demon, but xiao-lin manages to dispell her for a bit. she still hasn't seen her husband's spirit yet, and after learning from the (now actually dying) priest about the whole "I can see them bc im almost dead myself" thing, goes to the operating room to slit her wrist. she finally gets to see him, but as they're having a tearful final reunion, she looks up and sees

herself, hanging from a noose

meanwhile a-hong hears someone coming in thru the front entrance and runs off to get help for his dad, and it's the vlogging crew from earlier, but he runs right thru the camera man's body

surprise number two! they've been dead the whole time and are trapped, corpse party-style, forced to repeat their own deaths until the end of time

again, the bones of something good are here imo, but the way it's told is kind of muddled. muddled in the way that leaves you unsatisfied

the way yin and yang energy were used to explain how seeing ghosts worked eithin the story was p interesting. when you're close to death you are full of yin energy, so in order for the clients to be able to see them w/o risk they have to immerse themselves in it. which translates to them climbing into and allowing themselves to be pushed into the drawers in the morgue and absorbing the residual yin energy of all the bodies that had passed thru there. there's also a moment where a-hong uses yin-infused water to find the demon by pouring it on the floor and following where it "flows" to (it can defy gravity and go up walls) bc yin water will always flow to the densest concentrations of yin energy. and to protect themselves the girls are given bottles of yang-infused water or "noon water" drawn at midday from zhushan zinan temple's well

so far as i can tell the movie made all of this up

[queennicoleinboots]

Corn Becomes An Ingredient In Alphabet Soup

(sequel to "Lake Erie Is Where We Got Alphabet Soup")

PP chuckled and sounded like a bubbling cauldron. "Corn? I'm sure we have a few cans somewhere! We make them with olive oil!"

A thin Italian woman with the most Plain Jane face you will ever see in your life walked on the deck and started singing in a screechy voice. "I can look for the corn," she said.

"Yes, please," X said with the typical irritation on her face that had existed since Cain and Abel existed.

"Okie dokie artichokie, hold on!" The thin Italian woman said.

"We have artichokes, Olive Oil! We need CORN!!!" PP shouted.

"Don't believe me, just rock! Don't believe me, just rock! Vegetables say Hallelujah! Artichokes say Hallelujah!" a brutish sailor man sang in a deep voice.

"Shaddap, Bruno!" PP shouted.

"Artichokes sound good," P said. She was formerly self-proclaimed "L."

"Artichokes and corn are a great mix, though," B said.

"What about hearts of palm?!" OO asked.

"Why didn't *I* think of that?! Find those and the canned corn!" X called to OO.

OO then went in the ship.

N barked.

"Really?" P asked. "You're a pain in the ass."

"How would you know?" N asked.

"I deal with your bullshit every day," P answered.

"Actually it's DOG shit!" N announced as his face appeared in the Heavens.

C, V, and Patches laughed. SpongeBear laughed his trademark laugh. J took another shit in the water. U cackled and shit the childish fish out of her large lavender ass that had sea moss attached to it in the water. She did not digest them, so they were embedded in her black goo poop.

"This has been a hell of a battle. Lots of bad teammates. At least Y is decent. Not great, but not ridiculous. I had more damage. What build did Yasuo go?" W asked as he drank his root beer on the shore.

Yasuo was a tornado ninja that was supposed to be a hurricane, but he instead became a dam.

Wild Rift was even a thing back in circa 30000 B.C.

N then yawned. "I wonder. Is OO Extra Virgin?" he asked.

A big uglyass light brown boxer then did a Scooby Doo laugh. He is an uglyass dog.

"Not for long," PP answered with his chuckle that sounded like alphabet soup boiling.

The ocean boiled. C, Scooby Doo, V, N, Patches, and W giggled.

W then waddled on the blond sand. "That’s hot! That's hot, Mama," he said.

C, Scooby Doo, V, N, W, and Patches giggled.

J squawked.

"I found the artichokes and hearts of palm, but no corn, unless you want creamed corn," OO said.

X and George Carlin shouted into the Heavens, "GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!" George Carlin still wore that banana yellow speedo.

Sandy Cheeks swam into the alphabet soup, climbed up the boat, and attacked OO.

OO screamed, "Help! Help!"

B and PP ran to her rescue. Sandy Cheeks then growled and hissed at them. She then became large. SpongeBear then showed up on the boat and ripped some of her fur off. She yelled, "SpongeBear!!!!" She charged everyone. B ran like a bitch while PP fed her spinach.

Sandy Cheeks screamed in a Southern accent, "I wanted CORN!" She then picked PP up and ate him.

"Whole golden kernel corn!" Wilma Parmello shouted.

X thought she was dead, but she guessed not. That didn't happen until 2018 when the postal United States Postal Services driver drove through Colonel America for America's house and ran her and some other bimbo over. 2018 was going to be the best year ever because that driver singlehandedly saved it from being total shit.

Then all kinds of fish in that ocean and all kinds of people and land mammals started singing, "Where where where the fuck? Where the fuck's the corn?"

B then walked up to OO. "So... since Sandy Cheeks ate PP, can we... ya know... be boyfriend and girlfriend?" he asked.

"No. You're a bitch," OO said plainly.

Sandy Cheeks chattered in squirrel language.

A dolphin chirped, and its chirp echoed.

A stupid narrator narrated in a stupid German accent in the tropical background of "You're a bitch. Where the fuck's the corn?" written in sea shells.

A duck who looked like Colonel America for America quacked the song, "Where the fuck's the corn?"

Daffy Duck joined in on the quacking.

"Maybe David Hasselhoff would have the corn," SpongeBear said before he laughed his diabolical laugh. X wanted to tie him on a sand dune and let him dry out.

An angry German swimsuit model identified as David Hasselhoff then screamed and drove a large pirate ship at 700 nautical miles an hour through the ocean and crashed it on a giant iceberg. The iceberg exploded, David Hasselhoff, and the ship exploded. A bunch of corn was created from the explosion.

SpongeBear laughed before a kernel of corn flew in his mouth and caused him to choke to death.

There the fuck's the corn.

End Credits: "IT'S CORN" by The Ocean Cornfish (the childish fish that U pooped out): https://youtube.com/shorts/UcjTjJrltQ8?si=D8DZ73_4xwwupLYv

[halfwayanywhere]

Hayduke Day 27: It has been difficult to gauge how many miles I’ll be able to hike each day on the Hayduke as the terrain (and the weather) have been all over the place. However, this section has been particularly cruisey with this being my second 30+ mi / 48+ km day in a row. And all those miles with just 1,765 ft / 538 m of elevation gain (i.e. basically flat). At the start of the day I pass Grosvenor Arch where I find a relatively clean privy (with a trash can!) and some Austrian tourists who give me water, snacks, and their contact information should I find myself in Innsbruck. Then, I follow a relatively well-traveled/maintained road where I could (but I don’t) hitch into town if I wanted to. Town (Tropic, Utah) is still probably two days away. The road leads me to Round Valley Draw where I encounter what I think might be one of the actually sketchier parts of the Hayduke. Before coming out here, I imagined that this entire trail would be day-long endurance events consisting of slot canyons, puzzling scrambles into/out of washes and canyons, and incredibly tricky navigational hurdles that would require time and patience to figure out. It has been a lot more chill than I imagined. However, the long drop into Round Valley Draw is certainly not straightforward and I can see why there’s an alternate should you not want to jump down into the slot. It’s a decently far way down and you wouldn’t want to simply jump from the top or fall. After working up the courage and committing myself by throwing my pack down, I stem my way down until I’m comfortable jumping the rest of the way. Round Valley Draw turns into Hackberry Canyon where I spend the afternoon walking through a stream filled with dead cows, dead bats, and a herd of Longhorn. I’m hit with an unexpected thunderstorm as I’m about to make camp and I make sure to camp far from the creek as I’m terrified of being swept away in a flash flood. The storm dies down as I finish making dinner but then picks up again in the middle of the night. Such fun. Day: Dog Flat to Hackberry Canyon Distance: 30.84 mi / 49.63 km Elevation gain: 1,765 ft / 538 m #hayduketrail #utahbackpacking

[erin-bo-berin]

ok so

I will give you a pregnant and nonpregnant option and you can choose bc you know which I will always choose but I know it's not for everyone 🤦‍♀️

your back is killing you and you're exhausted bc you haven't been sleeping well lately. (did you work a long shift at the hospital as a nurse or are you pregnant or both?) Steve's kind of worried about you bc you are very stubborn about accepting help and definitely pushing yourself too hard lately taking care of everyone else. so he does some research and figures out the best way to give you a back massage.

he knows he has to start subtle bc again you're so gd stubborn, so he starts by just rubbing your shoulder while you're sitting together. and when you admit it feels great/make the right noises he's like awesome bc guess what I know what you need and it's a deep tissue massage. he even impressively arranges pillows around to support your hips etc. and gets to work and you're like omg he's very good at this and he even bought special lotion with your favorite scent (just on a person note, can this not be lavender-scented, pls? lol I'm allergic and #selfish)

but's basically he's straddling you and touching very low on your back and maybe around your ears/neck and you're only human and eventually you get p turned on. and he's already back there so maybe reader's like um Steve that's great honey but I have a better idea while you're already back there. and Steve's like well this was supposed to be about relaxing you and reader's like IT STILL IS, GET TO WORK. *commence doggy*

and then reader's so fucked out it's the best night's sleep she's had in ages and Steve just spoons her, feeling very satisfied with himself.

eh?

❤️❤️ with love, flaming basketball ;)

FRICK. Love this idea!

Also I’ll make this one non pregnant but if you come up with more, I’ll make the next one with pregnancy!

Imagine that’s actually his plan all along is to fuck you lol would he every admit that though 😏

Let’s all pretend that the reader is Nancy in this gif and it’s totally not in the middle of the upside down lol

The Harrington Touch

Steve Harrington x Reader

Warning: Smut

How was it possible to feel three times as old as you truly were?

The answer? Back pain; it truly is no joke.

Here you were at barely 20, your back thrown out and trying not to grimace every time you moved—mainly for the sake of your boyfriend Steve, who’d been saying you were too stubborn for your own good to let him help you out. Maybe you were, but you hated to worry him; he already did so much for you and you never wanted to be a burden.

You had no idea how it happened—you must’ve pulled something at some point while working. Between your waitressing job that had you on your feet for several hours long periods and always on the move trying to keep a clean house for you and Steve, there was no telling what could’ve caused it. All you knew was that you’d woken one day last week with a dull throb in your lower back that had gotten slightly worse over the week.

You’d also slept horribly lately, due to it. With such a hectic schedule as your own, that just wasn’t acceptable. So not only were you dead on your feet at most times, your back was also tight and knotted. If only you could get rid of the pain then you might actually have a decent night’s sleep.

You could practically feel Steve’s worried gaze boring into you as you limped from the kitchen to the living room, finally finished cleaning up and ready to relax. He had two Tylenol and a glass of water already waiting for you on the table. You’d been so busy, you’d forgotten to taken the medication you promised Steve you’d take.

“You’re a life saver,” you groaned, sounding like an eighty year old as you sat on the couch.

His concern didn’t waver as he watched you swallow the pills, making sure you’d taken them.

“Babe, you’re doing too much. Pushing yourself can’t be good for your back. I wonder if it’s stress.”

“Steve, I’ll be okay. I just need a good night’s rest,” you yawned, laying back into his arms.

“You’ve been saying that for a week,” he pointed out gently.

“Well, I have yet to have a good night’s sleep,” you commented.

“Why don’t you let me help?” he asked gently, placing a kiss on your head.

“Help how?” you murmured, eyes growing heavy.

“I don’t know, let me do some of the cooking or cleaning, let me give you a massage, something.”

He frowned when you didn’t respond to him.

Peering down at you, his frown turned into a soft smile as he realized you’d fallen asleep. He scooped you up in his arms, carrying you to bed, all the while hoping that you’d be able to get some sleep.

Regardless if you liked it or not, tomorrow he was going to figure out ways to help you.

•

Steve didn’t do anything half-assed. When he was dedicated to something, he was dedicated to it.

After a little research, he learned a bit about massages for sore muscles. If he had to drag you by your feet to bed so he could rub you down, he was going to. He even bought your favorite lotion from downtown—vanilla honeysuckle. It smelled like a delicious, warmer version of the typical vanilla scent. It was your staple aroma and one he associated with you. After telling the sales clerk his plan to help you, she even threw in a massage oil in the matching scent then sent him off with a wink.

Now, if only he could get you to be less stubborn.

He knew exactly how to do that. All it took was a little distraction on your part. It came later on that week, when he walked out of the adjoining bathroom, already ready for bed even though it was only 7 pm. You were sitting stiffly on the end of the bed, watching some show on the TV you kept in your shared room. He padded over to you, clad in only pajamas bottoms, moving to sit behind you.

“Feeling any better?” he asked.

“Not really,” you grimaced.

He pouted, rubbing your shoulder comfortingly and you leaned back into his touch, not knowing until now just how much you might’ve needed his touch.

“Want me to rub your shoulders?” he asked, brows raised, both hands coming up to massage them gently.

His thumbs rubbed circles over the nape of your neck and you practically melted under his touch.

“Jeez, babe, you’ve got knots on top of knots,” he said, “Sure you don’t want to take up my offer to rub your back? I even got some of your favorite lotion and a body oil in the same scent.”

That made your ears perk.

“Vanilla honeysuckle?”

“Mhm. Only the best for my honeysuckle,” he grinned, leaning up to kiss your cheek.

“You’re so cheesy,” you groaned through a smile, “But I think I will take you up on the massage though, if you don’t mind.”

“Babe, I researched this days ago. I’m all prepared,” he pushed you gently so you were standing, “Strip while I set things up okay?”

Knowing he’d prepared beforehand didn’t surprise you in the least, that was just Steve. But that didn’t mean you weren’t touched at the gesture.

“I have to get naked for a back rub?” you laughed, pulling off your top.

“I mean, it’d be nice,” he smirked, a devious twinkle in his eyes, “But, you can leave your underwear on if you want.”

“Okay,” you nodded, watching as he arranged the pillows for you to lay on.

There was one for your head and arms to rest on, towards the head of the bed. There was also one towards the bottom—for you to rest your hips on, he claimed.

“Alright, go ahead and lay down sweetheart,” he said, motioning to the bed.

You were a bit chilled, the cold hair hitting your bare skin as you climbed onto the bed, on your stomach, bare breasts pressed against the sheets. You crossed your arms on top of the pillow, laying your head on top of them.

You heard Steve walking around for a moment before he climbed on the bed with you, straddling your back.

“This might be a bit cold at first,” he warned as you felt a very runny liquid hit your back.

“Shit,” you cursed, flinching, “That is cold.”

He chuckled.

“Sorry. I wanted to get some of the oil on your back before I started. It’ll help me from massaging too hard in tender places, at first.”

“Makes sense,” you said, with a nod.

Then he got to work. He said he’d start at your shoulders and neck again, then work his way down your back as he was still hesitant about hurting you. The smell of vanilla honeysuckle filled your nostrils, making you happy. It was such a calming scent to you as you didn’t care for lavender. It almost smelled like baking, but without being cloyingly sweet. It was a unique combination and you loved it.

His large hands gripped your shoulders firmly, rubbing them gently, thumbs coming back up to the nape of your neck, rubbing circles over the tension there. They moved outwards, rubbing around your neck and near your earlobes at a much gentler touch.

You sighed contentedly, feeling weeks, possibly months of stress leave your muscles. Maybe you should’ve given in to Steve days ago. As he worked, he told you what he was doing, showing off the knowledge he’d gained.

“So this is an effleurage stroke,” he said, hands gliding gently from the bottom of your back towards the top.

He’d yet really touched the lower, sore spot as he said he wanted you to relax before he worked the sore muscles.

“A what now?” you mumbled into your arms.

He chuckled, continuing his explanation.

“An effleurage stroke. It’s meant to help the soft muscle tissue and the hands should just glide across the body. I’m using it to help relax you. I don’t want you to be too tense when I get to the soreness.”

“Gotcha.”

“This,” he said, pausing his strokes, returning to your shoulders to demonstrate, “Is the petrissage stroke. It’s most common around the neck and shoulders, but it can be done anywhere. This will be helpful with your back if it’s not too painful for you. It involves squeezing and rolling the muscles between your hands, aiding in loosening muscle tension.”

“I’m impressed,” you smiled, propping your chin on your arms.

“Hey, I wanted you to enjoy it and I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said, concern laced in his voice.

“You aren’t,” you promised, “It feels amazing.”

“I’ve always been good with my hands,” he smirked.

“You’re lucky I’m in no position to smack you for that comment,” you huffed, laughing.

His answering snicker faded into concentration as he reached your lower back. As his hands and thumbs worked the sore spot you released a moan that went straight to his dick. He mentally chastised himself; now was not the time to get hike a tent.

“I didn’t hurt you did I?” he asked, concerned.

“No it’s helping a lot,” you mumbled, “Keep doing whatever it is you’re doing.”

He was absolutely amazing at this. Better than he probably had any business being. You now wanted to take back your snide remark from earlier in response to him being good with his hands because damnit he was turning you on.

Your bare skin that had been chilled earlier was now flushed and heated at his gentle touch, the way his hands glided up and down your back as he massaged. You especially felt the tingling beginnings of arousal as he got to your back, his hands just inches from your ass.

You felt your breasts becoming heavy, the desire starting to ramp up your body, your nipples puckering underneath you. If you even managed to shift slightly, your nipples would brush against the roughness of the fitted sheet, making the ache between your legs worse. Suddenly, you were thinking of his hands in other places.

Steve was struggling too.

With each pleased sigh, moan and whimper leaving your lips, he couldn’t help by harden more. He couldn’t help it—he was only human after all. Besides, his mind went straight to other not so innocent times he’d made you make similar noises.

The moment you felt his arousal brush your back, you were done for.

“Hey, Steve?”

“Hmm?” he answered, sounded distracted.

You sat up on your elbows, peering over your shoulder at him.

“While you’re back there…” you trailed off, smirking as you arched a brow, suggestively.

“No,” he shook his head, bending over you to kiss your shoulder.

“Oh so that wasn’t your hard cock pressing into my back, hmm?”

“I can’t help it. If you’re gonna moan, my dick will respond,” he said matter-of-factly, “Besides, this is supposed to be about relaxing you.”

“But I’d be even more relaxed with your cock buried deep within me,” you responded with an innocent smile, brushing back against his crotch, making him groan.

“Oh would you? Is my touch not doing it for you then?”

He played along with your teasing, but you didn’t have the ability to form a response when you felt his hand cup you through your skimpy underwear. You cursed yourself now for bothering to keep them on.

His fingers pried the fabric aside, one tracing the seam where your arousal had gathered. He looked pretty proud of himself to have turned you on this much from just a simple massage.

“I mean, I could just skip touching you all together if you’re not pleased with my services,” he mock frowned, plunging two fingers into your warmth.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you moaned, body instantly responding to his curling fingers.

He chuckled lightly.

“I take it I’m getting a glowing review?”

His long fingers thrust into you, moving, rubbing and curling against that one, spongy spot that made you go breathless. The only way you could answer was with your hips bucking and his name falling from your lips.

You were still on your stomach, propped on your elbows, Steve hovering over you as he bent to kiss your neck, whispering in your ear as his fingers moved in and out of you.

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbled, leaving hot kisses along your neck, making your head fall to the other side so he’d have more access to it.

His fingers twisted teasingly in you, knuckles rubbing euphorically against your inner wall.

“You’re my pretty girl,” he whispered, continuing his torture with both his mouth and his fingers—albeit in two different places on your body.

“Steve,” you whined, grinding against his hand.

The sensation was nice, but all you wanted was for him to take you, hard. If you were going to suffer from back pain, it might as well because he blew your fucking back out.

“What do you need, baby?” he hummed.

“You. Inside me,” your teeth were clenched, desperately needing more.

You felt his fingers leave you, then felt your underwear being pulled down your legs and off around your feet. You heard the rustle of fabric and you assumed he’d shed the clothes left on his lower half.

You were up on your knees, anticipating him as he left soft kisses long your spine. You whimpered at the feeling of the head of his throbbing cock teasing your folds.

“C’mere,” Steve said, putting an arm around your waist, pulling you upwards until your back was flush against his chest.

As much as Steve loved the sight of your ass, he didn’t enjoy the typical from behind position as it wasn’t as intimate as he wanted it to be. He wanted you pressed up against him, his chest hair scraping your back, arm holding you tightly kind of closeness. He much preferred that.

Once you were as close to him as you could get, he pushed into you with mutual moans of satisfaction coming from both of you. His other hand snaked along your body and palmed one boob, as his hips started a slow, tantalizing rhythm.

His thrusts were slow and shallow, just getting you worked up, you knew it. His head dipped, mouth attaching to your jaw.

“More,” you breathed, needing to feel him hard and deep.

“As my baby wishes,” he smirked against your skin.

Your hips worked opposite of his, slamming back against him at a rapid pace, sending his cock deep within you, hitting pleasant spots repeatedly. He held you right in his grasp as your head fell back against his shoulder.

“Fuck, Steve, keeping doing that,” you panted after one thrust nearly made your eyes roll back.

One hand was clamped over his arm that held you and the other reached behind you to tangle into his hair as his mouth sucked bruises onto your skin. You could feel his chest heaving against your back and the delicate scrape of his chest hair as he continued to pound into you, giving fully into the mutual desire from earlier.

You let out a cry when the hand that’d been kneading your breast, scraped your sensitive nipple. His fingers tweaked it and the sensation went directly to your clit. You were fast approaching your climax as was Steve, who was starting to feel the tingle at the base of his spine and his balls tense—signaling he was going to shoot his load at any moment.

He bit his lip hard, trying to hold back until you were coming apart with him. His hand slid down your stomach, middle finger finding your clit as he gave it the attention it needed.

The tension in your body was building with every slap of skin and rub of his finger as you both panted and moaned, mutual pleasure mixing together in a song of bliss. The orgasm hit as quickly as a sink overflowing with water; one second it was close to too much and the next, gushing over the porcelain rim, much like you were on his cock.

“Fuuuck,” came his drawn out moan in your ears, his naturally deep voice like gravel in your ear.

Even with only your back pressed against him, you felt him tense against you as his own climax reached its peak before sending him down the rollercoaster of ecstasy. You felt his cock twitch inside of you, the pulsing of it alerting you that he was right there—and sure enough within moments you felt his release drip back out of you. You moaned softly at the sensation, always incredibly turned on when he let himself go.

The ragged breaths coming from you and Steve were the only sound for a moment and you felt his chest heave with his uneven breath, his grasp still on you. He kissed your shoulder blade, your shoulder, then finally your cheek, nuzzling it with his nose when he finally found the composure to move, separating you two.

“You know, you really oughta let me give you more massages in the future if it’s gonna lead to this sort of fun,” he chuckled as he helped you lay down on your back.

“I will gladly let you rub me down and fuck me thoroughly any day,” you answered, fatigue becoming making your mind hazy and limbs feel weak.

You didn’t miss his smirk as he got off the bed, pulling on his boxers before heading to the bathroom.

“Where you going?” you pouted, “I want to cuddle.”

“Getting you some pain relief,” he said as you heard the medicine cabinet open.

He grabbed a paper cup from the supply in the bathroom, filling in with water, grabbing a washcloth for you to clean up with.

You watched sleepily as he came back with the items. You tossed back the Tylenol, downing the water as he ran the dampened cloth over your thighs, cleaning you up.

He pecked your lips, taking the paper cup from your hands to toss in the trash.

“How’s the back feeling? The sex didn’t make it hurt worse did it?” he frowned.

“I promise you, I feel no pain at all,” you assured him with a yawn.

He chuckled, satisfied with your answer as he went to discard the cup in the trash and the dirtied rag in the bathroom. By the time he got back to the bedroom, you’d fallen fast asleep, on your side, arms stretched out towards his side of the bed as if even in sleep you were awaiting cuddles.

Steve smiled, pulling the covers up to your shoulder, then slid into his side of the bed, kissing your forehead.

“Sleep well, angel.”

It ended up being the best night of sleep you’d had in weeks.

[uncouth-the-fifth]

Pythia - A Supernatural Rewrite. Dead In The Water, p1.

read it on ao3. masterlist.

words: 11,982

notes: this could technically be considered part .5, since we don't get into anything episode related until next chap - but i thought it was important to give u more bg on Reader!! same goes for the dean-centered parts of this episode, since for this one i'm giving you some HEAVY sam time. enjoy your cutesy but sad motorcycle not-pining.

i referenced some spn neat spn fics for this one. though you don't have to read them to understand this ep, i highly recommend it since they're so damn good: Stop Hitting Yourself by Rokhal, Fire of Unknown Origin by britomart, And Rage Is Mingled With His Grief by StillWaters1. yeehaw!

i also wanted to clarify that i don't like when people give reader inserts last names + premade parents, but our psychic reader has both for the sake of the plot!! you'll love Beth and Ray trust me ;)

enjoy <3 next part: dead in the water, p.2

EAU CLAIRE, WISCONSIN - NOV. 14th, midday.

The first snow would be hitting soon. After a childhood raised off the river here, you’d learned to feel it in the air. Fall was not the powerful, crowned buck it’d been in October; the roads of your hometown were foggy, the buildings seemed flatter, and the grass was packed down into dry gray-blonde sheets. Sometime in the weeks you’d been gone, the buck had suffered an arrow wound and was waiting for the cold to set in.

You propped your head on the chilled window of the backseat, watching the industrial brickwork and buckling sidewalks whisk by. Little avenues of rain runoff emptied into street grates. Kids spilled out of your old high school, rushing onto the sidewalk to start the trek home. Your brain instantly associated these sights with the end of a hunt—more specifically, Dean dropping you off at your apartment to go off on his own. Wistfulness dragged in your gut. For the first time in more than two years, you and the boys were going home together.

Instead of taking a left for your apartment, Dean pulled into the right turn lane and turned up the rock station. He always claimed that your hometown was the only city he’d been in with decent radio. The guys at your Dad’s old autoshop job loved Dean, so he always borrowed their garage when he was in town. You had vivid, amber memories of Dean working on the Impala there, and between asking you to hand him wrenches, he’d hum soulfully and cheesily along with what was on. So many of your quiet moments were filled with that sound, like an instrumental break in the soundtrack of your life.

“Shouldn’t we call ahead?” Sam asked, closing the book he’d been reading. How he could process letters, never mind a whole book, while Dean and Dean’s music were on full blast, you had no clue. He tilted to look back at you. “Your mom won’t be upset if we just drop in, will she?”

“Are you kidding?” Dean answered for you. “Sammy, think who you’re askin’ about…” He shot a superstitious look to the building as he pulled in, smiling. “Lady probably already knows we’re here.”

Dean parked in the slim alley behind the store, like always. The house had been in your family for a couple generations, and from the back, it definitely showed. If you squinted at the brownstone long enough it seemed to have this tilt to it, like an old man putting his weight on his cane. You’d always thought of the Proctor house as a hyper-vigilant, eerily silent butler—it had all the unease of a haunted house combined with the stateliness of a gentleman. The windows had elaborate iron frames. The roof was lined with ornate, detailed trim (with all sorts of hidden sigils you’d been trained to recognize). Your mother claimed the brick they’d made the house with had been mixed with salt, but you weren’t sure that made it possible for the place to still be standing. Knowing the house you’d grown up in, it’d probably find a way to tough through it anyway.

The gate to your mother’s back garden was locked, so you took the side alley around to the front. The face of the Proctor house was far more unassuming; the entire first floor had been gutted and renovated into your family’s business, Lucky You Antiques and Collectibles. A wall of faded glass advertised the furniture your mom had repolished, the upcoming Thanksgiving deals, yadda yadda—nothing explicitly psychic, except for the grand eye decal on the front door. At this time of day it cast an arching shadow all the way to the register. You tried not to shiver at the sight of it.

“Shit,” you said, patting down your jacket, “I left my keys in the trunk.”

“I’ll run back,” Sam was saying, but Dean had already shimmied past you, circled through his keyring and slid his own copy into the lock. “I got it,” he said, innocently, and gestured you inside.

Lucky You was closed for the day, so Dean opened the door to an empty front room gleaming with glass figurines, books, and antique furniture. Everything was sprucey and dark, with an ever-hovering cloud of faded cigar smoke. Tightly-spaced aisles juxtaposed circles of armchairs and coffee tables for sale. Even day to day it never really looked the same way, but something about it as a whole hadn’t changed a bit since you were little. There were still identical notches carved into the bookshelves where you’d knocked them over roughhousing with Dean. Your mom had never replaced the lightbulb in the back corner, since that was Sam’s job and she just never found the time to do it herself.

The centerpiece of it all was a huge, threadbare carpet the length of two Impalas. It used to be a product, but it’d sat there for so long that eventually it was absorbed by the store. Dean used to joke that it was the mother of all dust bunnies, since every time, without fail, Sam would choke out into coughs when he crossed it. Dean watched Sam enter first with a strange look, like he was waiting for the past to recreate itself.

You found yourself doing the same. The last time Sam had been here, he’d been half as tall and half as filled out in the shoulders. You’d noticed when you’d reunited with him (especially when you’d hugged him), but the change was even sharper in a familiar place, where you could overlay the image of gangly past Sam with his current self.

But Sam didn’t cough once crossing the rug. Instead, he scratched at his neck in the anxious way he’d been doing since Jess died, completely unaware of you and Dean, and said idly, “Your mom needs to check the devil’s trap underneath this thing—all the walking’s probably rubbed it right off.”

“I’d almost forgotten about that,” you said, sliding in after him. You wondered what made him think of that. “I’ll remind her—or Dean can put it on his list.”

Sam turned on his heel, hands in his pockets, and cocked an eyebrow at Dean. He enunciated, “Your list?”

“Yeah,” Dean shrugged one shoulder, and twisted around to lock the door behind the three of you. “Sometimes the girls are too lazy to do stuff, and I gotta earn my keep, between Beth’s food and ____’s—” he gave you a dry look, “blessed company. So I do favors.”

“Chores,” you corrected, slyly. “And shut up, dick, you love my company!”

Dean flicked your ear as he passed, and sauntered down the cramped employee hall that lead upstairs. Again, he unlocked the door and held it open for you, blighting out the sun with a glowing, mischievous smile just for you. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, darlin’.”

Opening the door to the stairwell was like passing through a portal. On the first stair, you were met by the crescendo of Elvis dancing down from the second floor. The familiar sound of your mother’s records coupled with the smell of lunch launched you back into high school, kindergarten, and all the memories in between. You remembered Sam standing guard here with a shotgun on his lap after you’d been attacked. You remembered tip-toeing down these steps to go drink with Dean. You remembered talking to the portraits of the seers before you, who followed you with their eyes even now.

Needless to say, you kept your focus on your footing.

The second floor of the house was a stark contrast to the gloomy back-garden and commercial front. All the polished paneling in the walls, the harsh brickwork, and the dramatic, smoky lighting had been replaced and overlaid with your mother’s retrofuturist decorating. Your grandmother had left behind a ton of 50s’ stuff that your mom loved too much to throw out. Ever since you were little, she’d been utilizing it. You, Sam, and Dean passed the wall of the front hallway pasted from floor-to-ceiling with vintage diner signs, most of them rosy-cheeked women selling Coca Cola or hot dogs. The three of you kicked off your shoes.

“Ma!” You shouted over the swaying music. “We’re home!”

No one emerged. Behind you, Dean was the first out of his boots and was already clearing his way to the kitchen archway. He scuttled across the checkered linoleum and landed happily in the mock-diner booth, the one your mother had repaired a thousand times, and cackled like a maniac. Laid out on the kitchen table was lunch—your favorite, Dean’s favorite, and Sam’s favorite, each on its own plate.

In one hand, Dean scooped up the huge bacon burger your mom had pan-grilled for him and uttered ravenously, “Beth, I would kill for you!”

“She must be busy upstairs,” you chuckled, and turned to Sam, “I think she made you—”

Sam had lingered behind to remove his jacket. It looked like something had caught his eye on the corner turning into the living room, something low to the ground and carefully preserved. He was running over it with delicate fingers, and hearing your voice, he looked away, embarrassed. Or maybe it was closer to shame.

You shuffled closer to get a look. At about the height of your hip, there was a soft pink line that had faded with time. ____, age four. It cascaded up a little bit, then was joined by a red marker, Sam, age three, and above that in green, Dean, age six. The lines mingled. They lapped each other, especially in Sam’s case, or clung in pairs until certain ages. You could plot out the fierce height competition you’d had with Dean in middle school. It was clear on the chart that the last time you’d been taller than both of them was at ten, just before Dean had hit puberty. Sam was a late bloomer. He wasn’t even close to becoming his behemoth self until 1998; Sam, age 15.

Sam stared at his most recent mark on the wall, letting his hand fall back to his side. He didn’t say anything—just looked and looked, like Sam, age 19, could take him back in time if he brooded on it hard enough. By then, he’d beat you out, had already started doing pre-law online, and was level in height with Dean. That had been four years ago.

You glanced at the hall behind you, where your mother had yet to appear, then at Dean, completely absorbed in his burger. “Hold on a second,” you told Sam, and started hunting around the kitchen junk drawer.

“You don’t gotta…” Sam cleared his throat, but you were already pushing him gently into the wall with a hand on his chest. He clarified, “I’m not your brother. You don’t have to…”

“No, but you’re my family,” you said, without pause. “What kind of best friend would I be if I left you out of a family tradition?”

He didn’t care that much about resisting after that, because soon he pushed his heels into the wall and straightened his back. You had to stretch a little, but without any fuss you were able to set a warm palm on his hair and draw a new line well above the others. Sam, you wrote, age 23. The other marks had all been written in your mother’s loopy handwriting. ____, age 19, and Dean, 21, matched all the others, so your addition at the top seemed out of place. You choose instead to think of it as the crowning jewel of your childhood, of all those lines. Look, it seemed to say, we’re still together after all this time.

You thunked the marker down in a nearby pen cup, then brushed the smeared ink on your jeans as you admired your handiwork. “Hm,” you preened, “Finished. Only took… what? Twenty years?”

Sam looked demure. He dipped his head, and asked no one in particular, “Have we really known each other that long?”

“Feels longer,” you remarked. Dean was loudly enjoying his burger in the other room, and you rolled your eyes at him to avoid confronting how soft Sam’s voice sounded. You thunked him on the back, grinning, “I guess we can officially say we’re never getting rid of each other, huh?”

Sam opened his mouth to speak, eyes swimming with enough honesty and emotion to make your chest cave in, only to drop it all at once. You followed his gaze over your shoulder.

“There you are,” your mother greeted, her voice rendered quiet and disbelieving. She was smirking to suppress a well of emotion, and twisting constantly at a used, dusty rag she’d been using to clean. “I was just getting your room ready, ____…”

You were a spitting image of Beth Proctor, in ways so surreal and specific that you’d always figured it was a part of the family genes; each and every psychic Proctor wore the face of a long-dead ancestor. An ancestor who you thought was beautiful in a severe, Mona Lisa sort of way. At least in terms of your mother. A secret loomed permanently in her eyes, which at this moment were flush with building tears. There was a graceful, haunting air to her, which only made it easier to imagine her peering into a crystal ball or divulging everything about a person with just a look. Beth was a real seer.

She sniffed. “Are all three of you…?”

On command, Dean appeared in the kitchen archway and Sam stepped into the natural light of the open living room, each on either side of you. “Present and accounted for,” you beamed, and Dean wiggled his fingers in a wave over your shoulder, “Hi, Ma.”

Your mother’s eyes drifted across you and the boys, her thoughts a hundred years away. She propped her fists on her hips, swelled up as sternly as she could, and shook her head. Dean started inching further behind you, just in case you were kids again and Ma was about to deliver the scolding of a lifetime—for sneaking out or being reckless or worrying her sick. Instead, Beth scrubbed her tears across her wrist.

“Damn you,” she cursed, “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. Sammy, baby, c’mere.”

It took Sam two steps to close the gap between them and hug her just as hard as she hugged him. He was easily two heads taller than her, but the way she scooped him close made Sam look eleven again, when he knew about the hunt but was too young to do anything about it. What he’d said barrelled right into you as they embraced: Have we really known each other that long?

John Winchester had only a few places he could leave his boys when he went off hunting, and the safest and easiest place was the Proctor House. The building itself was warded. Your mom knew the truth—about him, about the world—and knew how to take care of kids. Looking back, you imagined it had started small. John had nowhere else to take infant Sam and toddler Dean. He’d probably insisted it would only be a one-time thing, but then it’d happened again and again and your mom had cared less and less.

You’d been a real lonely baby, she’d told you once, sewing with the window open. The evening light had layered over her face like stained glass. I was so worried about you… You hardly cried. You barely made any noise at all, and you didn’t really like to play with toys. All you wanted was to hear me and your dad talk to you.

It occurred to you, as your mom hugged a man who wasn’t her blood, that the boys were here because of you. Things would be different otherwise. If you’d been a happy baby, if she’d put you in normal daycare to make normal friends, if you’d even breathed a word about being scared of John or not liking his sons, none of this would have happened. But you’d been alone and quiet until two other lonely and quiet kids walked into your life, so it didn’t matter if Sam wasn’t your mom’s blood.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, honey,” she was murmuring to him, but Sam was saying the exact same thing to her. They separated and Beth cupped one side of Sam’s face, the eye of her right palm pressed flat to his cheek. “I went to the apartment,” she told him, somber, “I couldn’t sense much, but I did get your car—it’s down in the garage, if you ever need it.”

Sam sunk into his shoe-soles. “Thank you,” was all he said, and a blue shadow passed over your mother’s face.

It went unsaid that she knew everything that had happened. You never were sure how much she knew exactly, even in comparison to what your own gift showed you, but for a brief second all of it seemed to flash across her face. She drew her palm away from Sam’s cheekbone, and on instinct you pressed your nails into the flesh of your right hand.

“You make Dean look like a shrimp,” Beth chuckled, and Dean grumbled in offense. She hooked an arm under his back and the other around your shoulder, and like you, bloomed under the relief that the three of you were with each other again. “Hello, sweetpea,” she smirked at you, then at Dean, “And oh, hush, you big baby. You jealous ‘cause you want a hug too?”

“No,” Dean scoffed, snapping his arms down to his sides. “I, uhm, just don’t want all this nice food to go to waste. Seein’ as you made it all special, n’ everythin’...”

Your mother shared a conspiratory, amused look with you in the corner of her eye, inviting you into her secret for just a moment. Even as an adult you felt she didn’t do that with you much, but sharing the Gift gave you both a strange understanding. As much as you hated her covering for John… Like her, you’d seen the future, and there were some parts of it that just couldn’t be shared or spoken. She’d been at this a lot longer than you might ever be; and she was your mom, so you wanted to trust her.

“You’ve got that case, up in Manitowoc,” she said, (a statement of fact), “I figured you’d be stopping by, and I figured I should give you something better than road food. Get on in there and sit down. Dean, you want a beer?”

The four of you migrated into the kitchen, Dean at the lead in order to reunite with his burger. “Sure,” he said, and Beth jut up her eyebrows until he added, “—please?”

You slid into the booth where your plate was, and noticed, conveniently, that your mom had put you in the corner with Sam. The booth wasn’t the grand dining hall you remembered it being as a kid, so Sam had to fold his legs and shove into your space a little to fit. Maybe it was a little too obvious that it didn’t bother you, because you caught Dean squinting at you over his lunch. Just to remind him who he was messing with, you tapped your teeth and stuck your tongue out at him—Dean found the lettuce you were pointing to and pouted as he worked it out of his incisor.

“Can I have a beer too, if that’s okay?” Sam asked. He picked up his fork and turned over the salad Ma had made for him, warmed with gratitude. It really had been a while since he’d eaten anything homemade. “This looks amazing. I don’t know how you have all the time to put this all together, Beth.”

Ma squinted at him, then relaxed with realization. “Of course. Sorry… For a second there, I forgot you’re old enough to drink,” she chuckled and disappeared into the retro, rounded-off fridge to one side of the kitchen.

When Sam’s head was turned, she hung in place and devoured the three of you with her eyes. You could feel her basking in it, memorizing the sight of each of you, but you didn’t acknowledge it. Both of you had been captured by deja vu today. The world was right when Dean was chowing down across from you and you were fighting Sam’s legs for territory under the table, like always.

Ma cleared her throat. “And I enjoy cooking, you know that, Sam. I’m just happy to have somebody to cook for. Sometimes the neighbors or our regulars will come up for dinner, but it’s not every day I get to treat my biggest eaters.”

The smell of your favorite lunch wafting up from your plate held all the power of a comfort potion, and after the first bite you felt the tension wound in your joints dissolve. It tasted like summer wind, when your mom would pack a picnic and take the three of you to the park…

Once, a group of little kids your age had begged the boys to join their baseball game in the field there, probably imagining their tough, jaded faces made them amazing players. Sam had just left soccer behind and was eager to play a sport. Dean was all for schooling some punk middle schoolers. You remembered him, maybe thirteen or fourteen, helping you off the grass, assuming without question that you were invited too—because they’d asked Dean, and you followed him around like a third arm. But the kids wouldn’t bite. All that dumb playground shit about girls and sports and cooties. It hadn’t felt great, but Dean used to throw that same kind of stuff at you because he was a bit of a stupid kid, so you were used to it. Sam had insisted that he wouldn’t play without you, sporting a mean grin that looked a little strange on his shy face. You’re losing your best hitter.

Still, the kids had shoved you off. Both the boys had really wanted to join—they didn’t get the opportunity to play without getting in trouble for not “lying low”, so you figured they’d give up and go play without you. It was fine. Sam was lying; you were an awful shot. You were the girl, so you were used to it.

That’s when your mother had emerged from the trees, glowing in the high noon sun, the shadow of the baseball she was tossing and catching in one hand bouncing across her face. You still remembered the white sundress she’d worn. She’d known, she always knew, so she’d packed a ball and a bat too. Let’s play our own game, she’d suggested, and her little army of three had merrily lined up after her. With Dean as pitcher and Sam in the outfield, she’d taught you to hit. You insisted to this day that the wooden bat she’d brought with her was flimsy, but Sam and Dean swore that it was solid all the way through—that your eleven-year-old self had really splintered it in two hitting a home. They’d gone wild, Sam waving the ball around, Dean picking you up and running in circles, the two of them chanting: Mean Swing! Mean Swing! Mean Swing!

You wondered now if your mom had orchestrated it somehow, but that would be impossible. As afraid as you were to go home, to this old ass house with its older portraits, there were other, better things to come back to.

Beth pulled a chair up to the edge of the table, resting her elbows across the back. She laid two beers down in front of the boys, the kitchen windows throwing soft blue-gray light across her figure, and watched fondly as Dean opened his. He took one sip, and the moment he put it down you captured it and stole one of your own.

“You hear anything from our Dad?” Dean asked, putting every ounce of his focus into the napkin under his plate.

“No,” your mom was careful to reply, “but you don’t have ta’ worry, he disappears like this often. I’ve learned not to be too stressed about him, but for your sake I did put word out. I’ll keep looking, but you know your dad—his list of hunting buddies is as short as my patience. I’m not going to hear much.” Her eyes slid away from her hands to you, and you got the impression she wasn’t telling the whole truth. “____? You’ve been real quiet.”

It wasn’t a malicious probe. She was just curious, and by the soft fondness in her face you felt like she was fascinated by your inner world. You talked plenty about Sam being the only one to be genuine about understanding your Gift, but your mother was right there beside him, not just understanding but appreciating, too. Sometimes she looked at you like she knew she’d given you a terrible burden. Neither of you like the Gift. Other times, there was relief and pride there, where it looked to her as if you were doing everything she wished she could do. Run away from your last name. Run away from the parlor, and the eye brand you shared.

(But still. She’d always read with the palm of her hand, eye forward, and you hid behind your knuckles instead).

For a moment you considered pushing back on the John thing, but if your mom was choosing to cover for him, she’d go to grave about it. After all, you wouldn’t hesitate to do the same for Sam or Dean. The future could give each of you all sorts of reasons to protect them.

“Just remembering things.” You answered her, thumbing your carnelian ring, “How long has it been since we’ve had a movie night?”

“I think it’s too cold to put up the projector in the garden,” Ma said, tapping her lip, “but we can always use the TV in the living room—thing’s busted to shit, but it’s not awful.”

Dean threw an arm over the back of his bench. “S’ not giving you trouble again, is it?”

“No, it’s useable,” Ma lifted her head, “but actually, Dean honey, now that you’re finished, the bathroom sink’s all broken again. Do you think you could…?”

Dean was already up, dish in hand. “You got it,” he said, and jabbed a finger between you and Sam, “Just don’t pick anything stupid, capiche? No girly shit, or nerdy shit, or whatever you girly nerds like to watch in your free time.”

As soon as Dean had dragged the toolbox out from under a cabinet and disappeared with it, you knocked your arm against Sam’s and conspired, “So… Legally Blonde?”

Sam broke out into a hesitant, closed-lip smile. He seemed a little caught off guard by the joke, but he was your minion before anything else, and indulged most of your evil plans. “Nerdy. Girly. Sounds like a plan to me.”

“You’re my favorite,” you elbowed him, maybe fishing a little too hard for something to cheer him up. If it was possible, in any sense of the word, to cheer someone up after losing someone like Jess.

It seemed to have an effect, even if it was a minor one. Sam’s lip quirked, “I know.”

“Thank you, Han and Leia,” your mother said, dryly, and mirrored Sam by folding her neat hands on the tabletop. “Now… tell me about, your, um…”

She was going to bring up Stanford, then realized what a terrible idea that was. You filled in, “...Our last hunts?”

“No,” your mother laughed, recoiling a little in her disapproval. Seamlessly, she rolled into another subject, and you were forced to fight a little with your own awkwardness. Ma said, “Oh, I remember. These last weeks I’ve had this brother and sister coming in for readings…”

She descended into the story, keeping you and Sam entertained while dodging the subject of Stanford, where you’d been for the last month, and why you’d been gone in the first place. There was no need to talk about it. Ma already knew, and watching Sam act less and less like himself just hurt all three of you. Sometimes she’d reach across the table to squeeze his closed fists or push your plate a little closer to you, but beyond that she only observed Sam for a reaction. This was not just the kid she’d half-raised walking back into her life, but a porcelain vase scrambling to patch the cracks as they came.

Sam spent most of the time chewing slow and unwinding slower. Of course, him being the way he was, he was just thankful she hadn’t scorned him for getting out while he could. He knew he hadn’t just left John, Dean, and you behind, but Beth and Bobby too.

“That reminds me,” Ma hummed halfway through one of her stories, “That cousin hunter duo, the two girls from Arkansas, they came in last week and asked to see you. I told them that I could help them if they’d like, but they insisted on only seeing you! As confused as I was, I gotta admit, I was a little proud—they’re your first regulars, baby!” She bustled over to the sink, her palm winking at you as she walked, “I got my first customers like that a little earlier than you, when I was nineteen. But I guess you beat me out, what with the boys getting fortunes from you when you were little n’ all.”

Since her back was turned toward the sink, you were allowed to physically deflate. “Oh… I don’t remember them.”

“I gave em’ your number,” your mother brightened, and started to arrange the dishes for washing. “Honestly, I’m surprised your address book isn’t full! You’ve always been better than me at the personable part of it.”

Pathetically, you glanced at Sam like it was even possible for him to help you, and played with your carnelian ring. “The visions come easier to you.”

“Oh, but that doesn’t matter if you can’t talk to them. It’s more important to care about the people you’re giving visions to, if you really want to help them.” Ma glanced at you over her shoulder, crow’s feet wrinkling with her sigh. “I’ve been at this so long that I suppose I’m a little desensitized—but you, you always give a little piece of yourself away when you give your readings. I always wished I could be that giving.”

Sam cleared his throat, and with it you felt a bit of your composure gouged out of you. “Let me help with that,” he said, and filled her other side to assist with drying the plates.

Ma snorted, “Sam—”

Before she could get anything out about him sitting back down, Sam’s voice bowled right through her. The timbre of it was calm but forceful, and just the hint of memory in it knocked the breath out of you. It was the tone that started every argument he had with John—the voice swearing that he knew better, the voice that in another, luckier version of this life, would make him a damn good lawyer. Your fists snapped shut beneath the table.

“She is really giving,” he agreed, with just enough heat to make your gut drop. “Every day, she’s out there straining her Gift, n’ working it to the bone for people she hasn’t even met. I never really got to see her doing both until now, being a hunter and a Proctor.” He snapped a cabinet shut, and punctuated, “But she can do both.”

Your mother sharply dropped a bowl into the filled sink. Biting your tongue, you watched her raise her all-seeing gaze to Sam’s, a reply stirring in her throat. But she cared about the two of you too much to press him or you or his grief. This argument had been stirred between the two of you for years now. It came back into circulation every few months, so there wasn’t even a little anger in her face. She just tilted her head at him, curious, and sorted through what he’d said. It’d been two years since Sam had stood up for you at the smallest threat, and something about that had made your mother emotional.

(Sam had never cared about hunting. He despised what it meant to be a good hunter, and that left you wondering what he meant by that. That you could do both).

“I suppose I haven’t seen her do both, then,” she said.

And she let it go.

_

You were dreaming, but a part of you was bracing for a vision.

Usually the distinction between the two was obvious. Your own dreams sat in the cloud of your mind, the edges of each image or moment fizzing with your consciousness. Visions on the other hand totally subtracted your presence, simply dropping the feelings and pictures on top of you. It was the difference between a touch from your own hand versus the touch of a stranger’s. Ironically, it was safer to get visions of someone you didn’t know. Seeing the boys or your mother always hurt more.

That’s why you weren't certain this was just a dream. The fog of your own mind blurred the corners of every frame, but it hurt, buzzing in your beehive skull. It had to be a combination of both or something else, the clear future blended and muddled by your more human dreams.

You were dreaming as Sam: standing barefoot in the mud, watching a hunting cabin burn even in the rain. The drops were hissing against the choking, smoking blaze, not strong enough to make a difference but persisting anyway. A part of you, the Sam part, knew that even a hurricane couldn’t cleanse the fire. Your fingers and lips were blue with cold. But something inside you, living in your blood, was singeing you from the inside out. It was so hot that you ripped off your jacket and your pajama pants and itched, because your limbs were frosting over but you’d started the fire. Dean was hauling you up, and you were driving, and driving, and Dad was pissed and terrified. I forgot to blow the candles out, you—Sam—sobbed, but he knew he was lying. He didn’t sleep and he didn’t touch wood or candles or go near the fireplace at Bobby’s, because through the walls he’d heard Dean ask: Was it the thing that killed Mom? And Dad had said, I’m going to find out.

Had he?

Sam—you—were on your stomach, sinking into your mattress. Something hot dropped onto your neck. A second time. Both tears of molten iron slid down your skin and into your collar, and you knew without looking that there was an altar on your ceiling—knew without looking that Jess was being sacrificed there, even if the dream forced you to look. You saw her. She was crying, and mouthing Sam’s name. The room dissolved into skin-bubbling cabin flames.

You, or Sam, were standing on the side of the road—and then you were sure it was Sam, because he could feel you behind him, desperately trying to coax him back towards the Impala. A dog had been clipped by a truck and left in the grassy ditch. At a distance, it didn’t look like a dog. Just the vague outline of roadkill. All Sam could see was the waves of bloody blonde hair in the grass and all he could feel was the air puttering out of him, hitching and heaving. Your hand was cupping his back, then his neck, and Sam flinched. The blood had burned into his skin.

Then Sam was somewhere else, anywhere else. A motel or a house, it didn’t matter. He was in bed on his stomach again, hand clamped against the cresting sobs searing out of him. He knew what came next. It always happened, no matter how hard he fought or prayed before he went to sleep. Sam was pushed onto his back. Some nights it was Dean or Jess or Mom, and he always knew when it’d be Mom because, paradoxically, hers were always the most vivid. But this time it was you; and you were trembling with terror but you were also braving it, like you always had for him, and a seeping wound smiled its way across the belly of your nightgown. You didn’t scream. You just wept, staring at him. You didn’t say Sam’s name or cry out for him. All you said was, it’s okay, and that terrified him more than anything.

The molten blood dripped. Sam was too pinned to even squirm, to twist away, so the blood splattered onto his cheek and slid neatly into the closed line of his mouth. He could smell the iron. It tasted… It tasted…

You woke up, heart roaring in the ringing silence.

The memories of the dream sludged together, poorly translating in the transition from sleep logic to waking logic. You ran your tongue over your lip, feeling the dry, cracked skin there, and jolted up in bed.

The third story of the Proctor House was technically the attic, and on nights like these, it felt like it. Your childhood bedroom was shrouded in blue darkness, the kind that could take a limb if you dared to put your arm inside it. The room was made darker in contrast by the long square of silver moonlight carpeting the old floorboards. Your curtains fluttered on their own, shifting even when the wind wasn’t murmuring through the cracks in the panes. The entire house seemed to breathe, a dying man on a respirator, his death groaning through the walls and door frames in the old house. What sat between the cresting whispers of the wind was easily worse: long, disturbing silences that watched you sleep.

You stopped. There was a gentle crackling noise, like something was putting its hands flat to the windows and pressing. Sleep was still muddling your brain a little, so it took a bit for clarity to melt back into you, and for you to remember:

The rest of the day had been spent in your mother’s living room, you crammed in between the boys on the couch and your mom lounging in her wingback. Dean stopped suffering through Legally Blonde about twelve minutes in and started to enjoy it, the stress melting out of him through contact with your shoulder. Squished between him and Sam, you lent one ear to the movie and another to Sam and Ma talking avidly about the book he was reading. That had dissolved into another movie, and after that Ma had called it a night. Being on the road so long had killed the three of you, so you disappeared up into your old bedroom and the boys insisted on taking the living room. For a few minutes after you heard them fighting over who would take the couch. Then Ma had thrown an uninflated air-mattress out at them and told them to shut up, followed by a night’s worth of peaceful silence.

All of it had passed in a sunny haze, even if the first snow was fast approaching. As you’d brushed your teeth you’d felt a sense of impermanence, though, and argued away the feeling with your reflection. John wasn’t coming to pick the boys up tomorrow. The next few weeks wouldn’t be canyons of radio silence. Your wish had come true, in the ugliest possible way.

Now, you crossed the clinging silence of your room on light feet. Your dagger hung casually in your other hand, just in case. In this house you didn’t technically have to salt the room, but you’d already finished the windows when you remembered that. Similarly, it was second nature to wake up at random to check the lines, so in the navy darkness you crouched before your closed bedroom door and straightened the granules with the flat of your knife.

The only sound in the entire house seemed to be the soft scrape of the blade against the floor. Then, the softer squeak of the stairs just outside your room.

Brandishing your dagger, you held your breath. Someone’s lungs hitched. You didn’t want to wake the whole house if this wasn’t a demon or a hunter breaking in, so you quietly wedged the ancient door open and peered out. It was cast in total darkness. The pale blue moonlight from your room seeped out into the hall and passed through the banister, throwing ghostly shadows across a broad figure’s back.

Immediately, you dropped your dagger on your dresser and stepped out. “Sam?”

He didn’t turn around. His shoulders were trembling like the shivering muscle in a horse’s flank, scaring away flies. The bone-deep, unconscious sort of shaking that no actor could mimic, that didn’t look right on a person in real life. Sam’s head was tilted back to get the full scope of the staircase’s wall.

The pictures there were hard to discern in the dark, but Sam had wandered back to them so many times in his life that he didn’t need to see them. He always lingered on the stairs whenever you passed them. Beth had given Sam his own copies of them ages ago, but if you had to guess, Sam wasn’t magnetized to the wall because of the memories there. He always came back to them because of what they represented.

Most of the photos, in their mismatched frames, were of you. There was a grouping of your baby photos, each little ___ in lace dresses and pink hair bows; a cute-faced toddler on her father’s shoulders, wearing matching biker shades and smolders; you being kissed to death by your mom after your first day at school. Somewhere along the way two strangers had crept in. Sam saw a framed candid of an eight-year-old, long-suffering Dean wiping finger-paint off your face, which was glowing with pure admiration. (Because at age six, there was no one cooler to you than Dean Winchester). The one Sam hovered over the longest was of you and him, fresh to driving and posing for junior prom. A few more dotted the physical timeline of your life; the giant werewolf snowman you’d made together, Sam’s spelling bee victories, Dean and Ray—your dad—working on cars together.

Most of them, including the ones with Sam and Dean, were in one massive frame. It was inscribed with, the love of a family is life’s greatest gift.

“Sammy,” you touched his shoulder over the banister, praying for a response. “Did you—did you have a nightmare?”

It was so quiet that you could hear your heart aching, and like a question mark it didn’t have a precise sound—just a change in inflection at the end, an uptick or a downtick. The sound of worry in your chest was unquestionably a downtick.

His nickname drew him out of his paralysis. Sam swiped his wrist across his eyes, and hovering on the stairs, a soft weeping hiss seeped out of him. “I-I didn’t wanna wake you up,” he said through his teeth.

You rounded the newel and dropped down a step as silently as you could. Sam turned, now level with you on different steps, and softened in surprise. “Hey, what’s—” you started, but shut your mouth the moment you met his open, searing gaze.

“You’re crying,” Sam said at the same time as you, reaching out.

You tongued the corner of your lip, tasting salt there. You really were crying. “Huh,” you said, and maybe you should’ve been a bit more bothered by it than you were. “Don’t worry, m’ okay. I must be picking up your feelings a bit.”

Sam’s expression collapsed with remorse. “God, I didn’t even think—I-I didn’t mean to affect you—”

You took Sam’s hovering arm and drew him into an exhausted embrace, bundling both arms around his neck and taking as much of his weight as you could. The difference in height between your steps gave you a rare opportunity to be just as tall as him, which was new and yet nostalgic. He used to be the perfect height to hug you. But this hug was for him, no matter how much he wanted it to be for you, too. Sam held strong and then immediately sunk, trusting you to catch him. The unconditional faith he put in you never failed to make your tear ducts burn, so no matter what you kept the two of you standing.

Another sob jerked out of him, and Sam dug his face into your shoulder and let it all out. But after two weeks of this, his well of tears had already dried, and all the bottling he’d done hadn’t contributed anything to their stores.

“It’s okay,” you soothed, shakily, “just breathe with me for a minute.”

Sam dug his fingers into the back of your sleep clothes, heavy and feverish with loss. He flinched away when your hand cupped his neck, which was raw and red from all his phantom itching, and you thought about stroking his hair instead. You were always the affectionate one—but you didn’t want to push Sam, not now. Not when it could mean you were filling someone else’s role.

You felt Sam’s hand tap across your back, slowing with realization. He twisted the fabric of your nightgown in one hand, and slow, mounting horror filled your chest as his palm pressed carefully into your belly. Searching for a wound that wasn’t there.

Sam pulled away, voice almost too broken to hear. “...Why are you wearing this?”

It was an oversized, long-sleeve shirt for sleeping in. The fabric was light blue—but in this light, it looked white, and the Nightmare on Elm Street text at the bottom looked like a gaping, crimson wound…

Your hands snapped to Sam’s shoulders, forcing him to look at you. “I’ll change.”

“M’ sorry, m’ sorry,” Sam repeated, “You don’t have to, I just—”

“Shh,” you said, feeling beyond stupid, “You got nothin’ to apologize for. Now, go in my room and get comfy. I’ll be back in a second.”

Sam didn’t look so sure. His legs were braced to run, ready to turn tail and forget he’d bothered you at all, but you were already slinking past him down the stairs. He uttered your name to argue, but you shut him up with a warm squeeze of his hand. “Don’t make me chase you, idiot. Go on. We’ll have a sleepover, just like when we were little.”

The fight in him died, and Sam, probably feeling a little pathetic, dropped his numb shoulders at his sides. He pressed his lips together and trudged into your room. You waited until his shadow interrupted the moonlight, then crept downstairs and hunted around for supplies: meds, water, and snacks.

When you returned, you were a little impressed with yourself for not waking up Dean. He had a sixth sense for these kinds of things, and as much as you loved the guy, you hadn’t had any serious time alone with Sam in two whole years. His brother had sort of been hogging him. Sam must’ve realized this too (or maybe you were projecting), because when you returned, he was sitting on the floor beside your bed—not fighting to go back to sleep under your watch, per the month’s routine.

Sam had also turned on your lamp, warming the void-like corners of your room with buttery light. In the most detached, innocent way you could manage, you thought to yourself that Sam looked beautiful. His face was too heartful and sweet to belong to cold, blue darknesses. You thought about the last time you’d been alone with him, when he’d left for Stanford. Vile, self-loathing bubbled up out of you without your permission. You changed into a comfy flannel in the bathroom and tried not to think about it—you had moved on and Sam had moved on. Simple math.

You closed the heavy door of your bedroom with a click, and with the barrier between you and Dean’s bloodhound ears, you could talk at a normal volume. “Do you think you’ll be able to go back to sleep?”

Sam’s hands stilled in his lap. “No. Probably not.”

“Fine by me,” you shrugged, and glided past him to the record player on your table. Compelled to do something with your hands, you mechanically popped in one of your mother’s oldies records and lowered the volume to comforting background noise. Maybe that would keep Dean from waking up at the sound of your voices.

“Your dick of a brother has been hogging you. It feels like it’s been ages since we’ve sat down and just talked like this.” You plopped down next to him and brought your knees up to your chest, already plowing through the bowl of blackberries. “Pray to whatever god you believe in, Sam, because I’m about to unleash on you two whole years of bottled-up rambling.”

His lip quirked. “Dean doesn’t sit through your scientific conferences?”

“In the beginning,” (and what a strange phrase that was to use; there was a beginning and now an end to Sam’s absence in your life), “he tried, I think. But after two days of me explaining black holes to him, he sorta gave up.”

Sam emptied some headache meds into his hand. “How’d you do it, then?”

“Do what?” You tried to avoid thinking about how wet his eyes still were.

“Survive.” Sam snorted. “I mean, last year was huge for all the stuff you geek out about—all those exoplanet discoveries, the Mars rovers making it past their expiration date—”

You slapped Sam’s knee and practically shrieked, “Or finding proof of water on Mars!” He started smiling, so you hooked an arm around his shoulders and shook him until he was laughing at your excitement too. “Water—you know, the stuff microbial aliens might’ve lived in? Oh my god, don’t even get me started!”

This was around the marker for when Dean would say, trust me, I won’t. Even if you were putting on a bit of a show to goad better feelings out of Sam, you knew by now that you were probably being annoying and backed off.

“By all means,” Sam leaned in, his eyes glittering with interest. “Microbial aliens?”

For that reason, it was really his fault that neither of you fell back to sleep. Microbial aliens turned into wendigo sleeping patterns, and that changed hands into an hour-long discussion of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Sam had tried Twilight, but the vampire lore had annoyed him too much for him to finish reading it. Stanford had kept him pinned to his law books beyond that. This derailed into another hour of complaining—”If I were a vamp I’d be so damn offended!”—about the accuracy of supernatural literature, which passed in the blink of an eye. You did a dramatic reenactment of Rick Grimes riding through zombie-infested Atlanta in volume one of The Walking Dead, including the impressions Dean did when he read it with you. Sam was in stitches.

The rhythm of the conversation felt circadian. You graduated from the rug to curl up on your bed, just an inch away from the edge so you could incline your face toward Sam’s. He hadn’t moved from the floor, but unwound there, wrists on his knees and a constant laugh in his chest. You buried any thoughts of his moles or the pencil-bump on his middle finger under your tongue, which was cottony from the hours of talking. He offered you the last sip from his water. You rolled onto your belly and took it, shamefully wondering if his lips had touched the same place on the glass.

“Dean actually read it with you?” Sam scoffed, brows disappearing into his bangs.

“Zombies. Guns. Apocalypse drama. That is so up Dean’s alley,” you snickered, dropping the glass on your nightstand. “We kinda got each other into comics again last summer—he forces me to reread Batman Year One every few months, for the culture.”

Sam’s face had been a canvas for honest color the last hour, so you noticed too quickly when that changed. This time, he did a pretty solid impression of you innocently detaching yourself.

“You and Dean are closer than I remember.” He commented plainly. Jealousy looked strange on him.

You hummed. “What d’ya mean?”

“You guys… read books together now. Share tapes, cook together… I don’t remember you doing anything like that when we were kids.” Sounding surprised, Sam added, “You’re best friends.”

Hearing that, you couldn’t help yourself. It was impossible not to burst out laughing. Sam’s head swiveled hard to throw you his, c’mon, give me break, brand of bitchface, so you humored him.

“We’ve always been best friends,” you promised. “Must’ve been less obvious then, cause’ you and me have always had more in common than me n’ Dean, but he’s always been my best friend. You both have.”

Sam ran a finger around the rim of the blackberry bowl, staring into the dredges like he could read them. “I guess I’m just thinking of how things were when I was, um, going to leave. I thought you two were,” his eyebrows raised, “...falling out.”

The because of me went unspoken by him, but you got the feeling that Sam didn’t fully grasp the battering ram he’d hit you with by leaving. John became even more ferociously driven. Dean had phases of clinging to him with both hands or going cold on you both, because he wanted his family together but couldn’t believe John had driven Sam away in the first place. It was hard to watch, but even harder to participate in. There was no doubt in your mind that Sam had made the right choice. You believed it enough to endure John booting you out for “putting ideas in Sam’s head,” and made sure to spit in the guy's face before hitchhiking home. There were all sorts of similar screaming matches at the time. Some nearly physical.

Dean had hunted you down himself, despite John’s orders, then paradoxically snarled at you for arguing with his dad at all. It encompassed the hypocritical loyalty he had for his father so perfectly that it only made you more upset. Thing was, you always turned to Sam when you felt that way—so by the time Dean’s energy for yelling hit empty, you were bunched up on the side of the road and sobbing into your hands. A part of you had hated him for not trying harder to support his brother. You’d killed yourself watching Sam walk away, and then a second time defending his choices from John. Dean hadn’t done a damn thing.

One more angry thought and you would’ve never spoken to him again. But you understood Dean, almost as much as you loved him, so you knew that his inaction weighed on him even more than it weighed on you. Given a second try, he would’ve fought tooth and nail for Sam to live the life he wanted.

Sam had every, every right to leave. Still, half of your soul had severed when he escaped. That was one thing you had in common with his brother.

But Sam hadn’t witnessed any of that. All he’d seen was the nuclear argument the week he’d left, and now magically you and Dean were attached at the hip. Two years of silent, methodical work had occurred when his back was turned, which was something you felt he deserved to know about.

Sam’s gaze was open and curious, so you didn’t shy away.

“We almost had a falling out, yeah,” you murmured, picking your nails. “I was pissed at Dean and he was pissed at himself. But if I’m being honest with you—and you can’t even hint that I said this, Sam…your brother was real lonely.”

I know I was too, you wanted to say, but the words tasted like a guilt trip. Sam could guess, anyway.

“He had Dad. And you.” It sounded like something he told himself often.

“That’s what you’d think.” You sighed. “But John went quiet on us pretty quick, so it ended up just being me. Dean, y’know, kept waiting for me to shut him out. And it just never happened. He pushes people away when he gets like that… so it surprised me when he offered to help me rebuild The Chief.”

Sam had been marinating with the knowledge that John had mourned him, hands folded over each other in his lap and seared white by his own grip. It was The Chief that had him whirling to look at you again. He was suddenly on his knees at your bedside, a soup of surprise and old grief mixing achingly on his face. You thought there might’ve been some pride in those charged brown eyes too.

“You’re joking,” Sam breathed, incredulous, “Your dad’s motorcycle? I thought it was destroyed in his accident?”

You resisted the urge to lean away from his proximity, and it was all too easy to stay in. Shrugging one sleepy shoulder, your voice ticked up: “Basically. The remains sat in the garage for years, rotting away into scrap metal. Dean kept reminding me that my Dad had wanted me to inherit it, and eventually we fixed it up together.”

Sam caught your wrist. “Where is it?”

“The garage,” you sat up, grinning despite yourself. “Do you wanna see it?”

_

Like bandits, you and Sam hurtled into your jackets and planned to escape out into the night. You both knew the house by touch, so you navigated easily through the dark apartment, giggling and hushing each other as you slipped past Dean. You thought you saw him lift his head in the darkness, but it gradually fell back onto his couch pillow. It’d been a long time since you and Sam had been able to slip away together.

The garage was a stout little building across the alley, filled to the brim with the discarded memories of a dozen generations of Proctor. It was cold enough to see your breath in the air ahead of you, so you and Sam bundled close as you skirted quickly across the alley. The walk was maybe twenty steps from the backdoor, but it felt like any other time you and Sam had run off as teens. The unfallen snow waited in the silent air. Frost grew like moss on the pavement. You caught yourself preparing to turn right, which after a short walk would lead you to the nearest 24-hour convenience store. You and Sam rarely had money for yourselves growing up, so sometimes you would pool your resources and share a jumbo slushie, which you traded sips from huddled together on the pavement. It was too cold for that now.

While you fought with the garage’s side-door, Sam dropped his hands into his pockets and stared down the endless length of your street’s back alley. From here, you could make out the shadows of chain-link fences thrown across the tarmac. It was so silent you thought you could hear the tinking of moths against porch lights. You felt his hand brush your back. For no reason at all a stomach’s worth of butterflies roared over you, but you knew he was just reaching for your dagger in case something crawled out of the dark. The house was warded; not the slim strip of street behind it.

“Open sesame,” you murmured when the lock was close to giving. Finally, the ancient door groaned open, gliding inward to reveal a wealth of rich cobweb-y darkness.

A single sconce bathed you both in amber light. You threw a grin at Sam underneath it, and gestured for him to enter the slightly-terrifying, cramped murdershed. “Gentlemen first,” you flourished, smirking.

The sound trailed off—Sam was already looking at you, and intensely. The tips of his nose and ears were rosy from the cold, but his cheeks were especially red, coloring him down into his collar. He glanced away from you and lost a bit of the pigment.

“You’re twelve,” Sam muttered. But he really was a gentleman, since he graciously led the way inside.

The darkness was less intimidating once you were inside it. Your eyes adjusted after a few blinks, then you could make out everything you and Dean had left here last summer. There were huge wooden shelves of random bins and shit, then tall metal tool chests that Dean had put wheels on decades ago. The bike had been finished by spring of Sam’s first year gone, so the last time you’d driven it was the following summer. You hadn’t touched it since. That probably should’ve disappointed you and Dean, but it was less about riding it and more about the cheesy, Hallmark movie time you’d spent putting it back together.

“Here?” Sam said, approaching the heavy tarp you’d thrown over it.

“Here,” you agreed, and hit the button on the wall which retracted the garage door. The motor rumbled it up, slowly exposing the silhouette of the bike to the moonlight. “Would you like to do the honors?”

Sam found a fold in the top, hefted it up and pulled. As expected, The Chief had hosted an entire realm of spiders while you’d been gone. Sam hardly cared. A laugh bubbled out of him, ecstatic and young, and in a daze of nostalgia he ran his hands over the familiar chrome and leather motorcycle. Chief reminded you of the cowboys from Dean’s favorite westerns. She was a steely sonuvabitch, with a tall windshield, a broad, muscled body, and three glaring headlights mounted on the front. The frame was a deep water blue with soft beige accents. Even if she’d been almost entirely rebuilt, you and Dean chose to keep the quirks that made her charming.

“Man,” Sam whistled. “She looks exactly the same!”

The Impala had the toy army man Sam had crammed into the ashtray in the backseat, and Dean’s legos were still rattling in the radiator to this day. Similarly, the Chief still had the B+R heart drawn in sharpie on the saddlebags. You’d torn a line in the passenger’s perch when you were little, and your mom had sewn it shut with pretty blue thread. What was new was the long, jagged scar in the head of the body. You had tried everything to get it out, had even painted over it, but the mark from your Dad’s crash was still there.

“You and Dean did this together?” Sam asked. He acted like you and Dean had never even looked at each other before, and silently you wondered if your argument with Dean two years ago had really been that terrible. It was apparently grave enough to wipe Sam’s memory of any friendship you and Dean had ever had.

“It was his peace offering, I think,” you cleared your throat. “He arranged everything with Ma, then surprised me one day with lunch and offered up the idea. It was… It was really sweet. Dean, he’s… he can be—”

“A closed-off asshole?” Sam offered. You huffed out of your nose and swatted him on the shoulder, but it was hard to even jokingly scold Sam when he was lit up like that. He crouched beside the bike, admiring the work that’d gone into it.

“Yeah. But a bit of a sucker, too. He loves you and he loves me, and it was one of those times where he was desperate enough to show it,” you shrugged. “We spent months in this garage, fixing it up. I learned a lot from him. So… yeah. I guess this is why we’re closer than you remember.”

All the spiders grossed you the hell out, but you kind of wanted to be a big girl for Sam, so you grabbed one of Dean’s old rags off the shelf and wiped down the seat and handlebars. Sam stepped back to watch you work; there was a similar admiration in his eyes then, too.

“I love it,” he gushed, “You guys did a great job. I know it must’ve been hard for you, after your Dad.”

Sam was full of sincerity, as usual, but the fact that he talked about it at all was refreshing. It’d been more than ten years since your dad had died, but Dean still kept his mouth shut and your Mom always changed the subject. You knew that they were mourning too—he’d been a partner and teacher, as well as your father. But you’d been ready to talk about him again for a long time. Not his death, but his life, which was understandably harder. Dean and your Mom just weren’t the type to roll that way, but Sam had studied how grief festered with age. He’d let you talk.

“It made me feel closer to him, to be honest with you. I don’t know if you remember, but we used to joke that he had two great loves in his life: my mom, and the Chief,” you snickered.

“I’m sure Beth enjoyed that,” Sam replied, dryly. He hovered at your shoulder while you cleaned up the bike, close enough to put you in the bubble of his warmth.

“Oh, she pouted, but deep down I know she loved it just as much as him.” It only took a little to make the bike gleam again, so once again your hands were left with nothing to do. You tossed the rag back on a shelf, hyper-aware of Sam and the two helmets hooked on the wall. “They took the Chief on their first date. She used to say that she fell in love with my dad on this bike.”

Sam leaned against the saddlebags with crossed arms, rolling a question around in his mind. The night was so soundless that you could hear a pin drop a block down. But it was a peaceful silence, with room in the air for thought, so you looked at Sam and tried not to explode with joy. It’d been weeks now, and you were still blown away that he was here in person. That you had him all to yourself again. Standing across from you, Sam seemed to glow with the same soft relish.

Unlike Sam and Dean, you’d had the fortune of growing up in a place with roots. You had a childhood home and a hometown. When you went to school, you went there until you graduated, and people knew you and you knew them. You had friends. Girls that you’d known since kindergarten, boys who’d been coming to your birthday parties since you were in diapers. But your lunch table-mates, your lab partners, and study buddies—not even one of them could even imagine what your real life was like. What you were really like. The only people who’d ever actually understood you had all been passengers on The Chief: your parents, Dean, and Sam.

“You should take it with when we leave tomorrow,” Sam suggested, smiling down at his warped reflection in the handlebars. “It’d be real handy to have two vehicles, I think, and you can get some use out of all the work you put into it.”

You probably should. It was a good, reasonable idea, but the picture of yourself alone on your bike, chasing the Impala’s exhaust… “I prefer the Impala’s backseat. S’ more roomy,” you smiled at your shoes. “Maybe I’ll take her tomorrow. But I don’t think I could ever handle riding it by myself for long.”

“Well,” Sam hummed. He pushed himself off The Chief, and you took that as a sign to leave. Stupid, childish disappointment welled in your chest, but it was your fault for hoping for something that wouldn’t happen. Sam was tired. He didn’t have time for teenage rebellion, not now.

Sam reached over your head. You thought he was going to collapse the garage door, but instead he unhooked a driving helmet from the wall. He offered it to you, a rebellious smile dimpling his cheek.

“I’m here, and I’m with you. Shall we?”

You double-taked. Wild, fervid excitement reignited in your limbs. You took the helmet, observing him carefully. “It’s past midnight. You haven’t slept in days. Are you sure?”

Sam got a helmet off the wall for himself, but thunked it onto the driver’s seat of the bike. Then he was suddenly in your space, dropping your heart into your boots and thudding it up into your throat in one simple step, rendering you still just by coming closer. It was different when Sam was the one initiating contact. The ball wasn’t exactly in your court this time, and there was no way he didn’t see it in your face because that’s all he was looking at. The helmet was taken from your hands, then set carefully onto your hair and over your face. You could feel his hands cupping either side of your head. Sam flicked up the visor so he could see you more, and pitifully your knees turned to jelly.

“Of course I’m sure. I trust you,” he promised, squeezing your shoulders. “Now, c’mon. I haven’t ridden this thing in years! We don’t have to drive long, I swear.”

Sam tugged on his own helmet and you sighed until your chest felt tight. It wasn’t obvious that he’d been crying just a few hours before, but you could still feel it in him. The difference between now and then comforted you. He was happy; he still could be happy, once this was all over.

When he didn’t get an immediate answer, Sam slyly commented: “You know, you called me your favorite earlier today. Seeing as I’m your favorite, I think that means you should drive me—”

“Alright, alright!” You laughed. “Get on the damn bike, Winchester. Just a few minutes, then we’re coming right back. You are such a snot.”

“Your favorite snot,” Sam reminded, and didn’t waste any time hopping onto the pillion.

Your mother and father had fallen in love on this bike. You’d put it back together with Dean, who was your best friend as much as he was your brother. But Sam—he’d always lived in his own realm, where he was both within your family and outside it. He was special.

This truth dug a little deeper into you than it usually did as you mounted the driver’s seat. Sam’s gangly legs were all in your way, his knees pressing into your thighs and his chest into your back. Even with the pillion being slightly elevated behind you, Sam made that distance feel small, snuggling closer without order and getting comfortable. The seats were freezing cold and so were the handles, but Sam was a furnace that melted any discomfort down the drain. You started the bike, and it rumbled to life like it’d been patiently waiting for the day you would come back. The motor’s throaty growl hit you like a punch to the teeth. It sounded exactly as it always had, when your dad was finally home after a long, faraway hunting trip.

You thought about your dad, and how he would race to get off his bike in time to catch your leaping hug; you thought about Sam making a point to talk about Ray when no one else would, and the little squeeze he gave you when The Chief pulled out of the garage. Sam shut the garage door behind you and together you peeled out into the cool, serene night.

You knew exactly why Sam didn’t fit a Dean mold or even a friend mold in your life. You knew why he felt special to you. But it would be murder to do that to Sam now, and you’d had enough of killing lately.

-

tags: @cookiemumster1 @seraphimluxe @leigh70 @emily-roberts @lacilou @cevans-winchester

ask to be added to my taglist!!

NEXT PART: dead in the water, p.2

[concentrateandpush]

Just like Charles had promised, he barely let me stay not pregnant. Baby is only 11 months old and I’m 40 weeks pregnant, which is unheard of with twins. I’ve been up all night with the little one and she’s at that point where EVERYTHING is interesting, fingers in plugs, stuffing bread into where it doesn’t belong.. we’ve gone through 3 iPhones because they just done belong in the bath. But, she’s beautiful and eagerly awaiting the arrival of her little play mates.

“Sweetheart, are you going to have nap time? Then when you wake up, Daddy’s going to be home?” I smile, trying to entice her into the idea. She shakes her head and just runs wild, it’s not that I don’t want to play with her and keep her entertained, it’s that I physically can’t at this point. “Up! Up!!” She smiles to me and I just can’t resist her face and so I get up letting her pull me to where ever she wants. “Ake! Ake!” She smiles, anything but fucking baking “Oh angel.. Mommy’s really tired” I sigh and kneel down “what about drawing? Or even.. even swimming?” I offer and her eyes light up.

Luckily, we have a pool in our garden, a decent sized one. “Okay, come on” I nod and get her changed before getting myself into a one piece. Once we’re in, she’s loving life, she’s like a sea creature, she’s always been great in the water. I look down at my stomach and give a gently brush over the top “we’re ready for you babies” I whisper. As if by magic, I start to feel an all too familiar pain. Biting my lip and just observing, I watch my stomach as it tightens slightly. I had already gotten my mucus plug, so I knew it was coming, but it takes me by surprise.

I ride through a few easy contractions and then decide it’s time to get out “Okay, sweetheart, time to get out” I smile and laboriously grunt as I pick her up and climb out. She senses something isn’t quite right, I know this because there was no nagging to stay in there. I check the time and sigh seeing that it’s still a while before Charles comes home. I settle her down and get her on the couch in a big towel and wrap one around myself, just trying to ease the pains as they come in and let out.

A while goes by and I check the time again, he’s late, baby is passed out on the couch with some kids show playing in the background and I can’t carry her up to bed at this point. Things are getting harder and I find myself squatting as I hold onto the kitchen counter, panting and trying to not wake her. I reach for my phone and call him, letting it ring and ring until he picks up “Babe? Im so sorry, work was crazy” he explains and I cut across “I need you here, I’ve gone into labor” I explain. “Shit, okay.. I’ll have Mom come and pick her up” he says fast and I shake my head “no you know she won’t let us do this alone” I sigh. “Okay, okay.. I’ll.. what about Juno?” He offers and I nod “yeah, just.. just get her here” I say as I clearly get closer to another contraction.

With in minutes, Juno comes in and looks around, I’m still on my knees in the kitchen. “Juno! She’s asleep there, she should sleep through, please just.. don’t tell them that they’re coming yeah?” I ask and she nods “I’ve got you, I won’t say a thing.. I trust you won’t say a thing in a few months when it’s my turn” she smiles softly and I beam at her “you’re kidding me?!” I ask as I get up and go to her, wrapping my arms around her “that’s amazing, I.. I’m so happy for you” I giggle. “Thank you, I’m ten weeks” she blushes. I knew that her and her girlfriend wanted a baby, but I didn’t expect her to do it at 17 and I have no idea who the dad is, but her face.. she’s so happy. “I’m so proud of you” I smile and tuck some hair back behind her ear.

“Babe?! Lena!?” Charles shouts and Juno shakes her head as if to say not to tell him. “I’ve got you” I whisper and rub her back before shouting “kitchen!”. “It’s our secret” I nod to her and squeal excitedly before he comes through. “Hey Juju” he smiles and rubs her back “hey bro, I’m going, I just came for Missy” she smiles and gets her bag and heads on out, leaving us alone.

“So you’re okay?” He checks and I nod “they’re still pretty far apart” I explain and drop the towel, letting him see my belly through the tight suit. I watch his face and see his nose flare “fuck” he whispers. I can’t help but smile as I lead to the couch “coming?” I ask and he nods, following as I go. I lay down and open my legs “I guess I need to make room right?” I ask shyly and bite my lip “I mean.. the head is going to be huge at forty weeks and I’m so tight..” I sigh, watching him get all hot and bothered.

“I..” he starts and I laugh a little “we have time, I’m not feeling movement or anything.. want to stretch me?” I offer and he swallows thickly. “There are some objects over there.. I want to push before I have to push” I say softly and he just gets up and goes for them. I go to take my swimsuit off and he shakes his head “I want that on.. I want you to struggle” he says calmly and I nod “as you please sir”.

He comes back with an inflatable ball, looking at me and I nod “you need to put it in.. how can I push it out otherwise?” I say innocently. He nods and picks up some lube, rubbing it all over me. He slides his fingers in and I groan a little before he pushes the ball in and starts to inflate it. I feel it expanding inside of me, I wouldn’t be able to play for long before baby works their way down. He starts pumping, I usually do two, maybe three. “You need to feel like you can’t do it.. practice” he smirks and I swallow thickly.

Once it’s in, I start to get a contraction and I look at him, immediately zoning out and needing to focus properly. “Come on.. this is the time to push” he tells me and my eyes widen. I pull both legs back, which is already uncomfortable, and I push a little but it scares me “babe, no, I can’t.. deflate it” I demand and he shakes his head “you need to push” he says dead pan and I start to panic, I get on my knees and look at him as I push again, cupping myself as I try to get it out. “Come out!” I groan, the contraction is not helping as I pant and wriggle through the pain. “Babe! Get it out!” I panic and he smooths my belly “it’s okay, you can do it”

“You don’t-“ I cry before pushing a finger around it “you don’t understand, I can’t get it out!” I sob and start to grunt, pushing as hard as I can. “Get it out! Get it out!” I scream “Purple! Charles, purple!!” I scream. Our codeword. “Fuck- fuck baby, I.. hold on” he says as he deflates it, pulling it out and tossing it aside, holding me and pulling me into him “baby, babe I’m so sorry, I thought-“ he starts and I shake my head “it hurt too much” I cry and just sob into him. He holds me, rocking me gently until I fall asleep. I need sleep so bad and he knows that.

I wake up about 3/4 hours later with an excruciating pain in my lower abdomen. “Mmm.. Charlie..” I grumble and rub my belly “Charlie?!” I shout seeing he’s not there. I immediately fall into a birthing breathing pattern, slowly trying to get on top of the pain until I feel a stabbing down below. “Unghh” I groan and reach to hold it “babe?!” I shout before starting to whimper through the pain. “Okay, I’m here, I’m here.. easy, babe, easy” he coaches me and I bite my lip, opening my legs again.

“Okay, we need to break these waters” he sighs and I nod, still working hard through the contraction. I’m opening up already, whether it’s just swelling or the baby, I don’t know. He pushes two fingers inside me and then nods “you’re so close” he smiles “about an eight, but we need to do this” he says softly as he puts on some gloves and a mask. “Ms Lovell” he winks and I laugh a little, the pain wearing down. “I’m just going to feel around and try to break your waters” he smirks.

“Yes doctor” I nod and lay back a little, watching him. The baby is filling me, it’s so hard but he has to have his fun. With in seconds the next contraction arrives, they are on top of eachother. “I need to hold your hand” I grumble and reach out feeling for him. He keeps his fingers inside me and then gives me his other hand. I feel his thumb on my clit, it’s all so much. “Nghh” I grunt “ahh! Baby!” I cry out as he starts to rub my clit so fast that it hurts “p-please!” I ask before he dives in and starts to suck on it “f-fuck” I mutter, the pain, the pleasure.

He starts to finger fuck me as he does all this and I just shake my head holding onto the pillow “Charlie!” I shout “Charlie! Charlie, Charlie!” I scream, partly in pain, mostly in pleasure. That’s when I feel it, the bag of waters explode inside me and flush out. I grip my thigh tightly and look to Charles “fucking hell” I mutter as I look down at the puddle in between my thighs.

[archaxwii]

The Tiny Fox Thief

Warnings: This story contains soft, safe, vore. Scott catches Fundy trying to steal his stuff for the 100th time and decides to punish him to deter him from doing it again.

I promise I didn’t stop wanting to write these, I originally wrote this like two months ago but works been rough recently and killing my motivation and time to write, but hey at least I got this out in time for Origins to come back? I’m hoping the next one won’t take as long but I can’t make any promises. Despite the long wait I hope you enjoy! 

A tiny fox man was rummaging through his things.

Again.

Scott had causally walked into his house to get some payment for Ranboo and Tubbo for a trade they were doing for his new build, and he was greeted with a familiar sight.

He opened one of his chests to grab some gold and out of the corner of his eye he spotted a tiny ball of orange fluff hiding behind a diamond that was suspiciously not with the other diamonds.

Scott rolled his eyes, he grabbed the gold he needed and safely stored it away from the greedy fox before plucking Fundy up from behind the diamond.

Said fox yelped a little at being caught and now being so close to the giant.

Scott shifted his grip so Fundy was gently held in his hands instead of dangling by the fingers. Even if he was a little thief Scott didn't want to hurt his friend.

Scott raised an eyebrow at him." This is the fifth time this month Fundy, don't you ever get tired of gong through people's things?" He questioned flatly.

Fundy gave Scott a sheepish look." Uh, heyyy, Scott...I uhh, don't know what you're talking about, I was just looking at your pretty gems, they're uhh, very shiny from down here, you know?" His eyes darted around, trying not to make eye contact with the agitated giant.

Scott didn't seem convinced.

"You know, you'd have your own shiny diamonds to look at if you went and got them yourself instead of stealing from other people." He deadpanned.

"Pshh, what's the fun in that?" A look of fear crossed his face as he realized his mistake." Uhh, not that I was stealing, cause, uh, heh I was totally not doing that, I promise haha." His ears flattened against the back of his head as he grinned nervously.

" What am I gonna do with you? You know I could blow you to smithereens right?" Scott shook his head. He was obviously joking, but a little intimidation never hurt anybody.

"Ahah, but you'd never do that right?" In the back of his mind he knew Scott wouldn't do that, but Fundy did shrink a little further into Scott's hand nonetheless.

"Hmm, maybe I should, teach you a lesson to quit stealin' from everyone." Scott threatened.

At first it was an empty threat, but a small rumble from his stomach gave him a different idea.

It wasn't uncommon for someone to go missing for a little while due to being tucked away in a persons belly. Most of the giants in this server had the ability to protect their prey and keep them safe for as long as they wanted, and for the ones who didn't have those powers there were potions that could easily help keep prey safe as well.

That's why Fundy knew as soon as he heard that growl, with the look that crossed Scott's face, that it was time to bolt. He immediately panicked and started trying to squirm out of the hand he was trapped in.

"I think I know a good place I can put you for tonight, maybe it'll teach you a lesson." Scott himself had never eaten anyone before, but he knew he had a control over his own digestive system, so he wouldn't actually hurt Fundy.

"P-please, Scott! I-I promise I won't steal again, I've changed, I've mended my ways and all that!" He stuttered frantically.

Now, Fundy has spent a fair few nights in the belly of one of his friends, especially after he'd been caught stealing from them, but just because he knew it was safe didn't mean he liked it. It was just so humiliating.

And I mean do you know how long it takes to get saliva out of fur?

In a stroke of luck, Fundy managed to squirm out of Scott's grip and he leapt off of Scott's hand onto the floor.

Fundy was speedier than the average tiny, fast enough to almost make it to the little hole the tinies used to get into Scott's house.

Key word there is almost.

Right as he got to the entrance, as the scent of the outside hit his muzzle...he was swept right back up into Scott's hands.

He whined as Scott's grinning face looked down at him." So close, yet so far Fundy." He petted Fundy's head with his thumb." I promise it's just for tonight, it'll be a good nights sleep and I'll let you out in the morning." Scott tried to reassure.

It was quite warm inside, it was soft and it was easy to fall asleep knowing he was safe.

Fundy huffed. That didn't mean he liked it! It was slimy and gross, it was so loud, and being eaten was so just embarrassing, and don't even get started on the trip down! No, he most certainly did not want to get eaten.

Scott kept a firm grip on him as he lifted Fundy above his head. Fundy yelped as Scott opened his mouth and unceremoniously dropped him in.

To Fundy this was a familiar hell. To Scott this was an unfamiliar heaven.

He hummed as he felt squirming around. Fundy battered his tiny paws at his teeth, trying to get him to open his mouth.

Scott didn't relent and instead started licking the little fox. He had a very salty taste that made his mouth water.

After Scott figured Fundy had been covered in enough saliva, he tilted his head back so Fundy knew what was coming. It was strange to feel Fundy physically tense, and after a couple seconds he swallowed him down.

Fundy yelped as he was shoved into the dark tunnel.

This was always his least favorite part. Not that he liked any of it, mind you. But this always left him dizzy and disoriented and feeling a bit sick.

He squirmed at the painful crushing that slowly pulled him down. He could tell Scott had never eaten someone before, it was much more painful than usual.

After a few more swallows his feet were pressed against something, he whined as he was squeezed through something much tighter and then unceremoniously dropped into a shallow pool of liquid.

Tired as the decent down left him, Fundy didn't hesitate to scramble up and start battering at the walls. He didn't want to actually hurt Scott, but he was still upset, it was so disgusting and humiliating. Why did they always do this to him?

Scott stumbled a bit, leaning against the chest at the unexpected assault on his stomach.

He didn't expect to be able to feel everything so strongly, and it felt kinda nice, despite the attack inside.

He hummed, pressing a hand to his stomach." You doing alright in there Fundy?" He inquired. He wanted to make sure he wasn't gonna actually hurt him.

"No, Scott, you just ate me!" He growled, trying to jump and climb up the slick walls to no avail." Please let me out, it's really gross in here!" He whined.

Scott chuckled, rubbing circles on his belly." Well I didn't exactly swallow you for your enjoyment, this is meant to be a punishment after all." He lowered his voice, tone more serious." Are you actually ok in there? I'm not hurting you, right?"

"...If I said yes would you let me out?"

"Fundy."

"Ok, ok, yeah I'm not dying or whatever." Fundy huffed, slumping against the wall with his arms over his chest.

"It's just for the night Fundy, I promise I'll let you out in the morning." He reassured.

Fundy remained grumpily silent, until Scott heard the thumping of footsteps and a figure appeared in the doorway.

"Scott?" Inquired the dark, imposing figure of Ranboo. The poor ender hybrid had to duck to see into the door.

Caught up in catching Fundy, Scott had forgotten his original goal when coming in here.

"Oh, I'm sorry Ranboo, I was trying to grab the gold for you guys and found a certain someone rummaging through my things again, so I had to deal with that." He quickly explained, sliding off the chest.

At the mention of Ranboo, Fundy scrambled up trying to claw at the walls again." Ranboo! Help me! I don't want to stay in here please!" He cried.

Unfortunately for Fundy, Ranboo couldn't hear him from the inside, but from the slight glance to Scott's belly he seemed to be able to figure out what happened.

Regardless of whether he knew or not Ranboo only lightly chuckled." You'd think he'd get tired of stealing one day." He stepped into the house, shaking his head." Well, do you have our stuff?"

Scott did a little "Oh yeah!" jump before turning around to dig in his chests. Fundy was still fiercely trying to get Ranboo's attention, which Scott blithely ignored.

After a couple seconds Ranboo was in the possession of 3 stacks of Redstone, a couple gold blocks, and some obsidian, and Scott now owned several stacks of concrete that he couldn't be bothered to harvest himself for a new build he was working on.

After saying their goodbye's Ranboo wandered off to...wherever he and Tubbo wandered off to, and Scott was left alone with Fundy, who was now grumpily sulking against the stomach wall.

After shifting his spades of concrete into his chests Scott retired to his room, flopping backwards onto his bed, trying not to jostle Fundy around too much.

He curled up around his middle, wrapping his arms around his stomach and allowing himself to revel in the sensation of Fundy being in there. Fundy wasn't moving much anymore but Scott could feel his weight, like a warm stone sat in the center of his belly. If he concentrated enough he could even feel the fox's soft breathing.

As much as Scott wanted to punish Fundy he did still feel bad for trapping him all night." You gonna be alright in there?" He softly asked.

Fundy huffed tiredly. It wasn't...that bad. It could actually be quite calming if he had wanted this to happen. It was much warmer than his cave and softer than the bed he slept on. The deep sounds of Scott's lungs and organs working around him did much better to soothe him than the dead silence he slept in at home. It wasn't really that bad in here if you ignored the disgusting amounts of slime...it's just that he hated feeling like food. And he knew nobody on the server felt like that towards him, but it didn't stop his brain from thinking about it that way.

He curled up tighter in a ball." I don't like being food for you guys." He mumbled, Scott could barely even hear the fox.

Scott pressed a hand to his belly, surprised at the sudden vulnerability. He didn't know Fundy felt that way about being eaten. Scott had assumed it was a fun game to him like it was everyone else." Fundy...none of us think like that about you, any of you, we like to have fun and mess with you guys but I-none of us- would ever think of you as food." He reassured. He'd never taken much consideration into how tinies really felt about being eaten, since people like Tubbo, Tommy, and Niki seemed to enjoy it (most of the time) and with the knowledge that it was safe, he didn't consider how negative it could be for some tinies.

He rubbed circles into his belly, feeling regretful." Do you actually want me to let you out? I don't want you to be in there if it upsets you."

Fundy sighed, licking at the few stray salty tears on his face."...No, there's no point when I'm already in here. And it isn't...that bad, I just...hate being reminded of where I am."

Scott chuckled lightly." Just think of it like a really weird waterbed, except with more slime." He offered.

Fundy snorted. It was like a waterbed of sorts, except it felt more like you were inside it than on top of it.

He laid his head down on his arms, closing his eyes. He didn't fall asleep immediately, but Scott's words soothed his nerves enough to where he found the stomach much less distressing than it had previously been. With Scott gently rubbing him and the sound of his heartbeat filling his ears and drowning out his thoughts, Fundy drifted to sleep.

Scott wasn't tired just yet. Being a Starborne, he much preferred being out at night and as such he was mostly nocturnal. He didn't mind staying awake anyway. He didn't know the next time he would be able to do something like this and wanted to enjoy himself as much as possible.

For now, Scott was content to just settle down and comfort Fundy. He'd had a rough couple hours thanks to him so he wanted to make him feel better as much as possible. He hadn't eaten tonight, but Fundy filled his belly enough where he didn't need to, a nice comfortable weight to keep the hunger at bay. He softly rubbed circles into his belly around Fundy, who seemed to slowly be drifting off. He was happy to lay like that for another few hours, enjoying the feeling of Fundy inside, as close and safe to him as a friend could be.

[lfzyxf]

My turn

Summary: It’s your turn to save humanity as you land on a foreign planet with Natasha and Clint.

Natasha Romanoff x reader, Clint Barton x reader

Word count: 1.1K (angst)

Masterlist

The three of you were standing before the ship, eyes looking around you, taking in the view. Under different circumstances you’d be happy standing there, the purple planet is beautiful, you hadn’t seen anything like it before.

Clint turns around, firing a Pym particle which makes the ship shrink. He walks towards it before kneeling and picking it up. An arm rests on your shoulders as you watch him, Natasha holding you closer to her, a bad feeling in her stomach.

“Alright, let’s go” the man instructs, moving pas the two of you. Natasha squeezes your shoulder shortly before following Clint.

“Really starting to regret my choice here” Clint speaks up as you see an archway of some sorts in front of you. “Yeah. I’m gonna bet the raccoon didn’t have to climb a mountain” Nat sighs, eyebrows narrowing. “You know, technically he isn’t a raccoon…” you look at her as you speak, a small smile resting on your lips.

“Whatever,” she rolls her eyes “he eats garbage”.

A sound makes the three of you silent, weapons are pulled from their places on your suits as you look around. A knife rests in each of your hands, gold lines adorning the handle.

“I assure you; you have nothing to fear from me” a hooded figure speaks up, face hidden from your eyes. “Creepy” Clint says, making you nod. “Welcome Natasha, daughter of Ivan. Clint, son of Edith. Y/n child of y/p/n.”

“Creepier” you whisper to the two older figures next to you. “Who are you?” Natasha asks, eyes narrow as she glares at the figure, one of her arms stretched in front of you, ready to pull you behind her.

“Consider me a guide. To you, and to all who seek the Soul Stone.” He answers, your thoughts racing, wondering who else had been here before you, why had they all failed?

“Great. You show us where it is, and we’ll be on our way.” Nat lets her guard down a little, moving more in front of you. The mysterious figure speaks up, “Oh, liebchen. If only it were that easy...” He removes his hood as he speaks. Revealing himself, a familiar face stands in front of you all. Your voice is soft as you speak “Red skull.”

All of you stand near the edge of the mountain, the view in front of you enchanting. “What you seek lies in front of you. As does what you fear.” Red skull speaks, something he must have said before.

Natasha looks at him, “the stone is down there?” “For two of you. For the other...” he smiles. “The Stone demands a sacrifice. In order to take it, you must leave behind that which you love.”

He points one of his thin fingers to the depth below you, “a soul for a soul.”

You look at Clint and Natasha, the two of them staring down at the never-ending depth, the end for one of you.

You sit in front of Natasha, she herself sits on one of the many rocks around you. “Maybe he’s full of shit” Clint speaks up, he walks up to the two of you, closing the distance.

Natasha sighs “I don’t think so” “Why because he knew your daddy’s name?” “I didn’t.”

You take a deep breath before speaking up “Thanos left here with the stone, and without his daughter. You really think that’s a coincidence?”

Natasha looks down, “Whatever it takes…” she says under her breath, Clint and you look at each other before repeating her, “Whatever it takes…”

Nat stands up, walking to Clint “If we don’t get the stone, billions of people are going to stay dead” “Then I guess we both know who it has to be”.

You walk up to both of them, taking their hands in your own, “I’m starting to think we don’t mean the same person” you speak up.

“Natasha looks at you, before looking at Clint “For the last five years, I’ve been trying to do one thing get to right here. This is all it’s been about. Bringing everybody back.”

“Do not get all decent on me” Clint says, glaring at the woman in front of him. “You think I want to do it? I’m trying to save your life you idiot.” “And I don’t want you to,” “Nat. You know what I’ve done. What I am now. Your life’s worth ten of mine”

You don’t speak up; you don’t know what to say. The people you love the most are fighting over who is to die and who is to live. “I don’t judge people by their worst mistakes” Natasha says, he didn’t judge her past, why would she judge his.

“Maybe you should” “you didn’t.”

The two of them look down, sharing another moment. “You’re a pain in my ass you know that?” You look at Nat, watching as she relaxes, but just then clint sweeps out her legs, holding her down.

The two of them continue, a fight breaking out while you stand behind them. Eyes tearing up you make up your mind. You know what to do, it’s the only way.

Clint has a family; one you are considered a part of. You love all of them as if they were your one, and so do they. His children are waiting for him to save them, his wife is waiting for him.

And Natasha, she’s like a mother to you, always taking care of you from the moment you joined the Avengers.  She has never had a family of her own, not even knowing their names. Growing up being controlled and brainwashed, only to then be found by people she eventually called her family.

You cannot take that away from her. You can’t take it away from them. there is only one option, and you know it’s the right one.

So, you start walking, you start running. You run past the both of them, closer and closer to the edge. And as you stand there, ready to jump you turn around.

Two pairs of eyes are focused on yours, “y/n, don’t-” “I love you both, so much. Tell the rest I love them, I know you will save them, save the world.”

“No-” the simple word fades into a scream, quieter and quieter as you fall. Your eyes open, taking in the beautiful world in front of you.

As you near the ground you slowly close your eyes, one last breath before your eyes close one last time.

Clint and Natasha lay in some strange water, their eyes open slowly, looking around. In one hand, lays the stone. They did it, she did it.

@dpaccione

@capsnacklepop

[diaryofabeautyfiend]

It Had to be Witches

Dean and Sam are on a hunt at Rowena’s request. When Sam is out of commission, Dean has to work with you.

Warnings: Unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it!) male oral receiving, fingering, mention’s of witchcraft, brief mentions of ritual style murders, brief mention of animal sacrifice, Dean is a sad boy.

Word count: 3567

All written and proofread (poorly) by me. All mistakes are my own. Please don’t copy or repost my work. Likes are great and I’ll love you forever if you repost and comment. Thanks for reading.

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Sam and Dr. Philips examined each of the women’s bodies. Carved into their limbs were runes consistent with the ones Rowena described. She said she was sending an expert who lived in the area but the boys hadn’t made contact yet.

“The other agent who was just here asked the same questions. Don’t you guys talk to each other?” Dr. Philips covered the bodies. Some of the women he knew personally.

“Different departments. You said he was just here? How long ago?”

“She. Her name is Diana Luna. She’s down at the evidence locker. All the women had the same necklace. She went to check it out.”

Sam thanked the doctor and set off to find you. First he called Dean. “Looks like Rowena’s story checks out. Her expert was just here. The bodies were marked with runes and all of their tongues cut out. And, get this, they all had the same necklace. Maybe a coven?”

“Of course. Of course it’s witches, Sam. Look, don’t go far. I’m on my way.” Sam was sitting on a bus bench reading coroner's reports when you approached him. Due to the nature of the case, Rowena insisted the elder Winchester carry out the task at hand. “Use Sam as bait.” she instructed.

“Agent Cornell? I’m agent Luna from the Lansing office.” You extended your hand. “Director Macleod sent me.”

“Yeah, I bet she did. Bring me up to speed.”

“Sure. I’ve got what you’re looking for right here.” You blew a very potent powder in his face knocking him out. You put the lankier Winchester into your truck and sped back to your house. Getting his dead weight up the stairs was a task but you did it. “Sweet dreams, Sam.”

Dean searched the entire town square for Sam with no luck. He tried his phone again and it was going directly to voicemail. Sam could hold his own against any witch but Dean was still worried. As he unlocked the door to the Impala, he heard you call his name over his shoulder and turned his head to see who was speaking. You blew the dream dust into his face rendering him unconscious.

He was heavier than he looked. You shoved him into the back seat and pried the keys from his hand. Baby growled angrily when she started but you had her purring for you in no time. You drove him back to your house and dragged him inside where you intended to tie him up. Rowena coached you on all their tricks. You took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and divested him if anything sharp. With his wrists and ankles bound in a pretty decent slip knot you splashed his face with water to wake him.

“Morning, handsome.” he smirked as you wiped his face.

“Big mistake, sweetheart. I’m guessing you’re the one we’re looking for.”

“Pretty and dumb. Rowena was right and you would be guessing wrong. Her name is Teresa Wilson. She came seeking asylum with our coven a few months ago. Said her whole order was obliterated. Turns out, she wasn’t exactly who she said she was.”

His face split into a cocky grin, “They never are. What do you want with me?”

“You need to help me find her. Rowena gave me a locator spell. When I cast the spell, I’ll need your fancy bullets. Problem is…”

He laughed heartily, “Problem is you can’t touch ‘em, am I right, sweetheart?”

“You would be correct.”

“And what’s in it for me?”

You took a step back just out of his reach just in case, “If you help me I’ll let your brother live.”

He strained against the ropes veins bulging in his forearms. “If you touch one hair on his head I’ll rip you apart myself. You hear me, witch?”

Your nails dug sharp into the meat of his cheeks so he would look at you. “Relax, baby. Your brother is safe. He’s asleep upstairs dreaming of puppies and rainbows as we speak. But if you don’t help me, he’ll never wake up. And, Dean, when I kill someone, it sticks. No resurrections for Sammy this time.”

You’ve never seen a human man snarl before. It was pretty cute. Rowena warned you not to be mesmerized by his sweet face and his Disney Princess eyes but you couldn’t help it. The man looked like he would, in fact, rip you apart. And, Hecate help you, you wished he would. You traced a finger along his sharp stubble covered jaw. His eyes turned up to look into yours, throwing daggers at you. “Anyone ever tell you how cute you are when you’re angry?”

“All the time. Get to the spell so I can take my brother out of here.” he growled.

“It’s not time. If I untie you, are you gonna be a good boy or do I have to hit you with my knock out dust again?” You couldn’t take your eyes off of his perfect lips smiling at you.

“Sure, mommy, I’ll be a real good boy.”

You knelt in front of him and parted his knees slightly to undo the first knot. “Such a smart ass.” He growled low in his throat when you peered at him through your lashes. His dick grew painfully hard against his jeans as you slid your hand up his legs to maintain balance. Of course you noticed though he tried to squeeze his thighs together to hide his arousal. “Do you like me like this, Dean?”

Of course he did. You were just his type. A little bratty but you had a good heart. Rowena told them about you. The little warrior for the Grand Council. They constantly sent you to do their dirty work and you did so without question like a good soldier. No wonder Rowena paired the two of you. You were the female version of him. “Like what?” His voice was low and dripping with need.

“On my knees for you. Looks like you do.” You winked at him but he looked away embarrassed.

It had been a long time since he felt a woman wrapped hot around him. Everything in him wanted to follow your siren song and happily crash. He couldn’t do it. This story always ended bloody. “You couldn’t handle it, sweetheart.” He peered down at the bulge in his pants. So did you. Your core heated at the thought.

“Is that a dare or a double dare?.” He spread his legs and licked his lips inviting you to take what you wanted. You shook it off and focused on the task at hand. “Well in any case, I made you dinner. Pot roast, potatoes, peas and carrots. Eat if you want.”

It did smell amazing. His stomach growled remembering that all he had was coffee this morning. The living room and kitchen were well lit and warm. He felt at peace in this place. More so than the bunker where it could sometimes feel clinical and cold. “You got a pretty nice place here. You all alone?”

A sly smile played on your lips, “Just me.” You sat the plate down in front of him with a cold beer and a bottle opener. The oven timer dinged and, when you opened the door, the aroma of cinnamon and spice wafted through the air.

“That pie?” He sounded choked up.

“Apple. I have an orchard in the back. Rowena filled me in on how to keep you happy.” You sit it on the windowsill to cool while you ate. “I can’t have you bashing me over the head and running off before we kill this bitch.”

He shoveled a fork full of potatoes and gravy into his mouth humming in appreciation. “Why me? You had Sam here. He’s much better at this witch stuff than I am. Why drag me out here?”

“You’re more reliable when making difficult decisions. You’re what I need. Another beer?” He nodded breathing in the soft floral scent that wafted off of your skin as you moved.

You didn’t offer any further information and Dean thought that was probably for the best. If he got in his head about the situation he would lose his nerve and that can’t happen. That’s how people die. As of late, Sam has had a lot on his mind. Dean would have to shoulder this burden. At least Sammy was getting some rest.

The two of you shared a comfortable silence only marred by silverware hitting ceramic. “Well that was delicious. Thank you….umm…I don’t think I caught your name.”

“I didn’t give it to you. I’m Y/N. But I wouldn’t mind if you kept calling me sweetheart. Pie?”

Dean's heart beat hard in his chest at the thought of calling you sweetheart “Maybe a little. So when do we do this thing?”

“Eat your pie then meet me outside. I have to prepare.” You slipped out the back door down a dimly lit path to your cauldron. You threw in the mandrake and tobacco. Last was the chicken that you had to slaughter. You grabbed a hen from her coop and stabbed her with your athame. It made a terrible sound which sent Dean flying through the back door ready to fight.

“What the hell was that?”

“Chicken.” You allowed the rest of its blood to drain and discarded the carcass. “periisti. lates. Ego te quaero. I vestrum adprehendet vos.” You chanted over and over until a glowing beacon appeared. “We have to follow it.” The orb circled the two of you then floated towards the Impala. You retrieved his keys from your pocket and started off for the car.

“Whoa whoa whoa. What are you doing?”

“Following the orb.” He grabbed your arm as you started to slide into the driver’s seat.

“No one drives my baby but me. You sit shotgun.” He impatiently waited for you to scoot over. When you reached for the radio he slapped your hand away. “Are you serious?!”

“What? There were other decades besides the 70’s.” He bit his lip and flared his nostrils letting out an unsettling growl. “Driver picks the music.”

“You are a child. Just drive. The spell won’t last forever” you huffed.

“So, just you huh? No boyfriend? Girlfriend?” You didn’t answer keeping your eyes trained on the orb. “Yeah me neither. Maybe later we can grab a drink.”

“My god. Can you keep it in your pants until we’re done? It took a left!”

He sped up taking off after it, “I see it. So that’s not a no.” That was all the invitation he needed. The truth was you would have given it up the moment those green eyes stared into your soul.

“It’s not a no. Let’s focus.”

Baby ate up miles of dirt road before reaching the highway. A couple of miles ahead the orb sped for an exit into town. You were led to the motel where the boys were staying. The door to their room was wide open and there Teresa stood bathed in the light of the orb. You bid it a job well done and sent it on its way.

Teresa, caught off guard, quickly muttered a spell pinning Dean to the wall, sending the gun skittering away. You faced each other down while Dean struggled. “She’s a kid!” he groaned in pain.

“I’m nineteen thank you. You don’t have to do this Y/N. Come on. We’re sisters. We share the same DNA. Let’s take them on together.” Tears welled in your eyes. You may have been blood but you weren’t sisters. She grew up far out of the Grand Council’s reach while you were their trained lap dog.

“Only half little sister. You’re hopped up on enough stolen magic to power the entire city. The Grand Council sent me to take you down. Adiuro te in nomine Hecate. Adiuro te in nomine Dianae. Tuae vires cum luna decrescant.” you chanted. She fought back but the binding spell was powerful. She didn’t have enough magic to hold Dean and fight you so she let him go. When he regained composure, he dove for the gun.

Without warning, Teresa gained the upper hand. She held out her arm and used all of her might to pull you towards her. Blood stained tears fell from your eyes as you struggled to breath. With every last ounce of strength you had you doubled down on the binding spell long enough to hold her so that Dean could put her down. The blast of the shot filled the small motel room filling your ears with a high pitched whining. You collapsed onto the floor where Dean scooped you into his arms.

“Hey, Y/N. Wake up. Stay with me. Shit.” He carried you to the car and gingerly set you down next to him. The drive back to your house felt long. When he got you inside he placed you on the couch and called Rowena.

“Is it done then?” she asked in her thick Scottish brogue.

“Yeah but your girl’s unconscious. She’s breathing but she used a lot of magic. A lot. I don’t think you’ll be calling on her anytime soon.”

“Keep her warm, Dean. I’ll be there soon.” The line went dead. He sat on the floor in front of you and brushed your hair from your eyes.

“Sweetheart, you need to wake up. We were supposed to grab that drink, remember?” He pressed his lips to your temple lingering there for a moment when he heard Rowena’s laugh trill behind him.

“I should add matchmaker to my long list of talents. Out of the way, Dean. I’ll get your girl fixed right up.” She patted his hand and pushed him aside.

His face flushes hot burning all the way to his ears. ”She’s not my girl.”

“Of course. Now, what seems to be the trouble, dear?” She placed her hands on your head. Her eyes glowed as she spoke over you. Your lashes began to flutter and you woke up. “There she is. Good as new.” You and Dean exchanged a look. “That appears to be my cue to go check on Samuel.”

“Thank you, Rowena.” your voice was hoarse barely above a whisper.

“Not at all, dear.”

Dean pulled you into his lap rocking you gently, “You scared the hell out of me, sweetheart.”

“I had to stop her. She hurt too many people.” You felt guilty for ending her but even guiltier for letting her go as far as she did. Guiltier still for not pushing harder to be in her life. “It was my fault.”

“Hey, no it wasn’t. What? You think you should have been a better big sister? You didn’t lead her down this path, Y/N.” You rested your head on his shoulder “All these years and all the stupid fucked up shit Sam and I did, I blamed myself. I took on that burden. Alone. It’s a lonely awful place to be. I’m begging don’t do that to yourself.” He held your face in his hands forcing you to look at him. He wanted to kiss you. You would have let him if he leaned in. Instead he brought you back down to his chest just to hold you. He saw so much of himself in you. You were headstrong and self righteous but your intentions were altruistic.

You melted into his arms so lost in him that you didn’t hear Sam and Rowena slip out. Dean offered his brother only a small nod to let him know you were ok. He had several texts from Eileen anyway. Happy to see his brother didn’t have to spend another night alone, he went back to the bunker.

You sat in silence for a while when you started yawning. “Shit. What time is it?”

“After midnight. I should get outta here.” You untangled yourself from his grasp but didn’t stand. His hands stayed respectfully at the small of your back. You locked eyes with him. Your core tingled as he brushed errant hair from your forehead.

“Or you could stay. We haven’t had our drink yet. Though, you don’t need to get me drunk, handsome.” You kissed his jaw and down his neck working your way to his collarbone. A soft moan escaped his lips when you nipped at his neck. “I mean you enjoyed me on my knees and all.”

“As pretty as you looked,” his voice was low and gravelly, “And, I mean you looked gorgeous. We really shouldn’t.”

You genuinely pouted your lips backing off of your ministrations, “Why not? I want to. And you clearly want to. You’re a fucking legend, Dean. Show me just how legendary you are.”

He arched a brow at you and smirked in the way that only Dean Winchester does. “Flattery will get you everywhere, sweetheart.” Finally his lips were on yours. The force of his kiss took your breath away. It wasn’t predatory or greedy. It was slow and sensuous bordering on hunger. His whole body was hungry for you. Dean Winchester was hungry constantly looking for something to fill the hole inside him. For the moment, that was you. He felt like he was floating and was suddenly very warm. If he stopped kissing you he knew he would just stop breathing. He couldn’t bare the thought.

“What are you doing to me?” His chest heaved. “I feel like I’m on fire.” Surely this must be a spell or enchantment. He pulled you back in for more but this time his hands strayed from your back. They traveled to your hips then under the hem of your shirt to feel your flesh warm against him. He had to feel you. To be inside of you. Deft fingers unbuttoned your jeans. Without breaking the kiss he stroked your clothed core working up a rhythm that flooded you with arousal.

“Touch me, Dean. Please” you cried. Pushing your panties aside his fingers explored your dripping pussy. His pace is maddening. Your hips snapped fucking back hard. “Fuck, Dean. So good. I need your cock. Want you to split ne open.”

“You’ve got a filthy mouth, Princess. Come for me and I’ll give you what you want.” And so you gushed around him moaning like a witch on fire. When your heart slowed to a normal rhythm you stripped naked. Before he could get undressed he took a moment to kiss and touch every inch of you. If this was only for tonight he wanted to savor you. “God you’re beautiful.”

“So are you.” You pulled him up and undressed him, never once breaking eye contact. His cock was red and weeping just aching to be touched.

On your knees in front of him you took the whole burning thing in your mouth. To Dean, you were the most stunning creature to exist. You swirled your tongue around the head while you hollowed your cheeks sucking him in deeper still.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart. Fuck that feels good.” His hands grasped the back of your head keeping you steady while he fucked your face. It started feeling too good like he would blow his load in your mouth. He had to feel your sweet cunt. “Let me feel you, baby. Fuck I need you.” You pulled off with a pop and climed into his lap. Both of you whimpered when you sank onto his length. The stretch was exquisite. Your pussy held him so tight. You ground your clit over his pubic bone while he fucked into you with a brutal pace. “You feel so good. M’not gonna last. Come for me, baby. I need it.” Your twat fluttered around him, milking him for all he was worth. You kissed once more fighting to hang on to the last tendrils of tenderness and warmth that you could.

“Stay. Please. Just for tonight” you whispered.

He tightened his grip on you. “Of course, sweetheart. All night.”

He hated to leave you but the sun rose like a beacon calling him away. If he didn’t leave then, he wouldn’t have ever left. Last time he stuck around and fell in love, he had to learn the hard way that he could never have this. Maybe he would call you the next time he swung through town. Maybe you’d spit in his face for bailing. He brushed the hair off your forehead and kissed your temple. “Bye, sweetheart.”

You woke when you heard the Impala roaring to life in your driveway. He left a square of paper with a phone number scrawled in pencil “I’ll always answer. -DW” You put on your robe, went down to your cauldron and threw it in with a few bundles of sage and some witch hazel to sever any feelings. On the next full moon, you’d do a cord cutting to make sure it sticks.

“See you around, handsome.” In his eleven hour drive back to the bunker, any feelings that you have would slowly fade. The two of you would go back to being too afraid to feel and far too afraid to fall in love. Dean wouldn’t hear from you again. He wouldn’t really remember where you lived. But, every time he drove through Michigan, he’d feel a twinge in his chest. And, no matter how many rituals you did, you’d feel him too.

[leviachaan]

Howdy how about a headcanon with the bros and maybe undatebles where mc has the best I'm not mad I'm disappointed face

//This is honestly a mood- thank you for the request!

Lucifer 🎲

He is incredibly amused.

It appears that your mere expression of utter disappointment is more effective on Mammon than his punishments have ever been so far.

+50 respect from Lucifer

He is curious about how much potential this talent of yours could bring into finally getting his brothers to act decently for once.

He would 10000% call for you every time he's too exhausted to nag at his brothers.

Lucifer: "Hello, MC, could you come to the living room? There's something you need to see"

He would attempt to mimic your face, only to look like he was one (1) step away from commiting mass murder.

He would low-key want to ask you to teach him how to achieve such expression, yet his pride would never let him.

He puts you on speed dial now and you are his third most commonly used contact after Diavolo and Mammon (both for obvious reasons).

Mammon💴

"O-Oi, what are ya lookin' at me like that for??"

He would H A T E it.

Scream at him, yell at him all you want, but please not the disappointment.

Poor baby would feel like you lost all hope in him. You are the only person who values him and realises his worth, he can't disappoint you :(

He swears he won't steal grimm from Levi again. We all know he won't stop, but he's trying!

He would even allow you near Goldie, just please don't give him that stare.

The good thing is that you don't even have to ask him what happened when he's in trouble.

Just look at him and he will be spilling the beans and the stolen money all over the place.

Leviathan 🐍

He would find it hilarious.

The whole house could be burning to shreds by all seven of them fighting and you would just stand in the corner with the most deadpan expression ever. He loves it.

You would 1000% end up viral by him posting a video of two of his brothers fighting to death behind you with you just eating cereal in front of them.

He would make sure to make you sit through a 2 hour long presentation of what anime and game characters you remind him of.

You would be able to make Mammon give him his money back so guess what you two are best friends now.

Satan📖

Much like Lucifer, he's amused.

You always managed to look so disappointed yet not mad when Beel chugged down all the food you spent all night making before the others could even as much see their breakfast.

At first, he thought that's how you reacted in order to alleviate your rage, but once you told him that's just how you react, he was impressed.

If only he could control his anger like that.

Seeing how effective it is on his brothers, he would attempt to pull off that look.

Only to have him chopping tables and doors in half a few seconds later.

Unlike you, he's very mad and very disappointed at the same time.

Asmodeus 👛

He would struggle to stifle a giggle every time your face shifted into pure disappointment towards his brothers.

He would find your expression so endearing that he would risk breaking his face mask in order to smile when you do it.

He loves it as long as it's not aimed towards him.

He's supposed to be the one charming people in here, yet your face makes him feel the need to write down a whole list to apologise for whatever he did.

It will be a loooong list, let me tell ya.

"Sweetie, please don't frown at me like that, your face will get wrinkles!"

He will think it's hot, let's be honest.

Beelzebub 🍔

He was yet again busy emptying out the whole fridge.

You were so excited to find the perfect cheeseburger here in the Devildom that wasn't capable of murdering your stomach and saved it for later.

You seemed to have forgotten about Beel's void of a stomach, however.

You would step in the kitchen late at night for some water, when you noticed a familiar red floof in front of the fridge.

Oh no

Upon hearing your snap, his head snapped towards you, the remains of your once precious cheeseburger around his lips.

Your face seemed so sad to him. You weren't mad so you must be sad, right?

He would immediately apologise, he didn't know it was yours. Poor bub would offer to buy you one himself as an apology.

He doesn't like that face at all, he thinks you are sad. Please don't be sad.

Belphegor💤

You are a mood, honestly. He's the same.

Why bother being mad when you can just stare at them?

He would be perfectly capable of killing someone if they got on his nerves too much, unlike you, but still.

When you two are annoyed at each other, it would be like a staring contest.

More like asserting dominance kind of battle

There can only be one dead inside person in here.

He would eventually get tired and end up falling asleep on top of you to stop you from looking at him like that.

More excuses for him to make you his pillow.

Diavolo👑

Are all humans like this??

He will be a bit confused as to why you reacted like this when he announced to you that he wants to make your birthday a national holiday.

Is that sadness? Happiness? E x p l a i n, M c

He would ask Barbatos for help, but he soon got used to you reacting this way and now he adores it.

He finds it hilarious when you look so done every time the brothers fight that he would chuckle every time.

Lucifer would want to obliterate you

You are his precious exchange student and everything you do stirs so much fascination within him.

Simeon👼

He would also let out a sweet chuckle every time you pulled out one of those expressions.

He would find your face so adorable, he can't help staring at you when you are at it.

Can we date Simeon? Pls

He would ask you whether you are okay either way, because he's an actual angel and cares about you.

He would kind of softly ruffle your hair to calm you down or to tease you, your choice.

He is an angel, but it doesn't mean he isn't playful.

Solomon 🔮

He would love it to the moon and back.

He absolutely a d o r e s it.

1000% uses it against the brothers at any given time.

"Maybe you shouldn't do that, Mammon. MC won't be happy about it "

Unlike the others, not only would he not mind when you do it to him, he will even tease you about it.

"Is everything alright, MC?" he would ask with a huge grin on his face.

If you showed him the slightest hint that his reaction annoyed you, he will do it again.

He will listen to you, if something happened though.

Doesn't mean he won't tease you during it.

[magpie-to-the-morning]

Pull the Blinds - Part Three

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Pairing: Javier Peña x Fem!Reader

Wordcount: 4k

Tags: Established Relationship, Journalist reader, no Y/N, Established relationship, Dom!Javi, female reader, unprotected p in v sex (don’t do that), fingering (female receiving), oral sex (female receiving), rough sex, name calling, aftercare

Summary: A failed raid sends Javi spinning, desperate to take the edge off. Luckily for both of you, you’re also in need of something to take your mind off work. This is the third in a series, but they can be read individually.

Huge thank you to @keeper0fthestars​ for the encouragement, brainstorming/co-thirsting, and beta’ing when I couldn’t look at this anymore. Love you babe! 😘

Part One - Part Two - My Masterlist

Read on Ao3

“God damn it,” you slam your folder shut and tear your glasses off to pinch the bridge of your nose. You’ve hit a dead end on this assignment and even taking the day to work from home, all your papers spread out on the kitchen table before you, hasn’t helped. Tension is radiating down your neck and shoulders, lines of stress and pain only worsening the harder you try to force yourself to think through the problem. Pressing a thumb between your brows eases that tension somewhat, and you’re just standing up to take a well-earned break when you hear someone pounding at your door.

You freeze. You’re not expecting anyone. Normally you wouldn’t be so concerned (it’s the middle of the afternoon, after all, and you live in a decent neighborhood), but between your career as an investigative journalist and the drug war tearing Colombia apart at the seams, it never hurts to be cautious. Reaching behind the sofa, you pull out a baseball bat before inching towards the door. The door rattles on its hinges, the knocking louder and more insistent than before. This is no casual visit. 

“Who is it?” Your voice is level, even as your knuckles tighten around the aluminum and you take a deep breath in, out. Your mind is already spinning through potential scenarios- has someone clocked your undercover work, tracked you to your home? Adrenaline surges through you, your body screaming at you to be ready for anything, and you only relax a fraction when you hear a familiar, muffled, “It’s me.”

“Javi?” A glance through the peephole confirms that it is Javi, palms braced against your door jam, his dark brown hair slick with sweat and his green, DEA-issued tactical vest wrapped around his chest. His gun is holstered, hanging from the leather belt slung low around his narrow waist. No immediate danger, then. 

Setting the bat down you open the door, eyes wide with concern. “Everything okay?” You look behind him, expecting to see the street lined with official vehicles and men bristling with guns, but there’s just his Bronco, parked rushed and crooked against the curb. 

Javi’s already brushing past you so you shut the door and follow him. None of this is like him, not the disheveled state of his hair or the sweat-drenched pink shirt clinging to him, and certainly not him barging in, looking like he’s just come from a raid. You get in front of him, taking in his wild eyes, the way he can’t seem to keep still. It’s unnerving, and not doing a damn thing to reassure you that he’s remotely okay or to calm your own racing heart, but you adopt your calmest tone and say “Javier. Talk to me.”

Finally seeming to actually see you, Javi stops pacing for a moment to answer you. “We had them, we fucking had them!” 

You’ve never seen Javi like this. It’s not that he never brings the work home with him- how could he not? You’ve seen him exhausted, worn out from lack of sleep and endless hours spent chasing leads that go nowhere. You know what it’s like when the seeming futility and endless bureaucracy wear him down, seen him stressed and frustrated and devastated by loss. But you’ve never seen him like this- electrified, explosive. It’s all you can do to meet his raw, frayed energy with your own carefully constructed calm. “Slow down. Tell me what happened.”

Javi gives you the gist. Nothing confidential, nothing that would put either of your professional ethics in jealousy, but enough to see the shape of the thing. A raid, weeks in the planning, turned up nothing but an empty warehouse. Someone must have tipped the targets off, warning them before the DEA could spring their trap.

You wince. You know the effort that had gone into it, the countless hours of sifting through transcripts, painstakingly confirming scraps of rumors whispered through hushed calls. Weeks of work, wasted, all gone to ashes in mere moments. No arrests to show for it and worse, a potential leak. Javi’s desperation makes sense to you now. If one of your investigations had imploded this catastrophically you’d be out for blood, too. 

But of course, there’s nothing he can do about it. Not yet. Not until the dust has settled and the analysts can come up with new leads. Until then, Javi just has to sit with the knowledge that his last several weeks of work have been utterly wasted, that the cartel has slipped from their grasp yet again, and are likely laughing their heads off about it from a safe distance, all while plotting their next devastating move. It’s eating him alive.

His story finished, Javi heaves a sigh and scrubs his hands over his face, still coated in a sheen of sweat. Belatedly, he takes in your scattered papers, the chair shoved away from the table where you were working when he burst in. “Shit, you were in the middle of something, sorry. I shouldn’t have burst in on you like this, I just-” he shrugs vaguely, still looking bewildered and only half present.

“Hush.” You lay a hand on his chest, can feel it rising with every heaving breath beneath the solid tac vest, and tip his face up so his eyes meet yours. “What do you need?” 

You’re assuming it’ll be something like ice water or, more likely, a shot of whiskey. Maybe a shower to cool off. He’s got some clothes in a drawer in your bedroom, maybe he’ll feel better if he changes…?

While you’re brainstorming potential solutions, Javi is staring at you with all the intensity of a panther sizing up its next meal. Before the thought can properly register, he surges toward you, so suddenly your back hits the counter, its edge digging into your lower back as his arms surround you. His broad hands clutch at the fabric of your dress, making the skirt ride dangerously high up your thighs. His lips crash against yours, slanting and molding to you as he grabs the back of your head. When you gasp he deepens the kiss, his hand clenching in your hair as he tips your head back, plundering your mouth so aggressively you feel teeth. It’s only after those teeth nip sharply at your bottom lip that he pulls back, his breathing ragged. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not- I should go.” He hunches his shoulders like he’s ashamed to be seen like this and makes for the door. 

Oh. So that’s what he needs. You can picture it now- him bending you over the counter and taking you, hard, right then and there, using you to work the sharp edge off his temper. Just the idea of it, Javi pouring that frustration into fucking you, is thrilling. Besides, turning your brain off for a bit, giving yourself over to all that fury is exactly what you need right now, and he thinks he needs to shield you from that impulse? Hell, no.

You stop him with one touch of your hand. “Don’t go.” Javi’s head jerks up and he stands rigid as you press yourself against him, your hips touching, your hands moving over the taut lines of his arms. “You clearly need to take the edge off.” He hisses as your lips close on his trapezius, your tongue flicking out to taste the salt on his skin. “And I could use a distraction,” you croon. 

“I’m too worked up- I don’t want to hurt you, cariño,” he bites out, even as he looks at you like he could eat you alive and spit out your bones, still hungry for more. 

Javi knows you like it rough. Hell, he’s fucked you through gritted teeth and snarls enough times to know you love it that way. This is different. This is burning rage and rough hands, the difference between training rounds and live fire. 

You want all of it.

Your lips curl in a knowing smile and you straddle his thigh, denim-clad muscle taut against the scrap of cotton separating your bodies beneath your skirt. You grind down on him and meet his burning gaze. “Not even a little?” 

He growls at your challenge, a caged jungle cat, all sleek, bunched muscle and barely checked savagery. He eyes you up and down, assessing, his knuckles tightening against the counter. He runs a thumb over his lower lip and that’s when you know he’s genuinely considering it. You clench and shudder in anticipation, eyes locked on him as he demands “give me your safeword.”

“Javi, you know what it is.” The two of you had chosen it months ago, a reminder of the vacation you’re always meaning to take but never quite get around to.

He leans closer, eyes dark and grin darker. “Remind me,” he rumbles, clutching the edge of the counter he’s got your back up against. 

Your throat bobs as you swallow. He’s so close. You can see the sweat sliding down the planes of his neck, feel the edge of his tac vest digging into you, practically taste the bitter tang of unspent adrenaline. The thrill of the hunt rolls off of him in waves, the livewire burn of his need sparking an answering flare in your blood. You have to lick your lips before answering in a whisper “It’s Aruba.”

“Good girl,” he purrs, his voice the inescapable rumble of an impending landslide. His nose drags against your cheek, his lips ghosting over your jawline. “And you’ll use it if you need to.” He’s no longer asking. He’s telling. 

 “Yes, Javi.”

His teeth close on your earlobe sharply. “Yes, what?”

Another shiver runs through you. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s fucking right.” Without further warning, Javi grabs you by your upper arm and shoves you towards the bedroom. 

Your heart rate spikes, blood thrumming in time with Javi’s heavy tread marching you down the hallway. His grip is fierce, his expression fiercer, and you suddenly wonder what it’s like to go toe to toe with this man, Agent Peña, in the field. For all his honor and dedication to justice, there’s a streak of ruthlessness running through the heart of him, a need to see the mission through to the end, no matter the cost. Javier is a good man, better than he’ll admit to himself, but that darkness is there. Not a flaw, not really. A smoky occlusion in the ruby heart of him, one more facet in the complex matrix of his inner self.

This knowledge isn’t new to you, but Javi letting you see it firsthand is. It doesn’t scare you. Nothing about him ever could. You trust him, know him, too well for that. No, you’re honored that Javi is willing to show you the jagged edges of himself, to trust you to handle these broken pieces without either of you winding up bloodied.

As you step through the doorway to your bedroom, Javi pushes you towards the bed. “Strip.” His eyes rake over you hungrily, devouring every new bit of skin you reveal as you obey, dropping one garment after another on the floor of your bedroom. He watches, arms folded, still fully clothed, still wearing that tac vest that shorts your brain out. In no time you’re completely naked before him, your body on full display in the afternoon sun streaming through the windows, but he makes no move to undress. He sits in the middle of your bed, leaning his back against the headboard like he owns the place and crooks his finger at you. You crawl to him on hands and knees, letting him pull you into his lap.

“Tell me what you want, querida.” His voice is low and sweet, amber honey dripping into your ear while he noses at your cheek, the deep rumble of his voice reverberating through you. Fuck if that voice doesn’t go straight your cunt.

You squirm in his lap, shifting to straddle his waist, your naked sex molded to the bulge swelling beneath his tight jeans. “I want you to fuck me, Javi. Let me help you get rid of all that tension.” You reach up, start kneading his shoulders, but he tsks and pushes your hands aside.

“Not yet. Not until you’re ready.”

You jut out your lip in a mock pout. He’s the one who pounded on your door, amped up and aching, so it hardly seems fair that he’s turned the tables on you this easily, and yet... 

You’d expected him to take you quickly, to burn through you wildfire fast, but now that he’s got you where he wants you he’s intent on breaking you down slowly. 

Your fingers curl over the edge of his vest, clinging to him while he kisses you breathless. He’s in complete control, every gasp and jut of your hips unfolding at his urging. He tastes every part of you, his teeth closing over pulse points, tongue flicking over every dip and hollow of your body. You lose all sense of time when he reaches your breasts, drowning in sensation, only pulled back to the present when he pinches a nipple or bites down on the full moon swell of your breast. 

He leaves marks as he goes, livid reminders of his claiming every inch of you. You submit to all of it, your fingers scrabbling for purchase over the expanse of that heavy vest as Javi bears down on you. Heat is building in you with every bite and suck and caress, but your body is screaming out for more, more, more. It’s then that it finally hits you- the bastard is doing this deliberately. He wants you as keyed up as he is. That realization pitches you headlong into the blaze he’s been stoking all along and you moan, desperate for more. 

He indulges you, still painfully slowly, more fuel for the fire raging in both of you. Reaching down between you, he drags his fingers over your thighs, already slick with the desire dripping from you. “Christ, you’re so wet from just this. You like letting me do this, don’t you? Getting so worked up being my good little slut.” 

You gasp and nod, whimpering now that he’s so close to where you need him but still not quite there. He rewards you by finally pressing those thick, clever trigger fingers against your weeping cunt. He moves in slow, torturous circles, and you reach for him, try to kiss him, to beg wordlessly for more. He pulls away, chuckling at your eagerness. “No. Let me do this for you.” 

He knows damn well what he’s doing, pushing you to see when you’ll get impatient. You try to wait him out but forget yourself when he slips one finger into the molten clutch of your sex. It’s so good but you need more. “Please,” you murmur, moving to kiss him once more, your hand dropping between you, needing to feel him. Besides, a wicked, wanton part of you wonders what he’ll do if you disobey him like this. 

Your answer comes swiftly. Javi flips you onto your back with a snarl, one hand behind your head to cushion the sudden move. Grabbing your wrists in one hand, he hauls them above your head, pinning you in place. “What did I tell you? Hold still!” He slaps your pussy once, twice, three times in rapid fire succession, each hit harder than the last, leaving you stinging and aching for more. You moan and writhe in his hold, rubbing your thighs together, desperate for some kind of release. 

Javi watches you mercilessly. “Yeah, you like that? Filthy thing. Want me to do it again?” Your toes curl and he takes that as your answer, delivering one more slap to your cunt. He leaves his hand there, tracing slow, deliberate circles around your clit. The sudden tenderness, the tantalizing possibility of finally gaining some relief has you practically sobbing.  

“You gonna be a good girl and keep those hands to yourself?”

“Y-yes, Javi.” 

He pulls his hand away at once and you whimper, realizing your mistake as his expression darkens. “I know I didn’t just hear you forget your manners.”

“Sir,” you correct yourself quickly. “I meant, yes sir.” 

“That’s what I thought.” You know from experience that he loves this, temporarily reducing you to a pleading, pliant mess. He knows the trust this requires, and the way it frees you to give yourself over to pleasure completely. It’s a responsibility he never takes lightly. He always knows just how far to push, what boundaries to test or limits to prod, knowing that’s half the fun. As for the other half...

He works you open, one thumb on your clit, his fingers probing deeper and deeper inside you. Your breath hitches when he’s knuckle-deep, massaging that spot that makes you clench and shudder. He gets you off like this more times than you can count, sending waves of pleasure rippling through you from your curled toes to your tingling scalp. He strokes you and finger fucks you for what feels like an eternity, all the whole whispering sweet filth into your ear. Dark promises of how he intends to take you, to use you, all without filling you the way he knows you crave.

“Please, please fuck me. I need you so bad baby, I don’t think I have another one in me like this.” He’s made you cum so many times you’ve lost count, worked your clit until you’re completely over stimulated and begging for mercy. 

He has none. Instead of giving in, he delivers another harsh smack to your abused cunt. “Tell me who owns this pretty pussy.” 

“You do, Javi, please...” 

“Then give me one more.” He spits and you feel it land, slipping over your swollen folds. It’s lewd and obscene and forgotten the instant Javi lowers his head and licks the sting of the latest slap away. His broad tongue works you mercilessly, ripping another shuddering cry of his name from your lips as he brings you to the edge and shoves you over it once again.

“Get on your knees.” He makes you wait, arms trembling, pussy drenched and waiting while he gets up to undress. He misses nothing, clocking the instant when you clench, your throat bobbing, as he unbuckles his leather belt. Javi quirks an eyebrow and, folding it in half, he swats it once, hard enough to be loud but not enough to truly hurt, against your ass. An experiment more than anything else. You let slip a filthy moan, confirming his suspicion that you truly are this comfortable with rougher treatment. 

“Maybe next time, querida,” Javi chuckles. He tosses the belt aside, along with those tight jeans and every other bit of clothing, rejoining you on the bed. He takes his place behind you, hands clutching your hips as he teases your entrance with the fat head of his cock. You can feel how hard he is, the length of him like steel as he pushes himself lazily against your folds. It’s more agonizing buildup, and even when he finally, finally starts to fuck you, he does it with just the tip of his cock, thrusting shallowly, enough to make you clench without being filled. It’s torture. You try to push your hips back to take him deeper, but his firm grip holds you motionless.

“Something the matter, baby?”

You grit your teeth. If he doesn’t fuck you properly right the fuck now you might actually combust. “I need more Javi, please,” you beg. 

“Yeah, think you can take it?” 

Your only response is a desperate whine, met with a harsh chuckle. “You asked for it.” 

He shoves himself inside you in one savage thrust. Even with all of his teasing, the orgasms he’s already pulled from you, and the slick practically dripping from your swollen pussy, it’s a shock. You gasp, his thick cock plunging into you with a filthy squelch, and the sudden overwhelming fullness forces another climax from you without warning. You clamp around him and cry out, barely even registering the flood of wetness practically squirting from you, soaking the rough curls at the base of Javi’s cock. 

“Fuck that’s it,” he groans. “That’s my good - fucking - girl.” He thrusts into you in time with his words, working you through the sudden orgasm. As if your release was some sort of signal, this is the moment when Javi finally lets the leash of his control slip, fucking you like a man possessed. His hands grabbing your hips hard enough to bruise, he pulls you onto him as his hips slap against you, setting a brutal, punishing pace. 

You’re dimly aware that the harder the fucks you, the more your body slips against the sheets and away from him. Frustrated, Javi shifts his grip, pulling you up, your back flush against his chest and his arms bands of steel around your breasts. His breath is ragged in your ear and even when his teeth close on your shoulder, it does little to muffle his harsh grunts. 

Time slips away again and all you know is the bone-rattling ferocity of Javi fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. You’re so overwhelmed with pleasure you hardly know when one orgasm rolls into the next, all you know is that Javi has you in a death grip and you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Finally, through a haze of sweat and bliss, you feel him stiffen behind you, his hips stuttering and a strangled groan escaping him as he drops his head to your shoulder, his cock spitting deep inside you. You bury your hand in his hair, mutter soothing nonsense as he spills himself into you. When he finally stills, the two of you collapse into a heap on the bed, his body a comforting weight on yours.

You lay there, in a sweaty, blissed out tangle for several minutes, both trying to catch your breath. Javi recovers first, rolling off of you and gathering you into his arms. He pushes the hair from your eyes, his own going concerned when you’re still too boneless to respond to him calling your name.

Giving you some time to recover, he gets the arnica gel from your nightstand and is already smoothing it over the livid marks on your hips when you come back to yourself enough to speak.

“Mm, feels good,” you slur, rolling onto your side to give him better access. You’d introduced him to this particular remedy when he’d shown up with bruises after a particularly difficult arrest, and it had quickly become a favorite aftercare ritual whenever things turned rough in bed. Javi’s thick fingers glide soothingly over every ache and sting, though you catch his wrist when he moves to smooth the gel over the bite marks he left on your breasts. 

“Oh, baby, was I too rough here?” His eyes are soft with concern and the beginnings of apology, so you’re quick to shake your head no. You roll closer and brush away the sweat-slick curls threatening to hide his face. 

“It’s not that, Javi. I just… kind of like seeing the marks. The gel makes them heal faster, so leave a few for me, would you?” 

He kisses you. “Ok, wild thing,” he says affectionately. “Give me your wrists though, unless you want everyone at your office seeing what I did to you.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” you tease, but offer him your wrists nonetheless. He’s so gentle, cradling the back of your hand in his own massive palm, his fingers rubbing the gel into your wrist in slow, circular strokes. When he’s finished, he raises your hands to kiss your palms, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that makes you melt. 

“C’mere, baby.” Javi pulls you to lay on top of him, running his hands over your hair and pressing kisses to your face. “You good?”

It’s sweet, the way he fusses like this after having just taken you entirely apart, soothing you with the same single-minded determination he brings to every other part of his life, and you bask in the glow of his care. “Yeah Javi, I’m perfect.”

Javi huffs out a laugh at that. “I'll say.”

You shift in his arms to get a better look at him. He seems more like himself now, less agitated, more present. “Feeling better?”

“Much. I feel like I could sleep for a week.” He drops a kiss to the crown of your head and breathes out. You can feel his body relaxing as he does it, proof that he’s telling the truth. 

“Sleep then, I’m sure you need it.” He nods, his breathing already turning slow and even as he drifts towards rest. You close your eyes, about to join him when the solution to your work problem flashes through your mind, clear as day. As soon as you’re sure Javi has drifted off, you slip out of bed and back to work. 

Maybe you both could use that vacation after all…

[svnarintaro]

what is wrong with me..

authors note: i want to talk about how cute he is. but honestly i want to write something kind of angsty cause why not :p also i kinda wrote this all in one go without reading over it :??

synopsis: shoto todoroki knew for a fact that he was sick, his stomach felt funny when looking at you, being near you or even hearing your name. he would do anything to avoid you even if it meant being harsh and blunt, until you confront him about how he has been acting

warnings: angst with a fluffy ending :)

word count: 1.6k words

todoroki shoto x reader

“hey todoroki is something wrong?” midoriya asked. at this point the the split haired boy stared at you, well it was more like he was glaring at you. the unfamiliar feeling in the pit of the stomach growing the longer he stared. “they make me feel sick midoriya. i can’t help but feel like they’re hexing me or something, my stomach feels all funny just by being around them.” todoroki explained in a monotone voice, he didn’t know how to feel about you, ever since the USJ attack he just couldn’t see you as a friend or acquaintance; you were different. and as he stared iida trying to get him to stop staring “todoroki it is very rude to stare please respect people even from a distance,”

“he’s glaring at you again, y/n..” you sat up a little straighter as toru pointed out the pair of eyes drilling holes in the back of your head. the only people who knew that y/n had a crush on todoroki was toru and jirou. you knew that you had no chance with momo being in your class, you never hated her she was everything that you wished you could be: rich, smart and nonetheless beautiful and most of all she was liked by todoroki. you sighed with a tinge of hurt, “i just don’t know what i did wrong to make him hate me so much,” you balled your hands into fists as you prayed the bell to ring to end the lunch period. 

the final class of the day finally came and it was time to go back to the dorms. as the students flooded back into the their respected buildings, as the students of class 1-A dragged their feet a pink student skips towards the front of the students, “GUYS LETS HAVE A MOVIE NIGHT!!” the class looked around to see if the others were willing to go up to the offer. “guys i think it would be a fun idea to destress.” and all of them started to agree.

they all changed out of their uniform to the comfortable clothing to their liking as they all piled in the common room one by one. “hey kaminari thanks for bringing your tv down here for this,” mina laughed to lift the air a little bit before the movie started. “yeah no problem, thanks for letting me choose the movie,” denki laughed, ‘i hope the guys don’t make fun of me for choosing this movie.’

you finally walk in late with the common room while laughing with kirishima, “okay listen i am 100% certain that fat gum watches shoujo anime,” the red head started to rant and to todoroki’s demise, the same feeling in his stomach but now a new one appeared; wrath towards his shark toothed classmate for making you laugh, in fact the fact that you laughed made him even more angry. “no way eiji i know for a fact he watches slice of life,” and as you responded, todoroki’s emotions stirred. 

“OI PIKABRAT WHY ARE WE WATCHING MEAN GIRLS” bakugou’s anger clearly made everyone excited and the female classmates defended the film. as you were looking for a place to sit down, you were scanning the options and the spot on the couch that had a decent view was next to the one person who had an issue with you. ‘shoot i really want to watch the movie but i don’t want to make him hate me even more,’ your thoughts conflicted with your emotions for every inch of your body really wanted to sit next to him and just be within his presence. “hey todo-” “midoriya can we switch spots,” you got cut off by his monotonous voice but he looked straight at you, “i feel sick.”

a sudden wave of emotions overcame you then and there. the person that you longed to be around, the person that motivated you to do better said that you made him feel sick. “hey y/n here sit next to me,” toru nagged you to sit next to her and tsu on the ground, “you want to stay at my dorm and talk for a while?” the invisible girl beside you asked and you complied and turned away to face the screen. as your conversation was going on todoroki looked down at you, ‘why does my heart suddenly feel heavy? is it their doing?’ his eyes were no longer on the screen but on you.

as the weeks flew by with great speed, the days came faster than expected; but as they passed todoroki got ruder with every encounter. “why must i remain in a conversation i have no interest in conversation.” “i have better things to indulge in.” “get out of my way i have more important matters to deal with at the moment.” to make it so much worse, him an momo got even closer.

you had enough.

it was the weekend and no one had anything to do. you were going back down to the kitchen to refill your water bottle, you finally reached the kitchen and opened your bottle. stepping in the kitchen you see a familiar person, your mouth was tempted to speak but in the end you just walked past him and turning your back to him to get your water, “why didn’t you tell me you were in here, are you here to trick me or even hex me even further?” a voice broke through the silence. 

“... why?” your voice was shaking, not out of fear; but rather from anger. you were fed up with his attitude, you were fed up by not being treated like a regular human being, you were fed up by him. “why must you act like a royal douche?!” you yelled at him with utmost certainty and volume. taking a step towards him, the boy stepped back in retaliation. “do you have some sort of superiority complex to act like this towards me?” todoroki’s back soon hit the wall. 

no one has ever seen you this furious, you always were very calm and collected. seeing you mad made his blood run cold, in pure intimidation. “is this funny to you?” you grabbed his collar to make him look you dead in the eye, ”do you seek some sick entertainment in hating me? when i haven’t done anything wrong.” tears were threatening to roll down your cheek. todoroki’s eyes opened wider, he felt sad, he felt mad for making you think hated you. he found that your statement was the opposite of how he felt. “do you just have some sort of issue with me that bothers you that much? then fine. to resolve that let me spell it out for you too since you don’t bother to do so.”

“i. hate. you. too.” 

you emphasized every word. ‘i need to end my pain, i can’t have him continue to walk over me and hurt my feelings any longer’ you let your grip on his clothes loosen. taking a break from your emotional exhaustion you breathed out aggressively and turned away, indicating that the conversation was over, and so was your tolerance of him. you picked up your water bottle even without water in it you just wanted to get out of the kitchen, no you wanted to be out of his sight.

as soon as you took one step forward you felt stiff arms wrap around your waist, you froze as he locked your shoulder in place by placing his chin onto it, his warmth was pleasant and you wished it didn’t feel as good. “please.” his breath fanned past your ear, “i don’t hate you-” you needed to stop this madness. “oh please shut up already! do you know what you said? i make you sick,” your thoughts ended spilling faster than you expected and as you spoke you pushed your elbow into his body, but to no avail his grip tightened. “my mere presence pisses you off doesn’t it? now let me go already, you can do this with momo since she is obviously your girlfriend so bother her instead.” you couldn’t stop yourself from crying, from all the things you felt inside crying just was the simplest way of expressing it at the given moment. with the weight of the moment todoroki just sunk his head into your neck and began to speak, “i.. just get this feeling in my stomach when i’m around you, and i get feelings of anger seeing you with others, seeing others making you happy while i’m making you feel like this. i’m sorry, i’m so so sorry y/n.” 

“so please, don’t say things that aren’t true. in full honesty i thought you hexed me into feeling like this, but aizawa told me this was completely normal ‘for boys my age’ and midoriya said something about a ‘crush’ and i wish you feel the same way you know? this confession thing is really hard when the person you have feelings for thinks your dating someone else.. so please. can you let me court you?” todoroki loosened his grip and gently guided your body to face him however the moment you were about to speak a bunch of voices came from the outside of the kitchen. 

“toru stop pushing me i know you’re there,” “momo i can’t see go to the back,” “mina keep your voice down please i’m trying to listen to them.” “guys isn’t it wrong to listen when they need privacy?” 

“well hello there ladies? mind telling us why you were listening to me admitting my doting feelings for y/n?” “shut up shoto don’t push it-” “did you just call me by my first name? how bold,” “hmph”

[queennicoleinboots]

Corn Becomes An Ingredient In Alphabet Soup

(sequel to "Lake Erie Is Where We Got Alphabet Soup")

PP chuckled and sounded like a bubbling cauldron. "Corn? I'm sure we have a few cans somewhere! We make them with olive oil!"

A thin Italian woman with the most 0Plain Jane face you will ever see in your life walked on the deck and started singing in a screechy voice. "I can look for the corn," she said.

"Yes, please," X said with the typical irritation on her face that had existed since Cain and Abel existed.

"Okie dokie artichokie, hold on!" The thin Italian woman said.

"We have artichokes, Olive Oil! We need CORN!!!" PP shouted.

"Don't believe me, just rock! Don't believe me, just rock! Vegetables say Hallelujah! Artichokes say Hallelujah!" a brutish sailor man sang in a deep voice.

"Shaddap, Bruno!" PP shouted.

"Artichokes sound good," P said. She was formerly self-proclaimed "L."

"Artichokes and corn are a great mix, though," B said.

"What about hearts of palm?!" OO asked.

"Why didn't *I* think of that?! Find those and the canned corn!" X called to OO.

OO then went in the ship.

N barked.

"Really?" P asked. "You're a pain in the ass."

"How would you know?" N asked.

"I deal with your bullshit every day," P answered.

"Actually it's DOG shit!" N announced as his face appeared in the Heavens.

C, V, and Patches laughed. SB laughed his trademark laugh. J took another shit in the water. U cackled and shit the childish fish out of her large lavender ass that had sea moss attached to it in the water. She did not digest them, so they were embedded in her black goo poop.

"This has been a hell of a battle. Lots of bad teammates. At least Y is decent. Not great, but not ridiculous. I had more damage. What build did Yasuo go?" WWBP asked as he drank his root beer on the shore.

Yasuo was a tornado ninja that was supposed to be a hurricane, but he instead became a dam.

Wild Rift was even a thing back in circa 30000 B.C.

N then yawned. "I wonder. Is OO Extra Virgin?" he asked.

A big uglyass light brown boxer then did a Scooby Doo laugh. He is an uglyass dog.

"Not for long," PP answered with his chuckle that sounded like alphabet soup boiling.

The ocean boiled. C, S.D., V, N, Patches, and WWBP giggled.

WWBP then waddled on the blond sand. "That’s hot! That's hot, Mama," he said.

C, S.D., V, N, and Patches giggled.

J squawked.

"I found the artichokes and hearts of palm, but no corn, unless you want creamed corn," OO said.

X and George Carlin shouted into the Heavens, "GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!" G.C. still wore that banana yellow speedo.

S.C. swam into the alphabet soup, climbed up the boat, and attacked OO.

OO screamed, "Help! Help!"

B and PP ran to her rescue. S.C. then growled and hissed at them. She then became large. S.B then showed up on the boat and ripped some of her fur off. She yelled, "S.B!!!!" She charged everyone. B ran like a bitch while PP fed her spinach.

S.C. screamed in a Southern accent, "I wanted CORN!" She then picked PP up and ate him.

"Whole golden kernel corn!" Wilma Parmello shouted.

X thought she was dead, but she guessed not. That didn't happen until 2018 when the postal United States Postal Services driver drove through Colonel America for America's house and ran her and some other bimbo over. 2018 was going to be the best year ever because that driver singlehandedly saved it from being total shit.

Then all kinds of fish in that ocean and all kinds of people and land mammals started singing, "Where where where the fuck? Where the fuck's the corn?"

B then walked up to OO. "So... since S.C. ate PP, can we... ya know... be boyfriend and girlfriend?" he asked.

"No. You're a bitch," OO said plainly.

S.C. chattered in squirrel language.

A dolphin chirped, and its chirp echoed.

A stupid narrator narrated in a stupid German accent in the tropical background of "You're a bitch. Where the fuck's the corn?" written in sea shells.

A duck who looked like Colonel America for America quacked the song, "Where the fuck's the corn?"

Daffy Duck joined in on the quacking.

"Maybe David Hasselhoff would have the corn," S.B. said before he laughed his diabolical laugh. X wanted to tie him on a sand dune and let him dry out.

An angry German swimsuit model identified as David Hasselhoff then screamed and drove a large pirate ship at 700 nautical miles an hour through the ocean and crashed it on a giant iceberg. The iceberg exploded, David Hasselhoff, and the ship exploded. A bunch of corn was created from the explosion.

S.B. laughed before a kernel of corn flew in his mouth and caused him to choke to death.

There the fuck's the corn.

End Credits: "IT'S CORN" by The Ocean Cornfish (the childish fish that U pooped out): https://youtube.com/shorts/UcjTjJrltQ8?si=D8DZ73_4xwwupLYv

[halfwayanywhere]

Hayduke Day 24: @_ethanalexander graciously drives me down Hole-in-the-Rock Road and drops me off at Hurricane Wash where I left the Hayduke. I have what I believe will be my heaviest pack of the entire trail with six days worth of food and ten liters of water. Yay 🥳 Water on the Hayduke hasn't been as much of an issue as I've anticipated, but I'm unsure whether that's been due to my carrying an absurd amount of water at all times (my base carry is six liters) or if water has simply been more readily available than anticipated (or both). Regardless, I've been happy to carry extra water if it means not having to worry about finding water sources or drinking foul/polluted water. The water in the upcoming section (Monday Canyon, Rogers Canyon, and Navajo Canyon) appears to be sparse. I also have beta (who knows how good it is) that whatever water may be found is heavily alkaline (i.e. it tastes bad and runs the risk of making you poop yourself). Unfortunately, for me, the climb up Fifty-Mile Bench from Hole-in-the-Rock road is one of the longest and possibly the steepest climb of the trail thus far. The snow still lingering at the top doesn't make things any easier. After kicking in steps and gaining the plateau, I head cross-country and find two seemingly decent water sources (and two dead mules) before reaching my campsite just above Monday Canyon. I guess I didn't have to carry all this water after all. Things reportedly get bushwhacky once I'm in Monday Canyon, so I am camping above in the company of some cattle. Hopefully, they don't decide to trample me in the night. Day: Hole-in-the-Rock Road to Monday Canyon Distance: 10.95 mi / 17.62 km Elevation gain: 3,501 ft / 1,067 m #hayduketrail #utahbackpacking