#lieutenant broccoli

[hosseinis]

favorite reoccurring characters on star trek: the next generation ↳ dwight schultz as lieutenant reginald barclay

I mean, I'm the guy who writes down things to remember to say when there's a party. And when I get there, I'll wind up alone in a corner trying to look comfortable examining a potted plant.

[turns-out-its-adhd]

[theeminentlyimpractical]

Lt. Reginald Barclay; end of watch 21 November 2024.

Lt. Barclay, you are clear to go 10-7, 10-42. Godspeed.

[jonesingforcrafts]

I watched Voyager before tng and seeing how far Barclay came is cool and all but he literally said "I'm the guy in the corner of the party examining the houseplant" and ...

[zepskies]

Smoke Eater - Part 7

Pairing: Firefighter!Dean Winchester x F. Reader 

Summary: Dean Winchester is the cocky, but well-respected Lieutenant at Firehouse 25. He leads by example, but he’s also known to break a few hearts. He’s starting to crave something he’s never had, though. Something stable. Something real. 

That’s when he meets you, on a truly terrible day, trapped in a rickety old elevator.   

🔥 Series Masterlist

AN: So I don't know why it takes me exactly seven chapters to get to the smut, but so far that's three different series where that's happened. 😂 (Never Say Goodbye, Break Me Down, and now Smoke Eater. Go figure! 🤷🏽‍♀️)

Word Count: 6,200 Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! For smutty smut and baking shenanigans, tinge of angst.

Part 7: “Cherry Pie & Lemon Drizzle”

You liked Dean’s apartment. It was on the second floor out of three, and a modest, clean, comfortable space.

Though overall it felt very “dude bro” in décor. You supposed that made sense, considering it was just Sam and Dean living here.

And while you still hadn’t met Sam (he was working late tonight), it gave you a chance to do something you’d been very much looking forward to doing with Dean… 

“Not for nothin’, this is probably one in three of the best things I’ve ever put in my mouth,” said Dean.

True to his word, his mouth was full. You giggled as a flake of pasta spewed from his mouth.

“Oh really? Makes me curious about the other two,” you said mischievously. And you handed him a napkin to blot his face.

You sat across from him in the small dining room adjacent to the kitchen. The table itself was barely big enough to fit in the space, feeling more like a nook than a room, but it sat three people. That was usually enough for Sam and Dean, and occasionally Eileen when she came over.

Dean chuckled, his brows dancing. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find out.”

Your face warmed at that, despite your amusement. You had made dinner, for which Dean had been more than enthusiastic.

“You mean I get an actual chef making me food? Sign me the hell up,” he’d teased.

Never mind that you weren’t an actual chef. You had focused on patisserie in culinary school. He didn’t seem to mind though, as he’d devoured two servings of salmon and fettucine alfredo, even down to the steamed broccoli. You had to admit, it warmed you inside to see him enjoy your food.

You’d promised to cook for him last week, and he hadn’t let it go until both your schedules opened up enough for you to come over.

He now hummed in satisfaction as he finished off the last bite on his plate and wiped his mouth with the napkin.

“Thanks for this, sweetheart. I needa have you around here more often,” he said, tossing you a grin.

You smiled back. “It’s my pleasure.”

It wasn’t the first time Dean had invited you over to his apartment, but for the life of you, you didn’t know why it had taken you so long to accept.

…Well, okay, you did know why. You were reluctant to leave your grandfather alone, potentially all night. But George had been adamant about you going out for as long as you wanted, on the promise that he’d check in every few hours until he went to bed.

“Okay, ready for dessert?” you asked.

“Uh, yeah,” Dean said. He still thought about those cookies you brought to the firehouse, almost a month ago already.

Damn, has it really been that long? he thought as he helped you collect the dishes from dinner. He followed you into the kitchen, where you already knew the lay of his land.

Sam couldn’t cook for shit, so it usually fell on Dean to be the figure of culinary expertise. But he had no problem making way for you, especially if you were going to look over your shoulder and wink at him like that.

“Good, because you’re going to help me,” you informed him.

Dean’s smile grew. “All right…what did you have in mind?”

While he started on the dishes in the sink, you hauled out even more ingredients from a big grocery bag you’d brought and stored in the refrigerator. He watched you out of the corner of his eye and spotted lemons, among other things.

“Lemon drizzle cake,” you replied. “One of my grandma’s recipes. I just need a mixing bowl and a cake tin.”

“Good, because we’re not very Betty Crocker in this place. Let’s just say my kitchen tools are limited,” he said, raising a brow at you. “You know, if you wanted to bake, I’m sure you’ve got all the proper bells and whistles at your house. We could’ve done this over there.”

You paused to consider the question he wasn’t quite asking, because he had a point. You could’ve invited him over your house instead. You joined him near the sink and leaned against the counter, tapping your nails on the tile surface.

“Well, as you know, I live with my grandpa,” you said.

“Good ol’ George,” Dean grinned. “That guy’s hilarious. Like the fourth Stooge.”

He particularly liked the story you’d told him about the time George had bought you your first makeup palette when you turned fifteen, but hadn’t told you it was face paint…the kind that clowns used.

“And I’d love for you two to get to know each other better. Don’t get me wrong. But barring the fact that we probably wouldn’t have much…privacy,” you pointed out with a subtle smile, trying to ignore Dean’s resulting smirk. Never mind that you two hadn’t needed “privacy” just yet.

“I guess I’m just not used to inviting people over. I’ve been trying to limit the exposure to germs in the house,” you admitted. At Dean’s quizzical look, you had to explain.

“My grandfather had cancer last year,” you said. “He had surgery to remove the mass, and did well, considering his age. He’s in remission now…but I’m still looking after him.”

You’d gone with him to see his primary doctor a couple of weeks ago for that persistent cough. While the doctor seemed to think it was George’s asthma acting up, you’d still scheduled an appointment with his oncologist.

And while your thoughts led you down an all-too familiar path, Dean processed this with a nod of his head. He shut off the sink. After drying his hands, he looked over at you and brushed your cheek with his thumb.

“I’m glad he’s doing better now,” he said. His brows furrowed. “And your grandma passed just a few years before that?”

You nodded, letting out a deep breath. “Yeah. It’s been a long few years.”

So, Dean took an inventory in his mind as he rested a comforting hand on your back. You took care of your family. You could cook. You were beautiful. And still, you kicked ass at your job and seemed to have the rest of your shit together.

He had to admit. The more he learned about you, the more he liked you.

“Anyway,” you shook your head with a smile. “Sorry. Ready to bake?”

Dean’s lips quirked as he followed you to the other side of the kitchen. He stepped behind you and letting his hands fall to your waist. His lips skimmed the side of your head, pressing a kiss there.

“Okay, Rachael Ray,” he teased. “Teach me your ways.”

You were trying to measure out some sugar in the bowl first, but you giggled with a warm blush as he kissed his way down your neck.

“Are you actually going to help, or are you just going to distract me?” you volleyed back.

Dean hummed against the crook of your neck. “Can’t I do both?”

You picked up and egg and raised it level with his face.

“Hmm, should I try cracking this against your forehead?” you pondered.

His teeth playfully nipped your skin in retaliation, making you flinch with a yelp. The egg actually cracked in your hand.

“Shit,” you laughed, and you quickly dropped as much of it in the bowl as possible. But getting fractals of the shell in the bowl disturbed your anal sense of meticulousness. When it came to cracking eggs, you typically had nothing if not precision.

You shot Dean an accusatory look over your shoulder. He just grinned back at you.

“Am I helping yet?” he joked.

You chuckled dryly in response. “Just you wait.”

A few more minutes and “helpful” distractions from Dean later, you successfully had a cake batter in the bowl. You were hand mixing up a storm and sorely missing your Kitchen Aid mixer. Dean was right though; his cupboards had little more than one cake pan, one mixing bowl, and one wooden spoon.

At home, you had a modest collection of cookware and bakeware that rivaled Williams & Sonoma. Though that had been a gift from your grandparents, when you graduated from culinary school. (Your grandma had picked them out before she passed.)

“What’s your favorite dessert?” you asked Dean. You were pretending not to catch him sampling the batter with a finger while you buttered the cake tin.

“Ever?” he asked, rubbing a licked finger on his jeans.

“Yeah. Number one top favorite.”

“Hmm,” he contemplated with a cross of his arms. “Pie, I guess.”

You smirked. That explained his little man-child display a few weeks ago, when you’d tried to share his blueberry pie on your second date.

“What flavor?” you asked.

“I dunno. I’m not real picky,” he said.

“Come on. Everyone has a favorite flavor,” you reasoned. “I’m more of a cake girl myself, but even I love a blueberry pie.”

Dean eyed your teasing grin with a growing smirk of his own. He remembered that day in your office just as well as you.

“Okay, fine. Apple, I guess,” he replied. You gave him a mocking look.

“Really, the most basic of them all?” You tsked at him, shaking your head. “What happened to Mr. Rocky Road?”

Dean chuckled, but he leaned against the counter next to you. Instead of giving it to you right back, as usual, he looked more thoughtful. A gentler look grew on his face. It caught your attention.

“You know, one of my earliest memories…” He looked up at you then, more self-deprecating.

You realized he was about to admit to something, maybe embarrassing, or maybe just vulnerable. Your smile softened too as you paused in what you were doing.

“You can’t leave me hanging on that one,” you said. And you drew closer with a hand soothing up his arm.

He glanced over at you. “I remember being…four, probably. My mom made pies during Christmastime. Cherry, pecan, whatever. But my favorite was her apple pie. I still remember it, because I haven’t had a pie since that tasted like that one.”

Your heart clenched, but your insides also warmed. Not just at the story of his mother, but the way Dean told it, his voice softer, steady, and deep. It told you a lot about him without him having to explain; just like you, he knew what loss was.

You curled your hands around his bicep and pressed a kiss to his shoulder. Then your gaze drew back up to his.

“Have you talked to your dad since the last time?” you asked, a bit cautiously. “About his investigation of the fire?”

Dean sighed deep through his nose. “No.”

But despite his father’s warning, he had spoken to Sam.

“It’s different this time, Sam. The brand marks are the same,” Dean argued with his brother, this time in the living room. He sat on the couch while Sam stood, trying to process everything Dean had just told him about Mary’s potential murder.

“You saw the pictures yourself?” Sam asked.

Dean frowned. “No, but Dad—”

“Dean,” Sam cut him off as he gripped at his temples in frustration. “This is what he does. He sees evidence where he wants to see evidence. I’ve been down this road with him too, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean gritted out. John had roped Sam into helping him a few times, using his ADA status to look into different leads that ultimately hadn’t panned out.

“They always look like connections to him, but they never end up being anything more than his obsession,” Sam said.

He was firm, and Dean understood why, but his gut was telling him that it was different this time…

Still, he had no choice but to let it go. For now.

Dean shook his head of that memory. Instead, he tried to focus on being here with you. He liked this little yellow sundress you had on, despite the fall chill starting to set in outside. As usual, your hair was clipped up away from your neck while you got ready to put the now full cake tin into the oven.

He came over behind you and freed your hair from the clip, letting it all tumble down. You yelped and glanced over at him.

“Dean,” you chided, even though you were smiling. “My hair’s going to get in the batter.”

“I’ll keep it away, don’t worry,” he said lightly. He curled some of your hair around his hand so he could once again press a tantalizing kiss to the back of your neck. He felt you shiver.

You subtly leaned back against him, even as you whined in protest.

“Can you just let me get this in the oven?” you asked on a laugh. He smirked against your skin. You did manage to get the cake in the oven, but his lips and teasing hands were unrelenting as you tried to start cleaning up.

So you felt you had to take matters into your own hands. A mischievous idea had you smiling. You reached out for some flour that had spilled on the counter.

You turned, and before he realized what you were up to, you marked his forehead with an arch of white against his skin.

“Simba,” you said in a deeper voice, trying to mimic Mufasa from The Lion King.

Dean’s brows rose along with his widening eyes. He’d never seen you do something that childish, but it sparked his competitiveness as he blinked a bit of flour out of his eyes.

“You’re real proud of yourself, aren’t you?” he asked.

Your little smirk was answer enough. You flicked a bit more flour onto his shirt.

Dean chuckled darkly. “Okay, you asked for it.”

Both a gasp and a giggle caught in your throat.

“Oh, no.”

He reached past you for some flour off the counter and flicked it down at you, into your hair, across your face. He grabbed your flailing wrist and marked your cheeks. All the while, his grin grew ever deeper at your shrieking protests.

But you grew devious. You stuck two fingers into the bowl and scraped out a gob of raw, yellow batter. You were fully prepared to fling it into his face, but Dean grabbed your wrist.

“Ey, ey!” he raised a warning finger with his free hand. “You’re about to take this to a new level.”

You met his gaze through your lashes with a playful smile. “So?”

Dean raised a brow at you. He could admit, you had audacity. All he could do was call your bluff.

He took one of your battered fingers into his mouth. Your eyes widened at the feel of his soft tongue swirling around your finger, sucking it clean. All the while, his eyes never broke from yours.

Lord have mercy, you thought. Really, it was the only coherent one in your head.

He soon released you with a soft pop, before he did the same to the second finger.

Your breath hitched, and your blush was a living thing spreading down your neck, even as warmth pooled between your legs. By the time your second finger slid out of his mouth, you had to reach back to grip the counter just to steady yourself.

His arm slipped around your waist, and you reached for his face with both hands, bringing him down for the hottest kiss you’d ever had in your life. Teeth clicking, lips and tongues warring and devouring. Your fingers slipped roughly through his hair, while he gripped your hips and ass with a passion just shy of bruising.

You almost didn’t register the way his hands slipped under your thighs, to then heft you up onto the counter. You gasped into his mouth and clung tightly to his shoulders. He chuckled and positioned himself to stand between your legs.

“What, need a little warning?” he teased. Though he was breathless as your soft lips veered away from his, starting a burning path across his jaw and down his neck. You left the remnants of your lipstick all along the way, but it was the occasional graze of your teeth that had him moaning for you.

“Maybe,” you whispered coarsely against his skin, uttering a small laugh, “Sometimes I forget how damn strong you are.”

He scoffed. “Sweetheart, if I can heft a grown man on my shoulders up a flight of stairs, I can get you up on a little counter.”

You snorted in response. Perks of dating a firefighter.

And you shoved off his plaid shirt from his shoulders. Dean helped you by letting it drop the rest of the way to the floor, followed by his black undershirt.

You couldn’t believe this was the first time you were seeing him with his shirt off. It was a damn shame, really. But you caught the bit of smugness curving his lips at the way you were ogling, first with your eyes, then with your exploring hands over his toned arms and chest, and the solid plane of his abs, all the way down to his belt. You started undoing the clasp.

Dean couldn’t believe he was doing this, but he stopped you with his hands gently curling around your wrists. You looked up at him in confusion. To him, you looked unbelievably sexy then. Thoroughly kissed, hair tousled, a strap of your dress fallen to one shoulder while your lacey black bra peeked through.

Just the memory of having your curves in his hands had his dick hardening in his jeans, but he blew out a breath.

“Dean?” you asked. “What’s wrong?”

His hands tightened on yours as he peered down at you. “Are you sure?”

You blinked incredulously. “Did I look not sure?”

He paused, licking his lips. He raised a hand to hold your cheek.

“I just…you know I’m trying to do this right with you,” he said. “I just want to know…”

He couldn’t seem to finish what he was trying to say, but you thought you understood. You smiled up at him warmly. You leaned up for a kiss, softer this time.

“Dean, I trust you,” you said. And you could finally say it with no reservations. “I think this feels real. More real than anything I’ve had in a long time… What about you?”

When Dean smiled, it was warm, melting away the doubt in his eyes.

“Yeah, me too,” he said.

He seemed sincere. Maybe this man spared few words when it came to how he felt, but you’d seen a glimpse of the deeper parts. He felt things deeply, down to his bones.

His fingers sunk into your hair, and he guided you into a kiss. It was slower, but no less heady and wanting than the first. Your arms wrapped around his middle, letting you flatten your palms against the muscles in his back. But just as you were getting comfortable, Dean broke the kiss. He flashed you a smirk.

Before you could ask what the hell he was about to do, he’d hefted you back into his arms and over his shoulder. You squawked in protest as your whole world tipped over. Your face thudded on his back with a soft oof, your hair loose and falling like a curtain. Your hands accidentally fell against his ass.

“Ooh, someone’s handsy,” Dean teased.

“Dean!” you exclaimed, despite your peals of laughter. “Is this really necessary? I think I can find your room just fine.”

“Call it an officer’s escort,” he supplied.

“That’s for policemen!” you argued.

You couldn’t see it, but you could imagine the way he was grinning from ear to ear as he carried you through the apartment. You never noticed just how long his bowed legs were as he strode onward. But it felt like his shoulder was digging into your appendix.

Grunting in frustration, you slapped his ass again for good measure.

Dean laughed. “Hey, you’re only fueling my fire, baby.”

He slapped your ass right back, since he had an even better vantage point. He even slipped a hand underneath your little sundress and squeezed the inside of your thigh teasingly.

Your answering yelp, and the futile kick of your feet, had him laughing harder. His cheeks were aching.

Finally he reached his room, where he shut the door with his foot. He was gentle as he eased you off his shoulder and laid you down on his bed. You let out a breathless huff once your head hit the pillows. Your face was all red from being suspended upside-down, your hair a mess, and your dress pooling over your folded legs.

You gave Dean a playful glare. “Get over here.”

His smirk deepened, but he obliged you. He chucked his shoes off first, just like you let your sandals slip off the side of the bed.

He soon made his way up the bed, until he was hovering over you with his arms braced on either side of your head. He liked the way you were all laid out for him over his sheets, your wild hair spread over his pillows. He’d pictured something like this before, but nothing came close to having you for real.

He just didn’t know you’d been dreaming of the same thing.

You hadn’t allowed yourself to truly fall for someone, not in a long time. You’d been too focused on pivoting after school, on building your career, on taking care of your family. You’d dated here and there, but nothing had stuck for more than a few months. Even then, you’d never felt half of what you felt right now.

It scared you a little, but it also made you feel alive. Being with Dean made you feel that way.

So you took his face between your hands. His stubble rasped against your palms and the pads of your fingers. You didn’t mind that though. He’d left it a bit long for a shave last week. When you’d mentioned off-hand that you liked the thicker scruff (thinking it made him all the more handsome), he’d kept it for you. 

Now, he seemed like he was waiting on your cue.

You guided him down to you. He kissed you hot and slow, while a hand moved to your waist and clenched in the material of your dress. He slipped a heavy thigh between both of yours. The pressure was welcome, but you wanted friction.

You bunched up the skirt of your dress and aimed to slip it off, but Dean stopped your hands.

“That’s my job,” he teased.

“Then how about you get to it?” you countered with a smile. He rose a brow at you.

“A bit bossy, but I can dig that,” he smirked.

His kisses dropped against your neck, down your exposed neckline, and he peeled down the straps of your dress one by one. Your breathing became more labored as he touched you, squeezing a breast over the bra as he exposed more inches of your body.

Your fingers carded through his hair on a sigh as he made his way further down. Though he finally got impatient enough to work your dress off all the way, followed by his jeans and your bra and matching lacey panties. He lavished attention what felt like all over your body.

Really, he was just strategic. He stopped in places where you lost breath, moaning his name. Like the spot just under your ear, where he sucked hard enough to make you see stars. Or over your breasts, taking a pebbled nipple in his mouth, swirling with his tongue like he had the cake batter off your fingers.

His hands mapped out the soft planes and curves of your body for the first time, sometimes smooth and grazing, sometimes adding pressure that made warmth continue to pool between your legs.  

He went further still, wrapping an arm around your thigh and pressing nipping kisses along the inside. All the while his mouth drew closer to the place you wanted him the most. Even though you still raised up on your elbow and gave him a questioning look.

“Really? You want to…” Your voice came out in a whisper.

Dean looked up at you with puzzled brows. “Why not?”

You shook your head, your eyes widening marginally.

“No reason, I guess. I, um…I’ve never had someone do this for me first.” And certainly not on the first time having sex.

Dean frowned.

“Really?” he asked. “A guy’s never gone down on you first?”

You blushed. “Well, maybe with his fingers, but not…”

He shook his head and let out a breath. You felt it between your thighs, and your core clenched in anticipation.

“Okay, baby. I gotcha,” he said. He guided you back down with a gentle hand. “Just lie back and relax.”

You smiled, despite your lingering blush, and you stroked the hand that rested above your stomach. That hand soon slid down as he once again kissed and licked down your thighs. They quivered a bit as his fingers slipped between your folds.

“So fucking wet for me already,” he said in approval. You peered down at him, unable to help a smile.

“You want a medal?” you quipped.

Dean’s brows rose.

“Oh, I’m about to earn it.” His eyes found yours. “You know what my real favorite pie flavor is?”

Your brows knitted together. “What?”

A familiar smirk crossed his lips. “Cherry.”

Before your choked surprise could be broken with a laugh, he began. 

And he wasn’t lying, about any of it. The pads of his fingers began toying with your clit, and that alone had your breath hitching and your hips squirming.

He held you down with one hand on your lower belly while his tongue joined his fingers, seeking your heat and finding the hot channel where you craved to be filled. You gasped.

“Oh, God,” you uttered. Once his warm tongue began rolling inside you, you almost couldn’t breathe.

He worked you over with fingers, lips and tongue until you were arching off the bed, fists clenched in his hair and in the sheets, releasing broken gasps of his name. He didn’t relent until your thighs stopped shaking around his head. Your knees were damn near pinning him there.

He eventually withdrew, wiping his mouth and nose with the back of his hand. He moved smoothly back up your body and heeded the pull of your hands on his arms, and then his face. You tugged him down for a sloppy kiss. 

“How’s that for a first?” he asked breathlessly. His tone was teasing, but he was half-serious you thought, by the look in his eyes.

You were honest, without a hint of a joke. “Fucking incredible. Just like you.”

Dean wouldn’t admit it then, but what you said warmed him. He looked down on you with a smile.

Your hands caressed his face, down his neck and firm chest, and further still to caress his straining length over his boxer briefs. Dean let out a halting moan at your gentle touch. 

“What if I want to return the favor?” you asked with a smile. He made a sound deep in his throat when you cupped him more firmly, letting your thumb brush over the head.

Well hello, you thought. He was thick, and a bit bigger than your first thought. Your already sensitive core tightened at the thought. 

Meanwhile, Dean squeezed your arm. His hot gaze bore into yours.

“Very, very tempting.” His thumb brushed your lower lip. “I’ve no doubt you’ve got some talents yourself.”

You smiled under the pad of his thumb. Part of you was contemplating some retribution, sucking it into your mouth the way he’d done to your fingers in the kitchen.

“But I’m thinkin’ I want to skip to the part where I have you coming apart all over again,” said Dean. His head bowed near your ear, though his lips skimmed the side of your face. “This time, from the inside.”

His voice was deep and threaded with grit. You bit your lip on a giddy laugh. You managed to nod, sweeping your shaky fingers through his hair.

“Okay, next time then,” you promised and gave him a sensuous kiss. “But first, just want to make sure you’re ready for me…”

You pushed at the center of his chest so he'd let you sit up, so you could lean down to slide his underwear for him, down to his knees. He helped you the rest of the way, kicking them off his legs. When he came back, you soothed warm hands along his thighs. Then you took his cock into your hands. Dean dropped his forehead onto your shoulder with a grunt, again squeezing your arms as you touched him properly for the first time.

Dean had a habit of impressing you, and this was no different. You liked the feel of him in your hands, warm and thick and heavy.

After licking your hand to coat it with some wetness, you experimented for a moment in how you stroked him, trying to get a feel for what he liked just as he had for you. He gasped and jolted on one particular twist, and he finally stopped you with a hand on your wrist.

“Okay, baby. Keep that up and we’re not gonna get much farther for a while,” he said coarsely.

It was satisfying to know you’d made him feel even a fraction of how he’d made you feel.

You pressed a purposeful kiss into his neck. “I told you, next time I’ll take care of you for real.”

He chuckled, cupping the side of your face.

“Oh, you’re about to. Believe me,” he said.

He kissed you long and deep, until you were once again breathless. The two of you were kneeling in the middle of the bed like you had all the time in the world. And yet, you wanted him more than ever.

“I’m on birth control,” you told him between more fervent kisses, hands drifting, feeling skin to warm, dewy skin, breaths mingling.

“And I’m clean,” he said. You nodded, hesitating…

“It’s our first time,” you said. “Condom, just to be safe.”

He hesitated only a beat before he nodded back, agreeing to your request. “Yes, ma’am.”

He broke from you briefly. He turned and dug into his nightstand while your nails drew light patterns down his back. It was distracting in the best of ways. A trill of excitement had his hands moving quickly, ripping the foil packet open and fitting himself with the condom.

When he was ready for you, he turned and hooked an arm around your waist. You twined your arms around his neck, and once again, you let him lay you down. His kiss came first, and then his fingers between your legs, past your folds to stroke you back to life.

You moaned into his mouth and wrapped your legs around his hips. Though he surprised you again by hooking your legs over his shoulders. Your brows raised at him, and he shot you a wink.

“Trust me, you’ll like it this way,” he said.

You did trust him. Your hands caressed down his neck, down his chest, and you subtly urged him with your heels on his back, encouraging him where you both knew he needed to be.

And with one slow push, his cock was stretching your inner walls with slow, delicious friction. You both groaned at the feeling. His forehead pressed against yours. His hand trembled slightly, brushing your hair away from your face. And he began moving inside you in steady strokes.

Dean was putting his all into this tonight. He thought your promises to take care of him next time were as endearing as they were sexy as hell. Even now, you were touching him wherever you could reach, occasionally moaning his name in his ear, encouraging him with every thrust inside you.

Fuck, he was right, you thought. He was reaching places deep inside you, filling you to the very brim. And you were already on the edge of pleasure, brows furrowed, biting your lower lip so hard that your teeth nearly broke the skin…

Your fingers slipped down between you to further part your folds and rub your already sensitive clit. Dean caught the hint and moved your hand to do it himself, as in time with his thrusts as he could. Finally, you unraveled for the second time that night. Your gasp gave way to a moan.

Your tightening walls gripped him like a vice. His release hit him with the same force, choking a near shout out of him. His hand was a bit too tight in your hair, he realized, so he forced himself to ease up.

He petted over your hair instead as he came down with ragged breaths. After he released your shaky legs back to the bed, he leaned mostly on his elbow and thigh instead of sinking all his weight onto you.

You appreciated that. You soothed up and down his back while you panted for breath.

“Wow,” you managed to say.

Dean’s chuckle took him by surprise too.

“Yeah,” he agreed. He turned his head to press a sloppy kiss where your neck met your shoulder.

Just then, a distant-sounding jingle reached your ears. It was familiar…and you remembered it was the alarm on your phone, which was probably in the kitchen.

“Oh shit,” you gasped. “The cake’s still in the oven.”

He blinked. “Well, I don’t smell burning, so we’re good.”

“Dean! You’re a firefighter, remember?” you laughed, but you still tapped his shoulder so he’d roll over. Reluctantly he did, but he still took you with him, even after he’d slid out of you.

You yelped and clung to his shoulders to balance yourself. “I gotta get the cake!”

“Five more minutes,” he grumbled into your neck. He also liked the way your breasts were pressed against his chest.

“It’s going to be so…damn…burnt!” You punctuated each of those syllables with a playful smack on his arm, until he finally released you with a lazy smirk.

You shook your head and huffed in amusement. Sliding out of bed, you searched around for your dress. The first thing you found was his discarded undershirt. You slipped it on real quick and cautiously padded out of Dean’s room. You didn’t know if Sam was back from work, but this was not how you wanted to meet him.

The halls were quiet, so you didn’t think he was home yet. You managed to get to the kitchen unscathed, where you turned off your timer and grabbed some oven mitts. You opened the oven and pulled out the cake, setting it down on the counter. Your eyes narrowed at the almost perfect dome on top.

“What’s the verdict, Chef Ramsay?”

Dean leaned in the doorway, dressed in a pair of gray sweatpants and nothing else. The view was delectable, but you sighed and gestured at the cake with a shake of your head.

“It’s burnt.”

“What? No, it’s not,” he refuted. He joined your side and stared down at the top of the cake, which was half browned. “Looks all right to me.”

“Trust me, it’s going to be dry,” you said, “even with the lemon drizzle on it.”

It was the perfectionist in you that smarted with disappointment. You didn’t want to serve anyone something you weren’t proud of, especially Dean. But he just leaned over and pressed a kiss to the side of your head.

“Don’t beat yourself up,” he said. “I’m still gonna eat the crap out of it.”

You glanced at him, unable to help a small smile. He grinned back.

“Anyway, I think it was worth it. Don’t you?” Dean said. He pulled you in towards him by your waist, and you went willingly, resting your hands against his bare chest. You let your nails drag against his skin a little as you contemplated.

You looked up at him with a grin of your own.

“Yeah. Definitely worth it.”

Dean later sat with you again at the table, this time with your chairs closer together as you each ate large slices of delicious cake (even if it was a bit dry). Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the copious number of dishes still left in the sink and the flour and batter sprinkled across the counter.

He knew Sam was going to have a conniption when he got home (in the morning at this rate). He was probably crashing at Eileen’s apartment tonight.

Good, Dean thought. That meant he’d have the place all to himself, with you.

“You know, I just realized something,” he said.

You knew that look in his eyes. He was about to say something smartass.

“What’s that?” you asked. He reached out and thumbed at your chin.

“I just got my dessert twice in one sitting,” he remarked. “That’s pretty damn good, if you ask me.”

You snorted in laughter. You also blushed, but you were unable to stop smiling either.

You set down your fork and eased back from the table. Your hand on Dean’s shoulder encouraged him to do the same, so you could sit across his lap. He welcomed you with a warm hand on your bare thigh. Already it was creeping under the shirt you borrowed.

You stroked his cheek with the back of your hand and gave him a mischievous smile.

“Think you could handle another serving?”

AN: 🫣 Was it everything you wanted it to be? lol I love me some baking innuendo. What did you like more: eating the cherry pie or making the lemon drizzle? 😏❤️‍🔥

In Part 8, Dean's past comes a knockin'...

Next Time:

While you were getting dressed, a phone buzzed on one of the nightstands beside the bed. It was Dean’s phone.

You went over to it curiously as you fixed the straps of your dress. The screen showed a missed text message from last night, around 10:00 p.m., and another one this morning. You read the latest one with a sinking feeling in your chest.

From Marissa: Surprised I didn’t hear back from you last night. The offer still stands. 😘

Keep Reading: PART 8

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Main Masterlist

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[mariamakeslemons]

Spooktober 2024: Day 8 Folk Horror

Warning: Inhuman x human relationship (both parties are sentient and can consent), mild anti-military work mentioned (helping soldiers abandon their post), too many ovens for a kitchen...

The idea behind König is based on @ghouljams Fae AU.

You moved out to the woods for inspiration, health, and to escape a piece of shit ex who refuses to admit that they fucked up by cheating on you. Two of those three goals are being met, but your ex is insistent, throwing around their parent’s money to constantly find ways around the blocks you put up. The only upside, you muse while sipping on your morning cup and watching the rain fall in the woods, is that your ex is “nature averse”. As if technology hasn’t advanced far enough to find work arounds even in the densely packed woods.

As a combination of more protection from your ex and honoring your grandfather, you signed up for a soldier housing project. Should a mission occur within a certain distance of your house, the soldiers can use your home as a safe house. Most of the time, you just acted as a host and sent the soldiers on their way when it’s time for them to leave. Sometimes, however, you make your grandfather proud by helping the soldiers that didn’t have an option leave the military.

With all this, you also got a boyfriend. He’s a soldier, and you hold his leash to his delight. Usually, when you house other soldiers, he stays elsewhere, but still close. Which makes his insistence that he be at the house during this housing confusing.

“Thank you again for housing my boys and I,” Captain Price repeats, tilting his boonie hat at you politely.

“As long as you guys aren’t going to be assholes, I see no reason not to house you,” you wave off with a smile, already heading into the kitchen to prep the rabbit your boyfriend hunted earlier. Braised rabbit with some bowtie pasta for the entrée, some roasted potatoes and broccoli for veg, and your gran’s special chocolate-strawberry bread pudding. A bit time consuming, but it will make more than enough food for the four men in your house, yourself, and your boyfriend when he returned from whatever the ‘wild hunt’ is.

“You need help in here, love?” Sergeant Gaz asks, peeking into your kitchen. You offer him a smile and shake your head.

“No, I’ve got it,” you assure him, pulling out the dead rabbits. You hear the Sergeant choke as you start to work off the skin and fur from the poor things. It always takes a bit more time than you want, but at the end, you still have completely cleaned rabbits, just needing to be broken down for cooking.

“Those clean?” a deep voice rumbles from behind you, causing you to nearly knick yourself with the knife. Looking over your shoulder, you see the masked man, almost the same size as your boyfriend and staring at the rabbits.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” you chirp, beaming as Lieutenant Ghost shifts. Just like your boyfriend, the man’s a bit awkward. But, unlike your boyfriend, he plows onward with what he was going to do or say.

“Y’ wan’ some help?” he offers, nodding at the meat still attached to the bones.

“Only if you can properly butcher them,” you reply.

“Was a butcher’s ‘prentice f’r while,” he huffs, walking into the kitchen and taking the knife from you, already moving the rabbit around to start cutting the joints. You hum in reply, before grabbing the vegetables. You work in silence with the Lieutenant, eventually getting the rabbits into the oven to braise. Shooing him out of the kitchen once the meat’s cooking, you move on to prep the potatoes and broccoli, as well as the strawberries and stale bread for the pudding. Your boyfriend had pointed out how much you bake and insisted you get an extra oven and a storable oven as well.

“Looks like I’m using all of them,” you chuckle to yourself.

“All o’ whit?” an accented voice asks, drawing your attention to the door once again. Sergeant Soap peers in curiously with Sergeant Gaz at his shoulder.

“The ovens,” you chirp, lifting up the mini oven up with a huff and dropping it on your available counterspace.

“Steamin’ Jesus!” the Scot yelps while Sergeant Gaz lets out a whistle.

“Didn’t know you had three of those,” he mumbles as you start to heat up the mini oven.

“Yeah,” you laugh, “I rely heavily on baking with a lot of my cooking, so three ovens.” Sergeant Gaz chuckles as Sergeant Soap practically beams in delight. However, before you could make a joke that delights your boyfriend when he hears it, a loud noise outside draws your attention to the back yard.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Price knows about the Austrian merc that’s been on base with them a few times. The giant that shies away from anything social, often seen staring at people with eyes that seem to glow. Here and now, König towers over all of them, strange spines coming out of somewhere. His eyes are glowing, a bright blue that stares down at Price and Ghost, while an inhuman growl rumbles from him. His bare hands are dyed bloody brown-red with fucking claws.

“Oh, that’s what it was!” you chirp, the sweet thing that opened their home to Price and his boys.

“Fuck,” he hisses, looking back as Ghost shifts to block you from sight. He calls to you, “Go back inside! It’s not safe!”

“What are you talking about?” you ask, stepping out of the house and around Gaz and Soap’s grasping hands. You slip past Ghost and Price and stand in front of the beast that isn’t a man despite its shape. Then, you pat what was its wrist twice while scolding, “And shrink down, you goober. You’re scaring them.”

“Good,” König rumbles, but he still listens to you, shrinking down into the form they’re far more used to. You huff and roll your eyes, but rise up on your toes to slip under König’s hood to press what sounds like a kiss to what might be his face. Slipping back out, you smile up at him.

“I’m making braised rabbit and pasta for dinner,” you tell him, as if the 141 isn’t between you and the house, as if these armed men don’t have a hand on their guns. The behemoth perks up.

“The ones I brought you?” he asks, leaning over you.

“Yep!” you chirp, so fucking sweet. König purrs, sounding just as animalistic as he had earlier, before scooping you into his arms and stomping into the house, ignoring the 141. The Taskforce watch as the house darkens, twigs pressing out of the wood the house is built with. The woods around them is no longer serene, but foreboding, waiting for possible prey.

“Yeh think ‘ll behave?” Soap asks nervously.

“…If they ask,” Price finally offers upon hearing you scolding König for something, causing the Austrian to whine.

“Gun’s loaded and at ready,” Ghost intones, not even taking a chance.

[softguarnere]

hi dove! i can't believe i've never requested anything on your blog! could you possibly write a enemies to lovers - lewis nixon x reader? maybe where feelings are discovered after one of them gets hurt/captured/something like that! you know i'm a sucker for angst with tons of fluff! thanks for being awesome!

mads <3

Coming Clean

Lewis Nixon x reader

A/N: omg hi Mads! Thank you so much for the request 🤗 I love your work (especially the way you write Nix) so I really hope you enjoy this! I edited and wrote the last half of this fic while sick, so if this is totally incoherent, that's why - and I'll just have to do my best to fix it when I'm better😆 (As always this is written for the fictional depictions from the show - no disrespect to the real life veterans!) 💕��️ Warnings: language, mentions of war

“I am not being overdramatic,” Nixon insists in what can only fairly be described as a rather theatrical tone. 

Dick only glances up from across the table, an eyebrow quirked as he studies his friend. He nods slightly. Thank you for proving my point, the gesture seems to say.

“Nix,” he says, his tone serious, even though he opts for his friend’s nickname instead of a more reprimanding Lewis. “I don’t think comparing anyone to Sobel is fair.”

Nixon drops his fork and holds his hands up in surrender. “Whoa, okay. All I said was that if she wanted to, (Y/N) could give him a run for his money. That’s all.”

“They’re nothing alike,” Dick deadpans.

Nothing alike? A bit nondramatic, in Nixon’s opinion. An understatement for sure. He starts to protest, but Dick cuts him off.

“I think the two of you just got off on the wrong foot.”

Scoffing, Nixon leans back in his chair. “Well, I wouldn’t call overhearing someone explicitly talking about how they think you’re unqualified for your job getting off on the wrong foot. But close enough, I guess.”

“That’s not what I said.”

The voice is enough to startle both Nixon and Winters – although the ginger presses his lips together in a way that suggests he’s only just managing to repress a smile as he takes in your arrival on the scene. Nixon, on the other hand, has to forcibly close his mouth to stop from gaping at your sudden presence.

“What I said,” you continue. “was that I wasn’t sure how well a Yale man would hold his ground amongst the other officers.”

A frown tugs at the corners of Nixon’s mouth. For once, he’s grateful that part of his upbringing included lessons in how to conceal one’s true emotions lest someone gain the upper hand by using them against him. He presses his lips into a thin line and steels himself.

“Remind me where you studied again, Lieutenant?”

Your face pales. Bingo! You may have had him there for a second, but he’s struck a nerve.

“It was just a joke,” you say, your voice quiet.

Nixon only shrugs before turning back to Dick. There are footsteps as you walk away, but he doesn’t turn to see you go. Instead, he tries to concentrate on his tray of food. Tries being the operative word, since Dick seems intent on staring at him with that look of utter disappointment on his face that could make a saint feel guilty.

“What?” He stabs some broccoli with his fork, not looking up.

Dick sighs. “It was a joke, Nix.”

The potatoes on the corner of his tray are his next victim. Unseasoned and questionably cooked as they are, Nixon still puts all his focus into getting them firmly on his fork.

“Why does it bother you so much?”

Now he looks up. “Huh?”

“The joke,” Dick clarifies. “Why did it bother you so much?”

It’s not so much that the jab at his alma mater bothers him. It’s just . . . Huh. Why does it bother him? The way it’s said, perhaps, or the people it was said in front of. After all, it was one of the first things that you said upon Nixon’s arrival after his promotion. Not a good look for a newcomer in such a prestigious position. If he wanted people to poke fun at him despite his achievements, he could have just stayed home.

Sure, that’s probably it, he tells himself. You’ve just hit a nerve. No need to psychoanalyze this whole thing.

To Dick’s question, he only shrugs.

His friend, thankfully, does not press the issue.

. . .

Lewis Nixon, you’re beginning to realize, does not forgive and forget.

Well, that’s too bad, because all the other officers seem to think that he’s funny and charming. And they’re right. But clearly those qualities are not on display whenever you’re around. And you’re not about to ingratiate yourself to him by groveling for forgiveness over some stupid offhanded joke.

Too bad. Because you’re a big enough person to admit that despite his flaws, Lewis Nixon has his good qualities – not to mention that he’s handsome.

“Why are you staring at me?”

The sudden question draws you out of your thoughts. You blink, back in the present moment.

“Pardon?”

“You’re staring at me,” Nixon says. He doesn’t look up from the stack of mail that he’s censoring, intent on his work.

You avert your gaze, trying to ignore the heat you feel rushing to your cheeks. The words on the letter in front of you turn to nonsense the more you try to focus on them. If you work hard enough, you won’t be tempted to let your thoughts wander to the man sitting across the table from you.

“Here.” A letter lands on top of the one you’re reading as Nixon, once again, interrupts your thoughts. Startled, you look up to find him looking at you rather expectantly.

The letter he’s tossed to you looks familiar. It takes you a moment to realize that it’s written in your handwriting – a letter that you wrote to your family back in the states. When you glance up at him, he turns back to his own work.

“You spelled accommodate wrong. Thought you might want to fix it before sending it off to your family.”

Oh of course he would point out your mistake like that! Anyone else would have let it go. Your family will be so thrilled by the letter that they wouldn’t even give the misspelling a second thought.

The sigh that you push through your nose comes out louder than you expect it to. Nixon, however, doesn’t look up. Swallowing your pride, you aim for a tone that’s halfway pleasant.

“Thank you, Nixon.”

Is it your imagination, or does the corner of his mouth twitch slightly? A smirk, perhaps.

“You’re welcome, (Y/L/N).”

. . .

Though the world no longer trembles with the barrage of artillery fire, you keep your hands pressed firmly over your ears, staying low in the foxhole. Is it the cold causing you to shake, or the adrenaline that still courses through your veins?

You had been out making rounds when the shelling began, just trying to make sure that the rest of Easy Company was okay. The shellings are always unexpected, but this one caught you out in the open, exposed. You had had to dive into the nearest foxhole, hoping for the best as you hid from the explosions just outside.

Someone had grunted when you fell into the foxhole, your elbow connecting with their stomach. There had been no chance to apologize over the loud, cracking booms that filled the air.

After a shelling, there always seems to be a moment – a split second, really – of silence before it all goes to hell again. Then the calls for a medic will break out and everyone will jump into action, throwing around orders amid the screams and groans of the injured.

Now, as you wait for the few seconds of silence, you feel the person beneath you shift.

“Sorry,” you mutter, your arms shaking as you attempt to push yourself off of them.

“Christ,” a familiar voice grumbles. “My fucking ribs.”

Nixon’s voice is all the motivation that you need to push yourself the rest of the way off of him. Still full of adrenaline, you push yourself back on your heels, staying low in the foxhole, but ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

The Princeton man rubs his ribs. “You came out of nowhere. That really – “ He pauses, his expression shifting into one that you’ve never seen on him before as his brows furrow. Gently, he leans towards you. “Hey, (Y/N). Are you okay?”

“I-I’m fine.”

“You look – “

Ka-BOOM!

The air splits in two as the second round starts. The shell must hit somewhere very near your foxhole, because the reverberations its impact sends through the ground cause you to topple forward, straight into Nixon.

Before you can even think about pushing yourself away from him again, something strange happens: you feel his arms wrap around you, drawing you in, close and tight, as the barrage continues. You bury your face in his shoulder.

When the second round ends, you both remain still, breathing heavily as you wait for whatever comes next. Only when it’s clear that the Germans are no longer firing do you pull away from each other. Neither of you looks the other in the eye.

“Sorry about your ribs.”

“Huh? Oh. They’re fine.”

Neither of you leaves the foxhole until absolutely necessary. And the next time that the Germans begin firing, when you somehow find yourself back in the same foxhole, neither of you seem to question how easily you wrap your arms around each other, bracing for the impacts and explosions.

The fog of war is a hell of a thing.

. . .

“Medic! We need a medic!”

The call is so unexpected that Nixon actually stops midsentence and turns his attention towards the panicked voice. Several others follow suit. After all, in the middle of Berchtesgaden, who would need a medic? It’s not like they’re in combat. And there’s nothing and no one around that should be putting anyone in danger.

Dick jumps into action immediately. Of course he does; he cares so deeply for his men – anyone can see that. It’s especially evident in this moment as he steps forward to intercept the panicked looking Talbert.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“(Y/L/N) needs a medic.”

Despite his wishes, Nixon feels his heart skip a beat at the mention of your name. It’s because of the startling and unusual news that Tab is delivering, he tells himself.

“For what?” he asks at the same time that Dick takes charge of the situation, charging down the street they’ve been standing on, yelling out that he needs to find Doc Roe.

As soldiers snap to attention trying to find the trusted medic, Nixon moves closer to Talbert.

“What happened to (Y/L/N)?”

Talbert takes a step back, his eyes wide, like he’s being confronted by a madman. Sure, Nixon’s tone was a little demanding – a little worried – but there’s really no need for the other man to look so shocked.

“A couple of us were out exploring the woods,” Tab explains. “She caught her ankle on a root and tripped. Might be just a sprain, but it looks pretty nasty.”

“Where is she now?”

“We got her back to the house that she was quartering in – Hey! Nix, where are you going?”

Talbert’s voice fades behind him as Nixon rushes down the street. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s vaguely aware of people stopping to stare at him as he passes, his pace a barely restrained run.

Several shocked faces look up at him when he bursts into the house. He stops in the doorway of the living room, staring into where you are.

You sit on the couch, one leg propped up beside you. Other than the swelling in your ankle, you look okay – if not a little surprised, that is, to see Nixon gaping at you like this. For what it’s worth, the few Easy men who are scattered throughout the living room look just as stunned.  

“(Y/N),” Nixon breathes. Coming back to himself, he clears his throat, willing his heart rate to slow down to normal levels.

“Um . . . I think we should – we should maybe clear out, yeah guys? Give (Y/N) some room to breathe,” Babe suggests.

Casting glances between you and Nixon, the other men squeeze past him in the doorway as they make their way out of the house. Behind him, the door closes, but Nixon doesn’t move. Somewhere within the house, through all the silence between the two of you, a clock chimes to signal the top of the hour.

“Can I help you?” You finally ask.

“We’re at the end of the war.” Nixon’s voice, once again, is louder than he intended it to be. He clears his throat again before pushing on. “We’re at the end of the war, and you somehow got hurt.”

“I tripped in the woods. So what?”

“So what? I was worried about you!” The words are out of his mouth before they have his permission to be spoken. They’ve escaped before he truly grasps the gravity of what he’s just said.

You quirk an eyebrow – a rather sarcastic expression that he’s come to know on you, but your voice is quiet when you ask, “You were worried about me?”

He was worried about you, he realizes suddenly. And he’s been worried about you for some time now, though he can’t place when his feelings towards you softened, when he started to care.

“Yeah,” he admits. “I want you to get home safely.”

“Why is that?”

His head spins. Maybe you should have been put in intelligence, the way that you’re pressuring him for answers while keeping a collected tone. It’s exasperating, honestly, how you’ve somehow gained the upper hand.

But part of him . . . likes the feeling it gives him when the two of you spar like this.

Something tugs at the corners of your mouth. It might be a smile you’re trying to suppress, or one of the smirks that he’s come to know so well.

“Nixon, I think you’re very bad at expressing your emotions.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” With your propped leg taking up the space beside you on the couch, you instead gesture to the chair that sits nearby. Without knowing why, Nixon takes a seat. It’s a bit like waiting outside the principal’s office, the anticipation of it all. “But,” you continue. “it’s kind of cute to see you so flustered.”   

You’re messing with him, surely. Yet he can’t find any sort of witty comeback.

After a moment of staring at each other, you nod with the assurance of someone who has finally made up their mind and is resigned to their fate. “I think it’s time I finally came clean.”

“About?”

“I think you know. But just to watch you squirm, I’m going to start at the beginning.”

He’s heard you tell stories before. The two of you could be here for a long time.

But, he thinks as you start your narrative, he’s starting to realize that he wouldn’t want it any other way.

[sshbpodcast]

Character Spotlight: Reginald Barclay

By Ames

We’re at the end of our Voyager characters to spotlight here on the blog, but don’t worry! A Star to Steer Her By has made sure to save some room on our plate for Broccoli! Between The Next Generation, First Contact, and Voyager, we got a pretty decent helping of the lieutenant, so let’s pick some of the remnants out from between our teeth and see just what makes Reginald Barclay the character he is.

Interestingly, most of Barclay’s best moments come in Voyager and his worst moments are more weighted to TNG. I guess it took a little while for him to start to agree with our palette, as he starts off as a holo-addicted, hypochondriac, transporter phobic conglomeration of mental health conditions. But the guy grew on us so it’s only fair to have a taste. So join us below for the best and worst of Reg, listen to our chatter over on this week’s podcast episode (beam over to 1:06:25), and pass the Broccoli!

[Images © CBS/Paramount]

Best moments

All for one and more for me! While we definitely found a lot to cringe about in Barclay’s debut episode “Hollow Pursuits” (and you’ll hear more about that later), what we definitely appreciate are his swordsplay skills! Holodeck or no, Reg has got the moves to take on not one, not two, but all three musketeer crew members! En guard!

What if, what if, what if one of us is the connection? Reg is also the one in “Hollow Pursuits” to discover the invidium infection that was plaguing the ship, and then works with the team to put a stop to it. It’s a learning moment for the lieutenant because he also gets a little confidence boost from the experience after some unceremonious exchanges between him and La Forge.

You’re in for a bumpy ride We’ve also got to hand it to Reg for overcoming his transporter phobia and saving those crewmen from the transporter buffer in “Realm of Fear.” No one else would be brave enough to go face to face with the weird turd things in the ether, let alone think there might actually be people in there somewhere. It must’ve been all that plexing he was doing under Troi’s care.

What would happen if we tried to beam a holodeck object off the grid? While he, Data, and the captain were held captive in the holodeck program by that mastermind Professor Moriarty, Barclay comes up with the idea to try to beam the two hologram characters out of the holodeck and into the actual ship in “Ship in a Bottle.” Sure, it didn’t work because that’s just plain impossible, but it was a clever enough idea to keep the professor busy.

Why don’t you come with me, little girl, on a magic carpet ride Barclay shows up briefly in First Contact during the repair work on the Phoenix. Reg drops by to show La Forge some component he found to replace the Phoenix’s warp plasma conduit – definitely needed to save the day and ensure first contact. We’re pretty sure it was some tubing from a brewery still, but that might just be a guess because Zephram had been drinking.

Project Voyager is just beginning, thanks to you By the time we get to Voyager, we really get Barclay at his best. It’s clear that he’s grown a little bit and his engineering ingenuity is on full display in “Pathfinder” when he literally runs the gamut to put his plan in motion to use the MIDAS array to create an artificial micro-wormhole to make contact with the Voyager. He has to break the rules to do it, but he finally gets through!

Neelix the Cat, the wonderful, wonderful cat You’re always going to get extra points with the hosts of A Star to Steer Her By if you’re a cat person, and it turns out that Barclay is a kitty lover! We see in “Pathfinder” that he has a sweet kitty named Neelix whom he seems to spoil rotten. And you’ll also remember that back in “Genesis” Data remarks that Reg is the only crewmember whom Spot actually likes!

The first transgalactic phone call The application of the MIDAS array gets better and better until Voyager is using it to send correspondence back and forth to the Alpha Quadrant once a month by “Life Line.” And that’s all thanks to Reg, whose dedication to the Pathfinder Project turns out to be just beginning. There’s still a long way out of the Delta Quadrant to go!

You brought a Mark One thirty thousand light years to treat me? With the MIDAS array set up, the EMH transmits himself over to cure an ailing Dr. Zimmerman later in “Life Line.” However, it becomes clear that the EMH’s creator is too stubborn to accept the help of the obsolete model with his own face. And that’s when Reg steps in, first enlisting the help of Counselor Troi, and then successfully tricking Dr. Z into working with his creation.

Check, raise, or geodesic fold? Speaking of tricking people! When the Ferengi have taken over the MIDAS array in “Inside Man” and sent a nefarious hologram Barclay to the Voyager, the real deal Barclay impersonates himself and foils their plan to steer the ship into a geodesic fold. Turns out Reg is pretty good at playing a cockier version of himself!

Eleven minutes are better than none One final leap forward in how the MIDAS array progresses in its communication usage comes in “Author, Author.” Finally, we’re close enough to home (and to the end of the series) that Reg has helped to set up the brief daily windows during which the crew can talk live with their loved ones after about seven years apart. Or set up a book publishing deal, whatever floats your boat.

Before I met you, my only friends were my own creations If you haven’t checked out our Voyager fanfics, you’ve really got to give Jake’s story “Hollow Gestures” a read or listen. He pairs Barclay and Doctor Zimmerman together as two typically solitary geniuses in a lovely tale that’ll have you giggling one moment and tearing up the next. It's the slash we didn't know we needed.

—

Worst moments

I’m tired of seeing your name on report The first impression that both we and the Enterprise-D crew get of Reg, however, is just plain bad. We learn in “Hollow Pursuits” that he’s chronically late, underperforms, and otherwise seems antisocial and pathetic on the job. La Forge even attempts to get this loser crewman transferred. No wonder Wesley started calling him Broccoli – no one wants him on their plate!

Cast off your inhibitions and embrace love, truth, joy Even worse than being a bad coworker on the job, Barclay definitely crosses the line and should be reported to HR for what he does in the holodeck in “Hollow Pursuits.” While manipulating the likenesses of his crewmates is enough of an affront, making Troi into the Goddess of Empathy turns him into a sexual predator, even worse than Geordi with Leah Brahms.

The big brain am winning again! I am the greetest! After the Cytherians have ker-zapped Reg’s brain in “The Nth Degree,” the usually shy and introverted engineer evolves quickly into a hypergenius. But with great brain power comes great brain responsibility, and Reg just can’t handle the sudden knowledge jump gracefully and turns into an egomaniacal dick even after the Cytherians turn him back.

Fiddle-dee-dee! That will require a tetanus shot. Before Reg figures out the transporter issue we mentioned above, he finds his arm glowing from one of the beings touching him while in the buffer. And my dude takes so long to tell anyone about this obvious medical malady. I mean, no one likes doctors, obviously. But when your arm is literally glowing blue, let someone wave a tricorder over you, bro.

Rated E for Everyone Except Alexander We may not see Barclay in “A Fistful of Datas,” but he wrote the cowboy holoprogram for Alexander. I could say this is a bad moment because it forces another Alexander episode upon us, but there’s more! When an old-timey prostitute gestures at the two Klingons, Worf rightly comments that he’ll need to talk to Reg about what goes into a kid’s program. Yeehaw.

The game is afoot! Okay, while most of this blame goes to Picard for leaving Moriarty in limbo for so damn long, we’ve also got to pick on Reg a little bit for releasing the Professor from the holodeck in “Ship in a Bottle.” Frankly, asking someone with a holodeck addiction to go fix it seems like a mistake in the first place because Moriarty is able to trick the engineer practically right away.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Spiders Almost nothing in “Genesis” makes any sense: Spot turns into an iguana, Picard starts turning into some kind of tamarin, and Barclay turns into a spider, all while the episode tries to frame it all as “de-evolving,” which isn’t a thing. And all of it is because of Reg when his Barclay Protomorphosis Syndrome spreads across the ship, which sounds pretty spidery to me.

It’s Terrelian Death Syndrome, isn’t it? Barclay’s hypochondria turns into a sort of running joke across The Next Generation, with Barclay constantly self diagnosing with more and more preposterous ailments that Bev has to talk him out of. From transporter psychosis in “Realm of Fear” to Terellian Death Syndrome in “Genesis,” it all seems like a bit of a stretch in a future when tricorders can cure what ails you.

Don’t meet your heroes, kids Okay, the little Barclay cameo we got in First Contact was cute and all, but yet again, he’s just an off putting and weird nerd who fanboys all over Zephram Cochrane. He might have freaked Big Z out in the ten seconds he was on screen as much as La Forge and everyone else did over the course of the entire movie. No wonder Zeph tries to flee from responsibility.

From where I stand, it looks like you’ve had a relapse Reg is a bit more toned down and mature by the time we get to Voyager, but frankly, creating a holo-version of the Voyager crew who all worship and adore him in “Pathfinder” seems fraught. For someone who has such a problematic history with creating counterparts of real people on the holodeck, Reg may have backslid. At least none of them were the Goddess of Empathy.

What About Bob? Also in “Pathfinder,” we find that Reg just abuses his doctor-patient relationship with Deanna Troi to effectively turn her into his own on-call therapist even though she’s typically busy on the Enterprise-E at this point. Even worse, in “Inside Man,” he follows Deanna while she’s on vacation like a creep, something that definitely should be out of bounds for a patient to do!

What exactly is a broken heart worth these days? Finally, it seems like Reg was so enamored with the idea of having a girlfriend who isn’t a hologram for a change in “Inside Man” that he ignores all sense. Anyone could take one look at Leosa and see that she is only giving the dorky engineer the time of day in order to to trick him. Easily. Maybe he should stick to the holodeck after all.

—

Computer, erase all programs filed under Reginald Barclay. Except program nine. And that’s it for character spotlights until we circle back around to the crew from Enterprise! Speaking of which! We’re finally wrapping all of Enterprise over on the podcast next week, so make sure you’re warping along with our banter over on SoundCloud or wherever you listen, follow the blog for the upcoming season and series wrap posts, chat with us over Facebook and Twitter, and stop making your coworkers in the holodeck!

[keaalu]

WIP - ‘Kestrel Kestrel’

So apparently “WIP Wednesday” is a thing? Like I need any excuses to dump incomplete ficbits on the internet.

----

Still feeling sore and muzzy, with 55 lurking quietly next to her, monitoring her vital signs, she’d only been human again for thirty seven minutes but Kate was already on her third plate of sandwiches, crunching her way through Spacehawk’s entire stock of crispy snacks. 101 looked alarmed by how quickly his inventory was dropping but wasn’t hesitating at bringing more when she looked at him in a specific way.

“Growing a whole new skeleton really takes it out of you,” she said, accepting the offering when the zeroid trundled over pushing yet another packet of crisps towards her.

“That’s our last pack of those,” 101 informed her, trying but not quite able to keep all the reproach from his tone. “So if you need anything else you’ll need to pick something different. Like broccoli.”

“Sorry, hon.” She suspected it had probably been Hiro’s favourites she’d been happily munching her way through, if the zeroid’s manner was anything to go by. “I’ll send some more up on your next supply run.”

He chirped an acknowledgement and seemed mollified, for the moment.

“I guess it must have felt a bit like this when you got your body back after Zelda turned you into a cube, huh?” she wondered.

“Oh I don’t think my experience was anywhere near as bad as yours, ma’am,” he demurred. “Mine was more like… maybe just a very unflattering new set of clothes.”

Kate patted him on the head, anyway. “I bet it still sucked. And at least you weren’t a were-cube,” she joked, and winced.

“And it didn’t involve a trash compactor,” he agreed, and gave her fingers a bump. “Would you like a coffee? I just heard it finish brewing.”

“That would be amazing. Thank you.”

He squeaked another little nonverbal agreement, and rolled away to get it. (She wondered if she could get away with asking for more sandwiches when he came back.)

“Tea? Oh, yes please,” she heard Hiro say, and looked up to find the lieutenant in the doorway.

“I ate all your chips, so I think I’m in trouble with your little space husband,” Kate apologised, holding the open pack out to him. Even that small action made her shoulders ache. Perhaps she ought to forego more sandwiches in favour of sleeping for a few days.

Hiro smiled and took a single crisp, but otherwise waved her off. “I once told him I particularly liked these, so now he always buys far too many, then pretends they were on offer. Then we have to somehow store four cases of them.” He settled on the floor next to her, cross legged, and nibbled the snack. “I try not to eat them too quickly, because then he panics that we are running out and buys more.” A little sigh. “There are certain nuances to human behaviour that zeroids don’t quite get, yet, and striking a balance between foods we enjoy and sensible nutritional choices appears to be one of them.”

“Well, you have plenty of ‘sensible nutritional choices’ in the form of broccoli, apparently.”

“And why do you think we have plenty of that?” Hiro gave her an arch look, then relented and took another crisp.

“Yeah, I get it.” Kate chuckled, tiredly. “So do you have an update for me?”

“I do. Not much of one, yet, but we wanted to ensure you were kept in the loop.” He held out the tablet for her.

Kate stared at the confusing mosaic of… biopsy images? “What am I looking at?”

He tapped the first image and it enlarged to a graphical representation genetic data. “Initially, when you arrived and we took a skin sample?” At her nod, he went on; “We thought that Zelda must have done something structurally to alter your DNA, but when we analysed it, it was all still human. We could not explain it. How could you be human, but categorically not human, at the same time? So we did a visual scan of your blood sample, instead. And we found… this.” He touched the screen and brought up a new image.

It was some sort of microscopy of a blood film. Kate could recognise red blood cells easily. The irregular, blobby purplish masses were probably white blood cells.

She had no idea what the scattering of angular black flecks were, though.

She felt a set of cold fingers draw up the back of her neck. “The hell are those.”

“We are still working on our analysis, but they look like very small machines of some sort. They have proved hard to extract to get under the electron microscope. Kiljoy is still working on it.”

---

“The black dots.” She let out a breath in a very long exhale. “Can you remove them?”

Hiro’s silence was all she needed to know.

“We will remove them,” he hastily added. “I just don’t know how quickly we can do it, yet.”

“Can you block them?”

“I don’t know.”

“So what you mean is, I could turn back into a bird at literally any moment. Including at the worst possible time. Like… at the controls of an aircraft.”

He took her hand and squeezed her fingers, briefly. “I’m sorry, Kate.”

The two zeroids had both converged on her as well, leaning comfortingly against her.

“It’s okay, guys.” She forced a smile. “I know it’s not your fault. I just… oh, man. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse.”

[hosseinis]

"This has been the thing I've been afraid of all my life... that I'd go in and not come back... But I guess... if I'm ever going to confront my fear, it might as well be now."

star trek: the next generation - realm of fear, season 6 episode 2

[justakon]

Sometime during the mid-morning, Isane made her way to the Twelfth on the pretext of submitting the forms for the extraction of dangerous compounds from a few of her flowering and fruiting plants. As she did so, she casually enquired of the main SRDI office if their lieutenant was busy. Upon being told that he was occupied at the moment and asked if it was something urgent, she shook her head. It would be unconscionable to interrupt him at work, particularly if he was working on something with a rapid rate of decay or needed close monitoring.

Instead, she left a three-tiered food thermos jar and a transparent tub with the laboratory technician she had spoken to, asking for it to be delivered to their lieutenant. A handful of irregularly-shaped savoury mashed banana fritters in the see-through container will not win any awards for their appearance but were included because she recalled a conversation where he expressed an interest in trying them. The contents of the insulated vacuum, however, were more mainstream in the form of congee with shredded chicken, matchstick-sliced ginger, broccoli florets and carrot slices on the first layer; takikomi gohan with diced parsley, chicken, celery, carrots, shiitake mushrooms and abura-age on the second; and finely blended red bean soup with sago and reconstituted slivers of dried tangerine peel on the third. Mindful that these dishes would likely be tested for poisons and other substances, care was taken to include a sealed note with the thermos.

This missive simply reads: Dearest Truffle, Forgive this intrusion into your work. As it is chilly today and you have been hard at work lately and probably functioning on little sleep, something hot for lunch, dinner and tea breaks might do you some good. Please excuse the porridge for being on the watery side. Sago has been added to dessert to bulk it up a little. I hope you won't find it too thin or the main dish too plain. It should keep warm if you want it for tea. The fritters can be kept till supper or breakfast the next day. You might have to reheat the rice for dinner in case you want it hot. Apologies for putting you through the trouble and for the uninteresting meals. Thank you for the pink moonflower by the way. It has been planted opposite the white one at the engawa. Please remember to wrap up when you step outdoors to smoke and rest when you feel tired. Your Tomato.

Waiting until the officer shuffled away out of sight, presumably either to the control centre, the command centre or the laboratory Akon had secreted himself on, she returned to the Fourth for some sleep before the night shift.

The days seemed to be melding into one another and he hadn't really recognised that he had been stuck in the labs and away from his quarters. he did pop in every other day to restock food and water for da vinci since he could not be a neglectful father to his already hiding from his cat. there were just too many deadlines to meet and they all required his supervision and direction and guidance or the usual chastising.

it happened that way sometimes. too many projects happening all at the same time and needing all hands on deck. which meant relying on stimulants and forgoing sleep altogether. sometimes even sustenance too. since this was the 12th and they could manage to bypass those things regular shinigami couldn't. there were always ways around it. but nothing was without any consequence of course.

and ever since he started to become closer to isane, he could almost feel her disapproving gaze on him for being the way he was. but he also knew she would be understanding despite her concern. he knew what he was doing. and this was hardly his first time doing this sort of thing.

funny how as his thoughts were on that certain grey-haired lady that the lab technician happened to bring him something and when he asked who had sent it -- even if he knew before he was told -- he was coloured surprised for sure. there was no outward smile. he maintained his usual indifferent expression but inside dare, he say he felt somewhat giddy? it was most odd, for sure. to be remembered and have food that she made herself sent to him. it was quite thoughtful and something he'd never experienced anyone doing for him. like ever.

for a brief moment, his eyes scrolled over the missive she had written in that no-nonsense handwriting of hers. there was no intrusion. leave it to her to think it was so. sure, maybe he got a few odd stares once he'd received the thermos but no one dared say or ask him anything about it. and he did appreciate the instructions. she was always good at that. but he really should get back to work. even if a part of him wanted to explore what she made. he would have to get back to it during a break.

[text] got your delivery. you didn't have to go through all that trouble for me. but thank you. i shall see you soon. possibly a few more days. take care of yourself, isane.

after he sent the message he tucked his phone back in his labcoat and back to work it was.

[theautisticintrovert]

I am good old Lieutenant Broccoli (Barclay).

[ericosyard]

Trying a few broccoli starts from flower world. Never heard of "Lieutenant" before.

[thresholdbb]

With all my Lieutenant Broccoli posting tonight, I feel compelled to share this gem

[foone]

The hypothetical episode I was hdg-shitposting about would of course have "Guest Star Dwight Schultz" at the beginning, because of course we're bringing back Lieutenant Broccoli, baby!

Note to self: make a gifset of the opening of a Star Trek the Next Generation episode.

Outside of the ship, flying through space, then cut to Picard's Ready Room, where he's looking at desktop monitor.

Then we overlay subtitles on it, and it's Picard talking about how he's about to make contact with a newly discovered alien faction, the Affini Compact.

That'd be amusing. I should make that.

[friendswhotrektogether]