#lincoln goes to hell

[incorrectinfinity]

ME TOO WILL

[queenlua]

What began as a friendship between Ann and Abraham [Lincoln] turned at some point into romance. They shared an understanding, according to friends, that they would marry after Ann completed her studies at the Female Academy in Jacksonville. Ann was only twenty-two in the summer of 1835. While New Salem sweltered through one of the hottest summers in the history of the state, a deadly fever, possibly typhoid, spread through the town. Ann, as well as several of Lincoln's friends, perished in the epidemic. After Ann's death, Abraham seemed "indifferent, to transpiring events," one neighbor recalled, "had but Little to say, but would take his gun and wander off in the woods by him self." Elizabeth Abell, a New Salem neighbor who had become a surrogate mother to Lincoln, claimed she had "never seen a man mourn for a companion than he did." His melancholy deepened on dark and gloomy days, for he could never "be reconcile[d]," he said, "to have the snow—rains and storms to beat on her grave." Acquaintances feared that he had become "temporarily deranged," and that unless he pulled himself together, "reason would desert her throne."

goddamn. fuckin bleak period in mr sixteenth president's life

[fxirytxlcfxtc]

Tag Dump - 9/9

[evie-sturns]

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴇʀ ᴄᴀᴍᴘ - ᴍᴀᴛᴛ ꜱᴛᴜʀɴɪᴏʟᴏ

(part 3) (part 2) (part 1)

summary: you and your best-friend matt, have decided to sign up to be a summer camp counsellor for your school's summer project! will you two stay as just friends? or will this summer turn out different for you guys.

a/n: glad you guys are liking this series, this part is smutty af, but i like it, i might be wrong but i think this is a little shorter than part 1 and 2.

contains: SMUT! fluff, making out, swearing.

—------------╚══ ❀•°❀°•��� ══╝------------——

he pulls away slowly as his phone lights up, he scrolls through it before letting out a soft laugh "no way" he scoffs, rubbing his eyes. "tonight were sleeping in the kids hall, like me and you, supervising.."

"you're kidding matt"

"nope, apparently theres a small cabin that connects off the kids hall, its got 1 bed that we share" he laughs

my cheeks flush, sharing a bed with matt, after this?..

-

after my makeout session with my bestfriend ,matt, we both went back to our own cabins, packing certain things to prepare for sleeping next to the kids sleeping-hall.

"xaiveerrr!" i yell, swinging the door to our cabin, hes sitting comfortably on his bed, still wearing his swimshorts as he scrolls through his phone. "y/n! i was waiting for you to come back to the lake?" he says, slightly confused.

"oh i just went into the kayak shed with matt." i smile, trying to wipe the blush off my face.

he raises an eyebrow "why'd you go in there? you totally abandoned me, i had to try make friends with fucking lincoln, hes weird as fuck.."

my mind scrambles, trying to think of a believable excuse for why i disappeared with matt into a dark shed for 25 minutes. i open my mouth, nothing comes out.

silence grows in me and xaivers shared cabin before he interrupts "no way, you kissed matt!?" he laughs, i slam my hand over his mouth "ew no what the hell!" i say defensivley.

"you're getting defenssiiivveee" he teases, my face goes cherry red. "we didn't do anything xaiver." i mutter, walking over and packing my toothbrush and pyjamas in a small tote bag.

"oh girl, i know you're not moving out right now, i was kidding!!!" he says, staring at me while i pack everything i need for a night.

"im not moving out, me and matt have to spend the night in the kids hall."

he gasps "oh my god, its luxury in there, i heard paige and dani were in there the other night, the cabin which you guys stay in is relativly close to the kids hall, so you're not actually in with the kids, its just a private room near it." xaiver says.

"oh thank god, though id have to sleep in a bunk in the middle of the kids hall." i sigh, throwing my tote bag over my shoulder, hugging xaiver goodbye.

"don't have too much fun with matt" he whispers, resulting in me slapping his arm "shut up."

-

I walk down the long gravel path towards matts cabin, its got a small sign outside which reads, 'MATT & LINCOLN' i walk up to their cabin, knocking twice. matt swings open the door, hes got a toothbrush in hand.

"where the fuck is your bag" i laugh.

"bag?" he questions

"yeah? overnight bag, like pyjamas, toothbruhs, face wash..."

his face stays deadpan "oh uh, this is all i need." he laughs pointing to the toothbrush.

"doesn't matter, lets go." i say unlocking my phone and reading the time 7:34pm

matt subtly holds my hand as we approach the kids hall, theres a small cabin about 20 meters away from it, "theres our room!" he says, walking me over to it and swinging open the door, theres one double bed with a book of rules on it. i place my bag down on the bed as matt flicks through the book

"all the campers must be in bed by 9pm, uhh, any complications call jessie in the main office.." he trails off "seems easy enough."

after a few minutes of unpacking matt grabs my hand again, my heartrate increases as he stares into my eyes, "c'mon, lets go check out the kids hall." he says before letting my hand go and walking out into the evening air.

we walk up the stairs to the kids hall, opening the double doors.

theres about 100 bunk beds, with around 200 hundred kids scattered across the room, wall diveders in some parts so its not just an open room, a group of kids are doing gymnastics, another couple are reading, its chaotic but controlled.

i look up at matt, he seems slightly overwhelmed.

instantly three six year old girls run up to us,

"are you guys boyfriend girlfriennddd!" one of them says, smiling up at me and matt. another group of slightly older girls come up to me, "can we braid your hair?"

i look at matt, hes smiling at me, a small blush painted on his cheeks, "yeah sure!" i say as one of the nine year olds pulls me towards her bunk bed, sitting me and matt down.

she giggles as she pulls out two hairbands, tying up matt's hair into pigtails above his head. matt rubs his eyes, as they start placing bows in his hair. "looking good matt" i say, nudging his arm.

-

i check my watch again, 8:55pm

shit.

i stand up from her bunk bed, my hair decked out in glitter hairspray.

i drag matt away from his makeover, "hey, we're just getting to the good part!" matt whines, "matt we have 5 minutes to have 200 kids asleep." i say, stressed, running my hand through my crispy hair.

"you guys have to be in bed in 5 minutes guys! whoever falls asleep first gets a candy!" i yell from the middle of the hall, instantly all the kids leap into bed, screaming as they gather their stuffed animals.

the whole room goes silent, apart from a few whispers, i look at matt whos got a suprised expression spread across his face. i grab his hand before walking towards the door, flicking off the light and stepping out into the night breeze.

we approach our small cabin for the night, matt opens the door, pulling me inside and locking the wooden door behind us.

"we should finish what we started earlier." he mumbles, looking down at me in the dimly lit cabin.

"what?" i whisper, but im cut off by his hand on the side of my cheek, he leans down, pulling me into a gentle kiss.

"we can't matt." i say pulling away.

"why not, you scared?" he teases.

"anyone can walk in or hear us, the walls are paper thin." i sigh.

"who said we have to do it in here?" matt says seductively

"im not fucking you in a public bathroom, thats gross." i sigh, walking over and grabbing my toothbrush.

"come with me." matt whispers, taking my hand and unlocking the door to the cabin. he grips onto my hand as he runs towards the trees, he picks me up, taking me into the garland until theres a patch of soft grass.

he waits for me to say something.

"i think i need you.." i mumble as he lays me on the grass on my back.

"tell me what you want me to do to you baby." he whispers, grabbing the inside of my thigh.

"fuck.. please fuck me." i whisper shakily.

i pull my tanktop off over my head, to his suprise i have no bra on underneath. my nipples instantly become hard as the breeze hits them. i pull down my pyjama shorts, leaving me revealed for him

"its gonna be okay baby, just tell me when." matt says, pulling his sweatpants down.

his length springs out, tapping his stomach lightly.

"oh my fuck-" i groan, throwing my head back as he kneels between my legs, lining himself up with my entrance "you gotta be nice and quiet for me, can you do that for me?" he says, holding my hand.

he slowly pushes inside of me, his length stretching me out, i wince. "breathe." matt says, "look at me sweetheart." he mumbles as he thrusts deeper inside of me, my eyes stay sealed shut. "watch me baby or i'll stop."

he pulls out to his tip, then thrusts back in "taking me so well."

i let out a loud moan, "shut up, and take it." he says slamming a hand over my mouth. his thrusts intenseify, my moans are muffled by his palm. "im gonna fuck-" i groan, "hold it for me." he says, continuing to fuck me. without warning i clench around him, letting myself go.

he abrubtly pulls out, stroking himself a few times as he whimpers, realeasing all over my stomach before collapsing down beside me.

"im so proud of you." he whispers shakily as he pulls up his sweatpants. he hands me my shorts as he stands up, pulling me onto my feet as my legs tremble. "you okay?" he looks down at me, concern spread across his face.

"mmfgh." i mumble out, still processing what just happened, matt chuckles before picking me up and running us back to the cabin.

(the next morning)

I wake up to the godawful sound of dani's voice, i open my eyes slowly looking at her as she looks down at the bed, her arms folded.

i tap matt, forcing him awake. he groans as he yawns, his eyes springing open. his face drops as he sees danielle.

"saw you two last night." she says, her arms folded.

my stomach drops.

"jessie wants you two in her office, such a shame that you have to go home so early, you were only here for such a small amount of time! guess someone didn't read the no romance between staff rule.." she tuts.

"god, i feel soo sorry for you guys, also gonna fail business class cause you couldn't even keep a job here." she says in a fake sympathetic tone.

tears well in my eyes, threatening to fall.

"oh well, go on get dressed and pack your bags, better to be prepared before you see jessie." she sighs before walking out of our cabin.

—------------╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝------------——

taglist which i forgot earlier

@iammattsturniolo @iloveneilperry @tatumrileyslover @chrisstopherfilmed

@leprechaunbirthdaygirl

not too sure wtf just happened none of it workin

[msbigredmachine]

Power Couple: The Aftermath (Roman Reigns)

When the Tribal Chief falls, no one helps him back up better than you do. Set after the epic main event of Wrestlemania XL.

Pairing: Roman Reigns/OC

Warnings: Excess fluff and of course, smut.

Word Count: 3.3k

A/N: Yes, I'm still in my feelings, and there was only one pairing I could properly convey my feelings with, because this has also been their story all along. For new readers, I strongly suggest reading the first two one-shots before delving into this one. Hope you enjoy!

Banner made by me. Credit to the owners of the pics and gifs

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

1,316 days.

All wiped away with three slaps of the referee’s hand to the hard canvas.

Even after Cody rolled away from him, Roman could not move. Hell, he couldn’t breathe. Not when the air had been punched out of his lungs, literally and figuratively. It was only when Dwayne pulled him out of the ring by his pants leg that his body managed to kickstart itself into some sort of motion. And even then, all he could do was turn his head to look back and watch as Cody celebrated in the ring with his wife Brandi, holding his title belt aloft for the whole world to behold as the ultimate symbol of his victory. 

It should have been you and him up there. It should have been him. Again. But it wasn’t. Because the one time he got careless in battle, it cost him everything. Throwing years of hard work down the drain.

And it made him sick to his stomach.

The sound of ‘Kingdom’ blaring through the Lincoln Financial Field Stadium was torture to the former champion’s ears. His legs felt like lead as he dragged his battered body up the ramp, ignoring Dwayne’s baseless, performative complaints about nothing, as he put distance to the tableau of triumph of his opponent. The weight of this defeat was heavy, suffocating even, and he was desperate to get the fuck out of there, to get out of Philadelphia, out of Pennsylvania and all its environs. As he reached the top of the vast WrestleMania stage, pain surged through his abdomen, forcing him to recoil into himself and double over in pain. 

His Wise Man noticed his plight and paused to observe his charge. "My Tribal Chief, are you alright? Do you need-"

Roman shook his head. "I'm fine,” he snapped, willing himself to keep walking until he made it past the curtain. He leaned against the wall and bent over, resting his hands on his knees.

“What can I do, my Tribal Chief?” Paul implored.

“Just…get my wife on the bus and make sure everything’s ready to go. I’ll be there soon."

“Right away my Tribal Chief,” Paul replied eagerly, scurrying off to do as he was told.

It was a good long minute before Roman managed to pull himself back upright, staggering towards his locker room. Walking was so hard, his body hurt so much, but none of it hurt as much as the gut punch of failure. Much worse than any of the bumps he took was the shame, the disappointment engulfing him; so much so that he couldn’t bear to look anyone else in the eye right now.

Because he had failed everyone who cared about him.

He had failed you.

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

All good things come to an end. That’s how the saying goes, right? The interesting part of that was that on the surface, it was a throwaway little trope, harmless and benign, until something that meant a great deal to you got taken away in the blink of an eye, or in this case, a three-count. The moment the bell signaled the pinfall that confirmed your husband's time as the Undisputed WWE Universal Champion had come to an end, you knew he would never be the same again.

It wasn't unlike Roman to be a little on edge weeks before a big premium live event. And given the nature of the two main event matches he was locked in for the fortieth annual WrestleMania, you expected he would be grouchy. But this time around seemed different, and not in a good way. He’d been surly towards everybody, including you. He disappeared for hours working out obsessively. He’d even thrown out a female member of the press who had dared to boo him at the press conference on Saturday night. Now, despite the final match of the weekend concluding nearly an hour ago, Roman was yet to return to his tour bus. That only meant one thing; he was not taking this defeat well, and it was up to you to lift him up, like you always did.

When you found the door boasting your husband's name, Heyman was outside, pacing back and forth. The Undisputed title, which you had grown accustomed to seeing on his shoulders on behalf of his Tribal Chief, was missing; a stark, prickly reminder of the outcome of tonight’s proceedings. 

"That bad, huh?" you asked, reading the Wise Man’s expression in a second. In fact, he looked on the verge of tears, his shoulders sagging with despair. The weekend had taken an emotional toll on him, too.

"He won’t come out," he informed you, his usually confident voice shaky and helpless. “He won’t let anyone in and he won’t speak to anyone…”

You raised your index finger to cut him off. "Correction, he won’t speak to anyone that’s not me," you stated, shooting him a warm smile, one among countless others you had shared with him since burying the hatchet after years of friction between you. "Go be with your family, Paul. I’ll handle my husband.”

“He’s my family, too,” he declared softly, the conviction in what you used to call his beady eyes, palpable and heartbreaking, “Both of you are.”

Touched and at a loss for words, you could only look on as he turned around slowly and made the lonely walk down the hallway. Turning back to the locker room door, you sucked a breath between your teeth and blew it out, mentally preparing to confront this task head-on.

You knocked timidly and stuck your head inside. If Roman was in as foul a mood as Paul let on, even you did not want to be there. It had taken a few unfortunate incidents over the years for you to learn that even a kiss from his wife wasn't enough when he got too stressed. It never stopped you from trying, though. Kissing was one of your favorite things to do with him after all.

"Knock, knock," you called out softly, listening for signs of movement as you stepped inside and closed the door. The room that was bustling just a few hours ago was now stripped bare and cloaked in dead quiet. It was an eerie contrast to the majestic, sweeping grandiosity that encompassed his entrance to the ring tonight. “Babe?”

Venturing further inside the room, you found him on the couch, his strong, broad back to you, his shoulders slumped dejectedly. An open bottle of Jack Daniels sat on the coffee table in front of him. His ula fala was draped over the headrest, where his title belt would surely have been. 

This was the reality no one warned you about after a monumental loss. It plunged you into a cold, dark abyss, wrought with biting silence and dreary loneliness now that the show was over and the lights were no longer bright. The what ifs, buts and maybes crooning in your ear like a morbid symphony. It was an experience all too familiar to you unfortunately, and recently, too; you and your husband had traveled down this terrible road following the tragic miscarriage of your son in the summer of 2022.

Stepping in front of him, you wiggled into his personal space and made yourself at home on his lap. Gently wrapping your arms around him, you sighed with relief when he instantly melted into you and his huge arms enveloped your waist, holding on to you like his life depended on it. 

“My baby,” you cooed soothingly, the sound of your lips meeting the side of his head piercing through the emptiness of the locker room. “My love.” 

The audible hitch of his breath at your soft words was expected. In the course of your lifetime, those two little phrases had garnered a poignant significance. As words of comfort and solace first uttered by your mother when you were a child, you murmured those words regularly to Roman between sweet, playful kisses when he was courting you, basking in the bliss of newfound love, and again as part of your wedding vows as you became man and wife. They were the first words you whispered to Laleia the first time she was placed in your arms. They were the words that you had cried yourself to sleep with as you mourned the baby boy you had lost. You and Roman had seen each other at your absolute best and worst, and now, in the isolation of this room, with just the two of you and nobody else, this was another bad moment you had to overcome.

“On Matt’s birthday, too,” Roman finally spoke, wiping at his nose with a sniffle. “Fuck, man.”

“I know,” you replied, running your hand comfortingly up and down his upper arm. As he met your gaze at last, you saw that his eyes were bloodshot. Seeing him like this broke your heart afresh. You held him as close as possible, willing all his pain and his hurt into your soul, wanting nothing more than to take it all away.

"I fucked up," he breathed, his voice raw and choked with misery, "I fucked up out there, babe...I let Dwayne down...I let y'all down. I lost the title and I'm sorry."

"Sorry? For what? Over thirteen hundred days as champion?" you countered, "Nine WrestleMania main events? Billions of dollars in revenue? A roof over your child's head and three square meals a day? One loss will never wipe any of that away, don't ever get it twisted."

He exhaled tiredly as he hugged you tighter, resting his head on your shoulder. "I really wish I felt that way right now," he mumbled.

"It'll take some time, but you will," you asserted, running his fingers through his loose hair before tugging it lightly, making him look at you again. "Roman, you changed the industry, just like you said you would when we started this. No one will ever, ever forget what you've done these past four years. Be proud of all of it. You've been through so much, you sacrificed too much to not be proud."

Roman nodded in understanding. He just wished he didn't feel so down. "Baby, I...I want you to know how sorry I am. I know how much you wanted this. And I've been such a dick to you lately-"

You kissed your teeth and waved his apology away. "Nah. That don't matter no more. And I don't care that you didn't win. All I care about is you being safe when you're out there. Being healthy for our family and our daughter, who will be very happy to have her Daddy home, by the way. So we took an L. Okay, we'll only come back stronger. We had one bad night. Guess what? I plan on giving you a better morning, if you know what I mean." You rounded off your words with a wink, your heart blooming when he chuckled in response. "See, there's that smile I love so much. Keep your head up, baby. You did so good tonight. I couldn't be more proud of you."

Roman leaned into you, his forehead pressed to yours, breathing you in and filling his head with your scent. It was like breathing fresh air. “I love you, Y/N. I love you with all of my heart. I don’t deserve you, I never have.”

The tears you'd been fighting all night resurfaced, but you blinked them away as you captured his lips with yours, your hand sliding over the back of his neck. He clung to you, a different emotion quickly overtaking him as he returned your kiss with a bit of aggression, his tongue whipping hungrily against yours, savoring your mouth as though he was tasting it for the very first time. You surrendered to his every whim, your other hand raking through his hair then caressing gently down to his chest, resting your palm over the spot where his heart pumped for you. You could feel how much he needed this moment of intimacy, and you had no qualms giving him anything he asked for.

With one quick tug of your legs, Roman had you straddling him on the couch, bringing you chest to chest with your lush backside resting on his growing bulge. He paused for a moment to take a deep breath, then sealed your mouths again, his tongue invading, probing, a moan rumbling in his chest when you matched his energy, the emotions take over this loving embrace. He could never get enough of you, of the passion that overwhelmed him by your mere presence, immersing him in a love and gratitude he would always feel for you no matter what state of mind he was in.

Eventually, you pulled away from each other, breathless, panting, lips glistening with each other’s saliva. His heart raced at the familiar gleam in your darkened eyes. You weren’t done with him, not just yet, and this was confirmed as you slowly slid off him and sank to your knees between his spread thighs, pushing the front of his shirt up to expose his newly honed six-pack abs.

“Do you know how fucking hot you looked tonight, Daddy?” you purred to him, leaning in to run your tongue over the ridges of muscle on his taut belly. “Last night? All week? Do you have any idea of all the nasty shit I’m gonna do to you on the bus?”

Roman’s dick jumped in his joggers as his imagination ran wild. He squirmed in his seat, his bottom lip slipping between his teeth as your tongue lapped at his belly, your mouth warm on his skin, all while you rubbed the fullness of his bulge straining eagerly against your touch. “Baby girl…” he choked out, as your fingers peeled the waistband of his pants, unveiling his big, beautiful brown dick. 

“Hmm, commando. I like it,” you commented with a smirk, curling your fist around his turgid length.

“Babe, wait…ain’t Paul outside?”

“I sent him home. Plus, won't be the first time he's seen me suck you off.” Your small hand massaged his blunt, plum-shaped head as you licked a trail along the underside of his dick, enjoying the gasps of pleasure that he made. Licking up the pre-cum that had gathered at the tip, your mouth opened wider to take him in. He stared you down with an intense look in his dark irises, which soon fluttered shut as your lips wrapped tight around his flesh, his stomach tensing as he felt himself slide deeper inside. “Awww, fuuuck,” he moaned.

Pulling back for a second, you held his lust-filled stare and stroked his dick a little harder, giggling when it twitched in your grip. A defiant look clouded your eyes as you licked at his tip before pushing him back into your mouth. It was enough for him to nut by just watching you, the visual of your lips sliding slowly up and down his length, that sexy mouth of yours making sweet love to his dick. It felt so good that he sank further into the plush leather of the couch, his head rolling back lazily against the headrest, his toes curling inside his brand new Air Reigns sneakers. All the pain and punishment his body had endured tonight melted away and was replaced with much more pleasurable sensations.

“I love the way you suck my dick, wifey,” he praised you, forcing himself to observe you through his barely open eyelids. “Mmm, that slutty little mouth is warm as fuck…You so sexy, baby, keep lookin’ up at me like that...” 

His raspy growls had you glancing back up at him, batting your pretty eyelashes as you sucked him off. Wetness pooled between your thighs at his famished expression. Completely aroused, you picked up the pace as your hands and your mouth worked in tandem, sucking and stroking his dick, pleasuring him from tip to base. His breathing became heavier as he throbbed against your tongue, his hands finding the back of your head as he got lost in the paradise of your warm, wet mouth. 

“Damn, baby. I bet that pussy leakin’ for me right now. You gettin’ wet sucking Daddy off, beautiful?” he taunted, his tongue swishing over his bottom lip at the same time your tongue swirled around the base of his shaft. The little moan that escaped your throat told him he was right. Of course he was; he knew his wife better than anybody else. “Good girl. Keep goin', I want that pussy extra wet. I’ma lick all that shit up when we get on the bus.”

With another soft moan, you crawled closer to his body and bore down on him, bobbing your head up and down that long, fat cock. Scooping your hair up into his large fist for leverage, Roman rocked his hips upwards from his seated position, thrusting in and out of your mouth. You relaxed your throat to take him deeper, moaning around his dick and letting him know how much you were enjoying him fucking your face. You rolled his balls in your hand, caressing the heavy, tightened sac to send him over the edge. It was working, as he began thrusting faster, his husky groans of pleasure amplifying as he neared his release.

“Unnnhh, baby, here it comes…Fuck, open your mouth,” he gasped, not waiting for you to do so as he yanked you by your hair to free himself from your intoxicating mouth. You quickly opened wide as he grabbed his cock and jerked it desperately against your tongue. He caught sight of the glazed-over quality of your gaze, and he knew that your panties were completely ruined, your pussy dripping with your need for him. He planned to take care of that very soon.

It was a show more spectacular than Mania, the sight of his gorgeous face contorted with pleasure, his head thrown back, eyes rolled to the heavens as his orgasm washed over his big body. Your moans harmonized together with each spasm of his cum down your throat, making you swallow every drop he unleashed. His grip on your hair was tight and almost painful, but you were turned on anyway, aroused by the knowledge that no one brought him to this state of paramount pleasure like you did. Licking your lips, you scooped him back into your mouth to clean him up, released him with a soft pop when you finished, and tucked him back inside the confines of his joggers. You giggled as he stared dazedly at the ceiling, licking his lips to catch his breath, his big frame slack and helpless as he recovered from the intense orgasm.

"Goddamn, baby...Shit," he groaned.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you stood up and sat back on his lap, welcoming the gentle press of his mouth to yours in a sweet, grateful kiss. “You feel better, Daddy?” you asked.

"Much better. I needed that so much. Thanks, baby," he smiled up at you, his stomach doing flips as you smiled back. He truly was the luckiest man in the world.

“Mm-hmm. Luckily, there’s more where that came from,” you assured him with another kiss before getting to your feet and pulling him up to his. “Come on, Daddy. Let's go home. We got a toddler to take care of. We'll figure out all the other stuff when it's time."

He nodded in agreement and squeezed your hand. “Okay, baby. Home it is.”

A new chapter in your story had been opened tonight, and the path ahead seemed uncertain and even scary. But you both took pride in the fact that as long as you kept writing it together, your love story was going to remain as beautiful as it already was.

But make no mistake about it; Roman Reigns was going to rule the wrestling world again. That was one story that was never going to end.

THE END

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

Thoughts? How sappy was this😢Was quite cathartic for me, loved writing it.

Thank you all so much for reading and commenting!

TAGGING: @jxtina-86 @wrestlingprincess80 @fame-ass-ers @southerngirl41 @alyyaanna @squishyguishy @jstarr86 @murrylove @thewarlordsworld @mzv11 @cozyaliensuperstar7 @nayys-world @hunnidmilly @harmshake @cyberdejos2 @papireigns-05 @niknakbucks92 @captainwithoutmakingitlove @sovereigngoth @aisharmi @kennedi0818 @alichesmi @thesamoanqueen @herwickedlittlesins @questionable-behaviour @tribalchiefreigns @2-muchsauce @thatbxtchsblog @raya-hunter01 @marchi36753 @lovelysuccess @christinabae @wooahmiri @thatonecarebear @tabletheofhead @rheaanddamianfan @vebner37 @hanley1577 @princessesareforsuckers @-naturally @joannasteez @bbygirlky18 @lilucey @theninthwonder @melaninsugababy @chocovibesonly @msbluehaz3 @scarlettnoir01 @heerah34 @empressdede @tbmotw @darkangelchronicles @visionarymode @marasdeathnote @aintnorainbows @meggylynnloves @shantinextdoor @harlemblipster @trc-punzel @afterdarkprincess @nbanenefrmdao @sassginaswanmills @purplehairgawdess @holisticcoach @girlwhogaf @royalkay23 @heyitsnajabrinee @stoner2k @reci1996 @catxo @iamimanim @lookmais @ts1mp0ne @shonny09 @lizzyd1ish @m3llowww @skyesthebomb @final1miya @mzv11 @kia1996 @randomuser0711 @yourtribalqueen @caramelcleopatraa @katymae12344 @that-one-anxious-mango @yana3sworld @ajenae @truefant4sy @thetribalqueen @bhjszsdxc

[urlocalnonbinarybastardwrites]

the gang + socs + shepherds and how they flirt (pair them up in all your silly ways)

How the Outsiders Flirt

Ponyboy Curtis

-dude flirts with the nerdiest history/literature/media reference pick up lines

-he does it ironically. Mostly.

-“Hey y/n, you won’t need the Rosetta Stone to translate my love for you.”

-“Hi, I’m babe Lincoln, and I’m about to give you the Gettysburg undress.”

-“Call it manifest destiny, but I truly believe it’s my God-given right to acquire you.”

Johnny Cade

-I think a lot of people think Johnny is a bad/nervous flirter

-which is true if he’s trying to flirt with someone he actually likes

-I also think he would be amazing at text flirting

-but, to the gang? He’s smooth as hell

-doesn’t need pick up lines to make any gang member flustered

-Gang: “Hey Ponyboy, did I ever tell you how damn handsome you are in that?”

-Crush: “Uh- hi Y/n… *tries to muster up courage to flirt but ends up looking at invisible watch* O-oh guess I’m late gotta go!

Darry Curtis

-I think he’s awkward at it

-OKAY SO

-a lot of people think oh he’s so experienced he would be so smooth

-but let’s be so fr I think Darry maybe has the least experience in romance besides ponyboy

-because he’s juggling raising two damn children

-if that doesn’t hold you back from flirting idk what will

-but anyway

-he’s very awkward at it but the gestures are sweet and he eventually gets help with lots of coaching from soda

-“Uh-Yeah! You’re really pretty Y/n!” *insert awkward finger guns and mental facepalming*

Sodapop Curtis

-rizz king

-I’m sorry but he knows how to pull

-like the best out of all of them

-he perfected the art, he can flirt kinda dirty or innocent in a perfect balance

-but either way you’re going to be blushing 2 minutes in

-seriously he’s charming af we know this

-idc how “tough” you are you will turn into a giggling schoolgirl under his words

Dallas Winston

-he’s not respectful

-catcalling/blunt remarks about your body

-invades personal space

-dirtiest mf pick up lines

-“Hey Y/n you work at Kentucky Fried Chicken right? Because whenever I’m done with these breasts and thighs, can you give me a greasy box to put my bone in?” (Afab ver.)

-“Hey Y/n Are you an eco-friendly kind of guy? The condom in my pocket goes expires tomorrow, so why don’t you help me use it?” (Amab ver.)

Two Bit Mathew

-CHEESIEST PICK UP LINES EVER

-ARE YOU FROM TENNESSEE BECAUSE YOU’RE THE ONLY TEN I SEE TYPE SHIT

-LIKE ACTUALLY MAKES YOU LAUGH FROM CRINGE

Steve Randle

-he’s a pretty average flirter

-I think it’s like a 50/50 chance of you being either charmed or disgusted

-definitely more explicit/implying pick up lines

Cherry Valance

-sweet and wholesome

-compliments and things like that

-“Hi Y/n, you look so pretty today!”

-“Y/n that too is stunning on you!”

-“I could get lost in your eyes.”

Marcia Don’t Know Last Name

-I think she’s pretty blunt

-“Hi Y/n I really like you. Let’s date.”

Tim Shepard

-okay so you know how Wattpad men flirt? That’s this man

-flirts like he already owns you

-“His gaze darkened”

-“his voice drawled out”

-“Darling..”

-Allll that shit

-if you can imagine how a mafia boss flirts that’s him

Curly Shepard

-okay I feel like he would kinda make fun of you flirt

-like banter flirting

-tease flirting

-like you both mutually make fun of each-other and bite your lip type shit

-or it starts off teasing quickly goes to flirting

-or real spit-out-your-tea blunt shit

-“Damn, Y/n. That shirt is ugly as hell. Put it on the floor.”

Angela Shepard

-kind of like cherry but a lil more spicy

-“Damn Y/n if you wore that everyday I don’t think I could survive”

-“I like to be ontop of things. You can be one of them if you want.”

-“Y/n you’re making the sun jealous walking around like that.”

[duckies27]

Crackhead DnDads au

What if (along with Villain Normal) we had other failed checks along the way?

Scary joined the Mayor's party, being her secretary

Taylor goes to hell with Nick the first time, no questions asked

Linc, all alone in this battle ends up turning to the FBI for help

Basically all of them get on the sauce (but Taylor??? I guess????), being protected by Dood without them knowing.

Terry the secretary

Norm the conductor

Taylor, Prince of Hell

Lincoln, FBI

Catch my drift?

[waggledoogledoggle]

”Octavius fell first, Jedediah fell harder”

You fool

Jed and Octavius’s feud ended for not even a full minute when Jed starts paraphrasing gay cowboy quotes to him.

Meanwhile Octavius? It takes about halfway through the second movie, but from that halfway on this man attempts to recruit the US military, instead recruits a giant Abraham Lincoln, free’s Jedediah from death with his helmet and sheer strength and will alone, and openly flirts/just straight (ha) up goes for it in the third movie. Hell, in the third movie Octavius was so fruity that NATM 3 was accused of pushing an agenda.

If that’s not falling harder, idk what is.

I’ll accept that Octavius was the one who realized the nature of these feelings first, no doubt.

But Jed 100% fell first, Octavius fell harder.

But they both full on faceplanted when they fell.

[biasbuck]

BiAsBuck’s ficrec Fridays

Happy Friday everyone! What a couple of weeks huh? We're so back etc. I've still not recovered from the blooper and bts blessings. But I'm back again with another round of the fic I've been reading so far this month! You can find previous rec lists here.

9 August 2024

i'm here with the door wide open by @eddiebabygirldiaz oh my god the YEARNING in this fic. I actually wailed when I got to the end. Eddie POV, he's struggling with the silence with Chris gone, and the absence of the life and noise that he's so used to in his home. Through it all, Buck is there, sweet, supportive, vibrant and loud in his presence. Eddie tentatively comes to listen to what's not being said out loud. I absolutely adored the delicate hand held out to all the relationships here, and the beautiful imagery in the writing. But mostly the intimacy which struck me so deeply. Love is indeed stored in the kitchen. Just gorgeous.

in love with every song you've ever heard by @timeshareindestin I'm so glad I saw the beautiful art of hard of hearing Buck and his firetruck red hearing aids, because it led me to read this wonderful fic, in which he grapples with the disability he suppressed as a child, and realises that the family he craves has been there for him all along. This is an emotional read, and I particularly loved the flashbacks to his childhood and Maddie's support, as well as the realisation that he can be brave and vouch for himself with people fighting his corner.

Operation: Keep Eddie Diaz Busy and Annoyed by @gigi-gigi 'the one where Buck forces Eddie to keep busy while Chris is gone, but ends up catching a bad case of The Feelings in the middle of Eddie learning to love pickling things to irritate Chim and charming old ladies through square dancing.' THE FLIRTING. Dear god the flirting. Just delightful.

where the tumbleweeds blow by @tallahasseemp3 a buddie road trip fic! In which Eddie goes home to Texas. Buck follows. Along the way, they find each other. The perfect thing to read after the deleted Christopher and Eddie scene, with them learning to find their feet with each other whilst Eddie also learns to trust himself with Buck, and establish boundaries and a new understanding with his own parents. Such great family dynamic examination.

free mustache rides by @standback ALL HAIL MOUSTACHEDDIE SMUT!! 'Eddie comes back after two weeks in Texas with a) Christopher, b) a tan, and c) a mustache.' In which Eddie is flirtatious and a bit smug about the effect he's having, whilst Buck is entirely mesmerised, and needs to sit on his face about it. Funny and hot.

Safe for Work by @911-alsaurus continuing with the funny and hot theme, Al's specialty, in which touch starved Buck looks for some way to alleviate his cravings, and 'Eddie offers to be Buck's official head scratcher, shoulder massager, and general tactile needs provider. It's a really normal thing for friends to do. Surely.' Featuring an excellent Chim cameo.

Paint Me in Neon and Make Me Glow by @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels HELLO exhibitionist streak Buck 5+1 hot as hell buck tommy fic. Truly Lincoln writes their dynamic in such a fun way, I love how tongue in cheek teasing Tommy is and how playful and intrigued Buck is here, whilst being extremely turned on. Kink exploration that ups the ante with each new tentative discovery. There's no room to be shy!

Every Day You’ll Still Show Up by @bluflamingo was a really nicely characterised buck tommy fic, an emotional oneshot in which they're early days boyfriends set close to S7 canon, learning to comfort each other when Buck returns after a bad call. There was a gentleness to this that I could genuinely see slotting into the show, and I really liked that it was a regular call out that went wrong rather than a massive catastrophe.

PS - once again sending out the signal to ask if you have any henren authors/fic recs I should check out PLEASE let me know! Have you SEEN S8 Hen's arms in those tank tops? Dear lord. Help a lesbian out?

[inconspicious-random-thoughts]

The Hazbin Timeline

I'm just making a timeline list of the Hazbin Hell residents biological and death ages. It's fun and interesting to see who is around who time period and such.

It might make help fanfic writers with backstories to know who existed at what time.

Im making the "current" date in the Hazbin universe 2019 as that's when The pilot aired.

Oldest: Lucifer. Existed before the dawn of mankind.

Adam: First man, existed since the dawn of mankind

Lilith: First woman, Existed since the dawn of mankind.

Eve: Second woman, Existed since the dawn of mankind, after Lilith.

Zestial: Information unknown beside oldest overlord, but going by his Shakespearean speech, death around the 1600's making him about 400 years old.

Possibly witness in his lifetime: Mary, Queen of Scots, executed for treason by order of Queen Elizabeth I, Galileo's experiments, Pilgrims from England arrive at Plymouth, Massachusetts, on the Mayflower.

Charlie: Appears to be in her 20s but

Despite her youthful appearance, it appears that Charlie's age is a matter of question. Although Vivziepop thinks that Charlie does celebrate birthdays with the standard kind of party, she is still unsure of how demon years and time work for someone like Charlie. In a later stream, Vivziepop stated that demons age in "hell years"] This may hint that Charlie's biological aging is different from how humans age, although it is unknown if hell years are similar in length to Earth years.

In one of the Hazbin Hotel pilot teasers, a portrait of the Magne family taken in the year 1871 hints that Charlie is decades older than she appears. Although this detail is omitted in the final version of the pilot, Faustisse has corroborated that Charlie is over 200 years old.

Rosie: Tricky, giving by her preferred time period, her death would be about 1890ish and her birth near 1850s-1860s making her 170 years old BUT Faustisse stated Rosie never died, suggesting that she was born in Hell. Which may subject to change as the show progress but if she's Hell born, they grow slower. So if we doing the same math as Charlie, she been around for 400 years. Which is similar to Zestial but not mention she on par with him in age so I think her being Hellborn not going to be finalized in canon. Rosie human age would be a little older if not similar to Alastor mother ages which is probably why he so easily bonds with her along with similar interest.

Sir Pentious: Biologically 40s, deceased 1888 making his soul 170is years old. His birth year is in the 1840s (This guy live through over 100 exterminations, and turf wars and challenging Alastor?)

Witness in his lifetime. The great famine in Ireland, the great Chicago fire, the pony express, the civil war, Lincoln assassinated, the statue of Liberty being dedicated,

Carmilia: Going with my headcanon that Carmilla was the lead ballerina in swan lake. Swan lake composed in 1877. Also, we have to consider her daughters to figure her death as I think they all died the same day. One of them goes by the name Clara...which is character in the nutcracker composed in 1892. So their deaths are after that date. Swan lake had a revival at 1895 so we just making their deaths at that time for sake of making it easy. Carmilla is vibing near 40 but I wouldn't push her past that as I think it be tough to be a 40 year old ballerina in the late 1800's. So her birth year is 1860s So I'm just going to guess her age be no older then 35 making her soul 160ish.

Her daughters being little after that. Being 150ish years old.

Witness in his lifetime. The civil war, Lincoln assassinated, the great Chicago fire, the statue of Liberty being dedicated,

Tom Trench: Biologically in his 40s, died 1910-1920s. Assumed during ww1 making his birth year late 1870s. His soul being around 150ish years old.

Alastor: Biologically 30-40's so for simplicity sake-35. So being born just smidge before the turn of 1900s. His death is 1933. Making his soul about 120 years old.

He witnessed 3 states included in the Us (up at 48 at his death) Wright brothers flight, Titanic sink, WW1, Great depression, Woman can vote, and prohibition.

Husk: Biologically 60-70, to make is simple 65. his death in the 1970s. Making his birth year about 1910's. About a decade after Alastors birth. Husker soul age about 110 years old. Husker has nearly the same timeline as Alastor and Angel except Husker lived an additional 40-50 years. Husk is about 10 year difference between both Alastor and Angel in either direction. So Husker being one the very few characters who lived a full life could at some point crossed paths with most of the characters in his living life, especially its been noted he was a world traveler to increase those odds. Alastor, Mimzy, Angel, Vox, Nifty, and Valentino. Husker is the unique character we get to witness that he an "old soul" because he lived the longest while alive, yet is in the same soul generation as Alastor, Angel and Vox, yet one of the youngest with his afterlife and still managed to be Overlord at one point. His overlords years being in the 1980-90s. As it takes time to become an overlord with the exception of Alastor. But I believe Husk did raise to Overlord fairly rapidly but lost it nearly as quickly as it seems Alastor had him under contract for a long while. Husk was in his 20s during Alastor death, in his 30s going on 40s for Angel Death, and 40's for Nifty and Nox death. Husk and Valentino share the same Hell afterlife timeline.

Angel Dust: Stated his age is in the 30s...and it most be very early 30's because I do not get the impression of him being 30 but more in the 20's. It so weird to know Angel meant to be a few years younger then Alastor biologically. Death year 1947. Making his birth year around 1917. His soul being just over 100 years. about 20 year difference from Alastor. Alastor hitting the age of adulthood while Husker not even a preteen at the time of Angel birth. Angel was in his mid teens when Alastor died.. Alastor possibly linked to is murders at this time of death and Angel would witness the news that would arise from it. Possibly heard some of Alastor broadcast. Angel is assumed gone by the name Anthony for a few decades in Hell before adopting his porn star name when he signed on with Valentino.

Vox: Biologically 30-40's so for simplicity sake-35. Died in the 1950's. Making his birth year about 1915 his soul just over 100 years old. He was a teen at the time of Alastor death. Alastor possibly linked to is murders at this time of death and Vox would witness the news that would arise from it. Angel and Vox lives and death are about in the same timeline, Angel died no more than a decade before Vox.

Witness in his lifetime: Great depression, prohibition start and end. all of WWII, holocaust, Hindenburg, Mount Rushmore finished first motion picture with sound The Jazz Singer.

Niffty: Biologically 22. Died in the 1950's making her birth year about 1930's. Her soul is about 90 years old. She possibly the youngest biological age character we seen. She as an infant when Alastor died. A preteen to late teen when Angel died. Possibly watched Voxs programs. (I headcanon that Vox is a tv game host). Died about the same time as Vox. Husk was in his 40s at her time of Death. Husk was in his 20 at the time of her birth.

Valentino: I'm placing him similar to Vox age so 35. He died in 1970's making his birth year about 1935. Just after Alastor death. Was in his late teens at the time of Vox death. Possibly watched Voxs programs growing up. (I headcanon that Vox is a tv game host). His soul is about 85 years old. Angel is older than Valentino even if Angel biological age might been slightly younger.

Angel been around longer than Valentino and its easy to forget that. Angel been uncontracted for a few decades before Valeninto became an overlord.

In his lifetime, the last two states was added to the US. Beatlemania, the space race, woodstock.

Katie Killjoy: in her 40's and died in 1992. Her birth year being late 1940-early 1950s. Making her soul little over 70 years old.

Zeezi: No information but giving her blatant 80's style she dies in the 80's and her personality seem of someone in early 20s...she was born in the 1960's Making her soul just about 70 years old. Same age as Katie, but Katie lived longer making Zeezi a citizen of Hell longer.

Cherri Bomb: Biologically in her 20s, and died in 1980s. Her birth year being 1960s. Living the same exact timeline as Zeezi. Cherri is possibly the youngest character we witness so far.

Velvette: No real information released but appears to be in the 20s. Her "age and death age" don't really match up to her character, but since maybe that's because she just good at updating and staying on trend. I headcanon it takes a minimum for a soul to become an overlord 10 years. So going by that, early 2000s since she not a brand spankin new overlord, she vibing she been overlord for a few years-close to a decade. ? Her birth year being in the 1980's which....doesn't seem to match. But giving the show timeline is 2019 subtract having years of experience as an overlord, and years to accomative the power and climb the ladder, and add her age...its near 1980s. Only way she can be an overlord with her birth being later in the 90's and death close to current year frame is that the other Vees saw potential and her and adopted her immediately and steamline her into being an overlord. But why would they do that if they just make a deal for her soul and use her potential that way?

That it for now. Hopefully someone enjoys this or could use the information I gathered, some venture a guess on the characters timeline and who may overlap who. I hope it wasn't terribly dull.

[te4k3ttle]

Halloween party at straight and narrow Sam goes as columbo and Max goes as generic sexy bunny (he thinks he's soooo hot 😒), girl stinky and jurgen go as velvet and floyd from trolls 3 (she forced him to dress like that they're both working as receptionists at hell btw and she loves to annoy him so much), Brady culture dresses as bob ross just to feel that tv fame for one night, harry moleman dresses as beetlejuice thinking he's the life of the party but in reality he's just really off-putting to everyone, grandpa stinky goes as popeye duh, mr featherly thinks he's above the dress up but he may throw on a spooky coloured scarf and Abe Lincoln doesn't show up because he's actually been crushed to death in that missile explosion

[incorrectinfinity]

Also Nico and Piper saying the actual word queer made me very happy

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

Five-Finger Discount (Dean/Reader)

Title: Five-Finger Discount

Characters/Pairing: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Dean x Female Reader

Summary: It's supposed to be a simple case. A little undercover. A little burglary. A little spell. Dash of salt and burn. No muss, no fuss. So, why the hell are you getting these uncontrollable thoughts about Dean's... hands?

Word Count: 10,300

Tags: Hand & Finger Kink, Dean Winchester is a Scoundrel, Dean gets a Manicure, Fluff and Humor, Shameless Smut of the Finger Variety, Dean Winchester Talks Dirty

Notes: Because Jensen just can’t keep his hands to himself. See notes on AO3 for the offender/crime in question.

A persistent tapping on your bedroom door awakens you. It could be late evening or early morning in the windowless bunker.

Before you can check your phone for the actual time, Dean’s voice calls your name from the other side of the door.

You groan. Whatever time it is, it’s not ‘wakey wakey eggs and bakey’ time. “What?”

“Got word from Sam. He’s figured out what’s been killing the inmates in NSP.”

You sit up and feel for the lamp switch. After a turn and snick , you mumble, “Let there be light.” Your voice raises in answer to Dean. “That’s great.”

“Well, not that great.” The conversation is still happening through the closed door. “Sam figures it’s a ghost of a prisoner that died behind bars in 1870.”

“Why not great? Did you want more of a challenge? Ghosts are a milk run.”

You can hear the dramatic sigh, picture the tilt back and forth of his head, and the way his mouth mimics either you or Sam when the sarcasm leans on the excessive. Which is kind of ironic coming from the King of Snark. “Can I come in? You decent?”

“Yes.”

It’s definitely the middle of the night when you get a look at him. Dean’s hair is mussed. There are cheek and chin creases from scuba pillow diving when he sleeps on his stomach. “You got something formal to wear?”

“Huh?”

“A gown, dress, something promish or wedding worthy?”

“Promish?” That question reply to his question earns you a broad stance with hands on hips like a superhero as Dean stares you down. You twirl both hands around to remind him of the non-existent storage space in the bunker. Which should not be a thing in such a huge fortress where men dressed in three piece suits on the daily. “Sure. I have a whole rack of them hanging in my walk-in closet.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, smart ass. Well, we’re gonna have to go do this thing in less than twenty-four hours that needs you in a dress and me in a tux.”

You suck in your lips and try not to laugh at how pissed Dean appears at the thought.

“It’s a charity fundraiser in Lincoln,” he continues. “We have to act like a couple of out-of-state spenders with deep pockets to get our hands on the Hand of Glory that belonged to this ghost.”

“What about Sam? I bet he’d look much better in a dress than I would.”

Dean shrugs. “He’s got the hair for it. But we can’t risk somebody making him.”

Of course. The one time Sam goes investigating on his own. He posed as an FBI agent and poked around too many people. 

You and Dean are going to have to go shopping. The all-out kind. Max out a stolen credit card at the mall kind.

Dean is gonna be miserable. You can’t wait. Grumpy Dean, for some reason, is very entertaining.

“How about you in the dress and me in the tux?” you offer.

“I don’t have the legs for it.” Dean shakes his head. “Get a few more hours of sleep. Gonna be a busy day.”

You’ve been around Sam and Dean for a long time. Long enough to have gotten a little numb and even blase regarding certain things.

The dangers of a hunt. The stench of death. The amount of blood a beheaded vamp body can ooze.

As you tick the tasks off for the heist with a trip to a dress shop earlier and currently helping Dean pick out a tux, another thing you’ve become indifferent to smacks you right in the goddamn face.

The hotness of the Winchester brothers.

You were talking with the owner of the suit store when Dean parted the curtains of the fitting booth he’d been in for five minutes.

And there it was, dressed to the nines, cutting a fine figure in a black tuxedo. 

The plain as day fact of how unfucking-believably gorgeous Dean Winchester is.

Stephen, well-dressed and highly animated, claps hands in front of his face. “Oh. Wow, that is, it’s like you stepped right off the cover of GQ magazine,” he gushes at Dean. “Turn around, turn around.”

Dean blushes, spins on his heels, and averts your and Stephen’s gaze. You’re glad because you can feel the warmth racing over your own cheeks.

“Sir, that is screaming perfection. I don’t even think it needs to be taken in. It’s like a second skin.” You’d think Stephen was buttering him up for a sale if he was overexaggerating. But, he wasn’t.

“Well, good, cause it’s not like we’ve got time for a tailor,” Dean huffs. Then, you hear, “You’re awfully quiet. What do you think?”

“I-yeah-it’ll do.”

After Dean swipes the key card, he steps aside and lets you pass the threshold first.

“Holy shit,” you whisper.

The suite is swanky. No motels for you on this trip. You’ve got to keep up appearances, after all.

Windows that meet the ceiling give you a sweet view of downtown Lincoln. It’s not the New York skyline, but everything looks impressive from a higher vantage.

Dean pushes the squeaky luggage cart. The door clicks closed solidly behind him. “Alright. We got a few hours to get ourselves presentable. Then we head on over to the Sheldon Museum of Art.” He hangs the garment bags containing his tux and your dress in the closet. The duffle bags each get a chuck onto the king-size bed.

You nod at the reminder. Sam will be at the fundraiser as well. Between the ruse of you and Dean as the wealthy Mitchums from Kansas and Sam’s Agent Dion, you’re confident the case will be resolved before another not-so-innocent victim dies. “Too bad we can’t really enjoy a stay at a place like this.”

“Eh, overpriced. I can’t wait to get home to the bunker. It’s a lot nicer.” He rolls the cart back toward the door. “I’ll be back in a few.”

He’s gone before you can quibble with Dean over your and his idea of luxury. But yours does have windows, excessive amounts of pillows, and room service.

Dean returns to find you’ve commandeered the entire vanity counter with makeup. He chuckles. “Never seen you put any of this crap on before. Do you even know how?”

“Asshole.” You thwack his tummy, but clenched stomach muscles anticipated the retaliation. “I’ll wear makeup for this case out of necessity. I don’t believe in going into debt to keep up with the latest beauty trend. This stuff costs a fortune.”

Dean picks up a packet of press-on nails and looks at the price tag. “Well, hopefully, it’s all worth it.”

As Dean inspects your haul, you notice the dirt under his own nails. “Your hands,” you state.

“Huh?” Dean’s brow furrows. He puts down the box and stares at his fingers.

“Those aren’t the hands of a millionaire.”

He smiles. “I’ve got a great rags to riches story I can use. You see, one day I was shootin’ at some food, and up for the ground came a bubblin’...”

“Ooor, you can look the part.” You cut off his recounting of how the Beverly Hillbillies came to be and sweep a hand in his direction. “Hurry up and shower. I’ll do your nails.”

His eyes bug out. “Do my nails?”

“Relax. Just gonna tidy them up. No polish. Although there’s nothing wrong with a little color on a guy’s nails. But maybe not for this event. We don’t need you to stand out too much.” You think about how he looked in that tux and realize how much he will stand out already at least in your mind. He’s still blinking at you, processing what’s about to happen. “Well, hurry up, Jeb. That oil ain’t gonna find itself.”

You gulp at the sight of a freshly scrubbed, washed, towel-dried Dean. It shouldn’t be affecting you like this. You’ve seen him just out of a shower with his white t-shirt and sweatpants when you’ve been hunting on the road.

Maybe it’s the change of scenery. No motel. No mildew smells. No obnoxiously loud wallpaper to mask the soot and stains. No revving engines or wheels peeling right outside the door. None of the things that usually overwhelm and distract your senses.

His entire face is scrunched up in confused awe. Tools are neatly lined atop a towel on the small island by the kitchenette. Not the usual gun-cleaning ones, though. You clear your throat and pat the breakfast stool beside your seated frame.

“Is this gonna hurt?” he asks.

“Just a little detailing is all.”

He sits and eyes you warily.

A gimme gesture requests his left hand. He provides it, resting his fingers over the bridge of support yours creates. You try not to flinch in surprise at the warmth and weight. It’s not like you’ve never touched him before. But, you’ve never had the opportunity for contact to linger.

You lean down and in, lifting his fingers in inspection and deciding your plan of attack. Damn. They’re, well, you wonder how you haven’t noticed how big they are. His entire hand dwarfs yours in comparison. Dean’s a big dude. He is not as tall as Sam, but considering they’re both over six feet, you shouldn’t be surprised that his digits are substantial. You picture Sam’s hands in your mind’s eye in the usual situations. Tapping away on a keyboard. Flipping through their dad’s journal pages or some gigantic volume of lore in the bunker. Those fingers are long, but their slender and taut, proportionate to Sam’s body type and size. Jolly Green Giant size.

Dean’s? Well, it’s not that they don’t match Dean. They’re beefy, thick, and solid. All the things Dean is. But they’re more like a jumbo sausage sandwich than a hot dog that’s a little too big for the bun. Even the width of his palm seems way above average.

“What’s wrong?” Dean’s question calls out and you wonder how long you’ve been staring at his freaking hands.

“Nothing,” you mumble.

You get to work, using a nail brush that’s been soaking in a bowl of warm, sudsy water. A sturdy grip wraps around two of Dean’s fingers - it’s all you can comfortably manage - and the bristles scrub back and forth in quick passes.

Dean chortles. His fingers pull back slightly. The look on his face is one of surprise. You grin and ask, “Did that tickle?”

He snorts. “What? No. I’m not ticklish.”

“Mm-hmm.” You tug his fingers toward the brush. “Hold still then.” You continue the process. Dip the brush in the water bowl. Play Dean’s fingers like a washboard. And you delight in how his jaw clenches and body squirms. He does an adorable shimmy shake that starts at the shoulders and ends with an ass cha-cha. But you only let the torture go on for a minute or two. “Okay. Give them another wash. Then we’ll clip ‘em, file and buff, and these nails will scream private prep school and ivy league polo.”

He rises. “As long as there’s no more brushing.” He punctuates how serious he is about that with one of those fingers right at your mouth.

You swallow the urge to bite that finger.

For someone who was uncertain about the thought of a manicure earlier, Dean is back in a hurry to continue the process. You exaggeratedly shake the nail brush out of the soapy water bowl and softball it into the stainless steel sink a yard away. It clangs about like a noon bell. You raise both hands, “I’m unarmed.”

He snickers, “Not so sure.” He skirts his gaze over the remaining items. “Sharp and stabby things.”

“You have used clippers before. You’re not an actual Cro-Magnon that drags knuckles on the ground and runs nails along some flint.” You grab one stool and carry it to the other side of the island, settling into position for the next step. “Sit and stop acting like a baby.”

“Damn,” he murmurs, following orders and taking his seat from before.

“Hands,” you request.

He harrumphs and splays his fingers atop the terry towel, like a cat stretching and digging in with their claws. His hands are creamy colored and speckled pink from the washing and scrubbing. Ten digits tap along the cloth in wait. And you stare, longer than you should.

What in the holy hell is going on? They’re fingers for chrissakes. The same fingers you’ve seen on Dean all the time, day after day in the bunker or in the car or on a hunt. It’s not like he got a hand transplant or something.

“Come on, Madge.” Dean snaps two of those fingers together. “This is where you’re supposed to tell me I was soaking in it.”

“Huh?”

He rolls his eyes. “Softens hands while you do the dishes?” He adds to the dramatics and unhinges his jaw. “Come on, we’re the same age. You gotta remember that commercial? Palmolive?”

“Oh, right.” You feign recollection, inhale to steady yourself and grab his left hand. It’s down to business time. “I���ve only lost five of my last six clients. Nothing to worry about.”

“Quite the comedian,” he razzes back.

“I am. Apparently you could learn a thing or two from me. The first? A punchline isn’t funny if you have to explain it.”

“Yeah, well…” He begins.

“Maybe come at me with ‘your face is a punchline’?” you suggest.

His lids blink in confusion. “It’s not, though.”

For some reason that shuts you both up.

You spend the next minutes manipulating each of Dean’s fingers, one by one in your palm as you clip. Tick, tick, tick. You give the nails a nice straight edge and round out the sides. His nails are stumpy, boxy and twice the width of yours. His skin is calloused, toughened in the spots you expect. From the thousands of hours he’s gripped Baby’s steering wheel, handled a shotgun, cranked a wrench, slid into the trigger of his Colt. But they are soft in other spots. The patterns of lines criss crossing and connecting like a terrain map enthrall you.

He’s quiet. Watching you work. You’ve forgotten to be mouthy for this bit. It’s hard to focus on anything but this and his breathing. You’ve forgotten the basic steps of inhaling and exhaling.

It’s when you’ve moved on to filing that Dean remembers how to word. “You’re good at this.”

“I should be,” you croak out then clear your throat. “I did my older sister’s nails all the time growing up.”

“Hm, I guess Sammy didn’t get the little brother memo about doing my nails.”

I grin up at him. “Maybe you should have had him watch that Palmolive commercial.”

His laugh is soft. His eyes gleam with that hint of mischief he dons when there is no imminent threat. When life is as close to normal as possible. You wonder what it would be like to take those hands and place them around your waist. Guide him to hold you steady, secure.

He opens his mouth, stops to lick his top lip.

It’s taking everything in your power to not catapult over the island and slam your lips against his.

He finally speaks. “We should get ready.”

And your daydreaming dissipates just like that.   

Two hours later, you and Sam wait outside the St. Charbel Chapel in Calvary Catholic Cemetery. It’s the closest church and holy ground from the museum Sam had found in his research.

A fire truck zooms down a nearby street, siren wailing.

You wait for Dean. 

Things had not gone according to plan.

At the fundraiser, Sam got cornered near the crudités by a Lancaster County Sheriff’s Office deputy. From what you overheard, Sam’s cover had been blown. He was in imminent danger of being arrested by Deputy Dickens for impersonating a federal agent. Dean was off in one of the acquisition storage rooms searching for the Hand of Glory.

You all were SOL.

You did what any hunter interested in self-preservation would do. Walked over to the nearest fire alarm and inconspicuously pulled the lever. Alarms went off. In the chaos of disgruntled partygoers filing out of the building, Sam dropped the deputy to the ground with a combo shoulder check and leg sweep. You were down on the floor in a flash, asking the lawman if he was alright. Before he could reply, you held a handkerchief doused with your travel-size bottle of chloroform to his mouth and nose. A clutch could only hold so much—such an inconvenience.

Sam pushed the passed-out deputy under the appetizer station’s floor-length tablecloth. You both did a hurried power walk past the crowd gathered in front of the museum. Sam tried his best to slow down his stride enough for you to keep up wearing heels. At least you only had four blocks to cover to end up at the cemetery, the agreed-upon meetup location.

You pace in wait. “He’ll be here,” Sam states with conviction.

You never want to leave a man behind. Especially not Dean.

Sure enough, Dean’s shadowed figure jogs up the cemetery walk in the dark minutes later. You recognize his panting first.

Sam shines a light in Dean’s direction. He’s a bit disheveled from whatever he had to do to skip out of the museum undetected. The hair, styled in a neat part earlier, is now askew.

“Guessing I have you two to thank for having to hop out a bathroom window and into thorny rose bushes.”

You shrug. “Sam was about to get handcuffed.”

Dean ponders for a moment. “Context is important to determine whether that’s good or bad for Sam.”

“Dean, come on, did you get it?” Sam asks with an impatient wave of his hand.

Dean pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and flaps it open with a wrist snap. He pulls out a gnarled, desiccated object under his jacket's lapel. “I did get it, using my five-finger discount.”

The burning ritual had at least gone smoother than the rest of the evening. Sam dropped the two of you around the back of the hotel in his rental car. You both had left Baby in the connected garage and taken a cab to the museum. 

“See you all at the bunker.” He smiles, energized, and pumped from a successful hunt. He’s glowing and adorable. You realize you have gotta dial back the internal ogling of your hunting partners and quick or it’s gonna get all kinds of uncomfortable in your head.

“See ya, Sammy.” Dean grins and salutes.

“Don’t take too long to get out of town.” Sam advises, flicks his bangs out of his eye line with a shampoo commercial head whip, then peels off with a wave.

The key card lets you sneak in through the poolside.

The ride up the elevator starts quiet. You spend the time zoning out and staring at the tapered triangle of shoulder and back that makes up Dean’s tuxedo jacket.

So, dialing back the ogling is going great.

“You looked really good tonight,” Dean murmurs. You catch his gaze in the door’s reflective surface. “I mean,” he clears his throat, “you still look really good. I never got the chance to tell ya earlier.”

The attention straightens your posture. You adjust the spaghetti strap of your little black dress. “Thanks.” It’s all you can think of to respond. You tear your focus away from the eye crinkles, now the newest sexy thing you’ve failed to notice. It’s safer to inspect the corners of the floor for dust. The small enclosed space heats due to Dean Winchester occupying it.

The elevator dings and you hold in a sigh of relief. You exit first, then halt so he leads. You trail behind him in silence to the room. He opens the door. Your steps scoot past his body.

“Got time to change?” Hopeful, you’re already rifling through your duffel for your jeans and flannel.

“Sam’s right. We should probably bolt.”

You groan.

“Let’s put some miles between us and Lincoln.” It’s not really a suggestion.

“Fine.” You give in, knowing he’s right.

You aren’t tired on the drive back. The sense of accomplishment after a successful case turns most hunters into live wires, you included. 

You and Dean have been chatting about the hunt. The lackluster food at the fundraiser. Sam’s impressive Latin skills. An apparent millionaire whose breath stunk like a month old convenience store burrito. And you knew what one of those smelled like from unfortunate firsthand experience. The conversation switches to some repairs that need to be done around the bunker. A casserole recipe on Pinterest you want to try. Who’s going to get the treat of washing all the MOL classic cars in the garage. The topics pogo all over the place. You love these moments with the brothers. 

You’re an hour and some change out from Lincoln, halfway to Lebanon, when Dean has an idea.

His finger wags at a mile marker. “There’s a decent bar in Bruning. Wanna grab a drink to celebrate?”

You stare at his unbuttoned tux jacket, then your dress. “Like this?”

“Sure. Why not?” It’s not really a question as he takes the exit.

You drew the line at wearing heels in the bar. Dean grabbed your worn cowboy boots from Baby’s trunk. He leaned against the car beside your open passenger door. You tugged on boots, leaned forward, giving any passersby a free show down the front of your dress. Arms folded, Dean scowled and puffed out his chest to any male who dared to glance in your direction.

A minute later you both entered the bar and did the usual routine without speaking. Head to respective bathrooms. Clean up and make yourselves respectable looking. But as you blotted your foundation and appreciated the staying power of your makeup in the mirror - okay, maybe that setting spray was worth the price - you considered who you were making yourself respectable for?

It’s not like either one of you were expecting to get lucky tonight. The bunker was less than two hours away. No one was gonna pick up a local and take them back to their motel room.

You applied a fresh coat of red berry lipstick.

So, that left only you and Dean freshening up for… each other?

You scoffed at the ridiculous idea, ran fingers through your hair.

A drink. One drink. To celebrate a job well done.

“That’s all it is,” you mumble.

You’ve played darts for an hour. Dean’s on his third whiskey. You’ve downed four fruity rum concoctions, mainly because you loved hearing Dean order the drink. 

Entertainment was the least he could do after beating you for the sixth time.

The waitress stops at your high top and grabs the empty plates and glasses. “What else can I get you two?”

Dean clutches a dart, deep in focus, squinting at the target board. “You wanna nother Bahama Mama?”

You suppress a giggle and smile at the waitress. “Just more water. Thanks.”

“We should probably load up on the grease before we head home.” Dean peers at the waitress over a shoulder. “Maybe some fries, darlin’, to go along with one last shot of whiskey?”

“Sure thing, sugar.” She smiles, then waits for Dean to turn around before eyeing his backside in approval. With a grin, she taps your bare forearm. “Lucky you,” she whispers.

You are lucky. But not for the reason the waitress thinks. Being around Sam and Dean means safety and security. The eye candy is merely a bonus. One you are debating if you should indulge in more often or continue to restrict your caloric intake.

After all, there’s nothing wrong with appreciating a work of art.

Dean had flung his necktie in Baby’s backseat and unbuttoned his collar during the drive. The casual way he now wore the tux was even more attractive. “Probably a good idea if you lay off the alcohol. It’s definitely affecting your game tonight.” He grins.

You lean your heavy weighted head against a palm for support. “Yeah, must b’it,” you slur, more than you like. Your gaze zones in on his fingers gripping the dart. Those damn fingers have been a distraction all night. He has to be unaware he’s sabotaging any ability to focus. Dean is an outright flirt with his targets. You’ve seen him lay on the charm thick and sticky the same way he slaps peanut butter and jelly on white bread. Subtlety has never been his thing.

Speaking of targets. The dart launches out of his hand and lands dead center. “That’s what I’m talkin’ bout.” Dean performs the ka-ching motion for what feels like the hundredth time that night. Normally, it’s annoying, but you battle your lids open to stare at his clenched fist in awe. Again. He slides onto the bar stool and inspects you with a concerned smile. “You usually drink me under the table. Sure you’re okay?”

“Fine.” You hum. 

The waitress whizzes by and deposits Dean’s shot and a basket of fries. Dean’s voice floats in the air expressing his thanks to, you think he says, Linda. Then a pointed order hits you right in the face. “Hey, eat something. I ain’t carrying you to the car like some swoony duchess on those shows you binge.”

“They’ve got carriages, not cars.” You blink over and over and straighten up. A handful of fries fill your mouth. Your brain hasn’t caught up in time to tell you to shut up and chew. “Yud make a ghood ake.”

“What?” Dean smiles at you like he’s happened across his favorite Scooby-Doo episode while channel surfing.

You gulp down the gluey mashed goodness. “You’d make a good rake.”

“What’s that? Some kind of man servant? I was a handmaiden once.” He indulges in some of the fries before you eat them all. Those fingers push them past his lips.

“No. A rake’s-” You huff at the gall when he attentively licks the grease off his thumb. His tongue is quite, um, “Nimble.”

He frowns, obviously confused. “A rake’s nimble?”

You shake out the cobwebs in your brain, tripping you up with a collision of thoughts. “A rake’s a ladies’ man,” you mutter.

His spine stiffens, shoulders pop back in pride. “I do try to please the ladies every chance I get.”

“We are all well aware.” More fries thankfully save you from saying anything that may humiliate.

“Guess those aren’t your favorite characters. You probably like the stuffy types that are all serious, with their noses up in the air or stuck in a book.”

You shrug. “Nah, I go for the rogues.”

One of Dean’s brows quirk up. “The dangerous type?” One side of his mouth lifts as well.

“Yeah, a scoundrel. You know, the one you can’t quite figure out. They’ve got this bad reputation or some sordid past. But, they go after what they want. Take what they want.” You hum again and close your eyes. You can still see Dean’s grin in your mind’s eye.

“Too bad I don’t fit the bill.”

You freeze. Eyes still closed. He didn’t just… did he?

“I mean. It’d be all kinds of wrong. Me going for something I wanted, damn the consequences.”

You inhale and grip the curve of the table top. You open your eyes to find him sipping at his whiskey. “Don’t fuck with me,” you whisper.

He gives you a toe curling smile now. The glass clinks onto the table. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I’m not your type.”

“I-wh-” It’s too late. You’ve never been on the receiving end of what is most definitely Dean Winchester flirting. “What makes you think that?”

He leans in. His breath meets your inhale and you take in all the spice and warmth. “I wouldn’t do a thing to mess this up. Not unless, you know, I knew.”

You nod, dumbstruck. “Yeah, that makes sense. I mean, yeah.” A whoosh of fatigue makes your head spin.

Dean smiles. “We live together, hunt together. Packed like sardines together twenty-four seven sometimes. Wouldn’t want to mess any of that up. Unless I knew, you know?”

“Knew what?” Your chin drops to your chest despite your best efforts. The weight of your body gets ready to do a face plant on the table top. You squish your lids shut tight and groan in horror at the inevitable.

But, Dean is there to save you. Again. His fingers swoop in to cradle your jaw and lift up your head. The embarrassment and alcohol finally overtake you. As you fade, you hear, “Maybe I’ll tell you when you’ll remember the answer.”

You woke up in your bed, back at the bunker. Again, with no idea if it was morning or night. No idea how much time had passed since…

You spring upright to sit. And, yeah, that was a mistake. Your head pounds. Your mouth is dry and tacky. Your stomach feels like it got turned upside down. Not that much time has passed since…

You groan and lay back down, slow and gentle. You piece the last snippets of memory together.

You stare up at the ceiling, grateful for the darkness. You want it to suck you up whole.

Did you pass out in the middle of Dean hitting on you? Did Dean end up swooping you up and putting you in the Impala? Driving you home passed out in the back seat - or God forbid the front passenger seat with you lolling about, mouth probably open and drooling - then carrying you throughout the bunker to your bedroom? Did he…?

You pat your chest and feel the spaghetti straps and silky fabric of your little black dress. You sigh. He had taken pity on you and only stripped you of your cowboy boots.

There’s a soft tap on your bedroom door.

“Oh no.” You pull the blanket over your head, mortified. You don’t think you can face him.

But it’s not Dean that says your name. It’s Sam.

“You alright? I heard you… uh… moaning.”

“Yeah,” you squeak. “Hungover.”

You think you hear Sam snicker. “Dean said you outpaced him by a mile. In darts and drinks.”

That makes you pause to recall. No, you definitely don’t think any of that’s accurate.

“He made some breakfast before he went out, if you’re hungry.”

Great, he can’t bear to face you, either. “Thanks, Sam.”

“If you’re up for it later, I could use some assistance researching.”

You take a measured breath to quell the nausea. “I’ll let you know.”

You’d chewed some aspirin and drank glass after glass of water from the sink in your room and somehow passed out for a few more hours.

You drag yourself out of bed around noon and shower in an effort to resemble something close to human. The stomach growls lead you to the bunker kitchen. At first, you smile at the plate of pancakes Dean covered with a clean kitchen towel for you. A frown follows at the odd shape of them. They aren’t his usual silver dollar pancakes stacked six high.

You tilt your head, attempting to figure out what Buttermilk Banksy was trying to create. The two pancakes, side by side on a large plate, obviously started out as circles. But then, four long tendrils were added along the top of each and a little offshoot one on the side. A turkey? Why the hell would Dean make turkeys? It wasn’t anywhere near Thanksgiving time.

“‘Bout time, sleepy head.” Dean’s voice wafts in from the doorway. He strolls in without a care in the world. There’s no hesitancy to lock eyes with you. Which is good. That has to mean you didn’t make more of a fool of yourself than you remember. He tugs on the fridge door. “Do you want something else or those pancakes enough?” He’s asking the interior of the refrigerator more than you, his head circling the shelves. “Was gonna pile on the grease but thought you might need to take it easy after last night.”

“No, this is great. Thank you.” You keep your voice low, hoping he’ll get the hint and not make too much noise.

He seems to, clicking the door shut softly after grabbing a cold slice of pizza. “Oh, I thought we’d do a movie night in the Dean cave. I bought angus ground beef for burgers. I’ll make some potato wedges. Grabbed your favorite microwave popcorn, movie theater butter.”

The menu, miraculously, doesn’t make your stomach lurch into panicked somersaults. “None of that sounds Sam approved.”

“He’s got that author signing book store thing in Stockton tonight.”

Oh, right. You’d forgotten for a moment how excited Sam was to listen to some guy read a chapter from his book on the evils of the Federalist Society.

“Think you’ll be up for it?” Dean asks, brows raised hopeful.

You smile. “I think I will.”

“Good.” He captures a third of the pizza slice in one bite. After four chews and a swallow he finishes with, “I’ll go easy on you.” The grin he flashes catches you off guard. It’s that one that if Sam saw it, he’d suspect you and Dean had a secret.

Problem was, you didn’t know what the secret was.

“We got weapons to clean in an hour. No matter what Sam says about research.” Dean taps the door sill on the way out of the kitchen. “Meet you in the library. Don’t be late.” He disappears.

You stare down at your breakfast, which is now technically lunch, and a queasy feeling erupts. But not from the hangover or the thought of eating.

The pancakes Dean made. You think you know what the shapes are now.

A pair of hands.

Time in the library with Sam and Dean is pure torture. 

You’re sat equidistant between the two of them, in the middle of one of the long massive wooden tables. Sam is on one end, flipping through page after page of a volume on corporal punishment. He’s trying to work out an easy cheat sheet - a work flow chart - that you all can use in the future. If you can identify what crime someone was charged with committing way back when, you’d have a better idea of the dismembered mummified appendage to track.

Dean occupies the other head of the table. A worn cloth laid out in front of him, all manner of weapons lined in a neat row atop it, awaiting his hands.

His hands. God, you hope the pancakes were merely a cheeky, inside joke on Dean’s part. Maybe it was a reminder about your insistence on the manicure. Or the friggin’ Palmolive commercial that, thanks Dean, you can’t get out of your head either. Because now all you can think about is Dean’s massive fingers dipped in a teeny tiny glass bowl filled with sudsy dish detergent. 

Between Sam’s page turns and Dean’s clink of weapons your brain can’t settle or calm down. You’re also trying to appease both hunters. You’re reading through a book on your right and sharpening a machete on your left. 

“That jugglin’ act might leave you with more than a paper cut if you aren’t careful,” Dean chides.

You swallow down the urge to quip something back. It’s only when the whetstone clears the curve of the machete and halts at the tip that you tear your gaze from the task and stare at Dean. “I can handle it.”

He smirks. “Oh, I’m sure you can HANDle it.” He shrugs. “Just wouldn’t want you to lose a FINGER.”

“How about you quit distracting her? She’s doing you a favor.” Sam’s brows lift pointedly at Dean. “And besides, why do you insist on cleaning weapons here when you could literally be doing it anywhere else in the bunker?”

Dean curls up the fakest smile at Sam. “Cause I love your company.” 

The boys settle after a few more grunts and scoffs at each other. You plunge nose deep into lore and wish the pages were waves pulling you out to sea. 

There’s no way Dean’s emphasis on “hand” and “finger” were accidental. Dean’s pretty intuitive. But you are a pretty good actor in your own right when you need to be. However, there’s still a chance that you said or did something when you were too intoxicated to remember.

It’s not helping that Dean’s performing his weapon cleaning like a goddamn seduction. Mr. Hand Model takes apart the sawed off, cleans the inside of and around the barrel, reassembles, and clicks all the pieces back into place. His nails look perfect, shiny and slick with the gun oil. His beefy fingers curl around the wood and steel in a way that makes you want to trade places with the firearm.

You somehow endure for 45 minutes. Last night’s indulgences are blamed in an excuse to head back to your bedroom. As you preemptively wish Sam an enjoyable outing later, Dean reminds you to rest up for dinner and a movie.

Ugh. You know how Dean gets when he won’t let something go that he finds hilarious. This could go on for a while.

It’s a trap. It’s gotta be.

Dean’s lowering your defenses with good food and good company.

It all started in the kitchen where dinner was served. He wasn’t kidding about the burgers. He made quarter pound medium rare works of art with cheese and all the toppings. The bun was Texas Toasted out. The guy even used the air fryer to produce ridiculously addicting potato wedges with a spicy paprika and chili powder coating.

Then, it was Dean cave time. No beer in sight, you were given pop to drink, with an offhanded “no repeat performance of last night” remark. You slid down the couch, groaning, pulling the hoodie over your face for dramatic effect. He grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl sitting between you on the couch and added, “You know, so you don’t pass out midway through the movie.”

You inhale the buttery goodness beside you and relax, popping back up in your seat. A swig of sugar wakes up your lethargic post-meal brain and settles the nerves that Dean is up to something. “So, what masterpiece do you have for us tonight?” you query.

He presses a button on one remote and the lights dim. Another remote in hand, another button press, and the television screen blares with an all too familiar soundtrack.

“The Empire Strikes Back.” You nod. “Good choice.”

“It’s your favorite one,” Dean reminds you.

“Yeah. Yoda. Duh.”

Dean chuckles.

Things fall into that easy going movie commentary that you and Dean are so fond of doing. It drives Sam crazy when he's watching stuff with the two of you. You’re spouting behind the scenes facts you know you’ve told Dean a half a dozen times already (like how the puppeteer who’s voicing Yoda also voices your favorite muppet, Fozzie Bear). Dean adds his own sound effects when the AT-ATs are firing, points out every Wilhelm scream, and helps Harrison Ford out by quoting all of Solo’s lines.

Leia is fixing some equipment on the Falcon and you comment, “I like the braid updo more than the cinnamon rolls.”

“Eh, I don’t know. The combo of beauty and baked goods is pretty hard to beat.”

Solo walks in and tries to help. Leia pushes him away. You sigh. “Here they go.”

Dean turns to you and raises an eyebrow. In perfect sync with Solo’s dialogue he utters, “Hey Your Worship, I’m only trying to help.”

You eye roll. “Would you please stop calling me that?” If it's a quote battle Dean wants, it’s on. If Sam were here, he’d be so done with the both of you right now.

“Sure, Leia.”

A huff for good measure. “You make it so difficult sometimes.”

Dean leans in. “I do, I really do. You could be a little nicer, though. Come on, admit it. Sometimes you think I’m all right.”

Wait. Wait. Oh no. You don’t have to be looking at the screen to know what happens next. Leia hurts her HAND trying to turn a lever. You clam up at all the fucking context this scene now holds for you and Dean. You can’t say the next lines. Because you know that Solo grabs Leia’s HAND as she says, “Occasionally, maybe… when you aren’t acting like a scoundrel.”

That’s when last night’s rum-infested confessions cut to the front of the memory queue. You adore scoundrels, rogues.

Dean doesn’t miss a beat, though. He even gazes down at one of your HANDS. He continues the performance. “Scoundrel?” Face half cast in shadow, his lids widen, irises still manage to catch the light and entrance you. “Scoundrel?” A huge grin emerges. “I like the sound of that.”

Solo is massaging Leia’s HAND the whole time.

Leia whispers, “Stop that.”

Dean replies, “Stop what?” Though he’s not questioning the screen. He’s locked eyes with you. Daring you to break away first.

Leia answers, even softer. “Stop that. My hands are dirty.”

Dean tilts his head, uncaring. “My hands are dirty, too. What are you afraid of?”

“Afraid?” Oh, Leia, Don’t egg him on.

“You’re trembling,” Dean’s voice is softer. He’s edging closer, but there’s only so much distance he can cover with the popcorn bowl in the way.

You decide now’s as good a time as any to try and act your way out of a paper bag. “I’m not trembling.” You coat your response with steel.

Dean is only encouraged by your participation. “You like me because I’m a scoundrel. There aren’t enough scoundrels in your life.”

You ponder for a moment. “I happen to like nice men.”

“I’m nice men.” Dean offers with complete sincerity.

You scoff. “No, you’re not. You’re…”

The music swells. Solo and Leia kiss.

But, you and Dean just stare at each other, for what feels like an eternity. You know C3PO is gonna interrupt the lovebirds at any moment. It’s the only lifeline you have, so you wait for the robot with the worst timing in history to save you from embarrassment.

“Guys?” Sam’s voice calls from the hallway.

You snap, stick straight, your back pressed against the seat. Sam must have come in through the garage.

Dean sighs. “Yeah, Sammy. Come on in. Back so soon?”

The door flings open. Warm ceiling lights from the hall halo Sam’s figure. “You know how they say, never meet your heroes? Totally valid advice tonight.” Sam stumbles into the room, all lanky limbs, and sinks into the cushy side chair. He runs fingers through his hair, his profile scrutinizing the screen. “Jedi?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Seriously, dude, how are we related?”

The three of you watch the rest of the movie without much commentary.

And you and Dean do not quote any other lines.

You cleaned up the dinner mess, alone, in the kitchen. You insisted it was the least you could do and Dean didn’t put up much resistance.

You find Dean’s bedroom door open on your way to your own for the night. You stop in the doorway to thank him again.

He’s putting away some shirts in his dresser, back turned. He looks comfy, cozy, showered, and perfect. You compose yourself in a split second when he senses you and cocks his head to the door. “Hey, everything okay?”

It’s his usual question, always assuming something needs fixing or solving. But, you sense extra concern in the tone this time.

You nod, wanting to ease the tide of Dean Winchester’s worry. “Thank you. Tonight was fun.”

“Yeah, even with Chewbacca?”

You chuckle. “Be nice.”

He waves you in as he wraps up his laundry. You oblige and sit by the tiny corner table. “Yeah, you’re right. Solo actually wouldn’t mind Chewy hanging out with him and Leia.”

You smile. Apparently, it’s Star Wars character dissection time. “So, if Sam’s not Chewbacca…”

The drawer squeaks closed. “Luke.”

“Han doesn’t mind Luke. Annoyed, sometimes. But, everyone annoys Han at one point or another.”

Dean sits at the edge of the bed, facing you. He stretches, hands entwined and arms raised overhead. A white t-shirt hugs his form here and there. You get a glimpse of perky nipples pressing against fabric. “Luke was competition. Before the brother-sister bombshell,” Dean states.

“Yeah, guess so.”

“But, the three of them, they made a good team,” Dean continues.

You nod, deliberate and slow.

“It only takes one person to start getting feelings for another one in the trio and then the whole galaxy is in jeopardy.” Dean taps the pads of his fingers together.

You sigh. You didn’t want to have to rat yourself out. But, Dean’s got a point. So, how do you go about telling him you’re finding him unbelievably attractive all of a sudden? And how do you ease his apparent worry? What, you’ll do your best to keep it in check? It won’t interfere with the work you do?

“We’re a good team, right? You, me, Sammy?” Dean cuts through the silence with the questions. He scrubs at the nape of his neck.

“I-I’d like to think so. But, you’re right, Dean. It can throw the whole balance off in a good working relationship if someone starts to catch feelings that aren’t reciprocated.”

His eyebrows form a distraught mountain peak. “So, it’s true?”

He looks so unhappy at the possibility, but you’ve gotta be an adult about it. “It just started happening during the last case.” You shrug. “But, I don’t have any intention of acting on them.” A hand raises. “Don’t worry.”

His lips purse tight. Nostrils flare. He’s deep in thought. Finally, he says, “But, you won’t know if you don’t act on it.” He nods more to convince himself now. “You should talk to Sam about how you feel.”

You blink, dumbfounded. “Huh?”

“Hey, I gave it a ‘good ole high school dropout that earned his GED’ try. We have established that I am not your type.”

“Wha-?”

“I’ll be fine with the two of you being a thing. I want to see you and Sam happy. If that means you both, together, that’s great.”

Your hands circle in front of you. “Whoa, whoa. Back up a minute.” Suddenly, your heart is racing.

“What?” He’s got that vacant puppy dog expression, every muscle in his face relaxed, wide open eyes.

You steady your breathing. “What made you think you were my type?” You can’t help the question. You only hope it doesn’t sound belittling or sarcastic. Right now, it’s your last defense of self-protection and attempt at fact finding. You gotta know if you are misinterpreting the revelation that Dean may in fact be upset if you and Sam were an item. Because… he wants you two to be an item?!

“You were acting… weird… ever since Lincoln and the manicure.” He twiddles his fingers. “I was picking up signals that weren’t there, I guess.” He shakes his head and mumbles. “Or, I probably was looking too hard to find something that wasn’t there. Like those times you tell me I’m sniffing around the wrong dog’s butt.”

You squish your lids at how crass you can be. It’s giving you less reasons to think he could find you attractive in any capacity. “Okay, but why was that so important to know?”

His arms extend from side to side. He’s getting riled up and more than a little miffed. But, you know that might work in your favor. His mouth tends to run on autopilot and the truth comes flying out. “Our, I don’t know, petri dish of co-existing in this jack-in-the-box wouldn’t get fucked up. I wouldn’t go off half-cocked and do something I’ve been wanting to do for a while unless I knew, for sure, that you felt the same way I did.” His hands retract and fall in his lap. He’s not looking at you, instead staring at his socked feet. “But, you don’t.”

You’ve got actual fucking butterflies beating their wings like bongo drums in your stomach. “What have you wanted to do for a while?”

His eyes track up to you. He’s inspecting you, hard. That’s doing nothing to quell the excitement inside. “What’s the point in telling you that now?”

“Because, maybe… you’re wrong and… you are my type.”

Dean’s lids lift a quarter of an inch. It’s a minute, micro reaction. But you catch it.

“Maybe I’ve been ignoring it for a while, because, like you. I didn’t want to mess things up. I love Sam.” You swallow, ready to bare all. “But, I haven’t been thinking about what his hands could do to me,” you whisper.

Dean inhales, sharp and quick through his nose at that confession. He exhales, adding, “Don’t fuck with me.”

You can’t do anything but grin in a way that you’re sure makes you look like a goddamn idiot. “I should have said that to you numerous times today. The pancakes. The gun cleaning. Freakin’ Han massaging Leia’s HAND!”

His lids widen. “Hey, it was me testing my theory. Like when we gotta douse someone with holy water to make sure they aren’t possessed. All but the movie, though. Swear I did not remember that scene until a few seconds before it started happening.” He sits up, rubs palms on his sweatpant clad thighs. “Well, okay, I didn’t remember the hand thing, but I wanted to see how you reacted to like THE best scoundrel ever.” Now, he’s grinning. “Been thinkin’ about my hands, huh?”

You roll your eyes merely to play along. “Alright, don’t get a big head.”

He cocks his head like a devilish rogue. “No need for a big head when I’ve got big hands.”

The giggle escapes before you can lasso it.

Dean slides his gaze up your seated frame. It’s a filthy, seedy expression. And hot as fuck. He stops to stare at your mouth, then licks his own. When his eyes meet yours, he commands, “Come on over and show me what you’ve been thinking of.” He pats his thighs. “I’ve got a nice warm seat for ya.”

He’s kidding, right? He wants you to sit on his lap. As if you’d even consider it.

And, yeah, you aren’t considering it. There’s no time for consideration when your legs have already propelled you out of the seat. You give his bedroom door a swing in a passing thought about closing it for privacy.

You can see the look of surprise on Dean’s face as you march over to the bed. But it’s mixed with want and eagerness. He opens his arms in welcome.

Warmth prickles your cheeks at the forwardness you display in accepting the invitation. One knee props up on the bed beside him. You anchor hands onto his shoulders, feel those fingers fan and lock onto your waist, and you bring the rest of your body up to straddle his lap.

You sigh, staring down at that kid in a candy store grin of his, and marvel at how very right it all feels. You settle, your ass firmly atop his thighs. The heat of him is immediate.

“Been wanting you like this,” he whispers, his nose brushing the skin exposed around your collar. A hand molds to the side of your neck, holding you in place. You shiver at the lips skirting upwards along the channel of your throat. “Now who’s ticklish?” It’s meant to tease, but his voice has lost that hint of mirth. It’s deeper, daring you to deny his observation as anything other than fact. “Maybe you aren’t ready for my hands. All.” A kiss at the juncture where your lobe meets your jaw. “Over.” A peck at the tip of your chin. He threads his fingers into the base of your hairline. He eases your head with a smooth tilt down. You lock eyes with his green ones once again. “You.”

The only response you can give is to connect your lips to his. Feeling the pliant, soft give of his mouth against yours. Then his insistent lean up and forward, forcing you to stand your ground while seated on his lap. You have to demonstrate your want is equal to his.

And you want. You so want.

Whatever you’re doing, his approving moan eggs you to continue. With each swipe and dip and dive of your lips, your mouth opens a bit more. The access encourages Dean’s tongue to taste. He laps at you gently, swirls around just enough that your core begins to ache. He pulls away and you groan. You’re drunk with desire, heavy and heady. 

Your lids blink open slow and sleepy. Thankfully you find Dean’s looking as blissed out as you feel. He’s inspecting your reaction through a hazy gaze. His hand captures the side of your face. Five pressure points sink into your skin. His eyes flicker to your mouth to watch his thumb outline the curve of your lip. The pad tugs and drags at your skin.

It’s only a second of wordless communication between the two of you. He asks with a lifting of his lids. You agree with an affirmative blink.

His thumb delves into your mouth, up to the first knuckle. You wrap your lips around. Suck with the gentlest of pressure.

His mouth lifts into a slight smile. “Good girl,” he whispers.

And, fuck if that doesn’t open your floodgates. You’re slick and ready.

Dean’s other hand runs along the waistband of your yoga pants. “You been thinking about my hands all over you…” His thumb glides under the fabric of your panties. “Taking you apart, piece by piece.” He delves farther down, until he taps the top of your mound. His jaw clenches at your gasp of anticipation. His thumb hooks under your tongue against the floor of your mouth to express just how in command he is right now. “You gonna do what I say, Your Worship?”

You nod. You’ll don a pair of cinnamon buns if he tells you to right now.

He smirks, cocky and full of confidence. “The better I make you feel down here...” He works his thumb between your folds and presses against your clit. You squirm in his lap. “The better you suck with that beautiful mouth, yeah?”

You nod again. He releases the pressure in your mouth, circles your bundle of nerves. He slips and slides while his fingers splay over your stomach to anchor in place. You latch onto his thumb again and suck on it like a straw

“Pretty sure this isn’t as wet as you’re gonna get,” he comments like a fucking weatherman. After only a few seconds, he sighs and shakes his head. “Too many fucking clothes.”

You’ve only sparred with Dean a handful of times. Every time, he’s bested you with graceful movements and quick action. He disengages from you for what must have only been seconds, spinning you around in his grasp and pinning your back to the mattress. He’s whipping off your t-shirt, pants, and underwear. Leaving you in only your bra.

He leers over you, hands running up the underside of your thighs. He kneels onto the bed, all of his clothes still on, to wedge against your ass. All of you is on proper display for him. And he takes it all in.

“Right, Gorgeous. Where were we?” One hand rides its way up your chest back to your mouth. You accept his index finger between your lips this time. His other hand resumes playing with your clit. “Hm. Much better.” 

A gasp escapes from your mouth. Your tongue ejects his finger so you can point out, “Who’s the one with too many fucking clothes on now?”

“All good things come to those who wait, darlin’.” He settles further, criss crossing over top of your flesh. His legs sandwich your right thigh while he strums your pussy. The hope of what else is to come pokes into your side through his sweatpants. He doesn’t give you a chance to reply, slipping his finger into your mouth again. The pull of his left hand guides you to lean your head toward the right. He settles his beefy forearm onto the mattress above your shoulder.

His chest pins you down in a kinky wrestling move. Teeth snag your ear lobe. He applies pressure to the swollen flesh over a ridge of bone, then uses a flicking motion that makes your thigh twitch in delight.

You're sloppy with your technique of licks and sucks as he feeds you another digit. But, really, how is any gal supposed to mind their manners with Dean Winchester fingering her? You groan, helpless, as he explores your folds, finds your entrance with two tips. “I know you got a thing for my hands,” his hot breath tunnels into your ear canal, “but, if you want, I can fill you up real good with something else.”

You can’t reply with any actual words, only moans of agreement. The erection pressing into your hip bone sure does feel substantial. If it’s anything like his fingers - two fingers are currently surfing around your tongue and rubbing against your palate - he’ll have no problem filling you up.

To ground yourself in the reality of the situation, you snatch at the hem of his shirt and tug. Your pelvis tilts up at the slow insertion of one of his other fingers down below. “Damn,” he pants into your ear. “How long’s it been since someone took care of you, all nice and proper? So- so tight and wet.” He hums. “And warm.” A languid slide out with one finger, only to be accompanied with another when he pushes back inside. “Feel so good. Gonna feel even better around my cock after I make you come… Princess.”

You will not ever admit to the fact that you squealed with Dean’s fingers in your mouth. That you convulsed after only seconds of him playing with your clit and stretching open your hole.

Fireworks continue to skyrocket in your head. Your body tipped into the oversensitive zone. You’re aware of every bit of him plastered against you. He’s made you slick with arousal and sweat. Layers of fabric cling to skin. You should be suffocating with him laying atop you, but he feels like a weighted blanket. Warm, secure. Dean’s fingers don’t retract from your mouth or pussy. They are frozen in place. Your teeth nibble one set. Your muscles spasm around the other. 

He hasn’t moved. Hot breath huffs hard into the crook of your neck with an occasional sharp inhale and hold. You close your eyes. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that you could fall asleep like this.

“Was that… too much?” He deep-throat whispers in your ear now. “I may have gotten a little carried away.”

“N-mph-,” you chortle around his fingers.

“Shit, sorry.” He pulls his hand away from your mouth, the other slowly out of your hot core. Matching sighs release from you both.

“No,” you heave, and his chest rises up and off. “It was… awesome.”

He’s in your face now, all green eyes and pink lips, a veil of freckles along the bridge of his nose and forehead. “Yeah?”

You squint, trying to focus on all the glorious aspects. He’s studying you. You get the feeling he’s really not sure. “Why is the ladies man doubting himself all of sudden?” you tease, rocking to shuffle him out of the daze.

A shrug. “It’s you. I don’t always read you right.”

You lean your head back into his memory foam in an attempt to make full eye contact. “I don’t know how many ways you can misread giving me a mindblowing orgasm.”

He blinks, cautious. “Is what I did going to… you know… change things between us?”

“Oh.” You stop, dart your gaze to the ceiling past his shoulder for dramatic effect. “Oh, absolutely. I mean,” you pause, “how could it not?” You shake your head and feel his entire body go rigid. “It’s gonna be so awkward and uncomfortable around here.” 

When you dare to look at him, there’s a hint of something you don’t see often on Dean’s face. You think it might be fear.

You can’t bear it any longer. “I mean, I can already imagine the disgusted look on Sam’s face when we start making out right in front of him.”

Within seconds, the expression turns to one of relief and amusement, accompanied by the charming cockiness that’s gonna turn you to goo at the most inopportune moments from here on out. “Well, we don’t have to tell him right away. It might be fun to, you know, sneak around right under his nose.” He relaxes, sinks into you again. “I could have you all sorts of ways, in all sorts of places, doing our best not to get caught.”

You smile. “Don’t want to tell your brother you’ve stolen my heart with that five-finger discount of yours?”

He chuckles, rolls his eyes, then cups the heat of your folds again. “I mean, I sucked at Biology, but pretty sure this ain’t your heart, darlin’.”

“You’re wrong, you know?”

He blinks, all sass and spectacle, “This IS your heart?” He squeezes.

You peck his lips, roll your eyes, and curl arms around his waist. “No. Solo’s got nothing on you. YOU are the best scoundrel.”

A breathtaking kiss makes you all lightheaded. When he finally pulls away and allows you to exhale, he lifts one side of his mouth into a confident grin. “I know.”

THE END

[officialgleamstar]

okay, here's a long post talking about my thoughts on dungeons and daddies, s2ep45, hell or high father. obvious spoiler warning, im gonna be talking about the events of the episode, but this is going to be more outside the fourth wall focused/thinking about what the pacing says about the narrative, rather than actually talking about what happened in this episode!! also ive only listened to the episode once so if i missed anything, feel free to say so

to start immediately: i loved this episode, but i was also disappointed that ron, terry, and scary didn't get a full episode. but i was thinking about why that would be the case, and that lead me to the two reasons im speculating:

Beth felt that Scary's arc didn't necessitate a big ending and that it came to a clean closing with that scene

This episode shows the narrative divide between the Stampler family and the Close family

the first reason is mostly a timing thing. they included taylor in this episode as well because scary's conclusion didn't need the full run time, or maybe even lincoln's episode was longer than they wanted it to be and scary was supposed to be in that arc as well. the pacing was just a result of the past few episodes: scary has already confronted that she regrets how she treated terry, we've seen that a million times. ever since his death, she's confronted that fact again and again, and i think it makes sense that this episode would resolve that in a much quieter way than it could've. the stamplers have always been the family to resolve things 'the right way' - they show up for each other, they love each other unconditionally, they finish their arcs by holding one another in forgiveness. even if i wouldve loved a longer memory (though holy shit, WE SAW THE BETRAYAL ON SCREEN-- sorry not the point of this post), and i really hope we get some more with them in upcoming episodes, i did like how it was so sweetly resolved!!

and that sweetness leads into the bulk of my thoughts here: scary and taylor shared an episode because of how differently their memories went.

as soon as nicky went "i have a memory you weren't around for", i knew we were in for a fucking ROLLERCOASTER, and holy shit. the entire played out montage of glenn failing to be there for nicky, failing to be there for taylor, and in turn, taylor finally tells nicky to his face that he wasn't there for taylor either. taylor's fixation on the idea of redoing it all with time travel, because there is no other way, in his mind, to solve the rift in their relationship. "there's no fixing this." there's too much baggage, there's too much thats already been fucked up, and theres no way for them to come back from that. nicky is a grown adult. taylor is already in his teen years. they can form a relationship with their dad now, but no matter how well that goes, its never going to fix the childhood behind them that was already ruined. they do love each other, they're friends, but being friends doesnt equal a true good relationship. being friends doesnt mean you succeeded in parenting.

and now we contrast that with the stamplers. both terry junior and scary go into their relationship with their stepdads seeing him as an inferior replacement, as someone who could never truly be their dad. terry junior loved his biological dad, is literally named after him. scary's dad was so absent in her life that she doesnt know how to handle someone actually being there. they both refuse to take the replacement, until eventually, they learn that their stepdad's strength is that hes a new man. not a replacement, but his own full person, a person who loves them. ron put his life on the line for terry, time and time again, because he didnt want to be his own dad. terry showed up to all of scarys soccer matches, even when she refused to even acknowledge him, because he didnt want to be her bio dad. "you showed up." even though terry's memory is literally him using ron, it ends with ron forgiving him without a second thought. when scary apologizes to terry, terry takes her into his arms with a moment's hesitation.

the stamplers have a happy ending because even with how badly they've fucked up, they always showed up for their kids. the closes don't have a happy ending because they weren't in their kids' lives and they think being friends now fixes that. and that's why scary and taylor shared their episode, really. because it drives home the crucial difference between the two families

[cosmicqvake]

Potential TWs: mentions of s*icide/s*icidal thoughts.

Ultimately, in S4, I fully believe that Daisy ran away from the team to end her life.

She ran away so that the team would inevitably “give up on her”, so to speak, and that it wouldn’t hurt them as much when she did turn up dead.

I was inclined to call her actions passive suicide ideation at first, but it wasn’t even that. She was actively doing everything in her power to get herself killed, even if she wouldn’t admit it. Even if she had no plans to do it herself (that we know about), she was deliberately putting herself in those dangerous situations. She wanted them to kill her. Hell, she even begged Robbie/Ghost Rider to do it.

She begged him to kill her.

She was also in constant pain. The bone-restoration pills she was taking, as Jemma said, didn’t relieve pain. She wanted to be in pain. To feel it. Because she felt like she deserved it.

So, I can’t lie, it bothers me a little how quick Fitz and Mack are to just jump down her throat when they confront her in early S4. I understand that they’re upset at her for just abandoning ship, but I can’t really say that their anger is justified. She’s in SO much pain, and they know that. She was brainwashed by Hive- and left with lingering addiction/withdrawal-like effects. She lost Lincoln, the dude she loved. And worse, she blames herself for all of it. They know the pain that she’s in.

“She’s turned her back on us, Mack.”

No, she wants you to turn your back on her.

She wants you to give up on her.

That way, she can end her life without feeling more guilt for leaving the team behind. After all, they won’t care if they resent her for leaving, right?

It’s frustrating, and frankly just sad, that they couldn’t see that. (Meanwhile, Robbie picked up on it immediately and he was a literal stranger.)

It’s not that I blame them at all. After all, this is usually how it goes in real life too. Not a lot of people can recognise the signs until it’s too late. It’s realistic, if anything. But just… sad.

[sighed-the-snake]

I am listening to I'm Afraid of Americans by David Bowie, and one of the lyrics gave me an idea:

God is an American.

And so is Warlock.

In Good Omens, there are the three boys: Adam, Warlock, And Greasy Johnson.

Crowley and Aziraphale think they are raising the antichrist, but there has been a switcheroo: The antichrist is with a normal family, Warlock is raised under occult influences, and Greasy is the spare who grows up having a normal life alongside Adam.

There is some evidence that Greasy Johnson is the Messiah. (thanks to @thesherrinfordfacility for the great meta!)

But, I started thinking about the ways Neil and Terry subvert our expectations, and God's sense of humor in Good Omens, and a thought struck me:

What if Warlock is the Messiah?

Think about it. Greasy Johnson is connected to fish, like Jesus, sure. But also like a red herring. His purpose in the story is to be a bit of a mystery, a distraction from what's staring us in the face.

What if Aziraphale and Crowley were raising exactly the correct child who needed their influence? It just wasn't the antichrist. It was the Messiah.

Kindle page 62:

Warlock now found himself being educated by two tutors. Mr. Harrison taught him about Attila the Hun, Vlad Drakul, and the Darkness Intrinsicate in the Human Spirit. He tried to teach Warlock how to make rabble-rousing political speeches to sway the hearts and minds of multitudes.

Mr. Cortese taught him about Florence Nightingale,* Abraham Lincoln, and the appreciation of art. He tried to teach him about free will, self-denial, and Doing unto Others as You Would Wish Them to Do to You.

Warlock was exposed at a young age to the pain and darkness in human hearts. He was taught by a demon who's very good at temptation (according to Aziraphale) how to sway the hearts and minds of humanity with his words.

He's taught by an angel about compassion, thinking for himself, and doing the right thing.

These are vital lessons if you're going to be the savior of mankind who needs to convince billions of humans to listen to you.

Names have power in this story. Adam Young is named after the very first human and ends up on the side of humanity.

Harriet Dowling looked at her baby and said, yep, this kid looks like a traitor.

Warlock has not yet lived up to his name. What institution is branding him a traitor? Who is he betraying? What oath is he breaking? What responsibility is he refusing?

Could it be that Heaven shows up to tell him he's Jesus reborn and he has a destiny and Warlock firmly gives them a double-dose of middle fingers?

If Adam the Antichrist is a sweet kid so influenced by humanity that he goes against his nature to save them, is Warlock the Messiah going to be such an insufferable rich kid bratty politician's child that he'll refuse to pass judgement on a single soul because no one tells him what to do? Is he going to use his influence to harness humanity against Heaven and Hell? He's already had a demon for a nanny and grew up with an angel in his garden; he's not afraid of occult forces. Occult forces wiped his bum and told him to love slugs.

Some fun implications here. Jesus being American feels very Terry.