#post-collapse but within the bunker years

[the-silver-chronicles]

Kinktober Day 22 & 31: "Breeding Kink" & "Aftercare" - For OTP: "Boa Lurking In The Bliss" (Silva Omar x Faith Seed)

Tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton @imogenkol and @josephseedismyfather

Tagging @adelaidedrubman @raresvtm @derelictheretic @inafieldofdaisies @noodlecupcakes @direwombat @voidika @cassietrn @aceghosts @icecutioner @shallow-gravy @strangefable @statichvm @cloudofbutterflies92 @carlosoliveiraa @wrathfulrook @ladyoriza @la-grosse-patate @thewanderer-000 @omen-speaker @alypink @shellibisshe @josephslittledeputy @skoll-sun-eater @g0dspeeed @afarcryfrommymain @strafethesesinners @turbo-virgins and @florbelles + anyone else who want to join.

Prompt based on this kinktober post made by fellow mutual @starsandskies. While the main Kink of this post is "Breeding" and "Aftercare", you'll find it also includes ones such as "Praise", "Oral", "Biting" and a little bit of "Dirty Talk".

Hey everyone, here's my second and last contribution to Kinktober for this month. Here's a oneshot devoted to the main couple of the Far Cry section of The Silver Chronicles; Silva and Faith as you've probably guessed. From the mature tag and the title you can probably already tell that this oneshot (which will also be uploaded onto my AO3 as well) contains explicitly sexual content meant for 18+ users only. Minors Do Not Interact!

Here's a few warnings as to what this oneshot contains:

CW: Shameless smut, Minor angst, Cunnilingus, slight vaginal fingering, slight teasing, stroking a dick to erection (I don't think a handjob necessarily fits the context because Faith doesn't let Silva cum), P in V sex, unprotected sex, gentle sex, creampie, Silva's kind of unsubtle breeding kink and both women's obvious praise kinks. Includes a lack of contraceptives here (not the fault of either women, Kamski's flaw was that he thought Silva would be like him, miserable and single (neither words correlate nor share a connotation connection with each other here) and also doesn't take into consideration that majority of people don't think like him) and discussions of (getting) pregnancy. Plus the unspeakable horror of including the vaguest hint of a plot in a smut oneshot.

But also enthusiastic consent!

Okay now for the ONLY two Trigger Warnings: Minor reference to past religious and child abuse. These aren't the center focus of the oneshot and aren't explicit either, but these are something that are at the very least inferred (I hope that's the right word) to during Silva's POV thought process in the beginning, but not during the smut itself. I only make these warnings because it's better to be safe than sorry.

You may also notice Faith is a little different (possibly) personality-wise, and I imagine its because of being influenced by certain characters (like say... Sharky and the Drubmans (mostly Adelaide)) and this is set many months post-game and Collapse, and both she and Silva (plus Azriel) have taken shelter in Silva's prepper bunker, so I imagine at this point a certain level of character growth and change has occurred. I’ve also given a short personal explanation in the tags as well.

Author's Final Edit: I've been working on this nonstop for four weeks, at differing states in mind but refused to leave it unfinished, so apologies in advance if it's not that good or even a little rushed (as you can likely tell it's no longer October) than what I originally planned. Anyway gonna post this now and hope for the best.

I'll be sure to reblog this post with the link to the one that'll be posted on my AO3. Anyway, enjoy the fic under the cut:

Title: This Sweet Leisure

Series: The Silver Chronicles (Far Cry 5)

Character/s: Silva Omar (Deputy OC), Faith Seed, Azriel Omar (mentioned OC), Irene Neon (past referenced OC), Persephone Neon (past referenced OC), Elsa Omar (past referenced OC), Kamski Neon (past referenced OC), Tracey Lader (referenced) and Father Adam Omar (Barely referenced OC and thank the Gods, he's super dead).

Words: 7,734

Quiet moments had never been something Silva thought she could afford to enjoy.

She was familiar with various forms of quiet though. Many of which denied her comfort, including peace, or even leisure.

She had experienced a cold kind of quiet throughout her youth. It was tense and foreboding, a wordless warning hanging over their heads like the ill-omen of a guillotine. The only sounds allowed were the roaring winds of a wrathful blizzard outside and the slight clinking of plates and utensils shared between two quivering hermanas.

She had spent many nights as a child in a quiet that was always too quiet. That was the worst kind of quiet for Silva. Dread left her restless, sleep evaded her like the answers she constantly prayed for, haunted by anticipation as she listened for the recognizable signs of Father's approaching footsteps outside her bedroom door...

But the most familiar quiet she's known would be that of loss and mourning. The moments where silence would replace where there should be joyous laughter, or whispered promises, or the normalcy of conversation.

Where she expected a small form to run around the house once she exited her room, her little one's delighted giggles filling the room as her ginger bangs bounced from her enthused race... she found nothing and the heaviness would weigh down on her heart once more.

She would spend periods lamenting on each and every loss, whether it be family, friends, her amor or her beloved hija.

When trapped in this quiet, her mind would betray her... always following the same maze in the labyrinth of her thoughts, with each memory visited and revisited while she punished herself for the grave inescapable sin of not being strong enough, fast enough, doing enough.

Simply put, the quiet moments remind her of how no matter what, she'll never be enough to keep those she cared for. She found no escape through sleep either; her imagination was often the most cruel.

Punished by constant night terrors, which only grew more frequent from there.

Perhaps that is why she enjoyed the action, those fast-paced minutes that squandered on hours. The wars, the fighting, the very act of survival, the violence she despised, justifying her use of it as necessary and right.

The very same violence that took pieces of her until she was nearly hollow from the high. But at least she couldn't feel anything but the emptiness afterwards... distracted from the grief.

What a twist of fate that, at the end of the very collapse of society, all she could have would be quiet moments. For approximately seven years, she would have to live in the very bunker she had dismissed as a paranoid and needless precaution, even for the likes of Silva herself.

In spite of this, she had kept it well-maintained. At least to honor one of Elsa's lasting gifts to her.

And even though Elsa and Persephone were long gone from her life, Silva would be forever grateful of it since it had saved the last two of her most precious remaining loved ones; Faith and Azriel.

It was a rough few months at first, for herself especially, but they made it work. A routine had been set up, tasks given for each of them, and both Faith and Azriel seemed to have put aside their animosity, for the sake of Silva at least.

Silva, though prohibited from putting too much strain on her muscles, had recovered enough to do the laborious tasks that the other two were unable to do, as well as keep track of their inventory, rationing the power and water they were using, keeping track of the days by making calendars (at least enough so they have a fraction of an idea of when they should leave), keeping the only functional clock left out of Azriel's reach, general cooking and proceeding with Azriel's education (and ensuring her pequeño inventora utilizes the parts they don't need for her machinations).

Usually these tasks were completed with the assistance of both Faith and Azriel.

Faith utilized the knowledge she retained from the Eden's Gate to correctly double-check and correspond with the information Silva gave, as well as support a garden from within the bunker that gave them all fresh fruit and vegetables besides the preservatives, aided Silva in Azriel's education with subjects Silva had less expertise in and was the only person in the bunker with any specialization in medicine, besides Silva's apparently redundant strategy of "ignore the problem until it starts affecting you personally" or "only treat problem when close to the nearest convenient bandage, stitches or medic".

(Silva could admit Faith had a point about her reckless behavior).

Azriel's days were mostly spent assisting Silva, or Faith when the girl chose to stop detesting the other woman. She attended her "classes", whether it be academical or practical, so she'd be as prepared as she could be for whatever was outside the bunker doors.

Azriel's hobby in engineering proved to be handy, with Silva and Faith both stumped on the workings of such a subject despite their reliance on the bunker's generator and water filter.

They'd have their meals together, and would often spend time in the same living space once their tasks were done. When it came to nightly routines, Silva would bathe Azriel herself, and would share her own shower with Faith as to not waste water.

Those moments were strictly kept tame, given Azriel's close proximity from the bedroom and the necessity of the water. However, Silva didn't mind, as she and Faith got to be closer, with hands touching the places neither wanted others to see. Their scars were only for them to admire, neither holding shame nor judgement as they took care of each other.

After cleaning off, Silva would put Azriel to bed in one of the spare bedrooms she had claimed for herself as Faith shut off any non-essential power for the night, before both she and Silva retired to their shared designated master bedroom.

That was where the quiet became more prominent.

It wasn't so bad; sometimes one or both of them would be able to drift off. Other times, sleep would evade them, and they just enjoyed each others company, sharing stories and jokes, their voices barely above a whisper. Often they'd talk about the plans for the next day, perhaps wonder about the future... or even confess their own fears, quelling doubts. A peaceful quiet.

There were few nights when these fears took form as nightmares, interrupting their rests. Such nights were spent comforting the other in an understanding silence, few words exchanged while they found warmth in each other's arms. A comforting quiet.

But those night terrors were becoming far and few as the months passed, and Silva found herself cherishing the quiet as much as she did the time spent with her little family.

Though months passed, there was a slight change from the routine, one night where Silva rediscovered a quiet she hadn't experienced in a long while, and would revisit the following weeks.

Although sexual intimacy wasn't a first for either Silva or Faith, after the Collapse, they prioritized the ensured function of the bunker, recovering from their own physical and mental wounds and Azriel's well-being over their passion. It was the practical thing to do in that situation.

However, so much time had passed since the Collapse had occurred, and though the intimacy they did share was cherished and fulfilling, there was a familiar desire that burned patiently; the want to be connected, the need to be closer, to make the other sing with pleasure, and to share their love and affection through one of the few ways they could.

After Silva tucked Azriel in for the night, she had returned to the master bedroom. Shutting the door behind her, she turned to the sight of Faith awaiting her by the foot of their bed.

Silva shared a soft smile with her amor, making her way over to Faith to give a nightly embrace and kiss before bed.

Faith had stopped Silva with a hand on her chest, green eyes looking deeply into grey as the former herald tried to put her desires into words.

"I want you," she said softly, a noticeable shade of light pink across her face with eyes full of a need that stole Silva's breath away, "Tonight. I want you, and I want to make you feel good."

Silva felt a burst of exhilaration invade her body, her nerves lightened up with renewed enthusiasm. The feeling only increased when Faith delicately held one of Silva's hands and brought it to her soft lips.

The kisses she pressed down onto the faded scarred tissue sent tingling signals throughout Silva's body, a pleased sigh escaping her lips as her cheeks darkened into a blush. Faith gauged Silva's reaction, her gaze anticipating her answer and yet pleading all the same, lips brushing against her sensitive hand.

Silva responded with a loving smile, using her spare hand to cup Faith's face, fingers caressing the skin like light kisses as she brought her own face closer.

"Si," Silva had acceded, connecting their lips, feeling the thrum of Faith's enthused hum. When breaking off the kiss, the former deputy stated, "Under one condition."

Faith visibly wet her lips, tilting her head into Silva's palm as she asked, barely above a whisper, "And what would that be?"

Silva smirked, and Faith waited with bated breath on Silva's response (but if she hadn't been so focused on Silva's answer, she'd notice beloved's grey eyes shined with a flicker of silver), bringing her chapped lips to ghost along Faith's ear, and purred, "I'll make you feel bliss first."

Faith broke into a grin, and wrapped her arms around her lover's neck as both of their desires heightened, lips caught in a dance before Silva took the lead.

While their tongues communed and tasted one another, Silva's hands wandered, brushing over Faith's dress and squeezing at certain areas to bring out those small noises she never gets to hear in any other moment.

She settled both her wandering hands at Faith's hip and culo respectively, giving a squeeze on both that elicited a surprised yelp from her amor, though a giggle soon followed after.

Silva retracted from the kiss as her hands reached the hem of Faith's dress, "Let's get this dress off, mi querida."

Faith only nodded as her hands joined Silva's to slip the dress off from over her head rather smoothly, freeing her perky breasts for only Silva's eyes to see. She pressed her hands onto the skin, how good and warm it felt under her touch. Her thumb grazed over a scar just under Faith's rib cage.

Her attention was deterred however by her amor's impatient fingers unbuttoning her shirt.

Silva followed suit, unbuttoning the rest of her dress shirt and shrugging it off. She reached for the strap of her bra behind her, but Faith ceased her struggle when she pressed her hands onto Silva's clothed breasts.

"Arms up, darling," Faith directed, and Silva saw the glimpse of the herald whose reputation commanded fear and respect from her foes. It sent an exhilarating shiver down the former deputy's body, feeling a twitch in her lower body as she followed her amor's orders.

Faith pulled the undergarment over her lover's head, tossing it away. Silva didn't bother to chide about the messiness, figuring it to be a issue she'll deal with tomorrow. In the mean time, she was too preoccupied with giving Faith's greedy hands access to feeling her swell chest up. She let Faith grope at her breasts, hands wandering all over her exposed upper half. Even in the darkness, Faith accurately pinpointed every faded scar there was on this portion of the Omar woman's body.

From her healed cuts and slashes, to the closed scarring from past bullet wounds, to her shoulders; the left harbored old burns, while the right was less clearer, though the texture of the skin was notably a shade lighter, if only slightly.

Silva hummed from the touches she received, massaging Faith's breasts in return. Faith gaped in pleasure, and Silva jumped at the opportunity to reconnect their lips, tongue inserted back in, this time to dominate.

Faith moaned into Silva's mouth, and the reverberation spurred Silva on. Her hands moved to behind Faith, she pulled the other woman's body against hers, their chests colliding. Faith's hands gripped at Silva's back, pushing herself against her lover to chase after the pleasure of grinding their breasts together.

Silva slowly lead Faith backwards to the bed, letting the foot of the bed buckle Faith's legs into sitting down.

Without hesitation, Faith spread her bare legs to give Silva a peek at the lacy white lingerie underwear, embroidered with a familiar pattern, that she had adorned for this occasion. Silva got the impression that her amor had been planning this for some time.

Silva wouldn't disappoint.

Though that pattern did look familiar-

Flowers. Of course, Silva noted in mild amusement.

Faith closed her legs together and dragged her underwear down, shimmying the flower-patterned lingerie down to her ankles, kicking them off to the floor. She opened her legs once more, displaying her nude, bare self for Silva's eyes to feast upon. The sight made Silva's crotch felt uncomfortably restrictive, but she restrained herself from taking her pants off and making love to Faith there and then.

Silva wanted to draw this out; she wanted Faith to feel the greatest heights of this high until she was fully satiated, as well as for herself too.

Caressing her amor's face, Silva's eyes lingered down to Faith's wet folds awaiting her, the light brown bundle of curling hairs layered at the top, and asked, "May I?"

Faith gave an eager and affirming nod, and Silva descended down to her knees until she was face to face with the younger woman's lower lips. Putting her amor's legs over her shoulders, Silva circled two fingers around her labia to stimulate more wetness and gather it onto her fingers, while her other hand's thumb gently brushed against her clit.

She heard Faith's breath hitch above, which made Silva temporarily halt, her eyes meeting green to wordlessly check on her pareja. Faith met her lover's gaze and returned an assuring nod. Silva took a breath and continued to tease her amor's slick pussy and clit, feeling a tug of pride within herself when she heard a soft airy sigh come from above.

Satisfied with the slickness, she inserted one finger inside, earning her a gasp and small moan from Faith. She massaged her index inside the warm insides before inserting a second finger to join the first, curling and gently twisting both as she proceeded to press a bit firmly on Faith's clit with her thumb.

Spurred on by the sounds of Faith's heavier breathing and soft moans, Silva gave a trail of kisses along both of her thighs, perhaps lightly sucking at the flesh to leave a mark or two where no one but both of them would see.

She carefully twisted her two slick-covered closed fingers to face her and opened them up in a V-shape, spreading her amor's vagina.

Silva leaned closer, breathing in her scent. The pungent tangy musk tinted with a hint of earthy sweetness to it. A floral scent really; not like the acrid sweetness of the Bliss though. That had long since been washed away.

Without wasting another moment, she pressed her tongue flat against Faith's vulva, licking it in a glide upwards until she reaches her clit.

Faith tasted like honey, with a hint of sourness that reminded Silva of yogurt. It was something surprising to discover; how different the taste was. She'd expected a metallic taste and bitterness not unlike coffee when she first went down on Faith, as she had remembered Irene's being, and the few women she had brief relations with holding a similar taste, but had been pleasantly unprepared for the flavor.

She continued to lap up the slickness, proceeding to explore with wide licks that swished around the folds of her amor's vulva, enjoying the sweet little noises she drew out and the feeling of Faith's legs shaking over her shoulders.

Silva hadn't expected Faith to cross her legs to pull her mouth closer, but the Omar woman held no complaints. She focused on flexing her tongue deeper inside, licking every nook and cranny.

Silva felt Faith's hand furl into her dark hair to keep the former deputy where she was, grinding herself against her lover's tongue. Silva hummed her appreciation into her amor's pussy, the vibrating sensation provoking a whimper out of Faith.

Feeling her lover's tongue retracting, Faith almost expressed her dissatisfaction with the lack of contact until Silva's lips enveloped around her swelling clit, lightly sucking as her tongue gently circled around it.

Faith choked out a cry as she felt Silva's two fingers re-enter to massage at her sensitive flesh. Lips parted, her moans didn't escape quietly, though it didn't discourage Silva from her relentless efforts to bring about Faith's high.

Silva heard Faith murmur out words incoherently yet consistently (though that may be due to the thighs squeezed around her head canceling out most noises), though was unable to inquire about it as she felt Faith's legs tense around her.

She had enough time to glance her eyes up to see Faith slightly arch her back before she felt the inner walls of her vagina constrict and spasm.

Silva had half-a-mind to have her mouth open when fluid squirted at her face. She lapped up the sweet sticky fluids as Faith rode her high out.

Leaving soft rewarding kisses around her amor's sensitive flesh and thighs, Silva began crawling up to trail her kisses along Faith's waist and stomach. She peppered her breasts, collarbone and neck with special attention, sucking on the skin to leave little marks.

She kissed along her jaw, face and settled on her lips. Face to face, Silva admired the flushed yet blissful expression that resided on her amor.

Breathing returning to a regular intake, Faith opened her green eyes to gaze into Silva's adoring ones.

"You look so beautiful right now amor," Silva complimented, lightly tucking a loose hair behind Faith's ear.

The Seed woman licked her lips, the smile on her face joined by a light blush from the praise. And though Silva meant what she said, she still had the need to confirm.

"Was that good for you, mi querida?" Silva asked softly, searching for any hint of potential discomfort from the young woman below her. Faith blinked at Silva, maybe touched by the concern, maybe in bafflement at the question. Though she proceeded to bring her head up to rest against Silva's own.

"It was wonderful. You ate me out so well my sweetheart," Faith assured with a pleased sigh. She proceeded to bring her lips to the shell of Silva's ear and whisper, "Now why don't you take those pants off? I can't be the only one naked here."

Silva gave an affirmative nod and obliged to Faith's request. Scooting to the side of bed, she pulled down her loose night pants, kicking them off at her ankles. She went to remove her boxers next, but Faith slipped up behind with wandering and electrifying hands that danced across her front.

Faith peppered light kisses along her neck, and softer ones to her old burn scars, which Silva appreciated. One stray hand palmed over the bulge throbbing against her boxers, massaging the member, earning a shameless moan from Silva.

"You're so good to me, Silva. Always accommodating. Putting my needs before yours," Faith revered warmly, massaging the stretching bulge that began to tent up at her boxers, eliciting a low groan from Silva, while Faith stated, "You're so full of love. And I'm happy to be someone you share it with. Which is why I want to make tonight special for you. To give my own love back to you, in the most intimate act together."

Silva bit at her bottom lip as she felt herself get harder at Faith's words, the kind and adoring words flustering the woman. She felt Faith reach into her boxers to pull out her erect cock. Freed from its confines, Silva didn't try to suppress the moan that rose in her throat when her amor curled one hand at the base and began to pump.

Precum leaked from the tip, and Faith brushed a thumb over it, spreading the slickness around the head. She reached down to gently massage at her scrotum to further tease her lover, receiving a choked yelp that morphed pleased groan. Satisfied with her work, Faith tugged at the boxers, with Silva pulling it down the rest of the way.

"Now for what I promised," Faith purred sultry, intertwining her hand with Silva, leading the compliant woman to crawl further onto the queen bed with her.

With both now bare and their hearts beating with a thrill, Faith took initiative, placing a halting hand onto Silva's chest to halt her approach and lightly push her down backwards.

"Can you sit for me?" Faith requested, flashing sweet honest pearls at her, and Silva nodded affirmatively as she followed suit, sitting down with her legs splayed out, her cock proudly pointed up as Silva's eyes traced ever bit of Faith's body.

She swallowed on nothing, wishing she could count the stars to mark a number down of how much she had been so unbelievably lucky to have not only meeting Faith, but get to be with her. And to keep her and Azriel safe, a small relieved voice spoke up, though it didn't last, You never were able to do that with anyone else.

Silva almost frowned at the thought, and briefly closed her eyes. What happened wasn't my fault. I did all I could in those moments, she reminded herself, defending against the guilt, just as Faith coached her.

She opened her eyes when she felt Faith's hands grasp onto her shoulders, her legs at both sides of her hips. Her wet entrance hovering above Silva's leaking head, though Faith paused as she cupped Silva's face into her hands, the next words she spoke sending a spike of pleasure through her veins, "I want you inside me."

Heart fluttering at the proclamation, Silva wanted nothing more than to obey, to be inside her amada and feel how she clenched around her, to murmur little praises into her skin as she just enjoyed having her amor in her arms. However, through the haze of love and lust, she had a realization, "I don't have condoms. I don't think there are any down here."

"Nor birth control," Faith informed her, green eyes gazing down, and Silva wanted to kick herself for not noticing when she did stock checks, "I checked the infirmary; it just wasn't included amongst the stock."

Silva could take a guess why. The infirmary had been an additional room inserted by Kamski himself without her permission. Though she was grateful now for his foresight, she felt an annoyance towards Kamski's paranoia overstocking the infirmary with supplies for illness, injury, surgery and even birth delivery, but was flippant about her chances of finding a new partner that he was he convinced her contraceptives wouldn't be necessary. By Jannah, why did I listen to him?

She brought a hand over one of Faith's own which still had her face cupped, thumb brushing at the knuckles. While Silva certainly wasn't against the idea of unprotected sex, especially if Faith gave her consent, under normal circumstances there would be a world with safety nets to fall back on if they decided to risk it.

However, they were stuck in a bunker, while luckily stocked for more than three people with food, medicine and other resources, it was without the contraceptives to avoid the high-risk results of the act.

She would love nothing more than to make love to Faith, to be inside her, to join her on the brink of their own bliss and just release. However, she knew of Faith's reservations, not to the act itself, but the potential consequences of said act.

Instead, she suggested, "If you really want to do this, I can try the pulling out, which does comes with risk. But we don't have to, we can do something else..."

Silva quieted down when Faith pressed a finger to her lips, shushing wordlessly. Faith smacked her lips together as she gazed at Silva with sincere affection.

"I appreciate that you're thinking of me, but there's no need to fret, my lotus flower," Faith said with a fond smile, running a hand through Silva's long dark hair, her green eyes full of a devotion Silva's doesn't believe she's seen on her before, not even with Joseph, not this intense and self-assured.

"But I made my mind up about this weeks ago," Faith informed her lover, an adoring smile blessing her face, "I want to feel you. And more importantly, I want you to feel good. I know you personally dislike the condoms. Not only that, but I know you'd rather not pull out. And yet you do those... all for me. And I'm flattered. Which is why tonight, I wanted to do this for you. No contraceptives... even if they ideally should have been optional... and no pulling out either. And whatever comes after this... I'm okay with it."

Silva blinked, not expecting this from Faith. Although she wanted nothing more to accept her words at face value, she still had to make sure, "What about what you told me? I thought you didn't want to risk-"

"I know what I had said. It was something I took time to think about too," Faith acknowledged, but her tone changed to something more impassioned, "But... my time spent with you and Azriel has made me reconsider. I know you. I trust you. Of all the people I was lucky to fall for, I'm glad it's with you. Because you won't abandon me. You'll be with me, through it all."

Faith's hands glided down to behind Silva's head and neck, bringing her beloved's face closer to her chest, adjusting Silva so her ear was to the skin.

"You hear that?" Faith asked above, her heartbeat thumping in a swift measured pace, and Silva only nodded, still a little lost until her amor explained, "That's my excitement at the thought of us giving in for tonight. Of us quivering and trembling in ecstasy, on the toe-curling edge until I milk you dry. That's what I want, but most importantly, I know that's what you want to do."

Silva felt herself burning up; from her head being in Faith's bosom? The lewd description she'd never expect Faith to use (Had she rubbed off on her somehow? The Drubmans and Sharky? Or had she always had this side of her? came the discord of thoughts) until this occasion? Or the admission that she not only knew of Silva's concealed desires, but wishes for her to act on them too?? Perhaps it was a combination, but Silva wasn't entirely sure.

Silva lifted her face to look into Faith's unabashed green eyes, finding no hint of doubt in those beautiful orbs.

"I want this. You want this. And we won't be unprepared," Faith assured, nuzzling her head into the nook of Silva's neck, hands residing at her back, "We have an abundance of supplies with everything needed for a full-term pregnancy, and the infirmary is ridiculously prepared with instructions and instruments ready for when the day comes. I know this is selfish... but I want to make something beautiful with you. To carry the culmination of our love within me. No more holding yourself back... take a leap, love. Put yourself first for once."

Silva chewed at her bottom lip as she felt her cock grow stiffer at the idea of succumbing to her base desires, and to join Faith through a union of their raw bodies, rutting into the warmth of Faith's inner walls until she released herself into her amada's womb, until she was sure Faith was pregnant.

Faith got her attention with a small kiss on the lips, green eyes staring straight into Silva's souls as she said her next words with utmost seriousness.

"I know how I sound, saying all these things to you, but here and now, I want you to understand that ultimately... it's your call, my lotus flower. If you don't want to risk it, I'll respect your decision. You're not obligated to do this, not even for me. I can do something else to have you reach your own high if you'd prefer," Faith offered, one hand reaching down to Silva's hard cock, stroking at the shaft, earning a pleased trill, "If you want to proceed, you already know I'm all for it. If you don't, I'll be happy with whatever decision you make. It's up to you."

Silva was grateful that Faith was willing to wait for her consent. She took the opportunity to think about it. She found Faith's points to be valid; they had an infirmary with information and instruments at the ready, the bunker was well-supplied, Silva has the experience to take care of Faith and their not-yet conceived child, she knows Azriel would be thrilled for a sibling and she had Faith's approval. Hell, she wanted to do it.

I want to do it, Silva realized, an anxious energy buzzing within her, I want to have a child with her.

Silva met Faith's gaze once more. Her bright grey eyes scanned Faith's green, and her hands moved up to rest on her amor's waist as she said, "I want to do it."

Faith's eyes blew open, delight filling her face, "Really? You mean it?"

Silva gave Faith a smirk that sent a shiver of exhilaration up the other woman's spine, "Si. Now mi amor, how do you like the sound of me cumming into you tonight?"

Faith's only response was a resounding, "Yes."

With a gentle tap from Silva, Faith proceeded to lower herself until her entrance met Silva's tip, grinding their sex together, the sensation causing Silva to gasp agape while Faith husked out a wanton groan.

Silva couldn't deny her own heart's elation at the feeling of Faith's slickness making contact with her own precum, mixing and leaking down her shaft.

Faith sunk until she enveloped the head of Silva's cock. The former deputy groaned at the sensation of Faith adjusting to her, her walls stretching and clenching around her. Faith masked her own moan as a pleased hum, hand bringing Silva's head to her collarbone.

Silva planted more kisses and small bites to decorate her skin as she delicately maneuvered Faith past her cock's head and down the shaft. Her amada rocked tenderly, rasping out breathy, needy moans as Silva's cock stretched her pussy.

Both women's breath hitched when Faith reached the base of Silva's cock, the latter once again adjusting to the former. For Faith, it felt warmer, and she felt fuller with Silva inside compared to when she wore the condom. Silva could feel her amor's slickness and heat, how she pulsed within her, how wonderful it felt to have Faith's walls clenched around Silva. It felt right.

Both held each other close, until Silva's knees rose up until they were behind Faith's back. She grabbed hold of her amor's legs, gaze bor into her green orbs, a determined look not unlike what Faith saw during the Reaping gracing Silva's features.

"Are you ready?" Silva asked one last time, giving Faith the chance to back out. Faith gave a thrilled, "Yes", her green eyes begging for more. Silva proceeded to ask, "You remember what word to use if things get too much for you?"

Faith nodded once more, recounting, "Tulip."

Silva gave a confirming nod, "That's right. Buena chica. Now stretch out your legs and lay back for me, mi amor."

Faith did as instructed, stretching her legs out and, with Silva's guidance, she locked them around Silva's waist. Faith proceeded to lean back onto the support of Silva's thighs.

Silva hooked one hand under Faith's culo, giving it a teasing squeeze as she leaned forward to bring her other arm around Faith's back. The former herald hooked one hand at the nape of Silva's neck while her other gave herself some support from behind, grasping onto Silva's leg to anchor herself.

She gave Silva an affirming nod to go ahead, and Silva tested the waters with a small thrust with a rock of her hips. Faith gasped out a lewd noise, and with another thrust, she let out a pleased hum at the contact, and as Silva thrust again and again at a steady pace, Faith began to pant out long, wanton moans while Silva breathed out grunts and husked out her own impassioned moans.

Silva continued to thrust into Faith as her amada continued meeting her thrusts with enthusiastic rocks, the wet sound of skin slapping against each other all that filled the room.

"You feel so good," Silva murmured in a drawl, and as she rocked her hips up into Faith's slick velvet walls, she let out a surprising growl, "Mierda, you're coño's perfect for me, Faith. I need to fill you up... I need to get you pregnant."

Faith let out an enthused titter, her gut recoiling with warmth like the hammer of a gun, and she teased, "Yeah? Is that what you're going to do, my lotus flower? Rut into my bare, unprotected pussy raw until you cum? Spill all your seed into my empty womb until I'm all nice and full? That's fucking hot. You're so sexy whenever you speak your mind. Gets me really wet."

Faith gasped as she felt Silva's thrusts quicken in pace, causing her body to rock from the jerky movement. Though Faith was not displeased by the change as her content moans and her sweet gaping features indicated.

Images flashed within Silva's mind while her sharp eyes lingered on Faith; the flat of her stomach swollen with life for Silva to cherish both with the hold of one hand. Her bouncing breasts full of milk, perhaps more swell and more sensitive than before. Silva was also fascinated by what Faith's stretch marks would look like, during and after the pregnancy, the beautiful markings long-lasting evidence of their joyous union. She remembered only briefly being able to admire Irene's post-birth marks a few days after Persephone was born.

Silva could feel herself reaching her end, she knew in the way her breathing grew strained, and her cock became stiffer and hotter. It was a familiar sensation, but here it was special, as nothing was stopping her from filling Faith up fully now.

"Faith, look at me, querida," Silva drew Faith's green eyes to retain direct contact with her grey, "That's good, mi amor. I'm glad to see your beautiful face. This is a moment in our bond I want to last. I'm close. I'm so close now. I'm going to cum inside you. And I'm going to get you pregnant. I want to hear you tell me you want it. I need to hear it."

So close to coming undone, Faith refrained from breaking their shared contact as she husked out, "I want this. I want to feel you cum inside me. I want to be full with your seed. I want to be pregnant with your child. I want all of you, Silva."

Silva felt herself tighten and her resolve to hold on break. With little strength, she wrapped her arms around Faith as her amada tightened her legs around Silva's waist, both pulled their sweaty bodies close to each other. Both clung to one another as the only lifeline, as Silva gave one last rock of her hips and their sexes spasm.

Faith's walls constricted and clamped around her cock in a creamy coat and milk up all that she unloaded inside. Faith wailed out a moan while Silva shouted in ecstasy. She gave a sparse few weaker thrusts, and felt Faith's walls throb followed by her amor cumming once more.

Both refrained from separating, catching their breaths within each other's arms, fingers playing with hair, breasts pressed against each other from each heave of their chests, basking in each other's mind-buzzing afterglow.

The embrace lasted until Silva lightly pressed a kiss on Faith's soft lips before she removed herself out of Faith, her member deflating and spent for the night. She laid Faith down on the blanket of the bed, who was recovering from the intense pleasure she experienced twice. With limbs still interlocked, she laid beside Faith's prone form.

"Thank you," Silva told Faith, the latter humming in question, dreariness weighing on her half-lidded eyes, so Silva elaborated, "For this. For letting me hold you, and kiss you, and taste you, and... make love. You made me feel so good. Tonight was just perfect."

Faith giggled, green eyes gazing into Silva's grey with adoration, "Of course, honey. You did amazingly too. I noticed you had a lot more enthused determination. Not that you hadn't before but... there was a more primal feel. I liked it."

Silva felt her face heat up from Faith's appraisal, feeling her cock twitch. It hadn't gone unnoticed by her amor; Faith bit at her bottom lip as she commented, "And with our new goal, we'll be doing this again for the next few nights, I'd hope."

Silva felt an excitement burn at the thought of doing this again, though it reminded her of some things she should do to help.

"I'll need to go get a new blanket from the linen cupboard since..." Silva trailed off as she looked at the damp spot, "...yeah. But in the meantime, we should have your pelvis raised a little higher to increase the chances of conception."

Silva couldn't recall where she gained that information from; whether it had been something Kamski had somehow brought up in conversation for whatever reason or something she had learned while reading for any information from the old medical textbooks they could scavenge to help Irene during her pregnancy with her firstborn.

Regardless, Silva grasped a pillow and placed it underneath Faith's lower back, to raise her hips slightly above. Satisfied, Silva asked, "While I'm out, is there anything you need? Snacks? Water? A cloth to clean up?"

Faith shook her head, but made a small grunt as she tried to clear her coarse throat, "Water, please."

Silva gave a smile, caressing her amada's face before getting off the bed, "I'll be back in a jiff, mi amor."

Silva peeked out of the room, searching for any signs of the familiar orange-streak across the dark hair of her hija, hoping she was still asleep in her bed and not awoken by the noise, even if their rooms were fairly dense.

Spotting no signs of her fellow night owl, Silva exited the room, and made her way to the linen cupboard for the new blanket, and then dashed to the kitchen to get Faith's water.

With the glass filled and blanket over her shoulder, she made haste back to the master bedroom.

Closing the door behind her, she made her way back to Faith back on the bed. She placed the blanket down by the foot of the bed while taking the chance to admire her nude form. Though she noticed how Faith's hand was placed below her stomach, lost in thought.

Silva got onto the bed with a creak, breaking her amor's attention train of though and bringing her attention back to her.

Offering a smile, Silva didn't immediately inquire, instead tapping the glass of water, which earned her a soft gaze of appreciation.

She helped Faith lean up from the bed, and passed the glass of water to her. Once her amor's throat was satisfied, Silva had Faith temporarily hop off the bed so she could remove the ruined blanket (which she placed by the door for tomorrow) and laid down the newer, softer blanket.

Once the bed was ready, both Silva and Faith crawled back onto the bed, huddling close. Neither put back on their nightwear.

Silva brushed her fingers through Faith's light brown hair with enthusiasm and adoration in her heart. Faith snuggled into the crook of her neck, one finger tracing aimlessly at Silva's back.

"Are you alright, amor?" Silva asked softly, concern rearing its head once more, though she had a fraction of an idea of what Faith would be thinking about.

Faith glanced her green eyes up at her, briefly holding contact before she nodded.

"Just thinking?" Silva pried gently, observing how her face made those little quirks, subtle twitches, halting furrows and the way her lips open partially before closing again.

Faith responded with a small and affirming hum. The vibration's contact against her skin, although short, eased her hammering heart.

"Want to talk about it?" She finally asked, swallowing any remaining nerves as she discerned Faith's expression towards the question. Does she have any regrets? came the question she was worried for the answer of.

Faith hadn't replied immediately, stewing in the silence as she gathered her words, and said, "I'm just... coming to terms with this. Wondering... maybe a little worried. I've made quite the spontaneous decision, no different than what I've done before."

From the top of her head, Silva could only recall three that she could be referring to; leaving home with Tracey, joining Eden's Gate and helping Silva and Azriel in their goals.

"Are you having... regrets?" Silva asked hesitantly, but knew it was important.

She was a little surprised when Faith snorted incredulously at it.

"No... not that at all. It's a choice I'm not backing down from," she answered fully looking up to her, bringing one hand to cup the side of Silva's face with tender affection, slowly nuzzling their foreheads together, "I'm just a little nervous is all. This is a new and rather big step I would never have considered in my life before meeting you and Azriel. But it is something I want to experience, as long as you're with me."

Relief flooded Silva's mind, washing away any lingering presence of the ugly guilt that tried to form.

"Besides, I liked tonight as much as you did. And I loved how you were too," Faith said as she "walked" two fingers all the way up Silva's chest to her lips, seductively brushing both over her lover's bottom lip as she leaned forward with a whisper, "And I'd hope to see more of that side of you last a few rounds in the night to come."

Silva joined her lips with her amor's, an unbridled smile curving up once again. I've been doing that a lot more recently, she noted, in spite of the sorrow she still feels for the loss of the world above.

Though that's not something she'd focus on as of now. She had better priorities she needed to attend to.

Disconnecting their lips, Silva replied, "I'll let you hold me to those words. In the meantime... want to just snuggle until sleep takes us?"

"Yeah," Faith snickered, eyes drooping lower as she cuddled closer into Silva, "I won't refuse such an offer like that."

Silva wrapped her arms further around Faith, as she just cherished this moment of holding onto her amada diente de león.

Faith dozed off first, and though Silva was not far behind her, within the dark of their room, she whispered into Faith's hair, "We're going to be okay. I promise, mi amor."

With nothing else to say until tomorrow, she let out a content sigh as she dragged the soft blanket over their exposed bodies, and sunk into Faith's slumbering embrace. Finally finding a quiet to look forward to.

[A/n] Finally it's over. I can move on to the tag stuff I've missed.

[Skit #1: Faith: "How might Azriel take the news of a possible new sibling?" Silva: "I wouldn't worry about it. She'd probably be more thrilled at finally being taller than someone for once."]

[Skit #2: Kamski: "Alright I've installed a functioning infirmary into your doomsday bunker in the scenario we'd have to bunk together during a disaster." Silva: "...Not thrilled but ok." Kamski: "It's prepared for injuries, illnesses, surgeries and any pregnancies in the unlikely case we have others bunk with us." Silva: "That sounds good and all, but what about contraceptives?" Kamski: "Don't be ridiculous Silva... no one's stupid enough to fuck in a bunker during a disaster and neither of us are getting lucky enought to change our single status any time soon." Silva: "Hurtful but sounds legit." Years later... Silva: "Once I die, Kamski when I get my hands on you, you motherfu-"]

[thicctails]

@thundersteel this one's for you~ Thanks for giving me an excuse to blabber 'bout this au! This post really got away from me lol, kinda becoming a mini fic for a while there.

So, the catalyst for I Grow Maddened (with grief) happens between The Last Mabelcorn and Dipper and Mabel vs The Future, with the twins dying before the Rift gets broken by Bill. Ford captures the creature (not sure what exactly it will be yet, but something with large claws for sure) likely while they're gone on the road trip, and it escapes and attacks Stan, Dipper, Mabel and Soos while he is down in his lab trying to figure out what to do about the Rift.

He only realizes something is wrong when Stan barges in, holding his bleeding stomach and screaming for Ford to come and help. Any anger at being disturbed by his brother is immediately drowned out when Stan collapses, clearly very hurt. His multiverse survival skills get him upstairs in record time, but he's too late: the damage has already been done. Soos is knocked unconscious and the twins are sprawled unmoving on the blood-soaked floor. The creature takes advantage of his shock and manages to catch his right eye with two of its claws before Ford recovers and manages to kill it. He tries everything to save Dipper and Mabel, but their injuries are too severe.

Ford panics when he realizes what's happened, knowing that losing the twins will kill Stan. They are his brother's closest family members, and Ford has just allowed his work to kill them. When Stan finds out, Ford knows that whatever fractured bond they have now will shatter irreparably.

Which is why Stan can not find out.

That absolute truth kickstarts Ford to action, running on autopilot while his mind tries to force what he has just seen into a little box to unpack later. He rushed back down to his lab and finds Stan slumped over, bloodied almost as much as the kids were, yet still breathing. Stan rolled the dice and landed a saving throw, it seems.

Years of living in monster-filled Gravity Falls and even more years spent being a multidimension-hopping criminal has left Ford with incredible first aid skills, and he manages to get Stan to a state where he wont, you know, die when Ford moves him to his bunker. Its a struggle; his twin has quite a bit of pudge and even more muscle, but Ford manages to drag him up to the main floor and out to good ol' El Diablo without injuring him further. The dark night sky masks his shameful, selfish act well, and he freezes Stan without issue, if you don't count his minor breakdown and bout of vomiting that occurs when he catches sight of the form a frozen Shifty has taken.

Soos is awake when he returns. Ford knows because he can hear the young man sobbing and screaming hysterically from well outside the Shack. He's almost mirroring Ford's earlier actions, frantically trying to stop any more blood from escaping the now cooling, tiny bodies. He catches Ford's gaze, and instantly begs for the elder Pines twin to help him.

Coward that he is, Ford can only give the handyman a deeply remorseful look as he slowly shakes his head.

It takes nearly an hour to convince Soos to let him get near the bodies once he realizes that it was Ford's captured creature that stole the life from his grand niblings. The man was closer to them than Ford had realized, and it only makes the gaping wound in his heart deepen as he watches him hold Dipper and Mabel close to him, uncaring that his shirt is now more red than green. He only allows Ford to take them when he points out that they will begin to rot if they stay where they are. As Ford leaves, he fishes one of those cellular mobile phones out of his pocket and shakily begins to dial someone's number.

It's not the police, not with the way Soos hesitates for so long before pressing the call button.

There is a large freezer within his lab, used for storing perishable specimens and the occasional popsicle. He lays Dipper and Mabel there for now; he will scour the valley for the perfect resting place when he has the mental capacity to grasp that they are truly gone.

When he returns, Soos is leaning against a doorframe, one hand holding his bleeding cheek as the other holds his device. Ford can faintly hear a feminine voice shouting on the other end, and he faintly recognizes it as the red headed cashier girl, Boyish Dan's daughter, if he remembers correctly.

In what seems to be his next breath, pain erupts across his jaw as someone delivers a powerful left hook directly into his face. There is screaming, the same as before but much louder now. He must have disassociated, because the girl is standing over him now, tears streaming down her face. Soos is beside her in a moment, pulling her into a hug as they both cry into each other's shoulder.

Ford cries as well, but the other two could care less. It is only what he deserves.

Yeesh, sad yet? I was originally just going to focus on Ford (and he's still my main focus) but then i realized that pretty much no one includes Wendy and Soos in AU's like these (heavy emphasis on Soos, my mans is done dirty) so i workshopped them in.

Soos is Ford's companion in the multiverse, coming along mostly to be a familiar face to whatever Dipper/Mabel they decide to 'adopt/rescue', but also to make sure Ford doesn't kill himself through neglect. He knows what happened was an accident, and he knows how badly Ford has been affected by everything, but a small part of him remains angry at the scientist. Dipper and Mabel were like younger siblings to him after the whole Globnar situation, and Stan is like a father to him. He leaves his handyman hat behind "until he can fix this" and instead sports a protective bandana and Dipper's Pterodactyl tooth.

Wendy absolutely blames Ford for what happened, and only doesn't enact lumber-justice because she also wants Dipper and Mabel back. She has taken up the role of Waddle's caretaker and occasional helper to McGucket, who is monitoring both the portal and Stan. The man feels he owes it to Dipper and Mabel to help, since they helped him get his memory back. She can usually be seen sporting the Huggy Wuvvy Tummy Bundle for Waddles and one of Mabel's sweaters wrapped around her waist. She and her friends also help keep the Shack functional, though she can't bring herself to go into the "incident room."

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

Factory Reset (Dean/Reader)

Title: Factory Reset

Rating: Explicit

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Female Reader

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Dean's admired your hunting skills and prowess for years. You have a relationship with the eldest Winchester built on mutual respect and a level playing field when it comes to handling monsters and having each other's back.

When a wrong assumption he's had for years is corrected, it leads to both of you being presented with an opportunity to explore and be honest with the feelings that are hiding just under the surface.

Word Count: 14,801

Tags: Dean Winchester Gets Pegged, Strap-Ons, Friends to Lovers, Bad-Ass Hunter/Reader, Angst, Fluff, Smut, Consensual Sex, Power Dynamics, Taking Care of Dean Winchester

Notes: Posted on AO3 4-17-22. Inspiration for this story - I saw this on my Twitter feed one day, with the poster applying this to Dean Winchester: I’m that sub who talks shit until your dick slams me so hard it hits my factory reset and I’m like “How can I help you today, Sir?” Read full notes on AO3, where there’s also a link to the PodFic version. 

Chapter 1

“I had it under control.” Dean tosses back another shot of whisky.

You scoff, pouring him another. “Sure, Winchester. That’s why I had to bust in, guns blazing, to save your competent ass from a pack of werewolves.” 

The both of you are doing that dance you always do when you land on Sam and Dean’s bunker doorstep. It’s the Who Hunted It Best Competition. Sam tapped out early, like he always does when you two got going. He’d rather go do some research, or head back to his room and sext with Eileen, than get drunk and listen to the chest-thumping. 

You’re sure if you were on the outside looking in, you’d probably agree with Sam. It’s been hard-earned and taken years, but your reputation as a resourceful, resilient hunter is one you wear with a badge of honor. And, when you can revel in the times you’ve saved the legend that is Dean Winchester… well, you aren’t going to pass that up. Hence, anytime you are within a 100-mile radius of Lebanon, you end up here. 

Dean’s always been grateful; considers you one of only a handful he’d want to have in his corner if Sam wasn’t available. But, it doesn’t mean he’s going to cop to your skills being better honed than his anytime soon.

Really, the discussion is getting so heated at the moment, that you wouldn’t be surprised if Dean pulled out his dick and draped it atop the kitchen table to compare lengths.

Even though you don’t have a dick.

Well, at least not a real one.

Your strap-on is tucked away in your duffle.

Dean volleys another example. “Oh, and who had to get pulled out of a collapsed crypt after almost being breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a ghoul?” He nods with conviction, and points at you with a finger from the hand holding the tumbler, before another tilt downs the drink. All of that beautiful neck exposed, his chin pointing toward the ceiling. His throat bobs with the slow swallow. He smacks his lips and releases a satisfied, “Ah. Beat that.” But, you spot it. The little glint in his eye that reminds you, convinces you, his bravado is all for show at the end of the day.

You rub your palm along your face. “The well has run dry. We’ve rehashed every Dean in Distress story I can think of.”

He jabs the same finger in your direction as he continues, his hand clutching the now empty glass. “That’s because there are so few of them.” His face is relaxed. The faraway gaze and flicks of spaciness he displays has you smiling.

You check the timepiece on your wrist. “No, it’s because we’ve been at it for two hours.”

His brow furrows. “I-no-we-shit. Time flies when you’re with good company.”

You nod. “Agreed.” You clink the bottle’s neck along his glass and down another gulp straight from the source.

He’s staring at you with this “I’m not sure I should but I’m gonna say it anyway” glance. Oh, boy. That look from Dean before he opens his mouth ensures whatever comes out will be either memorable or mortifying. “Speaking of damsels in distress…”

“Were we? Are you admitting that you are, in fact, a damsel?” You quirk a brow up with mischievous intentions.

He shakes his head and frowns. “Please.” He raises a hand. “You gotta give me the details on Bridger. It’s been years. The statute of limitations has to have expired by now.”

You can feel your brows knit together now as you try to put a face to the name he’s mentioned. “Bridger?” You question your memory again aloud. “Bridger?”

His lids widen, eyes bulge, chin nods in encouragement.

“Lana Bridger?”

His mouth parts in excitement, jaw almost unhinges as the nodding quickens.

“What details would I have on Lana Bridger?”

“Aw, come on. You saved her from that vampire nest in New Orleans.”

You nod. “Saved you, too, if memory serves right.”

He waves a hand in exasperation. “But, I wasn’t the one that shared a bed with her after. She was sooo appreciative and kept going on and on about how she didn’t know how she could ever express how thankful she was.” He rolls his eyes.

“Are you… you think we hooked up?”

There’s so much disappointment in his face in the blink of an eye it’s downright comical. “You didn’t?”

“No.” You huff.

“Okay.” He’s deep in thought. “How about Crystal Thurman?”

“No.”

“Rebecca Creston?”

“No.”

“Avery Sandler?”

“Those are all women, Dean.”

He shrugs. “Duh.”

You lean back atop the stool. It finally makes sense. The reason why the notorious flirt that is Dean Winchester hasn’t ever full-on hit on you. In the almost twenty years you’ve known each other, he has never once made a wholehearted attempt to get into your leather pants. “Not that I have a problem with it, but I’m not into the ladies.”

You can see his brain go completely blank for a few seconds. His eyelids blink and complete the reboot. “You-you aren’t?”

“Why would you think that?” You are thoroughly amused now and extremely interested in hearing the thought process that came to this conclusion. You take another swig from the bottle and decide to be generous and pour him another.

He isn’t even aware of the drink in front of him. “I-I don’t know. I’ve never gotten wind of you with any of the male hunters in our circle.”

“That just means I’m picky. And, I was taught not to shit where you sleep. The men I’ve had relations or relationships with are never tied to the business.” You stare at him. “That’s why you thought I was into chicks? Because you couldn’t find a chauvinistic pig that said he banged me?”

His face is turning all the shades of red on the color wheel. “Well, no, that’s not the only reason.”

You beckon with a come hither gesture using both hands. “Spill.”

He sighs. His gaze darts around the room. “I-I may have one night-while we shared a hotel room-accidentally thought your duffle was mine-and started to unpack it while you were out grabbing dinner.”

“And?” 

He brings the liquor to his lip and mumbles, “I found your strap-on.” He drinks quick and taps the glass back onto the surface.

You mimic his tap with the bottle and vocally process the information. “So. Wait.” Even his neck is flushing while he listens to the stop and start of your words. “If a woman owns a strap-on, she can only be using it on other women?” You tilt your head and raise an eyebrow. “Dean? Really? You’ve never had a woman…”

He scoffs. “What? Hell no!” He grabs the bottle and pours one for himself this time. Another swallow. Far be it for you to be the one to point out that his continued drinking is only making him more talkative. “I mean, women have gotten a little curious back there, but…” He clicks his mouth shut at your grin. Then, a beat later. “How’d you get into it?”

“Pete.” You can only imagine how wistful the smile on your face is, reminded of the tall and lean yoga instructor. “He was a call-up at 3 am when I was in the neighborhood buddy for years. We’d get into all sorts of stuff. You know how it can be after a hunt. The release you need, all the different ways you try to get it…”

He nods, chin resting atop a palm propped up by an elbow on the tabletop. His eyes stare with interest. 

“He was the one that suggested it. I wasn’t sure at first. But, when I was ready to give it a try, well, he was a great teacher. He let me learn all over him.”

That statement has Dean clear his throat. “So, what, you only like submissive guys?” His arms are folded now, pushed closer toward the middle of the table. He’s leaning in.

“No. That would be pretty limiting. And, if you think that’s what pegging’s all about you have a lot to learn.” A soft chuckle emits at the blush reddening the apples of Dean Winchester’s cheeks. You attempt to reel in your amusement. “Besides, sex is whatever you want it to be when you have a partner you can be open and honest with. Communication is key. Just like consent. I enjoy sex all kinds of ways. Using a strap-on, well, that’s just one little aspect.”

Dean huffs. His eyes go wide. “It wasn’t little.”

“How far back was this accidental sex toy finding?”

“I don’t know. Like five years ago, maybe?”

“What color was it?”

He sighs. “Purple.”

“Oh, yeah. That was Big Bertha. She was one of my favorites. Sad day when she went into retirement.”

Dean’s mouth hangs open.

You laugh. “You gotta work up to something like Bertha. I haven’t had anyone regular enough in my rotation to even broach the topic of Bertha. I have smaller ones I bring on the road with me.”

“Just in case, huh?”

“I’m always prepared for anything, Winchester. You should know that by now.” You yawn and stretch. “Well, this has been quite the stroll down memory lane.” A stand has you leaning over Dean and you tap his shoulder. “I’m gonna hit the showers and then turn in. Night.” You offer Dean a sharp salute before disappearing around the corner.

It’s not much farther down the hall before you’re met with a tired Sam trudging his way to the kitchen in bare feet. “Oh, wow. You two are still at it?” He frowns, hair mussed and lids heavy.

Both hands raise. “I’ve tapped out. Shower and sleep for me.”

The very real possibility that Dean will share what he’s found out about you tingles your senses. But, Sam’s respectful and hardly the gossip spreader. So, you smile and squeeze his biceps. “Avoid getting sucked into the Drunk Dean Drain.”

His lips quirk up. “You always could drink him under the table. I don’t know why he keeps trying to best you.”

*

Dean’s staring at the kitchen wall after you’ve left. He doesn’t know for how long. All he’s thinking about or trying to anyway - things went static and fuzzy a half hour ago with all the liquor - is you.

How could he, Dean Winchester, have been so off about you? 

You’d been a pain in the ass when he first met you on that New Orleans hunt. But, you’d proved your worth and then some, swooping in and saving him and Lana Bridger from the vamps. When he closes his eyes now, he can see you practically flying off the rafters, swinging from a length of cable. You even did one of those superhero, down-on-bended-knee moves when you touched the ground. Right in front of his rope-bound frame. You even had the balls to wink at him before standing to face the vamps that swarmed and circled. 

Dean Winchester wasn’t sure what a swoon felt like it. But, he was pretty sure he’d come damn close to swooning at that wink, even with his life on the line.

Your machete sliced into undead flesh, ancient tendons, countless vertebrae to dislodge vamp heads from their necks. Groans and cries and grunts filled Dean’s ears. Blood splattered and soared through the air with the beauty of an abstract artist tossing crimson atop a canvas.

Minutes later, bodies everywhere, he watched you free a chained-up Lana on the other side of the room. You sauntered over to his frame next. The sheathed machete rested in the holster strapped to your leather-clad thigh. You were bloody, out of breath, eyes wide with adrenaline, chest heaving.

You were beautiful.

“Is this how all our hunts together are going to end up, Winchester? Me saving your ass?”

He’d fallen in love with you right then. He would have followed you anywhere. But, he wasn’t about to try and bed you after you’d been the one to save him. Not when he hadn’t proved his worth. And, especially when you weren’t tossing any obvious signals you were interested. The three of you celebrated and traded stories late into the night in the back room of the bar Lana co-owned with a local witch that practiced white magic. You were particularly friendly and touchy-feely with Lana, the buxom blonde. Even now it seemed like a logical conclusion that you were into the ladies when you took Lana up on crashing in her shoebox of a studio apartment above the bar. With only a twin bed.

He was pretty sure a place to rest your head wasn’t the only way you would be thanked. But, he was also pretty sure he could have shown you so much more appreciation.

Christ, twenty years of misguided assumptions.

A figure in the doorway pulls his attention. The hope and thrill that it’s you, returning with an offer to teach him some things, fizzles when it’s just his giant of a brother.

Sam squints in that telltale look of disgust. Dean identifies that easily, no matter how drunk he is.

“Dude?” Sam shakes his head. “Go wash some of that stench off you and get to bed.” He saunters over to the fridge.

Dean grunts and rubs an eyelid. “Why would I do that when I’ve got you to keep me company?” He works up the effort for the cheesiest grin in Sam’s direction. “Besides, showers are occupied at the moment.”

Sam downs half the contents of a water bottle in two gulps. He shrugs. “Like you two have never shared a shower before?”

The silence is deafening. Dean can’t muster any sort of response.

It’s Sam’s little, “Oh,” that bangs the final nail into Dean’s Ma’lak Box.

Dean slumps forward. Forehead knocks onto the table. It should hurt more, but everything he should be feeling is dull, distant.

“Wait.” Sam’s slid into the seat across from him now.

Dean groans.

“You’re telling me you’ve never… with her… ever?”

Dean can’t bear it. Even without looking, he can see the amazement and then the smug little smirk on Sam’s face. It sears into his brain.

“I always assumed you two got up to all sorts of stuff when she’d stay over.”

“Well, that’s the problem with assuming… makes an ass out of you and me.”

“Huh? Well, I hold her in even greater esteem.”

“Shut it, Sammy.” He lifts a finger and points to the back of his head, still resting against the tabletop. “Can’t you see I’m in pain?”

“Yeah, man. I feel for you. Being shot down for, what, decades? Can do a lot to your mental faculties. It explains sooo much.”

Dean growls and knocks a boot into Sam’s bare ankle. “Can it.”

Sam releases a hiss.

He sits up now and makes a concerted effort to eye Sam with force. Lids pop open as wide as he can get them. “I never got shot down.” He sighs, thinking of all the times he’d wanted you, wanted to take a stab and ask if you maybe wanted to try some stuff out with him. He legit wants to cry. He’s kind of glad he’s wasted because he can’t feel enough to produce tears.

Sam’s eye-bulging ability easily beats Dean’s. “Are you telling me you never tried?”

Dean corkscrews his mouth and shakes his head.

“Why not? She’s the hottest thing in combat boots and leather pants I’ve ever seen.” Dean watches his little brother immediately self-correct his objectification. “I mean, yeah, she’s one of the finest hunters around; but, a fact like that has never stopped you from an attempt to get laid.”

Dean looks past Sam’s shoulder to the kitchen doorway. In case you’ve decided to snoop, he lowers his voice. “I thought she wasn’t into dudes.”

Sam scoffs and raises both hands. “Again, never stopped you before.”

“Hm?” Dean ponders. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Sam shrugs. “There is one plausible theory.”

Dean waits. 

“You respect her enough that you cock-blocked your own douchey ass from fucking up the situation.”

Dean chuckles. “I think her cock did some of the blocking. But, yeah, you may be right.”

“Dean, you have reached the hallucination stage.” Sam stands and heads to leave. “Go to bed.”

An arm waves in his defense. “No, Sam. One of the reasons I thought she was into chicks was because I…”

Sam’s brows raise, frozen in place for the sentence to continue.

Dean shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

“Night, Dean.”

*

You’re normally asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow in the bunker bedroom you’ve laid claim as your own. “Sweet 16” - as Dean likes to call it - is close to his and dead ends in the same hallway. This room is the one place you always feel safe. It has to do with the Winchester brothers more than the warded fortress.

But, tonight, you’re restless. Your mind races with thoughts of the stupidest kind.

Dean hadn’t hit on you. Not once. In twenty years. But not because he didn’t want to.

Because he didn’t think you’d want him to.

You replayed the slight shift in his expression when he’d figured out how wrong he’d been. About you.

Yep, he was interested.

Why the hell hadn’t you gone with your gut when the opportunity presented itself so many times over the years? Been bold and brazen with the beautiful hunter as you were with everything else?

Because, in reality, all of that brashness veiled that obvious fact that you’d never measure up to the perfection of Dean Winchester.

Sure, he was a pain in the ass and ran hard headfirst into danger without a second thought. But, that was usually because his first thought was to save people and ask questions later. And, let’s face it, you kind of didn’t think you were on the same level as an archangel-coveted vessel with a chiseled jawline and a heart of gold.

Then again, you only live once right? Well, if you aren’t a Winchester that is. Why not take the man for a spin since he’s expressing what you’re pretty sure is interest? Well, the main reason not to is to avoid screwing up the friendship you’ve built with him. It’s not like he’d want something long-term with you, anyway. And could you manage a one and done with him? Maybe? Maybe if you both laid your cards out on the table and were completely open and honest.

Maybe you would, the next time your path crossed with Dean’s out in the wild or you made your way to Lebanon.

But you weren’t sure you could face him in the morning. No, it would probably be best to sneak out in a few hours before the sun came up. Send the boys a thank you text for the good night’s sleep and remind them to give you a buzz if they ever found themselves needing backup.

You flopped on your back. A deep sigh released from your lungs.

Your phone lit up with a notification.

Dean. Dean was texting.

It had been a good three hours since you’d left him in the kitchen. 

You swiped at the screen.

When you wake up, let me take you out for a proper hangover breakfast. Just the two of us.

You gulp. Oh, hell no. You definitely aren’t ready for whatever a “just the two of us” sit down entails. And, the fact that he’s texting you this late means he can’t sleep, either. Nope, you’ll most definitely be skipping out before the sun comes up. The more you ponder, the more you realize it’s probably best to tiptoe your way out of the bunker now. You won’t sleep. At least not here.

The tile and marble hallway echo back every shuffle and step you attempt to make when leaving your bedroom ten minutes later. When you were sure Dean wouldn’t bother with any more texts you hoped that meant he had dozed off. You knew his nighttime routine pretty well at this point. Normally after your catch-ups and your goodnight from the doorway of his room, he’d tumble onto his made bed, plug in earmuff headphones, and fall asleep to classic rock. There were a few times you’d watch him pop the mixtape that you’d made him years ago into his ancient boombox. That always made you smile.

You prayed he was doing that now.

Held breath, you picked up your heels and tiptoed in socked feet past Dean’s door. Number 11. If you hold on a few seconds longer and make absolutely no sound you might…

“Where you off to?”

The question, from behind, has you frozen in place. What the hell kind of ninja skills does the man have, opening up his door without a pip or squeak? The fact he can sneak up on you always pisses you off.

“The thought of breakfast with me is a terrifying proposition. I get it.” He huffs a laugh.

You sigh and turn to face him. And, man, that was a mistake. He’s showered, like within the last twenty minutes, cause his hair is damp and spiky. He’s wearing a Henley and some baggy sweats. You’re staring up at him more than usual without your three-inch boot heels. He’s gorgeous from any vantage.

“Can we talk? Before you leave?” He shrugs, clearing the way to enter his room.

You nod, pass the threshold, drop your duffle by the little corner table and slink into the chair next to it.

Dean’s clicked the door closed and sits on the edge of the bed. He’s leaning forward, elbows on knees, wringing his hands.

You take a stab at the silence first. “You recovered pretty quick.”

He nods and meets your eyes. “Yeah, tossed up most of the alcohol and dinner. Showered. Almost good as new.”

“So, what’s up?”

“I’m cashing in that IOU.”

You scoff. “The poker game from 2015?”

“Yeah, the one where I saved your ass by spotting you my five grand of winnings... So you could clear your debt to that mob boss from Hell’s Kitchen.”

You grunt in confirmation. “Well, I don’t exactly have that amount on me at the moment, Dean.” Why the hell was he bringing all this up now? “I’ll need time to get it to you.”

He’s still wringing his hands. “We’ll never speak of it again, wipe the slate clean,” he breaks the grip to wave a hand in front of his face, “if you’ll do me a favor.”

You frown. “What?”

His gaze studies the floor. “Would you be willing to… I mean, you can say no… I totally get that it’s a weird, out of left field…”

The sigh is long and drawn out from your mouth. “Spill it, Winchester.”

“I wanna know what it’s like.” He whispers.

“What?”

You spot the eye roll even from his downturned face. “Getting pegged.” He drags his stare up to meet yours. “I want you to peg me.” There’s a chuckle and a smirk, even though he’s blushing. “Might want to pick your jaw up off the floor.”

“I-” you shake your head, “Dean, there’s a lot-” you fumble, “that’s not something you decide lightly. And, asking me to repay a debt with a sexual favor…”

“I realize that. Hell, it’s us. How many times have we colored outside the lines?”

“That’s not helping.”

He continues, “Again, I’m not pressuring you into this. Forget the IOU. Christ.”

“Foot in mouth is a condition of yours I’m familiar with.” You struggle to piece all your thoughts into a coherent string. “Just so I heard you correctly - you want me to peg you?”

He smiles. “Do you not have all your accessories with you? You’re always prepared.”

Your eyes almost pop out of their sockets. “You want to do it now?”

“No time like the present.” The posture straightens and manages confidence in stark contrast to his bumbling moments ago.

It’s your turn to lean forward, hands wringing. “What happened, you do a bunch of Internet research since I left you in the kitchen?”

A brow raises. “I did research the night I found Bertha in your bag.”

You swallow. Hard.

Then, suddenly, a look of utter rejection sweeps over his pretty face. “Look, I get that I’m not your type.” He mumbles, “don’t stand a chance even if you’re into dudes.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth.” You snip back. “This is a big deal, Dean.”

“Not so big of a deal if you’ll do it with a random hook-up.” His voice raises with the hint of an accusatory tone.

Yours raises back and you blurt before thinking, “Well, it’s a big deal when you do it with someone you care about.”

That unfurls any shreds of anger he was trying to stitch together. You see it fade. He softens. “That’s why I want to try it with you. I care about you. I trust you.”

You nod. “We can try it.”

His smile connects from ear to ear.

“But, not tonight.”

“Aw, come on.” He’s whining.

It’s downright adorable. You try not to laugh. “Did any of that research have you actually try anything with your own backdoor?”

He stifles another whine. Then softly admits, “No.”

“Thought so.” You bend down, unzip your bag and zero in on your toiletry kit that contains no toiletries whatsoever. You fling him the bottle of anal lube. “Lesson one. Start with your pinky and use a lot of lube. Read up on beginner anal play. I’ll check in with you in a few weeks. See how you’re doing.”

His mouth moves, neck and face flushed and blushed, as he squints and reads the directions on the back of the bottle.

“Trust me. You’re going to need to figure some things out on your own first. If you still want to give it a try, then we’ll talk.”

“Can I message you, if I have questions?”

You’re pulling on the boots you’d stashed in your bag. “Sure. I mean, it’s not like I’m Encyclopedia Rim Job,” you run your fingers through your bangs as you sit back up. He cackles. The study of his face has him turn silent. “Are you sure you want me to be the one to teach you all this?”

He nods.

You can feel your face warming. “One thing I’ve learned is to get over your hang-ups and read, get some various perspectives. And porn videos shouldn’t be your only source of research. I guarantee it will be a lot easier if you have a better idea of what you’re in for. Don’t confuse reality with porn again.”

“Got it.” He rubs a palm over the scruff on his chin. “Why don’t you head back to your room? I promise, no more talk about this for the rest of your stay.”

You eye him with suspicion.

He smiles. “I mean it. We will not speak of it.”

“I’ve got the Winchester Word on that?”

He crosses his heart. That cute little gesture he does on occasion when it’s only the two of you. “Hope to die.” That little phrase.

Which you always follow up with, “Again?”

That smirk. “Get some sleep.”

*

It’s been months with nary a word from Dean. Things happen. Hunting takes priority. People need saving. It’s not the first time the both of you have gone radio silent. You aren’t the best at nurturing and cultivating friendships. Neither is Dean.

But, the unintentional avoidance and obsession with work don’t ever seem to matter where he’s concerned. You can always pick things up right where they were left off after a drought of interaction whenever you happen to cross paths again. It’s never been awkward in the past.

So, why does the prospect of seeing him at Wallace’s place tonight make sweat bead up on your forehead? Make your mouth go dry and tacky?

Because the last time you saw him, at the bunker, he had made it known he would be interested in, well, you pile driving him.

And it hadn’t been discussed since.

It had only left you with more questions you were dying to ask him but were too embarrassed to attempt. The morning after that talk, you were so on edge at breakfast in the bunker kitchen Sam kept asking if you were alright. Dean smirked his way through a pound of bacon as you tried to brush off Sam’s worries.

Now, your truck key tucked away into your pocket, you strolled up the long walk to Wallace’s front door. You passed a half dozen familiar cars of fellow hunters. You bit the inside of your mouth, spotting the Impala.

Shit.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise. If he and Sam had been within a days’ drive of the All Hands On Deck backup hunter call of course they’d be here.

Wallace had greeted you with a polite tip of his trucker cap and a firm handshake. He kept the pleasantries to a minimum, as usual, escorting you into the small kitchen where everyone was congregating over beers and buckets of chicken. You counted six hunters, not including you and Wallace. Sam was one, sat at the table, giving you a soft smile in welcome. You gave everyone a small wave and nodded in recognition.

“Well, I’m feelin’ a helluva lot more confident about kicking a ton of werewolf ass now that this one’s along for the hunt.” Dean tips his beer in your direction, leaning against the kitchen counter with a sassy grin.

You smile.

*

Camped out in Baby by the bridge entrance, you and Dean sipped on whiskey spiked coffee, waiting for the Full Moon to rise.

This was the pinch point in your group’s ambush strategy. If the bomb Sylvester rigged with silver shrapnel didn’t take out the entire pack, you and Dean would get some target practice. Firing rounds of silver into the werewolves that tried to escape on the only road leading off the farmland sounded fun to the two of you.

Dean razzes Sam on the other end of the phone. “I hope you and Inspector Gadget didn’t fuck up the detonator.”

You can picture Sam’s bitch face even if you can’t fully make out his muffled reply.

“Yeah, yeah. Well, if you did, we’ll clean up the mess. Just give us a heads up if it goes sideways.” He clears his throat. “Be careful.” A tap ends the call.

You decide not to give Dean a hard time about the show of concern. The conversations have been almost normal since you rode to this spot along the creek. But, you’re both dancing around the topic - THE TOPIC - or trying to avoid it at all costs. You don’t want to push. Stifle the idea to mention it jokingly. 

What if he changed his mind? What if he really did his research and decided it wasn’t for him? What if he had an awful self-experimenting experience?

And, all the circle of thoughts does is make your stomach knot. Because no matter how much you talked yourself into the idea of providing Dean Winchester with a sexual favor “for the fun of it” - well, the more you wished it might lead to something else. Maybe? You ended up hoping over the numerous weeks he was using this request as an opportunity to get closer.

But as the sun began to set and he asked about your most recent hunt, you resigned yourself to the fact that for a brief moment you had been merely a novelty for Dean Winchester.

The Friendly Neighborhood Strap-On.

*

The whiskey sears along the crosshatch of claw marks between your shoulder blades. You hiss.

You hunch forward, sat atop the toilet of your motel room. It’s a fancier place than you usually stay at. The first one you rolled past entering town had a no vacancy sign.

You really don’t want to get blood on the sheets.

“You don’t want to get blood on the sheets in this place.” Dean voices your thoughts aloud. He’s tending to the battle scars you encountered when the lone werewolf snuck up on the both of you in Baby. The beast pulled you by the ponytail out of the open passenger window. You’re still shocked your head managed to stay connected to your body.

Dean had come to your aid in seconds, catapulting out the same window and knocking the werewolf off you. Dazed, you watched as a fury of fur and leather tumbled away, tangled together. Dean got the upper hand, straddled the attacker, and shot its face full of silver.

Now you were half-naked in a bra and leather pants feeling the woozy effect of painkillers. You’d popped four of them to help deaden the pulsing pain from your skull. And you let Dean Winchester pour whiskey on your skin to disinfect the wound and see if you need stitches.

His fingers glide along with the slick of the liquor down your spine. “Ah, you just need bandaging up, should be good.” There’s the rip of sterile packaging. He towers behind you.

You bite back the groan that wants to leave your mouth more because of his touch than any pain you’re feeling. You murmur, “Thanks for the diagnosis, Dr. Sexy.”

He chuckles. “Let’s get you patched up so you can rest.”

*

Dean shovels bacon into his welcoming plow of a mouth in the diner booth. It’s noon. 

You’d awoken from the medication-induced stupor about an hour prior. He’d stayed. Watched over you from the tiny two-seater in the corner of the room while you slept.

You both are waiting for Sam to deliver your truck so all can go their separate ways and see what other trouble one can find. There’d been a ton of things to take care of after the successful bombing. Sam had stayed behind with the other hunters. Apparently, also crashed on a couch; that couch being at Wallace’s. Dean rubbed in the fact to Sam there was no way it was as comfy as the one in your motel.  

Dean wrapped up the call to his brother right before his plate of pancakes and pig arrived. 

You spot the tip of his boot out from under the edge of the table tapping to “Renegade” by Styx. It’s the third song in his selection from the jukebox.

The throbs in your skull are pulsing along to the beat as well. The pain is fainter, duller. Your eyes have adjusted to the fluorescent lighting of this joint. The lukewarm oatmeal settles in your stomach. You think you’ll be able to keep that and the black coffee down.

Dean���s been studying you while he munches. You catch his stare. “I know you’ve got a hard head and all, but why don’t you come back to the bunker and rest up another day or two?”

Air blows out your lips. “You’re right, this head has gotten knocked around way worse. I’ll manage.”

His fork clatters onto the plate. His foot stops tapping. “Maybe.” His words are tight and tempered as he looks at you. “Maybe. Stop. Trying. To. Manage.” His face. That beautiful face. It’s full of concern and warmth. A contrast to the tone of his voice.

You have no response.

He breathes in deep through his nose. Continues. “Before we all go off half-cocked and smash some other monsters to bits, maybe we need a factory reset. Take some time and enjoy things. You know, the stuff we want the people we save to do with their lives.”

You offer a small smile. “Did you almost get your head twisted off like a bottle cap, too?”

He chuckles. Shrugs. “Maybe it got twisted on right. I’ve missed you.”

Your heart races. “I’ve missed you, too.” You try and state it as plain and neutral as possible.

Dean leans in, his eyes do a sweep of the patrons and staff, making sure they’re all occupied with their own business. When he’s satisfied they are, he connects his gaze with yours. “I’m sorry.” He mumbles.

You open your mouth to ask what for.

But he’s already spilling. “I was a jerk to ask you for that favor last time. I made things weird and uncomfortable. I know I made you feel cornered, like you couldn’t say no. We’re friends. I shouldn’t have tried to take advantage of that for my own selfish reasons.” He slips back, eyes on the bacon. His frame somehow smaller, utterly defeated.

Dean Winchester looks miserable with himself.

“Hey, friends are allowed to be jerks. Especially the ones that save your life on a semi-regular basis.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “You didn’t make things weird between us. I just never thought you’d be interested in trying that. To say I was surprised would be an understatement.” You poke at his wrist with a finger. “You are allowed to be selfish every once in a while.”

That curls up lips on one side of his face. He’s twirling a piece of bacon between greasy fingers, looking down at his plate. “Does that mean I can provide you with an update?”

“Update?” The question doesn’t even leave your mouth completely before you already know what he’s referring to.

“I-uh-yeah it’s definitely been a process. Took me a week to get the nerve to-” The bacon is used as a visual aid as he slides it back and forth in the air. “You know what finally helped me relax?”

You giggle. “Please don’t tell me you bought numbing gel. That should not be used by a novice.”

He’s blushing. Damn, this bold hunter can make you want to cuddle the life out of him. “No.”

For some god-forsaken reason that has nothing to do with your own feelings and self-preservation, you calm yourself, get still and serious, and let the armor drop completely. “What helped you relax?”

His green eyes glance up. They’re a mix of tart and sweet, liquid and fire. They manage to freeze you in place. “Thinking of you.” He licks his top lip. “Thinking of you taking care of me, you being the one doing that to me.” He sees something on your face. Something he likes. Because he smirks. “You being in charge, having me, pushing all the right buttons. I made great progress because of you.”

You realize your lips are parted, listening to his confession. You snap them shut. And, yet, the tingling throughout your body presses you to ask. The hot as fuck fact that Dean Winchester used fantasies about you to do that makes the need to know just how far he got imperative. “How much progress?”

“Hey!” Sam’s tall, muscular body springs out of nowhere in front of the booth.

You’re both caught, mouths open for a split second. Then, there’s throat clearing. Dean acknowledges first. “Hey.”

“How’s the badass patient?” Sam smiles and bends down a bit to inspect you.

“Better.” You smile.

Dean slips off the bench and stands next to his brother. “She’s gonna camp out with us for a couple of days. Think you can handle driving her back in the truck?”

You don’t even make a fuss. Let Dean lead. Take care of you.

“Sure. I get to hog her attention for a while?” Sam raises a brow at you. “You’ve had your fill of him already?”

The question pulls a nervous laugh from Dean. He delivers a slap to his brother’s back slamming him forward a few inches. “I’m gonna go pay.”

You chat with Sam for a minute. He helps you to your feet. You let him fumble about behind, hands at the ready to assist.

It’s nice. Being taken care of by these brothers.

You’re in the passenger seat of your truck. Sam starts the engine. Then, Dean strolls out of the diner and finds his way to your open window. Forearms lean. He dips his head in to bark some stuff at Sam. Sam scoffs.

His coffee-syrup-bacon breath is the sexiest thing you’ve smelled in forever. You’re inches from those lips and you really want to slide your tongue along the fullness of them.

You think Dean Winchester can read your mind because he licks them absentmindedly for you.

“I’ll be right back. Should grab us a couple of coffees for the drive.” Sam’s out of the truck in a flash, engine idling.

Dean taps the inside of the door panel. “See you in a few hours. Sleep, if you can. Even with Sam driving.”

You smile. Dazed. Delighted.

“Oh.” His facial expression turns serious. “As for the progress.”

Your entire body reacts and your spine straightens.

“Where I started.” He’s still leaning with forearms but raises a hand and lifts his pinky finger. A proud smile breaks through the facade. His hand position switches to intertwine straightened index, middle, and ring fingers. “How it’s going.”

You hear the thud of your jaw hitting the truck floorboard.

He’s back in your personal space. So close. To murmur. “All because of you, sweetheart.”

Chapter 2

Notes: Music reference - "Pour Some Sugar On Me" by Def Leppard

Dean stares up at the ceiling of his bedroom. It’s late. He should get up and turn off the desk lamp and the other one in the corner of the room. Instead, he’s got headphones on, listening to the mixtape you gave him. For about a month now, whenever they aren’t off on a case and in the bunker, he’s been listening to it every night. It reminds him of you. Like he needs another reminder. 

You’ve been in your room since you all got back. Dean had brought you a sandwich soon after landing. You thanked him and grabbed the plate with a voracious smile and lip lick that almost triggered an involuntary dropping to his knees. The subsequent bite, indulgent chew, and excessive moan hadn’t helped either. 

Once you seemed to get yourself together, praised Dean’s condiment skills, and gave him a short reprieve from all your unconscious sexy, you expressed the need for a long ass nap. You and Sam had spent a lot of time talking in the car. The topic of discussion was apparently not about to be shared with Dean. Even when he tried to pull details from his brother, Dean had been shut down. Sam was in a hurry to get out of the bunker and meet up with Eileen in Smith Center.

Dean wouldn’t express it out loud, but he thought the dorky dude’s ‘drop everything at a moment’s notice to spend some time with his lady when she was nearby’ was kinda charming. He was maybe even a little jealous at the way the two hunters made space and time for a romantic rendezvous. Plus, Sam definitely seemed happier getting some on a semi-regular basis.

By the time Dean had showered, Sam had already left and texted to not wait up. Which left Dean alone with you in this fortress. But you couldn’t have felt farther away as he tried to work up the nerve to go to you. Ask you to take pity on him. Pull him out of the misery of want he was drowning in because of you.

He stares at his phone screen, willing you to shoot him a text message. To reach out. Shit, ask him to make you another sandwich. Anything that would give him the excuse and the courage to head to your door and knock.

Then, there’s a new worry. It makes him sit upright in bed. What if you skip out like you tried to do the last time but succeed?

He’s not imagining it, right? You’re interested? That look in your eye, back at the diner, when Dean confessed he used you for inspiration and exploration. That was not the look of someone appalled. Dean ventured it was beyond being intrigued or amused.

You want him?

He doesn’t want to waste another night, waiting for you to magically drop into his lap.

Snatching the headphones off, the music now faint and distant in the room, he rushes to the door.

He’s gonna grow a pair and tell you. What, exactly, he’s not sure. But he’s going to stand there in front of you until one of you breaks and speaks some words.

He opens the door, quick, a puff of air hitting his face at the hasty momentum. His eyes widen in surprise at the sight of you.

You’re standing in the hall, hand up, ready to knock. With an expression Dean’s never seen you direct at him before.

You don’t give him a chance to speak. You lunge forward, appearing downright ravenous and zealous. 

Dean’s pretty sure you aren’t going to ask him to make you a sandwich. Well, 93% sure. His Cubano creations are kinda legendary. 

You practically herd him into the room with your deliberate stride. He fumbles with his backward steps, taking all of your energy in, overwhelmed by it.

He’s seen that look of determination on you after hunts where you’ve sliced and diced so many monsters it’s like he’s watching a fucking Ginsu knife commercial. He recognizes the vortex and swirl of emotions. Probably something he displays as well when victory is well earned after a hellacious fight.

But when you wear all those feelings for the world to see, all that need to release is hot as fuck. 

A white oversized button-up drapes your frame, contrasts the dominance on your face, and makes you appear smaller. Dean realizes the shirt is one of his; the one you had to borrow when you worked a case together and dressed as Feds. He recalls wanting to cuff and read you your rights the first time he saw you in it. You were illegal in a pencil skirt and high heels that showed off the definition of your muscled thighs. And the starched collar with the undone buttons showed just enough cleavage to distract Dean from questioning anyone properly. 

He dreamed about you in that getup every night for weeks. And, you still invade his slumber in that outfit on occasion. In those dreams, he’d tell you to be anything but silent. And, he held everything against you.

But, there’s no skirt tonight and the shirt has only one loosened button at the collar. The way too long hem hangs well past your waist and hips, over your signature leather pants. He stares down and catches sight of your bare feet. He always thought you had the cutest little toes. He only gets a moment to peek at them before his collar bone is tapped by three of your fingers. He hits the mattress with the back of his calves at the same time as you touch him. He takes a seat on the edge of the bed.

All Dean can think is holy fucking hell as you climb astride him onto the mattress. Your knees push and tuck into the outer flesh of his thighs. His hands clutch on instinct along the small of your back so you can’t run away from him this time. He latches his hold into the channel of your spine, staring up at you. Your fingers curl one by one over each of his shoulders. You’re locked and loaded. Warm and right in his arms. Like those hugs in welcome and goodbye, where he always has a hard time letting go of you.

“Just so we’re clear, Winchester.” You smile above him, floating, hovering over his lap. Not allowing full contact. Yet. Which is probably good for Dean or he might already have melted into a puddle. The strength of your legs cinches his nutcracker thighs as tight as they can get to each other. “You want this?”

He nods like a fucking bobblehead.

Your mouth opens to speak. You hesitate for a second before the confidence returns as you ask the question. “You want me?”

Dean lets out a tiny gasp. He knows it sounds soft and fragile, but he doesn’t fucking care. Every bit of control he has left leaks out of his pores at your question. “I’ve wanted you for… forever.”

Your eyes close. Then, those flirty lashes bat a few times. “Why’d you never pick up what I was putting down?”

“Cause I’m a stupid fuck.”

You soften, allow your gaze to stop and linger over different parts of his face. “I’ve dreamed about you, filling me up,” You confess.

“Oh, trust me, sweetheart, there’s been plenty of me filling you up, too, in this head of mine.” He gulps at your fingers in his hair. The slightest tug at the strands opens his mouth up. A desperate moan escapes. He’s already rock hard.

“And, then, to know you’ve thought about me doing it to you…”

And, for fuck’s sake, Dean hears himself whine.

You grin. “The first time you thought about me, and made all that progress… where were you?”

There’s no hesitation to respond. The stutter is more from the disbelief that you’re here. And, that you want him as much as he wants you. “The-the shower.”

“Hmm.” A finger taps his chin. Trails down the slope of his neck. Teases the flesh around the collar of his Henley. “All of this was soapy and wet? Ready for me?”

“Yeah.”

You bend down, slip to one side, and brush the shell of his ear with your lips. The breath is hot, scalding. Dean’s skin prickles in excitement. Finally, you speak. “May I fill you up, Dean?”

“Oh, fuck.” The expletive is strained, pleading.

“Is that a yes?” Another whisper into his ear.

“Yes-yes.”

He’s not even done with expelling the final “es” before your mouth is on his. Your intake of breath engulfs his last syllable and pulls another moan from his throat. Hands clasp his jaw, pulling him up to sit straighter, taller.

The lips. The lips he’s stared at in wonder. They’re lush and soft, but firm with direction in their brushes, the way they catch and cover his. Lead him. Hell, own his mouth.

When you open your mouth to him, he has no choice but to follow. And, it’s your tongue that delves in first to taste and swipe and tangle around his eager one.

He’s holding onto you for dear life. Your bodies slowly merge and press together in the embrace. The heat of you is the perfect temperature against his skin. You inch closer and relax against him. The kiss is heaven. It has flipped a switch in him, leveled up his senses, and amplified every feeling. And, damn, what a good girl you are to not have bothered with a bra under that shirt. It’s making it hard to ignore his urge to rip that fabric open and send those buttons flying.

He wants to praise you. He wants to tell you. The words form in his throat, rise up.

“Such a good man, keeping it to one layer tonight.” It’s your words that beat him to it. Your fingers are riding the Henley up his back, tickling his skin along the way, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “I bet you could be even better with absolutely nothing.” You lean away and tug the fabric higher. He loosens his hold on you for the briefest of seconds. His arms raise so you can pull the shirt up and off. He spots you for an instant, stretching your frame and lifting your own arms to shed his layer. Then, you tangle yourselves together again. Your touch is electric. Kissing. Kissing. Kissing.

Holy…

Dean can’t get the full thought out. Because, he’s just realized that under those leather pants, you’re wearing a strap-on. The bulge covering your crotch and pressing into his stomach should have been the immediate giveaway.

He moans into your mouth, “You packing some heat or just happy to see me?”

You giggle back into his. “Always prepared for action.”

He stops to stare at you. “We, uh, we haven’t really talked about how this scenario is gonna play out.”

You blink, wait.

Dean chuckles. It sounds nervous and a tad excited.

“I planned on doing all those things you mentioned back at the diner. Those things that helped you relax.” You kiss his forehead. “Take care of you.” Brush lips along his cheekbone. “Push all your buttons.” Peck his lips. “Maybe have you come so hard you forget your name.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles and nods in total agreement. “All of that, please.”

It’s your turn to chuckle. “Lean back.”

His spine sinks onto the mattress. You fall forward, forearms tunneling under his shoulders. A dip and you're sucking the side of his neck. Some of your hair sticks to his wet lips. He moans at the pressure of your mouth. The tip of his tongue glides along a few strands. Of course, even your hair tastes amazing.

You explore. A trace of the anti-possession tattoo with your tongue. And then…

“Oooh.” Dean whispers the reaction on a long exhale to your mouth on his nipple. First a peck, then a flick, then a circle, then a suck. No, not just a suck. Lots of sucks. One would even call it a suckle. “Fuuuck.”

“Hmm.” You moan, and let the nipple pop out of your mouth. “I knew they were perky. Always wondered if they were sensitive.”

“Confirmed.” Dean’s chest heaves.

You attack the other side, your hands getting in on the kneading and tweaking.

Dean’s head swims in bliss. His balls are tight. He didn’t think he could get any harder, but every passing second of nipple play is turning his cock to granite. “Christ. Keep that up and I’m gonna embarrass myself with how quick you make me come.”

You stop and tilt your head up to inspect his face. “Don’t ever feel embarrassed from pure, consentual enjoyment.”

“You enjoying this, too, sweetheart?”

The question has your dive back to his right pec - the one with the nipple that you have astutely deciphered is the really sensitive one - halt. “Yeah. Your enjoyment is making me so wet. Maybe you’ll get to find out how much.” You wink and lick your lip. “Later.”

Dean’s head topples back on a groan.

“We’re going to have to get you ready for me.” The languorous circling of the nipple by the tip of your tongue is divine. Cool air hits the wet skin when your actions cease and you leave him wanting more. “You weren’t lying when you said you worked your way up to three digits in the backside?”

Dean is up on his elbows in a flash, meeting your eyes for emphasis. “No, ma’am.” He smirks.

You smile. “I’m impressed.” A pace begins around the room. His head turns to follow your steps to his nightstand. “I was in such a hurry, I forgot the lube. Do I need to go back to my room or…” The drawer creaks upon opening. Your brows lift. “Dean…”

He tightens, sucks both lips into his mouth.

“Wow, you really have been prepping. There’s like ten types of lube in here.”

A chuckle escapes.

You toss what has become one of Dean’s favorite brands to use, housed in an economy-sized tube, onto the mattress by his thigh. The drawer is shut with a knee. “That should be enough for now.” You quip. “I’m guessing you’ve been using the recommended amount?”

“Shit ton? Yeah.”

“Towels, where do you keep them?”

He points to the chest of drawers. “Top one.” He watches you grab two fluffy grey ones. They are left atop the corner of the bed. “Are we getting ready for surgery?”

That ‘I’m so over you look’ he is very familiar with returns. “You are not going to want to sleep in lubed-up sheets. Trust me.” Your arms cross. “Just so you know, I don’t mind if things get messy.”

His brows merge. “I know that. We’ve picked ghoul bits out of each other’s hair.”

You shrug, then point at his ass. “I mean down there.”

“Oooh.” He nods. “Yeah, I kind of figured that, too. But, I’ve been extra thorough in that regional area lately.” He wants you to know everything. Wants you to know how much he’s been hoping. “Got myself one of those, what do you call it, anal douche thingys.” He squeezes his fingers into a fist a few times.

You look absolutely floored. “Really?”

“Yep. I took care of all that in the shower tonight. You know, in case…”

A tease of a smile is offered at his words before you tumble onto the bed, sitting on the edge. A knee knocks into his. “Would you mind helping me off with these?” Short fingernails with chipped blood-red polish scratch at the leather capping your knees.

Dean gulps. “Love to.” He hops off to stand in front of your parted legs. His cock bobs like a pop-up tent in his sweats. You lock arms against your sides to lift your ass a tad off the mattress, giving him a silent assist. Bending his body forward, hands tunnel under your white shirt. The contact of his fingers along your warm tummy makes the skin undulate. Your breath hitches. He’s all thumbs with the snaps at your crotch when he finally finds them, though they are the simplest things in the world to undo. It’s because of that bulge under them, ready to be unwrapped. “I don’t want to break anything.” He offers with sincerity and wide eyes.

You nod in warm understanding. “Think of it like peeling a banana.” You turn into a plank of muscle to ease the task for him.

The shirt is hiding a lot from Dean’s view. He thinks you knew exactly what you were doing when you picked the pieces of this ensemble. He’s grateful you took some pity on him. The blush on his face won’t need much kindling to turn into a brush fire. 

Shit. 

That’s exactly what happens, though, when he feels the harness, the straps crisscrossing this way and that over your waist and hips. And, then, it’s the silicone shaft he skirts over with the pads of his fingers that turns him into a puddle of shy embarrassment. Once he’s certain most of your equipment is in the clear he pulls the pant legs off in an elegant swish like a toreador.

When he composes himself to look at you, he marvels at the beauty of you in the huge shirt with bare legs dangling over the edge of the bed. Your voice washes over the rest of his nervous energy. “We can always change up the playbook, if you need to.” You give him a nod. “Alright?”

It’s his turn to lean above and capture your lips in a hungry kiss. “What I need is for you to take care of me.” He doesn’t break from the kiss until he’s beside you on the bed, dropping to his back. He doesn’t wait for you to reciprocate the task of undressing and gets to work.

“Fuck me.” You murmur at the sight of his dick, sprung from the sweatpants, tapping once against his tummy from the stripping. It’s stiff and ready, angled for duty.

“Maybe later?” His voice fills with hope.

“Oh, there’s no way we are letting that go to waste.” You pounce on him, pulling a laugh from his mouth. Just as quick you push off, settling between his legs, kneeling on the floor. That hot mouth licks from balls to tip before sucking down the shaft.

“Fuck.” Dean moans, closes his eyes. “You… you…”

You stop for a moment to sass. “Cat got your tongue?”

“No, your mouth has my cock. Fuck, you’re really good at that.” He hears the pop of a cap, the squelch of lube.

The sucking has stopped, replaced by a slick hand pumping. “Why don’t you take over for a bit? Let me watch, while I get you right where I want you?”

Dean hums in response. His fingers tangle over yours for a few seconds along his hard shaft. At the sound of you rising, he opens his eyes. Tracks you’re now standing and back to the towels.

You snap one open and return in front of him. “Back up a bit. Knees up, heels on the mattress.” The towel is held open like a flag of victory in the expanse of your arms. “Lift that sweet ass for me a second.”

He does as he’s told, slinks and fumbles his way up the bed, while you swoosh in and get the towel under his ass. You take him in, staring, studying. Especially the way he’s lazily stroking his cock. Your hands cup his knees, angle him the way you want. Spread him wider, plant his feet just so. Your words flow while you work.

“You asked if I liked submissive guys. Are all women submissive when they get fucked? All the women you’ve been with? Did they always just let you have your way completely?” 

He shakes his head. He’s been bossed around in bed a couple of times. Had his ass slapped. It was fun. But, it’s nothing like what he’s feeling with you right now. This is other level shit. Probably because of how much he cares about you. Respects you. Trusts you.

“Did you only take? Did you give in return? Did you understand what was needed after? You may not have heard stories about me. But, I’ve gotten an earful about you, Dean. And, all the reviews I’ve heard are glowing.”

You have him blushing again at the compliment and the way that he’s on display for you. How your usually small frame now towers tall, peering down. He can’t remember the last time he’s ever been examined like this.

“So, we’re going to take it slow, like you deserve. I’m going to check-in… alot. Anything we do, you need be okay with.” The lube cap opens. You hold it, ready to squeeze. “One thing to put something up your ass, another thing entirely to have someone fuck you.”

Christ, he wants that. Wants you to do it.

“I want to make this a good memory for you.” You smile. The bottle makes a comical wet blast dispensing an excessive amount of liquid into your cupped palm.

Dean hums in delight when two dainty fingers journey from his balls, past his perineum, to rim his puckered entrance.

“You okay?” The pace is languid, the touch gentle.

“I’m fan-fucking-tastic.” He murmurs.

“I bet I’m going to get all sorts of sounds out of you tonight.” You cajole.

“You have some mad virtuoso skills, sweetheart. I have no doubt.”

He’s right not to have doubted. You spend an extended amount of time massaging him into a state of utter bliss. The rimming turns into a careful exploration. Circle upon circle, teasing, testing, asking. He’s enthralled by your willingness to give him such special attention. You don’t look impatient or bored. He’s seen those looks on you plenty of times. No, there’s excitement and extreme interest in the task.

Dean’s wriggling, pushing against your fingers. “Damn.”

“I’m gonna just,” you lube the entrance, “give one finger a try. Alright?”

He nods and licks his lips to ready himself. “Wait.”

You pause.

“Which finger?” He raises a brow.

*

“Whichever one I think you can handle.” 

At that moment after the words leave your lips, the look of utter submission by Dean is the antithesis of all that is this Winchester. He’s never, ever shown that side of himself that you can remember. 

Not in a game of poker. Not bound and shackled by some monsters. Hell, the only way an archangel possessing his body could get him to stop railing against the intrusion was to lock him away and fake him out with some happy place mind loop.

And, he doesn’t talk about it much anymore; but, you think his time in Hell - when he stepped off the rack to be the torturer - well, you know he sees it as giving up. You’ve always seen it as doing what needed to be done to survive, to buy time, to hang on a little longer with some semblance of sanity. Clinging to that sliver of hope that he would be saved. So he could make things right in the end.

No. In your mind, Dean Winchester never turns over his power.

Not until now. Right here. With you. 

You’ve watched him shed those layers of protection, bit by bit, all day today.

Because he trusts you.

His brow relaxes fully and he forms those pouty lips into a small “o” to exhale in response. “Alright.”

There’s so much of him you want to control and consume. This body, covered in countless freckles and scars, is a fucking wonder of genetic perfection and self-sacrifice. Even down to the bow legs that should not be able to prop up his massive frame. He’s let you widen their gap even farther atop this mattress, let you see all of his glorious secret spots. “If it helps,” you stretch and grab one of his hands fisting the sheets with your hand not currently occupied with ass. Your fingers pry the spring-loaded tension of his own open. You take a moment to focus on pressing your palm against his. Your digits fanning to rest along his large ones. He’s staring at the connection, then your face, then back to your hands before he settles for good on your eyes. “Look at the equipment I’m using compared to yours. My biggest is the size of your pinky.”

He grins. And you take advantage of the distraction you’ve created. You’ve been testing his entrance the entire time and you feel when his literal guard lifts the fortress gate. You slip in the tip of your middle finger. Dean’s eyes go wide, the grin falls.

You intertwine your fingers with his. “I got you, Dean.” You smile. “Good?”

He nods, tightens the grip, and closes his eyes.

The slow corkscrew tilt as you ease in pulls a groan from him that makes you moan in response. He’s a bundle of tight, hair-pin trigger muscles. The lube helps. It doesn’t take as long as you originally guessed to get your full finger seated inside. The rest of your hand palms under his ass like a baseball glove.

Dean’s whole body melts into your hold. His hand clenching yours goes limp but still manages to hang on.

“How’s that feel?”

“Good.” Lids blink in lazy confirmation.

Pretty sure that you can find what you’re searching for, you ask, “Wanna go for two?”

“Mhmmm.” A punch-drunk smile lines his face.

Oh man. You’re in deep, literally and figuratively, with all the feelings he’s stirring up.

You retreat, heart racing at the thrill of dominating this unconquerable man. He helps at your ask and provides a squeeze of lube to your fingers. You try to gain your composure and eventually go in with middle and ring fingers this time. 

“Easy does it.” You talk him through your motions. Then, you whisper. “Touch yourself for me, Dean. Show me how good it feels.”

He moans and acquiesces. He won’t let go of your left hand with his right, though. He uses his left hand, wraps around the base and tugs. His green eyes flame with those golden flecks you’ve studied on many an occasion. Random patches of his creamy, freckle-toasted skin are flush and hot. 

A determined stroke and fisting of the head follow. It’s red and slick with a mix of arousal and lube. You instinctively lick your lips, debating whether you should get on your knees again to devour him. He tasted sweet and spicy with a sharp tang. Divine. And the way he pulsed and twitched in your mouth. 

“This what you want?” He questions, licking his lips in response to your action.

You nod. “Good man.”

He hitches in breath at that.

This man needs more praise in his life.

You’re all for giving it to him.

“Did you find it?”

His eyes narrow but he doesn’t stop the rhythmic pumping. No one should be allowed to look that fucking attractive all the goddamn time. For fuck’s sake, he’s even got a cute asshole.

“Your prostate.” You clarify. “Did you find it when you were exploring?”

“I think so.”

You giggle. “If you only think so, then you haven’t.” You drag your fingers out slow, force him to give you the other hand back so you can lubricate again. “I’m gonna blow your mind if that’s okay with you?”

He nods. “Please.” The word is soft and tentative, catching on the end of a labored breath.

Upon some thought, you decide to stick with two fingers. 

Dean starts to speak, halts the incessant tugging of his cock. “Can I…”

“What?”

“Can you take the goddamn shirt off?” He huffs. “I wanna see that body.”

“Losing the shirt means you see all of what’s underneath.”

“Isn’t that why we’re here?”

*

Dean’s trying. He’s really trying to process this whirl of emotions. Is horny as fuck an emotion? Because with you, here, doing all this, it’s sure feeling like something more than a carnal “see stimuli, erect dick” scenario.

But, yeah, he wants to see and feel ALL of you while you own him.

You’ve been beyond careful with him. It’s always been easy to admire the awesome hunter in you. Your orchestration of moves and speed of decisions in a fight is close to perfection. But it occurs in a flash of blink-and-you’ll-miss-it. Here and now, your intention to make every second memorable and unhurried is the sweetest he’s ever seen you.

Sweetness covers your cheeks in a blush that formed at the request to remove the shirt. Dean is in awe. Considering all you’ve done and are getting ready to do to him, that’s what got you full-on timid? You frown. “You’re paying to dry clean this shirt.”

“Only fair.” Dean tips his chin in agreement.

His knees collapse. He relaxes thighs onto the mattress. Rising up on elbows so he can get a better view, he spots the twitch of his cock as you loosen the next button at the collar. “I love this shirt.” You whisper. “You probably don’t remember…”

“I gave it to you years ago on your first Fed job.” He finishes for you. “Of course I remember.” 

The smile you shoot him displays those caverns you call dimples. His heart thumps against his ribcage like a twitterpated cartoon character. What the fuck is that about? Emotions. Hell.

“This might be a good time for a reposition.” You turn serious, distract yourself from the progress that had you down to four undone buttons, then point past and over Dean’s head. “Pillow. And, scoot up some more.”

He tosses you a pillow while still perched on one elbow. Even though he’d like to project all the sexy he can muster, he knows it is hopeless with the backward wriggles of an inchworm on the bed. You climb atop the mattress on your knees and wedge the firm foam under his cheeks to create an advantageous angle. Ever conscientious of possible lube stains, you shimmy another towel between his ass and pillowcase.

You sit back on your heels between his legs. The sounds have quieted. Except for the music emitting from Dean’s headphones. He grins and you follow suit at the Def Leppard track.

Listen, red light, yellow light, green-a-light go

A button undone. Dean’s coming undone at the flesh and curves.

Crazy little woman in a one man show

Then another. The soft skin right above your belly button.

Mirror queen, mannequin, rhythm of love

And another. His mouth dries up. The harness is in view.

Sweet dream, saccharine, loosen up

You peel the fabric off your shoulders and let him take his time and ogle every inch of you.

Dean swallows. Yeah, those breasts are as beautiful as he imagined. And, he really wants to get his mouth on those nipples. They’re the perfect little hardened buds, dusty pink in color. Even as he imagines how wonderful it would be to latch and suck, he can’t help but be distracted and enthralled by the strap-on gear you’re sporting around your hips.

It’s emerald green and not carbon copy dick reminiscent. Well, maybe if it was an alien’s dick. Dean estimates almost seven inches of silicone might make its way up his ass tonight. Nothing to sneeze at. His stomach flips. “What’s this one called?” Dean squeaks out.

You smile with pride. “Marvin the Martian.”

Deans laugh is louder than expected and filled with nerves. “Because of all the extraterrestrial encounters?”

You shake your head. “Only action Marvin’s seen is me.”

Dean shuts his big mouth.

“Ordered him about a week after we had the talk.” You continue. “Well, I had to test him out, of course. He’s no Bertha. But, he’s remarkable in his own right. Special skills.”

Dean watches in amazement as you kink the dildo into a ninety-degree bend. Then, a curve. Then something that resembles the letter S.

“Forget Marvin.” Dean mumbles. “That’s Gumby.” His gaze meets yours. “You’re really gonna fuck me with that?”

“Only if you want.” You reply.

Dean nods quickly, surprising himself yet again at how eager he is for this particular act.

“Remember,” you tap under both knees for him to lift, “if anything hurts - not just discomfort, but really hurts - you tell me. Don’t think you can power through that, Winchester. I’ll try to make it better. If I can’t, we stop.”

“Okay.”

Marv is slicked up with lube by one of your hands, gliding along the shaft and swiping over the head. Your delicate fingers manipulate it back into a curve, tip pointing up. Your movements mesmerize him. You creep closer on your knees. The heat-seeking silicone missile targets Dean’s ass. “Are you comfy? Need another pillow or something?”

The concern you show - for him - makes the words catch in his throat. The soft timbre of his voice finally replies, “I’m good, sweetheart.”

You scoop an arm under his knee and press forward. Slotted against him. Close. Every bit of contact creates wave after wave of flames dancing over his skin. “You’re better than good, Winchester. You’re amazing.” You smile as Dean feels the swirl along the rim of his entrance. He bites his bottom lip. You freeze and focus on the action. “Fuck.” You moan, then push. There’s resistance. But not for long. Soon, the tip has breeched.

Dean groans when you pull out. Groans again when you slide only the tip back inside. The beauty of your body is where he decides to focus his attention. He wonders where all the strength hides in such a sweet and sexy package. The curves, the skin that shimmers with sweat in the dim lighting. Those eyes that have stared deep into his soul more than once are chipping away at all of his walls.

“Gonna try and get my rhythm going once you’ve accepted Marv here as your Lord and personal savior.” There’s a glint of mischief in those eyes. “And, total brag, but I’m pretty good at fucking. But, I’ve never had the pleasure of fucking an ass this sweet.” You wink.

Dean matches your bravado with a wink. “Give it to me, baby.”

Another in and out. This one tests the waters. Dives in a bit deeper. Dean moans, drops his head back into the pillow. You were right. It’s a totally different experience when someone is taking the lead and filling him up. The stretch, the fullness. The actions driven by you do indeed have a rhythm now. They are controlled. You’re doing all the things you promised. Checking in, asking Dean if he’s alright.

Taking care of him.

He’s about to say something sappy. Something he worries you might regret hearing. Especially from him. 

And, then, Marvin grazes something with another light thrust.

“What the-” Dean starts.

You grin. “Yep, that’s what I was waiting for. That eyes rolling to the back of your head thing means we found the sweet spot.” Your hips do a swivel and jerk that hits a button buried inside Dean. He shivers. A lean forward with locked arms, your weight on your hands, has Dean caged under you. His knees have hooked over your elbows, legs looking as if suspended in the air by stirrups for an exam.

He’s gotta latch onto something. A hand curls around your neck. “This is…” He swallows and gazes up at you, “fucking amazing.”

“I got you, Dean. I’ll make you feel so good. Promise.” 

You keep scratching at that itch. Dean feels like you’ve almost sated him, almost resolved his need. Then, the scratching stops. And, Dean whispers. “Don’t stop.” You resume. Almost complete. Another stop. “God, yeah. Please.” Dean pleads.

His cock is rock hard, pressing into your stomach. “So fucking hot.” You whisper, readjust. Let one of his legs free so you can dip and capture his lips in a searing kiss. Dean moans happily into your mouth. His knee is by his shoulder. He’s never been happier in his goddamn life to be turned into a human pretzel. “Are you gonna come for me, Dean?”

“Yeah.” The groan he emits rumbles down your throat.

You raise up to wedge your thighs under his ass. You slide, slide, slide. Deeper.

The tingling builds. It’s a new sensation. One that zips and zaps from his cock - which you’ve now also decided to stroke on top of everything else - to all corners of his body and ricochets like a pinball.

“You’re gonna come so hard and long, like you’ve never come before.” The words sound like a command from you.

Dean nods, watching you play his body like an instrument. The notes are stacking atop each other, blending into a symphony of pleasure. “Fuck.” Dean mumbles.

You grin. The slide is much more forceful now. His ass is bouncing with each thrust. So are your tits. Your hand pumps his cock to the beat with exacting precision.

Dean puffs out each word in a burst of air. “Hell. Yeah. Fuck me.” He’s louder than he has any right being. His voice seems to have gone up a couple of octaves as well. But, he doesn’t stop the expletives. You thrust hard and deep one final time. And, that’s what makes him snap. The orgasm shakes through his body, and has him fucking resonating. A rocket of white light blinds him for a brief second. He calls your name at the peak of his rapture.

He’s no idea how much time has passed before he comes down from the high. He blinks, stunned, exhausted. The shivers sputter through him with no rhyme or reason. He sees the mess he’s made all over his stomach and chest. Someone’s humming. Shit, it’s him.

The fuzzy sight solidifies and he stares into your eyes. The look you have on your face is warm and wistful. “Welcome back.” You whisper.

You haven’t withdrawn completely. He can still feel the fullness inside. Feel his body pulse against the stretch.

*

Watching Dean Winchester come undone was the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. And that you were the one to do all that undoing? Shit, you want to sing and twirl around on a hilltop like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.

But for now, you need to do your part and fulfill that promise to take care of him. “Gonna pull out now and clean you up.”

“Hmmm.” He nods. Arms flop and stretch the width of the mattress, palms up. He’s in utter surrender.

You do as you state. He moans as you leave his body. A head-to-toe shiver follows from him and you can’t help but do the same. Now that the both of you are still and not engaged in arousing play, the chill of the bunker is apparent.

You slide the pillow out from under his ass but keep the towels in place. After some unbuckling, you remove the harness and Marvin from your hips. It rests on the corner of the towel and you scamper over to Dean’s dresser. You pick your white shirt off the floor along the way and cover yourself, more for warmth than modesty. Once you find a hand towel, the faucet is turned on and water pours out for a while in the sink to heat up. You ponder that cleaning up someone’s spunk was not the main reason the Men of Letters installed sinks in every bedroom. Well, then again, maybe it was.

The damp towel’s temperature is to your liking when you head back to Dean. He’s been watching. Smiling. You swirl the terry cloth over his chest, down to his cock, until his shiny pink and spotless skin meets your approval. He waves off your wanting to dress him but doesn’t say no to the tug you give the blankets and toss over his frame. With a promise of a quick return, you dash to the kitchen, hoping not to cross paths with Sam along the way. Water bottles and snacks fill your arms in offering to Dean back in the room. He’s found his way under the covers and silently invites you in with a peel-back of the sheets.

You’re popping one peanut M&M past his lips, watch him chew in super slow delight, then provide him with another. Once he swallows, you tip a sip of water into his mouth. The pattern repeats. For a while.

His grin gets wider with each minute. “How long you plan on feeding me?” The scent of peanuts and chocolate carries on his breath.

“As long as you want.” You smile. “How do you feel?”

His lids flutter. “Like I could sleep for a week.”

With that cue you put aside the food and water, and envelope this big, bad hunter into your embrace. “Well, I can’t say I’ll be here if you wake up in a week, but I can be here for the start of your sleep.”

He mumbles, mouth buried into the side of your neck, “I want you to be here when I wake up.”

Oh, man, has he got you wrapped around his finger. “Not going anywhere, Dean. Promise.” 

You aren’t sure what’s in store when he wakes. You tamp down any expectations and remain realistic, rational. But, you can’t help but hope all that’s transpired is the start of something more.

*

Dean’s busy in the kitchen the following morning. He’s smiling to himself. Humming Def Leppard. Cracking eggs into the grease left in the skillet from frying a pound of bacon.

An artery-clogging breakfast is his thank you gift for keeping your promise.

You were there when he woke up a half-hour ago.

He woke to the sounds of snores from your gaping mouth that put a freight train engine to shame. You were looking fine as fuck even with mussed hair and smushed face against the pillow. He slid out of bed, not really worried that you’d stir from any noise made. He trekked towards the showers, sore and achy in all the best ways. Hamstrings screeching in pain like an 80s hair metal band. His ass requested extra care and widening of bow legs with each step. He welcomed the warmth and pulsing strength of the water.

Now, as he cooks, he’s actually reveling in the discomfort. It reminds him of you. He’s remembering all you did and how you made him feel. He’s pondering how goddamn fucked he is at how much he wants to pour his heart out to you. He wants to lay it all out there. He wants to head back into the bedroom and turn the tables on you. Show you how well and good he can make you come. Maybe compare notes after. See who fucks better.

Dean has a feeling you’d best him in that area, too.

But, he’s not going to. He’s gonna wait. Not push any more than he already has. He doesn’t want to mess up this potentially awesome thing.

No. He’ll just focus on serving you the most perfect sunnyside-up egg.

He knows that’s how you like it.

Sam startles Dean out of his thoughts. He strolls in with a morning-after shit-eating grin. “Hey.” He brushes a hand over his face, then combs through his locks to sweep back his Farrah Fawcett fringe.

Dean nods. “Morning. I’d offer you breakfast but don’t think you’d approve.”

Sam shakes his head and wanders to the coffee maker to pour a cup. After a tentative sip, Sam comments, “What’s got you in such a good mood? I could hear you humming from all the way up the steps when I got in.”

Dean shrugs. “I’m not one to kiss and tell.”

Sam guffaws. “Right.” The grin turns genuine, though. The kind of smile Sam gives his older brother when he’s happy for him. “I guess it’s about time.”

“Damn right it is.”

Sam waits as Dean plates the eggs and butters the toast. “Really? No details?” he asks.

Dean sighs and points a spatula in Sam’s direction. “Alright, but you tell anyone and I will personally carve you up for a ghoul’s dinner.”

Sam raises a hand and juts out his chin. “Dean, come on.”

“She’s into some stuff I never tried before. It was awesome.” He smiles cheekily.

“Stuff you’ve never tried? Not possible.”

“Let’s just say she got to fifth base with me.”

“Fifth base?” Sam’s eyes widen.

Dean grits his teeth before releasing the murmur. “I got pegged.”

Sam’s face relaxes. Silence.

Hands brace the edge of the stainless steel counter. Dean prepares for Sam’s cackling. “Alright, let’s hear it.” 

Sam blinks in time with his steps towards Dean. “I could say you got what’s coming to you. But, she’s more than you can handle, I’m sure. Can only imagine the, uh, equipment she uses.”

Sam’s knowing smile as he grabs a slice of toast is what tips Dean off.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” Sam confirms with his question. “Eileen and I have done it a few times.” He taps Dean’s biceps. “A whole new world for Mr. Love ‘Em and Leave ‘Em. You should see if she wants to give tantric sex a try down the line. That is, if she’s not tired of your ass already.” A soft chuckle follows Sam’s sentence, obvious delight with his own innuendo. A quick turn and he’s heading out. “Gotta shower and sleep.” 

Dean forces his mouth to close and finishes preparing breakfast. The tray is stacked with food and he does his best server routine and heads down the hall to his room. He frowns at the door, slightly ajar, when he turns the corner. He’d closed it when he left. It swings open with a slipper tap.

The bed’s made. There’s no trace of the previous night’s activity.

Or you.

He drops the tray on the tiny table and is ready to storm to your room. Hoping you haven’t left without saying goodbye. The thought of having to wait months to see you again makes his heart race.

But your voice from behind freezes him in place. “Fuck, that’s a ton of bacon. I may definitely die and go to heaven after eating all that.”

His head twists to catch you in the doorway. You’re showered, squeaky clean and dressed for the day.

You squint at him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Dean ponders the expression he’s been exhibiting. He can’t seem to control anything around you anymore. “How am I looking?”

“Worried.” You thumb towards your room. “Got a text. There might be some Djinn activity down in Louisiana. Up for a trip down the bayou?”

Dean smiles. “Absolutely.”

Your grin is sly and flirty. “Maybe after the hunt, we find ourselves in New Orleans?”

That’s all Dean needs for permission. He wraps you up in his arms, holds you tight. “Maybe we get up to all sorts of stuff? After I show you the proper way to dispose of a Djinn, that is. I seem to remember a story where you…”

It’s the quick and painful tug you give the hairs on his scalp that makes his dick twitch. “Maybe you shut up and use that mouth the way I tell you to, Winchester.”

He licks his lips and stares into your eyes. There’s dominance there with a playful edge. And, what he thinks is even endearment. And want. Lots of want. For him.

He gives you a soft nod.

“Good man.” You whisper and own his mouth in a searing kiss. 

You have it all under control.

Fuck the bacon. 

You’re Dean’s heaven.

[spann-stann]

Setting Blurb: The Not-Quite Reserves

As stated previously, the Reserves are a category...reserved...for population centers that did not ally with CorpEmp as it formed, but were not hostile enough to warrant relocation to a Cordon Sanitaire. Those communities range from nomads in RVs, to independent habitats in orbit. Reserves were not static entities. Communities could fluctuate between being pro and anti-Imperial every other generation. Live and let live was CorpEmp's policy with them.

Then there's these guys. The "Not-Quites", only placed into the category of "Reserve", because CorpEmp anthropologists couldn't bother to create a new category to place them in. Unlike other Reserves, policy for these varies from "treat them like regular reserves, but keep them on watch", to "shoot on sight".

USS NonCredDef: Prior to the third world war that gave rise to CorpEmp, hostile political groups began internal migrations within the United States, and turn the states they reside in as ideological strongholds. The New Tribal Movement (that would help found CorpEmp) made its home in the American South, leftist groups moved to California and the Pacific Northwest, individualist groups in the Midwest, and a particular group of NATO "enthusiasts" began concentrating in the Northeast. This group served as diehard loyalists to the United States post-collapse and cooperated with old regime remnants after the Leave Riots. Dreams of retaking the Atlantic seaboard were dashed by the rise of House Kellam in Virginia. Kellamite Virginia's alliance with Hispano-Gaelic Texas (Proto-CorpEmp) would result in the conquest of New England. Originally, these "Natooboos" were condemned to relocation somewhere in the Pacific, but they miraculously overpowered their captors in the vicinity of Corpus Christi. There, they (once again!) miraculously hijacked the USS Lexington and booked it for the Atlantic. After the Earth's nuclear bombardment, their descendants relocated to Earth orbit (they even brought their bloody ship!), where their many memes annoy CorpEmp citizens to this day.

Democratic People's Republic of Korea: Remnants of the DPRK survived the global collapse, relocating their government to a complex of bunkers within Mount Paektu. As the remains of South Korea made contact with Texan-Virginian allies in China, plans were drawn up on what to do with what became of the Hermit Kingdom. The People's Republic was allowed to continue rule over Mt. Paektu, and the Paektu bloodline was allowed to continue rule over the People's Republic. Originally, the World Congress of Freedom reached out to the DPRK following the Cordon Rebellion, in the hopes of the two Socialist states unifying. Arguments over leadership, and accusations of spying on each other resulted in a "split" between the two polities. To the misfortune of the DPRK, no one left the WCOF for their own socialist bloc. The DPRK then entered into a state of heavy isolation, building massive underground complexes beneath Mt. Paektu, and shooting down any and all satellites crossing into their airspace. As the Earth was subjected to nuclear devastation in the final years of the Crystalline War, the DPRK government refused to evacuate the Earth (the stoic North Korean soldier fighting alien invaders is a popular symbol of that time period), and opted to retreat further underground. To the surprise of many, the bunker complexes under Mt. Paektu expanded and spread across the Korean peninsula in the eight hundred years following the end of the War. Diplomats from the Big Three have made repeated attempts to reestablish contact. It seems that they will only reveal what they've been up to, when they want to.

Men In Black: Mysterious figures wearing black suits, appearing and disappearing from crowds almost at will. Not part of any other polity in the modern era, so the Men In Black were placed into the Not-Quites. The debate still rages on whether or not these are in fact the remnants of the Pre-WIII secret societies and intelligence agencies, or just trolls assuming their roles. Regardless of what they really are, Men In Black fall under the "Shoot on Sight" category of the Not-Quites. Sixteen hundred years after WWIII, and no one wants them back. They don't ever make direct interactions, and you don't ever run into them on accident. You don't find them, they find you.

Confederated Churches of the Unified Light: Despite CorpEmp's pro-religious policy, there are limits to what it will tolerate. Forming some time during the reign of the Second Dynasty, the Alliance of Enlightened Churches emerged as the remaining number of UFO religions consolidated to form more of a united front. The Alliance would secure multiple enclaves for their congregants as large Reserves. Dispute over doctrine (are we creations of the Nordics or Arcturians? Wars have been fought over for less.), resulted in the expulsion of dissenters from the newly reorganized Confederated Churches of the Unified Light. Mostly a nuisance, the Confederated Churches flocked to whoever of the Big Three seemed to be making the most progress towards interstellar exploration and colonization (a few members found their way into the first colonization missions). Nuisance became annoyance after the Crystalline Aliens invaded Sol, with the Confederated Churches declaring the aliens to be humanity's creators, with the right to do whatever they wish, which included wiping out their creations. Annoyance became full-blown treason as elements of the Confederated Churches subverted the militaries of the Big Three, and some extremist groups collaborating with the aliens. They even reunited with their schismatic brethren to sabotage the decisive battle over Saturn. Their attempt to kill all the crew of the Imperial motherships in the battle failed, and the founder of House Saturnus led the Big Three to victory over the aliens. A series of bloody pogroms were conducted against the Churches inside the solar system as punishment for their collaboration. Only a few holdouts still exist in the Extrasolar Territories (left alone as they weren't participants in the collaboration).

Unified Churches of the Confederated Light: Despite CorpEmp's pro-religious policy, there are limits to what it will tolerate. Forming some time during the reign of the Second Dynasty, the Alliance of Enlightened Churches emerged as the remaining number of UFO religions consolidated to form more of a united front. The Alliance would secure multiple enclaves for their congregants as large Reserves. Dispute over doctrine (are we creations of the Arcturians or Nordics? Wars have been fought over for less.), resulted in the expulsion of dissenters from the newly reorganized Unified Churches of the Confederated Light. Mostly a nuisance, the Unified Churches flocked to whoever of the Big Three seemed to be making the most progress towards interstellar exploration and colonization (a few members found their way into the first colonization missions). Nuisance became annoyance after the Crystalline Aliens invaded Sol, with the Unified Churches declaring the aliens to be humanity's creators, with the right to do whatever they wish, which included wiping out their creations. Annoyance became full-blown treason as elements of the Unified Churches subverted the militaries of the Big Three, and some extremist groups collaborating with the aliens. They even reunited with their schismatic brethren to sabotage the decisive battle over Saturn. Their attempt to kill all the crew of the Imperial motherships in the battle failed, and the founder of House Saturnus led the Big Three to victory over the aliens. A series of bloody pogroms were conducted against the Churches inside the solar system as punishment for their collaboration. Only a few holdouts still exist in the Extrasolar Territories (left alone as they weren't participants in the collaboration).

Wildmen: The evacuation of the Earth was not 100% complete during prior to its nuclear devastation. "Wildmen" refer to the small communities of people that descended from those from all the human polities that couldn't make it to evacuation shelters. Or nuclear shelters. Eight hundred years later, and Wildmen vary wildly in technological levels from resembling stone age societies to pre-industrial era. As the Big Three (plus the Green Consensus) have engaged in an unofficial "Scramble" for Terran territory, it is growing more uncomfortably apparent that the question of "what to do with those folk?" will need to be addressed.

Hivers: As the World Congress of Freedom experimented with cybernetics and network communication post Crystalline War, a few Party members in the WCOF habitat Posadas Palace advocated going all the way with creating a cybernetic hive mind. The clone soldiers of the Peoples' Legions utilize one of sorts when in combat (known as the Commissar OS, or CommOSar), and the leadership of Posadas Palace sought to implement a CommOSar of sorts for the Party member populace of the habitat. Considering this a step too far, the greater WCOF leadership expelled the cyborg hive from the ranks of the Party, and ordered the habitats Clonscript garrison to expel them from Posadas Palace. As their hive was based on the military CommOSar, the breakaway cyborgs subverted some of the Clonscripts, and evacuated Posadas Palace. From there, the newly christened "Hivers" broke off into smaller groups. Hiver cells are now scattered across the Solar System, settling down on whatever unclaimed territory they could. More ambitious cells have made their way to the Extrasolar Territories.

Cyber Extension Guild: Originally one of CorpEmp's Great Syndicates (or at least a middling power seeking to ape the Greats), the Cyber Extension Guild was created to better advocate the use of cybernetic prosthetics. They made initial success in their development of prosthetic eyes and limbs for miners in the Belt, but news spread of Posadas Palace. That got the leadership of the Guild thinking. Why not try create a cybernetic hive mind for CorpEmp? CorpEmp's mining colonies of Nova Polonia, and New Silesias III and IV would be their proving ground for such an undertaking. The problem, however, was that the locals weren't asked about participating in said undertaking. Already augmented individuals were quickly subverted via backdoors in their prosthetics, and were used to round up the non-augmented population so they could be experimented upon. When the colonies' military garrison returned from exercises elsewhere to see their compatriots and dependents forcefully augmented and subsumed into a hivemind. After making the difficult decision to euthanize the colonies (and excessively interrogating any Cyber Extension Guild members still alive), the colonial garrison swore a blood oath to cleanse human space of the Guild. The greater Empire (entering into the more excessive portion of the Transhuman Wars) came to the same conclusion, declaring the Guild outlaws and offered hefty bounties on Guild Members. It is believed that those Guild members that survived would be absorbed into the Hiver cultures that dotted the less-than-travelled to parts of the Solar System (meaning they're also subject to CorpEmp's "kill-on-sight" policy).

Catgirl Priso--CATGIRLS ARE NOT REAL HOPPE HEDONICS DID NOT CREATE AN ARMY OF CATGIRLS TO SUBJUGATE THE SOLAR SYSTEM WITH THEIR FELIFEMININE WILES NO PRISON EXISTS IN THE OORT CLOUD HOUSING AFOREMENTIONED NONEXISTENT CATGIRLS CONTINUED SEARCHING ON THE TERM WILL RESULT IN YOUR ENTIRE BLOODLINE'S DEMOTION TO SERVILE STATUS AND SUBJECT TO HARD LABOR ON MERCURY -- CATGIRLS ARE NOT REAL HOPPE HEDONICS DID NOT CREATE AN ARMY OF CATGIRLS TO SUBJUGATE THE SOLAR SYSTEM WITH THEIR FELIFEMININE WILES NO PRISON EXISTS IN THE OORT CLOUD HOUSING AFOREMENTIONED NONEXISTENT CATGIRLS CONTINUED SEARCHING ON THE TERM WILL RESULT IN YOUR ENTIRE BLOODLINE'S DEMOTION TO SERVILE STATUS AND SUBJECT TO HARD LABOR ON MERCURY -- CATGIRLS ARE NOT REAL HOPPE HEDONICS DID NOT CREATE AN ARMY OF CATGIRLS TO SUBJUGATE THE SOLAR SYSTEM WITH THEIR FELIFEMININE WILES NO PRISON EXISTS IN THE OORT CLOUD HOUSING AFOREMENTIONED NONEXISTENT CATGIRLS CONTINUED SEARCHING ON THE TERM WILL RESULT IN YOUR ENTIRE BLOODLINE'S DEMOTION TO SERVILE STATUS AND SUBJECT TO HARD LABOR ON MERCURY...

Farmost Expeditions: While some Reserves just want to be left alone from the greater human civilization(s), these guys kick it up a notch. Instead of striking out on their own in the Extrasolar Territories, located within 50 light years from Sol, Farmost Expeditions set their collective sights on territories even further. They don't want to interact with anyone else, and have launched expeditions to stars as far as possible from Sol. One expedition, either the most brave or insane, launched in the direction of Sagittarius A, the Milky Way's central black hole. As starships can only travel as fast as light (at least the most expensive craft can), most Farmost Expeditions use either sleeper or generation ships. The Farmost Expeditions are placed under the "Not-Quite" category not because of what they are presently, but rather what threat they could potentially be in the future (if there ever is a reunion).

[golfinjapan]

Segovia GC in Chiyoda 2 - Learn Anything?

The Score: 90 (44-46) Handicap: 15.9

Since starting up again, I’ve only doubled up on 3 courses: Sakuragaoka, Minami Tsukuba, and now Segovia. It’s a testament to the luck I have living in Tsukuba: there are so many golf courses within 1 hour. Each time, getting to play a different course is so nice.

I would say South Ibaraki might be the best region for golf, but apparently Chiba is even better. Look near Narita Airport and there are like 10 courses within 10 minutes. Plus, Chiba is quite a bit warmer whereas Ibaraki can get quite hard in winter due to the dry/cold conditions.

Anyway, I went back to Segovia, which obviously wasn’t by choice if you read the previous post. But knowing what to expect, I figured I could improve upon my previous score. Which I guess I did, barely.

The Round

This was the start of something dangerous. No, the round itself wasn’t all that memorable, but my old accountant co-worker decided we would play for money. I thought there was quite a stigma around gambling among Japanese people (except for pachinko), so when we discussed terms at the turn, I assumed I would only win or lose about 3000 yen. But we played 1000 per shot, with me laying 10 strokes to the assistant and to the accountant (straight up with the boss). It wasn’t until I collected nearly 30000 yen after the round that I realized I could have been in a world of financial hurt. Luckily my 44 (we played the front nine last) was significantly better than the other scores.

The Company

Assistant, Boss, Accountant

Best 3 shots

2nd shot, 2nd hole, 8i

The money match started on hole 1, where I made par and was off to a great start. After apparently (according to Arccos) hitting a 262 yard drive in play, I had 143 to an elevated green. And by elevated, I mean it was surrounded by a bunker shaped like a donut (remember, Segovia is gimmicky AF). Into the prevailing breeze I took aim at the center of the green and for once in my life played a smart shot, a solid 8i to 25 feet. I ended up making the putt and ultimately that start was the reason I took home so much cash.

5th shot, 7th hole, putter

Putt of the year was this 47 foot double-breaker down the hill for par. I remember starting to walk after 15 feet or so because I knew it was a perfect lag and was going to be close. As it went in the center of the cup, I had pretty much secured my bag.

1st shot, 8th hole, 7i

With riches guaranteed barring a huge collapse, I stood on the tee box 175 yards away from the flag with water down the left. I stepped up and hit a strong 7i safely onto the green (about 40 feet away). The 3 putt was disappointing, but bogeys were all I needed.

[spectraling]

Jonas "head-empty-no-thoughts" Kahnwald <3

It's primary purpose is def for the audience, but it's really interesting to speculate on what the significance is in-universe lol. Tbf since Jonas is so fantastically wrong about the nature of time travel it actually does make sense that he would still be trying to make sense of it. That's definitely not what the mess is for, tho. He's clearly not solving a mystery. He doesn't put up the newspaper clipping and scribbles "When (is Mikkel)" on it bc he's genuinely asking himself that question, he's mocking the ignorance of it. Some people have speculated he's doing it bc he's sort of psyching himself up for what he has to do. Considering these are all things he brought with him, it's also possible it's actually Jonas' own belongings that he's collected over the years and he brings them to remind himself where he came from.....or to make it feel like home lol. There's papers on things like the greek mythology of Ariadne, which obviously would have a very emotional value to him. In his mind this is the final act of decades of work, where he might finally make things right and finally end his own suffering by essentially dying, so maybe he's being a bit melodramatic about the whole thing. Or it's possible he's just gone a little bit insane, which I am affording him. He's allowed to be insane, as a treat.

But yeah, at this point in time Jonas is still tracing his steps and Regina talking to Clausen causing the apocalypse is well within his motivations, bc in his mind he has to follow protocol in order to get to the point of destroying the loophole. Maybe the mess in the hotel room is part of that. Asking him to not put up the papers in order to collapse the entire knot is like asking him why he does anything he does in s1, or why any character make the choices they make. The thing with the loophole is that it's been presumably set up by his younger self so that when his older self does it "this time" the outcome will be different. So he never strays from the path really, the path has just been slightly altered for him, which is why it supposedly works. If he changes the path he won't become the person he currently is. If he doesn't do what "always has happened" he won't achieve his own goal.

Or

he simply doesn't know about this and how his actions might cause the apocalypse in a very indirect manner (all of his actions cause the apocalypse tho, lol). He might not know about Clausen and his conversations with Regina at all. He never interacts with, is directly told about or reacts to Clausen's investigation of him. Hannah knows about it, but we can't say for sure she ever told him. He stays on the dl a lot in s2 which could indicate he knows something's up but I think he just simply has nowhere to go, any desire to do so and also clearly is doing his best to avoid contact with characters like Martha. Speaking of whom, when he locks her in the bunker he's not aware that doing so is what causes her to be killed in the first place. Every moment in his life is uncharted territory and he has no idea if the things he does is going to make things right or go horribly wrong (they go 100% horribly wrong 100% of the time, but it takes a very long time for Jonas to accept this).

I also would like to point out that while Noah tells Jonas some things that make sense we have to remember that Jonas has been specifically put in a situation where he leans towards trusting Claudia bc of her indoctrination and his lack of other options, perspective and knowledge. He knows Noah ultimately works in Adam's best interest and not doing what Claudia wants might be playing right into his hands. Jonas going against what Noah says is completely understandable. They're not friends, their relationship is strained at the best of times. This is what makes the entire situation in the post-apocalypse such an ingenious setup, bc the only person he can really talk to that is in the know is also a servant of the enemy. Elisabeth is also there, but she in turn has been indoctrinated by Noah to trust Adam.

However, I think it's also clear that at this time (and during a lot of Stranger Jonas' specific arc) Jonas is definitely conflicted, about trusting Claudia or anyone for that matter, including himself.

This is not the face of a man who is 100% sure about what he's doing or who to trust. It's not like Jonas didn't have his misgivings with Claudia long before Noah could ever mention it, he's distrustful of her from the get-go in 2020. This conversation is merely bringing up the doubt Jonas already has and it terrifies him. He has no allies, he has no other way to uncover information unlike Noah and Claudia. He simply has no other options than to attempt something he has not yet attempted. If having to choose, he's going to choose Claudia's idea over his biggest enemy. Imagine yourself in his shoes. If he doesn't attempt to destroy the loophole and everything still goes to shit, had he maybe been able to make things right if it wasn't for his inaction? This is the existential dread of Dark in a nutshell :')

When he finally gets to talk to Tannhaus in private he's desperately trying to get some answers out of him bc he's trying to find his own truth in this whole situation and they are teetering on the edge of understanding it so much that in hindsight their conversations make me want to flip tables bc they are so heavily laced with foreshadowing the true nature of the entire plot. But in the end, Tannhaus is just another pawn, just like Jonas himself, and they have no way of seeing the entire puzzle for what it is.

But yes, Jonas is definitely a character that 100% operates on emotion and is by nature a bit naive, which is why he finds himself in some of the situations he does (and is so much fun and frustrating to watch). But I think people also tend to vastly underestimate how isolated he is in the post-apocalypse and vastly overestimate how much he knows at the point when he becomes the Stranger. He doesn't know much of the family tree outside of what directly concerns him (he doesn't even know who Charlotte's parents are even tho he lived with them for decades), he's never had access to the notebook, he doesn't know about the alt world.....basically Jonas 33 years in the future knows about as much as Jonas at the point of the apocalypse in 2020, and that.....is not a whole lot, lol.

Look at this family tree, it doesn't tell you anything beyond that Mikkel is Michael and that Jonas becomes....himself.

Dark writers during s2: In this scene we're gonna do a s1 parallel

Andreas: Exciting! What kind of philosophical sentiment am I echoing here?

Andreas: Oh

[just-dreaming-marvel]

Out Of Time ~ 112

MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 2,900ish

Summary: Captain America: Civil War --- tread carefully.

Steve landed the quinjet as Bucky and Y/N grabbed weapons. 

“You shouldn’t come in with us,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Too bad,” Y/N responded, slipping guns into the holster of her suit, that was thankfully in the quinjet. “I’m coming.”

Bucky sighed before looking up at Y/N. “I’m not the same man you knew.”

“I’m not the same woman. But…” Y/N stepped forward, took Bucky’s metal hand, and held it to her chest. “You’re still my Bucky.”

Bucky studied her eyes for a second before swiftly putting his free hand on the back of her head and pulling her in to meet his lips. She was shocked, not kissing back for a few, before remembering how much she loved the feeling of his lips on hers. He was the one to end the kiss, stepping away and breaking all physical contact with her.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” Bucky apologized. “I’m not in the correct mindset.”

He quickly made his way over to the back of the quinjet, waiting for the ramp to lower. Y/N joined him before Steve left the pilot’s chair and stood in the middle of them as the ramp lowered.

“You remember that time we had to ride back from Rockaway Beach in the back of that freezer truck?” Steve asked.

“Was that the time we used our train money to buy hot dogs?” Bucky questioned.

“Yes,” Y/N answered, with a reminiscent smile.

“You blew three bucks trying to win that stuffed bear for a redhead,” Steve continued.

“What was her name again?” Bucky asked.

“Dolores,” Y/N responded. “You called her Dot.”

“She’s gotta be a hundred years old right now.”

“So are we, pal,” Steve said, clamping his hand on Bucky’s shoulders. 

The three of them looked at each other before Steve slipped his helmet on and they exited the quinjet. It was cold, the wind blowing harshly as snow covered the ground. Bucky led them to the entrance, set in rock. The door was open.

“He can’t have been here more than a few hours,” Steve said as they stared at the door.

“Long enough to wake them up,” Bucky said. Both men looked over to Y/N. 

“Last chance. I really wish—“

“Save it Steve. You know I’m not leaving,” Y/N retorted.

Both men sighed. “Then no powers unless it’s absolutely necessary. I don’t need you throwing up in the middle of a fight.”

Y/N gave a small nod before Steve led them in, her in the middle and Bucky tailing. They entered a small elevator. She watched as the men nodded at each other while the elevator went down. Once it rattled to a stop, the men heaved up the doors. Steve held up his shield as the other two held up their guns, walking along a corridor, keeping close to a wall. 

The trio headed up a flight of stairs, Bucky leading, Y/N in the middle, and Steve at the end, when they heard a noise from behind them. They swiftly spun around, aiming down the corridor. Still keeping his gun up, Bucky gently pushed Y/N down so that she was more hidden.

“You ready?” Steve asked.

“Yeah,” Bucky responded. 

The three held their positions as the creaking of the doors at the end of the corridor continued. The double doors part, forced open by Iron Man. Both Steve and Y/N stared in surprise. Tony walked towards them, retracting the suits helmet.

“You seem a little defensive,” Tony commented. 

Steve got up and walked towards Tony, keeping his shield up. Tony eyed Y/N who was slowly following.

“It’s been a long day,” Steve replied.

“At ease, Soldier,” Tony said. “I’m not currently after you.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Could be your story’s not so crazy. Maybe. My girl friend also wasn’t at the place that I left her. Figured she was with you.”

“Tony—“

“Ross has no idea I’m here,” Tony cut Y/N off to continue. He lended his shoulder against a large cement post. “I’d like to keep it that way. Otherwise, I gotta arrest myself.”

“Well, that sounds like a lot of paperwork,” Steve said, lowing his shield. It’s good to see you, Tony.”

“You too, Cap. Hey, Manchurian Candidate, you're killing me. There's a truce here. You can drop.”

Steve signals Bucky to lower his weapon, in which he does. Y/N walked up to Tony, hesitantly.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Nat called and warned me. I had to come help.”

Tony stared at her, studying her carefully for a moment. He had a feeling for a few days now that something was up, something besides the Accords. He just couldn’t figure out what.

“I’m sorry too,” he said quietly, pulling her into his arms. He held a kiss to her head. Bucky tensed at the gesture, which Tony noticed. “Alright, let’s go.”

Tony put his helmet back over his face and the four of them cautiously walked further into the bunker. The three men were positioned so that Y/N was in the middle of them. Iron Man was leading the way towards an enormous chamber with capsules standing in it.

“I got heat signatures,” Tony stated.

“How many?” Steve asked.

Tony paused before answering, “Uh, one.”

As the entered the chamber, the lights turned on. A hazy, yellow mist descended within the capsules around the room. Each capsule contained a soldier. They all looked around, bewildered.

“If it’s any comfort,” Helmut Zemo’s voice came over a speaker, “they died in their sleep.”

They all walked around, staring at the soldiers that had each been shot in the head.

“Do you really think I wanted more of you?” Zemo continued.

“What the hell?” Bucky muttered.

“I'm grateful to them, though. They brought you here.” 

Zemo appeared in the control room, through a small window. Tony lifted up his hand as Steve threw his shield, but it bounced back.

“Please, Captain,” Zemo taunted. “The The Soviets built this chamber to withstand the launch blast of UR-100 rockets.”

“I’m betting I could beat that,” Tony retorted. The four of them rounded the center consul so that they could be closer to Zemo.

“Oh, I'm sure you could, Mr. Stark. Given time. But then you'd never know why you came.”

“You killed innocent people in Vienna just to bring us here?” Steve questioned. Staring Zemo straight on.

“I thought about nothing else for over a year. I studied you. I followed you. But now that you're standing here, I just realized . . . there's a bit of green in the blue of your eyes. How nice to find a flaw.”

“You're Sokovian,” Y/N stated, coming closer. “Is that what this is about?”

“Sokovia was a failed state long before you blew it to hell. No. I'm here because I made a promise.”

“You lost someone?” Steve wondered.

Zemo, looking grave, clicked his tongue. "I lost everyone. And so will you.” A screen suddenly turned on, bringing everyone’s attentions to it. “An empire toppled by its enemies can rise again. But one which crumples from within? That's dead . . . forever.”

They all moved over and looked at the screen. The frozen frame of a secluded road and the date, December 16, 1991. Tony’s face helmet disappeared, his eyes briefly met Y/n’s before flickering back to the screen that began to play.

“I know that road,” Tony stated, anxiously. “What is this?”

All eyes were now on the screen. A car came into the frame, crashing into a tree. Y/N watched as someone road up on a motor cycle and got off. The Winter Soldier. Steve watched Tony’s increasing unease. The driver got out of the car, crawling on the ground.

“Howard,” Y/N gasped quietly, eyes brimming with tears.

“Help me wife,” Howard begged on the video. “Please. Help.” The Winter Soldier walked over and hoisted him up by his hair. “Sergeant Barnes?”

“Howard!” Maria called. 

Tony looked up and glared at Bucky, before his eyes found their way back to the screen. Y/N was unable to take her eyes off the screen, her heart began racing. On the screen, the Winter Soldier lifted his metal fist.

“Wait!” Howard begged, hand digging into his suit coat. “You don’t want to do this, Barnes. Look.” Howard pulled out the photo of him and Y/N dancing. “We knew each other… You know her… Remember.”

Y/N heart clenched as a sob torn through her. Her hand came up to her mouth, trying to keep it quiet.

“Please don’t,” Howard continued. “Remember Y/N at least.”

After a brief glance at the photo, the Winter Soldier punched Howard over and over.

“Howard!” Maria called again.

Howard slumped over, dead. The Winter Soldier put him in the driver’s seat, face against the steering wheel. He walked around the the passenger side, where Maria was located. The Soldier reached in and gripped her throat, expressionless as he strangled Maria. The Winter Soldier then walked up and aimed a gun at the surveillance camera, ending the feed.

Y/N’s heart was beating rapidly. It was the only thing she could hear. Her breathing was becoming increasingly unsteady. Losing her balance, she backed up into the wall and slid down it. Steve kept his eyes on Tony, who lunged towards Bucky.

“Tony, Tony,” Steve said, stopping him.

Tony looked at Steve, clearly consumed with grief and tears glistening in his eyes. “Did you know?” Tony asked, trying to control his emotions. 

“I didn’t know it was him.”

“Don't bullshit me, Rogers! Did you know?”

“Yes.” 

Tony stepped back, chin jutting up in a twitch. Looking over at Y/N, he sees her struggling with this as well, making him realize that she didn’t know either. Tony reengaged his helmet. He punched Steve to the floor and deflected gunfire from Bucky, disarming him. Grabbing Bucky, he flew across the chamber, slamming Bucky onto the floor. Tony pinned Bucky’s arms down but was unable to fire because Steve threw his shield at him.

Steve barged Tony backwards. Tony then shouldered Steve to the floor, shackling his ankles. Bucky came back up and punched Tony, who just listed him and slammed him against a machine. Tony raised a fist, but Bucky twisted it. A rocket shot out from the Iron Man suit, a fireball exploding. Steve sliced his shackles as a towering structure of pipework collapsed.

Barely registering what was happening around her, Y/N was quickly thrown back into her senses, as pieces of metal began to fall around her, boxing her into the corner. 

“Ah!” She screamed.

Bucky and Tony were thrown to the ground by the metal, not hearing her screams. Steve though, did.

“No,” he whispered. Steve and Bucky stood up, making eye contact. “Find Y/N and get out of here!”

Bucky nodded. He quickly found her, throwing the metal to the side.

“I’ve got you, Y/N/N,” Bucky said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”

Y/N shaking in his hold as Bucky rushed towards the wall with the lowest platform. He hit a control panel, opening the over head roof. Tony shot at them, thankfully missing, before Steve landed in front of him. 

“It wasn’t him, Tony,” Steve stated. “HYDRA had control of his mind!”

“Move!” Tony ordered, hovering. He began to fly over Steve.

“It wasn’t him!”

Steve grabbed onto Tony’s ankle in mid air, smashing the bottom of the boot. They fought while Bucky was trying his best to make his way up the platforms with an almost unresponsive Y/N in his arms. He began to notice that the trembling was increasing and that she was sweating everywhere.

Tony unsteadily soared upwards as Bucky jumped across to another platform, Y/n still in his arms. Tony kicked Bucky down, causing him to let go of Y/n, who rolled away. Tony then took aim but Steve quickly jumped in front of Bucky, using his shield to rebound the energy back to Tony. He dropped, landing on a lowering platform.

“He’s not going to stop,” Steve stated, helping Bucky up. “Go.”

“Steve, it’s too dangerous for me to take Y/N,” Bucky worried. “Look.”

Steve looked over to see Y/N shaking, with sweat dripping down her forehead.

“I’ve got her,” Steve stated. “Go.”

Bucky ran and Steve leaped over and shot a wire around Tony’s neck, dragging him down. Tony deflected Steve’s shield, before trying to target Bucky.

“Come on, come on,” Tony muttered.

“Targeting system’s knackered, boss,” FRIDAY warned.

“I’m eyeballing it.”

Tony’s helmet retracted and he shut one eye, taking aim at the opening hatch. He fired, hitting the giant hinge and cutting off Bucky’s escape route. Tony then flew up, blocking two swings from an iron pipe Bucky was trying to use. Tony grabbed Bucky around the neck from behind.

“Do you even remember them?” Tony asked.

“I remember all of them,” Bucky replied.

Bucky pushed them both of the walkway. Steve jumped into them to deflect their fall. Bucky landed on a platform while Tony and Steve landed on the concrete floor besides an opening in the wall where snow drifts in. Finally hearing more of the commotion, Y/N pushed herself up, looking over the side.

“No,” she panted. 

The three men she loved most in the world where fighting each other and she had no strength to stop them. She winced as she felt a cramp in her lower abdomen. 

“No, no, no,” she whispered frantically. 

Pushing herself up, she shakily jumped down from platform to platform as the men still fought.

“This isn’t gonna change what happened,” Steve said to Tony.

“I don’t care,” Tony replied. “He killed my mom.”

The two began going at each other, with Bucky shown joining in. Y/N got down to their level as Bucky was blasted away from Tony, his metal arm blowing off. Tony zapped him again, throwing him to the side. Y/N rushed as quick as she could over to him.

“B-bucky,” she called, collapsing beside him. “Bucky, please…”

Bucky coughed up some blood. “Go,” he groaned. “You have to get out of here.”

“But you’re all killing each other.”

“And you shouldn’t have to see that… go… please…. I love you.”

“Bucky, I—“

“Go.”

With an unsteady inhale and a nod, Y/N opened a portal to the quinjet. She knew she couldn’t get much further than that. Closing it, she fell onto the ground. She had no more energy to move but her body still forced her to vomit. Y/N couldn’t focus on anything around her, black spots filling her vision. With one more heave, she blacked out.

~~~

Tony and Steve were both panting as Steve ripped the shield out of Tony’s suit and helped Bucky up. They began to walk away, leaving Tony on the ground.

“That shield doesn’t belong to you,” Tony said. “My father made that shield!”

Pausing, Steve raised his chin before dropping the shield. He walked around, with Bucky’s arm around his shoulder, leaving Tony to stare at the shield. Panting, he watched it until something suddenly hit him.

“Y/N,” he gasped. “No.” He pushed himself up. “Y/N!” 

He called her name as she walked around, searching for her. Tony feared ash something terrible had happened to her or that she had gone with Steve and Bucky. He eventually, after almost an hour, gave up the search and headed out of the bunker. Tony was thankful to still see a quinjet here. As he entered the jet, he saw a body laying in the middle of it.

“Y/N… Baby?” 

Tony slowly limped over to her. As he drew closer, he noticed the blood seeping from somewhere in between her legs. He rushed to kneel next to her. 

“Honey,” he tried to be gentle but firm as he turned her over from the vomit she was in and patted her cheek. “Y/N, please.” 

But nothing. He quickly moved to find where the blood was coming from. There was no gash, no wound. As he ran through all the possible things, Tony’s mind came to one solution. 

“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no.” 

He hurried and got the quinjet into the air and set for the compound before getting out of his battle torn suit. Tony then took Y/N into his arms, rocking her as he begged for her to wake. 

“I can’t lose more than I already have… I’m so sorry…” 

Dr. Cho was already there waiting for the quinjet when they landed back at the compound. Her and her people rushed Y/N away from Tony. He watched helplessly, falling onto his knees as tears trailed down his cheeks. And he did the one thing he’d never done before in his life. Tony Stark prayed. 

“Please God… don’t take them from me… I’ll be better, work harder… I’ll do anything. I’ll give anything. Including my own life… Just don’t take them from me. I’m begging you… I-I-I didn’t even know… I didn’t even know…”

next chapter >

I’ll see you guys after Disney World! I’ll still be responding to asks and comments!

NOTES: from now on the taglist when be added by a reblog. I will reblog it using my second account, @just-dreaming-marvel-2​​​. Just so that my main page doesn’t get too cluttered.

If you want to be added to the tag list, please dm me or send in an ask.

[fuckyeahmoriharu]

Apocalyptic OHSHC Story Idea: (MoriHaru centered)

A mysterious deadly virus devastates the world with rising death rates and no known cure or preventative. The only known fact about the virus is those with blood type O are somehow immune.

Society quickly crumbles as terrified chaos erupts. Neighbors turn against neighbors, families are torn apart, and new cults are formed in wake of the immunity revelation. The virus spreads quickly, leaving little to no chance of survival once it hits a city.

The host club are no exception, suffering at the hands of the virus. Kaoru is the first to perish, so unexpectedly that they didn't notice Hikaru showing symptoms. A few days later Hikaru dies, using his last breaths to make them promise they'll survive.

Their families are struggling to keep their empires from crumbling, centuries of progress and wealth nearly collapsing when all their staff abandons their posts to escape the chaos and few of the aristocrats manage to seal themselves in underground bunkers. After word of the Ootori's bunker quickly succumbing to the virus, the respective heirs of the host club make the difficult decision to not bury themselves with their families and stay above ground to find sanctuary elsewhere. The world has already ended, they do not grieve throwing away their fortunes. Their inheritance will mean nothing in the light of survival.

The hosts hear of a community in southern Russia that are accepting healthy outsiders. They debate on whether it's worth the risk but news travels quickly and the regrettably learn it's their own chance.

They set out to travel, first by car until the roads are too congested with abandoned cars, then along the highways until they realize they're easy targets for muggers and gangs, then by foot through forests and valleys where they can hide and forage.

Mitsukuni is the next to go, eventually passing beneath a weeping willow with Takashi sitting by his side, allowing the hanging branches to shield his tears but not his cries. All that's left is Tamaki, Takashi, and Haruhi.

Tamaki knows he's the next to die. His fiance has blood type O, as so does his friend, and he knows he cannot survive this. He can offer her empty promises on borrowed time until the inevitable. A few weeks later his ending begins. He coughs up blood as his fever rages even higher than the day before, his violet eyes dulled with his surrender. Tamaki makes Takashi promise him that he will protect Haruhi and care for her. Takashi agrees, vowing to get Haruhi to the community in Russia with whatever it takes. He promises that she will be safe and live a long happy life. With this, Tamaki feels he can finally let go. Takashi has to tear Haruhi from his body, tolerate her fists pounding on his back, her shrieking demands to let her go, but he carries her away just as tears spill from his own eyes.

The two travel in silence for a long time. Haruhi feels she will never forgive Takashi for not letting her grieve longer. Her anger slowly slips away day by day but the scar remains until one evening, he confesses what he promised to Tamaki, that he will do all he can to care for her in his wake. Haruhi seems to accept his vow but not his person. She will respect his loyalty but she won't allow herself to replace him with Tamaki. In the end she'll realize she doesn't have to replace Tamaki for she can love Takashi while keeping Tamaki's memory alive within her memories.

Months into their travels they must pass a rural village and are surprised to see there are still people living there. They are scared, not dangerous, but a mother approaches the two and begs them to take her two children who are blood type O. The mother is not and knows she doesn't have much time. She needs to give her children a fighting chance to survive and they would surely die here without her. Takashi and Haruhi eventually accept the 5 year old girl and the 3 year old boy, promising the mother they will bring them to Russia.

The elders in the village warn of gangs who scour the rural villages in search of blood type O's they call "type o's". They kidnap them and deliver them to cults and medical labs who are still performing experiments on their blood in search for a cure. Those are kidnapped are never returned and their bodies are later found in the rivers. The elders warn them not to believe their lies and to avoid them at all costs.

Shortly after they leave the village they do come across a gang who wants to take the children, promising they'll give the children a better life, that they have a facility specifically for type o's to live and flourish. Takashi manages to fight them off but not without a knife wound in the side. Luckily it didn't puncture any vital organs so Haruhi tears his shirt to make gauge, just enough a band aid to allow them to keep going.

Haruhi never thought herself to be motherly, as growing up without a mother, but she grows very attached to the children and does all she can to soothe their fears, feed their empty stomachs, and hold them close at night. Takashi makes it a habit to wake up early before the sun rises so he may be on guard, start a fire, and check the traps he set up the night before. Haruhi prepares their food, mends their clothing, and kisses the scrapes and bruises the children get after playing with sticks in the dirt. Takashi even creates two dolls made of sticks and cloth for them to play with.

A year has passed by the time they reach another rural village with people living inside. All the others they've passed through were empty, either deserted or filled with corpses, to which they covered the children's eyes as they walked past.

When they enter the village they are met with type o's, mostly friendly but some a little odd. They decide to stay for a few nights to rest and gather supplies before pressing on.

The first night Takashi and Haruhi meet with the others around the campfire after putting the children to bed. One man expresses his anger over the fact his blood is type o, saying there is no rhyme or reason to who survives and who lives, that mother nature has cursed them all even with an immunity. He says the type o's aren't the lucky ones, they are the unlucky ones who weren't meant to survive but will. They are "typos", as he says.

Haruhi offers that though they cannot explain what has happened they must press forward with their humanity. A woman in the circle bitterly laughs and says there is no humanity in what has happened, to both those who have died and those who will live on. She says she knew wonderful selfless people with all of the good of humanity wrapped into one person who succumbed to the virus, picked off by nature like a cruel punchline. There is no humanity anymore, only the animalistic instinct to survive. That, that is all they are now, animals living in the houses humans once built.

Takashi and Haruhi know they can't stay for long, that this isn't as safe as they thought. They decide to leave in the morning, packing their supplies the night before to make for an easy exit. However, while they sleep a man from the village tries to kidnap the children, waking Takashi and immediately forcing him to draw his knives, crushing the man's neck against the wall, pinning him. The man pleads for them to understand, that they need more type o's or else their village will die. They're way of life with die. They're traditions and history will be nothing but ghosts if they cannot replenish their population. Only a few in the village are actually type o's, making the rest vulnerable and desperate. The man tries to lunge for his knives but Takashi breaks his neck just as he moves. Haruhi turns the children away just in time but they hear the body slump to the floor. They are certain they must leave now. They have overstayed their welcome and they know the man did not act alone.

They escape the village, the two holding the children with their supplies on their backs while they run to make as much distance as they can. Eventually the yelling in the distance stops and they know they are safe again - at least for now.

A month later they come across a barn where five people are surprisingly living. Takashi and Haruhi are hesitant, keeping the children close behind them, but the people aren't dangerous and greet them with rabbit and leek stew. Haruhi and Takashi end up staying a few days at the barn, exchanging information and enjoying the pleasant company. The children find ways to play in the barn while Haruhi keeps an eye on them. It all seems well until one morning when a man allows the boy to come with him to the barn to help with the animals. It was innocent enough, the man wanted to show the boy how to collect eggs and milk the cows, but the boy accidentally startled the mule, making it kick the boy in the chest, breaking his ribs and puncturing a lung.

The men of the village say there is a hospital a day's journey east and Takashi and Haruhi frantically prepare to join them when they hear yells in the distance. The men know the voices to be a cult who collect the type o's to sacrifice as worship. None of the barn people are type o's and the neighboring cults know this. The men urge Takashi and Haruhi to head towards Russia and not follow them to the hospital lest they risk their little girl. Against their better judgement, Haruhi and Takashi head their advice. Haruhi kisses the boy's head and promises him she will find him again. The men promise to bring him to Russia after he is treated at the hospital. There is little time to waste. The boy's injuries are getting worse and the cult is moving in closer. They all leave in their separate ways.

Haruhi cries for days afterwards, holding the girl close as if to never let her go, mourning the loss of their boy. Takashi can only kiss her tears away and promise they will see him again.

.

.

that's all I got so far. but I felt inspired after seeing a news article saying people with the blood type o are less likely to get covid and I thought "hey, Haruhi and Takashi are canonically blood type o".

[avaritia-apotheosis]

Sound the Trumpets (Death Comes a Calling)

Going Angst Week 2021 | Day 5 - Death

Ft. TUE AU where Clockwork never meddles with the timeline and a lot of character death.

A/N: this was inspired by Memorial by Alice Oswald

[AO3]

On the seventh day, Joshua, leader of the Israelites, marched his army around Jericho seven times. And on the seventh march, he bade his priests to blow their ram’s horns and ordered his men to raise a great shout. At the sound of the trumpets, at the sound of the soldiers’ bellows, the walls of the impenetrable city shook and shuddered, collapsing into nothing on the earth as Jericho was laid bare for the conquering.

For Dan— simply Dan, for God has long since fled him— it took but a single cry.

The barrier around Amity Park, the last bastion of humanity, shattered like glass, as hell screamed from above.

The first to die was VALERIE. Brave Red Huntress, the hope of the world. Strongest amongst them with her suit streaking red as she flew to the skies. Always the first to fight, the first to defend. She died attempting to lead Phantom away from the city, plummeting from the air, weighed down by the hoverboard she rode. You could see the ring of frostbite her ankles from where Phantom froze her feet, dark blue and necrotic black despite the momentary exposure.

KWAN dies from an ectoblast to the back. A gurgle on his lips as he, too, falls from the sky. Blood spills from his mouth as wind whips past the hole in his chest. His parents are huddled together in the bunkers underneath the city, fingers laced together and stone-faced as they worry about their son. They will hear a loud thump above the bunkers— one sound among the cacophony of screams and explosions— and convince themselves that it is simply a tree or a lamp post that had toppled over.

Little MIKEY, who shot up like a tree but still lanky and cowardly in the face of danger, ushers his wife and newborn child into the bunkers. He goes to follow, but stops. Turns. A few meters away there’s a little girl laying on the ground, blotchy faced as debris fly overhead. The doors to the bunkers are slowly closing. He makes a choice. Mikey presses a kiss to his pleading wife, his wailing newborn, and runs to the girl. The child enters the bunker seconds before the metal doors close with a hiss. Mikey dies with a smile, bleeding at the steps of the bunker, legs crushed by the falling pieces of Amity’s skyscrapers.

Everyone knows when PAULINA dies. 1:30 P.M., the sun shining as brightly as it did, reflecting on the ruins of the Resistance’s HQ. Paulina Sanchez has acted as the city’s lead strategist for five years now, organizing supplies and working with others to create drills, providing morale to a city whose numbers keep dwindling with every year that passes. The soldiers she helped train hear her last words on the comms, her harsh breathes marred by harsher static as she continues to issue them orders. Paulina was born to command and died commanding.

STAR, ever her satellite, died protecting Paulina moments before. Activates every single trap within HQ with pinpoint accuracy, all to buy enough time for her best friend to escape. She is buried in concrete. Her signature flower hair clip fell from her head at some point in the battle and lies singed some ways away.

SPIKE is killed when he tries shooting Phantom in the head.

DALE is shot trying to drag Spike’s body to the nearest medic.

Phantom rears his head back to take a breath, and the city shatters once again at his howl.

DASH dies on his knees, arms outstretched and body pierced with glass. Behind him, pushed away, was a newly minted soldier and the rest of his squad. Dash had once confessed to Kwan, in the lonely hours between patrolling their city, that he always feared peaking at highschool. That his glory days had started and stopped as Casper High’s star quarterback. After today, there will be few who remembered Dash the Quarterback or Dash the Bully. They will remember Dash, leader of the fifth infantry division, who fought bravely and died saving his men. A hero at last.

The ghostly wail tears down buildings, but it also cracks the earth. The roofs of bunkers are ripped open with a groan, revealing the shattered blue sky and crumbling buildings.

A child suffocates in her fathers arms. The father trying desperately to shield his child from the worst of the debris, but his back gives out, and so does his breath, and the child is much too weak to crawl her way out.

A mother sings a shaky lullaby to her baby. A vain attempt to coax it to sleep, so at least it might die in its dreams where the world was happy still.

ANITA dies with her brother HARRY in a fire.

TOM is killed while holding his wife’s hand.

LANCE dies—

WENDY dies—

JOCELYN is killed by—

ALEX falls—

ELIJA—

YUI

SAFIYA

CALEB

WILL

CARRIE

HAROLD

PAM

STAN

JOSHUA

ASHLEY

WES is dying with his back on the ground, bleeding from his throat. With shaky breath and fire in his eyes he looks up at Phantom and gasps—

“You’re no ghost. You’re a monster.”

ELLIE is one of the last to die. It’s dusk, and the once vibrant city has quieted. She’s flying overhead, looking for any sign of survivors. She has found none so far but continues, in that childish way all children do, to hope beyond hope that there is someone out there. That she isn’t alone.

She’s not alone. She encounters him, standing above the ruins of their home— her home, arms crossed and a bored countenance on his face. She sees the red creep into her vision, knows it’s stupid to rush in because she will lose and right now, finding what remains of the city is more important.

She knows that.

It doesn’t stop her from screaming at the sight of him. Ellie surges forward with hands blazing green, throwing her everything in a desperate attempt to hurt him. Phantom throws up a shield with barely a glance in her direction. Ellie pushes more energy into her blast, can feel the bottoms of her feet destabilizing, can feel her hair turn to goop, but she does not stop.

She pushes and pushes. The heat from her blasts melts her palms, her fingers leaking ectoplasm, but still she channels all her energy into this one attack.

Ellie destabilizes into ectoplasm, disintegrating like her clone siblings a decade before.

Phantom’s shield never even cracked.

When Jericho fell, Joshua commanded that a few should be spared.

When Amity Park fell, no one was afforded that same mercy.

[adelaidedrubman]

💒 + jelmi : ) also 💒 + faith/tracey!!!

hrrrm yes girls thank you!!

jessie is honestly letting helmi take the lead on most of the ceremonial aspects, she's just going along for the ride. her beautiful cultist wife says there has to be a blood and fire ritual or they aren't really spiritually married she says "well okay babe i respect that :^)"

jessie is going to limit the amount of dead bodies used as decoration though. yes helmi she understands the romantic sentiment but she's just not that into corpses. sorry.

and on the topic of decorations, i picture a small but very elaborate and romantic ceremony. jestiny likes atmosphere but not fluff, and helmi seems like someone who wants her actions and plans to be very packed with meaning, so. everything is set up pretty meticulously. elegant and understated. lots of candles.

jessie also probably attempts to set a "no fighting people at the reception" rule, realizes it simply isn't feasible, and creates a "list of acceptable people to fight" instead.

and in their no cult au you can go ahead and scratch all that because 90% of the time they are getting married at 2 AM through the bars of the holding cell at the Hope County Police Station because helmi got arrested for bar fights and a (extremely drunk, crying) jestiny thinks she's an absolute genius for remembering spouses aren't compelled to testify against each other so now there are No Witnesses. unfortunately for staci pratt he was ordained years earlier to perform a friend's wedding and is too afraid of both of them to say no to jessie's 2 AM phone call.

love the idea of these girls having an outdoor wedding. something relatively small but in a beautiful location, probably somewhere meaningful for them within hope county.

most if not all of the floral arrangements are hand cultivated by faith ahead of time, if possible. (depending on if the collapse happens and therefore whether or not most plant life has been wiped out...) faith also sings during the wedding, possibly as part of her vows.

and in at least one version of a collapse ending i have planned for them, the first time they leave their bunker to go above ground is for their wedding :)

regardless of the universe and if it's pre/post/no collapse, the person who's actually freaking out most and wearing themselves out with planning is john. that's his baby sister getting married damnit, and he's either going to be dropping huge stacks of cash on the affair and micromanaging all the wedding vendors or going crazy cobbling together Good Enough decorations in a post apocalyptic society Himself. (he obvi also earns the Man of Honor distinction.)

as for nerves levels, i think faith is a little more comfortable with the public appearance and dressing up aspects of a wedding than tracey, but tracey eventually starts relaxing and having fun during the planning. she's mostly just grateful to finally be committing herself to a life with the woman she loves after everything they've been through, and nothing is going to put a damper on that.

[cajunquandary]

The Curse

Link: (Ao3 post in progress, check back later)

Summary: After a rough hunt, the hunter who’s grown close to both brothers breaks. Will their temporary solution be enough to save her this time?

Created for @spndarkbingo

Square Filled: Free Space-- Bloodplay

Rating: 18+

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader/Unnamed OC, Sam Winchester x Reader/Unnamed OC

Tags/Warnings: TRIGGER WARNING: extreme angst, bloodplay, mentions of suicide, self-harm, smut

Wordcount: 1.3k

A/N: Oops my hand slipped?

She reaches for Dean until her fingers are twisted so tightly into the worn flannel that she isn’t quite sure where she ends and the fabric begins. He knows what she wants from him, what she needs. It’s not the first time, but he doesn’t know if he can go that far this time. They stumble a step backwards into a wall of jagged bricks. 

She’s already fervently moving against him, squirming and pulling with hot short breaths escaping parted lips. The soft, firm weight of him pressing into her helps, as does the bite of the sharp edges digging into her back, but even that barely takes the edge off. 

Dean grips her hips in his strong hands and attempts to force her still, to calm her, but she only begins to fight more. He keeps trying. He can’t bear to see her go as far as she needs to--not tonight. Not here, in this dump. Not after a hunt this bad. Not to mention, she’d been thrown. Sure, she might look okay right now, but there’s no telling what damage has been done inside. 

He does his best to comfort her, beginning with slow, passionate kisses, the ones he knows make her melt. Pulsing against her gently, he prays and wills with everything he’s got left in him that she will be okay, that this will be enough. As he draws back to look her in the eyes, what he sees crushes his hopes. Tears are gathered in the corners, and she won’t even meet his gaze. 

Dean scoops her up in his arms but her death grip on him doesn’t waver, even as he sets her with care in the back of the Impala. Sam leans against the hood of the car with his back to them, hoping that this isn’t a night where he has to get involved. 

She practically tears away her battle-ripped jeans and yanks Dean down. He goes happily, willingly, but still with worry. Within seconds, his own jeans and boots are slumped on the ground just outside the car door and he slides into her. Dean begins to pound into her, gradually at first, then at a swift, steady pace. She cries out with every thrust. And yet… it’s not enough. She pushes against his chest with frantic hands until he pins them above her head and their skin sticks to the leather. With his other arm, he lays it across her chest and applies even pressure. Not too much, but just enough to make it harder to catch her quickening breaths. 

Her eyes close as she moans out his name sweetly into the night air, praising him and the pretty little noises starting to cascade from his mouth as it hovers over hers. He takes her bottom lip between his and pushes down as far as he can go, and she comes around him as he bottoms out. The warm, wet clenching and waves of pleasure seizing through her have him coming before her orgasm is even over. 

Dean collapses on her chest and strains to hear her heartbeat above his own. He catches his breath but hers never slow. She begins to tremble and he knows. It wasn’t enough. He props himself on his elbows, and holding back his own tears, calls with a broken voice out to Sam. Dean works his way out of the Impala and back into his clothes as Sam approaches with downtrodden eyes. In his hand is the demon blade. Dean can’t even look at it. Not now, not tonight. 

Dean keeps walking past the front of the car and down the road. He can’t listen to this. With balled fists shoved in his pockets, he kicks and curses the powers that be. He can’t linger on what’s happening behind him, but his mind doesn’t let itself wander far. 

He remembers the first time it happened. It’d been a similar situation to this one, and the vibrant huntress that lived with and loved them for months turned… different. The light had left her eyes, and she’d said she was fine. They were close, even biblically, but Dean didn’t know what to do to help her and just gave her space. 

Too much space, as it’d turned out, and she’d tried to drown herself in the communal bathroom. Sam had rescued her just in time and left her to rest in his room for just a moment. When he’d returned, she was gone. After searching town all night, they’d found her in an alley, bruised and bloodied, tossed aside like trash. When they’d brought her back home, she still wasn’t… there. So they moved a bed into the bunker dungeon and strapped her down there and waited for Cas, for help. 

She wasn’t one to be kept down, though, and Cas barely made it to the bunker before she’d completely cracked her skull against the wall. Cas did his best to fix the mess, but he didn't have the grace power to build a wall to protect her. 

She had demons of a different kind, born of a curse laid on her years ago, he’d told the Winchesters. That they’d need to watch her, be patient. And if he couldn’t come when called, to help her through the motions in a safe, controlled way. 

But that didnt make it hurt Sam and Dean much less, especially with knowing the witch was out there, somewhere just out of reach. At the very least, they were keeping her safe from herself and from other men, even if it meant hurting her themselves. 

Jerked back to reality, Dean’s knees buckle beneath him as her screams echo through the quiet night. He hangs his head in his hands and cries in anger and frustration.

Why did it have to be this way? Why her? He would take it on in a heartbeat if he could.

Sam has her pinned against the still-warm hood of the Impala, completely bare with the exception of his belt wrapped flush around her neck with the excess loop between her clenched teeth. He’s laid over her entirely and she can’t move at all. With practiced skill, he cuts into the soft flesh of her thigh until she is screaming and begging once more. 

Sam is familiar with the pain she feels, familiar with the drive to feel clean. To have the darkness washed away, even if it’s by waves of blood. He works his length inside her until her feet aren’t touching the ground. Sam drives into her with slow, deliberate thrusts. Each time, he hits as far as he can go within her, then pushes farther, until he’s bottoming out and she’s crying his name and gratitude into the leather.  

With almost every push, the knife carves another mark. Sam bites down on her shoulder hard as he comes, and with her back arching up and pushing her flush against him, skin on skin, she comes too. 

Without pulling out or away, Sam gathers her in his arms and drops the knife in the dirt. Holding her close, he kisses her sweetly. Her breaths calm with his at last, and he knows that she’ll be okay, that it was enough, that he won’t have to go farther. Not tonight.

Sam lays her down in the backseat once more as her eyes close, spent. Dean scuffles over and retrieves the first aid kit as his brother dresses. His eyes are red-rimmed and his jaw set firmly, brows knit and cheeks sunken. 

One day they would smite the damn witch and she would get better. She’d have to. Or Dean would be right there, jumping off the cliff with her. With shaking hands, Dean patches her up and holds her close as she sleeps. Sam drives them back home, glancing back once in a while to check on them. It takes a toll on all of them, this curse she carries. But to hell if he wasn’t going to keep fighting--to keep all three of them fighting.

WAYWARD PEEPS:

@carryonmywaywardcaptain @manawhaat @supernatural-jackles @jensen-jarpad @wheresthekillswitch @bummblebeeblue @nothin-after-79-blog @docharleythegeekqueen @fangirl-writing-fiction @inmysparetime0 @impala-dreamer @arryn-nyxx @idk-life01 @attorneyl @deathtonormalcy56 @xwing-baby @wonder-cole @itsangelpie​ @thinkinghardhardlythinking​

ANGST BABES:

@trexrambling​ @abbessolute @emptywithout​

ALL ABOUT THAT DEAN:

@akshi8278​ @will-winchester

Tag list is now open!

[evephgold]

After compleating our initial research into who Preppers were, we decided to compile a document outlining their ideologies, meaning we could easily communicate our findings to others as well as having a note of it for ourselves.

The ideology of the prepper

● Preparedness used to be a normal activity. Older generations canned their own vegetables and knew how to hunt. However, these early people prepared more out of necessity than personal philosophy. Thus, for these early groups, preparedness was simply a part of everyday life. It wasn’t until conveniences like supermarkets and mass-produced goods were ubiquitous that the prepper movement could get started. In other words, society needed to be unprepared for a preparedness movement to take place.

● https://historycooperative.org/history-of-the-prepper-movement-from-paranoid-radicals-to-mainstream/

● The first chapter of the prepper movement takes place in the 1950s, when the Cold War created mass paranoia.

● https://historycooperative.org/history-of-the-prepper-movement-from-paranoid-radicals-to-mainstream/

● In the 1970s, the terms “survivalist” and “retreater” were often used interchangeably. However, they soon began to differentiate, and survivalist became associated with a more combative style of preparedness. By contrast, a retreater was someone who tried to avoid conflict and become invisible.

● https://historycooperative.org/history-of-the-prepper-movement-from-paranoid-radicals-to-mainstream/

● In the 1960s, the survivalist movement was linked to the burgeoning ecology and sustainability movements. However, by the 1990s, these movements had split. Survivalists were considered to be very right-wing conservatives with radical anti-government sentiments. (5) These negative connotations were only reinforced by a series of events linked to survivalist groups, such as the siege on Ruby Ridge in 1992, the siege on the Waco compound in 1993, and the terrorist attack by Timothy McVeigh in 1995.

● https://historycooperative.org/history-of-the-prepper-movement-from-paranoid-radicals-to-mainstream/

● Over the first decade of the 21st century, preparedness went from being something associated with extremism to a patriotic duty. By 2010, polls showed that 50 percent of Americans were thinking about preparedness – an increase from 18 percent in 2004.

● https://historycooperative.org/history-of-the-prepper-movement-from-paranoid-radicals-to-mainstream/

● Around 2010, the prepper movement made an active push to distinguish themselves from the survivalists of the past.

● https://historycooperative.org/history-of-the-prepper-movement-from-paranoid-radicals-to-mainstream/

● survivalists are people with a history of guns and ready-to-eat meals who can live off of the land. By contrast, prepper is a more generalized term. Preppers don’t try to isolate themselves in preparation for Armageddon. Instead, they keep normal lives and have a relaxed view about pending disasters. preppers aren’t “just another group of paranoid doomsdayers.” They mostly focus on natural disasters while mixing in some traditional views of self-reliance.

● https://historycooperative.org/history-of-the-prepper-movement-from-paranoid-radicals-to-mainstream/

● As the complexity of society increased, particularly in supplying everyday needs, survivalism and disaster preparedness grew as counter-strategy. People wanted to know what to do if all the benefits and conveniences of society went away.

● https://censamm.org/resources/profiles/survivalists-and-preppers

● Survivalists and doomsday preppers prepare for a future where governmental and civic infrastructure fails. In most imaginings, this failure might be caused by ecological disasters, economic collapse, civil war (especially along racial lines), nuclear attack, and foreign invasion. The focus in survivalism is most often on practical steps required for surviving disaster without a functioning human society.

● https://censamm.org/resources/profiles/survivalists-and-preppers

● Some survivalists have a specific theological eschatology, most often Christian. This suggests the world is currently, or soon will be, in a period of Tribulation. The Tribulation is the period of hardships and troubles suffered by believers preceding the Millennium, the return of Christ and 1,000 years of his peaceful rule on Earth. However there are also many secular survivalists.

● https://censamm.org/resources/profiles/survivalists-and-preppers

● Survivalism is not a coherent movement but rather a loosely structured set of philosophies, beliefs, and practices. It is most common in the United States of America, but has recently spread to the United Kingdom and other European countries. Numbers are therefore hard to estimate.

● https://censamm.org/resources/profiles/survivalists-and-preppers

● For most survivalists, privacy and secrecy are central in order to protect caches of stockpiled resources and deflect prejudice against what is often perceived as a marginal and suspicious practice.

● https://censamm.org/resources/profiles/survivalists-and-preppers

● Survivalism is a diverse, broad movement in terms of the individuals who practice and follow its ideological and philosophical beliefs. These individuals range from “racist right-wing millenarians who practice survivalism, especially those holding beliefs related to Christian Identity, Neopaganism, and Odinism (Barkun 1994, 2003, 2011), to left-wing politics. Many of these come from a New Age rather than Christian background, especially those primarily concerned about potentially apocalyptic effects of climate change.”

● https://censamm.org/resources/profiles/survivalists-and-preppers

● Theosophy is a recurring belief within the practitioners of survivalism

● Survivalists analyse and stay up to date with current events around the world, in order to gain foresight and signs of impending catastrophe

● The term ‘prepper’ is often preferred in order to distinguish it from the more weapons-oriented US phenomenon, In the US, the first settlers are seen as ‘survivalists’ although they themselves did not use the term.

● The military prep, so why shouldn't we?

● Some preppers have a selfish, self-centred mindset, who would kill others in order to take their supplies for their own survival, whereas others have a more community-centred mindset, who would share their supplies in order to help others survive.

● The more survival skills you have, the longer you will survive, and the more valuable you are in a post-apocalyptic survivalist community.

● The best preppers are the ones no one knows is prepping.

● Be prepared, not surprised.

● Preppers are worried about people as well as catastrophe, some bunkers have man traps to deter intruders.

● Some preppers invest in toilet paper, whereas most ‘normal’ people invest in gold and silver.

● Preppers will often talk about self-reliance, self-sufficiency, and how it is a citizen’s duty to take care of themselves (as opposed to relying on the government to help in times of disaster).

● https://historycooperative.org/history-of-the-prepper-movement-from-paranoid-radicals-to-mainstream/

● preppers preach about “going back to roots” and learning traditional skills so as to achieve greater autonomy.

● https://historycooperative.org/history-of-the-prepper-movement-from-paranoid-radicals-to-mainstream/

● preppers often advocate for a DIY approach, which actually has its roots in the punk movement of the 1970s. Preppers are also advocates of self-sustainability practices such as rainwater harvesting and alternative energy. These are views shared with the environmental movement.

● https://historycooperative.org/history-of-the-prepper-movement-from-paranoid-radicals-to-mainstream/

● preppers are largely seen as right wing and conservative. By contrast, these other movements are often on the left politically and liberal in their views of gun ownership and immigration.

● https://historycooperative.org/history-of-the-prepper-movement-from-paranoid-radicals-to-mainstream/

[mermaeids]

NARCISSUS | completed fic by lilypottersghost on ao3 rated m | wc: 40k | 5 chapters | bellarke season 5 au

summary: bellamy and clarke are the head and the heart, thinking and breathing as one person. echo is the thing that comes in between them, that keeps clarke from laying all of her feelings out on the table. octavia is the leader obsessed with ovidian bloodlust, feeding itys to tereus, trying to mold her people into toy soldiers once more.

[post-5x05. basically, my version of 5x06 and on. the title comes from my tumblr post about bellarke + ovid's "narcissus and echo"]

read the full fic on ao3

excerpt from chapter 1:

Her heart’s desperate fingers reached through the bars of her ribcage, craving release.

Her head told them they had no right.

No right, no right. She tied a scarf to cover her nose and mouth. She did Madi’s next.

The wind picked up, making sand and dust a danger to the lungs. Behind her, Indra still wheezed from a stretcher.

No right. And there they were, just paces ahead, hand in hand.

Her scarf itched.

Six years ago, she had torn it off and held a gun to her head.

No right.

Watching Madi meet Octavia had made her stomach roll. It was her own damn fault. She’d spent six years filling that girl’s head with memories from when Octavia had been bathed in butterflies and light. The bunker had killed all that shined, and Clarke should have known that whatever emerged would wear Octavia’s face but house a monster within.

Should have known that after six years, nothing would be the same.

Up ahead, she heard Bellamy talking with Echo but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Wasn’t her business, anyway.

Octavia’s eyes were too empty. Madi’s admiration was too blind. Clarke’s fault. All her fault.

Madi had practically squealed in excitement. Octavia had stared at the child as if she’d never seen one before.

The sun began to splinter between sand particles in the air. They had to duck their heads against the wind. Clarke yearned for Jasper’s goggles. Her heart shuddered.

“Do you think we’ll get to see the bunker?” asked Madi.

Six years ago, a bird had flown overhead.

*

The heart and the head. The oath had started on her lips and ended on his.

Had she known that she was the only thing that had kept him from falling apart on the ring? Without her parting words to him, he would have drowned in his grief for her. But he’d put his heart away. He’d walked the metal halls like he wasn’t imagining her beside him. He’d swallowed his tears with his algae, had put on a brave face for his people.

And, years later, he’d fallen in love.

Why did he feel like he should have told her? Why had he felt like he couldn’t?

His heart shook in a way that made his head falter.

Back in that easy sunlight after the sandstorm, when Echo had run to him. After the initial panic at Octavia’s reaction, his eyes had shifted to Clarke. He hadn’t known how to read her expression, but it wasn’t because of the six years between them. He’d been too late.

Her walls were already standing high.

He saw the evidence in her proud, stubborn chin. Her guarded, distant eyes. It felt like shards of glass against his skin.

He heard her murmuring to Madi behind him. Even after knowing she was alive for a few days now, her voice still put him at ease. Before Praimfaya, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. To him, Clarke’s voice had been an extension of his own, though kinder to him. Now, it was liquid relief, like soothing honey tea. Her voice put a tranquilizer in the part of him that was wired to grieve her. Her name no longer made him heavy; it was the very thing that gave him light.

Clarke had drifted behind him on this trip. On the way here, they had walked side by side.

Six years ago, he’d collapsed on the metal floor.

[deathvalleyqueen]

Full clear on OC asks for Sam! 💋

Thank you my dear... now lets gush about John’s first born and only son shall we???

BASICS

What’s their full name? - Samuel Joseph Seed 

What does their name mean? Why were they named that? -  Well he was going to be named Joseph, after his Uncle...The Father... but his mother was having none of that and switched out the birth certificate forms for the one she had filled out because there was no way in hell Mary Jane was about to let her precious baby boy be named after Joseph... though she allowed his middle name to be Joseph as a way to keep the peace. 

Do they have any nicknames? - SOOOO MANY! Sam - is the most common one and what most people call him. Sammie - What MJ still calls him even as an adult. Bubby - Ellie’s nickname for him as a child, Thing 1 - Sean’s nickname for him as kids. Cousin It - Finn’s nickname for him. Jesus - another Finn nickname. (because he looks like the only image of Jesus they had ever seen) Weasel - Mac gives him this as small child and sticks. 

How old are they? - At the time of New Dawn 24 almost 25 years old.

When’s their birthday? -  October 19th

What’s their zodiac sign/element/birthstone/etc.? Do they believe that holds any significance?

What’s their species/subspecies? Do they have any special/magical abilities? - He’s a Seed... does that count? He has John’s “far too blue” eyes...so like... That could be considered super powers.... 

What “class” do they belong to (for fantasy characters)? If none, what weapon do they favor? - If there was such thing as a Healer Mage class in the FC universe.. .that would probably be Sam’s class because he is exceptionally smart with a real focus in medicine and science/chemistry. If the Collapse wouldn’t have happened he would probably have gone to Med School to become a surgeon. 

APPEARANCE

What do they look like? - Same is the tallest of MJ and John’s kids standing just a hair taller than his father at 5′11. He has long dark brown hair and an impressive beard, both of which he has sported since he was 16 making him often be mistaken for much older than he is. He slight of build and looks to be in far better shape physically than he is actually is. 

Do they have a face claim? - Tom Payne - Specifically as Paul “Jesus” Rovia from TWD

What’s their style like? Clothes, hair, makeup? -  He is a pretty standard guy. He isn’t fancy, mostly because this world doesn’t allow for it. He likes t-shirts, sweaters and jeans. He will wear an old button up shirt if he can find it and has several trench coats he has acquired over the years. His hair is usually down and one the rare occasion that he puts it up, Lily always glares at him and tells him to put his hair down before their mother sees... because with his hair up.. he looks a lot like a young Joseph. 

How do they carry themselves? What’s their default expression? - Sam is a very self assured young man, bordering on the cockiness of John in his youth. He has been painfully aware that he was always one of the more intelligent people in the room from a young age and developed a bit of a superiority complex because of it. He tends to stand with his shoulders back and hands at his side or in his pockets. He is an observer, rarely the person leading the conversation but always watching and passing his judgment.

Do they have any physical ailments or disabilities? - Sam is the only one of MJ and John’s kids to have been born with health issues. He had a medium sized hole in his heart when he was born that eventually required surgery. Though since that surgery had very little issue besides a heart mummer. This however left MJ way over protective of him well into adulthood. 

PERSONALITY

What’s their alignment? Lawful Neutral 

Which one of the 16 Personality Types do they fit into? - INTP

What are their hobbies and interests? Do they have any particular “favorites” (food, books, and so on)? - Sam loves music, he plays piano and guitar. He is much more of a classical music person and as a child spent hours practicing. His favorite books are Animal Farm and Frankenstein. His favorite food as a child was pizza and pasta, as an adult he is happy with whatever he can get but still loves carbs. His favorite item from his childhood he was able to keep was a model plane that John and him made when he was 6. It’s of John’s plane. 

What are they bad at? - Dealing with intense emotions, both their own and other people’s. He never knows how to react and often seems to ‘over react’ with his own emotions. He also can not shoot to save his life. 

What kind of things do they dislike/hate? - Unnecessary cruelty. Onions, Fish and split pea soup.

Do they have any vices/addictions/mental illnesses? - Well... lets just start with he has a lot of childhood trauma... which defiantly manifests it’s self in some pretty well hidden anxiety and depression. He also comes from a long line of people who suffer with various addictions and I could see Sam having again...a very well hidden...drinking problem. Particularly post-ND events. 

What are their goals and motivations? - Their end goal is not peace, as much as an agreement that would allow everyone to function as they need to with in a certain set of rules... IE... he wants to re-establish a ruling body of government on a very small scale in Hope County that would allow for the communities to work together when needed but function independently as they wish as long as they cause no harm to the other communities. This is motivated by his study of history and his belief that because he has studied so much, he has found fault in the old systems and what he will build will be better. 

What are their manners like? Any habits? - He has an odd stillness about him, even as small child. He was the quite one, the better behaved of the twins (easily the most well behaved of all MJ and John’s children). He tends to crack his knuckles when he is nervous or clear his throat when he feels the conversation is getting off topic. 

What are they most afraid of? - Not being able to do enough. He sees what happened because of his father, his family.. his mother’s family. Sam feels (like all the kids do in some way) responsible for fixing the mess that the Seeds created in Hope County. 

BACKGROUND

Where were they born? What was their childhood like? - He was born with his sister Lilith at the birthing center in Hope County (but both he and Lily were sent to a much bigger hospital shortly after they were born because the small hospital couldn’t handle them being 8 weeks early). Their childhood before the collapse was filled with pockets of really happy times mixed with stretches of chaos. Both he and Lily vividly remember The Project at Eden’s Gate and the events of the Reaping. Both he and Lily were present for the attempted arrest of Joseph. After the collapse it was still difficult in the bunker as both his parents struggled with believed loss of Jacob, Ellie and worst of all Grace. Once they left the bunker things settled into a new normal. He is very close with Lily and Rose, as well as his Uncle Mac. He is close with both of his parents but is resentful on some level of their preoccupation with losing Grace.  

What’s their family like? - A hot mess... but the core they are very tight knit. Sam is more ready to trust a member of his immediate family than anyone else. 

What factions or organizations are they a part of? What ranks and titles do they hold? - He and Lily were called “The First of the Children of New Eden” within the Project as small children and as an adult he holds the role of the “doctor” in the community John calls “Redemption” but really Sam is main intelligence gatherer as people are very disarmed by him because of his ability to help the sick. 

How do they fit into their “story”? - Sam is Ethan’s foil for lack of a better way of putting. Ethan is grasping for power, while Sam wants nothing do with holding an position at all within New Eden. He has no desire to fulfill any of the role that The Father saw him. He is easily the one most suited to lead, but has no desire what so ever to lead anyone or be any manner of spiritual leader to people. 

Where do they currently live? What’s their place like?

How do they eventually die? - He dies of a sudden heart attack while speaking to a group of people gathered in New Eden (preaching basically) at the age of 36. He dies before both his parents and all three of his sisters. 

RELATIONSHIPS

Do they have any friends? Would they consider anyone to be their best friend? - His best friend is easily Lily, because they are twins. Their relationship is just on a different level than other peoples. They understand each other often with just glances and small changes in expression. He also becomes close with Finn, both sharing a bit of a sarcastic and witty sense of humor. 

What’s their friend group like? What role do they play in it?

What’s their love life like? (See also: ship question meme.) Do they have any kids? - Well.. not really. He spends most of his time with his sisters during the story and I never really thought of him in romantic terms...at all. I could see him having kids one day, either “adopting” or by natural means... either or. 

Who do they look up to? Who do they trust? - Really the person Sam looks up to the most is Mac. He respects Mac’s ability to pragmatic about difficult choices and always put the others before his own benefit. Mac had a big hand in raising Sam, so this really comes as no surprise. As far as people he trusts, he trusts his family... his sisters (including Grace), his uncles, Rachel/Faith, Ellie,... pretty much everyone but Joseph and Ethan that share DNA with him. 

Who do they hate? Do they have any enemies? - Joseph, mostly because he puts the full blame on what happened with the collapse and the events the happened in his life right before squarely on Joseph’s shoulders. This by proxy extends to Ethan...

Do they have any pets? - As a child he had several, Boomer and Salem even made it to the bunker with them (thank you Sean and Faith) but since then he never really kept bets.

Are they good with kids? Animals? - Yes to both.

FUN FACTS

Which tropes do they fit? Which archetypes? - The Dutiful Son , Looks Like Jesus/Hippie Jesus  (that one goes without saying right?), The Spymaster & Big Brother Instinct 

Do they play any instruments? Sports? - He plays Piano and he was never much for sports. 

What are some items they always carry?- A knife, a small black notebook and a pen.

Do they collect anything? - Books.

What position do they sleep in? - On his stomach mostly with the pillow over his head rather than under his head.

Which emoji would they use the most? - The eyes emoji

What languages do they speak? - English

What’s their favorite expletive? - Fuck

What’s their favorite candle scent? - Probably like Pine...

What songs remind you of them? - Loosing My Religion - R.E.M

Which animal would you say represents them? - The Raven

What stereotypical high school clique would they fit into? - The Weird kids that don’t fit in with any other group who is kinda metal head looking but gets straight A’s. 

What would their favorite ride at an amusement park be? - Bumper Cars (he actually gets to go once as a child)

Do they believe in aliens? Ghosts? Reincarnation or something else? - For someone who grew up in such a superstitious home, if Sam doesn’t have evidence for it... he doesn’t believe. 

Do they follow any religions/gods? Do they celebrate holidays? - Again, for someone who grew up in such an intensely religious home, he lost all connection to PEG or even conventional Christian beliefs by the time he is an adult he declares he is in Atheist. He does preach about keeping a very personal set of morals that you should adhere to but, not the belief there is an all knowing deity. 

Which Deadly Sin do they most correspond to? Which Heavenly Virtue? - Pride 

If you had to choose one tarot card to represent them, which would it be? - The Hierphant 

[stusbunker]

The Crumbling Difference Between Wrong and Right

A Supernatural Fan-fiction

Featuring: Sam Winchester x Reader/ Unnamed Female Character

Word Count: 2085

Summary: Sam looks back over their time together only to find more questions than answers.

Warnings: Grief, character death, mental illness, assumed suicidal recklessness, smut adjacent, show level violence, letting go. Flashbacks in italics.

Beta-work and Beautiful aesthetic from @thoughtslikeaminefield​

Title from Round Here by Counting Crows

^*^*^*^

           She left him often. In big ways and small. He didn’t always notice, and she never really meant to, but it stung all the same. Sam had grown from instability, on resourcefulness and strategy. She grew like a wildflower in a manicured lawn, beautiful in an out-of-place kind of way; defiant in her radiance. He didn’t know if she was coming home until she did. Then, she didn’t.

               Dean watched Sam watch the pyre, the flames reflecting in his eyes as tears dribbled out, heavy with the unsaid. 

               They found her two days too late, the rancid den caked in filth as they dragged her away from what remained of the ghouls. She always had a knack for finding hideouts, it would have been helpful if they’d known she’d been on the case. She wasn’t one to hunt alone. 

                Dean stood in the beating wind as long as Sam needed, watching the fire take her away for good. He almost hated her in that moment, seeing what she did to Sam--- what she always did to him.

^*^*^

               Sam found her at the bathroom mirror, making faces at herself, teeth bared and eyes aghast, barefoot in yesterday’s shirt. He always seemed to breathe deeper with her around and he took a few hollowing ones before he asked when she got in. 

               She giggled once she realized he was there, feigning a casual demeanor as she answered softly. He met her at the sink, arms reaching around her for his toothbrush and paste, working through her space instead of moving her, comfortable without being cumbersome. Physically, they had always existed like a Venn diagram, if not touching, overlapping to the point where they were hard to differentiate.

               She played with his hair as he went through his routine, emphasizing his rolling eyes before he pinned her to his chest, freshly shaved chin wedging between her shoulder and neck. She stayed for three months after that morning, almost long enough for it to feel real.

^*^*^

               Donna’s laugh broke through the conversation, another round of beers passed between them as she told Jody and Donna about their last case, mocking Dean’s angry eyes and keeping her hand snugly in Sam’s back pocket. Sam loved to listen to her stories, even if he had lived them, she never failed to put on a show. It was safe here, with friends, because she didn’t feel the pressure to perform, to entertain, to earn her space. Here they all shared smiles, those that weren’t a currency.

              On the back porch, Sam felt Jody sigh at them in a nostalgic and approving sort of way. It filled him with a warmth that Dean’s appraising glances had sapped. He nodded back through the kitchen window before settling in on the old picnic table beside her. 

            Eyes drifting to the stark winter sky, two borrowed blankets tight over her shoulders, she shivered and shined into the dark. That was the night he decided he’d wait for her forever. If she left for twenty years, he’d be there when she wandered home. If it was love, it was one that could only exist between two broken hunters who, at their cores, were optimists.

             Sam left her to her stargazing, rejoining the dwindling post hunt ruckus. Dean half expected her to set up camp in Jody’s backyard; she’d gotten so comfortable with their friends. Even Claire seemed to tolerate her. He didn’t quite get it, but he kept that to himself. They left with the sun and were back in the bunker by lunchtime.

^*^*^

         On one of her sudden appearances, she showed up just to shut down for a week. 

         She wouldn’t go outside, barely leaving their bedroom. She hummed to herself when she thought no one was within earshot. Sam found her on the fourth day, crying in frustration from crying. 

         Silently, he picked her up, laid her on the bed and curled around her until she quieted. Once she had control of her breathing, he started talking about his dad--- about the dozens of schools, the motels and the countless boxes of macaroni. 

         He told her about Dean and how his every good memory always trailed back to his big brother bearing more than any kid should. He talked about how he had accepted himself as a freak before he understood what was truly wrong with him. He whispered about regret and vice and promises of better days.

         She listened, his voice her anchor in the abyss, but she couldn’t or wouldn’t offer him anything in return. Inside, she knew her stories didn’t matter, because she was defective. The bad things that had happened to her were not centuries in the making, weren’t earth shattering or soul crushing. Her weaknesses could be boiled down to a simple inaptitude for life in the linear. No one said it out loud, but even by hunters’ standards, she was a mess. It took two long cases and a salt and burn before Sam caught her true smile again. It felt like a secret honor to know which of her faces were genuine, which ones only shone in his presence. 

        Relief was good for dreaming.

^*^*^

             Sam didn’t know who to call. He scrolled through her phone searching for names that struck something in his memory. So many had cities for last names he wasn’t sure he should try so hard. Then he worried there were others like him somewhere, and he would want to know, if he hadn’t been there to find her. Even if it was another guy’s voice breaking the news. Eventually he worked out how to add on to her outgoing message, letting whoever called know that she was gone. Never to be sure that there weren’t any others. That his name was the only one in three blaring capitals, a beacon and a prayer in her mind.

               Dean watched him keep the thing charged, a new routine to cling to. Dean didn’t care how he managed it as long as he was staying above the breakers. Sam was a tough son-of-a-bitch, they both should have been used to this by now.

^*^*^

               She stretched over his torso, slamming the alarm clock with a finality much heavier than five more minutes. Her breasts pillowed her collapse onto his ribs, settling in, mumbling through her pout. 

He’d been awake, counting her breaths, allowing his own to overpower his need to move. Her legs tangled around his, a welcomed trap. They lingered in the lazy kisses, teasing and priming and tickling until lines were drawn and eyes snapped open. Dimples and teeth, breaking her down just to coax a certain grin from her pleading lips.

               Once he was done with her, she fell back asleep stubbornly with only the pillows to cling to. Sam had stolen the blankets, another demand left unfulfilled. Of course, he’d rather keep her in his bed than not, asleep or otherwise. The pillowcases would keep her scent for him long enough to stave off the usual melancholy of missing her.

^*^*^

                Dean wasn’t expecting her to show up, but it happened to be one of the times he underestimated her. She hugged him, long and tight, longer when he tried to pull away. 

Sam almost laughed at the look on his brother’s face, until he remembered what brought her back this time. Their mom was dead, even if Dean wasn’t talking about it. 

She didn’t hug Sam like she did Dean, instead she cupped his jaw and stared into his eyes, helping him allow himself to be seen. He sniffed against the onslaught, shaking his head as she softened further, leaning up to kiss his forehead. He dropped his face to her shoulder and cried, hands at her shoulders, bracing himself against her, his long-weathered rock.

               She always knew Dean didn’t trust her, but she never blamed him; after all, she didn’t trust herself. They let Sam organize the tribute to Mary, she sensed whenever a new group of hunters showed up to pay their respects, their presence only added to Dean’s annoyance. 

                She had met Mary in passing, not long enough an acquaintance to have something to add to the stories. But she got to experience Mary’s strongest legacy each time she caught Dean checking on Sam, when Sam chided Dean’s eating habits. These boys existed because a hunter tried to live a normal, safe life and died in the process. Even eventually accepting her family’s calling, led Mary to another early death. 

               Fair had never been in their vocabulary.

               As fast as they gathered, the hunters dispersed, leaving the Bunker to the boys and their sometimes roommate. That night Sam told her about seeing his mom as a ghost and again as a young woman, but nothing had prepared him for her return. 

              She felt the slightly bitter tone as he explained how Dean was Mary’s favorite, saw how he tried to bury that truth with logic and grace. At least she was with John now, they agreed. Uncertain what afterlife meant for them, both with pieces of their hearts already waiting for them in the beyond.

               Sam felt her leave on the third morning, quick and quiet, no ceremony or farewell. It was the last time he’d see her alive. 

              If she’d known, would she have broken the pattern and stayed? Would she have come back at all?

^*^*^

               The bodies were few and far between, teasing her resolve as she stumbled on the remains during an entirely different hunt. She hated a mystery, and this one kept her awake, a puzzle with an unseen timer. A different victim, a different deadline. 

               She didn’t have enough to bring it to Sam and Dean, though she did have a gnawing uncertainty and a four-county-wide dumpsite. One of the burdens and blessings of a mind like hers was its ability to focus on a task and ignore all others. Unchecked, she’d tread the gap between obsessed and consumed.

               They drained her slowly, in turns. Fresh wounds against old scars, she watched them enjoy her bounty. Eventually she made her peace and stopped searching for spite or regrets or something to hold onto. 

                Instead she thought about Sam, somewhere safe. Head propped up on his hand at the library table, laptop open and a book in his lap; the way he could sleep sitting up; his big hand that was always warm. How lucky she was for knowing him, how much she hoped for him, and even some soft afterthoughts for Dean. 

                 She let go thinking about the greens and browns of the earth and the blues and blacks of the sky--- eyes up and smile on.

^*^*^

               The ghoul had lured him in with her face, but it couldn’t mimic her light. 

                Sam swung first, causing Dean to nearly fall on his ass in shock. The partner took the opening and got a solid elbow to Dean’s neck. It was over before Sam could make it worth it, before Dean found her, cold and empty. 

               The desperation surged through Sam, denial numbing his hands to the stiffness of her body, covering the stench of decay. He cradled her to his chest, impossibly smaller than ever before. A shell of her larger than life soul.

              At the pyre, Sam felt Dean’s silent suspicions, but he wouldn’t entertain it. It was so vapidly inappropriate that it churned his stomach to try to reason with it. 

              Instead, he watched the fire burn, slow to tear into her, knowing its own and acknowledging the loss, before calling her back from whence she came: energy and ether.

^*^*^

               The visions had grown more gruesome, the taste of demon blood stuck on his tongue. 

                Sam felt Chuck’s revisions without calculating their weight. His mind had enough to process. When she started toeing in their periphery, he wouldn’t look back at her. He refused to even acknowledge her presence. It was only in his head. 

                Her timing was better than this. Sam let her remain in the audience, let Chuck taunt him without overwhelming him. It was time she got to see his demons. He had juggled enough of hers.

               When Chuck was finally finished and Sam felt himself slipping away, her voice carried him over the final barrier, to where Jess and Bobby, Mary and John were waiting for him. Of course, Dean brought her up, asking if Sam had seen her since they arrived. Sam sighed and shook his head at Dean, content and reassuring, “Can’t keep what doesn’t want to stay.”

^*^*^*^

[bbrandy2002]

The Fall of Cordonia

Chapter Two-Let Mercy Come

Book: The Royal Heir

Summary: More characters fall victim to the attack. Liam makes an uncertain decision. Bradshaw's plan for Riley begins. Leo makes a grand entrance.

A/N: This is dark and may be difficult to read, so just a heads up. Due to the subject matter, this will not be a long series. Thanks for pre-reading @burnsoslow and tossing around ideas @sirbeepsalot

Warning: Character deaths mentioned. Gun violence and profanity.

Characters belong to Pixelberry.

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With white flashes of fluorescent and the nauseating smells of burnt flesh and antiseptic, Drake suddenly became aware of his surroundings and bleak reality. He is pushed past rows of stretchers, lining the corridor of the hospital, each carrying victims of a senseless attack...the dead, the dying and the damned. He was thrust briskly against a wall, to now take his place amongst them.

As the frenzied hands of medical staff ripped at his shirt and inspected his wounds, he could hardly feel any pain as the sound of sorrow incapacitates his senses. Drake attempts to reach up and cover his ears, to deafen the sting of the anguish that lavished the air, only to have them pushed back down at his side.

If the horror of his environment weren't harsh enough, thoughts of Maxwell dying overcame him, as the dried blood on his face had been mixed with the fresh blood of his friend.  Then there was Riley, what had become of her fate after being seized by crazed soldiers, all too exhilerated by her capture. Would they kill her...torture her...violate her? He wallows in speculation while a large part of him wishes the needle that was injecting pain medicine into his veins would pierce his heart, at least it would end his torment.

While waiting with dozens of other souls in a triage area, Drake catches a glimpse of Bertrand, wandering without aim, shell shock etched across his disconcerted face, as he continues his trek. Drake attempts to let out a hallowed call, fearing now for the welfare of his sister and nephew.

Bertrand is brought out of his daze after he hears Drake's pleas and he turns quickly, hopeful its a doctor with news of Savannah's surgery.

Panicked, Bertrand explains with much sorrow, that Savannah was shot at the Valtorian estate, while he and Hakim were riding the nearby nature trails the Queen had recently opened. Bartie was with a nanny, visiting the menagerie and he had yet to hear from them. All decorum was lost, as his eyes frantically beg the door to open, revealing a very much alive and unharmed toddler, he curses loudly with each disappointment.

With hands gripped firmly to the railing of Drake's stretcher, Bertrand struggles to remain on his feet; he wants to collapse, but, can't let go of hope, not yet. He suddenly senses an absence, someone was gone from his life, and an unsettled feeling causes him to become frantic.

"Where's Maxwell?".

The same hot tears that formed after the destruction, found themselves covering Drake's eyes again. He swallows hard, willing himself to succumb to the medication and take him away to a dreamland, one where he doesn't have to break such heartbreaking news.

Bertrand's eyes search Drake's, he could see it, he could feel it, and he knew where his brother was. With his head bobbing, barely able to hold itself up, "Please Drake....tell me Maxwell is okay?"

Drake closes his eyes tightly and shakes his head, fuck, "I'm so sorry Bertrand...Maxwell... is gone".

Bertand tilts his head back, staring blankly, taking deep, painful breaths....

"Maxwell, hit the brakes!", shouted a 10 year old Bertrand, as his 5 year old, little brother, went skidding across concrete on his bicycle. Maxwell had begged their father to teach him how to ride for months, but, finally gave up after hearing, yet again, he didn't have time. Bertrand, who hated the outdoors, watched in amusement from his bedroom window, as his brother, made an attempt to teach himself.

He made his way down the staircase and out the front door to the long and winding driveway that led to their home.

"Bubby...I can teach you to ride if you want".

Maxwell's eyes beamed, he loved it when his big brother spent time with him.

After hitting the pavement, Bertrand checked on and kissed his "boo boo", just like their mother did. He helped him get back up and encouraged him to try it one more time, while he held on to the handle bars to steady the bike.

Slowly he took off, Bertrand guiding him along, then faster....faster...release. Maxwell rides off by himself, laugher filling the air, the wind blowing through his brown locks, sweeping in all directions.

"I'm doing it Bertrand....look at me".

With a large smile, Bertrand jumped with his hands above his head, celebrating along with his brother, "I see you Max...I told you it was easy".

He watched Maxwell peddle down the driveway, swerving to miss rocks and loose sticks. When he finished, he hopped off his bike, letting it fall to the ground and ran to Bertrand. Maxwell grabbed his older brother and attempted to lift him up to share his happiness and victory. Bertrand chuckled, "I don't think you can do that bubby".

"Thank you Bertrand, you're the best brother ever!", he exclaimed excitedly, while hugging him around the waist.

"You're the best brother too, Max".

The air surrounding Bertrand turned ice cold as his heart literally broke into a million pieces. He whispers somberly to himself, "My bub... is gone?". 

Drake gave him a sympathetic nod, as a tired and worn doctor approaches, wearing his fraught emotions on his sleeve, "Duke Beaumont".

Due to the number of victims waiting for surgery, the doctor shared the news of Savannah's death openly, rather than opt for a quieter location. Just as soon as the words were spoken, the doctor hurriedly rushes back to the operating theater to attend to the next, of his many patients.

Drake tries to bolt up, however, the effects of his medicated state was hitting him like a ton of bricks, he was woozy and heavy. Making every effort to yell for his sister, his voice was muffled and unclear. What the fuck is going on...what the fuck.

Bertrand collapses to his knees with a hard thud, no longer having the will or strength to live.

************

After several hours of anxiety induced waiting, the two guards that had been sent by Bastien to check the safety of the palace grounds, finally return to the bunker.

They shared the grim news of the status of Palace staff, however, the occupation of the city by Auvernal appeared to be retracted.

Bastien led Liam through the tunnels, secret passages, and finally through a wall book shelf  that opened into Liam's office.

The stench of death was overwhelming as it mixed with the smoke of nearby fires. Liam covered his nose with his hand, shocked by the appearance of his pillaged study. He glanced over the room with purpose as he walked around it, taking in the damage, before running to the entryway, to check on the body that laid still on the floor.

He knelt down beside the blonde haired woman, littered with holes throughout her slender physique, and slowly pushed her over onto her back, "Madeleine?"

Rubbing his hands over his face, she was his first taste of the brutality that awaits him outside his confines. His thoughts were  swirling with trepidation, he was the King of this country and the weight of this dilemna fell squarely on his shoulders. He stood to peak out the window behind his desk, the crunch of glass under his shoes following him. Liam pushes aside the broken blinds and can't believe the sight of his once beautiful country in desolation. Smolder and ash, painted the once pristine view of the sea and sirens blared in all directions.

Bastien instantly began trying to re-establish communication, he wasn't certain what Liam's plans were at this point, however, outside assistance was needed promptly. Within minutes, he is able to tap into the palace's backup cell and internet generators, "Your Majesty, we are connected again".

Liam has never considered taking a life, he never felt it was necessary or needed. How can he punish innocent people for the actions of one man.....

******

"King Bradshaw, I apologize for interrupting your breakfast, but, the Cordonian Queen is settled in her room", a servant exclaimed.

Bradshaw wiped the corner of his mouth, remaining composed, "Very well, see that nurses attend to her injuries and I will pay our guest a visit following my meal.......oh, and make sure the video feed is ready".

"Yes, sir".

******

Liam had a decision to make, he knew he didn't have the manpower to do it with though. He paced the room, feeling powerless and weak. On the floor, were shattered photos, that of his wedding, his son, his late mother, he bends down and wipes away the broken glass and dirty bootprints that left their symbol on each one.

Across the room, laid Madeleine, still hanging onto an eery death stare, as Bastien covered her with the throw from Liam's sofa.

He leaned on his desk, sweating profusely and feeling the grime in the air penetrate his flesh. Anger could not cloud his judgement, but, damn if he didn't want revenge.

A King's guard knocks loudly on the doorframe of Liam's study, the door still held open by the late Countess. He bows, "Your Majesty", he says slightly out of breath.

"What is it Paul?"

The guardsman steps to the side, as another guard, holding a woman in his arms enters.

Liam's eyes widen with astonishment and disgust as her face falls to the side, revealing her identity. He nearly loses his mind as he begins running both hands through his matted, disheveled hair.

"Bastien....get the Italian Prime Minister on the phone...".

******

Bradshaw had finished his breakfast and was eager to check in on Riley, still hopeful that Liam would contact him soon, now positive he survived the attack.

A flustered guard walks into the dining room, bowing before Bradshaw, "Your Majesty, Leo Rhys is insistent that he meet with you,now....shall I kill him or let him in?".

King Bradshaw burst into laughter, quite amused by this surprise,  "Absolutely not....I would love to hear from this...has been...please send him in at once".

Bradshaw hustles to the dining room safe, opening it and pulling out a silver .50 caliber hand gun. He holds it up before him, twisting it in his hands, admiring its power and lethal prowess.

The door bursts open with vigor and Leo searches the room, his eyes landing on the small statured man with the blood of his countrymen on his hands.

"Mother Fucker!!!", Leo yells and then lunges forward with vengence.

Bradshaw aims the gun in his direction and pulls the trigger, releasing a powerful burst of energy that thrust Leo to the floor. "You were saying?".

******

Liam turns to Bastien, uncertain of his decision, but, now completely obsessed with retalliation. With Queen Isabella and their young children in Paris, he felt this was the time to strike.

"Italian bombers are en route to Auvernal....its time for payback", Liam says with waning optimism.

"What about civilians, sir?", Bastien asked with concern.

"I've asked that only military installations be the target, as well as, a special surprise for Bradshaw", he pauses for a moment, "...he and his palace are about to be obliterated".