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samsno1 · 8 months ago

Note

Just finished it and i loved it so much! could i request a part 2 to Dream Of Me..?

Dream Come True

Sam Winchester x F!Reader

IT'S HERE!!!!! okay, so many of you asked for a p.2 and it's here, finally. Thank you to everyone who left comments under Dream Of Me and now you have the second part. By the way, I think this shows my slight (huge) obsession with Sam's muscles and my lack of knowledge in blowjobs

Read "Dream Of Me" here

Summary: Sam's avoiding you, he's weird ever since he woke up and you had to question him about it sometime.

Warnings: SMUT, unprotected piv (which is fake and i do not encourage), oral (m. and f. recieving), nipple sucking, fingering (sort of), marking, angsty??? maybe, kissing, cursing, use of y/n, dean is done with these two, english is not my first language, NOT PROOF READ, ALL MISTAKES ARE MINE

WC: 11.6K (shhh, don't talk about it)

You can learn how to change Y/N for your actual name here

enjoy!

As soon as Sam arrived in the library and saw you standing there in those jeans that did wonders for your legs he immediately felt the room grow hotter. He felt like a high school boy who had just hit puberty with the way he was feeling today or as if it was the first time he dreamed with a woman in his bed – or other places for that matter. He did have feelings for you for some time, but everytime he thought about you, he thought about the sweetness of your smile or the way your laugh sounded when you were slightly drunk. Not about how loud he could make you scream his name.

Sam wasn’t innocent, and neither were you. He knew that you weren’t – he had heard, when the motel walls were too thin, the bed hitting against it and some curses of pleasure out of your mouth. And you most definitely knew he wasn’t, telling you and Dean the history he had with Ruby in excruciating detail even made you feel tingly inside.

Sam tried, badly, to be nonchalant about it around you but it was so difficult. Your plump lips moving as you explained the case, sometimes your tongue darting out to wet it, were driving him insane. He paid much more attention to the way you spoke to him with your hand on his shoulder during the drive to the case, your breath lightly hitting his face and reminding him of the hot kiss you shared in his head, your hand practically burning on his skin through his flannel. And when you finally found a motel to crash in for the time you stayed there, you started loading the gun barrels inside the boys room while Sam attempted to research and Dean was reading lore books on the small table the room had. The way you worked your fingers with your gun was so erotic without you even wanting it to be. Sam was on the verge of breaking as he stared at you, who was oblivious to his looks.

But one person that wasn’t oblivious was Dean Winchester. When he looked up from his book to Sam, ready to ask him a question, he almost immediately closed his mouth when he noticed Sam was doing anything but research. He looked at the way his brother was sitting, with an elbow on the table, resting his head on his hand, torso slightly turned in your direction, eyes trained on your hands. Dean then looked at you and was shocked that you hadn’t even acknowledged Sam’s stare. He smirked to himself as he shook his head in disbelief.

Of course Dean knew about Sam’s feelings. He got him to admit to his crush on you one night where the brothers were in a bar alone and you were in a hunt by yourself. Sam had just hung up his phone after talking to you, his slightly slurred words made you chuckle in the other end of the line and, when Sam put his phone down on the table, he wrapped one hand in his beer and sighed dreamily, staring mindlessly at his thumb that brushed the bottle left to right.

“Her laugh is so beautiful, it matches her” He murmured and Dean almost choked on his own beer, eyes widening at his brother, eyebrows furrowed. As if Sam had realized he actually said it out loud and not just thought, he looked over at Dean, face to face with his brother’s amused look. Sam just sighed disappointedly, knowing that there was no way he was escaping this, not even giving the ‘I’m just drunk!’ excuse. So, he just accepted it “Don’t tell her…”

As if all dots connected, Dean leaned back on his chair, a grin on his face as he thought about the interactions you and Sam had with each other and how it was actually quite obvious. “You like her?” Dean asked the obvious and Sam just nodded. After that, as the amazing older brother he is, Dean promised he wouldn’t utter a word to you about this and he was keeping his promise up to this day, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t tease the youngest about it…

“Hey Sam, have you found anything?” Dean spoke up and that seemed to wake Sam up from his trance. He cleared his throat and desperately tried to make it seem like he was concentrated fully on his assigned task.

“Um, y-yeah, all the victims died of blood loss and.. and there are bite marks…” Sam said, making you look up at him too, throwing your hair back with a movement of your head. Your hands had stopped working on the guns and you got up from the bed you were sitting, leaving the weapon behind. You walked until you were behind Sam and, using his body for support, putting your left hand over his right shoulder, you leaned in to look at the screen, confirming the information yourself.

Sam stiffened up the moment you got closer to him. With the way you were leaning in – your hand on him again – made him take a deep breath to stay put. He had his eyes glued on the laptop screen because he feared that if he glanced at you in any way he wouldn’t be able to control his most primal needs – A.K.A. avoid his sinful thoughts to take over and a boner to rise. He could feel your warmth behind him and, as you nodded and walked away, completely oblivious to the whirlwind of emotions in his head, he finally felt like he could breathe.

“It’s clearly vampires. Thank God we didn’t have to turn libraries upside down to figure this one out” You said with a slight smile to Dean, your arms crossed in front of you. He closed his book with a thud, thankful for not having to do much more. You turned back to Sam who, at this point, had also closed his laptop and seemed lost in thought.

To get your suit in your bag – that you left over the other bed –, you had to go past Sam and, as you did, you brushed a hand over his arm and got closer to his face, snapping him out of his thoughts. You lowered your voice a little, for Dean not to hear what you were about to say, a worried frown in your face.

“Hey, are you doing okay? You seem off” You ask, slightly tilting your head, your eyes searching into his for any kind of discomfort, be it emotional or physical.

Alarms went off inside Sam’s head and, as soon as he could gather his thoughts together, he suddenly stood up, making you pull away from him and widen your eyes, startled. You furrowed your eyebrows at him and he swallowed deeply, trying to moist his dry throat.

“I’m fine” He mumbles before going to the bathroom, brushing past you in a hurry, his arm bumping against your shoulder. You stare at the shut door once he locks himself inside, mouth agape and an offended look on your face. You turn to face Dean again, questioning him with a look. Dean shrugs his shoulders and gets up from his chair.

At this point you felt kind of…hurt. You had done nothing to Sam, not that you were aware of, and your face dropped. Dean felt the need to guarantee you that it was probably nothing but even he was confused. Sam tended to long to be beside you, to touch you, or have any excuse for you to touch him. He swallowed his jealousy when you had asked Dean once to take his shirt off to care for his wounds. That day, as you stitched the gash on his brother's abdomen, Sam stared daggers at Dean, who felt the need to reassure him that you were all Sam’s, that Dean saw you as a little sister and nothing else.

This kind of avoidance towards you was weird to the point even you felt affected by it. You weren’t one to take things to the heart – you’re a hunter for fucks sake – but when it came to the boys, especially Sam, you felt worse than ever. They were often harsh, either with each other or with other people. Of course they had to be tough and mean when it came to it due to their line of work but, behind closed doors, they were the sweetest people you’ve ever met, always caring for you and one another and often sacrificing their own comfort – and sometimes their lives – so other people can sleep without worrying about what’s lurking in the night.

Still, it hurt when you became a victim of their temper and Sam being the one shutting you out this time was not only unexplainable but also like a punch to the gut. Let's say the tall, muscular and smart guy Sam Winchester was had you falling for him quickly – and, soon, harder – than you expected. He always tried to be as sweet as he could be and as understandable. He had a natural instinct to comfort the victims you guys often talked to, always the one to do the talking. You had noticed the way he approached the subject with care, especially if the victim was related to the interviewed in any way, and had taken that as a mental note. Hey, he’s good with words.

But, Sam could also be firm and assertive when it came to it. Once, while you and him were interrogating a guy who wasn’t cooperating at all with you, even when you both were disguised as FBI, Sam snapped. His big hand came with full force against the table, his palm facing down and a loud bang echoing through the small room. It startled you to the point where you jumped slightly, eyes wide as you looked at your ‘partner’. Sam was fuming. His nostrils were flared and his eyebrows were low, casting a shadow over his eyes. He slowly leaned in closer to the guy's face, a wicked grin emerging on his face.

“Look…” He started, voice low, raspy. He gently pulled his suit aside, secretly showing the man his shiny, silver gun safely resting against his hip. You watched as the dude swallowed harshly and his eyes stared at the weapon. “If you won’t cooperate with us…” Sam straightened up, holding both his hands behind his back as he started to walk until he stood beside the guy. He leaned towards his ear, the guy completely frozen. “We are going to rip the truth out of you” He whispered.

You had struggled to keep your composure. The way Sam showed his power over the man – who ended up telling both of you his side of the story after the threat – was distracting. It was safe to say you had discovered something about yourself that day. You had sat the whole ride back to the motel with your legs crossed to numb the throbbing between your thighs as you imagined Sam talking to you that way, in different settings. A cold shower was barely enough to calm you down.

The mix of all these things and other little stuff about the younger brother is what made him special to you. And, now, he was avoiding you.

You sighed and walked back to the bed, sitting beside the guns you’ve left scattered over it, facing Dean’s direction. You leaned on your knees with your elbows, holding your head with your hands, squishing your cheeks and making your pout more prominent than intended. Dean looked at you with pity.

“Did I do something? Say something?” You ask Dean, looking up at him. Dean shakes his head and sighs, getting up from the chair and walking to the mini bar. You knew exactly what he was reaching for and you stretched a hand out to grab the beer bottle once he handed it to you. You opened it easily with your hand and took three big gulps of it. Dean opened his as he sat down beside you this time, on the bed, and threw the lid over the bedside table, the material clinking against the wood.

“Nah, you didn’t do anything, he’s just in a mood” He said but it didn’t seem to help, your face still sad and your head far away, filled with the wrong thoughts. He sighed and gave you a side hug, your head laying against his shoulder. Dean rubbed his hand up and down your upper arm mindlessly to comfort you. “Don’t worry about it sweetheart, you did nothing wrong, he’s just…being Sam, I’m sure this has nothing to do with you, okay? I’ll make sure to kick his ass later” He smiled.

You smiled slightly at the last part, shaking your head at the older Winchester, the typical brotherly teasing something you grew fond of.

Meanwhile, inside the bathroom, Sam was trying to keep it together. He had never felt this way before and it was driving him crazy trying to stay away from you because, at the same time he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable if anything he did or said showed his attraction – physical and emotional – towards you, he was dreading this. He longed for your closeness, for your touch, not necessarily in a sexual way, much like the one of concern you had just given him. But right now everything became sexual to him, just your hand over his arms was enough to drive goosebumps over his spine.

He washed his face with the cold water from the sink, brushing his wet hand through his hair. He breathed deeply and dried his face, ready to leave the bathroom and go back to acting as if he didn’t want to kick Dean out of the room and have you right here, right now.

Once he opened the door, he regretted it almost immediately. When he saw Dean so close he clenched his hand against the door handle, swallowing his jealousy. You weren’t his, he reminded himself, he didn’t have the right to be jealous of someone that wasn’t his. But, oh, he was. It was uncontrollable, but undeniable.

He watched Dean’s hand rub up and down your arm, your head laid over his shoulder so comfortably. He bit the inside of his cheek as he approached the both of you to place his laptop back into its case. You had noticed his presence, lifting off of Dean and looking at his side profile. He won’t even look at me. You glanced at Dean, who had also realized his brother’s behavior, and gave him a disappointed look.

You sighed through your nose and grabbed your gun to put in the waistband of your jeans. You also took your bag that you always had with you on hunts, separate from the one with your personal items, and threw it over your shoulder. Dean just stared as you got ready to leave, not stopping you. He needed some alone time with Sam to ask him what the fuck was going on.

“I’m going to the car, we can leave once you’re both ready” You said. Dean acknowledged it with an ‘Okay’ and Sam just hummed. You opened the door and left, angrily walking towards Baby.

As soon as the door closed behind you Dean got up from the bed and aggressively spun Sam around, grabbing at his shoulder.

“Hey–!”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Dean interrupted, and an angry scowl on his face. He whisper-yelled, still worried that you might hear them. Sam gave him a confused look and Dean rolled his eyes at the stupidity of his brother. “Why are you acting like this with her?”

“Acting like what?” Sam bit back, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Stop pretending like you don’t know Sammy! Why are you ignoring Y/N all of a sudden? Weren’t you the one all” Dean raised his hands, doing quotation marks with both his index and middle fingers “‘head over heels’ for her, hm?”

Now it was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. He crossed his arms in front of him, slightly looking down at his brother due to the height difference. “It’s nothing” He mumbled, looking away. Images of you roamed around his head at Dean’s question and it reminded him why he was doing this in the first place. He was avoiding you for your own good, you and your friendship with him.

“It’s not nothing, damn it, the girl thinks she did something. Did she? Because you sure make it look like you are angry with her” Dean kept poking at the subject, getting on Sam’s nerves. His face softened once his brother told him you felt bad. “What happened?” Dean asked again, this time a little more softly after he noticed Sam’s face drop at his words.

Sam sighed and looked around the room, nervous. He didn’t know if he should actually tell Dean about this – he’d definitely make fun of him endlessly. But still, he didn’t know if making you sad was worth it. He ran a hand through his hair, something he did when he was under pressure and mumbled “I had a dream”

“What?” Dean asked, not understanding whatever language his brother just spoke.

“A dream”

“Dream? What do you mean?”

“I had a dream…with Y/N”

“What do you mean a dream with–” Realization suddenly hits Dean “...Oh” and he relaxes his eyebrows, like he just made sense of everything that happened that day. Then he smirks. Smirks and starts to laugh his ass off as Sam just stands there, cheeks flushed, waiting for his brother to calm down. He knew it.

Sam started to smile slightly as his brother kept trying to talk over his laughter, his embarrassment almost gone. Once Dean finally took a few breaths, a hand on his chest as he dried his fake tears and his laughter died down with a sigh. He looked at Sam who stood there absolutely flushed.

“Man, that’s why you were taking longer in the shower than usual” Dean said with a fake disgust in his face. “Remember me to wash that bathroom twice before using”

“Shut up” Sam mumbled and looked away, suddenly deep in thought. Dean stopped joking and crossed his arms, giving Sam a silent questioning look. Sam glanced at his brother. “What?”

“This kind of still doesn’t answer my question. Why are you avoiding her?” Dean asked and Sam looked at him like he had three heads. “Shouldn’t this make you, and I can’t believe I’m saying this but, excited to be around her”

“Dean, come on, I don’t want her to think I’m a pervert and, besides, she doesn’t even like me that way” And when Sam said that, Dean’s eyeballs almost popped out of his head, his eyes widening at his brother. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, asking the Lord above – better yet, Chuck – to give him the strength to deal with Sam’s stupidity.

“Do you not see it?” He asks. Sam makes a face.

“See what?”

“Oh my God, are you blind Sammy? Or just severely oblivious?” Dean inquiries. “She’s so obviously into you it hurts to watch”

“Dean, please–”

“Don’t ‘please’ me! It’s so clear! She’s always near you when she has the chance, she always insists on helping you when you get hurt on hunts, she looks at you like you’re the last man on Earth, she always worries so much about you…”

“She does the same with you and…” Sam bit the inside of his cheek “...you guys seemed pretty cozy when I came out of the bathroom”

Dean almost hit Sam right then and there, or took one of the guns and shot him through his leg – as a warning. How could he even…?

“Are you fucking serious? That girl is like a sister to me. And why would I even flirt with her when I know you’re into the chick? I’m bad but not that bad, I ain’t stealing your girl” Dean reasures Sam.

His girl. Dean said. But you weren’t his. Sam sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, a million thoughts running through his head. He walked close to the bed and sat down, his and his brother’s guns slightly bouncing over the mattress with the added weight. He held his head in his hands, his hair falling beside his face, his elbows propped over his knees.

“What am I supposed to do?” Sam asks, helpless. Dean shakes his head.

“Talk to her, it’s as simple as that” Dean responded as if it truly was that easy. Sam thought about it. You weren’t gonna hate him for liking you and, maybe, Dean was right and you liked him too. It was a 50/50 chance between rejection and love. He weighed his options and decided in his mind.

Sam suddenly got up, startling Dean. He grabbed his gun and bag, walking around with a determined gaze. Dean accompanied his movements with his eyes, wanting to question the youngest about what conclusion he had gotten to but he was soon with a hand on the door handle and he looked back at his older brother, smiling.

“Let’s go, we have things to kill”

It was safe to say that seeing you in a suit didn’t help Sam’s mind as it roamed back to those thoughts. As said before, you looked good in absolutely anything, but boy could you absolutely tear a man apart with the way you looked. You styled your hair in a more professional way using Baby’s rear view mirror and it looked amazing, your strands glowing in the faint daylight the day had left.

You were both standing close enough so that Sam was able to smell your perfume and the scent of your hair products. It became harder to concentrate on whoever you were interviewing, his eyes wandering to stare at the back of your head, wanting to see inside your brain for any message that said ‘Hey Sam, I’m into you too!’

Dean had gone elsewhere to deal with other things regarding the case so that left you and Sam. Alone. You felt, for the first time in years that you knew Sam, awkward to be around him. On the ride to the witness’ house, you barely talked, something that rarely happened between the two of you. You thought about asking what was wrong but that didn’t work the first time so you hadn’t done it again.

Right now, you sat on the passenger seat of the Impala, staring at Sam's hands gripping the steering wheel. He had hardly looked at you throughout the whole day — or so you thought.

Sam was in an intense battle inside his head and the way you kept looking at him wasn't helping. When he left the room after talking to Dean, he thought he felt brave enough to tell you everything he wanted to but, once he saw you sitting in the backseat in all your beauty, he was reminded of why he hadn't done it before.

He looked at you in secret everytime you were distracted. The way your hips moved when you walked, the way you crossed your legs in the seat every now and then. Oh what he wouldn't give to squeeze your thighs between his fingers right now. You had your arms crossed in front of your chest and — may Sam be forgiven — but the way it made your breasts look when you did that.

He gripped his fingers against the steering wheel even tighter, grounding himself from his thoughts, his knuckles turning white. He sped up the car, unconsciously trying to get back to the motel quicker.

You looked at his side profile then, a quizzical look on your face. He still didn’t look at you.

“Sam” You called. He didn't acknowledge it entirely, his head to focused on not getting a boner at the thought of fucking you in the backseat. You inch closer to him, a hand on his shoulder, “Sam!”

“What!” He answers, dryly. You brush it off, already used to his attitude for the day.

“You don't need to go that fast, we aren't in a hurry, God damn” You huff and pull your hand away from him, sinking back down in your seat angrily.

“Okay, sorry” He mumbles. You feel your phone vibrating in your pocket. A message from Dean. You take your phone and read the message. “Found a bar, don’t wait for me to get back ;)”. You chuckle and send an answer back knowing you’d probably only see him next morning. You told him to be safe – in all ways – and not drink too much. Sam looked at you from the corner of his eye. “Who’s that?”

“Madonna” You reply, sarcastically. He doesn’t say anything so you look at his face, which has an annoyed expression over it. “It’s Dean, he found a bar, told us not to wait for him”

Sam hums in acknowledgement and silence settles again, letting your mind wander over the possibilities of why Sam was acting with you this way. You were usually pretty playful, talked a lot with each other, either in the car or before you both parted ways to sleep, each in your own room. This silence, this avoidance was driving you nuts trying to figure out what happened. You felt like crying, honestly, overwhelmed with this feeling inside you. These feelings, plural. Your feelings for Sam mixed with this sickness that downed on you when you would notice he could barely say a word to you.

Lost in your head, you almost didn’t notice when Sam parked Baby in the motel's parking lot, only realizing it when the comforting hum of the engine went away. You both got out of the car, getting your bags in the trunk. You weren’t in the same room as the boys but you felt the need to talk to Sam so, when you came up behind him to his door and got inside his room, stepping in and quickly closing the door behind you, he was confused.

“Aren’t you going to–”

“What’s going on?” You asked, throat tight and heart aching, but you refused to cry. Sam furrowed his eyebrows and you stepped closer to him, standing barely two feet away from the Winchester.

“You’ve been acting cold towards me all day! All damn day. And I have no idea why.” You pressed your index against his chest accusingly, pushing him back slightly, not because you were necessarily stronger, but because you caught him off guard, your outburst was unexpected.

“I didn’t–”

“I tried, okay? I tried to figure out what I did but I…I don’t know. I tried to talk to you earlier today and you brushed me off, you seem incapable of looking at me properly, you’re cold, you’re quiet and I have no idea why so, please tell me. What’s going on?”

Your eyes were glassy and your heart was racing. Sam was speechless, he didn’t know you were feeling this way. Dean had told him, of course, but he had no idea you were actually that affected by his distancing. And to think that he only stood away because he didn’t want to make you feel bad or creeped out about his nervousness, it had the exact opposite effect. He felt his heart sink as he saw you holding back tears and his first instinct was to wrap his arms around you.

You hugged him back, thankful for some reassurance that he at least didn’t hate you, your arms wrapped around his waist and your face pressed against his chest. Sam caressed your head, your hair feeling soft under his fingers.

“You didn’t do anything, Y/N, don’t say that” He told you.

You pulled away from his chest to look at him. “Then tell me what’s wrong”

Sam sighs and closes his eyes momentarily. He had imagined this moment thousands of times, where he told you about how he felt. He couldn’t believe it would be after he ignored you because you were too hot to handle. He looked at you again, drowning in your beautiful eye color, one that he could stare for hours at its beauty. He then looked up, asking for the strength to tell you all he wanted, his throat visible to you as he swallowed his nerves.

“Actually, yeah, you kind of did something” He says, moving his hands until he was holding your upper arms, a smirk on his lips as he eyes you down. You opened your mouth, shocked, but, before you could say anything, he continued. “You drive me crazy, Y/N”

You stood still, scared to move as he talked. You were confused, lost. Hadn’t he just said you had nothing to do with this? Meanwhile, Sam just looked at you for a few seconds, silent. He took you in completely, your body still hidden under the FBI suit but he felt like he already had it memorized. He wanted to touch you, to feel you and he felt like, if he held back any longer, he could lose you. Lose you to someone who wasn’t scared of loving you. “Sam, I don’t–”

“Just– Look at you. You are one of the most amazing women I know, you’re strong, you’re smart, you– God, there’s no words that can describe just how incredible you are. You care for people more than you do for yourself and, even if that makes me angry sometimes, it just shows how big of a heart you have” He takes a breath. “You can be dying but you’d still put a bandaid on someone's scraped knee just because they asked you to, because you care.”

Sam slowly moves his hands to hold you by your neck, his rough palms hot against your skin. You had no words, you just hoped that your eyes could talk for you as you stared into his hazel ones. You had so much to say but words refused to form in your mouth. You never thought Sam would be the one to confess, hell, you never thought he even liked you that way. Hearing him say those things was like getting hit by a train of happiness. You raised your hands to wrap around his wrists, gently holding them as you prayed for him to continue.

“You’re the girl I picture to be forever in my life, if not as a lover, please let it be as a friend. I can’t bear the thought of losing you, but, at the same time, I can’t keep these feelings to myself much longer. If you don’t want me that way, it’s fine, but I need you here with me, one way or another” Sam finishes and starts searching your face for any kind of reaction. He just put his heart in your hands and it was up to you to shatter it or not. He felt his nerves on fire. He rubbed his thumb against your jawline to keep himself grounded and hold onto the comforting thought that you hadn’t pulled away from his touch.

You suddenly smiled, wide and proud. Sam seemed to relax when he saw it, a breath he didn’t know he was holding coming out of his mouth. You felt a rush of happiness go through you as you realized he wasn’t avoiding you because he was mad at you, he was avoiding you because he wanted you so bad he felt like he could make you mad. And that was so Sam. It was exactly like him to tone down his own feelings because of other people and how they might feel, even if it eats him on the inside. What felt even better is that he managed to muster up the courage to come here and tell you about everything in the most Sam way possible, in a way that made shivers run through you.

“Sam Winchester, if you don’t kiss me right now I might just–” He didn’t even let you finish, his plump lips crashing against yours in earnest. He waited months for this and there was no way he was delaying this further. Your words are swallowed down by his mouth along with a surprised gasp you let out. One of his hands went further until it held you behind your neck, his thumb still caressing your jaw as relieved breaths came out of his nose, he was so nervous he would get dumped and his heart crushed that kissing you felt better than anything he ever imagined. The dream might’ve been good but actually kissing you felt so, so much better.

Your lips were sweet and your skin felt soft, a big contrast against his rough hands from handling weapons and burning bones. Those dreams of his came to mind yet again, the thought of exploring your whole body with his mouth made him groan, opening his mouth and teasing your lips with his tongue so you’d open them. You gladly did, letting one of your hands wrap around the base of his neck, pulling him in.

He lowered one of his hands to your waist through the inside of your black suit, pulling your body flush against his, squeezing your skin through the layers of clothing, eager to feel every inch of you. You groaned at his touch, a surge of heat polling into your belly. His hands took the opportunity to explore what he could – like dream Sam did – trailing his fingers up your back and you shivered, the light touch just making your need for him bigger.

His tongue explored your mouth, the kiss growing more heated within the moment. He starts to gently take the suit off your body, sliding it against your arms without breaking the kiss. Sam thinks for the first time in the last few seconds. He thinks about all the times he imagined being able to do this and, now that he had the chance and his feelings were reciprocated, he wanted to make it as good as possible for the both of you. He pulls away, wanting to make sure that you are on board with this.

His breathing is heavy and his cheeks are flushed as he looks at you, pupils dilated with desire – desire for you. Not once in your life have you thought that Sam would look at you that way – and God how much you dreamed of it. He was always much more secretive with his antics than Dean was, often keeping to himself instead of bragging about it, but you knew. You knew he was a passionate lover and the way he behaves just gives away how much of a gentleman he must be in bed.

“Is this okay? Are you okay with this?” He asked you, voice filled with lust and deeper than his usual. You could’ve melted right then and there as he looked between your eyes, searching for any discomfort. Instead of telling him, you decided to show Sam how bad you wanted him. You slowly walked back, dropping the suit he already had taken halfway off from your body to the ground. You didn’t take your eyes off of him and he stared intensely at you right back, attentive to what you were going to do.

Your hands slowly trailed up your body, roaming through your curves and you see Sam swallow, his fists clenching and unclenching beside him, his throat so deliciously biteable. Once your fingers arrived at the top button of your white shirt, you started to unbutton one by one, slowly. You took your time, eyes trained on his with a smirk on your lips. You were playing bold but the way he was looking at you made your knees weak. His eyes were analyzing every movement of your hands and he stood unbelievably still, like a hunter watching its prey, careful to not scare it away.

Once the last button was undone, you dropped the white clothing to the ground. You now stood in your bra, the cold of the room hitting your skin and making goosebumps rise over it. You got closer to the man again and he accompanied you with his hazel orbs, now a tone darker due to his dilated pupils and the poor lighting in the room. You took one of his hands and placed it against your bare skin, the hot touch making you sigh before grabbing him by the neck with the other hand, bringing his face closer but, instead of kissing him, you placed your mouth closer to his ear.

“I want you, Sam” You whisper in his ear and leave a kiss right below it. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, keeping as much control as he could, biting his lower lip. He groans and a ton of thoughts go through his head – you, naked below him, your attitude gone as he fucks it out of you, pleasurable moans of his name coming out of your mouth. I want you, you said. He strongly grips your hips with both hands, making you yelp, and pushes you towards the bed, manhandling you successfully. Once your back is against the mattress, Sam immediately attacks your neck, kisses and bites making you sigh his name and arch your back into him.

“You have no idea what you do to me” He mumbled against your skin. And, really, you had no clue. He had spent the whole day thinking about this exact moment. The whole day, more like the last 4 months. The months where he had the urge to smash whatever man’s head that flirted with you against a wall and kiss you right then and there, in front of everyone to show who you truly belonged to. “For ages I’ve been thinking about you like this, you are everything that I think about and it’s driving me insane. You drive me insane”

He bites you particularly harder and you moan, your hand flying to his head and tugging at his hair. “Sam!” Your plea came out pathetically needy and he pulled away from your neck to look you in the face, his strong arms caging you beneath him and making you focus solely on the grin he had displayed on his lips. He kisses your lips again, passionate and needy, a groan rippling deep in his throat.

With his lips still glued to yours, he tugged his own suit away from his body, fumbling with the clothing and throwing it away so quick you barely noticed it, loosening his tie and bringing his hands right back to your body, because now that he could touch you, there was nothing in the world that could take him away. He landed his hands on your ribs and trailed then behind your back, his fingers teasing against your bra.

He broke the kiss and with unsteady breaths close to your mouth he asked: “Can I?” as he teases his finger under the bra strap. You hummed in approval and grabbed both his cheeks, giving him a firm peck on the lips to emphasize it.

“Yes, you can, please” You say. It came out much needier than intended but Sam didn’t seem to mind. You thought he didn’t, but he did. He smiled at you, feeling pride in the thought of making you needy and, hearing your voice – that’s so assertive and strong on a daily basis – breathy and desperate, made him wonder why he hadn’t done this earlier. You looked stunning under him and no dream could ever picture what he was seeing. Your eyes hooded, mouth agape and thumbs caressing the stubble on his face, eager to touch him as much as he was to touch you. He was looking right through the gates of heaven.

He proceeded to unclasp your bra, gently taking it off of you. He does all that without taking his eyes off your face and only allows himself to look down once the undergarment was long forgotten, laying on the ground. You didn’t know what to do or where to look, turning your face from him and feeling your cheeks heat up. You, of course, had been with other men in bed and you never truly cared if they didn’t think of you above a one night stand – you didn’t think much of them either. But Sam made you feel nervous. He was being so caring up until now, contrasting against most men you’ve been with, the thought of not reciprocating it properly made you shy below him.

He was appreciating the perfection he had under him, his fingers trailing your sides affectionately when he noticed your face turning away. You were biting your lip and avoiding his piercing gaze and he raised a hand to hold your chin, slowly turning your face to look at him again. He kissed you to ease your nerves but, this time, it wasn’t lustful, it wasn’t simply a carnal need, he kissed you with love, with passion and you could feel it tearing through your soul, his feelings pouring out and painting your insides.

He pulled back again and his eyes traveled through your face as a smile painted his lips. “You’re beautiful” He says and you smile back at him widely, your heart racing in your chest. You didn’t know what to say to that so you grabbed at his loose tie that hung just below your jaw and pulled him in harshly, smashing your lips against his. The unexpected move made Sam lose his balance and you took the opportunity to change your positions, laying him back on the bed as you straddled his waist with your legs.

Sam gripped your hips as you made out, gently rolling you over him and you felt it. You felt him under you through the clothing you both still had on and a whine escaped your lips into the kisses. Sam leaves your lips to start attacking your neck, leaving hickeys and bites behind. He was holding onto the last ounce of control he had, you were just so much. Every little noise you made went straight to his cock and he couldn’t handle it anymore, you still had too much clothing on and he needed to do something about it.

Sam turned both of you over again and left your lips to stand straight in front of you. The sight of you half naked, splayed out over the bed, hair messed up, shiny spots from his saliva against your neck and collarbone was very close to the sight he’d dreamed about. But a hundred times better. Because this was real, he was touching you, kissing you, marking you and making you his.

He felt suffocated in his own clothes and he took the opportunity to take off his tie and his white shirt along the way, slowly revealing his defined body. You swallowed to try and not drool over the sight, his strong physique covered by a thin layer of sweat, the tattoo he had on his chest contrasting against his tanned torso and few scars he had here and there. Some were white, others were pink-ish – more recent – but he looked fabulous no matter what. You’d seen him shirtless before, while patching him up or when the bunker was too hot for either of the brothers but none of those situations were as intimate as this. He was half naked only for your eyes to see – as much as you were for his.

He noticed your stare and he smirked as he approached your lower belly with his mouth. You held your breath and closed your eyes as his mouth made contact with your skin. From then on, he kissed his way up, biting here and there in places only you would know if the mark was still there the next day. He kissed your own scars that were scattered through your torso softly, treating them with care because, as much as him, you had gotten hurt on hunts. Besides, he found it amazing how strong you were. He admired you and your scars were there to prove to everyone who saw you that you were a fighter.

His hands came up alongside his kisses, caressing your sides so lightly it was almost ticklish. When his mouth got to the valley of your breasts he looked up at you, a question in his eyes. He had his hands placed right below your boobs, not moving, not touching them, just there as he waited for your approval. You were burning up from the inside out, the sight was so much. His eyes pleading for you to let him touch you, his hair making a curtain around his face.

“Touch me, Sam” You whisper, knowing that even if it wasn’t loud, he could hear you. He grinned and went right into action, his hands filling themselves up with your breasts, his thumbs teasing your nipples. You let out a low moan, the little stimulation you got from his fingers finally doing something to soothe the fire inside you.

He joined with his mouth, sucking and licking deliciously at it. You flew a hand to tangle into his hair, unconsciously tugging at his roots when he lightly bit at your nipple. Sam would groan against your skin every time you would tighten your fingers in his hair and he felt like he could cum just by hearing your faint pleas and breathless whines. He continued kissing up after that, his hands still squeezing your breasts lightly.

His mouth marked your collarbones with hickeys, painting your skin with reds and purples. He nipped at your neck, sucking at your pulse point and you bucked your hips against his, the pleasure too much and too little all at once. He was taking his time with you, appreciating every second that he could get and yet you felt his desperation when he tightened his hands around your boobs once your crotch hit his.

You tugged his hair harder to bring his face close to yours and Sam complied. You smashed your lips against his, the kiss all tongue and teeth, completely desperate. Your breathing was heavy and Sam brought his hands to your back, lifting it off the bed and making your chest glue against his, your sensitive nipples grinding against his skin. You clawed your nails on his shoulders to keep yourself together, markings that looked like half moons left behind in your desperation to remind you all this was real.

You dragged your hands down his arms, nails lightly scraping over his skin, and gently guided his forearms down, his hands going along. He proceeded to rest his palms over your covered ass, groaning in your mouth when he realized what you were insinuating. You wanted more, needed more.

You pulled back from his mouth just enough so you could talk. You opened your eyes to see one of the sexiest views you’ve ever encountered. Sam’s mouth was open, unsteady breaths hitting your mouth as his eyes stared down at you. You brought a hand to his cheek and just appreciated the sight for a moment before your mouth gave him an open mouthed kiss below his jaw. You felt goosebumps down your spine when he moaned lightly at your action, his hands squeezing at your ass. You placed your mouth close to his ear and Sam closed his eyes, waiting to see what you were going to do now.

“Fuck me, Sammy, don’t hold back” You whispered and Sam’s knees almost gave out, the nickname he usually hated hearing sounding so sweet coming out of your mouth. He pulled back to look at you.

“Are you sure?” He asked, looking between your mouth and your eyes. You nodded.

“Yes” Was all you had to say before he grabbed at the hem of your pants, dragging them down your legs. He distanced himself from you to kneel between your legs, face to face with your covered pussy, the only thing you were wearing now being your panties.

After discarding your pants, Sam roamed his hands slowly up your legs, from your ankles to where your hips connected to your thigh. You were clenching and unclenching your fists beside your body, holding your torso up with your elbows and looking down to see him hypnotized by your soaked underwear, his eyes glued. You were embarrassedly wet and, as Sam dragged a finger over it, grinding against your neglected clit, you bucked against his hand, whining.

“Sam…” You pleaded and he finally looked up at you. You were taking deep breaths, your chest going up and down, decorated by the marks left by his mouth and teeth. You looked stunning. “Do something”

And he does. He kisses right above your covered sex and you moan deep in your throat again, fingers gripping the sheets. Sam was feeling pride in himself. He was the one who got you like this, not any other man. He was the one you were begging for and he was the one who was going to give you everything you wanted. He wanted to worship you atom by atom of your being because that was what you deserved, he was going to treat you like the goddess you were.

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties and, like he was opening a present he long wished for, – which was kind of true – he takes it off so calmly you were close to combusting. When Sam finally sees you completely nude for the first time, only for his eyes to see and outside of his dirty dreams, he hums in delight. Fucking hums. He’s done for the moment he sees your cunt, wet and glistening just for him. Oh how badly he wanted this, for so, so long he wanted you like this and now he was finally fulfilling his deepest desire.

He squeezes your thighs in his hands before reaching for your sex, his middle finger collecting your wetness in his finger. You buck against his hand again, this time even more sensitive and neglected than before. And you cry out, not with tears, but a desperate sob for attention. Sam notices that and looks up at your face to see your eyebrows furrowed and a sheen of sweat in your forehead, you looked so fucked out without even him actively doing anything. He softened and caressed your sides with his hands, soothing your nerves – or trying to, at least.

“Shh, pretty girl, I’m gonna take care of you” He says “I’m just appreciating how perfect you are, taking my time with the girl of my dreams”

Your face softened and you felt your cheeks warm up even more than they already were. You bit back a smile. You felt unique at that moment, as if you were the only woman in the world as he said the sweetest words inches away from your pussy, it was almost laughable to think that one of the most romantic things you’ve ever heard was said between your legs.

Sam smiled at you and started kissing your inner thighs, so close yet so far from where you truly wanted him. He loved kissing your skin, he loved to feel you and you were keeping that in mind. He expressed his love physically rather than using words and you were just realizing it wasn’t just in bed he was like that. He always wanted to cook for you, he knew how you liked your drink, he would take care of you when you would get too drunk or when you were hurt or not feeling great. He hugged you, kissed the top of your head, pranked you. He gave you his jacket when you were cold or for you to use as a pillow when you were sleeping on a longer ride. He protected you, even if he knew you didn’t need it, either literally, putting his body in front of yours when someone or something threatened you, or not letting you go alone on hunts – including this one, where you had offered to go alone to questioning and, even if he was technically avoiding you, he wasn’t going to let you go solo.

Sam had loved you for so long and you were oblivious. Were. Because now he was digging his fingers in your thighs, mouth closing over your clit and you were arching your back. His stubble scratched your inner thighs, adding more to the building pleasure in your belly. He sucked at your cunt so skillfully that you wondered how long you would last like this and how much he had practiced to have a mouth that was able to do that. He moved his hands to your ass again, bringing your hips up and burying his face deeper into your heat.

He felt like he could die happy between your thighs because he wasn’t leaving there anytime soon. You were delicious and he was drinking in your noises like a drug, getting high off his lust and your taste. He hummed and groaned against your pussy, his cock pulsing so bad it practically hurt, almost cumming in his pants just from this.

“Sam– Oh God, please, please, plea–se” You cried out, the pleasure almost too much, the foreplay making you sensitive to a level you felt everything ten times harder. Sam knew exactly what he did to you, it was like he edged you consciously, knowing you’d beg for him louder once he finally got to touching you. And damn him because it worked, you were a moaning mess and he would be lying if it didn’t stroke his ego to hear you plead for him, submitting to his ministrations so quickly, it was adorable.

He was eating you out with everything he had, digging his nails on your skin. You were soon close to the edge, tightening your thighs around his head so he would not pull away. Everything around you consisted only of him, his scent, his noises, his body, him. It was overwhelming and, with a loud cry of his name, you came, hard.

The room went out of focus, your eyes rolling back in pure pleasure. You had trapped Sam’s head between your legs and he hadn’t stopped. He kept licking you clean, completely lost in your pussy. He could stay like that forever, until his jaw went sore, just so that he could hear you over and over again while he’s nose deep into your cunt. He only comes back to the real world – the one that doesn’t consist in an infinite loop of your voice moaning his name – when you pull at his hair and your thighs open space to let him get up.

“T’much Sammy'' You say, breathless. You bring him up from your cunt, and look at his face, glistening with your juices, a giddy smile on his lips – like a kid who just got a truckload of candy dumped at their house – and cheeks red from the heat. You smile back at him and giggle. Who would’ve thought that he would make you cry for him to touch you and, minutes later, you’d be laughing at his mischievous grin from making you cum.

You brought him back up with a hand behind his neck and he gladly crawled on the bed until he was face to face with you again, his hands supporting his upper body so he wouldn’t crush you. You looked at him for a few seconds, a look that you intended to fill with love and care and he reciprocated, his head angling 45° with a gentle smile that made him look absolutely adorable. You put a strand of his hair behind his ear, which proved useless as it fell right back to curtain his face, his hair being too straight and too soft to hold up like that. You chuckled lightly and pulled him in for a kiss.

You could taste yourself on his tongue, the saltiness making you hum in his mouth. The kiss grew heated fast and you started to roam your hands over his chest, his muscles tensing under your light palms. You explored his body as much as he did to yours, caressing over every visible muscle he had – which, honestly, was a lot. When you got to his abs, Sam broke the kiss to let out a shaky breath. He gently grabbed your wrists and kneeled on the bed, his body now in its full glory above you, the lightning in the room making his body even more defined.

With your wrists in his hand, Sam dragged your palms, that were flattened against his skin, lower. And lower. Until you were touching the hem of his pants that he still, incredibly, had on. You stared at the bulge he had right below, swallowing thickly and letting out a deep breath, your cunt clenching in response. He looked big. You should have an idea, Sam was 6’4, of course it would be proportional to his height but God if it didn’t make you think about swallowing him down, the tip hitting the back of your throat, tears welling up in your eyes as he fucked your face.

“Want me to take them off?” You hear his voice, snapping you out of your fantasies. You looked up at him and down again. You hooked your fingers in the waistband and, on cue, Sam let go of your wrists. You slowly brought his pants and underwear down at the same time, too eager to keep up the foreplay and too desperate to tease.

When you finally see it, an audible groan reverbates in the back of your throat. Sam moans lowly, the pain from the constriction caused by his boxers and pants finally going away and making him even more aware of the neglect his dick got up til now. He watches your reaction carefully and, one of the first things you do is throw your legs back, standing on your knees, one hand supporting your body as the other stops midway to his dick. Sam felt his whole body burn with need. God what did he do to deserve you.

You were on all fours in front of him, head inches from his cock, eyes now looking up at him with a question. You felt like if you opened your mouth you would drool, you needed him inside it and you were silently asking him if it was okay.

Sam angled his torso to bring his face closer to yours, grabbing your chin with his hand and giving you a firm peck on the lips. “Do it, beautiful” He whispered against your mouth and straightened up again and you confirmed with a nod before wrapping your hand around his dick.

Sam breathed out when you started to pump him, your hand doing light movements. He closed his eyes and let out a sigh of your name, a silent plea and you gladly listened. You wrapped your mouth around the tip, just the tip for now, and circled your tongue around it, the salty taste of precum invading your mouth. Sam’s hand instantly flew to your head, encouraging you to take him deeper, but not forcing you. Still, you started to relax your throat and took as much of him as you could, hollowing your cheeks.

“Y/N, baby, Jesus” Sam sighed and your insides tingled. You took what you couldn’t take in your mouth with your hand, squeezing and pumping using your spit as lube. You could feel Sam holding back, his hips stuttering every now and again. You braced yourself, deciding to give him more, and placed your hands on his thighs, tapping it twice with your index finger. Sam looked down at you, swallowing his breathy groans. He damn near came just by looking at you, those beautiful eyes staring up at him, your mouth wrapped around his dick. He concentrated, remembering the silent message you sent him.

“I don’t want to hurt you” He said and you did your best to shake your head no in your conditions. You won’t. And emphasized it by squeezing his thighs and pushing your head forward. Sam sighed and nodded. “Okay, but if it’s too much, tap three times, get it doll?” He asked. The nickname made you shiver, his voice sounding so sweet calling you that. Brushing it off you tapped his thigh three times, just for him to know you understood what he said.

Sam started to rock his hips back and forth slowly, using your mouth for his pleasure. All you did was relax your throat as much as you could and breathe through your nose. He started to quicken up within time, losing his control as his release came closer. He was grunting and moaning and all his noises went straight to your pussy. He let out sighs of your name, his head thrown back and his neck glistening with sweat, his Adam's apple bobbing everytime he swallowed.

Too enamored by his noises, you lost focus and gagged on his cock, tears stinging your eyes. Sam loudly moaned your name at that, hips faltering as he tugged at your head to take your mouth off his cock. His breathing was heavy and his mouth was dry and he stood face to face with you to kiss your lips again, moaning inside your mouth. You were a bit disappointed that he hadn’t cum but you swallowed his whines gladly with your mouth, clasping your hands on each one of his cheeks. He pulled away and caressed a thumb over your lips.

“What have you got in that mouth of yours sweetheart?” He asked with a smirk and you bit your lip.

“Says the one who was eating me out like a starved man” You replied, wrapping one arm around his neck as your index finger traced his lips before giving them a peck, smiling once you pulled away. He smiled at you before wrapping his arms around your waist, like he would in a hug, and throwing you back. You shrieked as you landed on your back and Sam laid practically on top of you, attacking your face with tiny kisses, making you laugh under him.

Once he stopped, he just stared down at you. “Hi” He said.

“Hi” You whispered back after your laugh died down.

“Did I already tell you you’re beautiful?”

“Once…twice”

“You’re beautiful” He said, again “I’ll never stop telling you that”

“I can deal with it” You teased and he chuckled, going right back to kissing you.

Sam was one of a kind. You had taken some time to truly understand why you had fallen in love with him in the first place but there was not just one thing that made Sam Winchester special, everything he did just added up. From the huge things to the tiny details, he just was so easy to fall in love with and these moments were definitely one of those in the list, in which, no matter the situation, good or bad, Sam could make you smile.

As he kissed you now, his hands roamed your body like he had done before until two of his fingers teased at your entrance and you rolled your hips against his hand. Blowing him had made you aroused again and you could feel your wetness coating his fingers. Sam smirked in your mouth before slowly inserting his middle and ring finger inside your wetness. Your mouth left his to let out a moan, your foreheads glued.

Sam opened his eyes to watch your expression as he hooked his fingers inside you. You whined, your eyebrows furrowed and your nails left angry red trails over his shoulders. He lowered his head to kiss your neck open mouthed. He started to scissor his fingers inside you, preparing for what you knew was coming and you gladly relaxed around his fingers, grinding your cunt on his digits.

“Sweetheart, I need to be inside you, I need you” He whispered in your ear and you whined at the thought, nodding in approval.

“Yes, Sammy, please” You breathlessly said. Sam took his fingers out from your hole and you held back a complaint from the emptiness once you saw him pumping his hardened cock with the hand he used his fingers to prepare you, lubricating himself with your juices. He lined himself up with your entrance and looked at you again.

He wanted to watch you as he sunk himself into your heat and that’s what he did. He slowly started to enter you and your mouth opened in a silent moan at the stretch. He was filling you up deliciously well, right in the division between pain and pleasure and, the deeper he went, the harder your nails dug on his shoulders.

Sam was also struggling. Your tightness enveloped him in a way no one had ever done before and it felt so fucking good to bury himself inside you. He started to distract you from the possible painful stretch with kisses over your collarbones and neck, focusing on relaxing your body so he could make love to you properly.

At last, you felt his pelvis connect with yours and you were so amazingly full. His dick hit places inside you you could never reach alone and it felt incredible.

Once you were used to his size and craving more, you rolled your hips against his, making Sam suck in a breath. He was trying to keep his composure but he was holding on his last ounces of control and when you moved he damn nearly lost it.

“You can move” You whisper and Sam wastes no time fulfilling your request, immediately starting to pump into you. He was euphoric, his mind was blurry as only images of you naked under him and begging for him to fuck you went through his head. You would tighten your walls around him from time to time and that would cause his breathing to falter and his hips to stutter.

You weren’t much different, every buck of his hips would hit you in a spot that made you see starts. You were already overstimulated from his previous ministrations so you knew you weren’t going to last long and, from the way Sam was twitching inside you, you knew he wasn’t going to either.

“Sam, I’m s’close” You moaned close to his ear.

“Me too, baby” He said as he brought his hand to press over your lower belly. You nearly screamed as he did that, you could feel him even better, his shape feeling like it was being permanently molded inside you. Along with it, he reached a thumb to rub over your clit – his big hands be damned – and at that you finally went over the edge with a desperate cry of his name.

Your vision blurred as the only thing you knew was real was the feeling of emptiness since Sam was chasing his own release after leaving your warmth. He pumped his cock a few times and proceeded to cum over your belly, painting your skin with his liquids. You were spread out on the bed for a while longer after that, Sam panting above you, his softening dick still in his hand and you completely fucked out with a lazy smile on your face.

Once that high passed, Sam took you to the bathroom – bridal style – and cleaned you up in the bathtub with warm water and gave you the privacy you needed after he sorted himself out too, leaving the bathroom on his boxers.

You took your time, using the toilet so as to not get any infections and leaving the bathroom completely naked, too lazy to actually put clothes on. You just wanted to sleep beside Sam and wake up happy in his arms.

He saw you coming out of the room and smiled, eyeing you up and down.

“No clothes?” He asked

“Unless you’re uncomfortable, I think we’re past that” You joked and he shook his head.

“I don’t mind, come here” He said, opening an arm to invite you to lay over his chest and you gladly did, jumping on the bed and wrapping your arms around his torso, laying your head on his firm chest. Sam covered both of you with the white sheets, hiding your exposed body under them. You laid silent for a moment, just drowning in each other's company as you listened to his steady heartbeat.

Sam caressed your upper arm, his mind running with a thousand thoughts in which a thousand and one consisted of you.

“Hey, want to know something?” Sam asked. He was taking advantage of the situation because now he was confident enough to do so, and he wasn’t delaying this any further if his mind would allow him. You lazily looked up at him, your chin now resting on him. Your eyes stared at him with so much appreciation that he felt even more encouraged to tell you what he wanted to.

“I think I love you” He blurted out. You felt your face warm up and smiled widely, but didn’t lose the opportunity to tease him for his choice of words.

“You think?” You raised an eyebrow. Sam panicked inside.

“No, I mean that–”

“I think I love you too” You interrupted before he could say anything else, your giddy smile never faltering. Sam relaxed and pulled you in for a kiss to seal this promise.

Who would’ve thought that Sam would have his dream come true at the end of everything. Yet, here you were, half-asleep in his arms after you admitted your love for each other.

A/N: Notes and reblogs encourage me to keep writing, feedback makes those writings better. Thank you for reading. XoXo

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floreads · 1 year ago

Text

baby blues • carmen berzatto x reader

pair: carmen berzatto x fem!reader

synopsis: sugar's childhood best friend throws her baby shower, and is reintroduced to carmy.

a/n: while researching the character ages for this piece i discovered that nothing really makes sense timeline wise for the siblings’ ages, so just for the sake of this fic i decided that carmy is 28, reader is 29, and sugar is 31 <3 also i did not proof read this lmao so sry for any mistakes !

warnings: anxiety/panic attack, lots of swearing lmao, mentions of hooking up but nothing explicit, lmk if i missed anything else <3

word count: 3.2k

"Okay - yo, be careful with the cake!" You run - or wobble, as quickly as your heels will let you - over to the dessert table, pulling your dress down as you go. Running the show in this outfit wasn’t the most comfortable, but you don’t have time to go home and change before the event is set to start. The venue staff wouldn’t let you come in any earlier than 1:00 PM to get everything ready, despite your numerous pleas.

The two-tiered dessert wobbles slightly, as Richie and his colleague from the yet-unopened The Bear restaurant make the short but dangerous trek from the venue door to the row of long tables.

"Relax, Y/N, we got it," Richie waves you away. "Marcus here is a professional." They place the cake slowly, but precisely, onto its display stand.

"It's not him I'm worried about," you give him a playful squint. "Everything has to be perfect for Sugar. She deals with enough, having to see your ugly ol' mug every day."

You turn away from him before he can fire back, and greet Marcus with a quick nod. "It's nice to finally meet you, Marcus. Beautiful work on the cake."

He smiles back at you. "Of course, only the best for Sugar's baby."

That's all you wanted - the best for Sugar's baby. That's why you took it upon yourself to plan Sugar's baby shower. It's something you'd been planning basically your entire lives - ever since you two were old enough to steal your moms’ magazines during sleepovers. You two had planned your entire lives out together, and though the details have shifted over the years, there was one constant through it all: you’d always have each other.

Growing up, you and Sugar were virtually inseparable despite her being a few years older than you. Wherever one went, the other was soon to follow, like a shadow. You never really got along with your own parents, and as the only girl in her family, Natalie welcomed additional the feminine energy. Gone were the days of Mikey and Carmy ganging up on her when you were around. It was, and still is, you and Natalie against the world.

You glance at your watch with an impatient sigh. 2:36 PM. You have less than half an hour before all of the guests arrive, and 54 minutes until Pete arrives with Sugar. You've been there for the last hour and a half getting everything ready for Sugar and her unborn baby, and yet there was one thing missing. Carmen Berzatto hasn't come with the food yet.

"Does anyone know where the fuck Carmen is?" you ask, not to anyone in particular.

As if he was waiting for his cue, Carmy barrels through the door right then, breathing as if he’d just run the mile in gym class. Two women you have yet to meet, presumably from his restaurant that you’ve heard so much about, are right on his heels, helping him wheel in a cart full of food trays and serving utensils.

“Fuckin’ finally. It’s nice of you to join us, Carmen.” You exaggeratedly throw your hands up, walking over to him. This was not the reunion you’d hoped for after not seeing Carmy in years, after what you’d dubbed the incident - one that not even Nat knows about.

“Finally? We’re only,” he checks his watch, “ten minutes late.”

“Ten minutes?! Try an hour and ten minutes,” you scoff, looking at him incredulously.

His eyes widen, and you are slightly taken aback by just how blue they are, though you don’t know how you could’ve forgotten. His face reddens and you aren’t sure if it’s because of the intensity of your gaze or his embarrassment at being late. Before you can think too much into it, he’s turning to look at Richie.

“What the fuck, Cousin, you told me she said 2:30.”

Richie turns to you. “I thought that’s what you told me to say!”

The biggest sigh, possibly of all time, leaves your body and you cover your face. “No, Richie, I told you to tell him to be here by 1:30.”

“You know, I seriously fuckin’ doubt you said that, but maybe next time you should just call him yourself.” Richie counters.

“God fuckin’ forbid I accept help when you offer it! But don’t worry, I’ve learned my lesson, ya fuckin’ jagoff,” your teenage accent comes out for a second, as always ends up happening when you argue with Richie.

Carmy, who knows the way you and Richie fight all too well after witnessing it through your teenage years, steps in between you two. “Alright, alright, it doesn’t fuckin’ matter who said what anymore. What matters is we’re here now and I need to set up this food ASAP.” He turns, giving you his full attention. “Y/N, where can we put this food?”

You send Richie one final glare before turning and leading Carmy to two long tables at the front of the room. “You’ve got these tables right over here. The venue gave us some food warmers, I’m sure you can figure out how to set those up better than I can. Be fast, Berzatto, we’ve got less than an hour before Sugar gets here and if anything is out of place, I’ll kick your fuckin’ ass.”

“Heard, Red.” He gives you a curt nod and moves to grab one of the trays of food before pausing so slightly that you know no one noticed - no one but you. He recovers quickly though, and it’s as if nothing happened.

Your pause, however, is much more notable. No one has called you Red since Mikey died. Though the nickname was just the result of an unfortunate at home, box hair dye job at 15 (you were experimenting with your look - they can’t all be winners, okay?), it solidified you as an unofficial member of the Berzatto clan.

“U-um, I guess I’ll just leave you to it then,” you stammer out, busying your hands with your phone to hide their trembles. As if she can feel your discomfort, the girl with the long braids tucked into a scarf walks forward, between you and Carmy, and offers you her hand to shake.

“I’m Sydney, by the way, Carmy’s CDC at The Bear,” she smiles. “And this is Tina, my sous,” she gestures to the smaller, but older woman next to her.

You take her hand and introduce yourself, mentally berating yourself for not introducing yourself earlier. It’s not like you to be so rude - the stress of planning and executing a surprise baby shower for your best friend paired with the unnerving feeling of seeing Carmy for the first time since Natalie’s wedding must be getting to you. It may not be your place, but you’re still a little mad at him for skipping out on Mikey’s funeral and dropping contact with you altogether.

“I’m sorry! I swear, I’m usually not this all over the place. This whole thing’s got me goin’ a little crazy,” you gesture around the room. “Y’know, I’ve been meanin’ to get over to The Bear - it’s all Sugar’s been able to talk about lately. Besides the baby, of course. I was outta town for friends and family night - visiting my grandparents.” This was a lie - if Carmy was going to ignore you, then you were going to ignore him. Though, you know you’ll end up in the establishment one of these days now that Sugar is so involved.

“Well, I’m sure Carmy and Natalie would love to have you in one of these days.”

Your eyes flit to Carmen while you give Sydney a tightlipped smile and nod. You try not to let the awkwardness between you and Carmy show when your eyes meet. While you’d normally make some snide remark about how Carmy doesn’t have room for you in his life anymore, you remind yourself that today is about Sugar - not whatever problems you have with her younger brother.

You take a deep breath and clap your hands together, wearing the kind of artificial smile that only the cheerleading protagonist of an early aughts teen drama would give. “Maybe someday!”

Sydney and Tina exchange a look that you pretend not to notice.

“Well, I’ll just leave you guys to it then! The guests will be here any minute, so I’m gonna do one last walkthrough. Everything’s gotta be perfect,” you mumble the last part to yourself.

3:27

You’re chewing on your bottom lip, eyes bouncing between the venue’s big analog clock and the party’s guests, consisting of The Bear’s staff and the entire Berzatto clan (besides Donna - while Pete was in charge of the invites, you’d made sure that he didn’t invite her) when your phone vibrates in your hand.

Pete: The eagle is flying.

Your eyebrows furrow.

You: wtf are you talking about dude???

You: can u text me like a normal person rn, im about to have an anxiety attack

Pete: Me and Nat are outside!

You look up, eyes wide.

“Everyone, shut the fuck up! Hey, shut the fuck up! She’s here!” You shout, gesturing around wildly. It’s a little hard to get the attention of the loudest family of all time. Thankfully, Carmy sees you struggling and steps up to the front of the room with you.

“Yo! Sugar’s here!” His voice fills the venue, and everyone gets into place in front of the overflowing gifts table. “C’mon,” he motions you over to the front of the group with him. You can hear Sugar before you see her.

“Seriously Pete, where the fuck are you taking me? I’m way too pregnant to be blindfolded right now. Plus, there’s shit I gotta do at The Bear.”

“We’re almost there, relax,” Pete says with a clear smile in his voice as he opens the door and guides Sugar into the room.

The room erupts with an out of sync “Surprise!” and Sugar rips her blindfold off immediately, looking around the room in disbelief.

She turns to Pete and hits him lightly on the chest, “What the fuck, Pete? Is this my fuckin’ baby shower?”

He leans in to give her a kiss with his hand resting on her baby bump, and the moment is so sweet you have to look away.

“Yeah, Nat. As much as I’d like to take the credit, Y/N was the mastermind here.” He gestures over to you and Sugar runs over to you, squealing.

The two of you hug as tightly as you can with the baby between you as she thanks you repeatedly. “I can’t believe you did all this!” You give her one last squeeze before letting her go.

“You know I’d do anything for you, Sugar. Plus, I gotta make sure baby Berzatto knows how much I love them already. I’m campaigning hard for that Godmother spot.”

“Psh,” she waves you off. “You already know you’re a shoo-in. Who else am I supposed to have as the Godparents for my first born if not you and Carmy?” She scoffs and moves on to greet her brother.

The relief you feel as Sugar gets smothered with love by her family and friends is visible on your face as you make your way to the small bar and pour yourself a generous glass of wine. Now that Sugar was here and having a good time, your job micromanaging was done. You see Richie make his way over to you, pouring a drink of his own.

“Ya did good, kid,” he gives you a pat on the back as he watches Sugar and Tiff animatedly talking.

“Yeah, no thanks to your attempts at sabotage,” you joke. What was that with you tellin’ Carmy the wrong time?”

“I refuse to accept that, there’s no fuckin’ way I gave Carmy the wrong time. Anyway, if you two would just grow the fuck up and talk to each other-”

“Okay, don’t even fuckin’ go there, Richie,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “You know damn well I’ve tried to talk to him. If there’s anyone you should be lecturin’’ about this, it’s him, not me.” You pause to finish your drink. “Believe me, I’ve fuckin’ tried.” You pour yourself a new drink, smaller than the first. No matter how much you want to be drunk right now, you need to keep a clear head in case anything goes wrong.

“I don’t know what that kid’s problem is,” he gestures to Carmy, slightly shaking his head. “It’s like tradition for the maid of honor and best man to hook up at a wedding. Who fuckin’ cares?”

Your eyes widen and you aggressively shush him. “Wha- keep your fuckin’ voice down, asshole! How the fuck do you even know about that?!” You whisper-scream at him, positioning yourself in front of him instead of beside him.

“Chill out, Cousin, Carmy told Mikey, and Mikey told me,” he shrugged.

“Mikey told you- so you’ve known this whole fuckin’ ti-” your sentence tapers off at the sight behind Richie. You can feel your heartbeat speed up and your hands begin to shake. “What the fuck is she doing here?” You march off towards the entrance, on a mission.

Richie’s eyebrows pinch together as you stomp away. “Who the fuck are you talkin’ about?” He turns, watching you approach the one party crasher that could ruin this day: the Berzatto family matriarch. “Fuckin’ Donna,” he mutters to himself.

Before you can reach Donna, she’s already shouting into the room. “Oh my God, look at this beautiful Berzatto family event. Oh - everyone’s here!” You can practically hear the incoming drama in the tone of her voice. “Too bad it seems like you motherfuckers forgot to invite me,” she laughs humorlessly. “It’s a good thing Jimmy let it slip to me that Sugar’s baby shower was today. It’s a grandmother’s right to attend her first grandbaby’s baby shower.”

You hold your hands out to her as if she was a wild animal, waiting to strike. “Listen, Donna, you cannot be here right now.” She grabs your arms.

“Oh, Little Red, you used to love coming over to my house. I fed you, housed you when your own parents didn’t want to. You’re so ungrateful… that’s probably where my kids get it from,” she stumbles closer to you, and you can smell the alcohol on her lips. Before you can reply, Carmy is stepping between you guys, taking her hands off of your arms.

“Hey, Ma, that’s enough. Don’t talk to her like that.” His voice is stern, but you can see the tremble in his hands.

She grabs his face, gently. “Oh, Carmy. I don’t even know you anymore. When was the last time I saw you, huh? You never come to see me.” The tears are flowing freely on her face now.

You glance behind you, looking at Sugar just in time to see Pete whisking her away to the kitchen, and out of Donna’s line of fire. At the same time, Richie is walking up to Donna. He puts his arm around her and leads her out the door. “C’mon, D, I’ll call you a cab. You should go home and go to sleep.”

She pushes him off. “Y’know what? Fuck you Richie. Fuck all of you people, you don’t care about me at all. I’ll fuckin’ leave. None of you will miss me anyway.”

You take a step towards them, but Richie holds out a hand in protest. “I got this, Red, don’t worry about it.”

As Donna turns to the door with Richie hot on her heels, you gingerly place your hand on Carmy’s shoulder. “Hey, Carmy, come outside with me,” you slide your hand down his arm, take his hand, and lead the way towards the back door. He doesn’t look up, but follows you closely without saying a word.

The stark winter air is refreshing, though you’re sure that you’ll regret the decision to come outside without a coat. You pull Carmy down to sit on the cool steps with you, and place your hands on either side of his face. You can feel him hyperventilating as your eyes meet his, his eyes wet with unshed tears. You resist the urge to look away. It’s been years since you’ve helped Carmen through a panic attack, and the memories are almost strong enough to cause your own tears. “Carmy, you have to breathe for me, okay? Here, try to match me.” You begin with the box breathing technique that you learned when you were teenagers. You take a deep breath in. One, two, three, four. Deep breath out. One, two, three, four.

In. One, two, three, four.

Out. One, two, three, four.

Carmy’s hands grip yours, hard, as he tries to match your breathing. “Just look at me, Carmy. It’s just you and me here, okay?” He nods and then closes his eyes, feeling the movement of your breath.

You can’t tell whether it’s just a few moments, or ten minutes before you feel Carmy calm down, but he eventually opens his eyes and his grip on you loosens. You let go abruptly, as if his skin was a hot stove.

“I- sorry. I’m sorry-” he starts, but you refuse to let him apologize for having a panic attack.

“Don’t, Carmy. You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

“I do, though-” he starts again, but you shake your head.

“C’mon, Carm. I know we haven’t talked in a while, but you know better than to apologize to me for having a panic attack.”

“That’s not- I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I’m sorry I didn’t answer when you called, either. And I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you when Mikey died.” Oh.

You can’t help but look away, smoothing away the nonexistent wrinkles in your dress. “Carmen…” you trail off, not knowing what to say. “Let’s just leave it in the past. I think we’ve both been through enough today, yeah? It’s not important anymore.” You give him a tightlipped smile and move to get up.

He lets out a frustrated sigh, grabbing your hand. “No, it is important. I was a jackass. To everyone, but especially to you. I don’t want you to think that you were just- that what we did wasn’t-” he breathes out, running his other hand through his disheveled curls. “You’re important to me, okay?”

You give his hand one last squeeze before letting go and wrapping your arms around yourself. Whether it’s as an emotional shield or because of the cold, you don’t know, but this is all becoming too much for you. “I know, Carmy. It’s okay, really. We don’t have to talk about it. Actually, I would prefer it if we didn’t. It’s been years, we’ve both moved on. I heard about you and Claire, and I’m happy for you,” you give him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and he can instantly tell it isn’t real. “Let’s just pretend none of it ever happened, and we can go back to who we were before. For Sugar’s sake, okay?” You give him a single nod, as if you were agreeing with yourself on his behalf, and go back inside before he can respond.

He leans back on the step and pulls out a cigarette, before talking to the air: “Okay.”

dividers credit ! <3

#carmy berzatto x reader #carmy x reader #*mine #carmen berzatto x reader

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boundinparchment · 6 months ago

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FICS FOR GAZA

Although my schedule is a bit unforgiving, I'm still writing when I can, and thus I'd like to put that effort additionally into participating in @ficsforgaza via the "Sponsor a WIP" option.

There are several WIP that are (for now) exclusive to this list and it is my hope that these projects will encourage donations towards vetted fundraisers. Word counts will be set based on achievable goals per my schedule to avoid overwhelming myself and burning the candle at both ends. I may write more than the donated word count but will always seek to meet it.

(banner credit to @/saradika-graphics)

HOW IT WORKS

$1 = 100 words written!

Make a donation to a vetted fundraiser of your choosing and send me a screenshot of your donation minus identifying personal information along with the title of the WIP you're sponsoring. These screenshots are sent to ficsforgaza to verify that they aren't used for multiple writers. For every $1 donated with submitted proof, I'll write 100 words of that particular WIP.

This link leads to tagged posts of donation posts that have been verified.

Template:

"Hi Juni, here's proof of my donation to [insert donation title]. I'd like for this to go towards [insert WIP title]. Thank you! (screenshot depicting evidence of donation depicting dollar amount; the amount donated will scale based on the rate of $1 = 100 words to be written)."

Once your ask or message is received, this post will be updated and I will track progress as words are written. This post will be managed weekly when possible.

Oneshot works will be posted when they have been fully funded; longer fics will be posted as I go to help drive donations (roughly every 300 donated words, subject to change).

ELIGIBLE WIPS

GENSHIN IMPACT

THE BEACH EPISODE - DREAM A LITTLE DREAM OF ME SPINOFF

Drabble, probable smut and explicit rating, these two deserve a little break away from their main plot.

An interlude for Dream a Little Dream of Me. Maestra and Dottore have a little vacation and time to themselves.

current wc: 0/2,000 donated (goal) wc: 200/2,000 progress tracker: 0/2,000

THE WISDOM OF RAVENS - Raventorre/Female Reader

Beauty and the Beast retelling; monster/human relationship; quid pro quo; slowburn

The Tsaritsa was so displeased by a betrayal that she left her Palace behind and sealed it with a powerful curse. Tales told of the Winter Palaces' haunted halls, sights of wings as wide as a drake's and eyes as red as blood. There was no voron, no raven; you knew that. But you also knew that if you stayed out here, you'd freeze to death. That much was certain.

current wc: 0/2,000 donated (goal) wc: 0/2,000 progress tracker: 0/2,000

HONKAI STAR RAIL

VERTIGO EYES - Sunday/Female Original Character

Slowburn; long fic; female reader with personality; art history nonsense ensues; eventual smut; spoilers for 2.2-onward with speculation on Sunday's fate.

Armed with only a new-found sense of purpose, Sunday makes a trip to the Belobog History and Culture Museum after the Express receives your request for consideration. History is so often writ with blood that should never have been spilled and the mistakes of those who think they know best. And Sybilla is running out of time.

current wc: 1,072/2000+ donated (goal) wc: 300/2,000 progress tracker: 300/2,000

THE DEVIL'S BACKBONE - Boothill/Female Reader

Slowburn; longfic; female reader; semi-enemies to lovers; speculation regarding cybernetics and other elements of machinery alongside humanity; eventual smut; spoilers for Boothill's story.

Intellitron repairs didn't pay well, even on Penacony. Certainly not compared to salary from the IPC's Research and Development department. You had put all of that behind you, though. Or so you thought. Until a certain Galaxy Ranger stepped into your workshop with a grin and a smoking barrel.

current wc: 0/2000+ donated (goal) wc: 200/2,000 progress tracker: 0/2,000

CHANGELOG

5/29/2024:

Graphics updated

Eligible WIPs updated to include only new WIPs

5/30/2024:

Updated donated word count

6/10/2024:

Updated "Vertigo Eyes" progress wordcount

Added "The Wisdom of Ravens"

7/7/2024:

Updated “Beach Episode” spinoff donated word count

7/30/2024:

Updated synopsis for “Vertigo Eyes” from reader insert to original character

8/14/2024

Updated the donated word count for “Vertigo Eyes”

8/15/2024

Updated the total word count and written word count for "Vertigo Eyes" (donated count: 300, total word count: 1,072)

Posted Chapter 1 of "Vertigo Eyes"

#ficsforgaza #fics for gaza #additional tags to be added

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shocktrooper262-blog · 2 months ago

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Type 79 SMG, Short Dev and History. History: In August 1965, the People's Liberation Army (PLA) General Staff Department issued a requirement for a weapon that could be used by the Chinese military in a jungle environment.

Now, early Communist China is not the *most* stable place to be making new guns and so of course the Cultural Revolution messes with it in 66, which leads them to cancel the development till 1969. The 208th Institute's researchers stay in the good graces of the CCP, and mostly work on other projects at this time. In 1970, the PLA Staff requested the development of an easy-to-carry weapon suitable for use by reconnaissance, communications, artillery, airborne and other specialized units, as well as public security personnel. And so the Type 79 is brought back from the dead. So now the 208th Institute can get back to their baby. Notably, it was in trials (internal ones) from 71 to 78, they had to work out barrel erosion and pressures since they were firing spicy 7.62 tok (steel cored ammo). 100 test guns were handed out to troops in 1975, and the 208th Institute continued working on it. More working, mostly with the magazine reliability. (At this point someone from the Air Force borrowed the gun's designs and made a copy for Lin Biao's coup attempt, but that and the other coup attempt are stories for another time.) it is now 1978, the date of the final trials in which the Type 79 finally is accepted for general service in the following year, and it's service is not great in Vietnam's jungles so they do the normal thing and pass the guns to troops in urban fighting and to the People's Armed Police- where the gun does much better and has a great reputation as they mostly use it in semi auto and have less issues with mags and humidity. Design Details: The 208th Institute went with a short-stroke piston, closed rotating bolt because the felt it was the easiest thing to make jungle proof and they would have been right, had the design team actually been trusted to only make that one project and left to it, instead of being moved around and messed with. Later Type 79 SMGs do better in the jungle, but at that point dedicated replacements are either already out or older guns like the Type 54 SMG (PPS variant) have been brought back and are doing fine in that role.

#chinese military #information #firearm #history

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antaxzantax · 4 months ago

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Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 51

Summary: Alex Paterson [Alex Wesker] murders James Marcus and associates with Oswell E. Spencer, her biological father.

The bullet pierced the skull and embedded itself in the frontal lobe. The barrel of the revolver burned.

The body crashed limp to the ground.

She grabbed a saw from the toolbox and cut off the head. She put the trophy in a vacuum bag.

She dialed an international number on the hacked phone.

“Who's calling?”

“Get me Mr. Spencer. It's urgent.”

“Lord Spencer won't see anyone without an appointment and without first meeting the caller.”

“Tell him I have the virus and James Marcus's head.”

She rode in the 4x4 with the virus and the head of James Marcus. A group of individuals in protective suits entered the basement of the ranch. A man with a thick British accent assured her that they would get rid of the body and the lab. The SUV started up. She would travel by private plane to Luxembourg.

III

Spencer examined the severed head of James Marcus with a clinical eye. A clean shot to the forehead had killed him. A single shot had extinguished the sullen Texan.

A single shot.

Spencer went to light a cigar but gave it up for the shocking sight of the head. The damned head with the glassy eyes and the jagged features, eaten away at the edges and yellowed with decay. He'd loathed Marcus in recent years, but cold-blooded murder and mutilation like that... On a par with what he'd done to Trevor.

He asked Patrick to turn his head away, for the putrid smell had congested his nostrils. He blew his nose into his handkerchief. The disturbing thing, however, had not been Marcus's death, but who had killed him: a twenty-eight-year-old woman who claimed to be the biological daughter of Oswell Ernest Spencer.

Alexandra Paterson.

“Hide the sample. It will be our secret,” he ordered Patrick.

The woman who claimed to be his biological daughter had inherited his blond hair, blue eyes and features. He recognised the mother at the mention of her name. The daughter of a millionaire rancher whom he had met at a party in California. The same mother who years before had sent him a letter to charge him for the care of a supposed daughter of his. And there it was: his worst nightmare.

Alex didn't drink tea and her American accent bounced off his ear canal as if he were at a rodeo. American on top. Stereotypically American. Spencer sipped from his teacup.

“And you're from California?”

“Arkansas.”

“Oh, cows and cowgirls.”

Spencer set the cup down carefully and smiled condescendingly at his appearing daughter.

“I worked with Brandon Bailey in Africa. I befriended him so he'd trust me. I gave him the ranch and the lab when Marcus wanted to escape,” Alex said.

“Why did you kill Marcus?”

Alex looked down.

“He attacked me. He suspected me. He pointed the gun at me and wanted to kill me so I wouldn't steal his research. He thought you'd sent me; that I was a spy. He went mad. He hated you.”

“Why did he hate me?”

“Because all you care about is money and politics.”

Spencer laughed.

“He was a good friend... Brilliant at science, but stupid at social relations. Anyway, and you brought me his head as proof of loyalty?”

Alex shrugged.

“I doubted you'd listen to me if I rang the doorbell.”

“And what do you want from me?” Spencer prepared himself a cigar. “Money? Connections? A house on the prairie? A new cowboy hat?”

“I want to be your daughter.”

Spencer smiled.

“Sure, with that accent and manners. My family will welcome you with open arms.”

“I want to work at Umbrella. I want to research that virus.”

“What?”

“I'm a virologist, and you're half physicist, half economist. Who have you hired to translate the reports for you?”

Spencer got serious.

“And you've come to save me, Alexandra. That's very kind of you. But I don't require anyone's services. No one. Let out of my house.”

“Marcus' virus is a variant T-virus untested in humans, only in insects and arthropods. It's capable of inducing exaggerated mutations in a very short time and replicating certain genetic structures.”

“Replicating?”

“Mimic the genetic structure of the host, like cloning. I started working with Marcus in 1983. I know how that virus works, and I know a few things about you and Umbrella. You're just gonna let me walk away?”

Tough as nails and twisted, just like her father.

“Let's make a deal. Suppose I hire you, you work for Umbrella, and I assign you to a lab. Suppose I let you research that virus and many others. Would I end up with a bullet in my head, or would you worship your father?”

“I can't inherit your fortune and your family will hate me, so why would I shoot my only safe conduct?”

Spencer finished his cigar.

“I'll give you one chance.”

One chance.

#resident evil #oswell e spencer #james marcus #alex wesker

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valeriianz · 2 years ago

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proof that i have finally started working on @watercubebee's Charro Dream AU. im having way too much fun imagining Hob as a cowboy with a thick accent, but that's for another story... here's a little something to tide you over until I get my thoughts reigned in properly (also thanks to @fractalspaces for helping me with the research!):

Hob sighs, ducking down just as a glass flies through the air and smashes against the wall behind him, reaching for his rifle hidden behind the bar.

Everyone’s guns remained on the table tops, for now. But Hob could feel the tension in the dry air, swelling like a barrel of whiskey until the room stank with it. Hob felt a bead of sweat trail down the back of his neck as he reamerged from the dusty shelves and witnessed the first punch thrown among the shouting; the crack of knuckles connecting with bone enough to get any man sitting to stand, and the women to shriek, running to the walls.

Hob raised his rifle high in the air, bringing the butt of the gun down on his thigh while grabbing the end of the barrel, cocking it loudly while shouting to be heard over the noise of drunken patrons.

“Alright chuckleheads,” Hob drawled, one finger curled around the trigger. “Y’all best wise up before I start aiming.”

“Ah, whaddya know about shootin’, bar dog?”

“I know you aint got nothin’ under that hat but hair,” Hob proclaimed, swinging the rifle forward and getting both hands on it properly. “Shall we find out?”

Before Hob had mind enough to worry, the swinging doors of the canteen squeak loudly with the arrival of someone new. Hob looked over as everyone else did, finding a man dressed in all black standing at the threshold.

A silence falls over the dusty room and the stranger lifts his head, eyes scanning the tables and the men, who are frozen in place, breathing heavily from the brawl that had unexpectedly simmered down. His skin is pale, almost unnaturally white against the black on black ensemble, from his wide brimmed hat, studded jacket, form fitting pants, and boots.

The man’s trailing gaze finds Hob, forcing him to swallow as he slowly puts one foot in front of the other, the floorboards creaking under his weight and the spurs of his boots clinking with every step. His eyes flit to the side as he advances, blue as the sky and twice as bright, silently taking in the scene before him: men openly staring, their mustaches wet with spit and whiskey, begin to whisper among themselves. Hob can hear it, over the prominent buzzing of a fly above him.

The dark clad man raises one eyebrow before looking at Hob again, clearing a space at the bar with his mere presence. Hob sets his gun down, too wary to put it away just yet, and eyes the stranger up and down. He’s built like a snake on stilts; tall and thin, his suit seemingly tailored to his body. Up close now, Hob can see silver embroidery on his black bolero jacket, depicting something like Aztec. He wears a silk tie that looks as if it’s never seen daylight, dark red, like bruised rose petals, creamy smooth against shiny buttons.

“What are they saying?”

“Hm?” Hob intones, taken aback by the man’s deep voice and accent. Though he recognizes it now, along with the man’s clothes. Then he listens to the murmuring around them and has to laugh softly. “El Charro Negro,” Hob proclaims, relaxing his stance and leaning against the bar. “A legend around these parts, and not the good kind, mind you.”

The man is indeed dressed in all black, even his dress shirt and buttons, but his eyes are not menacing, like the myth suggests. Quite the contrary, Hob thinks, as he studies him. He is handsome, and not in the roguish way a cowboy is, but upstanding and bizarre, clean cut and pressed. Hob has a brief thought of roughing him up, in more ways than one, but imagines under those clean clothes and curious gaze lies a quiet power, buzzing just under the surface.

It’s enough to make Hob’s mouth water.

#dreamling #hob gadling #dream x hob #charro dream au #just posting this to show i havent forgotten about charro dream!#my motivation for writing is hiding somewhere #so please have this small intro while i find it!#yeehaw!#my writing

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flameohotpotatooo · 8 months ago

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The silver thread

Chapter 1: Did you miss me?

Word count: 5k

Summary: After Hosea went dark in your regular exchange of letter, you heard the news of your old gang and family, how Blackwater heist went down and they escaped. Now you go back to check on them, halting your operation in New York for your family, but it's deeper than what you think.

Tags: Mention of death, not proof read, also english is not my first language so I'm trying, no use of y/n instead it's MC, I'm not american my knowledge comes from researching and media, idk how tags work tell me what to add.

You had to put everything down back in New York to get to the Blackwater. The news of what had transpired was all over the news.

“BLACKWATER LOCKDOWN!”

“BANK BOAT HEIST LARGEST ROBBERY IN YEARS. DUTCH'S BOYS ACCUSED. BOUNTIES PLACED.”

Sending a telegraph to Trelwany in saint Denis to scout and gather information while you handled your business. He was closer than any of your men, and had the connection with the gang and common thieves to get what you needed. As you told him, you set up a meeting a saloon in which you rented whole so nobody can eavesdrop. You had your crow, and 5 men with you in this worrisome mission.

So you are waiting for him, in a rented room in the Blackwater saloon, the window is open letting the chill air in, and your friendly crow sit on the fence. You are looking over a map of the area, marked places you think they might have had hole up there. South and South east is out of question. The place is technically dead end, so it’s north where they run… a straight line up to belly of the storm, in snowy mountains of Grizzles.

You pulled the same plan before. When Hosea took you in, the four of you ran somewhere the law couldn’t run after you. It wasn’t a freezing mountain tops back then but still, Dutch probably hasn’t changed that much.

A series of knock on the door, followed by a pauses and rapid knocks indicates the passcode from your WatchGuard. Trelawney is here, you unlock the door and let the gentleman in.

“My apologize for the delay madam.” He takes off his top hat with a bow, ever so theatrically flourish. “Our boys had made such a mess; it was a delicate work not to attract attention with asking around.”

“How is your wife?” you say, gesturing him to sit as you pour a glass of wine. “Is Saint Denis up to your standards?” He sits and takes the offered glass, looking over to the map you have on display, with a pin on the mountains.

“She only found disappointment in leaving her dear friend behind.” He jokes, following your movement as you take a sit mirroring his, he turns his gaze back to the map as he swirls the wine in glass to let it breathe. “Uh, you truly have sharp wits on you.” he then pulls out a cutout newspaper from his pocket and hands it to you.

“PITCHED BATTLE LEAVES MANY DEAD.

OUTLAWS SEND TRAIN ON DRIVERLESS JOURNEY.

OWNED BY LEVITICUS CORNWALL”

You pinch the bridge of your nose in frustration as you read the article.

“A private train owned by the railroad, sugar and oil magnate Leviticus Cornwall was robbed in broad daylight by masked outlaws. Headed North towards the Grizzlies, the outlaws boarded and stopped the train shortly after it had departed from West Elizabeth. Initial cables sent as of printing time indicate the bloody takeover occurred in order to steal railroad bonds from the personal car of Mr. Cornwall.

Shortly after the robbery, the train was set in motion without a driver or crew, barreling dangerously through the area at a high rate of speed. The train was eventually brought to a stop by engineers and lawmen north of Annesburg, who reported a scene of violent struggle and bloody carnage of board.

Some engineers and guards from the train survived the slaughter but were too startled to report much information of value to authorities.”

“Cornwall? Is he that disparate?” you crumble the paper and toss it into the fire. Too angered to think rational at the moment you stand and walk back and forth.

“Indeed it appears he is. They have lost some men in this endeavor. The Callanders are dead, a young girl named Jenny Kirk from the gang was also killed, the Irish boy, Sean, taken.” He pauses, taking in your restless expression already piecing together your plan and continues, “It is said that Dutch has killed a young lady, innocent and without fault.”

You had to take a moment to think this over. Did you hear that right?

“But…” maybe he has changed to your worst fears. This wasn’t something the old Dutch you knew would do. “What about Arthur?” you can’t help but to wonder out loud. If Dutch has changed into a merciless man, has Arthur changed to something you wouldn’t recognize him?

He always sought Dutch’s approval, he would command ‘jump’ and Arthur would ask ‘how high?’

Trelawney lets the silence linger for your sake, so you can gather your thoughts before you square up your shoulders, having a semi solid plan form in your head. “Where are we going?” he asks, finishing his wine and putting the glass aside.

“Find whereabouts on Sean.” You order, looking at your raven, and it tilts its head looking back at you. “I have a meeting before catching up to them.”

You had a hard time convincing the Wapiti tribe into trusting you to get a mutual ground of helping. Whereas the chieftain, Rains fall, was a calm collected man, easy to talk to, his son was impatient and hot headed, hard to reason with but easy to manipulate.

You don’t blame him though, you had to sit with their shaman and converse about what you need to see, before planning a careful route for all of you.

“Cornwall is a greedy man, drove you out of your house.” You argued, “He will chase you out of here too.”

Rains fall thought you wanted war, so did his son. Eagle flies was all for fighting Cornwall men out of the land, and Rains fall had to chime in his worry of not wanting to fight in their condition. It’s the only ways they know of, but you’ve been in the privilege of being in higher power ranks of society.

“Fighting face to face and front with someone who has power of words is…” you don’t want to insult them, “not ideal and results in a lost.”

“You kill him in silence?” Eagle flies was a bit too excited to think you’re planning an assassination.

“No.” you smile at him, oh to be young. “Give me time, and you’ll see it.” you reassure them.

Before you can continue, sound of rapid stomps running towards your tent. “Chief!” Paytah jumps in, a slight bow in head, addressing to everyone. “The people you told us to watch over are moving.”

You nod to him in appreciation, and look at Rains fall, “I will inform you on what I’m doing. Continuing with Miller’s attempt wouldn’t harm my plan.” He can’t really do anything.

“Very well. We see you off.” He states as he rises, followed by his son. “When she comes back, I’ll send word to you.”

“Thanks, chief.” You bow slightly.

You step out of the tent and look at the men you brought from New York. “Boys, scatter. The eyes are near now. Dames,” you give a piece of paper of massage to one of them, “Send a telegraph to Evangeline back in New York.” He nods and all of them depart for their destination. Each taking a particular area among themselves.

On the ride with three Wapitis, anxiety is crashing your brain, that you didn’t realized they left your sides and you’re moving forward on your own. You didn’t think what would you say as greetings in such time, after how you left 5 years ago…

‘Miss me?’ no, it sounds like a psychopath.

‘You like jazz?’ has jazz made its way here?

‘Should I clean up after you boys?’ what exactly have you done yet to be considered cleaning after their mess? This line is so cringe too.

‘Howdy, pardners?’ WHAT IS THAT!?

Why is it so hard to talk to people? Maybe you can go forward and look at them till they talk to you? How about…

Your anxious train of thoughts is interrupted by the sound of a crash, and someone cussing.

“I broke the goddamn wheel.” You look up to see, Arthur pulling the reins of horses and jump down, followed by Hosea and another man.

“Alright, let’s get it fixed.” Hosea says, as he looks at the broken wheel.

“You need help?” you say in sync with the other man, as you jump down your horse, keeping your head low, face hidden by brim of your hat.

“I reckon we can handle it, ma’am.” Hosea eyes you, suspicious. “Mr. Smith you and me hold the thing up…”

“I insist.” You step forward, closer to Hosea and smile at him, “I ain’t letting my pa do the hard work.” You announce, cheerfully.

It took a bit of second for him to get his reaction before laughing and pulling you into a hug. “Arthur! Looks who’s here!”

You laugh and hug him back. “Yeah, I missed you too old man. Now let get your wagon fix?”

“Charles, this is MC.” He introduces you to the quiet gentleman, with long dark locks, and sepia colored skin, and sharp eyes watching you, then glancing at Arthur. “MC, I think I wrote of Charles in last the paper.”

You glance at Arthur out of the corner of your eye, seeing his unpleased expression. He’s trying to busy himself with the wheel, checking a spot on it which you’re sure he’s been staring at it just to avoid you.

“Nice to meet ya, Charles. Mindin’ I give a hand in this?” you point to the wagon and stand beside him.

“go ahead.” You both crouch, and Hosea picks up a hammer.

“Arthur!” He calls for Arthur, who’s deeply invested in wood texture of the wheel.

“On it.” Arthur answers back, and rolls it towards you.

You and Charles pull the wagon up, you’d expected to be heavier than this, only to realize Charles is basically carrying the wagon.

Holy shit, is this man made of steel? You try to ease his work and help him as much as you can.

“And… there. Put it down.” Hosea taps the wheel few more times just to make sure. “Good to go now.”

You smile at Charles, in mixture of appreciation and apologetic manner.

“Okay let’s get movin’.” Hosea takes back his sit as the shotgun, Charles jumps on the back of the wagon.

You look at Arthur, as he’s still insisting on silent treatment and giving you the cold shoulder.

What a child…

You whistle low for your horse, Midnight.

He’s a black Turkman horse, with Wapiti kids braided his tail and mane. You mount up and ride along the wagon. “You boys made a big splash, eh? Came to visit you, only found the town swarming with Pinkertons.” You look at them, tilting your head.

“If life was predictable, it be boring.” Hosea comments, chuckling a little bit and searching in his satchel. He’s cheery to see you, that’s for sure; but that laugh? He’s worried. He can hide his worries well in front of most people, but even after so time not seeing him, you can practically see the lines dancing around his head.

You were about to say something about that, when all your eyes catch the three wapiti men. They keep watching as your wagon moves on the road, not hiding, but in the plain sight.

Your eye meets their gazes from distance, and after a silent warning on their side, or silent prayer, they ride away.

“What you think?” Arthur finally breaks his silence.

“If they wanted trouble, we wouldn't have seen them.” Charles replies calmly.

“They never want trouble…” You whisper, “It’s other way around.”

“Poor bastards. We really screwed them over down here” Hosea shakes his head.

“What happened?” Arthur asks, urging the horses to go forward.

“We'll follow the river, then cut left inland.” Hosea instructs, pointing to the way ahead. “the Indians in these parts got sold a very raw deal. This is the Heartlands we're going to.” He has his old mortar and pestle in his hand, “Good farming and grazing country. They lost it all.” He shakes his head, in pity, “Stolen, clean away from them, it was, every blade of grass. Killed or herded up to the reservations in the middle of nowhere.”

“How's that different from anywhere else?” Charles asks, a mock in his tone as he’s still watching where the Wapiti stood.

“Well, maybe it's not. I just heard some of the army out here was particularly unpleasant about it.”

You and Charles scoff at the same time.

“Unpleasant. How do you rob and kill people pleasantly? We don't, in spite of Dutch's talk.” Charles shakes his head, a bitter smile on his lips.

“Not anymore we don’t” You whisper to yourself, not known to you, Arthur heard it.

“I fear I was perhaps trying to simplify something more complicated for the benefit of our block-headed driver here.” Hosea jabs Arthur in ribs as he jokes.

You smile. Despite yourself, you missed this. You missed the jokes, the gang… the freedom of once again riding in the wild.

“Hey, don't blame it on me.” Arthur laughs, heartedly, “Never forget this here's a con-man, Charles, born and bred. Just because he sounds fancy don't mean he knows a damn thing about what he's talking about.”

“Well,” Are you in position to joke with Arthur at the moment? You bite back at your lip and direct it at Hosea instead. “Least is, you can bullshit your way, till you have a smart mouth and an attitude.”

“True that.”

A small silent falls in between the three of you. Hosea feeling the tension, and knowing you two, decides to cut in. “What happened to your tribe?” He asks Charles.

Charles takes a fast glance your way before answering; “I don't even know if I have one, at least not that I can remember.” It’s either he has moved on from the feelings, or he’s really good at keeping his words neutral. You decide it’s both and the fact of not talking in details. “My father was a colored man.” He states a fact, that is enough to explain subtexts everyone can pick up on. “He told me he lived with our people for a while, a number of free men did. But when we were forced to move from our lands, the three of us fled. I was too young to really remember much. My whole life I've been on the run.”

You dig in your pocket to hand him a flask of gin you carry, with a nod and sympathy smile. He nods his thanks and continues, “A couple of years later, some soldiers captured my mother, took her somewhere. We never saw her again. We drifted around. He was a very sad man and the drink had a mean hold on him. Around 13, I just took off on my own.” He smells the gin, and takes a small sip and hands it back.

“That was about the age we found these two here, maybe a little older.” He then points to Arthur with his head, “A wilder delinquent you never did see, but he learned fast.”

“Not as fast as Marston and MC, apparently.” He glares at you for a second and you answer the glare with the same energy.

“Wait, I don't understand. What’s the problem between you three?” Charles looks between you and Arthur.

“Yeah Arthur. What’s the problem?” You ask, with a gritted teeth smile. You really don’t understand what his problem is. First you used to think it was about Annabelle, same reason Dutch got distant from you, but the last time you visit, it was clearly not that.

“It's a long story.” He looks at the road ahead, again, ignoring you. “We still headed the right way?

Hosea looks between you and Arthur, and sighs. “That depends. Are we still heading West in search of fortune and repose in virgin forest as we planned? No. Are we heading in the correct direction on our desperate escape from the law eastwards down the mountains? Yes, I believe so.”

“We moving too east, we’ll be in New York by Christmas.” Arthur jokes, or better, shoots the insult at you.

“Well, at least you visit me once, and in Christmas too? You’re the perfect gift Mr. Morgan.” You bite back at him, with a so friendly smile.

“You know this area?” Charles asks Hosea, really uneasy by the energy crackling between Arthur and you.

“A little. I've been through a couple of times. There's a livestock town not too far from here called Valentine. Cowboys, Outlaws, working girls, our kind of place.” Hosea somewhat used to us bickering and barking at one on another, answers, unfazed.

“O'Driscolls?” Arthur asks.

“Probably them too.”

“Pinkertons?”

“Let’s hope not.”

“You chose Horseshoe overlook? It’s a nice place to lie low.” You chime in, seizing the moment of slow riding, you feed Midnight an oatcake.

“how low do you think Dutch is really going to lie? It's just, you know,” Hosea chews on his words before voicing them out, “maybe it's me that's changed and not him, but we kept telling him not that ferry job didn't feel right.” He gestures to Arthur and himself, “Arthur and me had a real lead in Blackwater that could have worked out.”

It did work out… For someone else.

“Life ain’t predictable now, issit?” You voice his old comment back to him, and he rolls his eyes. It's not like Dutch to ignore Hoses's words, Arthur's? Sometimes but never his old friend.

“It just isn't like Dutch to lose his head like that.” Hosea says slowly.

Does he mean the girl he killed in there? Or something else had happened in the mountains.

“Things go wrong sometimes. People die. That's the way it is, always has been. Me, you, Dutch,” He pauses, “MC, we've all been in this line of work a long time and we're still here, so I figure we must've got it right a hell of a lot more than we got it wrong.”

You look at him for a moment. It must be hard on Dutch to loose people. He’s not someone who can walk away from people. If he’s making decisions on the run, with much pressure on his shoulders?

Pinkertons are after the gang. Why they aren’t talking about a scape plan? Maybe you should wait and talk to Dutch.

You’re close to Van Horn. Considering how much money they have from the job… wait…

“You got no money.” You whisper, eyes widened as the reason of this desperation shows itself. Dutch is alone as a leader, he’s whom the whole gang look up to as a savior. A picture he painted of himself as a forgiving father, never yielding, never losing… now he seemed to lose and is scared to lose more.

You look to your immediate right, where Arthur is sitting on the wagon, jaw clenched, knuckles turned white from the peer pressure he’s fisting them on the reins.

Oh dear…

This does interfere with parts of your plan. You thought they ran away with the money so their escape route gets clear and they can be on their way with the cash; But no cash, means they’re at the rock bottom.

Of course! The Cornwall train.

You sigh, massaging your temples. The conversation between Arthur and Hosea fades back in your head, as you piece another plan together.

You got to see the steps of what destiny puts in front of you, before you can save them one by one.

“There you are, brother. Head in there. Follow the track for a bit.” You hear the sing song Mexican accent, and you can’t help but sit straight and look at the source.

“Javi!” You exclaim, excited as you see the dashing fellow step out of the tree line.

“Oh my god,” He cheers in Spanish, “My eyes deceive me?”

“Jump up.” You stop and help him up on Midnight, “How are you?” You reply in Spanish.

“What you doing here? How you found us?” He asks, turning back into English.

“Good question.” Arthur shouts back. “How DID you find us?”

“How ‘bout I tell Dutch that and don’t waste my breath?” You snap towards Arthur and turn back to Javier. “I knew of this place. Hosea and Bessie took me here way back. Thought I can find you here after running away from Blackwater.”

He nods, scratching his chin. “How long you staying, though?” He has one casual hand on side of your hip from behind.

“I came to visit. If y’all are alright… I should head back then.”

“Pretty convenient of ye, don’cha think?” Arthur puts on a cigarette between his lips, and strikes a match by his side.

If your glare could drill holes in his skull, he would look like Swiss cheese. “Hosea didn’t write me back for a month.” It’s not a lie and also every two months you send letters to each other. “You stopped some years back, I asked Hosea if you died, hopefully.”

“Stay disappointed lady. I ain’t plannin’ on leavin’ just yet.”

“There’s hopin’.” You mumble, for a second forgot Javier was behind you and see his grin widening and looks between you two.

“It’s on again, ey?” he teases as he nudges your side in respond you just groan and see the camp ground approaching.

The lake can provide fruitful for resources, and the trees are hiding the spot pretty well. The location is close to a small town, not too near to draw attention though.

The gang is already in middle of making the floor panels for Dutch’s tent, and… is that a man tied to a pole?

The man looks weak and miserable. God, you pity him.

With the wagon approaching, some eyes look your way, and the familiar faces you know have a double take, not expecting to see you here.

“Oh, look ‘er.” You hop down from Midnight, a little boy was sitting near the entrance. From what John told you 3 or 4 years ago, and the letters from Hosea, this should be Jack. “Hi!” you smile and bend down. The kid shifts nervous, and looks at his mother close behind him.

Abigail puts down a crate she was carrying and walks over, crouching beside Jack to his ear level. “Jack.” In a kind type of warning, she looks at him, signaling him you greeted him, now it’s his turn.

“I’m MC.” You say, extending your hand. Is this how kids work? You don’t know. It’s been a long time you talked to a kid. “I’m friends’ of your ma.”

Jack steals another glance at Abigail before accepting your hand, “Hello ma’am. I’m Jack.”

Oh dear, he’s so sweet…

“ ‘s great to meet ya.” You smile and look at Abigail with a smile as you both stand.

“Go ‘long, Jack. See what you find around.” Abigail urges Jack to go, and he takes the chance immediately and runs off.

“ABBY!” You exclaim, and she pulls you into a hug, the happy screeches alerts others, and heads turn your way.

You missed the gang, dearly. There are new faces you meet, like the stand-offish girl in Dutch’s tent Molly, Charles that you met, and the boy tied to the pole named Kieran. Mary-beth and Abigail also told you about a new member Dutch brought from the mountains named Saddie Adler. She’s grieving yet, so they leave her to her peace most of times; there’s also a young boy named Lenny and another man named Micah that have gone ahead to scout.

They didn’t talk much about Micah, the expressions told you enough to keep away from him, but Lenny seems like a type you can talk with “All big brains and books of yers.” As put in by Karen.

With all this people around, the more job there is to tidy the camp, so Mrs. Grimshaw is grumpier than who you remembered her be. Before, she could talk with Bessie and Annabelle, and was in lighter mood… now seems she aged 10 years instead, and girls see her as a mean bitter woman. You can’t relate, being there when she first came into the gang; but saying she wasn’t always like this, makes you sound ancient.

Honestly, you dread meeting Dutch. Last time you saw him, was before Annabelle’s death. You’re still scared he might blame you for it. He’s the last man you encounter in the camp, as he was standing by the lake, accompanied by his right hand men.

“Miss. Prince!” He greets, nodding your way with a polite smile. “Came down from your tall buildings to visit your humble family?”

“You’re anything but, Dutch.” You tease as you walk towards him. “Was worried I didn’t get any papers from you, then I heard the news. Feared something happened to y’all.”

“something did happen, dear.” He shakes his head, putting a cigar between his lips and striking a match to light it. “But we survived.” He opens his arms gesturing to scenery around him like he’s a prophet, a savior, trying to show case his new miracle.

“For now.” Hosea adds.

“Now it is time to prosper.” Dutch deflects Hosea’s concerned tone.

“Arthur and I were about to prosper in Blackwater.” Hosea protests, gesturing to Arthur and himself. “We were onto something big. Then Micah got you all excited about that ferry and here we are.”

This seems unlikely Dutch gets tips from someone other than the famous two he trusts. Also the job was so unreliable to be a good tip. Is this Micah a new outlaw and shoots in the dark? Then Dutch wouldn’t’ve listen to him.

“We have all made mistakes over the years, Hosea, every last one of us.” There he goes, getting defensive “But I kept us together. Kept us alive. Kept the noses off our neck”

So much for keeping the noses off their necks when they have Pinkertons and Cornwall on their trail. And as to alive? There are 3 to possible 4 corpses disagreeing. Together? Sure.

“I guess I'm just worried.” Hosea sighs, shaking his head “I ain't got that long, Dutch. I want folks safe before I go.”

It always pained you how he accepted his death already but ever since his sickness and Bessie’s passing, he showed you there’s a way to redemption. Yet it hurts when someone you hold dear is so ready to die and go away.

You step a little further, giving them space for their talk.

“Me too.” You hear Dutch, also voicing his worries.

“You’re deep in thought.” You bump Arthur with your shoulder.

He looks down towards you, “Just thinking ahead.”

“You don’t see all the plays to think ahead.” You tilt your head, “I can show you though.”

He’s about to respond, but a German accent cuts through both conversations, “Gentlemen, I am going to head into the local town and see if I can strike up a little business.” Straus tips his head towards the 4 of you.

“Of course, Herr Straus.” Dutch nods as the gentleman walks away and talks to rest of you, “I prefer robbing banks to usury, seems more dignified somehow.”

“Of course it does,” you wrinkle your nose, “Poor folk don’t afford banks.” You hated when Dutch brought that shark loaner, but defying Dutch so openly is only allowed for Hosea and occasionally Uncle who jesters his way out of Dutch’s wrath.

“Desperate times, calls desperate choices.” He inhales his smoke and flickers the ash aside, “Providing for a gang in these areas, there’s no more fancy options.”

“Of course.” You don’t want to argue with him out of the gate, you just hang your head low and let the man walk back to the crowd and have his speech.

“Now, everyone, put your tools down for a moment. Come on, gather round. Quickly now.” He gestures for them to gather around him, “I know that things have been tough, but we are safe now and we were far too poor. It is time for everyone to get to work.”

“Get to work, but stay out of trouble.” Hosea instructs. “Remember, we are itinerant workers.”

“Laid off when they shut down our factory to the north.” He puts loops his thumbs in his gun belt, “Now get out there and see what you can find. Uncle, Reverend Swanson, no more passengers.” He points to the men in question then to you, “It goes for you too, Miss Prince. As long as you stay in the gang, of course. It is time for everyone to earn their keep.” You nod, following his words like always.

“There's a town little way down the track name of Valentine, livestock town, all mud and morons, if I remember right. That seems a decent place to start.” Hosea continues the speech, in which Pearson chimes in to remind everyone about the shortage of food.

You stride towards Arthur who was checking his sleeping quarters the girl put together around for him. “Shaking off the cold coat?”

“Heartlands are warm enough to make me sweat without. How’s New York this time of year? Cold?”

“Honestly?” you scoff, shaking your head, “No idea.”

He looks at you, questioning. “What you mean?”

“I told you, I was training.” You tap your foot on the ground, looking at the dust in front of you.

“Yeah, you was training 10 years ago.” He frowns. “Reckon you said it was about to finish.”

“Oh, so you read my letters?” you fold your arms in front of your chest. “I’m busy.”

“And yet,” he walks towards you, standing a foot apart “You don’t seem busy leaving to come here because Hosea didn’t write you a week later.”

You look up at him, still same eyes you remember from all the years. You tried to memorize them all the years you didn’t gaze into them, but now? Each time it seems to hypnotize you all over again.

Why is there so much hurt in his eyes when he looks at you? What have you done to hurt him like this? “I was scared…” you whisper between the two of you, “That something had happened.”

“Nothing happened to your concerns, your majesty.” He has a bitter mocking tone to his smile. “You can leave again.” And he walks around you, out of his tent.

You stare at his pictures beside his bed, pinned to the wagon. The picture of Cooper, and the picture of four of you; with Hosea and Dutch standing behind both of you. Seems the second picture of that day has been lost to the years.

You sigh.

You have to save them from this swamp they’re drowning in, whether he likes you or not. That’s what you promised each other after all.

#rdr #arthur morgan #rdr fanfiction #rdr fandom #dutch van der linde #hosea matthews #john marston #abigail roberts #jack marston #molly oshea

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anarchistartistvt · 8 months ago

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You were a blessing to this shitty ass drama. Sincerely, thank you for everything. NO ONE deserves to go through what you did and I'm disappointed at myself for never getting wind of it until just now. I have drastically different opinions and manners of speech from those of the "skeptical" side of things, but I'm glad I could put my bias aside to research more into this clusterfuck. You and everyone that has shown their proof to dismantle that documents' lies are good-hearted, kind people; something those bullies can only DREAM of being, even one third as you all are. Their hearts are rotten to the core and I doubt they can ever be salvaged.

Also, don't be intimidated by those Twitter freaks. These people are miserable in their day to day lives, so they take it out on others they KNOW they can humiliate into submission. They are cowards that can't go for someone alone, so they do it like a hivemind and mass-attack others into accepting their narrative, which in turn intimidates bystanders into shutting up or accepting the public opinion like some thoughtless androids. I hope it comforts you to know 99% of them are the bottom of the barrel, sludge to society. That can only do any real impact over the internet because in real life they're failed and sad. (my own words, not yours.)

Again, thank you very much. I apologize for the little rant but it has come from a place of worry and regret. I'll pray for your safety and success in life just as I do for Alex. Peace out ✌️

I honestly was not expecting to get involved in any of this but I’m glad I was able to help in some way 🤍 this past week has been hell, I won’t sugarcoat it. But I’m glad other people are noticing inconsistencies in the situation as well. It’s kind of weird validation, like “holy crap I’m actually NOT going insane?!?”

I’ve known twitter has been a gross platform for a while but I think this was the reassurance I needed to leave that platform for good. I always thought it was so weird that the victims would immediately bully anyone who brought up something that didn’t add up. Like, SCARY amounts of bullying. Hopefully some good can come from this when Alex’s response drops.

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evolvedballisticsus · 4 months ago

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kyledefoor · 11 months ago

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1. My fav and what I’ll use for OE classes and any mil/LE job when I can. 14.5” BCM Mk2 with Surefire Warcomp, Nightforce 1-8 ATACR in Bobro mount, 45 degree magpul irons and Phantom Hill Light/laser. Grip and buttstock are from Frank Windle’s rifle.

2. Same setup except Aimpoint T2 in BCm mount with Tripler in ScalarWorks mount. This is used exclusively for MIL/LE jobs when they have dot only or dot/tripler.

3. Scoped Rifle classes both MIL/LE and OE. 16” KD4 upper with OG 2.5-10x24 Nightforce in Bobro mount, Harris Engineering Bipod, 45 degree magpul irons, Surefire Scout and Civ DBAL.

4. Bolt gun classes MIL/LE. 16” 6.5 CR Proof Research Carbon Fiber Barrel in an Impact Precision Action and KRG chassis with Harris Engineering bipod built by Altus. Scope is 4-20 ATACR by Nightforce in NF rings.

#defoor #defoorproformanceshooting #kd4

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zingaplanet · 2 years ago

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While I am personally horrified by the people Djokovic has associated with I am not sure I would call someone who often talks about peace and the need for education (and seemingly puts money into it too, if you don't trust his words) a genocide supporter? I have seen people from his home country and the neighbouring countries (on different sides of the war in question) express very different opinions on whether his actions are problematic or not. Can you share on what basis you formed that opinion? (which you are obviously entitled to, I'm just curious)

Hi! Yes of course, I actually like genuine scientific inquiries like this, I’ll do my best to answer it (and I’m going to answer this seriously because genocide is a serious topic). This is going to be a long answer, perhaps even separated into several posts (and i'm going to treat this like a scientific research cos i'm bored lol sorry), so bear with me. Now before I start, I’d like to point out that I don’t have a background in psychology, that being said I can’t scientifically prove nor deny whether certain words/actions indicate his support on the genocide in absolute (unless he explicitly said it on record) but I did my master’s research on genocide and have studied to a certain extent the Srebrenica massacre and I'm going to approach this from a political science perspective.

Let me start by saying that I am also not Slavic in any sense, thus resources available to me are those written not in the native tongue of their primary sources. But even in the most rigorous scientific research, you can never fully eliminate researcher’s socio-cultural bias, and for specific emotionally sensitive topic such as genocide, a third-party perspective is sometimes more beneficial for a detached overview free of personal affiliations.

Firstly, what you’re saying about Djokovic’s explicit statement about peace is to a large extent correct. For instance, he has publicly appeared in the UN General Assembly (the only tennis player to do so), to condemn the US military strikes against Syria (see here: https://www.reuters.com/article/us-tennis-open-djokovic-syria-idUSBRE98101W20130902). He even said, on the record, “I’m totally against any kind of weapon, any kind of air strike, missile attack”.

The reason I was willing to give him the benefit of a doubt (as we should actually always do to every person) is to go beyond what he explicitly has been seen as consciously doing (such as making statements on the record or public actions that can be picked up or traced by media). And this is because, public figures very very rarely actually tells the truth unprompted about sensitive political issues that are PERSONAL to them or that they are involved in (Hannah Arendt wrote a book about this! Called On Lying and Politics, it’s awesome check it out). To put it simply, it’s survival instincts and self-protection. This is why in political science we rarely ever found what is called the “smoking gun evidence” (this came from old detective stories where detectives actually found a gun that is “smoking” meaning it’s just been shot and behind the barrel, voila the undisputed murderer!), or the indefinite, absolute proof of someone doing something. You also cannot treat a statement that the suspected person CONSCIOUSLY made in presence of the public media (as in the case of his statements on the war in Syria) as indefinite grounds for his stance as they can very easily be pre-empted.

In political research, what we mostly found is non-definite, guiding evidences (called “straw in the winds”, "hoops", and other very pretentious terminologies if you wanna get technical lol see here) especially if it concerns very sensitive closed-door matters such as genocide. But I mention this because, if you find enough of these evidences, methodologists say that they can in a way substitute as strong enough convictions combined together (this of course needs more rigorous tests unapplicable here but the general logic is applicable everywhere, the method is called process tracing).

Now the reason this whole controversy about Djokovic started was because people simply started stalking him for his extreme nationalist political views. Now everyone is of course entitled to their own political beliefs and it is not my intention to go into a moral debate on the idea of nationalism itself (this is actually a branch of political philosophy that is still highly debated). But there is solid, ground evidence that political ideologies that are too extreme (left or right) induced dangerous policies threatening to human rights. One of the most prominent examples is far-right nationalism (or ultranationalism). The rise of this in 1940s triggered fascism with notions such as racial supremacy in WW2. Now, without going into detail into the history of Yugoslavia or the Bosnian war, political scientists have noted the rise of fascism in post-yugoslavian states. Far-right parties took power most notably in the newly formed Republic of Serbia. Far-right organizations also acted as paramilitaries and they committed crimes of humanities during the Bosnian and Kosovo wars.

Now Djokovic was very little when the war occured and was only 8 when Srebrenica happened, how is it possible that he might show support or be associated with it? This is because the prosecution of war crimes in the Yugoslav wars didn’t happen until much later, and the political tension in the region hasn’t actually been fully resolved until now. That is to say, as you rightly state, the region itself is INCREDIBLY divided, with talks of race and ethnicity often a taboo, and genocide deniers are not hard to find, and far-right ideologies are still prominent in Serbia until now. And Djokovic, unfortunately, has demonstrated a lot of credible signs over the year (mostly unconsciously when he’s out of the public eye or actions that would not be understood widely outside of his region) that he is leaning towards this ultra-nationalist ideology and this far-right group.

First point of evidence is his clear stance on the Kosovo war (which is part of the larger Yugoslav war). After larger protests broke out in Belgrade over Kosovo’s declaration of independence in 2008, Djokovic famously recorded a video saying “We are prepared to defend what is rightfully ours. Kosovo is Serbia.” After the Serbian national team won the ATP Cup in 2020, Djokovic, together with his teammates, sang nationalist songs, including “Vidovdan” — a common tune about Kosovo that featured prominently during the wars of the disintegration of Yugoslavia.

The Kosovo war is highly controversial but it was initially started as an insurgency movement to fight the Serbian prosecution of Kosovo Albanians (With around 9000 kosovar Albanians missing and 900,000 displaced during the war). Serbia never fully recognised Kosovo’s independence. In 2001 a Supreme Court, based in Kosovo and administered by the United Nations, found that there had been "a systematic campaign of terror, including murders, rapes, arsons and severe maltreatments", it was also a significant example of repressive Serbian ultranationalism. Asked in 2011 whether he regretted his actions, Djokovic told German magazine Der Spiegel “it is the birthplace of my family and, indeed, of Serbian culture itself.”

At the time, his father Srđan came to his defence with a controversial statement. “Novak is a nationalist, of course, and so am I,”

There is thus no doubt that he is a fervent nationalist, but is he really an ultranationalist to the extent of tolerance towards mass killings in the name of his country? As I said, there has never been explicit statements, but there are enough background evidences that can point us in the right direction.

Now onto those people he was 'photographed with'. In 2021, Djokovic found himself criticised for his visit to Bosnia after photographs surfaced of his meeting with a commander Milan Jolovic of the “Drina Volves”, a unit that took part in the 1995 Srebrenica genocide where more than 8,000 Bosniak men and boys were summarily executed for their nominal Muslim faith. Jolovic has never been convicted of a war crime but he actually earned his nickname "The Legend" saving the life of former war criminal Ratko Mladic. In 2017, Mladic was convicted of war crimes and genocide (along with the Drina Volves) by independent international courts for his time as a commander in the Bosnian war during the 1990s.

The Drina Volves and the figures mentioned are prominent public personas in Serbia, their accolades and the international court ruling are available out in the open and well-known.

Secondly, far more convicting than being photographed together, Djokovic was reported and recorded associating, singing, and dancing alongside Milorad Dodik at the wedding of Nemanja Majdov, the Serbian athlete. Dodik is former chairman of the presidency of Bosnia and Herzegovina and a well-known genocide denier in Serbia. He has publicly and widely been known to described the Srebrenica massacre as a "fabricated myth".

Bear in mind that Djokovic was not under scrutiny for simply being "in the same event" or even "in the same room", he also wasn't "photographed with" in the loose sense of merely standing side by side by chance as tabloid media often likes to exaggerate. He was recorded and photographed in action of INTERACTING with them (e.g., the photograph was taken on what was clearly a discussion in a civil dining table) which he chose to do so freely.

The third and perhaps most indicative notion of his stance on the genocide is his acceptance and public posting by himself on the pride he has in receiving the award of the order of the Republika Srpska, the highest order given by the region. Now bear in mind that the Republika Srpska is a separate entity from Serbia and is instead a predominantly Serbian region inside Bosnia and Herzegovina that housed most of the Serbs migrating from the Bosnian war after the Croatian and Bosnian massacres.

The problem was that this award has ONLY ever been given to those considered to have significantly contributed to progressing Serbian nationalism, and unfortunately this means 80% of the recipients are party to the war. Amongst others they include CONVICTED genocidaires Slobodan Milošević, Ratko Mladić, Radovan Karadžić. Even its most progressive recent recipient Ana Brnabić, PM of Serbia since 2017 and the first OPENLY GAY woman to hold the office has consistently denied Srebrenica as genocide. This award ceremony is a big PUBLIC event, and its recipients are not in any way closeted.

Although there is always the benefit of a doubt that Djokovic as a public figure is simply at the wrong place at the wrong time, that he was ignorant of all this historical background, this seems incredibly far-fetched, if not impossible. It is difficult to imagine that someone from the region (especially one who grew up DURING the war), and who regularly travels and has access to international media, unless they CONSCIOUSLY choose to be misled over skewed historical information, does not know about this. Most of the war convictions were common knowledge, widely reported, and certainly something that people in the region would have heard about. The more plausible explanation is (as is the case with many ultranationalist party arguments at the moment), that possessing the knowledge, he CONSCIOUSLY chose not to believe or agree with it (either the conviction or the views over the mass atrocities during the war).

I admit that I might have used the word “supporter” liberally, but the repeat of association also supports the explanation that Djokovic did in fact at the very least TOLERATE or ACCEPT the mass atrocities committed as unproblematic, enough to repeatedly associate himself with the companies mentioned. As mentioned, a collated group of un-explicit, “straw in the wind” or “hoops” evidence that point to the same direction is relatively conclusive enough to determine his stance.

Here are the known facts: He's a self-identified fervent nationalist in support of far-right nationalist ideas, he chose to associate with the genocidaires repeatedly AND without showing remorse nor response towards the very public media criticism. If we go further by the plausible assumption (after eliminating the less likely presumption that he doesn't know anything about the people he chose to associate with), his acceptance of the award and clear pride of it can even indicate a conscious acceptance to be honoured in the same name as those he considered worthy of honouring, which sadly in this context are mostly genocide deniers and war criminals. This all builds up towards his "loose" moral stance on the genocide at least in the name of his nationalistic beliefs.

After this, judgment is left to each person’s moral compass but personally for me, in the face of atrocities as horrible as genocide, where human beings are treated like numbered animals to be slaughtered for “the greater purpose”, no matter what this century’s chosen purpose is, there is NO neutral stance, because silence or not condemning is equal to allowing these people to die.

Of course, this argument is in no way seeking to oversimplify the intensely complex conflict in the Balkan regions nor to deny the genocide that has occurred towards the Serbians during Ustashe regime. But condemning one genocide does not mean delegitimising another.

All I’m saying is, one should simply not assume that a certain person’s attitude towards a certain aspect of a larger issue (such as peace and human rights) implies a similar one to all other parts of the issue. Just like Djokovic’s stance on Srebrenica and the Bosnian war shouldn’t automatically denote him a peace-hating person, I think we should give him a much larger benefit of a doubt that his public statements and actions do not automatically cleanse him of his controversial views in genocide denial and ultranationalism, and even more possibly, taking into account the evidences, of his support for them.

Now I can’t put link sources to every single thing that I said here but if you are curious about any of them send me an ask and I’ll give you the source. Sorry for the long answer, but there you go!

#I'm putting this out once and for all #I did properly research this back then and i figured might as well just let it out now #sorry for the jstor length rant but there you go! hahaha #i've got noth else to say after this lol pls stop asking me questions about novak #tennis #novak djokovic #politics #srebrenica #bosnia #serbia #war #genocide

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recoiloperated · 1 year ago

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@celtic-tactical 's hunting guide game.

Let's talk location and game: the Laramie mountains, and brother, we're hunting Elk. (And big horn, prong horn, mule deer, Ect.)

The guns are pretty simple:

my pistol is a long slide 2011 converted from .45 ACP to .460 Rowland.

My guide gun is going to be a Remington 760 or 7600 rechambered in .338-06 with Ghost rings.

And my hunting rifle is where the real fun is.

A Surgeon 591 action, McMillan hunters edge sendero, Proof research sendero light barrel tipped with a VG6 precision gamma 65 muzzle brake, AIC bottom metal and a vortex RAZOR® HD GEN III 6-36X56 FFP, "mighty interesting rifle recoil" you say. "But what's the chambering?"

Well- 6.5 SAUM.

Yep, everything is a wild cat.

Now, just being a hunting guide isn't enough for me. I'm in Wyoming, land is cheap. So I'm going to purchase about a square mile and set up a long range hunting and precision rifle school with shots out to 2000 yards. Every year in July I'll finally put on the American Mile challenge. One "American" mile (1776yd), one minute, one MOA. As well as other competitions and classes, I'll probably build and sell my line of riot guns and precision rifles under my Virtuous brand, and host both practical and tactical pistol, rifle and shotgun eventually. I imagine the guide work would be lucrative, but the range and pro store would probably end up being the real money maker.

Eventually I'll set up a bushplane landing strip, onsite cabins and restaurants, Ect. Basically making a mini hunting and fishing resort.

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attackcopterblog · 4 months ago

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PROOF RESEARCH DEBUTS THE ELEVATION MTR AND ELEVATION 2.0 RIFLES

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#hunting rifle #proof research #proof research elevation mtr rifle

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fishmech · 9 months ago

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Mutation or Death by John B. Michel from RASP Pamphlet

"MUTATION OR DEATH" is a transcript of the speech delivered by Donald A. Wollheim for John B. Michel at the Third Eastern Science Fiction Convention, Philadelphia, October 1937.

Mr. CHAIRMAN, MEMBERS of the Convention Committee, visitors, and friends: What I am about to say is the result of much thinking and introspection on my part and on the part of the several of my friends here today who support a new program for the future of science fiction -- which shall be the main topic of my talk this afternoon. To open this discussion it would be well to put forward a statement pregnant with meaning, a statement above all appropriate to the speech, a statement heavily loaded with dynamite and fraught with shaking possibilities. I hereby make that statement. The Science Fiction Age, as we have known it during the past few years, is over. Definitely over and done with. Dead, gentlemen, of intellectual bankruptcy.

UNFORTUNATELY FOR ANY persons who might still be harboring any thoughts of optimism while moping over the moldering corpse, the decision is entirely final. I am not fooling when I say this. You can take it or leave it. But I believe, in the light of what I shall say further on in this talk, you'll take it. Naturally such a statement calls for proof, strong, unbending proof guaranteed to stand up under criticism of the most searching nature. Need I offer any more positive a proof than the conduct of this convention itself? Gentlemen, we are gathered here this afternoon in solemn conclave -- to do what? To do precisely what? In a few words let me put forth my opinion on what we are doing. My opinion is that we are baloney bending, throwing the bull, indulging in dull flights of fancy, tossing barrels of rhodomontade all over the place. I SEE BEFORE ME FANS, writers, editors, and publishers, stf fans all and but a handful really awake to the enormous possibilities inherent in that fragile little thing called science fiction, that potentially mighty force which is rapidly being buried in a deluge of obscure issues, meaningless phrases, stupid interpretations, and aimless goals. When the first science fiction fan organizations came into existence several years ago, they did so because of a need -- a need, however obscure, which nevertheless existed. That need was expression. We all know the various organizations that were formed. Why recall their history, their mistakes, their stupid, colossal, blundering mistakes of bickering and internal strife and more and still more baloney bending? In reviewing the field in its entirety we would be doing nothing more than adding to the dull, dreary reams upon reams of historical fact, consigned already to the limbo of forgotten things.

THE VERY FACT THAT no single science fiction organization has ever made any lasting impression on anything (except for the single exception of the ISA which did more or less practical research work on rockets before its dissolution) speaks for itself. It speaks in a resounding question: Just where has science fiction got to in six or seven years of loosely organized existence? On a world scale, nowhere. Locally, practically nothing has been done. The great local organizations are gone, their banners furled and tossed on the scrap heap. Internationally, science fiction is but the last gasping beats of a never very strong and young and healthy heart. What remains of it all is a gigantic junk pile of stinking literature and less than puerile achievement. Just what is this urge to organize, anyway? Why do science fiction fans gather all over the world in local clubs and sit up far in the nights to publish fan magazines and correspond on a scale almost unprecedented in its scope? Certainly because they like science fiction. And why do they like science fiction? Wherein lies this mysterious attraction which prompts most of them to make a fetish out of a new form of literature, a little tin god, as it were, before which their souls bend and scrape? Is it because of the cadence of the words, the turn of the clever phrases, well constructed paragraphs, a temporary exaltation on reading some powerful descriptive scene? Is it to orate and argue endlessly about the qualities of this or that writer or the shortcomings of this or that writer? We all know that science fiction itself is something different in literature. But what form and shape has it given the ideas of its adherents? Again I repeat, wherein lies this mysterious compelling force which has made science fiction fans accomplish what little practical work they have accomplished?

THE ANSWER IN GREAT part is that science fiction is the smoothest form of escape literature known. In its infinite depths the lost, the lonesome, the inhibited, the frustrated soul finds understanding and expression, precisely because the world to which they escape is a world of their own fancies and imaginings -- a world which they like. In this haven of refuge their creative instincts are given full rein. I venture to predict that a heavy majority of science fiction fans are escapists. I think I'm right when I say that because I'm a more or less normal type of fan, and I was an escapist and in a certain sense I still am. But why have the fans stopped at this point, content to revel in a seemingly unending debauch of good fellowship leading to what may seem to be a common end and purpose? As you can see by looking about you in the fan field, what remains of the great directive forces, the organizations proper, is nothing. Fandom has resounded for almost a decade with the hullabaloo and the shouting, and now the hollow shell of a structure stopped suddenly in headlong growth sounds to nothing but a painful silence, sterile on the shores of a lost world. What are you people looking for, anyway? Do you really intend to go on harping for more and better science fiction? Do you really think that merely asking for more and better science fiction is, in some miraculous way, to lift the field out of the slough? What makes you think that the editors and publishers of the magazines are going to give you their ears? Have they in the past? No. Can it actually be your intended purpose to continue arguing on the pros and cons of the literature of science fiction forever? Can it? If such is your purpose, you are a pack of fools, content to sit smugly by while the fine talents inherent in your brains, the brains which provided the spark which sent science fiction leaping to a halted youth, stagnate.

SCIENCE FICTION HAS finally come to the parting of the ways with meaningless idealism, and, with that idealism, dies. Science fiction must mutate -- must change into a new form of idealism, a fighting, practical idealism, an idealism based on action and not on words, on experience and achievements and not on bombastic and irrelevant swaggerings. The main point of this whole discussion is that you fans must prepare to incept this new state of things, else nothing is left but a slow, gradual decay of the gaunt corpse of the body stf until it disappears, eaten up by the fiery acid of mighty world events.

BUT YOU CANNOT! Because, gentlemen, the world is catching up with you and will pass you by. Because, gentlemen, there is something in each and every one of you fans which places him automatically above the level of the average person; which, in short, gives him a vastly broadened view of things in general. The outlook is there, the brains are there. Yet, nothing has happened! But why not give science fiction a meaning? Naturally all types of fiction are idealized versions of situations found in everyday life. Science fiction is an idealized type of vision of the life of the future. What is wrong with science fiction today is that its outlook on the future has changed; or rather, has never existed in a rational sense. How can science fiction have any rational outlook on the future when today exists the greatest confusion in world affairs since the dawn of recorded history? WHAT IS IMPORTANT to us is what science fiction is going to do about it. Science fiction has to do something about it because its very life is bound up with the future and today practical events are working to shape the outline of that future in bold, sharp relief. Today we are face to face, FACE TO FACE, I repeat, with the choice: CIVILIZATION or BARBARISM -- reason or ignorance. As idealists, as visionaries, we cannot retreat before this challenge. We must accept it and carry the battle into the enemy's camp. Hitherto, this challenge has not even been recognized, much less accepted. So come out of your secure cubbyholes of clubrooms and laboratories and meeting places and look at the world before you. It is swiftly sinking in darkness and chaos. Why? Because the masses are being led by stupid men to a dreary doom. Dare any of you deny this? Look at the daily newspapers. Look at the authoritative weeklies and monthlies. You see nothing but confusion and the abandonment of every decent instinct left to this mad system under which we live. As idealists we cannot refuse to accept the challenge of the future.

THUS TODAY THE world of science fiction totters. Even science, its mainstay, wavers increasingly toward the vague and obscure. It would seem as though science were too secure in its ivory tower to pay much heed to the wails and groans (and pardon me if I use this old bromide) of suffering humanity. In its lofty and utterly pure elevation it squats safely amidst its own escapist atmosphere and does precisely nothing practical in the way of saving itself from the consequences of the coming world smash. Out of its test tubes and instruments it extracts life and the energy of the atom and with them both it fills up our war machine and vomits death and terror throughout the world. On one hand we are faced with the sickening spectacle of scientists throughout the world turning their backs on cold logic for the magic tinsel of colored military trappings, of a Pirandello in art and a Marconi in radio stooging for the Fascist dictator and general dirty rat, Benito Mussolini. On our own side of the Atlantic, renowned scientists and savants such as Millikan and others bow hypocritically before a standardized version of a God (of which none of them could possibly conceive) and attend rallies and demonstrations to uphold our military pride and honor. As the technical brains of the world in their supreme cynicism line up on the side of reaction, the backbone of science fiction itself dies, dies of inaction, of do-nothingness, of an inability to forget for a while its above-it-allness and lead humanity out of the Valley of the Shadow into the dazzling light of a triumphant future. WHY ALL THIS? Because we have become stale and we stink in our staleness to the high heavens. Because we are conventional and set in our ways and the old way of life is easier to go on living because it demands little effort on the part of the haves and near-haves. We continue to do the same old things in the same old way and are smug and content in our pipe-dreams of super-scientific smoke. "Why change?" we cry.

Why NOT change? Why in hell not DO something about it? Great guns! We have brains, technical brains, introspective brains, thoughts and ideals that would put the greatest minds to shame for scope and insight. Put these brains to work before it is too late! The planet is ready for work, for practical work to wipe clean the slate and start anew. We must start anew if we have to smash every old superstition and outworn idea to do it. We fans can do a lot towards the realization of this rational idea. We can do that because determination very often means achievement. And how sick we are at base of this dull, unsatisfying world, this stupid asininely organized system of ours which demands that a man brutalize and cynicize himself for the possession of a few dollars in a savage, barbarous, and utterly boring struggle to exist. We say: "Put a stop to this -- NOW!" We say: "Smash this status quo of ours by smashing the present existing forms of economic and social life!" Boldly, perhaps a bit crudely, we say: "Down with it!" Down with it before the war-lovers clamp on the screws and bind us in submission for who knows how long! Let humanity swing along in its goalless rut for more hundreds and thousands of years while the universe beckons for our participation in its active life? Not for us! FEARLESSLY AND BEFORE the entire world we state our platform and beliefs (and I speak for all the visitors here today wearing the red delegate badges of the NYFA). We come out wholly and completely in support of every force seeking the advancement of civilization along strictly scientific and humanitarian lines. All help to the democratic forces of the world! All help to the heroic defenders of Madrid and Shanghai, defenders of democracy! Death and destruction to all forms of reaction! The machine that will shatter forever the reactional assault on civilization is already in motion. Let us become part of it. It is our job to work and plan and prepare, to teach and expound for the coming of that day when the human race shall stand erect as should a man and gaze on the stark, naked cosmos with firm eyes, to feel the solid, inconceivable impact of the grim void, to flood its consciousness with the realization that in the vast emptiness we must stand on our own feet and fight it out! THEREFORE: Be it moved that this, the Third Eastern Science Fiction Convention, shall place itself on record as opposing all forces leading to barbarism, the advancement of pseudo-sciences and militaristic ideologies, and shall further resolve that science fiction should by nature stand for all forces working for a more unified world, a more Utopian existence, the application of science to human happiness, and a saner outlook on life.

The convention members rejected the motion 12 to 8, along straight non-Futurian : Futurian lines.

#ancient fandom #the futurians #1937

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