#the amount of sarcasm and snark with them

[johnwickb1tsch]

Vino Veritas - Part IV

A Destination Wedding Frank x Fem!Reader Fic

Attending the wedding of your ex-fiancé gets slightly better when you meet someone having just as miserable a time as you... Warnings: Nothing too serious holy shit. Cursing. Broken engagement. Nihilism, existential bullshit, copious amounts of sarcasm. NSFW. Angst. Grump/sunshine trope. Loosely based on the movie but I'm not that smart. Or bitter. 😆 chapter map.

IV. Showering Together To Conserve Water

You are both tired as you return to the hotel, and maybe a little giddy from what you did in the backcountry of the vineyard. You certainly didn’t drink enough wine at the reception to be stumbling the way you are, and when you nearly trip over your tall shoes again Frank sweeps you up into his arms for the second time that day.

When you look at him with surprise he qualifies, “If you break an ankle, it will ruin my night.”

You chuckle to yourself, and rest your head on his shoulder. It’s a very nice shoulder, broad, solid. If you were braver than you are, you might even dare to think it feels…dependable. It doesn’t escape you, that he carries you like a bride over his threshold, on this day when you watched your ex-fiancé marry someone else.

Frank would be a much better prospect than Keith—but you are not thinking about that.

You’re trying not to, anyway.

The shine doesn’t even diminish while he curses as he fumbles to get out his key. It’s all highly entertaining, and very sweet, and that cloyingly painful ball in your chest only feels like it's growing.

He sets you down on the bed, and immediately sets about unbuckling the ankle straps of your shoes. “These things are an accident waiting to happen.”

“But they make my calves look amazing,” you defend.

He pauses to assess the body parts in question, nodding begrudgingly. “They’re quite nice on their own though. You’re a very attractive woman.”

This hits you a bit like a shovel to the head. You guess he’d complimented your clothes before, but it wasn’t quite the same thing.

“I think you’re very attractive too,” you confess, though you’re sure he already knows it.

The fleeting look on his face isn’t exactly surprise—but you dare think that maybe it moves him too.

“Excellent. We’ve had sex and now we admit we’re attracted to each other,” he deflects with a smirk. “However, I also think you’re dirty after our roll in the hills, and I am too. Want to take a shower?”

You can only presume he means together, and you nod.

*** 

At first you focus solely on washing, which is nice when he lathers his big hands up with soap and runs them all over your body. You’re all too happy to return the favor, which yields the inevitable arousal for both of you.

“I know it’s how it’s done in the movies,” he says between kissing you, “But if I pick you up to fuck you the odds are excellent I will slip and fall and we will both get hurt.”

You’re not entirely disappointed to hear this. You’ve always thought it precarious and awkward anyway. In answer you turn to lean on the shower wall. “How about this?” you suggest, standing on tiptoe to offer your ass up in the air, looking back with a mischievous smile.

“Maybe if we could get you a footstool,” he snarks, before engulfing you with his body behind yours, his front pressed to your back. He grumbles with appreciation as he kisses the back of your neck, his hard member pressing into your spine. “I think we can make this work,” he muses, his voice gone low and gravely with desire. That alone is enough to make you gush between your legs, and when he touches you he finds your slit slick and ready for him. It’s almost embarrassing, really, how much you want it with this man.

When he bends his knees to enter you the both of you moan, the wonderful pressure of his beautiful cock filling you up making you see stars.

It’s also embarrassing, how fast you cum on his fingers with his cock inside you like this, the hard clench of your walls bringing him right along with you again.

“Oh my god,” you pant, pressing your cheek against the cool tiles. You can feel the hot drip of his seed running down your thighs—it’s marvelous, if you’re being honest. It’s wonderful and you’re afraid you never want it to end.

“Yeah,” he agrees, leaning above you, leaving you feeling surrounded by his body and strangely secure in the shelter of his larger form.

“I never—” You stop yourself short, thinking that maybe it’s too much to confess this soon in your budding relationship, if this can even be called yet. Leave it to you, to scare him off straight out the gate.

“Tell me,” he says, almost gently, his throbbing manhood still inside you.

Fuck it.

“I never cum this quickly. I usually get freaked out that I’m taking too long, and it’s a nightmare, and I just end up faking it to make it stop. You are…” You evacuate the breath from your body, so that you don’t say something insane, like you’re a dream come true.

You tense, waiting for the inevitable snide comment that will shatter the moment, but it does not come. He just kisses the back of your head and slides out of you, so that he can stand upright again. However, he does not let go of you, holding you snug against the shelter of his body with an arm still looped around your waist. 

“That sounds crushingly disappointing,” he says against your ear.

“Yeah.” You’re not sure why your throat is suddenly tight, and that’s all you can get out at the moment. You guess before Frank, you weren’t that into it either. 

He turns you in his arms and kisses you again under the warm stream of the shower, so sweetly one would find it hard to believe he’s the same man from before. “I’m honored. And…same.”

“You’ve faked orgasms before?” you ask, incredulous.

“No, but you—this is the best I’ve had in a long time. So…same.”

You nod, and resolve not to pick at it anymore, happy with what you have for now. You rest with your head against his chest, catching your breath, your knees–and your heart–feeling like they’ve turned to jelly.

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

Five-Finger Discount (Dean/Reader)

Title: Five-Finger Discount

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

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

Word Count: 10,300

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The hotness of the Winchester brothers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I-yeah-it’ll do.”

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

“Holy shit,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyes bug out. “Do my nails?”

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

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

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

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

“Is this gonna hurt?” he asks.

“Just a little detailing is all.”

He sits and eyes you warily.

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

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

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

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

“Nothing,” you mumble.

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow the urge to bite that finger.

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

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

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

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

“Hands,” you request.

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

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

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

“Huh?”

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

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

“Quite the comedian,” he razzes back.

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

“Yeah, well…” He begins.

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

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

For some reason that shuts you both up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He finally speaks. “We should get ready.”

And your daydreaming dissipates just like that.   

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

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

You wait for Dean. 

Things had not gone according to plan.

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

You all were SOL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The key card lets you sneak in through the poolside.

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

So, dialing back the ogling is going great.

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

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

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

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

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

You groan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You applied a fresh coat of red berry lipstick.

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

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

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

“That’s all it is,” you mumble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine.” You hum. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Too bad I don’t fit the bill.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a soft tap on your bedroom door.

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

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

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

“Yeah,” you squeak. “Hungover.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile. “I think I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

A pair of hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a trap. It’s gotta be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Yoda. Duh.”

Dean chuckles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure, Leia.”

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

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

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

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

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

Solo is massaging Leia’s HAND the whole time.

Leia whispers, “Stop that.”

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

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

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

“Afraid?” Oh, Leia, Don’t egg him on.

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

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

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

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

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

You scoff. “No, you’re not. You’re…”

The music swells. Solo and Leia kiss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you and Dean do not quote any other lines.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, even with Chewbacca?”

You chuckle. “Be nice.”

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

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

The drawer squeaks closed. “Luke.”

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

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

“Yeah, guess so.”

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

You nod, deliberate and slow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, dumbfounded. “Huh?”

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

“Wha-?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The giggle escapes before you can lasso it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you want. You so want.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re wrong, you know?”

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

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

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

THE END

[streamdotpng]

"Soooo..." Enid starts awkwardly, scratching her hands. "How are... things?"

"My heart is still beating." They walk to a door, Enid pushing it open for the smaller woman. "So terrible."

"Okay." They stop talking.

Enid walks behind her, staring at the top of her head. She's small. Enid remembers holding her after the Hyde. She hadn't finished growing yet and she was still a good bit taller than Wednesday.

(She remembers pressing her bloody, mangled nose into the seer's neck and inhaling and just trying to drown in the warm scent of fresh ink and black coffee.)

(She remembers tasting it on the back of her tongue for two weeks.)

They finally get to the book signing stand that Wednesday (Ms. Addams, she calls her in public. And private. She only calls her Wednesday in her head.) Has set up. Enid can the the line stretch out of the door.

The amount of people who loved her book and grin having it signed makes Enid nauseous. She wonders if the money would get taken away if she left.

(She wonders if Wednesday would notice.)

She stays in her place, right behind her charge. Watching for any suspicious behavior or weapons that are poorly concealed. It wouldn't be the first time someone snuck a blade past security while she worked.

It takes 3 and half hours before the people are gone. Enid's feet are sore and the room was hot so now she's hot, her clothes sticking to her skin just enough to make her irritated. She grinds her teeth together. She knew she shouldn't have worn her coat, but she just had to be cozy. She really should've just taken it off and held it, but she had to look scary.

How could she look intimidating if she's there holding an a jacket like a coat hanger?

Wednesday stands up and flexes her hands, pressing on the backs and rubbing small circles in them. On her wrists.

"Come with me." She turns and just starts walking to the exist door, not at all waiting for Enid to process needing to move for the first time in 3 and a half hours.

"Oka— okay, gimme a sec, damn." She jogs over to get behind her charge, walking behind her so she can not get fired.

Wednesday goes to the glass doors, pushing them open. They almost swing back and smack Enid. Rude.

"I will not give you a moment." Wednesday snarks, stepping on to the street. It's finally dark out so Enid can enjoy the freezing air. It's way better than the too-hot room she was in before.

"Where is the car?" Enid questions, looking for the hearse that the author was known for riding in.

"You'll see it."

"That doesn't help me."

"Who said I was trying to help you, Sinclair?"

Enid bites down on the comment she wants to say, crushing it in her teeth and swallowing it.

(She ignores the way not hearing 'Enid' makes her heart ache.)

The street is long; the building the book signing was in is at the end of the street.

They've been walking for 15 minutes and Enid still hasn't seen the hearse. They taken 7 turns and backtracking at one point and Enid has yet to see the damn vehicle.

"Ms. Addams, are you certain the car is on this street? Or here at all?" She can't help the sarcasm from soaking her voice.

"The hearse was stolen." Wednesday says calmly, hands clasped together over her lower abdomen like a corpse.

"What?!" Enid yelps into the air. "What do you mean it was stolen?!"

"Have you forgotten English, Sinclair? And here I was, thinking time aged you well." Enid's mouth goes dry, teeth pressing together so hard it feels like they're going to break in her mouth.

"What— how do you know it was stolen?" Enid feels her muscles tighten in stress. She feels the fabric of her shirt stretch with it.

"The hearse was on Rockefeller Street, a 2 minute walk from the entrance doors of the building. It's not there; it was stolen."

"σκατά." Enid growls lowly. Wednesday shivers from the cold. "It can't be that hard to find a goddamn hearse, right? How the hell do you even steal a hearse? Isn't it different from a normal car? Should we call the cops?" The short woman shakes her head.

"No. There's a microchip in it. If nothing else, we can remotely explode it." Enid chokes on her spit.

"Explode it?! What if they abandoned it in a... children's hospital?! You could kill someone!" Maybe this isn't the best conversation to have in the dead of night, in the middle of the street.

"The microchip has a Global Positioning System in it. We would know if they left it somewhere. And how would they get it into a children's hospital?" Enid groans in exasperation, dragging her claws down her face.

"That's hardly my point." Wednesday keeps walking, bringing Enid god-knows where.

"Make better points, then." Enid lifts her hands and mimes strangling the shorter woman, biting her teeth together in anger.

"Do you know where the hotel is at least?" Enid asks. Wednesday takes a left.

"Yes. I'm not an idiot." Enid laughs shortly.

"Says the one who lost a goddamn hearse."

There's a big water fountain with a bird statue on it. She thinks it's a phoenix.

They turn one more corner and Enid gapes at the giant, shining hotel. Big lights, and gorgeous flowers in the front.

Wednesday walks through the large front door, Enid pushing them open.

There's a massive front desk, what has to at least 7 workers taking names and buzzing people in and handing out cards.

Wednesday goes to the one on the far left, handing the man standing there a black card. He runs it, waits, then hands both the black card, and 2 golden-rimmed white cards to her. Wednesday turns and hands Enid one of them

"263. 7th floor." He says. Wednesday walks off, Enid offering a half-bow and muttered 'thank you' before catching up to her.

"Why is this hotel so big?" Enid asks, walking next to Wednesday. The hall is expensive-looking, golden paint in fancy patterns and statues of animals and people.

"Because it houses a large amount of famous names. It's all marketing to the narcissists of the industry."

"Uh-huh. And, pray tell, are you included in this list of 'narcissists'?" Enid asks.

"No."

"Why?"

She's ignored.

Wednesday walks up to an elevator, pressing the up arrow.

Enid lifts her fist, talking in to it like a microphone.

"So, Ms. Addams, what are your plans for the future of your book-writing career?" She aims her 'microphone' to Wednesday, smirking at the glare she gets.

"I plan on writing an obituary on my bodyguard. Spoiler: she ends up dead in a mysterious hotel fire." The elevator dings and the door opens, the two stepping inside.

Enid takes her fist back to herself as the doors close, smiling.

"Well, Ms. Addams, if anyone should know how werewolves work, it should be you. You always pride yourself on your accuracy in biology. You should know that werewolves are pretty resistant to fires. How would a fire kill a werewolf?" She turns her hand back to the author as the elevator starts going up.

"She's on the 7th floor. I'd write her falling out of the hotel. Onto a spiked stone pillar that just so happened to have been perfectly aim to skewer her as she fell." Enid takes her hand back as the doors open, spreading her arms out as they exit together.

"Well, you heard it here first, folks! Wednesday Addams hates werewolves!"

"First off: no." She says curtly, counting the doors numbers to find theirs. "And second off:—" she swipes her card in the door and pushes it open. "—if your hands are out, how can the microphone pick up your voice?"

Enid stammers, trying to find a way to snap back.

"I— well, you see—" her voice dies in her throat as she and Wednesday walk into the room. It's nice.

Black and gold walls, well-kept flowers and potted plants, a minibar in the corner with costly-looking bourbon, an oddly large bed, a nice carpet.

She understands why Wednesday splurged on this place.

"I think the price was worth it!" She says, stepping in to the center of the room. It's larger than her living room.

She does a few spins and twirls, enjoying the freedom of movement.

"How much was it?" She does a hop.

"60,000 dollars." Enid falls on to her knees.

"What? You said... 60,000 dollars?" Wednesday nods like nothing happened.

"Yes." Enid mirrors her nod mindlessly, staring blankly at the floor.

She stands up and walks to the bathroom, flipping the switch. There's a little standing-shower with a frosted glass door, already full of expensive goods on the inside.

She genuinely considers stealing them.

The sink is huge. it's broad and as long as her bed at home. She could sleep on it.

She turns and flicks the light back off, exiting the room.

"Ms. Addams, did you— no." She glares.

Wednesday turns around, facing her.

"What?"

"No, fuck. Why is there only one bed?"

"What?" Wednesday says in panic, snapping her head over to the oddly small bed. "Damn. I thought I fixed that."

"Fixed what?" Enid asks. She can feel fear building in her body; tightening around her joints and choking her. "You knew it was like this?"

"Yes—" Enid feels like she's going to cry "—however, that was before I knew I would be accompanied by anyone else. Mother didn't tell me you'd be coming with. Or anyone at all." Maybe she should sleep on the skin and its counter.

Enid bobs her head, mindless and afraid.

"Yeah, yeah. Coolio, that's." She feels light-headed. "Great!" She throws her arms out. "It's cool." She takes her coat and tosses it onto the floor, getting on her knees and moving it out.

"I'm gonna sleep on the floor." Wednesday hums.

"Here."

Enid looks up just in time for a pillow smack her in the face.

"Wha?" She takes the pillow in her hands, looks at it, then looks up to another pillow whacking her again.

"Why?!" She yelps.

"Because I like being uncomfortable while I sleep." She throws another pillow and a massive blanket. "And I'll hang myself from the celling if I listen to you whine about back pain."

"That got dark..." she mumbles.

'When doesn't it with Willa?" She thinks.

She swallows.

"Thanks."

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

Wednesday is doing another booking-signing, this time in a room with air-conditioning. Enid still wears her coat.

It takes 4 hours this time, but it's easier without the sensation of her shirt melting into her skin.

The doors are different in this building. They're frosted like the ones in the hotel. She likes the texture on her hands.

Outside is nicer near this building, too. There's a little more wildlife and a little less busy business men and women angrily snapping at their phones.

The air is colder still. There's little bits of snow occasionally, one landing in her eye at one point.

"Did they find the hearse?" She makes idle conversation.

"Yes. The thief was killed by a hit and run, and they found the keys in them."

"Damn." She says. "Wait, in them?"

"It was a bad hit."

Wednesday shivers again. Enid can see her barely tense a smidge, squeezing her hands slightly harder.

"Do you... want my coat?" Wednesday stops dead in her tracks, staring straight ahead.

"What?"

"My— my coat? Y'know, I don't really need it and you keep shiverin' and the last thing you need is to get sick." She's already taking her coat off, placing it over Wednesday's small shoulders.

"I—" Enid drops the jacket on her. Wednesday takes a pause. She wraps a hand into the neck of the jacket to stop it from falling. She stand static for just a moment longer before continuing to walk.

"Okay."

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

(Wednesday looks so cute in Enid's Hello Kitty jacket, it eases the pain of missed calls and nights wondering what went wrong. Just an ounce.)

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

The floor is cold, Enid learns. Very cold. Even with her thick blanket.

Wednesday still has her coat, snuggling into it in the bed.

Enid almost wants to reach up and grab it. And Wednesday.

She turns over and faces the wall. The floor-to-celling window has a gap between the floor and curtain. She can see city lights faintly glow.

She closes her eyes and tries not to think about procrastinating phone calls and nights dreaming of fresh ink and black coffee.

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

This time, Wednesday has an interview. Conducted in a nice little office. No cameras, which meant Enid stayed besides her the entire time. Enid busies herself with reading the tags on her coat.

60% Fleece, 40% cotton.

Bianca gave it to her for her birthday in second year.

Wednesday didn't celebrate with her.

She lets go of the tags.

There's a book stand. A range of authors and names and ideas. She's been wanting to get in to writing, as a hobby. A way to spend the time that isn't out of her house or just mopping while listening to K-pop and watching Kitchen Nightmares.

She grabs the only book of Wednesday's, flipping through to a random page.

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

The Hyde is right behind her and she can't wolf out to save herself or Wednesday or anyone.

There's the sound of it growling and yowling like an animal. It sounds so close.

She runs so hard her feet and knees and bones hurt, like someone's beaten her black and blue with a sledgehammer.

An arm as big herself swings through a tree, a hand grabbing it and throwing it at her; she barely ducks under it. In evading it, though, she falls onto her stomach.

She slams her hands onto the ground to push herself up, but the Hyde jumps on top of her, swiping a far too big hand across her back.

It rips her skin and slashes some muscle in her back, paralyzing her. Or maybe it's the fear doing that.

She feels blood in her mouth and spits it up, coughing.

The Hyde swings its claws again and she can feel it tear through her, leaving marks in the ground below her.

"Wil—" she almost hacks up a lung. "Willa— pleas—" the Hyde grabs her head, tightens—

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

She wakes up to her hand breaking her water bottle in half. She liked that water bottle, so there's a drop of disappointment in her ocean of fear.

That's really all she feels, isn't it? Fear. Not anger at not being helpful enough to save anyone. Not hatred at herself or the Hyde. She's just so afraid.

She's afraid, and disappointed and sad and— oh.

She was wrong, actually. There is more than just her drop and the ocean. There's the salt of the fear-water: she's sad. That's her waters, then.

She's an afraid, sad ocean with a drop of disappointment for her cracked, broken water bottle.

Her head snaps to the side, looking at the edge of the tall bed. There's no one in it.

She sits up and looks around in a panic, head turning this way and that. She thought maybe Wednesday was just closer to the opposite edge of the bed and she couldn't see her because of the angle, but no. The seer just isn't there.

Enid stands up and twirls, because fuck. She's lost her friend charge. She's going to get fired.

'Maybe Wednesday died. Maybe I failed to keep her safe.'

She swallows her fear and grabs her hunting knife, clipping it to her belt. She grabs her phone and turns to the balcony to see if there's any passing ambulances or cop cars that could lead her anywhere.

She doesn't even get to the door before her brain processes the short, dark figure on the balcony, arms crossed and assumedly balefully glaring at the streets below like she was personally offended by everyone down there.

Enid opens the door, sliding it open. The frosted glass feels nice on her fingers.

It's extra cold outside, in her thin sleep pants and loose tank top.

"What the fuck are you doing?" She hisses. She's tired. "Why aren't you in bed?"

"I wasn't aware I owned you a 24/7 update on my whereabouts, Sinclair." Wednesday shoots back.

"When you my fucking charge? And it's the in the middle of the night? In a high crime-rate city? Yeah, you kinda fucking do."

"I owe you nothing." Enid walks to the edge. She leans forward, supporting herself on her elbows.

"You make it very hard to not throw you off this."

"Death would be nice." Enid tenses her jaw and stares down. They're 7 stories up with more above them. Enid likes that. They snuggly in the middle. Like the chocolate in a s'more.

Wednesday still has her jacket it. The air is pretty cold. That must be why

(That has to be why.)

"How have things been? Since we last spoke, I mean." Wednesday raises an eyebrow at her.

"We spoke earlier. The only thing that's happened since then is you asking me that."

"That's not what I meant, smartass. But you knew that." She says sarcastically.

"Oh?" Wednesday turns back to the city below. "I guess you haven't lost your bite completely. It's just been so heavily dulled it couldn't cut paper."

"Woooooooow. I think that might count as the first time you've insulted me using a pun." Enid grins.

"I—" Wednesday faces her, shoulders drawn up. "I didn't make a pun, Sinclair."

"Oh, but I think so." Enid lifts off her arms, settling her hands on the fancy stone. "A pun about the werewolf losing her bite? That's a pun."

"I thought puns had to be on purpose to be puns?"

"Haven't you ever heard the phrase 'pun not intentional'? I've said it to you before."

"No, you haven't."

"Yeah! Back in Neve—" she goes silent. Wednesday's twitching lips drop. She stopped almost-smiling because of Enid's need to hold on to the past.

"Why..." She rubs her hands together. She chooses to stare at her hands. "Why didn't you... y'know, not come back? To Nevermore, I mean."

('To me.')

"I." Wednesday squeezes her biceps, jaw setting so hard it looks like it hurts. Enid has to stop herself from brushing fingers against her skin.

"I can't tell you. I'm... sorry, Enid." She's whispering, now. Enid likes the way she says her name. "I wish I could."

Enid takes a deep, slow breath. It barely helps her. Her arms and legs feel numb and cold.

"C'mon," she thoughtlessly reaches up and brushes the other woman's shoulder. Her hand feels warm and fuzzy.

"We need to go to sleep. Your thing with that magazine is at, like, 9. It's—" she takes her phone out and checks the time. "—1:43. If we don't sleep now, we might not sleep at all."

"I can sleep on command." Is all Wednesday says before turning around and opening the door, leaving it open for Enid, who closes it behind them.

Wednesday is wrapping herself up in Enid's jacket as she faces the small woman.

Wednesday must not notice her. She leans against the wall, just... staring. Admiring. She knows she shouldn't. She should aim her head at her feet and swiftly settle into her makeshift bed.

But she's only a needy, lonely woman. Who's been wanting something for years. She thinks she deserves to indulge herself in a few moments of sight-seeing.

She walks slowly to her section of the floor. The floor feels less cold now.

She sleeps easier. Just an ounce.

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

The magazine interview goes poorly. Extremely poorly.

The interviewer condescends the entire time, which Wednesday surprisingly deals with, ignoring the redheaded woman's faux-superiority. She doesn't challenge it or say anything of it.

If this happened back then, Wednesday would be in cuffs with the interviewer dead.

The interview goes from bad to fucking terrible when the interview manages to set Wednesday off.

"Yes, and well, I mean, we both know that those characters are pity-showings, yes?"

"Excuse me?"

"The werewolves, I mean." The woman does a little flick of her hand absent-mindedly. "The only light they should have on them is the one of an auctioneer's stage, amirite?" She laughed heartily, then. The sound dying in her throat as Wednesday jumps over the large mahogany desk, strangling the woman.

"How dare you?!" Wednesday yells into the quickly-bluing woman's face. "HOW DAR—"

"Ms. Addams, please!" Enid hooks her arms under Wednesday's, yanking her off the redhead before she actually murders someone.

"ENID, LET ME—" there's a clatter and the door opens and people rush in. There's shouts and orders being yelled out. Enid drags Wednesday out of the room, then eventually out of the building.

"Good jobs, Ms. Addams!" Enid only lets Wednesday go when they've left the building. it's almost midday, so there's a lot of people out then their night-trips. Enid lowers her voice, "you might've just killed your career!" Wednesday scoffs. They start walking back to the hotel.

"I've been caught in worse scandals than attacking a bigoted interviewer, Sinclair." Enid feels pressure behind her eyes.

"But you didn't need to get in trouble for me." She taps her heart quickly with her hand, desperate for Wednesday to understand her unneeded actions. "I'm just me!"

"Have you ever considered that being yourself is why I did that?" Wednesday snaps.

Enid stops walking. Wednesday doesn't.

"Being... myself?" She whispers to herself. She considers running after her charge, but she can't see her anymore.

For the first time since she passed her test, she's not next to her.

(It's all too familiar to after first year.)

She turns around and walks to a little burger place she saw before. Wednesday didn't notice it and Enid didn't want to make her feel forced and required to go there. That would've made her feel bad.

The place is cozy. She orders the biggest burger they have and sits in the corner.

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

She wonders what would happen if she didn't return? Would Wednesday look for her? Would she call?

Would Wednesday miss her if Enid was the one to leave?

She walks back to the hotel through the slowest possible route, taking her time in petting dogs and talking to animals she finds in trees.

One of the robins she spoke to really got her.

She's been out for hours; the sun is setting.

She purposely ignores her ringing phone. Wednesday's called ID showed, so she set it to vibrate.

She'll lie and say it was like that the whole time if she's questioned.

She swipes her card in its reader to push open the door to their room. Wednesday isn't in there, so Enid takes the liberty of making her charge's bed and readying for bed. Her toothbrush sets next to Wednesday's. She needs to change it soon.

When she hears the door open, she ignores it. She tries to.

She can her Wednesday's heart beat faster, if she focuses hard enough. Is her heart okay? It doesn't sound like it. It's way too erratic. Quick.

Enid can't help but wonder what has her heart beating like that.

Is she stressed by what's happened? Maybe.

Is she concerned about the interviewer? Absolutely not.

Is she worried for Enid?

The werewolf turns over and closes her eyes and strangles those thoughts like Wednesday did.

Sleep doesn't come easy at all that night.

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

The next day is worse than the day before it. Because at least then she had something to do: she needed to return to the hotel room before Wednesday, she needed to ignore her calls and her thoughts.

But now?

She has to sit behind the seer and pretend that she's okay. Like the idea of closeness isn't so, so tempting. Enid is a stupid fly looking at a honey-coated flypaper.

She tightens her hands. She back stage of a live show, watching around Wednesday careful to make sure no one tries anything.

The host decides to not bring up what happened yesterday, smartly. Enid thinks it might not even be out to the public. The interviewer will no doubt try to press charges on Wednesday.

Clearly, she doesn't know the Addams' family lawyer. Enid heard they got a person who admitted to murder in a court of law acquitted fully.

The person was mostly likely Wednesday herself.

It's fun being on a big set. It's not the first time she's been on one, but there's always a sense of wonder.

Leaving the building is a challenge. For Enid, anyways. She gets hit in the face with the revolving door. Wednesday points at her and calls her an idiot.

It's nice. There's banter again and it's not so painful to breathe. She still calls her Ms. Addams, and she still gets called Sinclair but it's better than nothing.

There's a little lake she found during her alone time, and she think Wednesday should get to see the massive duck there.

"Look!" She says. "There! It's that giant duck. That bitch is—" her ears pick up the sound of rustling bushes, and she turns around, thinking it's a racoon. Maybe a stray cat. She likes to imagine it's a black cat.

She laughs, "do ya think it's a cat?" She walks slowly, crouching lowly to be sneakier.

"You look stupid." Wednesday says from behind her.

"Ha! You'll be... singin' a different tune? Is that the idiom? Whatever, that's what you'll be doin' when I found this cat?" She pushes a bush aside, clicking her tongue.

"You look stupid." Wednesday repeats.

Enid opens her mouth to reply herself, but it's cut off when the maker of the sound lunges as her.

It's person, with a sliver knife.

"Shit," they growl. They're small. "I thought you were the rich one."

They aim the blade right at her throat, but she slams her boot into their stomach, sending them into the thicket. They managed to stab her, but because of her kick, they slammed the knife into her stomach.

"Ack!—" She stands up. The knife's blade has studs on it, locking it in her. She rushes to the bushes and stomps on their stomach before they can get up.

She drops to her knees and slams her fist into their face. It goes on for a while. She stopped counting after the seventeenth hit. They're out cold.

"Call the cops." She says to Wednesday. There's blood on her knuckles. She broke out a few teeth.

Good.

"And an ambulance." She grabs the knife's handle, making sure it says in her.

"There's no outcast-helping hospitals within an hour long drive." Wednesday says, lifting her phone to alert the police.

"I'll help you at the hotel." Enid laughs, pained and whimpery. She picks up her attacker's body, climbing up the small hill that lead to the lake.

"Sure, 'cause they'll just let a bloody, dirty woman into their fancy-pants hotel. I'm sure they'll give me milk and cookies, too!" She rumbles. Wednesday ignores her.

She probably should be less snappy and more worried, but adrenalin in a hell of a drug. She's finished dumping the knocked-out person on the side of the road by the time Wednesday has followed her.

"The authorities have been alerted. We're going to the hotel." Her tone leaves not a hair for argument.

But Enid's not one to be bossed around.

"They will not let me in. Best case, we get told to leave. Worst case, we lose the room and you get picked by the media for being with a dangerous, wild outcast. Imagine the headlines!" She hisses. She really should accept help, but it's been days of ignoring her feelings and thoughts and she's so tired.

"I would rather need to clear my name a thousand times over than watch you sit in pain. Or die." Wednesday starts walking down Phoenix Road, the one with their hotel.

"There's a back entrance. It's for employees." Wednesday leads her behind the hotel, pushing open a service door that says "Employees Only." In big, bright red letters.

"We shouldn't go here. It's not for us." Enid whispers.

She's ignored as the author pushes open another door. Enid walks into the room.

A fucking staircase. The knife is burning, now. Her adrenaline is wearing off fast.

"Any chance you could carry me?" Wednesday stare blankly at her.

"You're a bear of a woman and I'm— what is it you called me before? A "teeny-tiny black kitten who can't hurt no one?" You can walk." Enid huffs.

The first floor is the hardest. She starts smacking herself and yelling to make it through.

"And here lies subtly." Wednesday says as they make it to the fourth floor.

"I got stabbed and you're still mocking me." fifth floor.

"Maybe if you weren't acting like an orangutan, I wouldn't have any thing to mock you with." Sixth floor.

"I'm trying to not break down and sob from pain right now. I could use a lil' support, Ms. Addams." Seventh floor. She pushes the maintenance door open for them both.

Wednesday uses her card to let them in, dropping her bag on the ground thoughtlessly. She kneels and opens it, digging through it like a racoon.

"Bathroom." She points at the bathroom's door. "Sit on the counter. I'll be there in just a moment."

Enid nods and walks to the fancy room, pressing the switch to turn the lights.

The counter is surprisingly comfortable to sit on. Or maybe her body is too focused on the goddamn knife in her body.

Wednesday, true to her word, joins her after just a moment. She has a box with her.

"Take your shirt off." Enid coughs.

"What?!"

"For your wound, Enid." She takes out disinfectant. "I can't help if you don't let me."

"That's rich coming from you, princess." Wednesday stops completely in grabbing out bandages.

"What did you call me?"

"Sorry. It's the pain. I can't think straight." Wednesday takes out cotton balls and sets them down.

Enid hesitates. "Ms. Addams... I can't take my shirt off."

Wednesday's head flicks over to her.

"Why?"

She points at her stomach. "Knife." She says, oh so eloquent.

The seer grabs her coat belt and folds it, holding it in front of Enid's mouth.

"Bite."

Enid swallows and opens her mouth, letting the smaller put it in her mouth. She bites into the thick leather.

Wednesday grabs the handle. "Prepare yourself." Enid bites harder and grips the edge of the sink. She nods.

Wednesday rips the knife out, ribbed edge catching and pulling.

Enid screams into the leather, tears filling her eyes. It's not even the first time this has happened, but she usually deals with it faster. Before the adrenaline can run out.

Wednesday quickly grabs her shirt and lifts it up. The werewolf barely has the sense to lift her arms up.

She looks at Enid's stomach, runs the water and cups some in her hands, cleaning out the dirt from her failing.

She mutters as she takes and pours disinfectant onto a cotton ball. She presses it on the wound, muttering an apology when Enid grunts.

"This would be easier if you shaved." Enid wonders why this is the time to talk about that.

"Sorry I like myself and my body, dork."

"The hair makes it harder to clean." Wednesday takes a roll of bandages and taps Enid's ribs with a quiet 'arms up'.

"Sorry I didn't plan on getting stabbed while showing you a fatass duck! If I'd known that would happen, I woulda had a spa day!" She tries so hard to ignore how close the author's hands are to her. Almost touching her with every round.

Wednesday folds the end once she's used the entire thing, leaving it secure on her skin.

"We need to sleep. You need to sleep. You need to heal." Enid walks over to her place on the floor. She's stopped by a hand on her wrist.

"What?"

"You're not sleeping on the floor." Wednesday steps past her and grabs the pillows, throwing them on the bed.

"What?" Wednesday takes her blanket and tosses it onto the bed.

"Sleeping on the floor while you're injured will only hurt you." She takes a hand and digs through the black comforter, pulling a Hello Kitty jacket out. She hands it to Enid.

"Put this on." Enid thumbs at the soft, worn fabric. She lifts her arms with a wince, sliding her arms into the sleeves. She doesn't zip it.

She slips into the cover on one end of the bed. She expects Wednesday to do the same. What she doesn't anticipate is for Wednesday to crawl under the comforter, and shuffle to Enid.

"What." It's not even a question anymore. Just a statement. "What are you doing?"

"Comfort." Is all she gets in reply. Wednesday snuggles her face into Enid's chest.

"I'm fine." She wants to snuggle back.

"Who said I was comforting you?" Is what Wednesday says.

"What?" Wednesday leans up, grabs the open edges of Enid's jacket and presses a kiss to her lips. She tastes like coffee.

Enid goes limp as her brain is overloaded with... something. She wishes she could name it.

"We will talk later." A kiss to her cheek. "Sleep." Enid nods.

"I love you, Enid."

She swallows down her racing thoughts.

"I love you too... Willa."

It's the best sleep she's had in years.

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

Enid wakes up to a hand smacking her face. She swats at it, grumbling.

"Noooooooooooooooooo." She pulls her blanket over her head, blocking out the small amount of light that pours in. "I'm cozy."

"We have a busy day, Cara Mia." She pushes the blanket down and stares at Wednesday.

"What did you call me?"

"We need to leave in an hour. Be quick." Wednesday just... walks out of the room, all dressed up. Enid stares at the sleeves of her jacket.

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

"Hey, Wednesday?" She asks lowly. They're in the back of a stage. Wednesday is a guest speaker at a book convention. Something about the way horror affects the world, or something nerdy like that. "What, exactly, is our relationship?" The feeling of soft lips on hers is still there.

Wednesday stares her. Her eyes are so soft.

"We'll talk when we get back to the hotel." Wednesday's cue gets called, the crowd roaring at her name.

She pulls the taller woman down and kisses her again.

"But do know that I love you."

She walks past the curtain, waving at everyone. Enid wonders if she could fake a sickness to get them back to the hotel early.

-Writer Anon.

holyshit was this a rollercoaster

AND THIS ALL HAPPENED IN A WEEK???????????

DAMN WEDNESDAY, ATLEAST TAKE ENID OUT FOR DINNER FIRST

and omygod, there was only one bed and then the tending of wounds,,,

wednesday shivering at enid's use of greek, we know what you are wendesday. We know what you are!!

Just the lil snippets of them pissing each other off, my gosh, i love them so much. Im glad they made up by the end, makes me wanna cry ;-;;

then even with all that, wednesday is still willing to go beat up an interviewer. A DECADE AND SHE'S STILL WILLING TO DO THAT

i didn't expect the ending, like wednesday really just cuddles up to enid like that 😭 totally fair, we need that comfort. Im happy that wenclair got together in the end, GOOD FOR THEM!!!!

then wednesday acting like what happened totally didn't happen the next day after sleeping together is so funny

atleast they're gonna talk it out, like actual adults

good for them!! good for them :)

and as always, i love your work writer anon, do you have any personal thoughts on it? like how you thought up the flowers and such for your other works?

[mischiefmanaged71]

Tom Bennett x royal!reader headcanons

Request: Reader who's really in love with him to the point of questioning if she's good for him & has ties to English aristocracy. 

A/N: Not connected to my other series. Based on a request!

Tom met her as another individual seeking a way out of France. He didn't know of her identity or status until much later in the trip, only that Y/N sought out a safe route home as he did.

He initially thought she was another French woman until he heard her English accent. Although it was central to London. This would've made him spit something about Manchester and his detest for posh Londoners, if not for the woman's beauty and attitude. She held herself high and had this tenacity - a bite to her words that spoke largely of her personality.

From thereonward, the two grew closer on their shared English background, sticking together for the most part until they arrived at the border. This became apparent when they had to identify themselves and her relations to a certain Windsor House became apparent.

Tom wasn't abhorred or angry to be exact, he was more disappointed that she lied about her identity. Although, it became apparent to him much later on the boat ride back that she was merely doing what she had to do to survive.

After that followed an apology and then they were really off onto another path. She found themselves fawning over different parts. The shine of his hair in the sunlight. The glint of mischief in his eyes when he wore that smirk. He was no different in finding everything about her enthralling. She was the picture of grace and poise, as well as a sarcastic side to test him.

Their relationship is filled with sarcastic retorts and lots of banter!! Tom has found his match. Even in the most stressful situations, she finds a way to bring him back to the moment. They kept each other from falling to their nerves and the fear lingering over their heads. Lingering touches and glances turned to hand holding. Making sure the other is okay and offering comfort in tough moments.

He was a spitfire with ample fuel. Hatred towards the war, authority, and a load of abandonment issues and disappointing others. Tom hid these feelings of helplessness to his nature beneath the facade of confidence, his snark and flirtatious antics making up for the insecurities buried beneath the surface.

She...she was his equal, in a sense. From the first moment, she had returned his snark with equal vigour, and put Tom in his place without prompt. She was graceful, resourceful and quick thinking. The woman was respectful and kind, caring and the right amount of sarcasm to meet Tom's outrageous and loud personality.

No matter his tendency to get into trouble and start fights without prompt. She was quick in learning his tells and desire toward mayhem, taming him from the get go. Y/N made sure of that, pulling him away from the men he had pushed too far; tucking herself into his side while walking along a dark street with shift figures around; bringing his head back to earth when he drifted too far into the dark depths of his mind.

Their first kiss and realisation was a fixed close proximity where Y/N found herself staring into those oh-so blue eyes. She held her breath and lost herself in the moment where he pressed his lips to hers, and her head was spinning. One hand was on her waist, and the other grasping her jaw. To be kissed like this-

From there onward, it was a blissful relationship between the two. The rush of being close to another, the warmth of a shared bed; the comfort of a close body. Reassurance that everything would be okay even in the darkest of times.

The real problem began when she found herself questioning herself. She fell in love so deeply and quickly, Y/N questioned if she was good for Tom. They, of course, came from different upbringings and experiences. It was one of the differences between them that they managed to bridge a gap. And yet...she found herself overthinking about all of the happiness someone else could bring him.

Someone who could see him at any time of day, anywhere they wanted. A person who wasn't followed by security details and people watching their every move. Someone who didn't have most of their life planned out for them since the day they were born. A person without guilt in holding their love back from declaring their relationship. She pined for that type of relationship without paying the price of privacy. To love him in every way possible would be what he deserved. That is what she saw in him.

One day, Tom found her mulling over these thoughts alone, holding the papers with pictures of her and supposed bachelors. They talked it out and she confessed her thoughts. He would be much happier with someone who could completely be with him. In their relationship, they were reclused to closed doors - just the two of them. It was a matter of secret meetings and brief encounters. How could they truly be happy? How could he be happy?

Tom dismissed each of these with his logic immediately. He didn't care for extravagance or showing off their relationship. He loves her and the relationship they have. Having it in private or public, no matter - all he cares about is her and having her in any way he can. He tells her how eternally grateful he is to be know her; to love her; to eventually wed her.

Right about then was when she flushed and the overactive thoughts dimmed at the half lidded glance her way. The stare that enveloped all of the love and adoration she held for him. The knowing look that meant he understood exactly how she felt and desired nothing more than her.

TAGS

@pearlstiare @dothrckis @aemonds-sapphire @xcharlottemikaelsonx  @filipinamultifandom ​ @padfooteyes ​@batsyforyou @yentroucnagol @cl-0-vr @viviartsy @h3k3t @arcana-greenleaf  @yummycastiel @lauraneedstochill @ladybug0095 @rntrsna @schniiipsel

[anonymousewrites]

Special (Because I'm Bored): What My MCs would think of One Another

Key:

Red=Adolescent Antichrist MC

Ginger=Clan of Three MC

Gold=Logos and Pathos MC

Green=There's a Will; There's a Way MC

Blue=Portal to My Heart MC

Azure=Burden of Truth MC

Purple=A Study of the Heart and Brain MC

Pink=A Not-So-Disastrous Romance MC

Ebony=A Good Day for Dead MC

Silver=Of Two Worlds MC

Felis=One Hell of a Love MC

Briar=Nature of the Human Soul MC

Red

Ginger: Would like their fighting spirit but not their willingness to kill. Teenage rage against society would make them bond, though. Anarchy. Both avoid responsibility from God/Mandalores of old–don’t want to be Chosen Ones, both have weird dads

Gold: Would like how kind they are and how good they are to others

Green: 10/10 would love how motherly Green is to others and would search for it

Blue: Red would love her sarcasm and rebellious attitude. Also, they would bond over being surrounded by idiots they have to clean up messes for

Azure: Red would understand Azure’s desire to have a family and purpose but wouldn’t understand their devotion to a god or serving another

Purple: Red gets having a terrible biological parent and having a great adopted one. Red would be impressed by how smart Purple is

Pink: Would think they’re too soft for the world but would like their friendliness since it reminds Red of Olive

Ebony: Red would like Ebony’s abilities and relate to being nervous about them. Queerness bonds them. Alternative style. They are like one another’s love interests (Red is like Wednesday in sarcasm and intensity, Ebony and Em are both protective and helpful to others and more outgoing)

Silver: Silver’s willingness to kill would put Red off, but they would respect her ferocity when it comes to protecting her friends and looking for a place in a world that doesn’t want her (like being the Antichrist)

Felis: Wouldn’t like Felis’s manipulation of others but would relate to the world not wanting them to be queer and their gender

Briar: Would 100% trade jokes about Hell and God and all that, would relate to Briar’s religious trauma and respect their desire to become stronger

Ginger

Red: Again, both have found families, Ginger would really respect Red’s ability to fight with words while they rely on phasers

Gold: Wouldn’t get the whole “avoiding fighting” thing but would be reminded of the Armorer’s calm demeanor and focus on what must be done versus what could be done, would like them

Green: Confused about not killing, ever. Thinks that’s silly in a dangerous world. However, would probably like her overall

Blue: Likes rebellion, likes Blue, would disapprove in choice of partner

Azure: Doesn’t understand how their brain works but respects their desire to find their place in the world like them

Purple: Thinks Purple should use their heart a bit more and not be so focused on logic all the time

Pink: Thinks they’re naive to how dangerous the world is but wishes they could be like that

Ebony: Likes their optimism in the face of danger, respects their ability to step up and fight when necessary

Silver: Ginger respects that Silver is able to hide their anger at society but still fights for what’s right

Felis: No. Just no. Ginger would hate how Felis uses others

Briar: Ginger would love Briar’s abilities since they were a farmer, would want to kick Briar’s ass into gear about getting over religion's hold on them

Gold

Red: Would disapprove of their constant snark in the face of danger, but would fondly see some of Bones in them

Ginger: Would worry for how much a teenager feels the need to fight, would avoid the amount of anger that still burns around them until Ginger starts to get a hold of it at the end of Book 3, Gold would really respect Ginger’s decision to break the darksaber so their new home couldn’t be harmed

Green: Besties, literally. Green can sing, Gold can dance. Both are kind and the parents of their idiot friends, both dislike violence

Blue: Would see Bones’s snark, would disapprove in their choice of partner since too much like Khan in the beginning, but overall would like Blue

Azure: Would be able to read them due to practice with Spock (autism), would want to protect them and guide them

Purple: Would fondly see them as a mini Spock with a little more meanness (Spock and Bones lovechild)

Pink: Loves the kid since so bright and happy and warm with good, positive emotions. Reminds them of Kirk

Ebony: Would love their brightness in the face of adversity due to people not liking their parentage

Silver: Would want to help them with the emotions they don’t understand

Felis: …The really nice, empathic one who seeks to understand and change people for the better versus the mean, manipulative one who seeks to destroy those who do not approve of them? Yeah, not getting along

Briar: Huge hug to them, poor kid

Green

Red: Would help with powers since can’t control the, would want to make sure they don’t have to fight since shouldn’t as a kid

Ginger: Dislikes how easily they kill but respects natural ability to lead and willingness to fight for family

Gold: Again, besties. They would bond over their shared experiences, the way people think they shouldn’t be dating their partners (empath and Vulcan, unwilling to kill and ex-Mafia member), and they’ve both got hearts of gold

Blue: Green would just see Akira with a different body. Slightly unhinged partner? Check. Sass? Check. Powers? Check. Yeah, Green would immediately be fond

Azure: Would be reminded of Kyouka and how lost she was without Port Mafia in how Azure struggles to find themself after Ma’at, instantly protective older-sibling mode activated

Purple: Sees Dazai’s cold, calculating personality, worried over how emotionless they are at times

Pink: Adorable. Loves them. This is what a kid should get to be–happy and free from worry other than the basic teenager angst. Would bake and read with them

Ebony: They’re both cheerful, nice, friendly people, so Green would instantly like them

Silver: Dislikes her willingness to kill but would see Akira’s desire to have a place after her dad abandoned her and would empathize

Felis: Sees a bit of Akira’s ability to use others to her advantage, especially in the looks department, but wouldn’t trust them

Briar: Again, Green just wants to wrap this poor child in a giant hug for being put through so much

Blue

Red: Their sass would have legendary battles, Blue would be absolutely delighted by them and their ability to handle idiots around them. Would 100% give them a bunch of blessings once she’s a god

Ginger: Take down the establishment, hell yeah. Blue would applaud them for running into danger instead of doing literally anything to stop them

Gold: Wouldn’t get the whole golden-heart thing Gold has going on but would respect them once she sees that Gold doesn’t stand for injustice

Green: Doesn’t get why she doesn’t kill but respects that she has boundaries, definitely likes Green’s boyfriend since he’s sassy, loves Green’s intelligence

Azure: (Blue and Azure are not variants of each other, btw. They exist in the same universe and since they are both (Y/N)s, they would technically just be people with the same name, which would interest Blue) Has probably seen Azure through her ability to see all timelines and universes at once, definitely is rooting for Azure, probably wishes they had a little more sass and through a god’s control off more, definitely laughed about the irony of Loki being a god of lies and this kid not being able to lie

Purple: Doesn’t get the whole “logical actions” stuff since Blue likes to wing it, would like their cunning

Pink: Would be fond of Pink because they’re a sweetheart but wouldn’t be able to relate to them much

Ebony: They can bond over gods and their antics, Blue would like Ebony’s optimism and quips in fights

Silver: Loves her fighting spirit but wouldn’t be a fan of her avoidance of just letting go and going ham with powers (which does change)

Felis: These two would get along. They both have morally grey outlooks on the world and morally grey partners, they’re both queer, and they both have extraordinary power. They would sass one another (and probably flirt with each other). Also, saying “fuck you” to gods and oppressive powers is their thing

Briar: Would tell Briar to get off their ass and kill some more people for wronging them (would enable their demonic side)

Azure

Red: Would be nervous of how forward and sarcastic Red is but would want to be more like that since they have a good friend group, would relate to having a complicated found family. Azure would look up to Red a lot

Ginger: Sees Marc in Ginger since both ferocious and willing to fight, would be nervous about how aggressive Ginger is at times, would also wish they had the same purpose Ginger has since they know what they’re aiming for and have a secure family that they know is family

Gold: Would like how calm and stable Gold is, would be glad Gold can read how they feel since they don’t express it the best

Green: Would, again, like how kind and motherly Green is, would feel comfortable having her to talk to about how they feel and needing direction

Blue: (Blue and Azure are not variants of each other, btw. They exist in the same universe and since they are both (Y/N)s, they would technically just be people with the same name, which would interest Blue) Would be unsure of Blue at first since she’s a god and Azure has been used by the gods, but once they realize Blue is very much into freedom, they’d like her and would honestly go to her as a god if they needed to speak to one

Purple: Point blank autism radar would bond them immediately. Sure, Azure has more of the “I don’t understand social cues but think that makes me weird” while Purple is more of the “I don’t understand social cues but I hate them anyways” flavor, but they both have special interests (Egyptian mythology versus crime) and they’d really easily ramble to one another. Also, they’d bond over weird father figures. Azure would feel super comfortable talking to Purple because they have a similar outlook on the world

Pink: Would understand how Pink is so cheerful and expresses everything so vibrantly but would like to sit and listen to them ramble happily while they bake. Azure needs a friend like them

Ebony: Would be reminded of Steven’s kindness and warmness and like them pretty quickly, would be a bit intimidated that Ebony is the child of a god

Silver: Autism over not understand social cues is once again clicking, but Azure would be intimidated and skittish around Silver’s more intense battles and willingness to really battle people with all her effort

Felis: Too much manipulation like the gods, makes them nervous and skittish, would admire how much Felis just acts like themself without a care for others’ perception of them

Briar: Would bond over mistreatment from gods/heavens and all that, would relate to wanting more from their life than what they had (especially family)

Purple

Red: Dislikes how emotional they can be but respects that they handle bad situations well

Ginger: Again, doesn’t understand constantly acting on emotion, but once they see Ginger can lead and speak logically, too, (Mandalore chosen one stuff), they respect them

Gold: Doesn’t understand empathy being so helpless since prefers to be objective but respects them because they prove they are intelligent and can solve problems through logic and their heart

Green: Likes how kind Green is and how hard she works to protect her family like they want to

Blue: Likes how quickly Blue faces up against danger but disapproves of not having a plan

Azure: Autism bonding, likes how they see the world like they do, relates to their search for their own place since Purple fights to be detective and Azure looking for purpose

Pink: Thinks they’re too optimistic and not realistic enough but likes how observant they are

Ebony: Likes their strength and the way they respect other ways of thinking/neurodivergent thinking

Silver: Understand her lack of emotion but doesn’t understand why she wants to feel things more, likes how much she fights for her family

Felis: Respects their fight to be respected but doesn’t trust them since clearly uses others, respects their intelligence and cunning, both clever

Briar: Would be way too willing to give Briar tips on how to pick out people’s weaknesses so that they can get out of the control of others and not be weak

Pink

Red: Their constant denial of friendship and positive feelings reminds them of Saiki, they’d like how much Red tries to help people

Ginger: Unsure of how much Ginger fights but respects that it’s for family and friends and to help those who are people oppressed and hurt

Gold: Really loves their kindness and gentleness. They are more bubbly than Gold so they appreciate a calm approach to things and look up to them

Green: Again, loves the calm energy she brings while still having a fierce protectiveness. Pink would be like her if they had powers

Blue: Not sassy themself so unsure how to approach that but would really enjoy joking around with Blue

Azure: Would encourage them to come out of their shell and be more confident in their feelings and who they are instead of thinking they need to act a certain way to be respected, overall would like them and want to be their friend

Purple: Doesn’t understand the constant logic and desire to have less emotions but likes the way they help people while saying its just stimulating (reminds them of Saiki)

Ebony: They are both cheerful so they’d like Ebony and how kind and helpful they are. They’d see a lot of similarities and bond over it

Silver: Not a bit fan of Silver’s ability to kill and fight but wants to help her feel better in her place in the world

Felis: Wouldn’t like their ability to just let people get hurt and kill people without a care in the world so wouldn’t like them

Briar: Would feel bad for all they’ve gone through and try to help them build their self-confidence

Ebony

Red: Would like their sass and find it hilarious, would totally like going on an adventure with them (even if Ebony would be one of the idiots Red deals with)

Ginger: Both have a fierce desire to protect others, so they’d like each other, even if one is more aggressive than the other

Gold: Loves their calmness and kindness and would really look up to them as a good example of using abilities for good

Green: Would really respect her decision to not kill and see her kindness as a good thing to strive for

Blue: Would love to discuss different gods with her and make jokes about them since they have all the family drama from the Greek side and Blue has the Norse side, also, they’re both chaotic

Azure: Would feel bad that they had bad experiences with the Egyptian gods and would totally support them breaking it off with Ma’at, would also be totally down for helping them get out of their shell and meeting new people (they have experience with wearing down Wednesday)

Purple: Would see their personality as similar to Wednesday, down to the crime interests, and would instantly be fond, and they’d be impressed by how they handled everything without powers or abilities

Pink: Would be besties with them since they’re so similar and Enid is like them, too, with the bright colors, so Pink and Ebony would bond over sweets, warmth, and kindness (and tsundere crushes)

Silver: Would be nervous about their fighting and killing and all that but would try to be kind since it’s clear Silver’s been through some stuff

Felis: Wouldn’t like their manipulative and demonic side but would respect that they don’t change themself to fit into society’s rules, however overall dislike

Briar: Would talk them through the whole being dead thing and try to help them process that, would befriend them and give the encouragement they need to stick it to the man

Silver

Red: Would be confused by their ability to just be themself and tell others to back off since she always has to hide who they are–would also envy it and try to emulate it in some way (would also be reminded of Megumi because of umbrakinesis)

Ginger: Would understand their desire to fight for what’s right and their place in the world after people took it away from her and them

Gold: Wouldn’t get the whole “calm and kind” thing since the people she knows aren’t like that, but looks up to it and sees Nanami’s kindness in it, longs for it

Green: Again, sees the mark of a mother figure that Silver lost and would look up to her, would be really sad that she can’t follow Green’s “no killing” rule

Blue: Likes how confident and snappy Blue is, is amazed a human came so far, doesn’t understand why she’s with Loki, who is way too much like a curse in Silver’s mind

Azure: Understands the whole “not getting emotions and how to express/react to them properly” and bonds over that (neurodivergency who?) and understands the want to get out of people’s control/standards (Ma’at versus Jujutsu society), they would bond

Purple: Again, the emotions thing would be similar, but Silver would be unsure about them because super-intelligence is a Ren–Sukuna’s wife–thing, and she is an enemy. However, Purple would instantly dismiss that idea by being a detective for others, and then Silver and them would be fine

Pink: Reminds her of Itadori pre-Shibuya trauma and likes their kindness, wishes she could have more of that sweetness in her life

Ebony: Half god and half curse’s would bond over people being afraid/not understand them, would respect Ebony’s ability to remain kind and compassionate even when disliked by others

Felis: Would really dislike them since demons in the Black Butler world feel like curses in the Jujutsu world, secretly, though, Silver would be envious of the freedom to just be themself that Felis has (and would respect the clear distinctions they have when choosing a contract). Ultimately, though, she wouldn’t like them

Briar: Can relate to people hurting her/abusing them and deciding to start fighting back, found family is important, would like Briar but think they should get stronger

Felis

Red: Adopted child of Lucifer? Dating a demon? Fighting angels left and right? Sarcastic and clever? Sticking it to the gender binary and society? Felis adores this kid (the sense of style helps, too)

Ginger: Thinks they should have a clearer purpose instead of always running into fights they may not win recklessly but likes their ferocity and force of will

Gold: Thinks they’re entirely too soft and aren’t going to make it in the world, has to begrudgingly admit they have powerful abilities

Green: No killing? Hilarious. Stupid. Doesn’t understand it at all. Thinks Green is blind to the evil of the world and is going to get herself in trouble for it

Blue: Would be unsure of the whole godhood status but then would learn she became a god after being human like how they became a demon after being human, then they bond. They both don’t care about straightforward morality and have their own ways of doing things, will (again) flirt with each other because, hey, hot person alert, and they love her sass and quips

Azure: Finds it distasteful to serve a god instead of yourself, approves of leaving Ma’at to have their own life and purpose since that’s what Felis does

Purple: Impressed by a simple human teenager being so intelligent, likes their cunning (Moriarty-like) qualities

Pink: Thinks they’re naive and way too nice and trusting

Ebony: Likes the whole goth thing and child of Death thing, doesn’t think they should be as optimistic as they are due to life and people treating them badly

Silver: Thinks she should let go and get revenge on those who treated her badly instead of holding back her curse side since it could be so powerful

Briar: Would encourage them, like Alastor, to just go crazy and teach people a lesson about underestimating them, gets the whole religious trauma/being pushed into a role they don’t fit thing, would take them under their wing

Briar

Red: Would be confused about another universe’s child of lucifer being so intense compared to Charlie and their powers being like Alastor but would like Red’s “devil may care” attitude towards people and ability to handle their shit

Ginger: Would relate to the desire to rage against the system, wishes they had their leader skills, would like their tenacity

Gold: Wishes they knew someone like them in life since they’re kind and calm, would see a parental figure potential there

Green: Would be ashamed that they had to kill people in life to free themself and couldn’t do the whole “no killing” thing Green has going on, is not like her since more aggressive and willing to let go but would look up to her

Blue: Sees a bit of Angel Dust in her and is intimidated of her power but would look up to her as an example of a human gaining power and would really want it, likes how fierce she is

Azure: Relates to the whole “wanting to be out of someone’s power” thing, would work with them to become stronger, likes their even emotions since easy to deal with and doesn’t have to worry about volatile emotions

Purple: Would be impressed by their intelligence and freedom, would want to emulate that ability to see through lies and tricks in order to keep from being controlled

Pink: Would see a lot of Charlie in them and be fond of the warmth, friendliness, and optimism, would be friends with them because of that and needing some softness in their life (they deserve it)

Ebony: Wouldn’t understand the whole Greek god thing due to their fundamentalist upbringing but would like Ebony’s attitude towards life and people, would like their kindness and helpfulness

Silver: Would like their strength and want to learn to fight like them, would understand how Silver feels when people treat her differently just for being born since their own family made them feel wrong for being who they were, bonding

Felis: Would like them because, despite their demonic nature, Briar sees a lot of some of their friends in Felis and sees that they have careful choices when it comes to contracts so isn’t a completely terrible person, just very uncaring about morals and “good” versus “evil,” wary of their power, though

[devotedlydeepeststrawberry]

Teen Wolf: our actress quit, let's give Cora parts of her storyline.

And then they forget there is no canon reason for Cora to listen to Stiles when he told her to let go of Lydia. It's their first on-screen interaction, clearly it was meant for Erica.

Minewhile my brain: they are the same age probably, went to the same school before the fire, were kinda friends and she recognised his smell.

And then my brain proceeds to create scenarios.

Stiles being worried about Scott after the stair fiasco with Scott's father. Cora(who isolated herself because she couldn't control herself properly) smelling worry on him and approached under the guise that both of alone or a teacher pairs them up because they are alone. And they end up enjoy talking to each other. And when Scott comes back Cora isolates herself again, but Stiles still talks to her from time to time,even calms her down or distracters from her anger doing something stupid or weird. So whenever Cora is about to wolf-out she gets close to Stiles and calmes her. And when Stiles realises that Scott doesn't know what happened and why his father left he has a battle with himself. He ends reaking of guilt and Cora approaches him and they end up talking. By the end they decide that some secrets are best left alone while others aren't theirs to tell. Cora decides to keep her werewolf secret and Stiles kept Scott's parent's secret(he never told Cora why he felt guilty, and she didn't ask him).

Stiles never found out Cora's last name, so he never associated her with the Hales. And Cora didn't expect her childhood friend to get involved with her family(since the name 'Stiles' didn't fully stick yet).

As a result, when Stiles told Cora to let go of Lydia, she recognised his smell and calm down a little and did what he said.

Stiles recognised her a little later, that's why he was fully comfortable ranting to her. And she agreed with him about Derek.

Also, there is a story in my head about Peter buying a TV and texting Stiles about an emergency but really he needed help mounting the TV. So you have Stiles and Peter trying to mount it, Cora just watching because the sheer amount snark and sarcasm between them is entertaining(she also called Boyd). Then Boyd enters tells them that they are doing it wrong, Peter then let's go of the TV to see what Boyd is talking about, leaving Stiles to hold it up alone. And while the three werewolf are looking at the instructions the Stiles struggles so he eventually says 'Hello, weak human, big TV, a little help, please', and almost drops TV but all three werewolfs catch it. By the end they just decide to watch a movie and since Stiles is a human that gets easily cold, they snuggle up close in the couch to keep him warm.

And don't get me started on my 'No Hale Fire AU', where by High School Cora doesn't want to involve Stiles in her family affairs and only talks to him when she has an excuse. Like her boyfriend, Isaac, possibly being abused at home. With the conversation starting, when Scott left for his class an Stiles closed his locker only to find Cora standing there, telling him 'I slept with Issac' and him just being 'Congrats?' and they just end up fighting while walking to class where she somehow gives all the important information about Isaac to Stiles and Stiles promises to talk to his father and see what they can do. Minewhile there was half a body found in the Preserve and people think it was Derek as it was found the night after he came back from Uni. But in reality it was just an Omega that the Argents killed and left as a warning. Scott won't be bitten, in fact he will become a hunter. Kate seducing Derek. Stiles figuring out about werewolves and in a round about way trying to tell the Hales that the Argents are trying to figure out who the Alpha is, everybody thinking he is a weirdo while Peter is laughing his ass off because he understood it immediately. Also Erica, Boyd and Cora friendship because Cora can feel Erica's seizures coming. Also Grandpa Argent using an Alpha to blame the Hale family(it bit Jackson)

[mischief-and-tea-by-the-sea]

CHARACTER ASK GAME!!! #4, 6, 11 Justin Hammer. #20 Tony Stark #23 Scott Summers

Justin Hammer:

4. If you could put this character in any other media, be it a book, a movie, anything, what would you put them in?

I would absolutely put Sam's Justin in the comics, and I would immediately have him interacting with Tony and Loki and Emma and others, but it would have to definitely be Sam's Justin because he could be so much damn fun in that medium. Hopefully the current lousy writing in Marvel comics wouldn't screw him up, though.

Otherwise, I'd love to see Justin make his comeback on QVC selling little tech toys that he figured up while he was in prison.

6. What's something you have in common with this character?

Probably the high level of respect for Rhodey and that I, too, would find love in prison should I ever be stuck in one.

11. Would you date this character?

Look. Sam-Justin is cute as hell because Sam's cute as hell, and let's be honest. If Justin Hammer - once he got all his money back post-prison or whatever - wanted to date me, I have to say that I and my student loan debt would probably only pretend to think about it for a hot second before saying yes. Would I let this goofy megalomaniac date me? Yeah, I really think I would because he's the type that likes to be lavish in spending money, and I'm not above wanting to be spoiled and at least sock away money as a nest egg should the relationship not work out. I live in Texas, for fuck's sake, and I would date Justin Hammer just to get my ass (and my sister's ass) safely to a blue state - or a whole other country.

Tony Stark:

20. Which other character is the ideal best friend for this character, the amount of screentime they share doesn't matter?

My first obvious answer is to say Loki because they're both Princes of Sass and sarcasm and snark, and they would be delightful bitches hanging out together in public, trash-talking people, gossiping, and playing pranks together on their friends/family/teammates.

I still think that one of my favorite friendships for Tony in the movies (and comics that I've read) that they don't give us nearly enough of (nor respect it enough in the movies) is Tony and Nat. Natasha so clearly cares for Tony and is a comfort to him more in IM2 than Pepper ever could bother to be.

And after what you told me about Cobie Smulders yesterday, I'm gonna say Maria Hill. I think she'd be a really good bestie for him because she's got a similar personality profile to Pepper but she's not as bitchy and as fussy as Pepper is.

Scott Summers:

23. Favorite picture of this character?

Oh. Oh this one's gonna be fun. I'm gonna have to give more than one pic.

The last two are by my lovely friend @crow821

Thanks for the asks!

Character Ask Game.

[krikeymate]

i can’t stop thinking about the little stuff that sam probably does for tara

sam always carries the groceries upstairs, sam always opens the water bottles for tara, sam always cleans so that tara doesn’t have to inhale the cleaning products, sam makes sure that it’s as dust free as possible in the appartement so that tara’s asthma doesn’t get triggered, sam always insists on picking tara up especially at night, when they moved in sam was carrying most of the boxes and only let tara carry the light ones

just sam being protective of tara in every way

Tara snarking that Sam should be getting a carer allowance given everything she does for her, using sarcasm to hide her guilt and frustration at her own shortcomings. Sam blindsides her with a pillow to the face for that.

There is nothing Sam loves more than caring for her sister, other than long naps (with her sister), and not being in danger (with her sister).

I'm thinking about how Tara has probably never felt so healthy until Sam came back into her life. Sam feeling guilty when she realises how little Tara actually knows of her own condition and its triggers - of Tara spending years only knowing the basics of her asthma and how it affects her, because no-one ever told her. She had no knowledge of the complexity of it.

Tara getting frustrated that Sam does so much for her, but there's little she can do for her sister in return. All Sam wants, she says, is for Tara to be happy and healthy and safe, and also the occasional hug. Tara hates that response, although she doesn't hate clinging to Sam in gratitude.

Tara makes sure to always pick up when Sam calls, and to not fight too much when Sam acts overprotective. She picks up Sam's shoes and her jacket from where she dumps them after a long day at work, and she'll shut down anyone who begins to badmouth her sister. She makes sure to be careful with her spending, after all, Sam works so hard for that money. She's careful to remember to take her preventative inhaler twice a day; Sam tries so hard to take care of her, she couldn't bear to see the look on Sam's face if she then gets sick anyway.

Sam does so much to protect and look after Tara, but the way Tara protects Sam does, unfortunately, end up including a lot of bitching and a not insignificant amount of violence. It gives Sam a whole new set of things to worry about.

[bug-oc]

Bug Fables OC Tournament Round 2

Aurelia (she/her) from @subwaybugfan

Aurelia is a blue carpenter bee scout (Xylocopa caerulea) from a hive that was mysteriously destroyed by an unknown force, while this tragic event did lead her to often hide behind a mask of snark and sarcasm once she opens up to a trusted friend she quickly turns out to be an enthusiastic toxicology fan and an avid troublemaker, her story is mostly about her journey to finding out what happened to the hive and the friends she met along the way (gods this turned out long sorry 😭😭😭)

Marigold (she/her) from @mantisgodsdomain

Marigold is a hawk moth and a witch, initially made for a short fic in which Mothiva has an extremely bad day involving a certain amount of Leif's Request Spoilers, loss of limb, and loss of almost all processes generally associated with being alive (she's fine, it's just a minor setback). Located in the Ant Kingdom's Outskirts, she is a curious, cheerful, and scientific bug, experimenting to the utmost of her field - magic involving transmutation of the flesh.

The field she lacks in, of course, is morals.

Transmuting a bug properly needs test subjects - bugs to run through new formulas, test variations, see what happens with a new form of triggering a transformation into something else. What more convenient place to get those than by cornering a random bystander and seeing what happens once they've taken it for you?

Many bugs, of course, are not particularly happy about suddenly being transformed into, say, a shambling mass of flesh. Marigold isn't the most gifted, as far as self-defence goes, and combat brews are a bit of a waste of time - why fight your wayward experiments when you can get someone else to do it for you? Looking soft and innocent means that a potential bystander will be far more likely to believe her when she says that a beast attacked her, and depending on the form, any victim may simply lack the means to protest.

Up against one tiny, unarmed moth, it's clear who the aggressor must have been - and if you build a good enough reputation with the neighbors, even bugs who can still talk will find former friends and family siding against them. After a certain point, it's obvious they're not who they claim to be - it's all social engineering, anyways.

Of course, any research needs funding - the criminal elements of Bugaria especially have plenty of use for making a bug vanish without generating a body, and Marigold's brews are permanent, if the client doesn't specify otherwise. For a bit of pay, you can vanish nearly anyone you want - without that pesky guilt that comes from actually killing them! All at the small, small cost of funding a local business.

Marigold herself would not personally consider any of her actions to be immoral in any way, which is how you know she's a good candidate in any public-opinion-based polls. She is exactly the bug you want in order to eliminate any pesky competitors - and, of course, exactly the sort of trustworthy and morally upright bug that any community needs.

[goldtealeaves]

i think it's kind of funny that when i first started watching ii, i didn't even really like nickel all that much. he was a tiny terror in season 2, even though we know now that it was because he was so out of tune with his own internal problems. it wasn't until season 3 that the little guy grew on me so much that he became one of my favorite characters, not just from ii but ever. like i love his sarcasm and snark and all that but what really gets me is his complexity. his flaws and growth were so interesting to watch, and honestly i am beyond proud of him for coming so far. for having the courage to actually face his mistakes and own up to them. not everyone has the guts to do something like that. he's really, truly trying here. and the best part? he's trying because of his friends. the sheer amount of care he holds for those dear to him is an important part of what made him want to change for the better. he secretly wants to be seen and be appreciated for the person that he is. he wants a genuine and honest connection. he didn't know how to handle that before. yeah he needed a little sense knocked into him first because he didn't realize how much of a jerk he was making himself. he admitted that fear led him to become something horrible. something he wasn't proud of. but when he did finally understand that he made a mess of things, he started letting his walls down and becoming a better person. he was looking inward and actively confronting his own actions and feelings, and admitting to himself and to others that he let things go overboard. for a guy that struggles with emotions so much this is a huge improvement. i think it's so sweet how open he eventually let himself be with balloon, the guy he was trying so hard to defend against in the first place. that apology from him meant so much, it was so heartfelt and honest, and this is coming from the guy who struggled to even say a simple sorry! just the fact that he was able to get to a place of being so vulnerable is incredible. letting himself be eliminated speaks volumes about his character arc. and the way he supported balloon wholeheartedly during the finale! i think people often overlook just how loyal he is. it's one of the biggest traits of his character, and that matters so so much to me. he loves his friends so much it hurts. he knows he messed up, and he genuinely wants to try and fix things. he wants so badly to talk to baseball and suitcase again, and make things right the best way he knows how. he understands that suitcase especially deserves an apology, and he's more than willing to try and talk things out. the emotion in his voice when he talks about both of them kills me. but even then he would understand if anyone didn't want to accept his apologies. he's mature enough to respect their decision, which says a lot about him as a person. he's improved so much, heck he's going to therapy now! that's so awesome for him! he may be flawed but that's a huge part of why i love him so much. it makes the good parts of him stand out all the more, and he really does have a good heart underneath it all. his friends mean the world to him. it just took him some time and effort to learn how to show it properly, and to let himself be open, but he does love with his whole heart. god i just care about him so much.

[jumpywhumpywriter]

A Life in the Hands of the Enemy -- Villain reluctantly saves Hero's Life part 18

Warnings: captivity whump, cruel Villain whumper, forced living weapon, Hero whumpee, shock collars

Amber groaned as she shifted into a more comfortable position, doing her best to dissociate and fall asleep. But it still took forever before she managed to drift off.

And she opened her eyes to darkness again when she awoke, though a considerable amount of time must have passed because she was ravenously hungry again. Was Zack planning to starve her as punishment?! It didn't seem like his style, but she'd also underestimated him repeatedly.

Her whole body was sore and aching, made worse by the awkward position the wrist cuffs forced her to be in, chained to a ring bolted to the floor. It barely gave her any room to move, her range of motion lifted to a few inches in any direction.

She tried to picture herself anywhere but here to pass time, but her troubled thoughts kept returning to worries about what Zack planned to do to her in consequence of her doomed escape attempt. There were so many other ways he could cause her pain that didn't involve the shock collar she was fitted with.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when the door opened, and blinding light filled her vision a heartbeat later, making her squint. Once her eyes adjusted she found herself staring at Zack, who was holding a plate of food. So starvation was off the table for torture, at least.

Zack set it down and nudged it with a foot so that it was within her reach, and it looked like an unappetizing mix of green... mush. Probably crushed vegetables. But Amber was grateful he was bothering to keep feeding her at all. She waited patiently for him to uncuff her so she could eat... but he never did. He stayed eerily silent, and left without a word, the door locking behind him.

Amber started dismally at the plate of food on the ground in front of her, the unspoken message Zack had sent clear. She'd have to eat off the floor like an animal if she didn't want to go hungry. Her face reddened with embarrassment, but she shoved her pride down and awkwardly doubled over so she could eat using her mouth alone. The food tasted terrible, but it was edible, and would give her the energy her body needed.

She barely managed to choke it all down, nauseated, before Zack returned. This time he uncuffed her and gestured for her to stand and follow him. Amber quickly obeyed, not pushing her luck. She kept her head down like a kicked puppy as she was taken back to the training room.

Once inside, she immediately recognized the manikins from before, still in their places despite being half-melted. But today there was a table in the middle of the room with several metal objects on it, all of which were either spheres or squares, about the sizes of large baseballs. Zack stopped in front of it.

The uneasiness in Amber's gut only worsened. She could handle Zack's barbed remarks, his flippant sarcasm and snark, because at least then she could get a vague idea of what mood he was in. But this version was virtually unreadable. The silent one, the one that didn't speak.

"Look, Zack, about yesterday... I--" Amber started, but Zack quickly cut her off, spinning to face her.

"--You what?" He snapped. "Were you going to say you're sorry, that it won't happen again? That it was an accident?"

Amber flinched. She actually didn't know what she had been planning to say -- she hadn't thought that far again.

"Forget it." Zack scoffed, grabbing one of the metal spheres and tossing it to Amber, who fumbled to catch it. "Each of these objects are made of different types of metals, each with a higher melting point than the previous one. Use your powers to melt them. I want to see how much heat you can generate."

"Wait... can we first talk about--"

"Shut up," Zack barked harshly, and Amber's mouth instantly clicked shut. He ran a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes. "I understand that you are a prisoner here, and that I am making you an unwilling subject of my experiments, but I thought you'd be reasonable enough to know that I don't make empty threats. I don't blame you for wanting to escape, but I do blame you for trying to."

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222

[lcndonboysstuff]

the few times i came across swiftly neutral before i muted it, it seemed like they really didn’t like taylor in there

I don’t know if I necessarily agree with anon that the Swiftly Neutral Reddit page skews more positive towards Taylor. There are some critical posts or more neutral posts, but what has increased in every post is the amount of white knighting that many do for her on there regarding all things Travis, her billionaire status, her music, her jet use, her “feuding” with other pop girls, etc. As they mentioned, there are a group of mean girls on there that just go around and agree with each other and make snark comments and a lot of it is directed at Joe. They like to make fun of the “moisturized, unbothered, activist king” (sarcasm, of course) and any Joe widows. He bothers them a lot for some damn reason.

they hate that people like him haha. he was supposed to drop off the face of the earth after april lol. for people that hate him being relevant you’d think they’d stop feeding into his relevancy by mentioning his name every 5 seconds

[deathmetalunicorn1]

Things I’ve learned playing Hogwarts Legacy

1. Setting the giant f-ing spiders on fire is both fun and therapeutic.

2. Using Assassin Creed logic to sneak up on opponents and freeze them (instantly defeating them) has made raids quite easy.

3. Forcibly adopting magical creatures is fun and good source of endorphins.

4. I’m pretty sure I’m 1/4 Niffler because I go after every single chest I see (loot chest, small chest, anything lootable I’m taking it).

5. The amount of sass/snark/sarcasm I have would have gotten me detention/expelled for some of the way these characters talk to me (like Headmaster Black, I wouldn’t hesitate to punch him, given the chance.)

6. Fashion- fashion walk~ fashion-fashion work~ I have so much fun collecting outfits (even if I never wear them).

[mysmorgasbordoffantabulosa]

Not an ask but more an appreciation post!

I recently stumbled upon a Brimothy blog here, and let me just say I was speechless. The amount of time invested by these people to paint Tae in a bad light was astounding. I'm convinced the way that man blinks or sips his water bottle is an offense to them. So, while my blood pressure was through the roof, it eventually turned to pity. I pity them. Instead of enjoying the bond they've chosen to love, they spend an equal if not more time tearing down and criticizing someone their guys love wholeheartedly.

Now on to the appreciation!! Thank you for not becoming that type of blog and creating this safe space. I know the snark and sarcasm comes out but it is never with the intention of shaming or speaking ill of any of the guys. But is directed at their shippers. I've only been in this fandom about a year but it was TK that drew me in. I'm sad that many who ship are vile towards anything they feel is a threat. I only feel this will continue to fester, along with solos, and I fear for the future of the bond between ARMY and the guys.

Again, thank you! 👏🏽

You get to visit again...

As for your last point, I'm a little more optimistic... I think the enlistment and the lack of communication from members, whilst hard for most, will possibly sort out the wheat from the chaff. Toxics will hopefully move on to pastures new and post military most of those negative voices will minimal and less problematic... but we'll have wait and see.

[fail2lcve]

" --- i ran out of options. " from fred e r i ch im

@avaere

Frederich is a man of pride and stubbornness, but also a jerk with seemingly a heart of... some gold. Lyudmila finds herself never pushing him away despite how they bicker and how they continue to make fun of each other through various ways. He's powerful, he's strong, he seems to have everything already worked out in his life and she wishes she could envy him, but... she doesn't. Not with how his look changes when he looks at his phone or when they touch upon his 'fame' and his 'success.' She doesn't want to delve into territory uncomfortable for him, so she offers normalcy. Mundane normalcy from someone like her. Or attempts. The amount of accidents he'd witnessed were far and beyond from tripping to seeing her without her damn blonde wig (her protection).

But right now? When it's dark outside and her dingy apartment is the last place a man of such prestige can be found, Vinogradova stares at him with both confusion but also growing worry. Frederich is not a man who'd ask for help, she thinks. He's too proud and too stubborn (sounds familiar?). She can make fun of him, poke teasing gestures but she doesn't. Lyuda thinks she has more grace than that, so her worry takes over because, no matter what he says or thinks, she considers them close. Friends, right? They are friends. So she wants to take care of him, in whatever way she can.

Lyudmila doesn't say much but instead reaches out to take his hand, carefully tugging him to come in while opening the door a bit more. She doesn't let her touch linger for too long, letting his hand go to not overstep her boundaries. She doesn't want to actually hurt him, it'd crush her own heart. But when he looks so tired and says such things? The woman misses his snark and his sarcasm, but decides to be quieter this time to let him know he can rely on her... in some way. She doesn't know what she can offer to him out of all people.

"Come in, I'll make some tea," she lets him know, in a quieter tone while letting him come inside. Her little dingy apartment isn't fitting for someone like Frederich, sure, but it's home. With her cat Bubbles and her homey atmosphere with cheap but sturdy furniture with a ton of warm colors and apple aesthetics. "It's uh, cramped a bit, but... make yourself comfortable. You can sit on the couch in the living room. Do you want... anything?"

It must look weird to him who's used to her loudness, her ballsy boldness but she is genuinely concerned. Such concern isn't unhidden and is all too obvious with how she tries to ensure his comfort and his relaxation. But it's important to know: there is no pity, there will never be any pity.

"Or, you know, we can... talk. I mean, you can talk, I'll be quiet and listen. If you want to," Lyudmila bites the tip of her tongue inside, understanding how awkward she sounds compared to their usual banter, but worry is overwhelming and concern is overflowing. She wants to let him know that she does care, beyond sarcastic words and crude language. She is a gremlin, a little goblin who says things without thinking to cause comedic brilliance, but right now, she is acutely aware of Frederich's presence.

Whatever brought him here, Lyuda wants to offer some sense of comfort and safety. Because he did it for her. Despite anything, he did the same for her. Offered safety by letting her speak, offered comfort by not making fun of her, offered her delight by always biting back with snarky words that made her laugh and react so vividly.

[rekishi-aka]

15 Questions 15 Minutes

Are you named after anyone

Nope! Well, first name no, middle name yes. My first name is an accident as the parental units hadn't decided on one by the time I was born. My mum was tired of being read name lists at some point and that was it then. Happy accident. :D

2. When was the last time you cried?

Uh. Today, when I got a bit overwhelmed. I'm pretty emotional at the moment, crying is good for you. 🤷‍♀️

3. do you have kids?

Nope and don't plan any either. I like kids...if I can give them back at the end of the day.

4. do you use sarcasm a lot?

I probably should more often and tune down the snark in turn.

5. what sports do you play/have played?

I used to play volleyball way back when but stopped due to knee issues (and not being very good in the first place).

6. what is the first thing you notice about someone?

That's not really something I thought about a lot so far. Body language, is my guess. Whether they appear genuine.

7. what’s your eye color?

Blue to blue grey to blue-green, it depends a lot on the light I'm told.

8. Scary movies or happy endings?

Happy Ending all the way!! I don't like jump scares especially and need to be in the mood for psychological horror.

9. Any special talents?

Digesting large amounts of information and distilling it down to the necessary bits. I guess? Otherwise, no.

10. where were you born?

In the hospital two towns over, I'm not sure why they picked that one.

11. what are your hobbies?

Writing, when the muse is talking. Long, meandering walks on my days off. Testing new restaurants with friends when visiting.

When traveling: Walking around the city I'm visiting.

12. do you have pets?

No :(

13. how tall are you?

5'5

14. favorite subject in school?

History, Biology (been a while 😅)

15. dream job?

Like....if I didn't have to earn money to live? Tester for train routes. XD Combined with traveling author, possibly, lol. Maybe 3-6 months a year. Or what I'm doing now but with greatly reduced hours.

If I have to keep earning a living I'm pretty happy with what I do, generally speaking.

I got tagged by the wonderful @lu-inlondon

This is totally optional (please don't feel compelled), but if you'd like, tagging @apfelhalm, @theoniprince, @sheepybee, @quelquunberlin, @lachricola