#who the hell even looks up shampoo as a tag

[wannabeeverything]

"Why yes, I, too, ocasionally partake in some unpromptu hedonism, how could you tell?"

I say, whilst sipping apple scented shampoo from a wine glass

[hardlyinteresting]

Lemon drops

Jake Seresin x reader

Nights at The Hard Deck just got a lot more interesting.

Warnings: alcohol consumption, The reader is referred to as she/her, with no physical description, (please let me know if you'd like me to tag anything please), I grew up in an Army household so some of my Navy knowledge may be slightly off base (no pun intended)

This one-shot will exist in the same universe as other one-shots I have planned. But, they can all be read entirely independently.

Word count: 1.3K

Masterlist | talk to me about Jake and Tyler

Friday nights at The Hard Deck are always busy. Sailors and pilots all stopping by on their way home from base eager to let loose, that's to be expected. What he's not expecting is to walk in on a bachelorette party in full swing. 

In a Navy town, it's not completely unheard of for last-minute bachelor and bachelorette parties to fill the local dives, but the larger-than-normal crowd and the young woman dancing on one of the tables has Jake rolling his shoulders back before he settles into the night. He'd been looking for a chill vibe, a cold beer and a few rounds at the pool table. But, he won't complain about a night of flirting, he fancies his odds in a room full of jealous bridesmaids and tag chasers.

Rooster and Coyote seem to have gotten a head start if the empty glasses, or the girls they're helping line up shots at the pool table are any indicator. 

Leaning against the bar Jake waits patiently for Penny to finish making a tray of shots. Lemon-coloured liquid poured from the silver shaker he's so rarely seen used at The Hard Deck, into sugar-rimmed 1 oz glasses. His eyes follow the tray over to the crowd of already tipsy ladies all dressed up to celebrate the blonde in her “bride” sash and tiara. But his attention lingers on the woman who laughs brightly as she raises the tiny glass for a toast. 

“To the bride! I think I speak for everyone when I say that we love you so much, and we're all so excited for this next chapter of your life!” The rest of the party cheers in response, “Now, let's get drunk and start drinking something that's not just sugar”

She's quick to down the lemon drop shot, quickly licking the drip that rolls down the back of her hand. She's sun-kissed and glowing even under the dim overhead lights. She must be from the area, not just passing through. The music is loud and the bar chatter is louder, and she's stunning as she moves her hips to the sound stepping down from the table. She's licked away the sugar rim on the glass by the time she makes it through the crowd to lean at the bar next to him. It's only when Penny sets a beer in front of him that he realizes he's been staring at the mystery girl. 

She's even cuter up close. And for the first time in a long time, he's speechless. Several recycled one-liners rattle around inside his head, but not a single one feels like it's worth the breath. Something about the way she moves through the room, either unaware or intentionally disinterested as several other patrons turn their heads to look her way, tells him she'll have no trouble shooting him down. Regretfully, it only makes him more intrigued. 

And as if she couldn't get sweeter, the scent of her perfume or her shampoo, or the hell if he knows knocks him back. Brown sugar and vanilla. Of course, she smells like sugar. He scolds himself as he replays the image of her pink-tongued and unctuous in her attempt to clean the syrupy glaze dripping across the back of her hand. He may be a self-proclaimed flirt and widely identified playboy but he does do his best to be a gentleman. Despite his attempts to think of church surgeons, or his mother's lectures, geography lessons, or complex aerodynamics, he knows it will be ages before he's able to completely erase the surprising saccharine bar room sight from his mind. 

“Whiskey, please,” she asks Penny, “and thank you for making those shots”.

“For you girls it's no problem,” Penny insists, sliding the glass of whisky across the bar. 

If he bothered to look up he'd catch her raking her own eyes across his form, paying attention to read his name badge, and trace his pins in an attempt to keep herself from ogling his broad shoulders, and strong arms. The khaki uniform does him all sorts of favours. Penny gives her a knowing smirk as she slides the whiskey across the bar.

Unashamed, his eyes follow the intriguing girl back across the room lingering too long on the back pockets of her little denim shorts. 

He's no stranger to wooing pretty girls in bars. He won't brag, but he's got an admirable success rate when it comes to finding a partner for the evening (and he's never heard any complaints). But, something about this girl is different. She's not just pretty, but she's stunning in a girl-next-door kind of way that damn near knocks him off his feet. The way she talks with her friends, and laughs without hesitation has a smile forming on his own face and he feels like a damn idiot for watching her from across the room. She pays no mind to any of the pilots or other patrons who mosey over to shoot their shot with her and the rest of her party, but she accepts every challenge that comes her way at the dartboard and the pool table. 

“What's wrong hangman? Cat got your tongue?” Penny laughs, “I was sure you were going to try to chat her up”. 

The truth is for the first time in a long time he feels like he might be out of his depth. Like a schoolboy with a crush on the new girl in class. 

“The night is still young,” he shrugs. 

But the night flies by, he drinks his beers, and laughs with his own friends, makes his own bets, but never crosses the room. 

She buys her own drinks, and corrals her drunk friends safely into the backs of taxi cabs, calling out for them to text her when they get home. And when closing time rolls around she settles her tab and says goodbye to Penny with a hug, and a reminder that she'll see her later. 

Jake goes home alone, the thought of the sugar sweet girl on his mind. 

When he returns to The Hard Deck next it's a week later. He saunters in with a grin. a bet with Rooster and Phoenix waiting to be won at the pool table, and an ice cold beer with his name on it calling for him. 

He heads to the bar first, leaning waiting to be served when he smells the hauntingly familiar smell of vanilla sugar. He's damn near certain his heart stops when she turns around behind the counter, a megawatt smile on her when she says, “hey, what can I get you?” 

“Whiskey. Neat. Thanks Sugar,” the name rips off his tongue before he can stop it. 

“Coming right up hot shot,” she laughs. 

“It's ‘Hangman’, actually. But you can call me Jake”.

She hums, setting his glass in front of him, “you were in here last week, weren't you”?”

“Sure was,” he confirms, allowing himself to memorize the way she leans back against the middle counter, her arms crossed; so calm and so cool. He suddenly feels the need to swallow hard, his cheeks warming under her directed gaze. 

“You won a lot of money off of my friends,” he offers when she says nothing else. 

She shrugs, “it's a habit I can't seem to break”.

He hopes she never does. Watching Payback and Coyote empty their wallets had been the highlight of his week. 

“Well, maybe when your shifts over,  you can come and try your luck with tonight's crowd, Sugar,” Jake offers. It's a feeble attempt at flirtation compared to his usual routine, but none of his words seem to be coming out right, his mind going blank each time he looks at her in her jeans and white tank top. Thoughts of lemon drop shots, short shorts, and table dancing fill his mind. Suddenly he's 13 again, asking a girl to the school dance with a racing heart. 

“I'm here ��til closing,” she tells him, saving him from his spiral. She sorts her station and wipe down the bar top, “but don't worry, I'll be able to watch you show off from over here”. 

And with that she gone again, moving down the bar to help another customer. 

Nights at The Hard Deck sure just got a lot more interesting. 

[steddie-island]

Heartache to heartache

Second prompt fill for week 1 of @steddiesmuttyseptember - Makeup sex WC: 1,771 | Rating: E | Tags: Makeup sex, financial insecurity anxiety AO3 Divider credit

It was Eddie's fault that he was laying in bed alone, and he was kicking himself for it.

Mostly his fault. Maybe.

He'd overreacted. Maybe.

Fuck. Steve still didn't realize Eddie didn't just have money to throw around. He'd scrimped and saved (and on a couple of occassions stole) for the things he had. The Munsons didn't just get shit handed to them unless it was bad. Sometimes they'd done shit to deserve it, sure, but sometimes they were just in the wrong goddamn place at the wrong goddamn time and life decided to make them pay.

Eddie had been ready to pay this time. It'd taken him months to save up the money to fix his van. Months of borrowing Wayne's truck, hitching rides from the band, from Steve when he was available. Months of cutting corners, buying the cheaper deodorant (his shampoo and conditioner couldn't really get any cheaper) and forgoing snacks he wanted, choosing instead to shove the pennies and the small bills into the coffee container hidden in the back of his underwear drawer.

When the day came for him to finally pay, when he could get his van (and his independence) back, he pulled up only to be told it'd been taken care of.

Just like that.

Eddie could've credited it to the government, to Hopper, to the generosity of the guys who ran the garage. One look at Steve and he had his answer.

"I wanted to surprise you," Steve said. His face had flushed, he'd run a hand nervously over the back of his neck, had turned on that goddamn smile that he knew melted Eddie's heart.

Not this time.

Eddie had been furious. Beyond, even.

He'd yanked the keys out of the mechanic's hand and stormed to his van, letting his quiet fury engulf him. How dare Steve take this away from him. How dare Steve make his months of scrimping be for nothing. How dare he throw that Harrington money around to try to solve Eddie's problems.

Eddie didn't explode until they were in the trailer together.

"Hey—"

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Eddie had asked. His hands shook with his anger, his frustration, with the desire to grab this stupid beautiful boy by the shoulders. "What the fuck, Steve?"

"I was helping," Steve said, clearly confused. "I just wanted to help—"

"No, you were just using Daddy's money to make problems go away again."

Steve had winced at that, but then he'd straightened his spine. "Yeah, I used my dad's money. So what? Why does it matter how it got paid for?"

Eddie had tipped his head back, laughed without any humor in his voice. "Right, what does it matter when pretty rich boys can just wave their fucking magic wand and throw their name around and make everyone do whatever the fuck they want."

"Last I checked I didn't have to do that with you. You just do it." Steve's eyes were steely, his jaw set.

"Fuck you, Harrington."

In his bedroom Eddie winced as the rest of the argument played out in his mind. He'd been fucking stupid and now he was sulking.

And Steve wasn't around for him to try to fix things.

"Motherfucker." The heels of his hands pressed into his eyes firmly, as if that would turn off the replying looping again and again. Every cruel thing he'd said that had brought the bitchiness out in Steve, too.

Eddie loved that bitchiness when it wasn't aimed at him. Hell, he'd liked the bitchiness even when Steve had been King Steve, when he was turning it on Tommy or Carol or Billy.

But now he couldn't even watch from the sidelines. He'd fucked it all up, had overreacted, and Steve was gone.

"Fuck this."

Eddie sat up and stuffed both feet into his combat boots. He had his jacket half on and a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth when he opened the front door—

"Oh—"

Steve stood there on the front porch, hand raised like he was poised to knock. His hair was a mess, the collar of his polo was wrinkled. It wouldn't mean much to anyone else but Eddie knew better.

"Steve." Eddie nearly dropped his cigarette. He grabbed it between his fingers and stubbed it out in the ashtray by the door. "Uh— hey."

"Can I come in?" Steve asked.

Fuck. How long since he'd had to ask to come in? How long since he'd had to knock, and not just use the key Eddie had given him when they'd been together three months?

Eddie stepped back, opening the door wider so Steve could slip by him.

"Sorry if this is a bad time. I can come back—"

"I was coming to see you—"

They stopped at the same time. Eddie cleared his throat, pushed a hand through his frizzy curls.

"I'm sorry." Steve wasn't looking at him, was looking at a spot over Eddie's shoulder instead. "That's all I wanted to say. I should've checked with you and I didn't."

Eddie shook his head, and then he was pulling Steve into his arms. "Hey— I'm sorry. You were helping me out, and I just fucking lost it. I'm sorry, Steve."

"No, it's my fault—"

"It's my fault," Eddie said. "Fuck, you were doing something nice and I threw it back in your face."

"I was just thinking you already had to replace so much, I could do that for you," Steve continued. "It wasn't fucking fair, none of what happened was your fault. You didn't deserve any of that shit—"

"Stevie." Eddie caught Steve's face in his hands. "Baby, it wasn't your fault, either. It wasn't your problem to solve—"

"I know!" Steve shook his head. "I know. I'm sorry, I overstepped and I fucked up so bad, you have every right to be upset."

"Not the way I was." Eddie tipped Steve's face up towards him. "I had no right to yell at you the way I did."

"You did—"

"No. I didn't." Eddie rested his hands on either side of Steve's neck and rested their foreheads together. "I'm sorry."

The tension leeched out of Steve's body, and he practically swayed towards Eddie. Eddie was happy to catch him, to help hold him up. Was happy to return the kiss Steve was pressing against his lips.

"I'm sorry," Steve breathed. Eddie just shook his head, went in for another kiss. His hands dropped from Steve's neck to trail down his body, to his thighs.

Physical therapy had at least given him this. Eddie lifted Steve into his arms and started for his bedroom. He kicked the door closed behind him, dropped Steve carefully to the bed before kneeling between his thighs.

Steve's eyes were dark and heavy. He tugged his own shirt off then sat up to help with Eddie's shirt, too.

"Fuck…" Eddie tangled a hand into Steve's hair as the other man nipped and bit carefully at his stomach. "Fucking love you."

Steve let out a soft sound, and then Eddie was on him, over him. There were more whispered apologies that were cut off as teeth dug into the skin of a throat, as hands pushed desperately at fabric until they were naked from the waist down, too.

Eddie had lost count of how many times they'd done this, but each time felt like the first. Steve always opened up so beautifully for him. Every moan and whine, the way those big hands gripped at Eddie's shoulders, then his hair when that was all he could reach because Eddie was using his tongue, too.

"Fuck, please—"

Eddie loved the way Steve begged, loved the way he arched towards the touches and used a heel to guide Eddie just where he wanted him.

When Eddie was sure he was open enough he moved over Steve again. "I love you," he whispered.

Steve's response was a moan, to dig his hands into Eddie's back as he was filled. "Eddie, fuck—"

Normally Eddie would make a joke, but it didn't feel like the moment to do that. Instead he threaded a hand with Steve's and brought it up over their heads before he started moving harder. Not fast, but hard, deep, in a rhythm that made Steve's body clench around him and brought out more of those beautiful sounds.

Eddie wanted to commit those sounds to memory. He wanted to record them for the nights they had to be apart, so he could play them on a loop and try to pretend Steve was right there with him.

"More," Steve urged. His voice was breathy, had the edge that Eddie had learned to know meant he was close.

"Love you," Eddie repeated. He drove home again and again. Steve's nails caught against his ass in encouragement. "Mine— mine—"

"Yours, Eddie, fuck don't stop—" Steve met each of Eddie's movements with desperate little rolls of his hips.

When he came it was with a cry, with those strong legs around Eddie's hips, holding him in place and keeping him inside. Eddie followed right after him, spilling deep into the clutch of Steve's body.

Eddie kissed at Steve's jaw as the sweat cooled on their skin. He still had their hands threaded together, was still buried in Steve's body— still had Steve's legs around him, locking him there for the time being.

"I'm sorry," Eddie said again.

"I love you." Steve kissed his hair, then his forehead. "I was afraid I messed up too bad, that I'd lost you for real."

"Never." Eddie kissed Steve's chest. "You'll never lose me, sunshine. No matter what happens."

There was a soft hitch in Steve's breathing. "That's not how it usually works for me."

"Maybe not. But it's how it works for us." Eddie rose up to kiss Steve. There was no heat behind it this time. He poured all of his love and affection and as much reassurance as he could into it, until he could feel Steve practically shaking with it.

"That okay?" Eddie murmured.

Steve sniffed softly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm more than okay with that."

Eddie hid his face in Steve's neck again and breathed in the scent of salt and cologne. They would have to talk about it more later, talk about boundaries and the way to try to prevent something else like this happening. But for now Eddie was happy to just hold and be held by Steve. "Good. 'Cause I wasn't really asking."

"Guess I deserve that," Steve joked. His fingers came up to stroke through Eddie's hair gently.

Eddie found that he couldn't agree more.

[vankaywie]

pairings : bigby wolf x gn!reader

tags : fluff , stinky bigby , uh I don't know

summary : helping bigby groom himself !!

an : SOMEONE REQUESTED I SHOULD MAKE A FLUFF OR A SMUT FIC OF BIGBY BUT I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED IT !!! also hiii, i am so sorry if I haven't been posting for so long, i had a writers block and basically lost motivation to do anything. i sincerely apologise😭 sorry if this is inaccurate bigby, i haven't played twau in a while and my memory sucks. also sorry if this isnt smut, i kinda wanted to do fluff... (theres an unfinished bigby smut in my notes) ANOTHER APOLOGY!! sorry if this sucks because i just wrote this and it's currently 4am..

you've noticed bigby has been itching his chin alot, he was probably getting uncomfortable on how long his messy stubble is. bigby has been incredibly busy these past few weeks so his hygiene was... a mess. so you took it upon yourself and decided to help him.

bigby comes home exhausted, immediately sitting on the couch to relax... he didn't even realise you were sitting next to him. "oh fuck—" he flinches slightly. "I didn't see you there, bub.."

a frown forms on your face. "bigby... you stink."

he raises a brow. "i am?" he sniffs himself.. good god that stench. "fuck—"

you forced bigby to take a bath, helping him wash his hair and his back, using your cherry blossom shampoo on him and your lovely soap so for once he'd smell nice. after that, you let bigby dry himself with a towel as you look for the razor.

"you're not going to shave all my stubble off, are you?" bigby chuckles, towel wrapped around his waist, his hair still soaking wet.

"oh, i will if you don't dry your hair and then get your ass on this chair." you threaten him.

he grumbles, drying his hair with a towel and sitting down on the chair infront of you. grabbing the cheap electric razor on the sink, turning it on. you gently hold bigby's chin, turning his head on an angle so you can start trimming his stubble. as you trim him, he looks at your face, admiring you.

your cheeks flushes as you feel his gaze. "don't stare..." you whisper, making him grin.

"and why shouldn't i?"

"it's distracting.."

finally, you were done. he checks himself on the mirror, satisfied at the results. "nice one, doll."

you smiled softly, putting the chair and the razor away. "thanks, bub. I've also washed some of your clothes, they're probably dry by now so you can wear 'em."

he placed a hand at the back of your head, slowly pulling you closer to place a kiss on your forehead. "you're the best."

bigby decided to have a drink at holly's bar, the trip trap bar. he was extremely stressed. but then grendell's ass started bitching at bigby, ranting about how much of an asshole bigby is... but then... "and that bitch [name] looking right pass me, then ushering me out the fuckin' door. who do they think they are to fuckin' kick me out?!" grendell groans.

the unbothered bigby suddenly whips his head to glare at the man, quickly standing up and walking towards grendell. "i wouldn't call them that." he growls, his hazel eyes turning bright yellow, hinting his transformation. "it's happened before and it doesn't end well."

a fight begun, both grendell and bigby transforming, beating the hell out of each others. bigby was clawing at grendell's back, and grendell was trying to shake him off. eventually, grendell threw bigby across the room, the wolf crashing down at the tables and chairs at the corner. "fuckin' pause!" grendell yells, panting.

bigby growls, sitting up from the floor and glared at the monster infront of him. "what?"

"why the fuck do you smell like flowers and shits?!—"

[sidekick-hero]

the unparalleled and precious @flowercrowngods tagged me to post some lines of an unpublished wip with no context

The sound of someone inserting their key card into the slot is followed by the handle being pushed down. Then the door to the room opens, revealing the lucky guy who will have him for the next two hours.

He’s pretty, is the first thing that comes to Steve’s mind. Tall and slender, with a small waist and very nice arms decorated in black ink. Most stunning, however, is his face. The pale skin a tantalizing contrast to his pink lips, dark hair framing high cheekbones and deep brown eyes that look at him like a deer in the headlights.

Then, the door closes with a bang.

“Guys? There’s some dude sitting on my bed, you might wanna call security. I’ll hold down the door but you gotta hurry.” Eddie’s voice trembles slightly and Steve’s torn between worry and amusement.

Faintly he can hear the other men laughing and Eddie's indignant squeak. "What the hell are you laughing at? There`s a crazy stalker in my room! Probably armed and dangerous!"

"Oh yeah, I bet he has a big gun," Garrett/Gareth snorts, and Steve rolls his eyes at the very obvious, very bad joke. The guy probably thinks he's really funny.

Eddie seems to agree with Steve, even if unknowingly. "Har-bloody-har. Jeff, c'mon, tell me you at least take this seriously!"

This is one of those nights when Steve wishes he was smart enough, or at least ambitious enough to go to college, so he wouldn't have to make money on the side dealing with shit like this. At least most of his clients were easier to deal with, if not as easy on the eyes as this Eddie.

"Eddie, trust me, you can open the door. He's harmless."

"How do you know?"

"Because he's your birthday present!" Freak interrupts, clearly losing patience. "Gareth's right, we should have just made him put a bow on his dick and be done with it. At least then we wouldn't be standing here arguing."

Steve wonders if they know he can hear every word they say. Like everyone else in the surrounding rooms, because they're not exactly quiet. He just hopes nobody calls the cops.

"He's... What the fuck? You can't just give someone a person, that's human trafficking!"

Obviously tired of making a scene outside a hotel room, Jeff just opens the door and pulls Eddie inside, trusting the others to follow. They do, closing the door behind them, and then they all look at Steve, who is still sitting on the bed, regretting all his life choices that led him here.

He gives a little wave with his fingers. "Surprise."

Eddie blinks at him, speechless, his mouth slightly ajar. Despite the situation, he remains unfairly attractive, his wide eyes stirring something in Steve that he hesitates to explore further. Steve's knowledge of Eddie is limited to his questionable choice of friends, yet he feels an inexplicable urge to shield him from the world, to keep him safe. The urge is unexpected in itself, but even more so in the intensity with which it hits him.

"This is Steve," Gareth introduces, stumbling over his words. "And, uh, well, he... yeah. Guys?" Gareth glances around, hoping for support from the others, but they remain silent. Steve rises from his spot on the bed and approaches Eddie.

As he stands before him, Steve is enveloped in a mixture of clean body spray, shampoo, and a faint whiff of cigarette smoke. Eddie's eyes, even larger up close, hold a warm hue that is captivating. Steve flashes a smile, aiming for a blend of reassurance and flirtation.

"I'm Steve, and for the next two hours, I can be whatever you need," he declares, though technically, twenty minutes have already elapsed. Nevertheless, for Eddie, Steve is willing to make an exception.

tagging with no pressure, only appreciation: @starryeyedjanai, @thefreakandthehair, @hbyrde36, @runninriot, @just-my-latest-hyperfixation, @steddieas-shegoes

[hxnbi]

‧₊˚ rain walks, or not — zenin naoya

synopsis: just a lovely walk in the pouring rain with a guy who could care less about you, or so you think

tags: fluff, profanity, vulgar language

word count: 1k

"Tch... I don't get why I had to come along with you in the first place."

"C'mon! It'll be fun."

"Fun, my ass. Can't you be fucking reasonable for one second and—"

"Being reasonable can wait!"

What had originally been a mere grocery trip with Naoya turned into a rainstorm when, all of a sudden, it started to pour. Hard.

To hell with Naoya's handsome looks and freshly shampooed hair that afternoon. You immediately went and dragged him by the arm and out of the comfort of shelter.

"It was either we waited for the rain to stop or walked in the rain. And knowing you and your nonexistent sense of patience, you wouldn't pick the latter. So~! Therefore, I went ahead and made the executive decision for you," you said with a proud smirk.

Naoya's voice dripped with sarcasm as he sneered, "Well, congratulations on mastering the art of being an idiot, like always. No shocker there. Maybe next time, use that genius brain of yours to make decisions that actually make sense."

His sarcastic remark hung in the air, but you were having none of it—or instead, you were already used to his antics. It was quite refreshing, actually. Even as the rain poured, he still wasn't letting up.

With a mischievous grin, you let go of Naoya's hand and cupped your two together, collecting some rainwater, and, with a single motion, you threw it directly at the Zenin, colliding with Naoya in a triumphant splash of victory.

His clothing stuck to him like it was soaked in sarcasm, and his once-confident countenance gave way to one of astonishment. His mouth hung open, and his face slowly shifted into one of plain disgust.

"You were saying?" you smirked. "Hmph. Now you're soaking wet, just like I am."

"You..."

But before he could say another word, you once again grabbed him by the hand and led him, walking together on the sidewalks as the rain continued to pour down on them.

"Let's go. My house isn't far, and we can dry off and freshen up a bit. After all, we just brought some groceries from our haul."

Naoya gruffed in response, but he didn't resist, even as you pulled him along by the hand like he was a dog. How pathetic.

But it was something that Naoya, for some reason, felt oddly at ease with...?

As cold as it was while walking in the rain without an umbrella or even a hood to block the water from your face, your hand was still oddly warm. It was much smaller and softer than his, a stark contrast.

He was unable to take his eyes off of you. It was only because you were in front of him, dragging his hand like a guide. Yes, that's right. Where else was he supposed to look? Down?? A Zenin like him would never.

But amid all that, there was something about you that entranced him. Was it the rain? Never. That same pathetic rain was ruining his perfectly styled hair he had just for today with you—though that would be something he would never tell to you straight.

Or was it the way how you always managed to defy expectations just to do whatever the hell you wanted? Perhaps.

...Or maybe, it was—

"Here we are!"

Great. That wretched shriek that, god forbid, came from a human being, was back. 

Just as you and Naoya arrived in the empty home, you threw off your shoes and left the wet bag of groceries on the carpet to dry.

"Make yourself comfortable," you mused, unclothing your jacket.

"Ugh."

Naoya peered closer, only to see the clothes that you were wearing, or rather, what was under them. The thin t-shirt you were wearing was nearly close to being see-through.

Naoya was close to making a fire of his own—using his own rage, that is.

Did your dumbass seriously not even fucking notice?! What if it was someone else who saw you like this!? Would you have been so stupid then with them?

"Here."

The next thing he felt was a towel on top of his head, and your face was right in front of him. You had a small towel of your own wrapped around your neck to keep your wet hair from dripping onto the floor.

Your hands came abnormally close, and with your eyes focusing on him and him only, you used your hands, grasping the towel sitting on the top of his head to dry his hair.

He flinched. "What the—"

"Hold still," you commanded. "Your hair is soaking wet."

"Well, you were the one who wanted us to walk in that dang rain to begin with," he grumbled.

You blinked once and then twice before yanking his hand off, forcing his arms to his side so that you could finally get to what you wanted to do. "Then, just let me do this."

"...."

For whatever reason, Naoya was silent. It was sort of peaceful, really. Feeling your hands comb through his hand with an expression of concentration. 

The ruffian creature eventually relaxed, even to the point where he closed his eyes and let out a content sigh as your fingers played with his hair. If it weren't for the towel covering most of his face, he would've ratted himself out—revealing a rare vulnerability.

To even begin to think that the Naoya Zenin would suck up his pride and let someone else even touch him, but he was also secretly pleased—even if his arrogance wouldn't allow him to admit it. He tilted his head back a little closer to your chest and lowered his posture, permitting you to have an easier time tending to his damp hair.

Naoya smirked, rather pleased with himself.

Look at him. He was being far too kind to accommodate you.

No one else would've had the oh-so-magnificent pleasure of drying his hair. So you had better savour it.

You both lay there silently for a few minutes, enjoying each other's company as you continued to dry his dark hair with a towel as Naoya held his body still. That is, until you suddenly stopped. And you could've sworn that you heard a noise coming from Naoya's mouth, but you didn't push it.

"There," you said happily. "All dry! Hehe, now how about that?"

"...Just this one time."

Your hand stilled for a moment before continuing your gentle strokes. "Huh?"

"You're the only one I let do this. So savour it," Naoya said, his voice softening for a mere second, only for him to split back into an expression of aloofness.

You smiled before moving your hands again. "Then I'm flattered."

You weren't about to tell him about how you could see everything from the very beginning. He would never let you hear the end of it otherwise.

Guess it'll just be your little secret.

©hxnbi. please do not modify, edit, copy or reproduce any of my works.

[buckyalpine]

Soft

Random thought that I thought was adorable. 

Bored Bucky. 

Everyone sat around the conference room listening to Fury hand out mission assignments. It was rare for him to make an appearance but the latest assignment was a serious one and he expected all avengers present. 

Steve and Tony sat near the front making note of who should be paired with who and action plans. Nat, Clint, Sam and Thor listened attentively, making mental notes of what to pack and mission tactics. 

Bucky yawned. 

He was unbothered. He’d heard worse, seen worse, felt worse. His mind was other places. 

Where did all the dunkaroos go...that fatass Sam probably ate them all. 

Why did was the ice cream machine at McDonalds always broken...also probably Sam’s fault some how. 

What was tik tok and why did Peter keep refencing it

Should he make Instagram?

What would he even have as a username

JBB, no, too short. 

James Buchanan Barnes. No, too long.

James White Wolf Barnes. Nope.

White Wolf the Howling Commando.....sounded like a fucking porn star what the hell was wrong with him. 

Never mind. 

The hamster in his brain continued to lazily trudge around while his eyes fell on your hair. You were sitting in front of him, jotting down some notes for what you had to do, all your attention focused on the meeting. Your hair was like a silky water fall, cascading down the back of the chair. 

Bucky couldn’t help himself, reaching out and playing with the soft strands, humming contently. You hadn’t even noticed, barely feeling him paw at your hair, combing his fingers through. 

Bucky smiled to himself, your hair felt so nice. Soft. Smelled like sweet shampoo. He loved how lush it felt as he sectioned a bit of your hair to fiddle with, twisting and playing with the strand, careful not to get it caught around his mental fingers. It was almost calming in a way, almost like petting a kitten-

“Sergeant Barnes are you braiding Agent y/l/n’s hair?!” 

Fury’s face scrunched up, stopping the meeting, looking across the table to where Bucky’s attention was focused. His eyes shot up, a deep blush spreading across his cheeks while Steve and Sam snickered, the rest of the team smirking at him. 

“I-

You bit back a giggle, turning around to see a flustered super soldier looking back at you, his puppy eyes wide, dropping the strand of hair and retreating his hands into his lap. 

“I must say, James braids hair beautifully” Thor smiled, admiring the braid Bucky had done in your hair before proudly looking at his own, the blond strands neatly plaited and tucked behind his ear. 

“If you’re done playing hair dresser, can we focus on the meeting” He gave Bucky a pointed look before continuing. “As I was saying...”

“Sergeant, you’ll be at the east side, with Captain Rogers, Stark, you’ll be with Wilson, I need eyes from on top of the base”

Everyone hummed in agreement, making note of their positions. Except Bucky. 

“Sergeant”

No reply. 

“Sergeant” 

“BARNES”

Fury turned around, having not heard a reply from Bucky yet, just to find him with his hands in your hair again, practically kneading his hands in and purring like a cat. 

“Mother f-

Tags: @glxwingrxse  @hungryyeyess  @sebsgirl71479  @beabutterfly987  @teambarnes72  @witchywhore @jamesbuckybarneswify @slutforsexyseabass  @chrisdrysdale @littlemarvelmenfan  @buggy14  @whimsyplaty92  @sergntbarnes @inkedaztec   @pono-pura-vida   @moonlightreader649 @brooklynscherry-z  @elle14-blog1 @justsebstan @littlelightnings @psychomanniac-blog  @happyt0exist   @emmabarnes  @bethyruth @matchat3a  @cjand10   @getwellsoontana  @cherryschaos   @lokisasgardianvampirequeen  @ashenc-blog  @buckybarnessimpp   @potatothots  @goldylions  @high-functioning-lokipath @morganemorganite-blog  @kingfleury   @peaches1958   @spiderman-stilinski   @peaceinourtime82  @gublur   @wintersmelodie @geeky-politics-46   @lolawassad  @almosttoopizza   @a-poor-gryffindork @alternativeprincess   @buckycallsmeaslut    @kamaria-sweet-writes  @charmedbysarge    @xnorthstar3x  @kryoee7 @alina02  @gh0stgurl    @polishprincess999 @jessybarnes @alltheficsiwant @chemtrails-club  @eralen   @carrotfantasimp  

[migitsukkie]

POMEGRANATE NOIR— MICHAEL KAISER x FEM READER (Part 1)

A/N: This time, I’m gonna try and do something more spicy ‘cause the hell not lol. This one’s going to have some other parts so if you want me to continue, please tell me so! I really want to hear some feedbacks. Sorry in advance for the typos and wrong grammars, dear crumpets 𝜗𝜚

tags and tw: Enemies with Benefits, Explicit Language, Established relationship, Smut soon, Enemies to Lovers (probably), English is not my first language, tension, Part one of ?

Summary: You and Kaiser go way back before he even got into Bastard München. A family friend in fact though both of them just didn’t get along well. Even in family gatherings, you two could be heard arguing and fighting over small things. Now that they are grown, matured adults— nothing changes except the fact that they would call each other in midst of a crisis. However, help comes with a price.

Having to be called over by Kaiser is not rare but it’s often when night comes. You— wearing the hoodie of the guy you slept with earlier in the morning with the scent of hotel shampoo reeking all over your body while hiding the bite marks you told that guy from the bar to not leave, enters Kaiser’s penthouse. Seeing that only his towel covers his body, you couldn’t help but roll her eyes before lounging down his sofa

"Stop calling me when I’m in the middle of having sex, asshole."

Kaiser's jaw clenches at the smell lingering around you— unintentionally making him frown and grit his teeth. But he's good at masking his annoyance, so he acts as if it didn't bother him at all. Letting out an irritated sigh, he then walked over your direction while ruffling his damp hair with his gaze going over to your hoodie as he sat down on the armchair nearest to you.

"And I don't want you smelling like some random man when you're with me."

He bluntly said, his eyes boring into yours.

"Oh piss off, Kaiser."

How and Why does Kaiser care? You know that you reek of sex and cheap shampoo, you were clearly aware. But for Kaiser to complain? Do you care? No. Obviously. Ruffling his still damp hair, his eyes were like eagles, seeing the fresh marks on your neck. Oh how he can feel his veins throbbing just from the thought of it. Not that you would complain if you would see scratch marks and hickeys on his back with his other whores.

Fixing yourself on the sofa, you then looked at Kaiser who was eyeing on you. Heck, glare should you say. Scrunching your eyebrows together, you couldn’t help but feel a bit ticked off with how Kaiser is acting

"Stop meddling for fuck’s s—"

He leans down, his elbows resting on his thighs. His eyes slowly roam all over you, his annoyance not once leaving his gaze. A low scoff falls from his mouth when you spoke, before he suddenly reached for your feet and pulled you in, making you sit on his lap.

"Finish that sentence, I dare you."

He warned in a low yet commanding tone. The way your hair clings on your face, the marks that pepper your neck—all the small little details he could not take notice of.

Yelping at his sudden actions, Y/N is now sitting on this bastard’s lap. The audacity. These two really don’t get along well despite sleeping with each other like animals in heat. They had no place to even get jealous, they’re just using each other for pleasure. That’s their agreement. Though Kaiser is the one who always breaks their consensus, sometimes you two are too angry to even notice it.

The smell of his shampoo— pomegranate noir, it’s that usual scent you would take a waft of when you meet Kaiser.

It’s the scent he wants to smell when you go out of his penthouse.

And now that you’re sitting on his lap, Kaiser couldn’t help but scoff with the smell of the cheap ass shampoo you used in the hotel you went to. Hearing his challenge, you couldn’t help but lift your chin up before talking in a hissy manner.

"Stop. Meddling. Assh—Ghk! You…!"

And just like that you snapped his already strained control. His expression twisted in a mix of annoyance, anger, and a hint of possessiveness.

He wrapped an arm around your waist, while his other hand roughly grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look at him and meet his gaze. He gritted his teeth, his hand gripping your chin tightly that it will undeniably leave a mark afterwards.

"Keep talking like that and I'll shut that mouth of yours with mine."

He said in a low, threatening tone.

Oh how you fucked up so bad.

—𝜗𝜚.

[underground-secret]

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: The group investigates the case of a maniacal ghost inhabiting a long abandoned Texas farmhouse known as `Hell House'. They believe the ghost is the spirit of a deceased depression-era farmer who killed his family, but they soon realise it is something far more powerful.

Warnings: Cannon violence, mentions of suicide and sh within the cannon story, a guy being a little icky.

Credit: While I’ve had the idea for a certain part of this story for a while i’m still going to give credit to @arjwrites for it because she wrote something pretty darn similar, even more than just pretty darn so yes check their work out and stuff.

Tag List: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred

Word Count: 11,341

Hell House

(Masterlist, Previous Ch, Next Ch, Outfit Board)

The Impala cruises down the interstate, yellows, and browns passing by as the hot Texas sun beams through the opened windows. Hair blowing back in the wind and tickling my skin, my sunglasses perched on my nose as I nod along to the Blue Öyster Cult song that played quietly on the radio. If Sam wasn’t peacefully sleeping, head leaning far back against his seat and mouth hanging open I’d ask Dean to make the song louder—it was a really good song though I prefer (Don’t Fear) The Reaper over Fire of Unknown Origin any day.

Dean stretches an arm back, leaning over the seat to grab hold of a stray plastic spoon left on the seat beside me. He places the spoon in Sam’s open mouth. He chuckles to himself as he thumbs through his pocket for his phone, flipping it open and taking a photo. I scuff and roll my eyes at the sight as my hand finds its way into my bag where I pull out my digital camera, “Do a pose,” I whisper to Dean. He checks the empty road in front of him, slowing the car significantly before half turning and spilling widely with a thumbs up, I try not to laugh as I take the picture. I nod to him in confirmation that I got it, he puts his attention back on the road, putting more pressure on the gas pedal, glimpsing at Sam to make sure he’s still asleep before his fingers find the knob on the radio and turn the music all the way up. “Fire of unknown origins…took my baby away!�� he sings loudly.

Sam jerks awake, arms flailing around in panic as he spits out the spoon. Dean air drums along to the song, fingers hitting the steering wheel, grinning as Sam wipes his mouth of drool. He turns down the music, an unamused look on his face, “Ha ha, very funny.”

Dean chuckles, “Sorry, not a lot of scenery here in East Texas, kinda gotta make your own.”

“Man we’re not kids anymore, Dean,” he complains, “We’re not going to start that crap up again.”

“Start what up?” Dean asks, feigning innocence.

“That prank stuff. It’s stupid, and it always escalates,” he clarifies, very annoyed with the little prank. But he was right, it did always escalate. I have heard many stories of the things they did and they were not pretty. As long as I didn’t get caught in the crossfire, they could go at it all they wanted, “But you’re never too old to do stupid things,” I add.

“Aw, what’s the matter Sammy, scared you’re going to get a little Nair in your shampoo again, huh?” Dean teases, grinning like a madman.

“Alright, just remember you started it,” Sam warns, smirking right back.

“Bring it on, baldy,” he taunted.

“Ok, but don’t make him bald again, that would be so tragic. Every guy with pretty hair gets a buzz cut and it’s like an angel lost its wings, it’s horrible,” I butt in.

“That’s the point,” Dean chuckles, probably reminiscing on the first time he did it to Sam and how much worse it would be now as an adult than when he was a kid. “Anyways where are we?” Sam asks, apparently not worried about the danger surrounding his hair.

“A few hours outside of Richardson,” he answers, “Gimme the lowdown again?”

Sam pulls out the file he created, printed papers neatly held in a manila folder, “Alright, about a month or two ago this group of kids goes poking around in this local haunted house.”

“Haunted by what?” Dean asks.

“Apparently, a pretty misogynistic spirit,” he answers. I sigh, these kinds of spirits made for an incredibly annoying job, “Why are they always misogynistic? Literally, go kill anyone else! Or, spice it up and kill guys too.”

“Take that up with the spirit,” Dean says.

“Yeah, no thanks, I like living,” I retort with a smirk.

“Well, legend goes, it takes girls and strings them up in the rafters,” Sam continues, “Anyway this group of kids see this dead girl hanging in the cellar.”

“Anybody ID the corpse?” Dean asks, also getting back on track.

“Well, that’s the thing. By the time the cops got there the body was gone. So cops are saying the kids were just yanking chains,” Sam elaborates.

“Do you think they were?” I question, it wouldn’t be the first time kids lied about this sort of thing as a prank or for attention and coverage, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. But, on the other hand, if you're looking for something to happen in a known haunted location there’s a good chance you’ll get something. “Maybe, but I read a couple of the kid's first-hand accounts. They seemed pretty sincere,” he answers.

“They made the papers?” I ask, taken aback a little. Though it made sense for the case to likely make the papers, it would be surprising for accounts like that to be taken in main news articles, it’d be seen as a waste of time. “No,” Sam responds without making a sign he would elaborate.

“Where’d you read these accounts?” Dean pushes. Sam smiles, his cheeks just turning the slightest shade of pink, “Well, I knew we were going to be passing through Texas. So, um, last night, I surfed some local…” he drags before getting the rest out quickly, “paranormal websites. And I found one.”

I give him a questioning look, it’s hard to take those sites seriously, especially when it's hard to weed out the crazies from real accounts. But even more than that, in the case such sites are speaking the truth, then it was putting said people in danger they wouldn’t know how to solve, which meant a whole lot of stubborn and ignorant people. “And what’s it called?” Dean asks, smirking as if he knew where this would lead.

“HellHoundsLair.com,” Sam almost mumbles, obviously knowing how illegitimate and silly it sounds.

“Lemme guess, streaming live out of Mom’s basement,” Dean muses, and like any sane person I can’t help the laugh that escapes my chest. Sam, somehow, manages to just grin, “Yeah, probably.”

“Yeah. Most of those websites wouldn’t know a ghost if it bit ‘em in the persqueeter,” Dean adds.

“What’s a persqueeter?” I ask, the word slow and clumsy on my tongue. My eyes squint slightly as I try to figure it out. “It’s a—“ Sam cuts him off, “That’s not important right now,” he starts and I frown at not getting my answer, “Look. We let Dad take off. Which was a mistake, by the way. And now we don’t know where the hell he is, so in the meantime we gotta find ourselves something to hunt. There’s no harm checking this thing out.”

“Alright,” Dean gives in, “So where do we find these kids?”

“Same place you always find kids in a town like this.”

Guy 1: “It was the scariest thing I ever saw in my life, I swear to God.”

Guy 2: “From the moment we walked in, the walls were painted black.”

Guy 1: “Red.”

Girl: “I think it was blood.”

Guy 1: “All these freaky symbols.”

Guy 2: “Crosses and stars and…”

Guy 1: “Pentagons.”

Guy 2: “Pentacostals.”

Girl: “Whatever I had my eyes closed the whole time.”

Guy 1: “But I can damn sure tell you this much. No matter what anybody else says…”

Girl: “That poor girl.”

Guy 2: “With the black…”

Guy 1: “Blonde…”

Girl: “Red hair, just hanging there.”

Guy 1: “Kicking!”

Guy 2: “Without even moving!”

Girl: “She was real.”

Guy 1: “One hundred percent.”

Guy 2: “And kinda hot. Well, you know, in a dead sort of way.”

“Okay!” I exclaim, “And there’s the necrophilia!”

“And…how’d you find out about this place anyway?” Sam asks.

“Craig.”

“Craig.”

“Craig took us.”

I prop my sunglasses on top of my head, pushing some of my hair back from my face, as we walk into the record shop ‘Craig’ works. Considering each person's answer, and how they hardly matched up, I couldn’t even fathom what Craig would tell us. But in all fairness their responses, while…odd, did make sense considering there are about eight things that affect the observation of an eyewitness.

The bell above the door once more as it closes behind us. Whether Craig would be helpful didn’t take away from the beauty of this record shop, the stands filled to the brim with all sorts of vinyls neatly sorted into separate genres. “Fellas,” a spiky-haired brunette greets from behind the counter, “Can I help you with anything?”

“Yeah, are you Craig Thurston?” Sam asks as we move closer. “I am,” he confirms.

“Well, we’re reporters with the Dallas Morning News,” Dean begins, “I’m Dean, this is Sam and Y/N.”

“No way. Well, I’m a writer too. I write for my school’s lit magazine,” Craig informs.

“Well, good for you Morrissey,” Dean remarks a little rudely. I ignore his comment, hoping it won’t discourage him from speaking with us, “So, we’re writing an article on local hauntings and we heard you would be someone to talk to.”

“‘You mean the Hell House?” he asks.

“That’s the one,” Dean answers.

“I didn’t think there was anything to the story,” he admits and frankly he has a right to be suspicious. “Why don’t you tell us the story?” Sam suggests.

“Well, supposedly back in the ‘30s this farmer, Mordechai Murdoch, used to live in this house with his six daughters. It was during the Depression, his crops were failing, he didn’t have enough money to feed his own children. So I guess that’s when he went off the deep end,”

“How?” Sam pushes.

“Well, he figured it was best if his girls died quickly, rather than starve to death. So he attacked them. They screamed, begged for him to stop but he just strung ‘em up, one after the other. And when he was all finished he turned around and hung himself. Now they say that his spirit is trapped in the house forever, stringing up any other girl that goes inside,” he explains.

“Where’d you hear all this?” Dean asks the logical question.

“My cousin Dana told me. I don’t know where she heard it,” he answers, his expression dropping a little, “Ya gotta realize, I–I didn’t believe this for a second.”

“But now you do,” Sam finishes, giving him an understanding nod.

“I don’t know what the hell to think, man. You guys, I–I’ll tell you exactly what I told the police, okay? That girl was real. And she was dead. This was not a prank. I swear to God, I don’t wanna go anywhere near that house ever again, okay?”

******

Mud sloshes beneath my shoes as we walk up the muddy path to the dark-wooded house. It was a simple house with a rickety porch in the middle of nowhere. “Can’t say I blame the kid,” Sam comments.

“Yeah, so much for curb appeal,” Dean jokes.

We soon split up, taking a little peek around the bleak property for anything at all. Sam and I meet up halfway and walk back to the front, meeting up with Dean and his EMF reader. “You got something there?” I ask, playfully nudging into him. He taps the reader, the EMF level not changing, “Yeah, the EMF’s no good.”

“Why?” Sam asks.

“Maybe you need another walkman to toy with,” I guess, only half teasing. His green eyes shoot to mine, “This baby’s foolproof, nothin’ wrong with it,” he defends.

“Mm,” I hum, “Then why is it ‘no good’ now?”

He gestures upwards, my eyes following the overhead power lines, “I think that thing’s still got a little juice in it. It’s screwing with all the readings.”

“Yeah, that’d do it,” Sam agrees.

“See!” he wiggles the EMF reader in front of my face, a wide smile curling on my lips, “Nothin’ wrong with it.”

I place a hand over his, pushing his hand and the reader down from my face, “Sorry! I just think your whole DIY thingy is adorable,” I laugh.

“It’s not adorable. It’s genius,” he defends.

“Fine, it’s adorably genius,” I correct, having a hard time keeping the stupid smile off my face.

“You two ready to go?” Sam asks. I turn towards him, his arms crossed over his chest, and his lips pursed together in that silly, sassy way he does it. I know what he’s insinuating by the way he says it and the way he’s impatiently waiting. But, I don’t want nor need him to bring that up again, let alone now, so I respond, “Born ready.” Before moving away from Dean and stepping up on the porch, my hand reaches for the doorknob.

I turn the knob and push the door open, letting more light crawl into the dark home. The sunlight creeps along the floor, stretching its arm as far as it can reach inside. The walls are a grayish-blue wallpaper littered with graffiti and the occasional hole, the windows are broken but the soft yellow glow of the sun still makes itself known through the plastic wrap covering it. There’s still some furniture left behind, an old red chaise sofa pushed to the wall, a fallen tree lying in front of it. Quite the house. But, it’s clear it was beautiful once, and in some odd way, perhaps it still is. “Looks like old man Murdock was a bit of a tagger here in his time,” Dean whistles.

“And after his time too. That reverse cross had been used by Satanists for centuries but this sigil of silver didn’t show up in San Francisco until the ‘60s,” Sam informs, pointing at a painted cross with a circle around it.

“That is exactly why you never get laid,” Dean comments, staring at his brother.

“That is a very weird thing to say,” I reply as Sam takes a photo of the sigil, “And that was a very fun fact.”

Dean shrugs, moving to another wall, “Than—“ Sam tries to say as his brother cuts him off, “Hey, what about this one, you seen this one before?” He gestures to a symbol of a cross with a dot in the middle, the bottom stroke looking like an upside-down question mark. “No,” he says simply.

“Me neither,” I shake my head.

“I have,” Dean informs, “Somewhere.” Sam reaches out to the symbol, rubbing it, he pulls his hand away and looks at his now fingers, “It’s paint. Seems pretty fresh too.”

“I don’t know. You know I hate to agree with authority figures of any kind, but….the cops may be right about this one,” Dean says. And while Dean was quite the skeptic when it came to whether cases would actually be our sort of cases, for him to say that, to even possibly agree with the authority was big. “Yeah, maybe,” Sam mumbles.

Then, suddenly there’s a rustling or shuffling noise from the next room over. Immediately we move into action. Dean grabs a hold of my wrist and pushes me beside him as he takes position near the door, Sam taking the other side of the door. Our backs flat against the wall, Dean nods his head at his brother before they burst through the door. Immediately, they stumble back, shielding their eyes from bright lights and the shouts of…two guys. I move in after them, moving around Dean to be involved in the seemingly unthreatening situation.

Two short guys decked out in all sorts of gear stand before us. “Oh, cut. It’s just a coupla humans,” the one with black hair scuffs, wearing huge goggles on his head—maybe night vision, and a studio light in hand . The other guy holding a camera switches it off. “What are you guys doing here?” night vision questions, eyeing us. “What the hell are you doing here?” Dean shoots right back.

Night vision laughs, “We belong here, we’re professionals?” he answers as if it should’ve been obvious. However, the only obvious thing here was how stupid they looked. “Professional what?” I ask, somewhat confused. Night Vision smirks, reaching into one of the many pockets on his beige vest before pulling out a white card, “Paranormal Investigators,” he identifies, handing me his little card. I take it from him, looking at him skeptically, “There you go, take a look at that, beautiful,” his eyes sweep over my frame slowly, stopping too long at one too many areas. “Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” Dean grumbles, rolling his eyes.

“Wow,” I say plainly, “Ed Zeddmore,” the night vision guy nods his head in confirmation “and Harry Spengler, so professional they have their own business cards for their website,” I throw a look at Sam and Dean, “HellhoundsLair.”

“You guys run that website?” Sam asks in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Ed smiles confidently, practically beaming in his boast.

“Oh yeah, yeah, we’re huge fans,” Dean says sarcastically, a stupid grin on his lips.

“And ah, we know who you guys are too,” Ed claims, all high and mighty. Once more I’m confused by this dude. “Oh yeah?” Sam challenges, looking at him sharply.

“Amateurs,” Ed explains and immediately Dean walks away in lost interest, rummaging through cabinets instead of really listening. “Looking for ghosts and cheap thrills,” he continues. I cross my arms across my chest, “Right…” I drawl sarcastically, “‘Cause I just love a cheap thrill.”

“I can give you an…ex-expensive thrill,” Ed winks smoothly despite the words coming out awkward and choppy. His eyes drop to my breasts that peek out from my top, staring at them like they’re the only things in the room. I grimace, cringing as I unfold my arms in hopes it will help…it doesn’t, “Oh…that’s not, um…no…”

“Well, if you guys don’t mind, we’re trying to conduct a serious scientific investigation here,” Harry speaks up.

“Yeah, what have you got so far?” Dean asks, sauntering back over.

“Harry, why doncha tell ‘em about EMF?” Ed suggests proudly, chin raised.

“Well…” Harry says before Sam cuts him off, “EMF?” He tries to keep a smile off his face as he clearly tries to play dumb. These poor guys.

“Electromagnetic field?” Harry responds like we’re idiots, “Spectral entities can cause energy fluctuations that can be read with an EMF detector,” he turns around to rummage through his backpack before producing the gadget, “Like this bad boy right here.” He turns the box on, adjusting the antenna. A knowing smirk crawls on Dean’s face, we obviously know they won’t see anything, at least not anything accurate. “Woa. Whoa. It’s 2.8mg,” Harry announces, eyebrows shot up.

“2.8,” Ed exclaims, “It’s hot in here.”

I have to bite my lip to keep my laughter back. Dean whistles in admiration, Sam remarking a “Wow,” with a hint of irony.

“Huh. So you guys ever really seen a ghost before, or…” Dean asks.

“Once,” Ed declares, “We were, uh…we were investigating this old house and we saw a vase fall right off the table…”

“By itself,” Harry finishes, emphasizing it with a firm head movement. “Well, we, we, we, we didn’t actually see it, we heard it,” Ed backtracks, stumbling on his words, “And something like that..it uh…it changes you.”

“Mm, I’m sure it does,” I play. They were total idiots, they’d be lucky if they don’t get themselves killed. Dean nods, his voice bored and unamused, “Yeah. I think I get the picture. We should go, let them get back to work”

“Yeah, you should,” Ed replies, crossing his arms clumsily across his chest. With his back turned towards the naïve boys, Dean widens his eyes at us, nodding his head towards the door in front of him. “Oh but, um,” Ed stammers, looking at me, “If you wanna stay we can show you the real deal.”

Sam and Dean seem to pause in the doorway. I try to hide my shock and disinterest behind a tight-lipped smile, “Oh…no thanks…” I spin around, more than ready to leave. But, just outside the doorway, I pause, spinning back around to end it with, “Seek happiness in tranquility, and avoid ambition, even if it be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science and discoveries.” I smile even as confusion falls upon their faces and when I turn back to my boys a similar expression graces theirs.

Yet, only as we descend the steps of the old house do they break. “Did you just quote Frankenstein to them?” Sam asks, his brows twisted with confusion as a boyish smile pulls at his lips. I skip down the last step, “Maybe…”

I catch Dean's eyes rolling, he mumbles something beneath his breath before mumbling just a little louder, “This is why I’m the only one who gets laid.”

Sam and I move as one, walking down the stairs of the library. Dean approaches us, his eyes flicking over us. “Hey,” Sam nods to him. “Hey. What you got?” Dean asks as we hit the last step.

“Well we couldn’t find a Morechai but we did find a Martin Murdock who lived in the house in the ‘30s,” Sam explains, summarizing our findings.

“And, he did have kids but only two of them, both boys, and there’s nothing on him killing anyone,” I add. Our findings only supported the theory that this was nothing more than a story, maybe it wasn’t our kind of job.

“Huh,” Dean hums, most likely thinking the same thing.

“What about you?” Sam asks as we approach the Impala. Dean rounds the car, speaking over the top of it, “Well those kids didn’t really give us a clear description of that dead girl but I did hit up the police station. No matching missing persons. It’s like she never existed. Dude, come on, we did our digging, this one’s a bust alright. For all we know those HellHound boys made up the whole thing.”

“I really hate to agree and blame this on faulty witnesses and a scary story, but…we really do got nothing,” I nod. I don’t know what those kids saw, maybe it was some sort of prank or being scared and seeing something that wasn't there, either way the story was likely made up.

“Yeah, alright,” Sam surprisingly agrees. He’s usually the one to be stubborn on this and see it out, or just have a feeling that we should see it out. So, for him to agree was more than confirmation. “I say we find ourselves a bar and some beers and leave the legend to the locals,” Dean suggests, a smile on his lips. He gets into the car, and before I can round the car Sam grabs my forearm mouthing a ‘just wait.’ I give him a confused look, brows furrowing, but he leans down to peer into the car through the window and instantly I know this is a prank.

I roll my eyes but I too peer through the window, might as well see the outcome. He turns the key in the ignition, and immediately Latina pop music blasts from the car, loud enough to hear clearly from the safety of outside the car. He jumps, his fingers fumbling for the key in the ignition but instead, the windshield wipers turn on. He shouts something but all we can see is the moving of his lips, the music too loud. He quickly reaches for the volume dial, hitting it the music ceases, his shoulders drop a bit as he hits off the windshield wipers too.

Finally, I round the car as Sam bursts out in laughter. I get in and a moment later Sam’s opening his door and sitting. He licks his finger and draws an imaginary ‘1’ in the air, then points to himself. Fire might as well have ignited in Dean's green eyes as he gives his brother the dirtiest look, “That’s all you got? Weak. That is bush league,” he challenges.

The early morning sun breaks the horizon, painting the sky a soft orange. The lights of emergency vehicles spin in colors of red and blue, police officers move around, a filled body bag being rolled away on a stretcher. We missed something.

“What happened?” Dean questions another bystander, there’s a small group of people that watch the scene from behind the yellow caution tape. “A coupla cops say a girl hung herself in the house,” the man answers.

“Suicide?” Sam asks.

“Yeah. She was a straight-A student, with a full ride to UT too. It just don’t make sense,” he explains and he’s right it doesn’t make any sense. Of course, you don’t know what’s going on behind closed doors, but to come to this specific run-down house with haunting rumors to kill yourself is odd. For whatever reason the man walks away, maybe leaving the scene after realizing there was no point in being here anymore. “Whaddaya think?” Sam asks, shoving his hands in his sweatshirt pockets.

“I think we’re wrong about this not being our kind of job,” I answer, we must have missed something.

******

Darkness cloaks us as well as the thick bushes we crouch behind. We wouldn't be hiding if it wasn’t for the cop car parked outside the old house and the two cops standing around. “I guess the cops don’t want anyone else screwing around there,” Sam comments. It makes sense for them not to want stupid teenagers coming around or another teen to kill themselves here, as horrible as it sounds.

“Yeah but we still gotta get in there,” Dean responds. It’s why we were here, after all, try to figure out what we missed. The cops had been around the place all day, nighttime was supposed to be a clearing. A cool breeze rustles the leaves softly and chills my body, a contrast to the heat earlier in the day, I pull my sweatshirt closer in an attempt to fight off the coolness.

“I don’t believe it,” Dean grumbles randomly. I turn my head to follow his line of sight, and just a couple of feet away are the two idiots from before. They approach, decked out in all sorts of gadgets, more than before which I hadn’t thought possible. They whisper to themselves and shush each other, I wouldn’t be surprised if they started laughing in the way you do when you're trying to be quiet, and yet everything is suddenly funny. “You gotta be kidding,” I mumble.

“I got an idea,” Dean says. He rises slightly, turning towards the cops. He cups his hands around his mouth, “Who ya gonna call!” he shouts. Ed and Harry look around frantically, muttering to themselves, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. “Hey! you!” one of the cops shouts, eyes locked on the two boys before him and his partner heading straight for them. “Freeze!” the cop warns. But one of the nerds yelps a “run!” and they turn around quickly before hauling it. “Get back here. Hey,” the cops shout before following them. Our laughs blend together despite trying to hold them back. But we use this opportunity to make a break for the house, our shoes hitting the ground hard.

Quickly we get inside and immediately Sam is taking the duffle bag off his back, jumping straight into action. Dean and I take out our flashlights that were hidden in the waistband of our pants and concealed by our jackets. The lights of our flashlights go on, illuminating the dark home just enough.

Sam breaks out the rifles, handing one to each of us. The rock salt is already locked and loaded. “Where have I seen that symbol before? It’s killing me!” Dean exclaims, his flashlight hovering over the symbol of the cross with a dot in the middle, the bottom stroke looking like an upside-down question mark. “Come on, we don’t have much time,” Sam urges. There’s no saying when the cops would stop their chase and if they’d come to check inside.

We move through the house quickly until we find the basement, moving down the stairs just as fast. Racks of shelves practically take up the whole basement, rows of them. Each one dusty and cornered with cobwebs, all kinds of glass jars filled with questionable liquids. “Hey, Sam. I dare you to take a swig of this,” Dean says, holding up a particular jar filled with a pale red liquid of some sort. There was no way of knowing what that liquid or any of them are without a lab and some testing, which naturally we don’t have. “What the hell would I do that for?” Sam shoots back.

“…I double dare you,” he grins. Sam just shakes his head, going back to looking around. A rustling noise draws our attention towards a cabinet but before we can investigate it a rat pokes its head out, squeaking before running away. “I hate rats,” Dean grumbles, lifting his feet up as the rat scurries away.

“You’d rather it was a ghost?” Sam questions, one eyebrow quirked.

“Yes,” Dean deadpans. I roll my eyes moving forward, “Do you think these jars are old pickled stuff or, like, bodily fluid stuff?” I ask, casting a glance over my shoulder at Dean. But before I can take another step, I’m yanked back suddenly, my breath catching as the belt loop of my shorts is sharply tugged. In an instant, my back slams against Dean's chest just as the shelves in front of me crash down with a deafening shatter. An axe buries itself in the spot where I had just been standing.

The sound of gunfire explodes in the room as Sam fires off two shots at the spirit of the old farmer, but it does nothing to stop him. Heart pounding, I whip my gun up, the weight familiar in my hand. Without hesitation, I pull the trigger, aiming at the spirit now dangerously close. Mordechai goes up in a mist, disappearing, “What the hell kind of spirit is immune to rock salt?” Sam exclaims.

“This one apparently!” I shout, moving from Dean's hold as he urges us towards the stairs. But Mordechai appears again, he smashes his axe down, catching the shelves and bringing the jars crashing down on Dean, glass shattering all around him as he goes down with it. My heart pounds in my ears, adrenaline rushing through my veins. I raise my gun, steadying my hands before taking my shot, rock salt explodes from the gun, hitting its mark but still doing nothing to the spirit. The spirit instead turns and charges at Sam. Shot after shot reverberates through the room emanating from Sam’s gun, “Go! Get outta here!!” Sam yells.

I rush towards Dean, shotgun hanging at my side. The glass crunches beneath my shoes as I pull Dean up, dragging him by his forearms. He grunts as he gets to his feet and if we weren’t being chased by a farmer ghost right now I’d take the time to dust the glass from his jacket. Instead, I grab hold of his hand and drag him behind me as I bolt for the stairs.

The axe seems to come down somewhere else in the room, electrical whizzing noises following it, but I ignore it as we shuffle up the stairs and be-line to the front door. We bolt out the door, caution tape breaking as Dean breaks through it, nearly stumbling down the steps.

A camera is immediately pushed into our faces, the nerds of course behind it, “Get that damn thing outta my face,” Dean commands, an arm raised to block its view.

I lay on my stomach on Sam’s bed which I’m temporarily stealing to research. An arm beneath my chin props my head up, my legs kicking slowly in the air back and forth, as I try to find any info on my laptop sitting in front of me. Dean sits on his bed, sketching something on a little notebook as his brother sits at the table with his laptop researching too.

“What the hell is this symbol? It’s buggin’ the hell outta me,” Dean grumbled, hitting the book down to his leg, “This whole damn job’s buggin’ me. I thought the legend said Mordechai only goes after chicks.”

“It does,” Sam confirms.

“All right. Well, I mean, that explains why it went after you guys, but why me?” Dean questions. I roll my eyes at his sneakily placed joke, if the legend was right then it should’ve only gone after me, jokes aside. “Hilarious,” Sam responds, “The legend also says he hung himself but did you see those slit wrists?”

“Yeah,” Dean says but I certainly missed it, though I was busy trying not to get chopped by an axe. “What’s up with that? And the axe too,” Sam points out, “I mean, ghosts are usually pretty strict, right? Following the same patterns over and over?”

“But this mook keeps changing,” Dean adds. Sam types away on his laptop, the keys satisfyingly clicking, “Exactly.”

“Maybe we got a different breed of ghost here,” I suggest, throwing the idea out there even though it’s unlikely. Sam shakes his head, “I’m telling ya, the way the story goes—“ I peer at him over my laptop at his sudden stopping, his face scrunched, “Wait a minute,” he says.

“What?” I ask.

“Someone added a new post to the Hell Hound site,” he informs, “Listen to this. ‘They say Mordechai Murdock was really a Satanist who chopped up his victims with an axe before slitting his own wrists. Now he’s imprisoned in the house for eternity.”

“A story changing over time makes sense, like a game of telephone. But a spirit that changes with it?… Can they do that?” I ask.

Dean suddenly sits straight up, eyes locked on his drawing of the symbol we saw. “I don’t know,” Sam answers, then huffs as he leans back in his seat with his arms crossed against his chest, “Where the hell is this going?”

“I don’t know but I think I might have just figured out where it all started,” Dean announces

******

The bell above the door dings as we enter the empty record store, the only person there being a bored Craig. Good thing he’s working today. “Hey, Craig? Remember us?” Dean begins an unamused smile on his face.

“Guys, look I’m really not in the mood to answer any of your questions okay?” he responds looking deflated.

“Oh don’t worry. We’re just here to buy an album, that’s all,” Dean reassures. He saunters over to the ‘rock’ section of records, flicking through them until he finds what he wants. He lifts it out and up. “You know, I couldn’t figure out what that symbol was and then I realized that it doesn’t mean anything,” Dean explains, directing his words to Sam and I as we approach the counter, “It’s the logo for the Blue Oyster Cult.” He turns his attention to Craig, pressing the album record of Club Ninja onto the counter, “Tell me Craig, you, uh, you into BOC? Or just scaring the hell outta people?” The boy in question's face drops, his eyes dropping to the album before landing on Dean again. “Now why ‘n’t you tell us about that house…without lying through your ass this time,” Dean orders.

Craig sighs, “Alright, um. My cousin Dana was on break from TCU. Ah, I guess we were just bored, looking for something to do. So I showed her this abandoned dump I found. We thought it would be funny if we made it look like it was haunted,” he explains, “So we painted symbols on the walls, some from some albums, some from some of Dana’s theology textbooks. Then we found out this guy Murdock used to live there so we…we made up some story to go along with it. So they told people, who told other people. And then these two guys put it on their stupid website. Everything just took on a life of its own. I mean I, I thought it was funny at first but…now that girl’s dead! It was just a joke, you know. I mean, none of it was real, we made the whole thing up. I swear!”

“Alright right,” Sam says softly, ending the conversation. We have our information now, or at least a direction. None of it’s real and yet, somehow, it’s very real.

******

“There you go,” the nice barista smiles, handing over our drinks. Dean takes two of the coffees while I take my latte, “Thank you so much,” I beam, placing a nice tip in the little plastic jar.

We make our way to an empty table. Sam immediately pulls out his laptop, wiggling around in his seat and fixing his jeans with a grimace on his face. “Dude, what’s your problem?” Dean asks, calling him out.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” he denies in the least convincing way ever.

“Are you sure?” I ask, eyes sweeping over him, “You look really uncomfortable.” But he just nods his head even as he adjusts himself one more time, “Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”

“So, ahh, alright keep going,” Dean moves on, “What about these Tulpas?”

“Okay, so there was this incident in Tibet in 1915. group of monks visualized a golem in their head. They meditated on it so hard they brought the thing to life. Outta thin air,” Sam explains.

“What? So, they manifested it?” I ask. I know manifestation and intention are powerful things but for a whole being to come from it sounds bizarre. “Wait, I guess that makes sense considering that just the belief and fear people have and or give off in reaction to a spirit gives it more power,” I think out loud, answering my question.

“So?” Dean counters.

“That was 20 monks. Imagine what 10,000 web surfers could do. I mean Craig starts the story about Mordechai, then it spreads, goes online. Now there are countless people all believing in the bastard,” Sam elaborates.

“Does the HellHound site actually have that many people looking at it?” I question, I mean people believe whatever they see. And it’s not like these things don’t exist, it’s just that Ed and Harry certainly weren’t finding it. “Unfortunately,” Sam quips. That many people would be impressive if not for the idiots that are behind it all. “Are you trying to tell me that just because people believe in Mordechai, he’s real?” Dean speculates.

“I dunno, maybe” his brother answers, shifting in his seat like he or it’s uncomfortable.

“People believe in Santa Claus, how come I’m not getting hooked up every Christmas?” Dean points out.

“Cuz you’re a bad person,” Sam deadpans, replying a little too fast, “And because of this,” he turns his laptop around to show us a photo of a complex symbol, “That’s a Tibetan spirit sigil. On the wall of the house. Craig said they were painting symbols from a theology textbook. I bet they painted this, not even knowing what it was.”

“Man, what are the chances of that?” I mumble.

“Now that sigil has been used for centuries, concentrating meditative thoughts like a magnifying glass,” Sam continues, ignoring my comment, “So people are on the HellHounds website, staring at the symbol, thinking about Mordechai…I mean, I don’t know, but it might be enough to bring a Tulpa to life.”

“It would explain why he keeps changing,” Dean replies. Sam grimaces, adjusting himself again, one too many times for it not to be concerning, “Right, as the legend changes, people think different things, so Mordechai himself changes. Like Y/N said before, it's like a game of telephone. That would also explain why the rock salt didn’t work.”

“So what does work?” I ask, “If that’s even a thing here.”

“Why don’t we just, uh, get this spirit sigil thingie off the wall and off the website?” Dean suggests.

“Well, it’s not that simple. You see, once Tulpas are created they take on a life of their own,” Sam explains. In conclusion, stupid teenagers draw random symbols on a wall to scare others, somehow choose one that uses belief, it becomes a big legend, scary fake farmer kills people, and it’s our problem now. The chances of all that genuinely have to be so low. “Great,” Dean remarks, “How the hell are we supposed to kill an idea?”

Sam itches around his hips and shuffles in his seat again, “Well it’s not gonna be easy with these guys helping us. Check out their homepage.” He clicks on a couple of things before a video of last night plays, “Since they’ve posted the video their number of hits have quadrupled in the last day alone.” God, I wish we could just hit them in the face so hard.

“Hmm,” Dean hums, “I got an idea. Come on.”

“You do?” I ask though that little glint in his eye is enough proof. “Where we going?” Sam adds.

“We gotta find a copy store,” he answers. We rise to go, grabbing our to-go cups of drinks and Sam grabs his laptop before itching and wiggling, “Man, I think I’m allergic to our soap or something,” he complains. A stupid grin stretches on Dean's face, laughing as he walks away. “You did this?” Sam says through clenched teeth. And if Dean's confusion to laughter isn't an answer then I don’t know what is. “You’re a fucking jerk!”

“That is some evil shit,” I comment. I don’t even know when he had time to pull his prank but it definitely beat the car thing Sam had pulled. “Oh yeah,” Dean smiles, satisfied.

******

“I think Y/N should be the one to bait them,” Sam reasons as we walk towards the trailer. Dean has his whole plan which requires fake papers, a copy machine, and some lying. What more could you want? “Do I have to?” I ask, “They’re, like, all weird.” But really I mean creepy or gross.

“Yeah, I can do it,” Dean defends.

“That’s the point though, they’ll listen to her ‘cause she’s a girl and those two look like they haven’t interacted with one before two days ago,” Sam explains. I laugh shortly, “Ha, they definitely didn’t, at least not a real-life one,” I then exhale, “Alright fine I’ll do it.” It’s not even a big deal to begin with to be fair.

We approach their trailer, a little garden flamingo standing tilted in the grass and a couple of foldable lounge chairs sitting about. Dean pounds on the door, fist-hitting it repeatedly. A squeal comes from inside before someone calls out, “Who is it?”

“Come on out here guys, we hear you in there,” Dean responds.

“It’s them,” one of them whisper-shouts, too bad we can hear them. But there’s a click and the door opens up a crack, both their heads squeezing to stick out the door. “Ah, would you look at that! Action figures in their original packaging,” Dean remarks, looking right over their head to peer into their trailer, “What a shock.”

“Guys, we need to talk,” Sam starts.

“Yeah, um, sorry guys. We’re ahh, a little busy right now,” Ed responds, adjusting his glasses.

“Okay, well, we’ll make it quick. We need you to shut down your website,” Dean says bluntly.

Ed laughs, almost like a bark, “Man, you know, these guys got us busted last night, spent the night in a holding cell—“

“I had to pee in that cell urinal. In front of people. And I get stage fright,” Harry adds in, eyes jumping around like he’s paranoid or anxious.

“Uh..thanks for sharing that with us…?” I respond, smiling awkwardly.

“Well, why should we trust you guys?” Ed asks, crossing his arms.

“Look, guys. We all know what we saw last night, what’s in the house. But now thanks to your website there are thousands of people hearing about Mordechai,” Sam explains.

Dean adding, “That’s right. Which means people are gonna keep showing up at the Hell House, running into him in person, somebody could get hurt.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Ed nods slowly, rubbing his chin. “Ed maybe he’s got a point, maybe…” Harry adds softly.

“Nope…” Ed decides and Harry’s demeanor does a full 180 as he says “No,” too.

“Right, so you have no morals,” I conclude, “If—no, not even if, when someone gets hurt their blood’s on your hands.”

“We have an obligation to our fans, to the truth,” Ed defends.

“Well, I have an obligation to kick both of your little asses right now–” Dean threatens through clenched teeth.

“Dean,” I cut him off, holding him back with a hand on his shoulder, “It’s not worth it, god knows you can give ‘em one hit and they’d be crying back to their mommies. Hell, I could tell them that thing about Mordechai and it wouldn’t matter, they just don't care.”

“We should just leave,” Sam adds.

“Whoa…whoa…” the idiots say, interest peaked.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Dean gives in. With that, we turn back around and begin to walk away, purposely moving slowly. “What you say about…?” Ed asks, trailing after us. “Wait…Wait.” We turn back to them, an unamused look on my face. “What thing about Mordechai you guys?” Harry asks, trying to be nonchalant.

“Don’t tell ‘em,” Dean warns me.

“Not even if they agree to shut down the website?” I ask.

“They’re not going to do it, you said so yourself,” Dean reasons. I sigh, shaking my head, “You’re right.”

“No wait!” Ed rushes out, “Wait. Don’t listen to him, okay? We’ll do it. We’ll do it.” Like fishes on a hook getting reeled in.

“It’s a secret, Y/N,” Sam reminds, his voice as serious as can be. I look up at the two nerds, their eyes sparkling with intrigue, if they were dogs I'm sure their tails would be flicking behind them, “It’s a pretty big deal, you know. It wasn’t easy to find, so we really have to have your word. You have to promise you’ll shut it all down.”

“Totally,” Ed says. I pause a moment, eyeing them as if I’m really considering it before nodding at Dean. He pulls out some folded papers from the inside of his leather jacket, handing it over to them. “That’s a death certificate from the ‘30s,” I explain, “We found it at the library and according to the coroner the actual cause of death was a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

“That’s right, he didn’t hang or cut himself,” Dean confirms, emphasizing our “find.”

“He shot himself?” Ed asks, a little skeptical as he looks up from the paper. “Yup, it’s all right there,” I answer, “With a .45 pistol. To this day they say he’s terrified of them.”

“Matter of fact they say if you shoot him with a .45, loaded with these special wrought-iron rounds, it’ll kill the sonuvabitch,” Dean adds. They snicker like school girls, the apples of their cheeks brightening with their smiles. Harry spins and bolts it to their trailer, Ed moves more slowly as he follows behind as if he’s trying to play it cool. “Harry,” he mumbles through his teeth, “Slow your roll buddy. They’re gonna know we’re excited.”

“Dude!” I exclaim, laughing a bit as Dean pops a stolen fry into his mouth, “You just finished your food, leave my fries alone.” But he shrugs with that charming smile on his lips, his arm resting on the booth's top, practically stretching out. The golden crisp of oil goodness is hardly missed with a sight like this. He turns his attention to the woodwork of an old goofy fisherman holding a big fish, a string dangling from it. He reaches up and pulls the cord, the fisherman’s mouth moving up and down as it laughs this obnoxious laugh. I myself try not to laugh as I sip on my soda.

Sam reaches up and pulls the cord again, the laughing stopping immediately, “If you pull that string one more time I’m gonna kill you,” he threatens, looking up from his laptop. In all fairness Dean had pulled the cord at least twice already since we’ve sat down, and yet, to me, it was funny every single time. The kind of stupid humor or even stupidly contagious laugh that made you want to snicker. The threatened man across us deadpans, staring at his brother as he slowly reaches up and pulls the cord again. The fisherman barely has time to laugh himself before Sam is pulling it to stop, glaring at Dean. It's like a standoff. Dean snickers, “Come on man, you need more laughter in your life. You know you’re way too tense,” he reasons.

Not having it, Sam gives him a dirty look. Clearly not amused nor having any desire to be amused. Dean sighs, seemingly giving up on his conquest, “They post it yet?”

Sam turns his screen towards me, an easier thing to do then all away around, as he angrily stabs at what’s left of his salad. My eyes scan the screen, immediately landing on the new post, “‘We’ve learned from reputable sources that Mordechai Murdock had a fatal fear of firearms’” I read and I have to admit their choice of words is awfully intelligent sounding, “Hey, look at us, we’re reputable sources,” I point out.

“Reputable copying machine,” Dean corrects a shit-eating grin on his lips. They had fallen into his exact plan, of course they wouldn’t shut down the website regardless of what they promised (good thing it wasn’t a pinkie promise), and of course they would take any information like starving dogs and post it as soon as possible. ‘Obligation to their fans, the truth’ as he had said. “Alright. How long do we wait?” Dean asks.

“Long enough for the new story to spread, and the legend to change,” Sam answers, “I figure by nightfall iron rounds will work on the sucker.” He picks up his beer bottle and holds it up to us, taking the small victory we gently clink our drinks together in a silent ‘cheers.’ “Sweet,” Dean grins, the light reflecting off of the glass beer bottle, gleaming at its base as it’s tilted up to his lips. I’ve never really understood why one would drink before a hunt, not that one bottle would do anything to him of all people, yet, when his lips are on the rim that sort of thing doesn’t seem to matter. Another interesting thing, drinking has never looked so attractive as it does on him. But perhaps that’s the bias you have when you like someone, somehow everything becomes attractive.

The bottle finally clanks to the table, his hand still wrapped around it. But when he lets the bottle go his palm sticks to it, fingers stretched out he shakes his hand around like the bottle will fall off. It doesn’t. Sam loses it, cracking up even more as Dean says, “You didn’t.”

A little tube of super glue is raised up, “Oh, I did!” he laughs, pulling the cord this time, the fisherman laughs again.

“All I’m saying is as stupid as they are, I do feel bad for them, one of these days they’re gonna wind up dead,” I reason, walking with Sam the short distance back to his motel room.

“Yeah…” he shrugs, “But it’d be on them, I mean they haven’t ran off yet, not even after seeing Mordechai.”

I hum, absorbing his words, “That’s true.” The door is open just a little, like it didn’t close fully behind him when he had left to come get me from my room down the hall. I push open the door, “Do yo—“ my words die in my throat replaced with a gasp as cold water dumps on me. A bucket thumps to the floor, just barely missing my head. My hair and clothes drip as I ball my fists at my side, shock from the sudden cold still rattling in my bones as I shake slightly. “Dean?!” I scold.

“That was not meant for you,” he replies, eyes wide as he sits up in his bed.

I got caught in a prank meant for Sam. But didn’t he know Sam was getting me and that there was a chance that I would walk in first instead of him, which is exactly what had happened???!! I exhale, trying to rid myself of any frustration or annoyance. “I’m so sorry Y/N,” he adds.

I laugh, moving a wet piece of hair behind my ear, “You are so getting it.” My shirt clings to my skin, shoulders bunched up from the feeling. Sam chuckles behind me, I turn slowly towards him and immediately he tries to cover it with a hand over his mouth, “Oh you too Sam, you’re not safe. His hand and face drops, “Why me? I didn’t do it?!”

“No, you're right,” I nod, “But you’re part of the reason it happened, your little prank war.” I look between both boys, “You’re both gonna get it, you Winchesters better watch out,” I threaten. I huff moving past Sam, “Now if you’ll excuse me I’m gonna go change before I start stripping in front of you two.”

“I mean—“ Dean calls out and I can hear the grin on his face before I yell back, “Don’t even think about it!” I shuffle off down the hallway, and only back in the safety of my motel room do I fix my situation. I snap my fingers and instantly it’s like nothing ever happened. There’s no need to change when I can do something like that, but what I can do in the privacy of my own room is think of how to get them back and execute it.

******

Early night cloaks the sky, the sun just barley below the horizon as we head to the Impala. A comfortable silence envelopes us. I stop before opening the back door of the Impala, crouching down to re-tie my shoe as they get into their respective sides of the car. The doors seem to shut in sync.

One, two, three, four, five. The doors are being shoved open and they tumble from the car coughing and covering their noses. I stand with a smirk as the smell of rotten eggs escapes the car. “What the hell?!” Dean yells. Sam reaches back into the car, pushing the seat forward to find the source. He fishes out a puffed up square, he holds it by the corner, “Really?”

“Oh, wow, how’d those get there?” I ask, folding my hands in front of me. He gives me a dirty look before throwing the fart bomb to the side. “Real childish,” Dean remarks, holding up his own puffed up fart bomb. “Which part?” I ask, “The pranks or putting fart bombs beneath each of your seats?”

“The bombs, dumbass,” he replies, throwing the little puffed square at me. I laugh, as it hits me in the chest, kicking it away when it hits the floor, “Childish and yet still funny.”

“Yeah if you think gas chambers are funny,” he mumbles.

Our guns are drawn, eyes sharp, brain and body on high alert now that we’re back in the house. The cops had been outside like the night before, but instead of using the idiot ghost hunters as bait Dean had used the stolen fisherman from the diner that he somehow stole. Its current home is now somewhere deep in the woods, a mechanism set up so that it consistently laughs. They were drawn into the forest like pirates drawn to sirens, except what they’ll find is not an attractive mermaid but an obnoxious fisherman.

“I barely have any skin left on my palm,” Dean comments.

“I’m not touching that line with a ten foot pole,” Sam mumbles.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, usually people say that about something. Like ‘I wouldn’t touch that with a ten foot pole’ but there was nothing brought up regarding touching something. “He’s tryna lead us into an inappropriate joke.” Sam explains. The gears slowly turn in my head, cogs rotating trying to figure out what joke, “Oh! You mean masterbation!”

“Yeah,” Sam sighs, and if he hadn’t had both hands trained on his gun I'm sure he’d be pinching the bridge of his nose like a disappointed father.

“So you think old Mordechai’s home?” Dean asks as he move into another room, switching topics.

“I don’t know.”

“Me either,” a voice suddenly says from behind. I spin swiftly around, gun trained.

“WOAH! WOAH!” Ed yells, him and his buddy shuffling back with their hands raised. I scuff, lowering my gun. And of course they’re decked out in their goofy gear. “What did I tell you?!” I exclaim, looking at Sam.

“What are you trying to do, get yourself killed?” he asks the doofuses.

“We’re just trying to get a book and movie deal, okay?” Ed answers.

“Look, the only time you’ll ever be written about is when your obituaries are in the local newspapers,” I spit, not caring how harsh my words are. But Ed doesn’t look defeated or deflated, instead his eyes seem to sparkle, “You are so hot,” he says softly. I drag a hand down my face, sighing, “What part about any of this are you not getting?”

“Why I don’t have your number yet,” he answers. I shake my head, walking away. This is just ridiculous now. “Alright, that’s enough there buddy,” Dean says, placing a firm hand on the guy's shoulder.

Then, the sharp noise of metal on metal comes from behind a door but inches from us. The door to the basement. As if in sync, thinking the same thing, our guns are immediately raised, body and mind back on high alert. “Oh crap,” Ed mumbles and with some shuffling and shoving each other they wind up crowding behind us. Or cowering, if you will. “Uh guys, you wanna…you wanna open that door for us?” Ed asks.

“Why don’t you?” Dean remarks unamused.

Suddenly, the door bursts, wooden shards exploding everywhere as Mordechai bursts through the door holding his axe. Screams and gunshots clash together, the dissonance cracking the atmosphere. I pull the trigger over and over, working at the mechanics of the gun until the cartridge is empty, until there’s nothing left to give. It’s no surprise when the old farmer wavers and disappears into mist with the amount of bullets shot between the three of us, but the real question is did it work?

Once more, we seem to share the same mind as we reload our guns quickly, shoving bullets into the chamber before splitting up. It’s all wordless, movements and thoughts that have been implanted into our mind long before there was even a comprehension of the fact. Every part of my being is on high alert, eyes scanning the room for the spirit. I clear the dusty shell of a room I walk into when I hear a squeal.

Immediately I spin right back around, rushing into the room I stood in only moments ago. I nearly bump into Sam as we meet back in the room only to find Harry on the floor with a shattered camera in front of him. “Hey!” Dean shouts as he enters the room from the opposite side of us, “Didn’t you guys post that B.S. story we gave you?”

“Of course we did,” Ed defends, helping his friend off the floor.

“You know, that didn’t sound all that convincing,” I quip, looking at the destroyed camera. There was no saving that thing and I don’t think any amount of insurance would help it. “But then our server crashed,” Harry corrects.

“So it didn’t take? Dean asks, eyes a little frantic.

“Ummm,” they hum in unison, the noise high pitched as their eyes jump around the room to look anywhere but the gruff man across from them. “So these, these guns don’t work?” Dean laughs darkly, running a hand down his mouth.

“Yeah,” Ed breathes.

“Great,” he murmurs, “Sam, any ideas?”

“We are getting outta here,” Harry declares, no longer concerned with documenting the truth—not that they could. “Yeah. Come on,” Ed agrees. Harry grabs hold of Ed before they run past Dean into the next room. And not even a moment later does girlish screams come from that room.

Yet despite how annoying they are, and all the trouble they’ve caused, Sam and I follow after them. Mordechai corners them against the front door, the boys cower against the door screaming “The power of Christ compels you,” over and over, louder and louder. “HEY! Come and get it you ugly son of a bitch,” Sam taunts. And for whatever reason Mordechai turns and goes after him instead. Sam leads the spirit away from the boys giving me the time to move to the idiots at the door.

I motion for them to move and quickly they shuffle away. I grip the door handle and give it a hard pull, maybe using just a little power to give me more help. The cool breeze blows in as I hold it open for them, the shuffles and grunts of fighting close by, “Go!” I command, pointing out the door. They shove each other as they stumble onto the small porch, Ed turns back before they reach the first step, “So, is your number still on—“

“NO!” I shout, slamming the door in his face. I spin around only to find Sam pressed against the wall with the axe against his throat, pushed higher and higher off the ground until his feet dangle. Immediately I lift my gun and shoot one, two, three, four, five times, glad that the angle I occupy is viewing them at their side. Mordechai disappears in a mist once more, Sam falls to the ground holding his neck as he coughs, but this time I know the spirit isn’t gone for good.

Unfortunately I don’t leave room to ask if he’s okay as I swing around the nearest walkway, “Dean?!” I call, I don’t know where he went off to and I don’t want Mordechai to take advantage of him being alone. “Right here, sweetheart,” he answers, appearing from the next room over. He holds a little metal can of something and when he splashes it around the room as he approaches me I know it must be some flammable liquid.

He nudges me forward, forcing me around before leading me with a hand on my lower back. I move away from his touch to help Sam up from the ground. “Mordechai can’t leave the house, we can’t kill him—we improvise,” Dean explains, shaking what’s left of the can of kerosene.

“Arson…yay,” I answer, watching as he dumps the rest of the liquid. Just then Mordechai appears at the far end of the room, axe raised, he charges at us, “Go, go, go!” Dean directs. I follow after Sam, running to the front door. I hear the flick of the lighter, the clinking of it falling, and the swoosh of flames going up.

We make it outside and down the short steps just as the building quickly ignites in flames. It spreads quickly in the old house, orange and yellow brightening the darkness as the flames lick at the rotting wood. “That’s your solution? Burn the whole damn place to the ground?” Sam exclaims, rubbing at his neck.

“Well nobody will go in anymore,” Dean reasons, “I mean look, Mordechai can’t haunt a house if there’s no house to haunt. It's fast and dirty but it works.”

“Well what if the legend changes again and Mordechai is allowed to leave the house?” Sam counters.

“Well—well then we’ll just have to come back,” Dean stammers, clearly not having thought of that.

The flames consume the entirety of the house, at least it seems that way. It won’t be long till it’s nothing but ashes. The only thing that’ll be remembered is the legends of a man who did not exist, that is if people care to remember at all. And all the while the real story of Martin Murdock and his boys will continue to be forgotten by this town and history. “Kinda makes you wonder. Of all the things we hunted, how many existed just cuz’ people believed in them,” Sam ponders, the words swirling in the air and lingering like the smoke filling the sky.

“I’d rather not think of that one,” I mumble. Our ‘job’ was complicated enough, it didn’t need another layer. We didn’t need another thing to keep us up at night.

The boys had decided to make a stop to see Ed and Harry before leaving town. I’m not really sure why, I certainly would’ve gone on just fine without saying a farewell. But, atlast we sit at a picnic table in the trailer park, the boys in question walking over with very full grocery bags. “Man, I got the munchies right now,” Ed comments, talking to his friend. Then, his attention turns to us as they stop at the table, “Gentlemen. Gentlelady,” he nods, and I have the suspicion that if he were wearing a hat he would’ve tipped it at us.

“Hey guys,” Sam greets with a simple smile.

“Should we tell ‘em?” Harry asks Ed, stupid smiles on their faces.

“Hey, might as well, you know, they’re going to read about it in the trades,” Ed points out, chin raised.

“Yeah? What’s that?” I ask, looking up at them. I can’t imagine what they’re gonna say. “So, this morning we got a phone call from a very important Hollywood producer,” Harry tells us, pride dripping in his voice.

“Oh yeah, wrong number?” Dean remarks, ripping a laugh from my lips before I can stop it.

“No, smart-ass. He read all about the Hell House on our website and wants to option the morton picture rights. Maybe even have us write it,” Ed boasts, shoving the stuffed grocery bags into their stuffed car, their trailer hitched to the back. “And create the RPG,” Harry adds.

“The what?” Dean asks.

“Role playing game,” I answer. Dean's eyes turn to me, confusion written in his irises, “What?” I defend, “Can’t a girl know things?”

“You know the lingo,” Ed admires, hearts practically shining in his eyes, “Anyhoo, ahhh, excuse us, we’re off to la-la land.”

“Well, congratulations guys. That sounds really great,” Sam says.

“Yeah. That’s awesome, best of luck to you,” Dean adds. And it’s that that makes me suspicious. It didn’t seem like he had said it sarcastically and from how irritated they had made him I doubt he would mean such a thing sincerely. It’s fishy. “Oh yeah, luck. That has nothing to do with it. It’s about talent. Sheer unabashed talent,” Ed corrects, chest puffed out. I decide to keep my comments to myself, let them have their delusions.

They hop into the overfilled car and start pulling off, “See ya ‘round,” Ed says from out the window, “Call me!” he adds, finger gunning at me. I cringe but ultimately ignore it, I will not be calling him or thinking of them in any degree. “Wow,” Dean exhales, standing up.

“I have a confession to make,” Sam declares, standing up too, hands shoved in his pockets.

“What’d you do?” I ask, laughing.

“I, uh…I was the one that called them and told them I was a producer,” he confesses, a smile trying to pull on the corner of his lips. I can’t help but laugh. It’s certainly a cruel prank and yet so deserved. Dean laughs too, “Yeah, well I’m the one who put the dead fish in their back seat.” Sam joins in on the laughing too, it’s kind of hard not to with the ridiculousness of it all. “My god, you guys are evil,” I smile.

When the laughing dies down Sam says, “Truce?”

“Yeah truce,” Dean agrees, “At least for the next 100 miles.”

[abarbaricyalp]

Strawberries and Cigarettes (always taste like you)

Title from Troye Sivan

Bucky smoked like a chimney. It didn't matter how many times Sam said they'd figured out it was bad for you. Mostly because Bucky had a super soldier serum that made him think he was invincible. Sam had sat next to him on a Brooklyn balcony one night that they both couldn't sleep and watched Bucky go through an entire carton without coming up for air. He always had a cigarette behind his ear, waiting to be lit. A lighter in his pocket, even during missions. It wasn't like it was to help with anxiety or whatever. The dude was jumpy and jittery even while he was smoking. And Sam had never really seen him jonesing for a smoke break, but he took one every chance he got.

He'd asked Bucky to stop smoking around him because Sam didn't have a super soldier serum to save his lungs, which Bucky was slightly gracious about. Gracious up until the point that Sam slunk over because the smell of the smoke and Bucky's shampoo and his leather jacket was addictive, and then he was all smirks and silent 'I-told-you-so's. It at least put him in the habit of asking before he lit up. It really didn't help that he looked like a modern Marlborough man ad come to life. He was desperately alluring and sexy when he smoked. It was woefully unfair that such a foul hobby was so damn hot.

(Oddly enough, the grace came back on the rare nights that Sam sat beside him and wordlessly held out his hand for a cigarette too.)

Sam didn't condone the habit, but he didn't exactly hide Bucky's cartons from him or give him an ultimatum either. Hell, Bucky's smokes were usually on his grocery list when he knew the guy was going to be around.

"Hey, have you noticed if Buck's low on cigarettes?" Sam asked Sarah while she compiled her own list to send him with.

She turned to look at him with raised eyebrows. "Bucky doesn't smoke," she said. "I've never seen him even hold a cigarette."

Sam frowned and thought before making an answer. After four decades, he'd found it was best not to argue with Sarah about something that may have an objective truth to it. He rarely beat her at this game.

True, he had woken up a few weeks ago, last time Bucky had been around, with the glaring thought that Bucky smelled good next to him. Not like smoke, but a clean, fresh smell. He'd chalked it up to him showering the evening before and not getting up throughout the night. And true that Bucky had a fidget in Louisiana that Sam never noticed anywhere else, where he flipped the cap of his lighter continuously or tumbled the lighter through his fingers. But he never actually lit anything with it. And true, he didn't smoke on the boat. And true, he'd never asked Sam where the cheapest cigs around were (a constant hunt in New York).

Bucky didn't smoke down here, Sam realized with a start. And he never smelled like smoke because he had a whole new wardrobe in Sam's house. Sarah had never seen him smoke.

Sam made for the backdoor, grocery list discarded. Sarah called after him, but he didn't quite catch it--something about the zucchini she needed him to remember and also lollipops--and he went out back.

Judging from the way Bucky had an arm around Cass's center, and AJ was rolling on the ground with laughter, and the swing set was still rocking up and down as Bucky held Cass still, Sam had a feeling he'd interrupted an attempt at swinging the swing all the way around the top of the set. Bucky looked much guiltier than either child, but it was Cass who insisted, "We weren't doing anything!"

Sam leveled a stare at him, but he knew these boys were forged under Sarah's gaze and nothing Sam had in his arsenal was going to be half as effective.

"Why don't you two head inside?" Bucky suggested, still looking guilty. "Your Uncle Sam and I were just about to head into town."

The boys grumbled their objections, but it only took them a few steps before they were jostling each other and starting a game of tag that would absolutely get them in trouble inside. Once the door was shut, Sam looked to Bucky again.

"No one was going to get hurt," he insisted sheepishly, wrapping the chain of the swing around one arm to lean his weight against it.

"Can I have a cigarette?" Sam asked without preamble.

Bucky's got-caught frown turned into a confused one. On muscle memory, but with no conviction, he patted his front pocket with his other hand. "I don't have any on me," he admitted with a shrug.

"Why not?" Sam asked.

Bucky flushed prettily, looking away from Sam in embarrassment. "I didn't wanna do it in front of your nephews. Didn't wanna be a bad example. And, when we were staying here, I didn't want to make Sarah's home smell terrible. You know how that smell is. Lingers."

It was more forethought than anyone had put into anything for Sam in a long, long time. Sam hadn't even thought about Bucky smoking around the boys. Bucky didn't usually smoke in front of other people, unless someone was passing by the alley he had stepped into, so Sam hadn't been worried about it. Bucky had never even seen the boys before he'd shown up on his own down here, new clothes, no cigarettes.

"You chew on lollipops instead," he realized as the fondness in his chest bloomed even further out. "I thought you just did that to give the kids an excuse to have some too."

Bucky scuffed his sneaker in the dirt under the swing. "Keeps me distracted enough."

"Buck, you spend so much time down here. More time than you don't. You must hardly smoke anymore."

Bucky's shoulders came up to his ears. It didn't hide the blush on them. "It's worth it. Guess I might've been looking for a good reason to stop."

Sam thought about all the movie moments he'd caught Bucky smoking--the moonlit balcony, a sunset after a fight, digging through files half naked in bed. All those moments he'd had an overwhelming teenage desire to pull Bucky to him and kiss the smoke out of his mouth. But they were all easily overshadowed by images of Bucky acting as a jungle gym for kids, or reading to Cass and AJ before bed, or helping with science experiments and baking days, or swinging Cass all the way around the swing set, ready to catch him if he fell.

Sam crossed the distance between them, pulling Bucky's face to him between the swing chains to kiss him deeply. He tasted like strawberry lollipops. "I like this look better," he decided.

He felt Bucky smile against his lips. "Well maybe you can help keep my mouth busy," he suggested before kissing Sam again.

Yeah, this was definitely better.

Don't smoke, kids.

Bucky absolutely has an old engraved lighter from the war

[call-sign-shark]

Heeey girl how are you?

Can I ask this prompt

“• B’s roommate entering their washroom (while B is in the shower) and yelling over the water “HEY B DO YOU KNOW WHERE MY SHAMPOO IS I CAN’T FIND IT ANYWHERE” “name..” “BECAUSE LIKE I THOUGHT IT WAS HERE BUT I CANT-“ “name im not exactly alone in here…” “huh wha-“ and A popping through the shower curtain with the biggest smile “hey name” “oh OH HI UH i’ll just.. *knocks multiple things over* leave you two.. alone” *knocks more things over* “also i think your shampoo is over there” “ um thanks A um i’ll just-*awkward finger guns*”

With hangman please? 🥹

Hello Sunshine! Fine, thanks for asking, I hope you're doing well too. That's a great choice! Enjoy 🦈💚

Pairing: Jake Seresin x Reader / Hangman x Reader

Wordcount: 1,1k

Tags: hot shower, smut, fingering, caught by the roommate, finger guns (I'm dying, this is so fun to imagine)

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

The warm water of the shower was raining down on you. 

You gasped, surprised by waves of pleasure storming in your lower belly.  A thin dusting of steam evaporated from your wet skin, surrounding Jake's body and yours with a dancing mist. Jake kissed your neck one, two, three times. Each time, his kisses became more and more eager: he wanted you, and he wanted you so bad that he felt he could devour you entirely. His teeth sunk into the delicate skin of your shoulder, causing you to quiver with pleasure. You could not help but let a soft moan escape from your parted lips. How did you end up here? You could not tell. All you remembered was that you and Jake were fighting about the last flying training you had. Both of you got shot by Maverick in less than five minutes because Hangman wanted to pull off a solo performance. Quite disagreeing with your point of view,  the cocky pilot maintained that you had been shot because of your disastrous skills at dodging attacks coming from below. Rather than discussing the pros and cons of both of you, screams erupted in the hallway.  You started insulting each other, trying to be the louder one as if what mattered was not the argument but who could make the other shut the hell up. And it happened. In the midst of your quarrel, Jake's lips collapsed against yours in a heated and dazing kiss. Stunned, you had hesitated between pulling him closer or punching him in the face so hard that he would not need a jet to fly... Guess what you ended up choosing. 

"Don't fight it, I know you like that," Jake whispered in your ear, above the water. 

"Screw you."

You snapped, gritting your teeth and turning your head to the other side in a vain attempt of keeping yourself from moaning. You didn't want to give him that pleasure, because at this point you were pretty sure that he would try to bother you by boasting about his sexual performance during your next argument.

"No, no, Y/CS. Screw you." 

He cooed, his fingers caressing your wet slit in slow and maddening movements. You felt a myriad of butterflies in your stomach. And a wildfire of arousal between your legs. Jake chuckled: you looked so miserable. Even though he quite enjoyed seeing your inner struggle because he knew that he was giving you a hell of lustful bliss. The arrogant Lieutenant licked his way up to your mouth along your neck. The sensation of the tip of his tongue wandering on your boiling skin sent shivers down your spine. As he kissed you, his fingers trusted in your greedy slit. You tried to pull your head back but Jake pressed his lips harder against yours. Your whimper got muffled in a languid kiss. Jake could feel you melting, your love juice running down his expert fingers. The cold wall against your back, the hot water falling down on you, Jake's intoxicating perfume, his tongue, skin, fingers... Him. It was far too much to handle. You closed your eyes and gave in to this hurricane of pleasure. A red shade bloomed across your cheeks.

"Now I know how to shut your fucking mouth."  His smirk widened into a carnivorous grin.

You were about to retort something when the door of the bathroom slammed and Payback's voice yelling above the water.

"HEY HANGMAN! DO YOU KNOW WHERE MY CONDITIONER IS?" 

Jake froze. He turned his head towards the door, seeing Reuben's silhouette through the shower curtains. He had begun rummaging through his roommate's stuff to look for his hair conditioner.  You had opened your eyes wide and were staring at Jake as if you were silently hurrying him to find a solution. 

"Payback..." 

"Seriously dude, I can't find it anywhere and it's making me crazy. Oh?" He grabbed a bottle, his dark eyes glittering with hope until he realized it was not what he was looking for,  "Nope." he concluded with disappointment in his voice before throwing the bottle over his shoulder.

Jake gently pulled his fingers off you. You bit your lower lips to hold your moans. One of Jake's powerful hands was placed on your hips while the other pressed on the cold shower wall, next to your face.

"Reuben, I'm..." 

"Because like-" Reuben cut him before he could speak, "I thought it was here but I can't-" 

"Reuben, listen." Hangman's voice roared to get his focus, " I'm not exactly alone here."

At first, you looked at Jake with a bit of surprise in your eyes. You had not expected him to say that. The blonde pilot looked at you and shrugged with an amused smirk on his flat lips.

"Hu, what-" 

You shook your head, your surprise turning into playfulness. You grabbed the shower curtain and pulled it enough to pop your head through it.

"Hey, Payback." 

"FUUUCKKKKKK!"

He screamed, jumping at your sudden appearance. As if it was not enough, Jake's head popped just above yours, displaying the same big stupid smile that was carved on your face. He took a few steps back in surprise as if someone had punched him right in the guts. Payback, slack-jawed, remained still for one solid second, his eyes going from Jake to you several times. His brain had trouble proceeding with what had just happened. Why were you, Y/CS, Jake's worst enemy, in his shower? Were you ...? Oh no, no, he did not want to think about it. 

"OH HI! Aha... Uhh, I'll just..."  Reuben came to his senses but it seemed like he had not figured out what to do yet since he had started knocking multiple things over, "leave you two..alone... Well, I guess? I mean ... Uh - I should go!" He knocked more things over as he was trying to find his way out of the bathroom.  At this moment, he had the impression he was in a gigantic maze. Fortunately enough, his trembling hand managed to grab the door's handle. He opened the door, ready to run away from the bathroom while you called out to him.

"Also I think your conditioner is over here!" 

Payback looked at you with an utterly confused face before shaking his head "Oh the hair conditioner! Aha yes! Thank you Y/CS, I'll just..."  Once again, his brain just stopped working properly. Not knowing how to respond, he tried to crack a smile and made a more than awkward finger-guns gesture at you.

Jake looked at him, baffled by his stupidity: "Oh my god..." He muttered.

Now, all you hoped was that Reuben knew how to keep a secret.

A very surprising secret.

[cloudy-em]

Neeeeeeeeeeed Cam Girl p2!!!!!!

of course!!

a few people requested to be tagged in this one lol:

@arieltwvdtohamflash @writergiih @som-iserem @flowercrowns-goodvibes

MINORS DNI!

﹒⪩⪨﹒

Over the next month, Luca found himself getting addicted to Y/N's videos and streams. He loved watching her play with her pussy, her cute lingerie pushed to the side so she could use whatever toy she wanted.

He felt less shameful over time, as well. Yes, she was his coworker and she could never know he enjoyed her content so much, but her content was also on the internet for the world to see. "If she didn't want to run the risk of me seeing it, she wouldn't have posted it in the first place," he reasoned.

The day came that Luca fucked up.

He and Y/N were working late, the only ones left in the restaurant. She was piping cream on some pastries, and he was garnishing them with perfectly placed berries. They made a good team.

Luca was distracted, though. He could smell her vanilla shampoo, and all he could think about was burying his face in her hair while he fucked her senseless. He was interrupted from his thoughts with Y/N clearing her throat.

"Would you mind passing that extra piping bag, please?" she asked politely.

"Only if you behave," Luca responded before his eyes went wide. "I'm so sorry, that was a joke I-" he began to apologize.

"What the hell?" Y/N asked, confused. She glanced down to see his semi-hard cock straining in his pants, thought back to how he had looked at her the past couple of days, and suddenly this comment made sense.

"You're attracted to me?" She asked. Luca looked down in response.

"Very much so, yes," he replied. "Which I know is inappropriate, but you're very pretty and god, your streams-" she cut him off, blushing.

"You know about those?"

He hesitated. "Yeah," he said. "They're hot."

"Oh," she started. "I'm glad you think so. You know, since you're so attracted to me, do you think you'd like to make some content with me?" she asked.

Luca was in shock. "Um, yeah, yeah I'd love to."

So, they rushed to finish up the last of their pastries for the evening, and walked from the restaurant to Y/N's apartment.

﹒⪩⪨﹒

"So," Luca began as he watched Y/N finish setting up her camera on its tripod. "What do I do?"

She shrugged. "Just what you'd normally do. You can fuck me however you want, and I'll just leave the camera running. Then I can edit out what I need to and post it."

Luca nodded.

"You ready?" Y/N asked.

"Yes," Luca practically moaned as he watched Y/N strip off her top, revealing her tits covered by her bra. She walked towards him, breasts bouncing slightly, and kissed him roughly. He placed his big hands around her waist, moving her to straddle him.

The kissing grew needier by the second, Luca shoving his tongue into Y/N's mouth. He pulled away, Y/N whining.

"You gonna be a good girl for daddy?" he asked her, eyes staring into hers.

Y/N moaned, "Yes, daddy, I'll be your good girl."

"Good," Luca said, flipping them over. He pulled off his shirt, then proceeded to pull down her pants and panties in one movement. He looked up at her as he slowly moved his face towards her pussy, watching her facial expression grow desperate.

He licked a fat stripe up her cunt, flicking his tongue against her clit. She groaned and felt him smirk into her mound, moving his lips to kiss her hole.

"What a pretty pussy you have," he said and moved his large fingers to gently rub her slit, getting them wet. He pushed his fingers into her, sliding slowly into her. She moaned at the stretch.

He thrusted his fingers a few times before curling them up to hit her g-spot, tickling her pussy gently with his breath before he began licking her clit again. He moaned against it, sending vibrations through her body. She shuddered in response.

"Daddy, please," she moaned out, desperate for more.

"Hmm?" Luca hummed, his focus on eating her cunt.

"I want your cock please," Y/N begged.

And who was Luca to deny what his good girl wanted?

He pulled down his pants and boxers, his large cock slapping against his stomach and dripping precum. He kissed the top of her cunt one more time before kissing Y/N's cheek and rubbing his tip through her wetness.

Her nails dug into his back as he slowly pushed into her, stretching her pussy and filling it to the brim with his cock. He knew that's what she wanted; all good girls want to be full of their daddy's cock.

"Mmm, daddy," she moaned as he began slowly thrusting, her pussy gushing around him.

"That's it, moan for daddy," Luca ordered. So Y/N did as she was told and moaned for him again. Luca grunted in response and sped up his thrusts.

He was fucking her so fast, so hard, that she was seeing white. It felt so good. It had been so long since she'd had a real cock in her, and Luca's was everything she ever needed and more.

"'m not gonna last long," he warned. "You're so tight."

So Y/N clenched her pussy in response, milking him. All she wanted was his cum inside her.

"Cum inside me, please," she begged. "Breed me."

At those words, Luca lost control, fucking her as fast as he could, hitting as deep as he could. He felt her legs shaking as she came around him, which triggered his own orgasm, shooting thick ropes into her.

"That was so good," he said as he rolled over next to her, his breathing heavy.

"Yeah," she agreed. "Plus it'll make us some damn good money."

﹒⪩⪨﹒

as always, thank you for reading!

please send in some fluffy requests as well! i love writing smut but 100% of my inbox is currently smut requests and i'm not always in the mood for it :)

[lauronk]

Would you please write a fic where Joel dies but he comes back to life?

here you are babe, i made myself cry a little with this one, ngl

call my name and save me from the dark

length: ~1.9k words tags: joel & ellie; joel & sarah; canon divergence; joel lives au; magical realism too i guess?; brief mentions of the afterlife; no beta we die like david

Joel always had a feeling it would end like this. He’d done too many fucked up things, spilled too much blood to deserve anything but a violent ending. The years in Jackson, few though they’d been, had been him living on borrowed time.

He just hadn’t thought he’d be taking Tommy and Ellie down with him.

But there’s nothing he can do except peer out through his busted eye at Tommy’s unconscious form, at Ellie pinned down and struggling, tears and blood coating her face. They’d been so close, he and Ellie, so close to fixing things after years of distance. Figures that his past would rear its ugly head now and yank the chance from his grasp.

And he doesn’t even know who this woman is, who her friends are, though he’s got some suspicions. All he knows is that the sight of her looming over him with a golf club is gonna be the last thing he sees.

–

Joel’s never really given much thought to the afterlife, even with as many close calls as he’s had over the years. He figured he’d punched his ticket to Hell a long time ago, and nothing he could do would change that. So maybe he’d thought there would be flames. Fire ants to bite him for eternity, or a lava bath. Anything hot and painful.

He hadn’t expected a giant void. It was kind of like space, he muses, darkness as far as the eye - does he still have eyes? - can see, dotted with the occasional pinpricks of light. But he can’t move, doesn’t think he’s breathing, doesn’t really feel anything. He just…waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And then finally something takes shape in front of him, haloed by an increasingly dense cluster of lights until Joel has to squeeze his eyes shut against the brightness. Then it’s gone, and someone says –

“Hey Dad.”

Joel’s eyes snap open, and there she is. There she fucking is, right in front of him, his daughter, his little girl, his Sarah. She doesn’t look any different than the last time he saw her - curly hair, purple shirt that’s blessedly free of blood. Wide brown eyes and a soft smile.

“Baby girl?” Joel chokes on the words, eyes brimming with tears. Maybe this is his punishment - the sight of Sarah, close enough to hug, before he’s sent off to whatever really awaits him.

Her head tilts. “You’re old.”

Joel can’t help the laugh that escapes him, wet and garbled, and he tries futilely to wipe away some of the tears streaming down his cheeks. They just keep coming though, and he doesn’t know that they’ll ever stop. “I missed you, baby.”

She blinks, her own eyes glassy. “I missed you too.” She sniffs, taking a tentative step forward in whatever empty space they’re currently occupying, hand outstretched until her fingers curl carefully around his. The feel of her, tangible and solid and real, sends Joel to the ground, knees folding until he’s curled up and sobbing. They don’t ache for once, his knees, and Sarah’s hand releases his in favor of coming to rest lightly on his back, rubbing careful circles as his chest heaves.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” Joel gasps. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t keep you safe, I’m so sorry. I failed you and I lost you and I –”

“Shhh.” Sarah crouches next to him, arms looping around his neck and pulling him closer. His face winds up pressed to her shoulder, sobs that he can’t seem to stop rolling through him again and again. “You’re alright. We’re alright.”

Always taking care of him when he should be taking care of her.

Joel gets an arm around her and squeezes, pressing a kiss to her cheek, her temple, the crown of her head, anywhere he can manage. She smells the same too, like the coconut from her shampoo and the crisp cleanness of their laundry detergent.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever let her go now.

Joel doesn’t think time passes while they sit in the void, at least not that he can tell. But it feels like an eternity and a second before Sarah is shifting backwards, small hands coming up to cup his cheeks. She’s beaming at him for some reason, smile stretching all across her face.

Fuck, he’s missed her so much. Even on his better days there was always a giant, gaping hole in his chest, a limb he was missing, a breath that was harder to catch because Sarah wasn’t there. And here she is again, whole and healthy, fourteen still, brimming with that same bright energy she’d always had. His beautiful, perfect baby girl.

“You gotta go back, Dad,” she says, and Joel rears back until her hands land on his shoulders to steady him.

“Go ba– no, baby, I can’t go back. I’m stayin’ here with you.”

Sarah’s eyes fill with tears again, a few making sparkling tracks down her cheeks as she shakes her head. “You can’t. If you stay, it won’t be…it won’t be with me.”

Right. Of course it wouldn’t. Nothing he’s done earns him the privilege of being with his daughter again, nothing he’s done has given him that right. This brief, beautiful, terrible glimpse was all he was ever gonna get.

But Sarah’s next words yank any remaining air from his lungs. “You have to go back for Ellie.”

“Ellie –?”

But of course. Ellie, his other girl, the one he left behind. The one he last saw pinned to the ground, mouth moving in words he couldn’t make out. Ellie.

Something in his chest fractures, a fissure opening up where his heart had briefly been whole.

“She needs you,” Sarah’s saying, her lower lip wobbling. “She needs you real bad. I can’t - I can’t tell you everything, but you have to go back for her. If you stay here, she’s gonna…it’s gonna be real bad. For her and Uncle Tommy both.”

“Baby, I don’t think I –”

“No, you have to!” Sarah bursts out, pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes. “You don’t get it, you –” She inhales unsteadily, her fear and sorrow a tangible thing sitting between the two of them in this empty space. “When you’re dead you can…you can still see everything. You can watch what everyone’s doing, the choices they make. You can watch them become someone you don’t even recognize.” The last sentence is a whisper, and Joel feels it slip around his throat to strangle him.

She’d seen it. All the terrible, fucked up things he’d done, the people he’d tortured and killed, the drugs he’d taken, the ways he’d punished himself for failing to save her. She’d watched all of it.

And yet she was still here in front of him with love in her eyes, not reprimanding him or judging him.

He never had deserved her, not for a minute.

“You don’t want to see Ellie go through that,” Sarah whispers. “She’s too much like you, Dad, maybe even more like you than I was. She’s too stubborn and determined and she fights so hard when she loves someone. She’s gonna upend her life trying to avenge you.”

Joel shakes his head, tearing his gaze from his daughter for the first time. “No, Ellie and me, we –”

“I don’t have time to argue with you about it,” she interrupts, her eyes taking on that stubborn glint he remembers all too well from the time she’d wanted a tenth birthday at the Riverwalk. “You just have to trust me, and you have to go back. You have to, Dad.”

“And you called her stubborn,” Joel mutters.

Sarah laughs briefly, but it fades and then she’s placing a small hand on each cheek again and lifting his face. “Go back,” she whispers. “Go back and save her. You couldn’t save me –”

“Baby –”

“– but you can save her. So please.” Her voice breaks, the vision of her blurring as more tears fill his eyes. “Please go save her.”

“Okay,” Joel whispers. “Okay, baby girl, I’ll go back for you. You and her.”

Sarah’s smile is the brightest thing in the darkness around them. The last thing he feels is her hand over his chest, a whispered I love you meeting his ears before everything fades out again.

–

There’s not a single piece of him that doesn’t hurt, even as he feels outside his body. No idea where he is or what’s happening, only a constant, unending pain. It ebbs and flows, some periods unbearable enough to make him wish for the void of death again.

But the tether doesn’t snap this time, and all Joel can do is hold on.

–

The first thing he hears is beeping. Rhythmic, quiet beeping, and after a moment Joel realizes it’s in time with his heartbeat.

It takes an eternity, but he peels open his eyes. No - his eye. His left remains shut, his right only opening with concerted effort. It’s dark, wherever he is, only faint pinpricks of light illuminating the area nearest him. All he can make out is the shape of someone curled in a chair, draped in a blanket.

Ellie.

He can’t see her, but he knows.

Joel tries to say her name, to say anything, but his throat constricts, his chest aching. All he can manage is some kind of grunt, the beep of his heart rate picking up ever so slightly.

But it’s enough - Ellie stirs.

“Joel?” She asks sleepily, shifting and turning bleary eyes on him.

This time, he gets the words out. “Hey, kiddo.”

A ragged oh my god spills from Ellie before she’s kicking the blanket off and stumbling three paces forward and crumpling with her head landing on his chest. It sends flares of pain ricocheting through his ribs, starbursts erupting in his vision, but he doesn’t dare ask her to move. Instead he carefully wraps his right arm around her shoulders, hissing out a breath as his side screams in protest.

“How in the fuck –?” Ellie sobs against him, fingers tangling in the front of his shirt.

“Sarah,” Joel mumbles, throat tightening again and a fresh press of tears welling in his good eye. Ellie tenses against him but doesn’t pull away. “Sent me back. Said you and my dipshit brother were gonna do somethin’ dumb.”

A wet laugh escapes her, shoulders shaking. “Think those painkillers fried your brain, old man.”

Maybe. But Joel wanted to believe it had been Sarah, one of his girls trying to protect the other. “How long –?”

“Three weeks,” Ellie whispers. When she finally straightens, Joel can see the plum-colored shadows under her eyes, the way her shirt - his shirt, his favorite flannel - hangs off her too-thin frame. “You – we brought you back to Jackson and right when we got in the walls you started breathing. Freaked us all out because we checked, a million times. You’d had no pulse, no heartbeat, no breath.” Her voice cracks, one thin hand reaching for his the same as Sarah’s had. “And then we got you in here and you’ve just…you weren’t waking up.”

“‘M sorry,” Joel mumbles, squeezing her hand as best he can.

“It’s okay.” Ellie laughs again, a delirious kind of thing that sends a fall of tears from her eyes. “Just don’t ever do it again, or I’ll fucking kill you myself, got it?”

“Yeah,” Joel smiles, even as it makes the side of his face twinge in agony. “Yeah, I got it.”

thanks for reading! feel free to continue submitting ficlet ideas but just know there will be a wait for it because i have a bunch piled up

also i have put all my ficlets on ao3 in one multi-chapter work for convenience, you can find them here

[world0fmadness]

EVIL APPETITE

vegard “ ihsahn ” tveitan x reader

♡ general dating headcanons for ihsahn!

୨୧ i don’t think anyone else wants this but i do so i basically just made it for me lolol! if like, one other person does though that’s cool hehe <3

♡ related hc available here | view my metal masterlist here

reading music recommendations: from the castle in the fog by godkiller - maniac by hellhammer

♡ i can see ihsahn being so romantic!

୨୧ not the classy romantic type of course but metalhead romantic <3

♡ picnics in cemeteries, which usually just consists of you two sloppily making out on the blanket set up under a tree with the occasional elderly person passing by and tutting in disgust

୨୧ him gifting you a sizeable knife with both of your initials inside of a heart engraved on the flat side of shiny metal…

♡ y’know, that type of romantic!

୨୧ you LOVE painting his nails for him and he prefers when you paint them for him, you’re just better at doing it than him! your hands are less shaky and you take much more care than he does

♡ you did something once where you painted his nails on one hand as he did the same for you and it was… an experience!

୨୧ you two were constantly giggling between yourselves and telling the other to just sit still, when you guys finally finish you admire your work on ihsahns nails, almost perfect with minimal mess on the skin surrounding the nail

♡ but yours, painted by ihsahn, look pretty bad… like, there’s more nail polish on your skin than on your nails!

୨୧ you don’t get mad though, obviously not! you both just share a laugh at the difference in quality and he jokingly tries to blame you, you’ll really need to teach him how to paint nails better <3

“ fuck! yeah, okay, they’re bad… but it’s your fault! you kept moving, don’t move so much next time ” ( he can barely get the sentence out with how much you guys are laughing at the amount of nail polish is on your skin )

♡ when you and him first started dating, he would always steal your hair tie from your wrist, using it to tie his own hair back…

୨୧ it irritated you SO bad because sometimes you didn’t even feel him take it, you’d just go to tie your own hair back later on and boom, “ where the hell is my hair tie? IHSAHN! ”

♡ it was a simple fix though, you just have two hair ties on your wrist now! one for you and one for him

୨୧ he really likes when you play with his hair too, just the feeling of your nails scratching and massaging his scalp as you lay cuddled up on the couch watching a movie is enough to make him purr like a cat

♡ not to mention when you wash his hair for him? oh my god! his hair is pretty particular with it being curly and frizzy so it requires more care than your average straight hair and he never gets over how well you look out for him when it comes to his hair… wether it be grabbing a new shampoo you saw at the store and thought would be good for him or even just how you wash it for him, it makes him feel so loved <3

୨୧ he LOVES when you come to emperor concerts to support him! he really puts the absolute most effort into his vocals whenever you’re there!

♡ he always absolutely destroys his throat in the process which leads to him being coddled ( by coddled i just mean kissed and asked if it hurts super bad ) by you when the concert ends, both of you going to grab some slushes from a 24/7 convince store to soothe his raw throat

୨୧ sometimes other members of emperor will tag along, most commonly faust who just constantly pokes fun at how scratchy and fucked up ihsahn’s voice now sounds… always causing ihsahn to roll his eyes and you to give him a gentle smack on the shoulder as he walks beside you two

♡ as i mentioned in kinky business, he really does see himself settling down with you in the future!

୨୧ and whilst he does not want kids right now, he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t caught himself daydreaming about what your kids would look like and what you’d name them <3 in his daydreams, they always look like little mini versions of you, you’re perfect to him so why wouldn’t the kids look like you? they do have his hair though, he fully believes your genes don’t stand a chance against his when it comes to hair…

♡ he’s SO clingy when drunk, like he doesn’t want to even have his hands off you, he wants to be holding your hand or have an arm wrapped around your back at all times

୨୧ he just gets so lovey dovey too, he’s not a loud and annoying drunk he’s a quiet and clingy drunk! he’ll just be mumbling almost unintelligible sentences right in your ear whilst a big dopey smile is painted across his face

“ love you s’much, you know that? you know that, right? don’t know what i’d do without you… ” ( you can only make out about three of the words he said and just tell him you love him too which leads to him giving you a sloppy kiss on your cheek and saying “ hell yeah y’do ” )

♡ i feel like he’d be so soft in bed, not a complete sub but definitely not a dom and he loves when you’re on top

୨୧ but just because you’re on top doesn’t mean he has no control over you, oh no, he has a firm ( yet soft ) grip on your hips, guiding them up and down, back and forth

♡ he’s SUPER loud too, i just know it, he can get kind of embarrassed by how loud he moans and groans but you always assure him you think it’s hot ( because it is, i love when men moan )

“ right there, oh fuck! you like that, yeah? ‘m so deep in you, fucking hell… ” ( you genuinely need to put a hand over his mouth sometimes because… oh my god, he needs to relax just a little )

୨୧ the amount of times you’ve had quickies with him backstage before an emperor concert is crazy and due to his… volume, he always gets joked with by the rest of the band who definitely heard you two

♡ i mean, how wouldn’t they? the backstage area is only so big and they’re nosy…

[sweaterkittensahoy]

I found new prompt lists! Tagged you so you can see.

Crubbles: “You’re not in bed. I came looking for you.”

Joey wakes up in the middle of the night and uses the bathroom. When he walks back into the bedroom, he realizes Harry's side of the bed is empty. He reaches out and touches it. The sheets and pillow are cool. He looks at the time. Just after three. About the time they'd be getting woken up for a mission if the war were still on. 

It's not. It hasn't been for three years. But, some nights, it seems Harry's sleeping brain can't catch up with the modern day, and he gets out of bed in the middle of the night. 

It's July; the windows are open to let in the breeze, so Joey doesn't need to bother with slippers or a robe. He just turns and leaves the bedroom, walking down the hall and into the living room, then into the kitchen, then into the backyard. 

Harry's out there, standing just about dead center and staring at the stars. There's a glass in his hand, and he's only in his shorts and undershirt, same as Joey. First thing they did when they got the place was build a nice, tall fence. They're right on the edge of town, the last real yard in the neighborhood, and Harry hadn't liked how much they could see. How much sky and ground you could navigate even if you weren't trying to. 

Joey hums quietly as he shuffles through the grass to Harry. Harry doesn't flinch when Joey stops just behind him, close enough their body heat bounces off each other. Joey puts a hand on Harry's waist and trails his other down Harry's arm to take the glass from his hand. The whiskey's summer night warm when Joey takes a drink. He holds the glass against his chest and leans so his cheek presses between Harry's shoulders. 

"What are you doing out here?" Harry asks like that's not Joey's question. Though Joey hasn't asked it in a very long time. There's no reason. He knows the answers. Nightmares or sleeplessness or just overthinking. 

Grief. 

Guilt. 

"You're not in bed, so I came looking for you," Joey says. He lifts his cheek so he can kiss the back of Harry's neck. "I'll always come looking for you."

Harry sighs, and he drops his head forward. Joey wraps his arm around his waist and holds him tight, slips the glass back into Harry's hand without being asked. 

Harry takes a drink and lets his arm drop again. He lifts his head again. "I miss them," Harry says. 

"Yeah, I know," Joey replies because there's nothing else to say. 

"I wish I could have brought more of them home with us."

"You did your best, Harry. You really did. Hell, you did so good I got back to you even after getting shot down." 

"You always want to give me credit for that, but it's never been true," Harry replies. It's a stale conversation, one they've had a hundred times and always left out in the open air. Neither of them know how to throw it away even though neither of them wants it. This is what war does to you, Joey thinks, makes it impossible to let go because you had to give up so much in the first place just to get home. 

"You could have brought more of them home," Harry says, and this is a new twist to the conversation, one Joey's read in Harry's eyes before but never heard him say out loud. 

"Maybe," Joey says because maybe. "But you might not have made it back a second time, Harry, and that…" He breathes in the smell of Harry. His soap and their laundry detergent and the hint of his sweat. The barest lingering of his cologne and shampoo. "If it's you or everyone else–"

The glass drops to the ground. Harry puts both of his hands over his face. "Joey, no. Don't. Don't."

Joey takes a slow deep breath. "It's true whether I say it or not," he says. "Doesn't mean I don't grieve everyone who didn't come back. I do. But Harry. If it's them or you, it's always gonna be you. I will never, ever be sad that it's you." 

Joey wraps his other arm around Harry's waist as Harry hiccups and then starts to sob. He doesn't make a lot of noise, but he shakes from head to toe. Joey just holds on and lets his own tears dampen Harry's undershirt. 

"I should have been able to save more of them," Harry whispers between sobs. "Even just one, Joey. Just one." 

"I know," Joey says because he wishes the same for them both. Not that he thinks just one more would make the difference but because in the numbers game of a war, the only hope sometimes was just one. Just one. 

And when Joey walked back onto base with the other survivors from his fort several days after the mission, Harry had collapsed in shock and muttered, "Just one, just one," over and over as Joey had kneeled in front of him and tried to understand what he was talking about. He'd found out in the debriefing. That it wasn't just that he'd gone down, but all but Rosie had fallen. 

He wonders sometimes if that's what wakes Harry up more than anything, that he saw the miracle of Rosie's survival and has never truly believed that Joey's still with him, too. Like it was too much to ask from the war that took so much from them both that they got to keep each other. 

Joey presses his cheek between Harry's shoulders and holds on tight. Reminds Harry with his weight and his body heat and his breath on his back that he's there. He's real. That Harry actually does save one more man every single day. One of these nights, he hopes it's enough.

[slashingdisneypasta]

Good Day For It Thugs x Fem!Reader || Headcanons

Topic: You're the femme fatale of the group (a.k.a the only lady travelling with these thugs ).

Warnings: Sexual references.

Tagging: @slxsherwriter

First of all, Lyle is not part of the gang 😅 He's the leader- so he's kinda removed. He has his own car, and he always gets a motel room but you guys don't (it depends on how much money you guys have at any point-- but h e will a l w a y s get one) and have to sleep in your (one) car. You're his thugs. So he's not really gonna be in these hc's; we're gonna focus on Norman, Dale and Wayne.

When you're introduced to the group (by Lyle), it takes a few months close-quarters with them for you to go from 'a pretty little thing for them to look at' to 'sister in arms'. And it's hard, and it's annoying, because you're not into any of them that way (okay. Maybe one. But shhh!)- but when they finally relax around you and stop acting like dumbasses around you (this is more Dale and Wayne acting like dumbasses, of course- but Norman does have his own subtle way, too), it's good ^^

After that, living with them constantly, is pretty smooth sailing! ⛵⛵⛵. ... pfft.

What I mean, is its pretty smooth sailing... in comparison XD Now you're struggling the same way the others are XD Which is a lot better then the misogynistic horny boneheaded bullshit you were getting from them before... but still not great XD

I said before that Lyle will always get the motel room while y'all sleep in the car- but what if you do have money for you guys to have accommodation also?? What if you have money for more then 2 rooms, even?? Enough for one each! ?... Well you still have to share with Norman, Dale and Wayne. Yeah. Lyle's not coughing up the cash for even a suit. 2 single beds, a couch and a rollaway is the extent of what your budget will allow you guys.

And these are not gentlemen here that we're talking about. No, no 😅 They will not offer you one of the beds just cuz you're a 'lady'- you're gonna have to fight for it with Wayne and Dale. (Norman always gets one of them- he outranks the 3 of you).

These arguments usually go on for as long as the drive is to the motel (thoroughly annoying Norman), and then it's just whoever plants themselves on it first 😅😅😅 So its usually you or Dale (Wayne's slow). The car comes to a stop and then you both fly out of the car and argue at the door until Norman comes back with the keys to unlock it, then race towards the bed like 2 bats out of hell.

Dale will also race you to the shower. Sometimes you guys are on the road for days and by the time you reach a rest stop you are SCREAMING for a hot shower. Dale isn't, but he likes to annoy you so he'll try to beat you there and lock himself in for EVER-

Alternatively, Dale will not be bothered to annoy you and he'll forgo a shower. Wayne will do the same thing, he doesn't care. At that point you will have to step in, like "boys, your natural masculine musk is not as sexy as you think- get in the goddamn shower" .

One time when Dale annoyed the fuck out of you: Dale, you are young, virile man. If you don't shut the fuck up, I will take your 2 chances at creating an heir and c r u s h them-

Now- Dale is good for some things, though XD He's the only guy who's happy to help you with your 'feminine shit'. At first he was bored by it, just helping you cuz he had nothing else to do in the mornings, but now he kinda likes the chill time with you. He'll hold up mirrors for you while you do your make up and tell you if you're smudged or uneven, he'll spray the back of your head with dry shampoo and tell you if you still have white stuff showing after you ruffled it in. He'll also curiously look through your make up bag, his fingerless glove covered fingers flicking over everything you have, like oh. THATS what that does... huh.

**for y'all who have periods: As for feminine hygiene, you are totally on your own. Norman usually does the grocery shopping (no one else can be bothered, and besides they can't be trusted to get the right things) so you have to make it your business to go with him and get your shit, because he will not get it for you. Even if it's on the list. He doesn't wanna be seen in the aisle (coward 🙄). If you were his girlfriend, be would do it, but you're not 🤷‍♀️ so he won't 🤷‍♀️. Too bad.

When you're on jobs with them you're usually either partnered up with Norman or Wayne (unless you're doing your Femme Fatale Thing, obviously). Usually Wayne. Because SOMEONE has to keep his loose-canon, zero-subtlety ass from fucking up the plan 😅😆😆 You two are usually on look-out, so you have to keep him from getting his gun out or slipping away to do something not apart of the plan!!

You have chucked your legs over his lap to keep him in his chair before, seeing the evil fuck-up glimmer in his eyes. Like don't you dare. Stay put. I swear to god-

You can also distract him by bringing a pen with you and playing little games of tic tac toe on napkins.

Whenever you notice him staring at a woman, you're immediately just like 'no, no, you have nothing to offer that nice lady. you are old and stiff everywhere except the one place you should be, now get back to work grandpa- '

... he also spits in cups. You're trying to ween him off of that.

OH! ANOTHER THING YOU HAVE TO RACE DALE (and Wayne) FOR-- THE PASSENGER SEAT IN THE CAR! We see them do it in the movie, and Wayne is so slow (the man is old, let him be), so again- your main competition is Dale XD And it's crucial you get that front seat sometimes, too, because sometimes you are sleeping in the car and passenger seat is the optimal position, as Norman (The driver, obviously) very much keeps to his space when he snoozes- hands in his lap or crossed over his chest, not spreading out or anything-- but Dale and Wayne do not.

If you end up sharing the back with Dale he's gonna be playfully kicking you and pushing you to get more of the back seat for himself (well- playfully for him. It's fun for him. Not so much for you 😒. Kick him back, if you dare. Norman will get frustrated with you both and possibly lock you both outta the car for the night but come on! Dale's asking for it!!- XD). If you end up sharing with Wayne (Which 90% of the time, you do) it can go 1 of 2 ways. Either he just crosses his arms, slouches down and conks out- or he gets handsy. If he does get that way, Norman has given you the reserved right to kick the old man out for the night (I have the best mental image of him literally toppling backwards out of the car after you kick him XD ). Either way though, Wayne's happy to have you stretch out over him if you want XD Legs over his lap? Head in his lap?? He don't mind~~~ 😂😂

If Lyle ever tried to offer you up to a guy as if to 'sweeten' a deal (like saying you're happy to spend the night with the man as a show of a good business~~ yeck)???? I'd like to think Norman would stand up for you and have a private talk with his brother about it. Try to get you out of it. This isn't your job.

You help Norman trim his beard!!! XD Aghhh 💕. You stand in front of him in the bathroom of a motel or you do it in the front seats of the car, and you carefully use little clippers to neaten it up. He's very stoic, standing/sitting with his chin raised high so you can reach all of his beard. Often times he's thinking; he's got a lot to think about. Sometimes though he talks to you, and you love chatting with Norman. He's more relaxed then the other two, and more mature.

Actually you end up sharing bathroom time with Norman a lot. Because you don't have a lotta time, it just makes sense that you share 'shifts' (and you certainly will not be sharing with Wayne). Norman doesn't really pay that much attention to you when you're in there brushing your teeth together, or hiding behind the shower curtain shaving your legs- he's pretty respectful and leaves you be.

(Wayne also asks you to help him with his beard but with him its just an excuse to get you close so you don't bother XD )

Hum hum hum... something about borrowing clothes from them. It's not romantic, or sexual, it's just that none of you have had the chance to hit a laundromat in a while and you don't have anything near clean to wear!! So you take a white long-sleeve from Dale's bag to sleep in, or Norman throws you an old button up of his that you tuck into your jeans and wear to do laundry, or you grab a random hoodie out of the car cuz its freezing and it turns out to be Wayne's. Whatever.

When you guys f i n a l l y have your hands on some good cash and get to go shopping, you try every time to get Wayne to update his wardrobe. "You could be so handsome if you just dressed better!!" "Psh, come on. I- " "Just try on the coat!! Please 🥺" "I don't need new clothes! Look, they're fine!- " "I am looking, and you look like you just broke out of a federal prison- they are not fine!" "Oh would you look at that- (items you like) are on sale over there." "What?- " *you look away for a moment and Wayne ducks behind a rack before slipping out of the store*

Norman on the other hand... is very open to your fashion suggestions! XD He's happy to have you come browse with him and pick things for him to try on. You two casually chat and discuss certain styles, and he values your opinion. A lot of his wardrobe now is stuff you okay-ed.

With Dale... he just really doesn't care XD If you think he'll look good in something then fine, sure, get him that one. He doesn't wanna be clothes shopping at all, so whatever will end this the quickest will be his favourite XD

You have been known to use your ~feminine wiles~ to get discounted, or even free, take out and room service for you and your guys before XDD It all started with Dale and Wayne claiming you couldn't do it and you arguing that you TOTALLY could, and how dare they suggest otherwise, and Norman ultimately challenging you to give it a try. It worked (Obviously, you are the FEMME FATALE of the group), and now its just tradition that you accept the food when they order it and save them some money 😭🤣

BONUS THOUGHT: If you did become romantically/sexually involved with one of them- it would be s o h a r d to find a quiet, private moment to get r-rated. Especially if its Dale or Wayne. Norman can kick the others out. Not exactly subtle, but better then doing it in a bar parking (Wayne) lot or public bathroom (Dale) at least. So goodluck.