#for real though spacie

[sourtomatola]

There they are. @spaciebabie

#not gonna lie #i love little projects #so this was fun #despite the shame #fnaf moon #moondrop #fnaf sun #sundrop #art #my art #embrodery #clown butt earings #earings #for real though spacie #if you want these ill send them to you #lord know im not wearing them XD

[hiskillingjar]

hi there! love your blog! have you ever shared voice hcs for strade, ren, and law? hope youre having a good day! <3

AAA THANK YOU AND YEAH DOG I WAS MANIFESTING THIS ASK!!!!!!!!!!

ren 🦊

i think he has a young-sounding voice, like even as he gets older his voice doesn't really give away how old he is

raspy? kind of like he's always talking out the back of his throat

A LOT of vocal fry. idk how to explain it

he'll, like, use a lot of, um, filler words? and, ya know, sort of just speak in a way that, like, really makes you question if he knows what the fuck he's saying.

the only point of comparison i can think of is ira glass, though his tone is a little more fox leaning

real talk, he sounds kind of faggy lol

he's kind of self-conscious of his voice, so when he does become fox, he makes a lot of changes to the way he speaks so that it's more practiced and considered. obviously slips up when he has the chance to though <3

law 🥀

they got the playstation cut scene autism. the twin peaks autism.

like, they've got the low, quiet, kind of monotone autism drawl

very breathy sounding, which goes with slow quiet of it

they have to...um, really annunciate to put...tone and meaning behind their voiceee, otherwise they kind of just...sound...a little detached...a little spacy...yeah...okay...

they sound like they're not listening to anything anyone is saying, and the fact they look so out of it most of the time (even without the drugs, their gaze is super spacy) doesn't help either

like almost the gentle, offputting kind of quiet of paul dano in prisoners but. lower.

they um and er a lot too, like, um, yeah...okay, uh, for sure...

there's a lot of power behind their voice though. like, they make themselves seem gentler and smaller most of the time, but in the case of being angry, it can really climb up in volume and intention

so you better listen to them when they're being nice and quiet...

strade 🔨

hehehehehe i've thought about this one sooooo much

obviously has a noticeable german accent, albeit not a super thick one. it's there.

doesn't have the best grip on english slang and does the bilingual thing where he'll be like "ah...what is the word for-" when he's having a scatterbrained moment

doesn't um or er that much though, he'll confidently say the wrong thing and get corrected on it (or not)

he'll talk in a way that is really really direct, but, ahm, kind of lilt towards the end, making everything sound like a question? and then, ah, spreche-SPEAK very knowingly, right?

a pretty medium-range voice, not super low or that demanding of attention in his regular tone. people want to listen to him because he's a friendly guy!

kind of like the original singer of oomph! hehehehe, pretty regular tone, definitely a fast talker too

laughs a lot <3 has a nice warm chuckle when he's in polite company, and he's like the best person to laugh at bad jokes

very good at keeping up appearances <333 he's a manipulative faker who looks and sounds totally normal in his rich neighborhood

and obviously can push his voice down to a growled threat or a shout, which makes his accent sound a lot thicker <3

#i LOVED ANSWERING THIS HEHEHE #strade btd #ren hana #ren btd #lawrence oleander #lawrence btd #qs #see my vision boy. #see it. #headcanons

[mitsies]

THE MASTER PLAN! ; michael kaiser > both you and kaiser are determined to have the best meal of your lives, and teamwork makes the dream work or something like that.

the ambiance of the restaurant just screams stuffy rich people, old money, and expensive floral perfume. you are most definitely feeling out of place, as the sharply-dressed waitress ushers you and your companion to an empty table.

the lighting in the establishment was dim and yellow, casting a warm glow across the lavish blue velvet tablecloth. the waitress pulls out your chair for you and you took your seat with a polite gratitude. she dips her head graciously and says something about returning shortly before bustling away. your eyes follow her curiously until you're snapped back to attention by kaiser's voice: "this place is nice."

you look over at him. he's leaning against the plush chair, face partially obscured by the candle centerpiece. despite that, he still meets your eyes. the crisp black blazer he has pulled over a matching black vest contrasts the stark whiteness of the button-down he wears below it all. a hint of blue is visible beneath his collar- a tattoo you're all too familiar with.

"too nice. maybe we shouldn't be here."

you mean it as a joke, but you're being kind of serious. you can feel the inquisitive stares of the other customers burning holes into your back. you know for certain that you and kaiser stand out amongst the crowd- reason number one being that you both weren't old and wrinkly. but there wasn't much that you could do about that, in particular.

the other factor that separated you and kaiser from the rest of the customers was the very obvious fact that you both weren't a couple. observing the other people, you noticed the lingering touches, affectionate stares, rosy cheeks, and loving generalities shared amongst pairs. none of that was happening at your table- in fact, it was more awkward than anything.

you and kaiser had hardly known each other before agreeing to participate in this excursion. interactions with him were limited, and typically just a playful jab on your part and s multitude of mixed responses on his. in your opinion, the both of you were classmates and nothing more- you only knew him through very extensive reputation and your mutual friend, ness.

because of that connection, the both of you had often been roped into conversation rather frequently. he wasn't horrible, per se, you just never spoke to him outside of school. that was really biting you in the ass now, though, that you were saddled together in this scenario.

in passing, ness had mentioned visiting a wonderful greek restaurant with his family- one that just so happened to be blowing up online for its exclusive couple's menu. you don't quite remember how the two of you had arrived at this plan, but here you were now, pretending to be a couple for the purpose of getting this secret menu.

this whole bit wasn't something you were fully okay with, but the food ness described seemed too good to be real, and kaiser had offered to cover it all, and he'd made a good point when he'd stated that the act didn't have to last the whole dinner- they just needed to convince the staff so they could get the special menus. that was it.

"i think we fit in just fine."

"i might. you're kind of an eyesore, y'know."

"no, no, i think we look just ravishing together."

all of the distance between you and kaiser isn't to say he's never tried. in fact, you think he sucks up to you so much that he might even want to be your friend, or maybe more. you try to be spacy but he's nothing if not persistent. kaiser always tried to reach you. despite that, you teased and you stayed away, always just out of his grasp.

you inspect him for a brief moment before conceding: "okay. sure. you do look really nice."

"wait- wait. actually?"

you do a poor job of hiding your laughter, shielding your mouth with your hand. his eyes have widened ever-so-slightly and his lips hang open in a surprised expression- you can't help your response. "yeah. for once."

"that's better than nothing. i'll take it."

you're about to say something when you see the waitress out of the corner of your eyes- she's observing the both of you and picking through an assortment of menus. you catch a glance of the one you're aiming for- it's beige with ornate little hearts framing the text that you can't fully see from the distance. kaiser sees it too, and you know because the both of you turn to meet each other's eyes- a silent agreement that you've got to up your game before she chooses the wrong menu.

if there's one thing you can respect about kaiser, it's his drive. he knows what he wants and he goes for it- whether it's for school, his sport, his love life, whatever- he's never shy about pulling the trigger. you very much expect him to raise the bar and really sell this act, but despite that, you're taken aback when his hand finds yours on the table.

his fingers are cold, and they take your fingers and raise the back of your hand to his lips. you sit, stunned, feeling the warm breath ghosting your skin as his face splits into a shit-eating grin.

when he speaks, you expect his words to be sharp and teasing. you expect them to be meaningless and flirtatious and hollow but then he says your name, and the yellow lights make him look lovely in a way you've never seen him look before.

"i'm honoured you chose to come out here with me," he says, punctuating his statement with a soft kiss to the back of your hand like he's some romantic film's love interest, "you aren't going to regret a thing."

what you should do in this scenario is giggle like a schoolgirl and sneak a furtive glance over to see if the waitress was watching, but you can't really take your eyes off him- not when he drops your hand and shrugs off his blazer, hanging it on the back of his chair with his sleeves coming up and revealing a trail of inky thorns traveling up his forearm. not when he returns to meet your eyes again, and not when he looks at you like that.

"you.. should be." your response is short and does a poor job of concealing the tightness in your chest, your lungs, your throat, your voice. if he notices, he doesn't get a chance to comment on it- the waitress was back, sliding a singular beige sheet of laminated paper and 2 menus onto the table. "here are your menus- and then, this is the couple's menu special for the event we're having."

you let out a breath and thank the waitress as she speeds away. you weren't sure how much longer of this couple act you could take, even though it had only been a few minutes maximum. taking one of the menus in your hands and opening it, you effectively block out kaiser until he asks:

"what are you thinking of getting, babe?"

you feel the tips of your ears grow hot with blood, and god, you might have to shoot the big man in the sky a call because you're probably going to see him soon. "you can stop," is all you say, still refusing to take your eyes off the menu despite being too flustered to read a single word, "we don't have to pretend anymore."

he hums and you risk a peek over the top of the paper. he's resting his chin on his hand as he fiddles with his fork and knife. you almost smile at how the other older customers give him dirty looks, glaring at his probably very untraditional and probably very disrespectful demeanor.

"i'm not pretending."

"oh."

"we're on a date right now. you know that, right?"

"oh."

he shifts to look at you and you try not to pay attention to how good he looks in his vest and white button-down because if you think about that you might go insane. you already kind of are, because you've got to be crazy if you're imagining yourself on a date with michael kaiser. a few seconds of silence pass. you wait for yourself to wake up, for reality to hit. it never happens.

"we're on a date?"

"that's what i just said."

"okay."

kaiser purses his lips. "that's all you have to say?"

"uhh.. you're still paying, yeah?"

"do you only like me for my wallet and generous personality?"

you hum like you're considering his question before putting the menu down in an uncharacteristic act of bravery, this time reaching your hand out so it just grazes his. you think you see him trying (and failing) to hide the shiver that runs through him at your touch.

"yeah," you lie, "just for the money. and the special menu."

he laughs, and it's genuine, and god, has his laugh always been that pretty? could you even describe a laugh like that? "oh, of course. how could i forget the special menu?"

he slides it towards himself and his smile fades. "what is it?"

"this isn't even greek food."

"wait, seriously? this is meant to be a greek restaurant, right?"

"yeah. one with no greek food, i guess."

"wild."

"no wonder it's all old people and ness who come here. they've got shit taste."

(he said that a little too loudly- if people were staring then, they're glaring now. you would wish that you'd said no to his offer to come but you think at this point, you're in too deep.)

✄ written for the mitsies 3k follower event with the prompts "you.. look really nice." "wait, really?" "for once." + acting like a couple for the valentine’s day discount at a restaurant

[⇥ 3K EVENT MASTERLIST] [⇥ 3K EVENT INFO]

#blue lock x reader #michael kaiser x reader #kaiser michael x reader #kaiser michael #michael kaiser #blue lock #bllk x reader #bllk #this is kind of so bad but i have better things coming up pls believe in me thanx! #mitsies 3k

[gaybananabread]

☾༺Just a Bit Longer༻☽

~So I’ve been brainrotting over RW&RB for a solid month now. The goblins need a walk, and I cannot productivity until they get one. I love these two’s dynamic; they’re just so silly. Not my best work, but writer’s block be damned; I needed to post something this week. This is completely self-indulgent, but if it’s your thing, I hope you Enjoy!~

Lee: Alex

Ler: Henry

Summary: Alex is overworking himself, going late into the night and working hours without breaks. Sick of his lover’s dreadful work-life management, Henry takes it upon himself to get Alex to sleep.

Warnings: mild Red, White & Royal Blue spoilers! This is a tickle fic, so if you don’t like that, scroll away!!

Life for Alex Claremont-Diaz was the best it had ever been. Henry came over almost daily from his Brownstone, and he finally felt like he had a definite idea of where his life was headed. The only downside: he was still in school.

The NYU Law course was a bit more rigorous than he’d expected, but it was definitely what he wanted. Sure, that meant long, painful hours of reviewing for extremely difficult exams, discovering that tort is a real word, and trying to figure out a system for coursework that didn’t make his brain want to explode.

His sleep schedule was already shit, so he didn’t think any of it would be a problem. If he just pulled a few all-nighters and pumped out some late-night essays, he’d be fine. What he didn’t think about, however, was how Henry would take it.

Alex was working late on another essay, running off of coffee and pure determination. He hadn’t meant to put it off, but with the three exams he’d had that week, his mind was a scattered mess.

Henry had put up with it for most of the night, but as two AM rolled around, his understanding had run dry, replaced by concern.

Knocking the “shave and a haircut” pattern on his lover’s door, Henry entered the room. He was immediately greeted with the strong smell of coffee and desperation.

There sat his boyfriend, hunched over a computer with a half-eaten ham sandwich (he couldn’t handle turkey anymore) by his side. The blonde couldn’t help the sad sigh that escaped him.

Alex looked up, his glasses nearly all the way down on his nose. It was unfairly cute, though Henry shoved that feeling down for the moment.

“Uh…hey, Hen. Not done yet; gimme, like, another half-hour.” Alex’s gaze was back on his computer in seconds.

Henry rubbed his temples, already feeling a headache brew. For once, why couldn’t Alex just use common sense?

“Alex, darling. It’s two in the morning. You need to sleep.”

Alex scoffed, not stopping for even a second. “Says you. You stay up later than I do most of the time.” While that wasn’t untrue, Henry’s problems were because of insomnia. Alex was just a stubborn asshole.

“Look, I’m going to be brutally honest here. You look terrible, you seem exhausted, and the bags under your eyes could fit the entirety of the Royal Wardrobe. Go. To. Sleep.”

Henry laid things out bluntly, crossing his arms. It was meant to leave little room for negotiation, but defying Henry’s expectations was Alex’s special talent.

“This is due at eight AM…uh, today. I’ve only got six hours to finish this thing, but I’m almost done. I promise, just a bit longer.” This would have been more comforting if Alex hadn’t already said that three times.

“Alex, please. If you sleep now, I’ll wake you up at six, and we’ll work on it together. It hurts to see you like this, dear.” He used pet names, trying to sway Alex to listen. It was a last-ditch effort; if he still refused, Henry didn’t have much of a plan left. Sure enough, he did.

“It’s fine, Henry. I’m all good, just a little spacy. I promise, the moment I’m done, I’ll eat your face. Okay, baby?” Alex flipped the other man’s strategy back on him, hoping to fully bury the concern. He was fine: end of story.

For Henry, though, the tale was just beginning. He racked his brain, searching for anything to help him get Alex to cooperate. He could only remember one time anyone was successful.

Alex had invited him to the White House for June’s birthday party. As the night dragged on, everyone but Alex was drunk and exhausted. To tire him out, June had employed some rather…unconventional methods.

Methods that would be extremely useful to him at that moment.

Casually approaching his boyfriend, Henry put a hand on the laptop. Then, after making sure the work was saved, he closed it. He pointedly ignored Alex’s scoff and protests, grabbing his chin and pulling him in for a kiss. Alex still squirmed, though a smile was breaking out on his face.

That was all Henry needed to continue. He gripped Alex under his thighs, lifting the man up and plopping him down on his nearby bed.

A surprised sound left him, his cheeks gaining a nearly imperceptible red hue. He was expecting some push-back from Henry, but nothing this active.

“Just couldn’t wait for me, could you~?” Alex weteased, starting to sit up on the bed. Henry was quick to stop that, grabbing Alex’s arms and pinning them above his head.

Before his lover could make another joke, Henry tapped a few fingers on his side. That shut him up, if only for a second.

“Henry, I swear to fucking god, if you try anything-” He was cut off when Henry squeezed his side, resulting in an indignant squeak.

“Sorry, dear, but I’m afraid I already have~” With that, Henry clawed his fingers into Alex’s stomach, straddling him.

The tired man tried to bite his lip, but the coffee wasn’t quite enough to give him that energy. A few giggles slipped out, quickly followed by tiny curses.

“What’s the matter, Alex? Something bothering you?” Henry chuckled, leaning down further to try and hold him still.

Kicking and squirming, Alex tried anything to get away from the evil fingers. He was tired, though; his brain was moving at half-speed and felt like it was running through soup.

“Gehehet ohoff me, youhuhu prihick!” Henry has decided to move up to his ribs, scritching and scratching between each bone.

Even on a good day, it’d be hard for Alex to get out from under him. With no sleep, coffee fumes and pure spite, he had no chance.

“Why on Earth would I do that? I’m quite comfortable here. Besides, you seem to be enjoying yourself, if that blush is any indication,” Henry taunted, jutting his chin out. He didn’t really need to, but it was a sure-fire way to rile Alex.

“Fuhuhuck off! Hehenry, I swehehear- quihit!” Alex tried to bury his face in his shoulder, though he only drew attention to a new target. Henry leaned down, blowing a raspberry on his boyfriend’s neck. Alex would rather die than repeat the squeal that left him.

“Wow, Alex. Perhaps the Barbara Streisand accusation wasn't so far off,” he teased, his voice about as smug than Alex had ever heard it.

The typically witty man was in giggly shambles, trying his best not to sound like a child. He wasn’t very successful.

“SHUHUhut uhup, youhu douche!!” Laughing like a toddler, Alex was still pumping out insults. Henry was about to put a stop to that. Going for the kill, he hooked his thumbs into Alex's hip divots, kneading and squeezing the area.

That seemed to work quite well.

“GAH- HEHENRY! You- YAHAHA! FAHAHACK!” The law student lost his shit, practically cackling under his boyfriend.

Alex arched his back off the bed, only bucking into the ticklish feeling. There was no room in his mind for witt; the best he could do was “fuck fuck fuck it tickles oh my god-”

Hearts practically formed in Henry’s eyes at the adorably hysteric reaction. Still, as cute as it was, he had a mission.

“This all ends the moment you agree to rest. Or…would you like me to continue? I bet I could just tickle you senseless all night. You’d surely be exhausted then, wouldn’t you?”

Alex couldn’t even get a word out, shaking his head as he laughed. His curls went wild, getting in his eyes and puffing up. Henry wanted to brush it from his eyes, but he had to keep his priorities in order. There would be time for fawning over him later.

“HEHENRY! PLEHE- snrk” It took a solid minute, but Alex’s resolve was weakening. He was already tired beforehand, and laughing his ass off wasn’t helping. The squirming had died down almost completely, snorts slipping into the lax cackles.

While it wasn’t an agreement, the Prince could tell that his lover would be out in seconds. Henry stopped, switching to gentle traces down his sides. The first son tried to calm down, a steady stream of giggles pouring from his lips.

“H-hoholy shihihit… Thahat was evil.” He tried taking some deep breaths, rubbing his cheeks. Alex hadn’t laughed that hard in a while. He was close to just passing out right there, pure exhaustion hitting him like a freight train.

“Possibly. You deserved it, though.” Henry leaned down, gently kissing his curved lips. This sight was one of his new favorites: Alex, his toned skin flushed, practically a puddle of giggles beneath him.

Alex flipped him the bird before melting into the kiss. He weakly pulled his boyfriend down, snuggling against him. He’d all but forgotten about his essay, eyes closed the moment he laid still; the poor guy was wiped. It wasn’t terrible by any means, but all his energy was gone.

Carefully grabbing his phone, Henry set an alarm for six AM.

They’d finish that research paper; he was certain of that. With a bit of sleep, Alex would be a writing machine. True, the slightly rushed grammar would be atrocious, but that’s what Henry was there for. Pulling the sheets up over them both, Henry breathed a happy sigh.

“Good night, love.”

#rwrb tickle #lee!alex #ler!henry #ticklish!alex #sfw tickling community #tickle #tickle fic #red white and royal blue tickle #rw&rh tickle #rwrb alex #rwrb henry #alex claremont-diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #rwrb

[lskisms]

friend zone (love zone), s. adamu

syn. carmy stands syd up. you come to the rescue. and so does syd.

gen. romance.

warnings. lapslock intended, sapphic realness.

word count. 0.5k.

note. title from friend zone by ab6ix. prompt taken from this list. please feel free to send in a number + a character from any of the fandoms i write for. you'll get a cute little drabble out of it.

[2:34 pm] syd: do you want to try a bunch of different places with me?

sydney’s text is unexpected, but never, ever unwelcome. you pick it up and read it over, glad for a distraction from the paper you’re currently working on for your shakespeare class (it’s not due for another three weeks, but you want to be done with it sooner rather than later). you’ve been slaving away for hours and your fingers are starting to foreign to yourself after spending so long typing away on your laptop.

[2:35 pm] sure, i need a break from this paper.

[2:35 pm] is there any reason you’re restaurant hopping tho?

your friend’s reply comes a few seconds later.

[2:35 pm] syd: carmy and i have been working on the chaos menu today

[2:35 pm] syd: we were going to cleanse our palettes and get some ideas, but he bailed.

[2:36 pm] syd: i don’t really want to be sitting at these restaurants alone, so you in?

you smile to yourself, closing your laptop and standing up. after you stretch your arms and legs, roll your shoulders back to release tension from your spine, you type back a quick reply, telling her that you’re definitely in. you get dressed in what you think is your cutest cold weather outfit and check yourself in your mirror.

[2:38 pm] syd: okay, cool. meet you in front of kasama.

not even twenty minutes later, you see her leaning against the black brick facade, scrolling through her phone and looking moderately annoyed, no doubt at carmen for bailing. when she hears you approaching, though, she looks up and smiles, waving, which you return. the second you reach her, she kneels down and you look at her, confused.

“sorry. just… your shoelaces are untied. um… i didn’t think you noticed, so… you know… i’m tying them for you,” she says, not even looking up as she brushes off the question she knew was brewing. her fingers move quick and nimble, double knotting your converse without a word, strangely intimate in a way that tying shoelaces shouldn’t be but is because it’s her. the smile she wears when she stands back up is a little shy.

“um… thanks, syd,” you reply, tucking some hair behind your ear.

she nods, looks away, looks back at you. there’s a little tension, but it immediately dissipates when she gets back to the reason for you being here.

“so! like i said, carm and i were going to cleanse our palettes, look for some inspiration for the restaurant, but… yeah, he bailed out on me the second i got here, so…”

carmen, from all the interactions you’ve shared with him (few and far between), is a nice guy, for what it’s worth, if not a little spacy and rough around the edges. you like him well enough, but you can’t help but feel a little annoyed that he left your friend out to dry like this. still, it’s given you an opportunity to spend more time with her.

“well, i don’t know much about food, so…”

“you’re good company and i could use an outsider’s perspective.” syd smiles at you and nods towards the entrance to kasama.

you let her lead the way.

© lskisms 2023. do not translate, copy, or repost my work on any site.

#sydney x reader #syd x reader #sydney adamu x reader #syd adamu x reader #the bear x reader #.thebear #.syd #.fic

[talltalesandbedtimestories]

Factory Reset (Dean/Reader)

Title: Factory Reset

Rating: Explicit

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Female Reader

Pairing: Dean x Reader

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

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

Word Count: 14,801

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

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

Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even though you don’t have a dick.

Well, at least not a real one.

Your strap-on is tucked away in your duffle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lana Bridger?”

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

“What details would I have on Lana Bridger?”

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

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

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

“Are you… you think we hooked up?”

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

“No.” You huff.

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

“No.”

“Rebecca Creston?”

“No.”

“Avery Sandler?”

“Those are all women, Dean.”

He shrugs. “Duh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What color was it?”

He sighs. “Purple.”

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

Dean’s mouth hangs open.

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

“Just in case, huh?”

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were beautiful.

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

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

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

Christ, twenty years of misguided assumptions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean groans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam releases a hiss.

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

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

Dean corkscrews his mouth and shakes his head.

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

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

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

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

Sam shrugs. “There is one plausible theory.”

Dean waits. 

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

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

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

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

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

Dean shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

“Night, Dean.”

*

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

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

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

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

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

Yep, he was interested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your phone lit up with a notification.

Dean. Dean was texting.

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

You swiped at the screen.

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

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

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

You prayed he was doing that now.

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

“Where you off to?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, what’s up?”

“I’m cashing in that IOU.”

You scoff. “The poker game from 2015?”

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

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

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

You frown. “What?”

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“That’s not helping.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow. Hard.

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “We can try it.”

His smile connects from ear to ear.

“But, not tonight.”

“Aw, come on.” He’s whining.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods.

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

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

You eye him with suspicion.

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

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

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

Which you always follow up with, “Again?”

That smirk. “Get some sleep.”

*

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

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

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

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

And it hadn’t been discussed since.

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

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

Shit.

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

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

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

You smile.

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Friendly Neighborhood Strap-On.

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have no response.

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

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

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

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

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

You open your mouth to ask what for.

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

Dean Winchester looks miserable with himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better.” You smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile. Dazed. Delighted.

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

Your entire body reacts and your spine straightens.

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

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

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

Chapter 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want him?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods like a fucking bobblehead.

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

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

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

“Cause I’m a stupid fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

“Yes-yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holy…

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

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

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

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

You blink, wait.

Dean chuckles. It sounds nervous and a tad excited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Confirmed.” Dean’s chest heaves.

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

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

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

“You enjoying this, too, sweetheart?”

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

Dean’s head topples back on a groan.

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

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

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

He tightens, sucks both lips into his mouth.

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

A chuckle escapes.

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

“Shit ton? Yeah.”

“Towels, where do you keep them?”

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

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

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

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

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

You look absolutely floored. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

Shit. 

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

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

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

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

“Maybe later?” His voice fills with hope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m fan-fucking-tastic.” He murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You pause.

“Which finger?” He raises a brow.

*

“Whichever one I think you can handle.” 

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

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

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

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

Not until now. Right here. With you. 

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

Because he trusts you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s that feel?”

“Good.” Lids blink in lazy confirmation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Good man.”

He hitches in breath at that.

This man needs more praise in his life.

You’re all for giving it to him.

“Did you find it?”

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

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

“I think so.”

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“Isn’t that why we’re here?”

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crazy little woman in a one man show

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

Mirror queen, mannequin, rhythm of love

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

Sweet dream, saccharine, loosen up

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

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

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

You smile with pride. “Marvin the Martian.”

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

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

Dean shuts his big mouth.

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

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

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

“Only if you want.” You reply.

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

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

“Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking care of him.

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

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

“What the-” Dean starts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He knows that’s how you like it.

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

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

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

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

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

“Damn right it is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fifth base?” Sam’s eyes widen.

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

Sam’s face relaxes. Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean smiles. “Absolutely.”

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

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

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

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

He gives you a soft nod.

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

You have it all under control.

Fuck the bacon. 

You’re Dean’s heaven.

#spn fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #dean x reader #dean x female!reader #dean winchester smut #dean winchester angst

[mywifeleftme]

354: Leon Russell // Hank Wilson's Back, Vol. I

Hank Wilson's Back, Vol. I Leon Russell 1973, Shelter

Leon Russell’s Hank Wilson’s Back Vol. I ends with a sudden burst of hysterical laughter, which is usually what I feel Leon’s doing at my expense when I listen to his records, but Hank is a pretty straight affair. We’re looking at 13 classic bluegrass and country standards, most such obvious choices that it would be a real challenge to record one of the thousand best versions of a given song, let alone a newly definitive one. None of these are that, but the record’s a breezy listen. Russell was a prolific session player before his songwriting career took off, and he puts together an all-star crew of sidemen, including J.J. Cale, Billy Byrd, and members of the Wrecking Crew, Nashville Cats, and Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section. (Plus a sleeve design by Eve Babitz!) This’ll shock, but they sound pretty good.

The more reverent arrangements (mostly on side one) are nice but not necessarily thrilling. When Russell and company give a swampier Tulsa Sound read though, you’re in for a ball. The credits to his rollicking take on Jimmie Driftwood’s “The Battle of New Orleans” list no less than six guitar players, and you can hear all of them putting in work: crunching riffs, high sitar-like accents, even a spacy steel guitar bridge. We get a nice take on Leon Payne’s “Lost Highway” too, Russell singing like he’s got a wad of chew stuffed in his cheek, the whole track bobbing along like R. Crumb’s “Keep on Truckin’” guy. Russell’s not bad on the ballads either: there’s a splendid version of “Am I That Easy to Forget” that compares well to Gram Parsons’ work from the same year on Grievous Angel.

If I were rating the record, I’d say side one is a respectable 3/5, and side two a strong 4/5—so split the difference and call it a 3.5, well worth a grab for fans of great country-western musicianship and appreciators of the ‘70s Russell/Cale/Clapton sound.

354/365

#leon russell #j.j. cale #tulsa sound #'70s music #'70s country #country music #bluegrass #eve babitz #music review #vinyl record #muscle shoals rhythm section #the wrecking crew #nashville cats

[forgottenluck]

So just a small update on me in general

ADHD is really kicking my ass right now, and i'm either hyperfocusing on tumblr for 3 hours, or getting distracted by youtube for 4 hours. There's no real inbetween.

That being said, my carrd has been updated (thanks to a certain someone *stares*) which has prompted me to look at some things. I need to update my pinned post and some stuff. Not sure when I'll get to it, but it is on the plan!

Everyone has pretty pinned posts and mine's just kinda junky. Though there's good reason, I've found that a lot of people wouldn't read my rules unless i put them there...but now it's just kinda blocky and i don't like it. And long. So i'll probably streamline it.

I also need to finish editing Koun's icons to the new format. I'm missing a lot of my icons and keep having to use the same ones. I need VARIETY which i technically have, just have to edit them LOL.

I Am going through some bad shit right now irl, some stuff only a few people actually know and I'm not really up to talking about it just yet. I've got a therapy session next week so maybe i'll be a little more open afterwards. Either that or i'll completely shut down. One of the two. But it's not good, and I may end up having to ask for some monetary help due to not being able to cover a lot of what's going on.

If you want to go ahead and see about helping me out, feel free to DM me, i'll take whatever help i can get....however, due to my ADHD and life events any service i provide will have to wait for a bit. (I already have two commissions i'm trying to force myself to work on and can't get myself to even open SAI due to the overwhelming idea of it all.)

These events ARE effecting my ability to be on Tumblr right now. Mostly the irl stress is setting off my ADHD and executive dysfunction and depression. It's causing me to hyperfocus on specific threads or randomly not reply to things, and I just wanted to say that I'm not angry at anyone, i'm not dropping anyone, i'm not ghosting anyone. I'm just really stressed and not able to focus on but one or two things at a time. I'll get over this, and finish the stuff i need to do eventually, but bear with me guys.

I know this is really spacy and not well put together, but i just wanted to give you all an update on what's going on with me since i'm not replying to everything i need to reply too and can seem to be dropping or ghosting people when I'm not. I can't begin to express how much i love you all for putting up with my spotty nature, and i look forward to getting better and being able to actively work on things again!

#{Out of Luck} OOC #Will queue this up for tomorrow too since it's an update

[watasemasaru]

Please tell us about the Days Sisters!

The Days girls are the American Japanese-Welsh cousins of Osaka Trio (Wakaba, Ryuko, & Kyrie). They were born and raised in Harlan, KY to Oisín M. Days and Chieko Ono.

They're parents are both doctors who work hard to help people in Harlan which is an major poverty stricken area. Oisín is very quiet, a bit spacy, and always looks to have a cloud of melancholy hanging over him. Chieko is bursting with good humor and energy. She has a big laugh and a big heart.

Shasta Shizuka Days (married name; Sanchez)

DOB: April 1, 1968

The eldest sister. In the typical trope way she's also the shortest. Shasta is a Harvard graduate district attorney that works in tandem with the major crimes unit her husband Julio works in LA. She's perceived to most, even to her sisters as cold, mean, crabby, etc. Julio and their children are pretty much the only people who get to see the real Shasta. Like Ian has mentioned; "she didn't used to be that way." Shasta is precise and logical, she needs everything to be just-so. She's very fashionable and has an austere, clean sense of style...which is a stark contrast to the shit box death wobble rust ridden pick up truck she won't get rid of. With Julio they have three biological kids; twins Mana & Shiho, and Mamoru, and an adopted son; Mark. Outside of work Shasta doesn't really have friends, she's a homebody and likes to read old french novels or watch black and white movies.

Dahlia Eiko Days

DOB July 7, 1973

The second sister and the tallest at 5'11. Dahlia is not in anyway like her parents and sisters in the academics department. She only just barely got out of high school and WOULD NOT go to college. Dahlia is a detective that made her way out to LA and worked in Farmington but bailed, seeing the writing on the wall with Vic Mackey and his strike team. She worked major crimes with Julio and Shasta but eventually felt the need for seasons so she's currently in Chicago working Intelligence. Dahlia is brash, sarcastic, a shameless flirt, and short tempered. Because of her temperament she makes risky impulse decisions, but is fueled by good intentions and almost naive sense of what justice should be. Dahlia is the antithesis of Shasta where you'll never see her in a dress or a skirt, you can't even get in a blazer unless work requires it. She's jeans, tshirts, and hoodies all the way. Dahlia currently has a restoration project of a classic muscle car. In her off time she's bent down under the hood working, grease and grime all over her face and a cigarette in her mouth. She's also a reader but it's modern mysteries.

Sunny Miyu Days

DOB December 13, 1978

Third in line and the "older" twin. Sunny has stayed close to home, when to a state school, trained at glynco and is a us marshall out of Lexington. Sunny is true to her name; lively, outgoing, friendly. She has big golden retriever energy. Sunny is also very nosy and that usually gets her into trouble because she can't leave well enough alone. Her dog with a bone nature is probably why she's so good at chasing fugitives. Her and Raylan Givens both kicking up dirt hasn't put either of them in the graces of the people in their hometown. Sunny dresses a little casual for work, jeans and a button down in a tacky print, but at home she's a cutoffs, tank top, and everyone be damned if you make her put on shoes lol. She watches a lot of tv, cooking shows especially since she's of the four the worst cook. Sunny is a bit of carpenter, she likes remodeling her house when the mood strikes her. And she's nursing a HUGE crush on her coworker, Rachel Brooks.

Ian Hibiki Days (married name; Barba)

DOB December 13, 1978

The youngest! She and Sunny are also mirror twins. If you look at the banner their freckles are the same but the opposite side. Sunny's dyed hair distinguishes them but also Ian is considerably shorter due to getting sick in her early teens that resulted in her stunted height. She's right as rain though, just now she's "the short twin." Ian is less outgoing than Sunny, but still friendly. Ian's described as empathetic, intuitive, kind, with a tendency to be analytical. She's also a Harvard graduate with linguistics and psychology. She's a detective in Manhattan with SVU. Her partner was Munch until he retired and then got partnered with Carisi. She did early in her story help out Chicago Intelligence where she was briefly close with Antonio Dawson.

Ian is loyal to an almost deadly fault. She will always put herself out to help someone else. And like her twin will keep at it till she sees the desired result. Ian is a good cook but absolutely hates cooking. You can usually find her somewhere "low-end" as opposed to the fancy places nyc has to offer. She's big on breakfast. Ian now and then likes to play videogames, but to Fin's disappointment, not fps. She's a swanky dresser like Shasta but has a much more masculine/tomboyish flair. Trousers, jeans, oxfords, boots, blazers and plaid that looks like it came off a couch from the 70s.

She has a saint bernard; Chevalier, whom she had before she met Barba and a cat; Caderousse that Barba tried really hard not to like but that's his cat now. She and Barba have two children; Yui Catalina and Inés Hanamaru (middles names are maternal and paternal grandmother's names respectively)

#asks #oc spewage #shasta shizuka days #dahlia eiko days #sunny miyu days #ian hibiki days

[yandecifi]

In a Way That Matters

bakugo/reader

~1000ish words

cw: derealization + depersonalization

idk made this one shot a bit ago bc felt dpdr wasn’t rlly anywhere and I very much use fanfic, reading, and writing to vent/cope/whatever so idk maybe some other ppl will relate and feel less bad?? might delete this later lol bc idk how tumblr works¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Shakespeare once said: “To be, or not to be, that is the question.”

That is, in fact, the question. That has been the question since it happened. Are you, or are you not? Are you awake, or are you not? Are you alive, or are you not? Are you in a coma, in a hospital, unable to wake up, dying, dreaming, sleeping, something, or are you not?

You have been on pause since it happened. Stuck. Time, life, the you that is not you has progressed without… you. What is you? Who is you? When is you? You are living through memories while at the same time realizing that you have no memories at all. You are alive but you are dead. You are here but you are not.

Bakugo shifts in his seat and asks if you’re there. You pull yourself to the present, whatever that is, and say yeah, sorry, bit spacy today, kinda tired, nice day, isn’t it?

He stares at you. He stares at you with the same look people give when they want to ask you about it, but aren’t sure where to start because what?

Is it happening again?

Is what happening again?

The thing, he responds, crossing his arms. In truth, you knew what he meant. You just wanted to hear somebody else say it for once.

Your eyes and hands find their way to your drink. You fiddle with the straw as you find your answer.

It’s always happening, is what you come up with.

Bakugo doesn’t respond directly. He never does, not really, the way his thoughts connect to his words is about as smooth and straight as his hair. This time, his response is a grunt just loud enough to let you know you’ve been heard. His arms are still crossed as he stares at the hand twisting your straw. You wish he would be as open as you force yourself to be.

Always, he states, though you guess he meant it as a question.

Yeah.

Y’know why?

Nah.

The silence after is one you’re familiar with. He’s probably thinking, I don’t get it, what do you mean it’s all the time, are you crazy, what even is it -

What’s it like?

You squeeze the neck of the straw between your fingers. Both of you are still focused on it, on the plastic tube you’ve been crushing and bending and rolling about, like a silent agreement to not make eye contact. Maybe it’s a way to make him feel less like he’s asking personal questions. Maybe it’s a way for you to feel less naked.

Sorta thing you don’t get unless you’ve experienced it, you say, but that doesn’t feel quite right so you tack on some stuff about dreams and weed and stuff, you know?

The way his eyes squint at the cup shows he doesn’t. You hurry to fix your description.

Like, okay, you say, pausing to flex your hands, watching the tendons writhe beneath your skin. It’s like nothing’s real. Like, imagine someone’s strapped VR goggles to your head and you’re trying to make your way through the place you’re seeing, but it doesn’t exist, so, like, you’re blind but you can see at the same time. Everything’s weird - there’s this sort of disconnect. There’s this gap between you and what you’re feeling. Y’can’t think straight, either, everything’s always foggy and, oh, that’s right, your memory’s shit too. Sometimes I think I’m getting dementia. Or that I’m schizophrenic. But I’m not, I’m not crazy or anything, so don’t worry. Not that you are, or anything. I’m just - I’m not crazy. I’m not. Okay?

Bakugo nods slowly, says yeah, but they always do that. They just nod along or agree with some monosyllable, they don’t - no, they can’t say it, they can’t say: no, you’re not crazy, you don’t sound crazy. Because you do, don’t you? To someone who doesn’t understand.

You’ve stopped fiddling with the straw, instead preferring to work a massage into the palm of your hand. Bakugo has sunk lower into his seat. His arms are still crossed as he stares at the crinkly tube.

He thinks you’re crazy. He does, doesn’t he? He doesn’t believe you. He doesn’t have to say it - you can see it. You can see it in the way he won’t meet your eyes. You can see it in the crease of his brows, how they’re pinched together like they are when he’s taking an exam, trying to find the answer to some impossible question, you can see it in the way his adam’s apple bobs up and down, swallowing like he’s nervous, he’s nervous, he’s nervous, too. People always get nervous when you talk about it. They’re like, I had no idea, I didn’t know this about you, what else is she hiding, and then they treat you like a stranger because they feel like you’re one, you’re strange, you’re strange to them. You’ve become strange. He thinks you’re strange.

Bakugo, you say, though it comes out more of a mumble. He finally looks you in the eye again. He’s finally looking at you. God, he’s finally looking at you. Look at me, look at me, show I’m real. I’m real, right? He’s looking, right? Your head swims like TV static. Can static swim? Can heads?

Bakugo asks you what you were going to say. You shake your head. You blink. You blink again. Hey, he says, what were you going to say, but you don’t hear his voice, you can’t hear it, your brain can but you can’t.

Your vision’s like one of those old film reels - clack, you’re looking at his face that isn’t really a face anymore, clack, you’re looking at your hands, you can’t see the writhing anymore, clack, you look up, Bakugo’s gone.

Where is he, where is he, there’s a guy that looks like him next to you. He’s leaning down, about to sit in the cafe booth next to you, speaking words you understand yet can’t seem to hear.

It’s not Bakugo, though. He looks the same, but something inside screams he’s alien, he’s not him. But, that’s just how it is when it’s bad, isn’t it. People become objects, objects become people, and you become nothing.

Yeah, you’re fine.

Yeah, everything’s okay.

No, there’s nothing he can do.

No, you don’t need to go home.

You’re responding to questions you don’t even know are being asked. He’s holding your hand. You don’t know when his fingers first clenched around your hand, how long it’s been clenched around your fingers.

It’s bad, isn’t it, Bakugo.

It is. What is it?

You already said. He tried, he tried, didn’t he? Why keep asking? Why?

He wants you to know, he doesn’t want you to be alone.

You are alone, doesn’t he get it, you don’t want to be either, but he keeps asking and it’s so hard, Bakugo, it’s so hard. Stop asking. You can tell him what it’s like, hours, you can tell him what it’s like for hours but he will never know, he will never know what it is, he will never understand, it doesn’t matter how much you want him to, it doesn’t matter what he thinks, none of it matters.

You will never be able to explain this in a way that matters.

You tell him, that strange, invisible cushion wrapped around your head, that invisible cotton stuffed to the brim of your ears, that hand wrapped around yours.

#bakugo x you #bakugo x reader #derealization #depersonalization #mental health #angst #hurt/comfort #bnha fanfiction #mha fanfiction #im bad at tumblr

[dancing-to-architecture]

23 - Van Halen - 1984

Starting with a sentence that is pretty much guaranteed to piss off my dad: i was never a big Van Halen fan. (Look, if you heard "Right Now" as many times as i did growing up, you'll understand.)

That said, a few of the songs on this one are among the songs by them that i do actually like, and the cover art cracks me up every time i see it.

Also, my wife is exactly one day older than this album, and i just think that's neat.

• 1984-

Spacy synthy intro song. Not what i was anticipating this album to start off like. Kinda dig it, though.

•Jump-

An absolute classic. As I'm fond of saying: "it ain't about the fall down, it's about the bounce back", and that's the whole idea of this one.

Also, that guitar solo is fucking insane.

•Panama-

One of the songs that broke Noriega, and i think the govt used it solely because of the irony of the title being used against a Panamanian asshole dictator.

Personally, i like the idea of using songs over bombs in combat. Fewer pieces of bodies to pick up afterwards.

That said, what the actual fuck does the nation of Panama have to do with this song that's about a hot lady being described somewhat like a sports car? The world may never know.

Fuckin banger, though.

•Top Jimmy-

(But, i hardly know Jimmy!)

Holy shit, Eddie, are your fingers okay? Because goddamn that's some fast fingering on those harmonics.

Top Jimmy cooks, you say? Well, let him fuckin cook!

Another kick-ass solo, naturally.

Didn't know this one before today, but it fuckin slaps.

•Drop Dead Legs-

To be honest, i always figured Diamond Dave was a tits man, but apparently he also appreciates "a giant butt". Good for him.

All in all, gotta say that ZZ Top wrote the better leg-song.

•Hot for Teacher-

A song that has been relevant a number of times in my life, and that's all I'm gonna say on that matter.

That drum intro absolutely whips ass, and the guitar coming in only makes it better.

It's a little skeevy, lyrics-wise, but overt horniness can't stop it from being an all-time banger.

•I'll Wait-

Oh, that early-to-mid 80s synth. 😍

Kind of a weird one, since it's literally just about jerking off while looking at a legally-distinct-from-a-Playboy magazine. Not the best song on the album, for sure, but it's interesting enough to keep my attention.

I still can't believe this was a single, though.

At the end of the day: the centerfold isn't gonna fuck you, dude. Oh wait, shit, you're David Lee Roth... never mind, yeah, she might, actually. Go for it, bro.

•Girl Gone Bad-

"I'm in love with a prostitute", the spiritual prequel to "I'm in Love With a Stripper", i guess?

•House of Pain-

Just couldn't fuck dirty enough for that girl, could ya? Or, from a different, much darker point of view, kinda feels a little Josef Fritzl-y.

So, yeah, this album is pretty fucking great, (surprising nobody, considering it's their best-selling album).

Funny (but also lame as shit) fact: "The front cover was censored in the UK at the time of the album's release. It featured a sticker that obscured the cigarette in the putto's hand and the pack of cigarettes.".

For real... Are y'all okay over there?

Favorite Track: Hot for Teacher. Every aspect of it just kicks ass.

Least Favorite Track: House of Pain. On one hand, it's creepy. On the other hand, it's very creepy.

#1001 albums #dancing to architecture #Van Halen #1984

[mageofseven]

Match up time!!

Blonde she/they who was given ADHD for the only reason being she would be too powerful otherwise. Works with animals and has a pet rabbit who she loves so much. Artsy af and prefers nights in. She’s a taurus and was born in the year of the ox, making her a bit more stubborn than most. One way to know she’s comfortable around you, is if she belts out songs without a care in the world. IRL, her absolute fave is Mammon but she’s excited to see what you have up your sleeve!

Okay first off, a reminder not to send in any physical characteristics in these Matchup. Hair color does not help me decide who to match you with. Also, I need to know what group you want me to consider: Brothers, UnDateables, or the Boys.

Before anyone sends in a Matchup request, please read the Guidelines first.

But don't worry, Nonnie! I'm not upset. I saw the 'blonde' part and thought that this would be a good teaching moment for others.

I'm also going with the assumption that you are okay with being paired with any of the Boys. If I am wrong and I pair you up with someone from a group you didn't want, please let me know and I will redo this, okay? 😊

Now to your matchup! Hmm. I can see you clicking well with two guys.

I think you will like my answer though~

I pair you with...

Mammon

Honestly I was stuck between two very different men for you on this: Mammon and Satan.

I thought Satan might be able to appreciate your artsy side and love the animal lover in you the best

However

I feel like you exude a bit more more chaos than Satan would like from his Kitten 😅🤭

Mammon, on the other hand would love your chaotic vibes and really feel like the two of you are on the same wavelength.

I also have a headcanon that Mammon might also have ADHD and dyslexia but that is a whole other story so I think you both could bond over your creative, spacy brains hehe~

I can honestly see this man blushing the first time you randomly burst out in song, but eventually he would grow to join you when you do. Be prepared to hear Mammon sing really, really badly with the doofiest smile at his face 🥰

I can see Mammon also having a soft spot for animals, but he'd pretend otherwise until he see just how much you love them and then it becomes a real bonding interest for you both. I think he'd be a little wary of your bunny at first though, consider it's not too different in terms of looks to a creature in Devildom forests that mesmerizes it prey, bringing them close just to unhinge its entire skull in its attempt to eat you.

Yeah, boy here has had some bad experiences with those creatures so you really have to explain to this man that the pull he feels towards your bunny is only because it's so cute and not because it wants to eat him 😅

You're stubborness would also be your winning hand with this man. Unlike with Satan, who might become a bit annoyed with you for it, Mammon would likely take it as a sign to stop and listen to you and he'd find it so hot omg.

So yeah, enjoy your wedding with Mammon 😜🤭🥰

#matchup requests #nonnie #anon #obey me Mammon

[feastofcadavers]

The flesh-covered doors would creak and give small squelching sounds as it was pressed and slid along the floor. The clinking of locks and the small thuds of what held such horrific doors shut falling to the floor would be a common sound for quite some time. "Have caution in releasing those vile beasts," Roguefort has said with a certain softness reserved for only him, "I trust you to remain safe and avoid the dangers you are releasing, but I must implore you nonetheless." Earl would give a single laughing-huff to himself. They always knew how to say things without outwardly speaking them.

Hearing the beasts walk out of their cage, observing their different patterns of movement… Some limped, some decided flying was better, some simply crawled due to lack of limbs in the first place. A mess of flesh and insectoid properties, pulsing in an attempt to seek food. Seek blood. As much as Grey would normally find himself petrified, none of the creatures ever locked into him, and he found an odd sense of safety in letting them out. He… he really can't explain why, so- so he just won't. 

The task was tedious, though the cook found the more menial tasks as something to be enjoyed. Though, enjoying this? That was something he wasn't sure if he could do. As safe as these beasts helped him feel, there was still the purpose behind doing all of this. His mind went to this being a defense against whoever was coming in. Walking back from the containments, Grey could feel his vision being seen from behind his own eyes. He was looking, but not seeing, as his mind wandered and his legs carried him without a thought. 

The gravity of it all was setting in. All of the horrors of the past creeping up on him. The promise they'd made, what happened to the twins… god, what happened to them was an omen, wasn't it? Grey held his hands up to his chest feebly, gaze to the ground. A happy life that was wished for, ha, what a joke it seemed like now. At this rate, he'll be losing more. With what was spoken to him, Rogue… agh, he just can't let that happen! But what could he do? He's not a strong one. Words? No, those… that's what got them all here in the first place. He- he doesn't know what to do, but- he'll find something. He has to. 

This wasn't a nightmare. The chef would hold himself as his mind faintly registered the sounds of squishing flesh beneath his feet- signaling he had already returned to where he needed to be. It was with a deep breath that he'd return his hands behind his back. Standing tall even though his mind was full of stressed fuzziness.

This wasn't a nightmare. He raised his empty mind to look towards Rogue, who beheld themself in front of a vague mass of red that he didn't have the capacity to process. Something was spoken to him, which he gave a default response to, and that seemed to be enough to get concern off of him. 

This wasn't a nightmare. Surrounded by flesh, someone precious who knew that they were going to die here, and the horrors of what the world had in store for the both of them. The heat of the room was soothing, but it was not enough to bring his mind back from its spacy state. 

This wasn't a nightmare. This was all too real.

And there's no way out.

#📝 written scriptures #☕ the servile ruins #💎 the court of crimson's leader #feastofcadavers #earl grey cookie #roguefort cookie #body horror tw

[bmbochangetales]

Please humor me as I write something a little less kinky, a bit of a parody, and a bit personal. All rolled up in fuzzy heart warming tale. If this isn’t your thing, that’s cool, keep scrolling. I just needed to do something fun and unserious for a minute.

*******************

(Opening: Monster- Irene & Seulgi plays over a woman sneaking into a lab)

Standing in the science lab she was digging for the serum. She knew it was here. The lab bragged about it’s impressive serum. It allowed woman to become the prettiest, empty headed version of herself. An increase in breast, ass and libido. Lowered intelligence and inhibitions. The waiting list was two years long. For such an advanced science company, their security system belonged in the 1980s.

The vials were in prepackaged syringes on the counter. Breasts growth, hair growth, iq loss. Iq increase, libido controls, fertility, lactation drops, hucow formula, puppy and bunny formulas. Of course right in front, in the pink. Duh!

It was all she ever wanted. To be pretty and be noticed. For someone to care. No one wants a bookish writer. No wants plain or ugly girls. This serum was the solution. Her solution to once and for all to leave this boring life and being one the brainless beauties in the population. And she just sped up the two year waiting process.

She prepared to inject herself as the door burst open. She didn’t have time to react before someone yelled.

“Wait! You don’t have to take it! You are great the way you are”

It was her editor for the publishing company.

“I do! I’m so tired of no one wanting me. Just be me? No one wants that! I won’t be missed and maybe people will appreciate the bimbo me better,”

(“Feel Special” by Twice starts to play)

“I love your writing. The way you use words and create the imagery in everything you write. I love the chaos of your writing. I can hardly understand it until it’s fully done. But it’s you. Chaotic, wonderful, lovely. You are kind and sweet and kinky. You are patient and understanding. You are spacy and miss the point completely sometimes which is hilarious for how smart you can be but I don’t care, I really like you. If you want to take the bimbo serum so much, I won’t stop you, but I would miss this you. You don’t have to be a brainless bimbo unless you are sure it’s the only thing that would make you happy.”

(The Feels by Twice)

Who would write her stories? And keep her editor’s ego in its balance of self pity and over confidence. The man who made her laugh most days. Teased her for liking the basic things like pumpkin spice and Starbucks, but secretly enjoyed them too. She liked him and here he was admitting he liked her too. The real her. Normal average erotica writer. Flaws and all.

She put the vial on the counter. She could still put herself on the list and do it the right way if it didn’t work out with the editor. She went into his waiting arms. They stayed for a few moments until she felt a pinch.

She looked down and saw the syringe sticking out of her side. It was the Breastbeauty Max serum. Guaranteed to increase cup size 2-4 cups with no or minimal temporary other effects. The looked in each other’s eyes and he smiled.

“One or two doses of the tiddy serum never hurt anyone,” he teased. They both marveled as her small B cups began to grow. The two doses worked wonders as she steadily grew to a full, bouncy E cup. She jiggled them and grabbed his hand so he could have the first touch.

They shared a smile and kissed as the sunset and a long night between the two began. The first of many. And you know what? She never did need to get on that waiting list. Good thing too. It ended up turning all the bimbos into cum addicted goo girls. The tiddy serum was fine though.

(Que Ending Credit BTS- Yet To Come)

****************

Just a note to my readers: remember all my stories are purely fantasy and 99% of the time are not meant to depict things even remotely realistic. Nothing wrong with having a kink and/or fetish and to share it among consenting adults. But also remember the right person will love you the way you are and will care for you in the ways you need. You know who you are 😘😘😘😘😘 and no I don’t have an editor if you can’t tell by the insane amount of mistakes that I lovingly (lazily) leave in my own posts. Also, I just gave myself away as a Kpop fan 😂😘

#my writing #my story #short story #parody #off topic writing #does anyone read these #mr h m bo #just a reminder

[jeeperso]

D&D Quotes Without Context

Treasure Island edition, Chapter 10

Magnus has filled his room in the suspiciously spacy hovel with enough incense smoke to knock out a shire horse (or just start MJ's day)... "How does one steal an entire mansion? There is only one thief capable of such impossible feats, and no one has seen her for years." “Beatriz Fresno isn’t real.” "That's just what she WANTS YOU TO THINK." Cookie: "Are any of us real… before a cup of coffee…?" Ded is just returning from walking himself. "My opinion is that Legal Drinking age is a polite suggestion." MJ has bacon, fruit and nachos she keeps getting from somewhere in her robes. "And Ded's memory is like the rest of him, fuzzy." Magnus resists the urge to Kubrick-stare. "We mentioned his name once, and a would be mutineer tried to run through a bulkhead in response." "Flint hate when crew do that." "I imagine Flint hated a great many things, and I will personally check off every one on the list I can." "It was an old joke among Flint's crew, regarding one of his men. He has a wooden leg named smith, another leg named Schubert, and a "third leg" called Johnson." Roth shakes his head. "I tried to keep as far away from the man as possible." "Ded only remember crew with even number of legs." Thunderchild clears his throat. "I have a proposal for you, as much you directly as for your captain. One that might solve or at least mitigate several mutual problems." MJ: “The brownies a five silver each or five gold for a dozen. Be careful, they taken five to ten minutes to kick in depending on biology.” Janus: "And don't eat five at once or Asmoedus will appear before y ou and try and rip your soul out through your knees. Archie found that out the hard way." “I find selling brownies solves everyone’s problems. Easy mistake to make.” Thunderchild: So an issue that you probably haven't realized you have yet is that these islands are basically a powder keg and you just lit a fire in the middle of it. An intact ship, including whatever magical device let you get one through the Storm wall intact is the most valuable thing in these islands short of Flint's treasure." Ded: "Like Game Night, only worse." "Ded not sure designing people only for fighting is good idea. How you make sure they stop?" "Sorry, just remembered a very bad experience I had with a bunch of Orc and Wereboar Pirates who were masquerading as native islanders to cover their operations. It was just....uncomfortable on a nymber of leveles." "Not that stupid crystal coconut again. That thing is nothing but trouble." "Please say there aren't any giant piranha plants big enough to attack humans on their island." "Oh those are the worst. Great singers though." "Don't eat sapient creatures Amber. You'll turn into a Wendigo." “That only happens in Canada.” "Ded once eat someone. Ded still have feet." “Yeah, there’s two unbreakable rules. Don’t eat people and don’t fuck robots. Warforged are okay, but don’t fuck robots.” Cookie: "He has cool stuff... I agree... We gank him first...." “Yeah! Let’s go fuck Tomato right up his ass!” "Aye, he's got his own little cult of bullies which he uses to keep the other finfolk in line." Thunderchild says. "But without fear of him, they'd crumble within a week." "Ah, the classic pyramid scheme style." "Flint sell pyramid halves." "I thought they were fish... are we fighting mummy pirates now...?" "Yes, this seems like the kind of deed to work your way up to polishing Tiamat's hoard when you arrive in hell rather than in her bowl of Soul-Funions." "We can always level Tamatoa's lair on the way out." “I can turn Dingo into something that flies if we need too.” Staring in “the fuck you will” iguana noises. Angry Iguana Owl... "That parrot reminds me of one of my old colleagues, who went on Safari and never returned. Fred Fucks." "I heard my patron speak of him. he was consigned to the fell city of El-Jei-En." "I offered some spiced foods... I have a feeling ... If I offered him crackers... He'd throttle me..." "Ded think that one health-conscious." "Well I mean you are a chef, and we're sending this parrot into enemy territory. We can afford to be generous I think." OOC: Awwwk! Awwwk! Twelve and a half percent!

#dungeons and dragons #dnd 5e #quotes without context #treasure island #muppet treasure island

[lifeinthestarfield]

Well, This is Weird

OK, so first day went really well. It was mostly paperwork, getting to know the team, you know, the basics. I was assigned a spacesuit and helmet and my supervisor, Lin, took me and Heller down into the mine.

So we go down in the mine where they're opening a new face. I do my first real mining. It's just as hot and sweaty as everyone says it is, but I'm getting paid well, so I don't mind. Besides, it's worth it to be away and on my own again.

Heller is OK. Joker type, you know? Always cracking a joke. Might get on my nerves later, but for now his chatter breaks up the day. Lin is a good boss, really cares about her crew, but doesn't stand for any crap.

Once the new face was open, Lin sent me in to "look". Now, I'm a little nervous because why are they sending the new dusty in? What am I supposed to be looking for? Heller's spouting off stuff about anomalous gravity readings and says just to follow my scanner.

So I do.

The cavern opens up and I go on ahead and find something really strange. A weird kind of crystal called calumnite and this piece of forged metal, not sure what kind. The metal was embedded in the calumnite and I had to really wrestle it out. When it finally released I...well, let's say I went somewhere.

Was it a dream? I was hurtling through space and time and could feel the vastness, the eternity of... what? Space? Time? There were colors and shapes and then I woke up.

I was back up top, on a med bed, with Lin and Heller running scans on me. Apparently I was out for awhile. I felt, or feel, fine. A little spacy, but I don't think there were long-term effects.

The experience wasn't horrible. It was a little like Kennelly's moonshine, but without the hangover and everlasting regret.

But that wasn't the end of my day. The client arrived for the metal thing, which they are calling an Artifact. The client, some guy called Barrett, works for Constellation (yes, THAT Constellation). He knew about the vision I had and immediately sent me in his ship with his robot, Vasco, to take the Artifact to their headquarters on Jemison.

There is a problem though. I don't know how to fly a starship! Vasco says it is easy and I'm hoping he's the one really doing the work.

Before I could even get to the ship, however, a Crimson Fleet ship set down right in the middle of the mining outpost! Bastards poured out of the ship and it was a pretty tough firefight. I found a little Neon and did my part. Lin encouraged me to scavenge the dead and told me to sell them.

I said I wanted a new life and I guess I'm getting it. Did some mining and now I have a spaceship!

Now to learn to fly it.