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talltalesandbedtimestories · 4 years

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House Edge

Title: House Edge (COMPLETE)

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

Summary: You're on a Girls Trip to Vegas and meet a certain hunter at the buffet.

Word Count: 9,100

Warnings: fluff, flirting, gambling, strip club, private dance, mild language

A/N: My first reader insert try. I'm thinking this is sometime around Season 7. Maybe the annual pilgrimage to Vegas when Becky whammies Sam. The majority of events that unfold will probably be right before Dean gets the text from Sam to meet up with him. Thunder From Down Under probably wasn't at Vegas yet - who knows - artistic license and all that. Also, I don't have an extensive knowledge of gambling, so most of what you'll read is from what I've Googled. If something is terribly wrong, feel free to let me know. But, I tried to stay in the vague zone.

Your head pounded and sloshed from the one too many Malibu Bay Breezes you’d ingested during the “Thunder From Down Under” show that ended minutes ago. Three of the nine others in your group were still hooting and hollering at the oil slicked row of hyper muscled, surreal Australian blokes on stage. In addition to the baby oil, the men were bathing in the estrogen overload and accolades washing over them. Wads of cash, stuffed into the glittery floss substituting as underwear, stuck to aforementioned oil slicked skin.

It had been fun, there was no doubt. But the lights and the music and the rabid female reactions were hitting you all at once. Kasey pulled you by the elbow and screamed in your ear. “Wanna get a photo with Faux Fabio?” She pointed to the long-haired blond Adonis with a shoulder span the width of a football field.

You frowned. “How much is that going to run me?”

“Shannon!” Kasey called across the table, still too close to your delicate ear drums. “How much to rub up to one of ‘em?” You were glad you weren’t sharing a room with Kasey. She’d be hurling in the toilet for most of the night after the number of Tequila shots she’d downed. So far. And the night was relatively early. Especially for Vegas.

“Thirty bucks, I think.” Shannon shrugged, paying more attention to her phone.

You shook your head. Your single status and mid-level office job already had you on a strict budget for this girls’ getaway weekend. “I’m good. Besides, the more up close I get, the more disappointed I think I’ll be.” Shannon nodded with a smirk in agreement, still staring at her screen.

Kasey huffed. “Well, Linda, Stacey and Mira are already in line. I’m going to see if I can cut!” She dashed off without another word.

Women skirted and pushed past your standing frame. You tried to become one with the table in front of you. Anything to avoid being pulled into the stampede or thrown to the ground, and mercilessly stomped on by stilettos and sneakers.

Even Shannon looked a bit miffed at the onslaught as you stared at her in a half-cry for help. “My God.” She rolled her eyes.

“Where did Cathy and that bunch disappear to?” You yelled over.

“Who knows?”

You sighed. “What was next on the itinerary?”

“I think any plans are out the window. Every woman for herself.” Shannon tapped on her phone. “My little one’s running a fever. I’m going to get back to the hotel room so I can check in at home.”

You nodded. The only thing waiting for you at home was your tabby, Tyrion. Your Grandma-type neighbor down the hall, Gladys, had offered to cat sit. So there was no one, human or feline, actually waiting for you back in your one-bedroom apartment in Albuquerque.

Holding your breath, you pushed yourself into the crowd, moving against the current towards the exit instead of the line for photos. The quadruple threat of your old college pals was screaming in line about which stripper had the tightest ass.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to have a good time or ogle good looking men. Far from it. But gambling was more your scene anyway. You had a pretty good teacher with your last boyfriend when it came to Blackjack. You breathed a sigh of relief when you shimmied out of the entertainment venue and stepped foot onto the busy carpet of the Excaliber’s casino floor. Your phone read 9:10 pm. There was still plenty of time to lose your shirt.

You’d popped a few aspirin and downed a whole bottle of water in the sitting area of the women’s bathroom, hoping to fend off a killer hangover in the morning. A quick reapplication of lipstick and you were ready to scope out a good table.

After about an hour, you’d split, hit, and stood with the best of them at one table. There’d been one experienced player, Ron, that looked like he’d planted roots in the seat next to you. He got to talking, as the old timers usually did, and you’d learned he was born and raised in Reno. You had a nice little chat with Ron and Stevie, the female dealer, and fended off a few men who sat on the other side and hit on you more than the cards they were dealt.

“That is not a bad takeaway, there.” Ron nodded when you decided to cash out.

“Thanks. Pleasure, Ron. You take care.”

“You too, pretty lady. Remember what I said about Roulette. You should try it once.”

The betting chips clinked in your plastic souvenir cup. “I might.”

He tipped you a two-finger salute. You wandered, your stomach empty. The buffet to end all buffets calling your name.

“Fuck it.” After turning most of your chips into cash at the counter, leaving one $50 chip in your jean pocket, you headed for the International food amalgamation that guaranteed intense heartburn and bloating in the morning.

Fluorescent lights and sneeze shields presented you with choices beyond comprehension. You grabbed a large plate and planned your method of attack. One of your pink manicured nails tapped on the bottom of the china. “Ease into it.” You decided to go with the Mediterranean spread first. Before you knew it, there were helpings of General Tso’s chicken, pizza, potstickers, mashed potatoes and French fries, along with some bratwurst and sauerkraut. The grumbling from your tummy may have been a warning when you sat down at the table for two, alone, on the cafeteria style floor. The waitress gave you a tired smile when she dropped off your iced tea.

You shoveled some sauce drenched chicken into your mouth and took in the scene. People floating around, getting up for seconds or thirds, talking about how much money they lost or won, what shows they should try to see while they were in Vegas. You chewed and stared at the formidable back of a man at the table directly ahead of you. He’d give Faux Fabio a run for his money. He had fluffy, long brown hair. His animated storytelling hands got your attention. You heard a deep chuckle and slurp from his table sharer, out of your view because of the mountain man. “Alright,” the man stated, “Going to give the Poker Room another go. Coming?”

“Nah.” The very deep voice replied. “I’ve still gotta hit the dessert line.”

You watched the man rise from his seat, floored by how tall he was. And, when he turned, you saw how very cute he was. You’d have paid thirty bucks to snap a picture with this man. He gave you a sweet little smile when he walked past. You couldn’t help but look over your shoulder and take in the rest of him as he left. Smacking your lips and shaking your head, you turned back to your plate to resume the dent made in the food. Your eyes darted up to look at the man left alone at the table. You were pretty sure your mouth gaped open at the sight of him, staring at you. He wiped at his face with a napkin.

Oh my. If the man that left appeared sweet and cute with just a smile, this one was a boatload of sexy and trouble with that smirk. You could tell by the way he took his time inventorying you with care, chewing slow the whole time. One side of his lip curled up in another grin variation. He nodded at you in greeting from across both tables. You smiled back and then pretended to stare at your food. He tossed the napkin on his plate and stood up. You peeked up and noted he was layered in a couple shirts and broken in jeans, like his partner. Not quite as tall; but, still very tall in your estimation. You wondered what he’d look like in a g-string and bathed in baby oil.

And, oh boy. He was walking straight over to your table. Yep, he was very tall, by the way you had to tilt your head backwards when he strolled up. He smacked his lips, disrupting the beaming smile before he spoke. “That was my little brother you were checking out. Want me to give you his number?”

You had to lean back in your seat a bit more. “Um. No, that’s okay.” Geez, he was pretty. Holy Facial Symmetry Batman!

He nodded, then smiled again. “Want to give me your number?”

You had to chuckle at the bravado. “Does that work for you a lot?”

He shrugged. “Works enough.”

“I don’t doubt it.” You decided to play along. “How long are you in Vegas?”

His brows rose up. “Just tonight.”

You tisked. “Not enough of a time commitment for what I’d want to do.”

He chuckled this time. “Is that so?”

You nodded.

He pointed to your plate. “Can I get you anything? I’m heading back up.”

“I think this should tide me over for a while. But, thanks.”

His jaw clenched. “Can I join you when I get back?”

What the hell. “Sure.” You smiled.

“Man, you almost kept up with me.” Dean sighed and rubbed his tummy after his third dessert plate.

“Hardly.” You were only working on your second serving of what might be considered actual food. A half hour had passed, you sitting with this veritable stranger. Talking about nothing of much importance, but having a grand time flirting, enjoying his rough and rugged demeanor and the boyish charm. One of your palms hit the tabletop. “I’m tapping out.”

“Not much for sweets?” He leaned in and studied you. Stunning green eyes twinkled with mischief. He batted the kind of lashes you could only get with a thick coating of mascara. “Or are you already sweet enough?”

“Is this like an Ocean’s Eleven thing?”

His smile dropped, waiting for you to elaborate. “Come again?”

“Am I like some unwitting part of a huge con job going down in the money room right now?”

He chuckled. “I’m not following, sweetheart.”

“Why are you sitting here with me?”

“Are you kidding?” He leaned way back in his chair, teetering on the back two legs. An arm swept out from his side in your direction. “Have you seen yourself?”

You pursed your lips. “Please.”

He raised a hand. “I’m not going to try and convince you. But I may take advantage. Commandeer more of your time, since you think you don’t deserve mine.”

“So you are a con man.”

He shook his head. That smile could only belong to the most skilled grifter. “If I was a good con man, I’d have more than a hundred dollars to my name after half a day in this ‘It’s a Small World’ casino.”

“It is a bit Disneyfied, isn’t it?”

A shrug. “Well, it’s cleaner than the ones near the motel Sam and I are staying at, so that’s a plus.”

The plate of food in front of you looked less and less appetizing as the seconds passed. Pushing it away, you really wanted to dig into the dessert that was Dean. But you’d only had two one-night stands in your life. Neither one was spectacular and left you full of regret that you’d had them to begin with. But this man. Oh, you had a feeling this man would love you and leave you with a million other regrets and create an addiction you’d never be able to fulfill again. What was that saying? Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. This man was surging all kinds of wants in your head. If you got a taste, you knew you were done for.

His voice rumbled like a storm cloud and pulled you out of your thoughts. “What’s up for the rest of your night?”

You grinned, wanting to tease out this time with him for as long as possible. Skirt on the edge of a pond of possibilities and drown in those sometimes sea green colored eyes. “I told you there’s not enough time if you’re leaving tonight.”

“Pretty good at completing a task quickly and efficiently.” He licked his lips. “I mean, taking my time, yeah, that’s always ideal. But, if we’re pressed for time, sweetheart, I won’t disappoint.” His brow twitched up.

You sighed, sounding a little too loud and desperate for your liking. “Does a guarantee come with that claim?”

“How much of a gambler are you?” He deflected the question with another.

“I enjoy it.”

“I might be worth taking a chance on, then.”

“Hm. I met a nice old man while playing black jack tonight. He talked about odds and luck and the house edge and why he loves cards, black jack especially. It works his brain and he can play for hours and not lose his shirt.”

Dean smiled. “So, what kind of hand am I? Soft or hard?”

You grinned at the innuendo, trying to keep your train of thought on its track. You leaned across the table. He mirrored your action, meeting you halfway. His hands clasped together on the surface, forearms firm and locked. The closest stare you’d shared.

Both thumbs lifted up in his grip and he nodded a fraction with his chin. “Well, what’s the verdict?” You could smell apples, cinnamon, and vanilla on his breath; courtesy of his indulgence in pie ala mode and his slightly parted mouth. He came into full focus now. Freckles dotting the tops of his cheeks and sprinkled across his nose. Lips that were perfect, puffy and pronounced. Sharp edges and soft curves. He watched you inventory him as he did the same, eyes scanning, crinkles emerging around them when he smiled and you thought he found something he especially liked about your visage. The gamblers and diners dropped away from your periphery. The piped in music and frantic sounds locked away in a vacuum, muffled and mumbling like the adults in those Peanuts cartoons you loved to watch when you were little.

“Neither. You are in no way a safe bet. You’ve got a major house edge.” Your answer came out lower than intended. The slight mix of surprise and disappointment on his face at the answer made you clear your throat. You continued. “So, why gamble in the first place? Cause there’s always the slightest chance you’ll get lucky and hit it big. Flip a coin and see where it’ll land.”

The smile returned and he shot stick-straight in his seat. “I’ve got plenty of coins.” He began to rifle through a jacket pocket. “Two out of three?” You held back a giggle at his eagerness.

“I’ve got one right here.” You dug the chip out of your jean pocket. The plastic disc twirled between your fingers. “Wanna see where it lands?”

His eyes widened. “Big spender. What’re we betting?”

It was your turn to lean back. “Depends. How lucky do you feel?”

He chuckled. “Stakes? And, then I’ll let you know.”

You swallowed. “Well, Ron, the old man, was explaining that Roulette has the best House Edge for the casino. Over five percent in their favor that a player loses. Think you can be my lucky charm and push those odds in my favor?”

He nodded. “What we talkin’? Street or split bet?”

The man knew his games. You smiled. “Straight up.”

His head tilted back. “Whoa. That’s a helluva lot of luck.” A finger pointed back and forth between the both of you. “I help you hit the jackpot and…”

You grinned. “You hit the jackpot. Call the shots for the rest of the night. We go wherever. Do whatever.”

His lips curled into an “O” as he tried to hold back his own grin. He nodded in thought. “If you lose?”

You shrugged. “Buy me a drink at the nearest bar, share some more stories, then we shake hands and say it was nice meeting the other.”

He raised his hands. “Well, I will take those odds. Let’s go find us a wheel.” His tall frame bolted out of his seat, beaming a smile at you.

Your heart sped up. There was no way he was winning this bet. But he seemed up for spending a little more time with you regardless. And that said something. You reached into your purse to drop a tip on the table but he’d already beat you to it.

“Lead the way, sweetheart.”

You nodded and wandered from the restaurant to the massive casino floor. He towered next to your side, the elbow of his jacket brushing against the sheer material covering your biceps. He smelled amazing. When you stopped in the middle of the floor to get your bearings and looked up to ask what direction you both should head, you found him gazing at your cleavage in the strappy surplice top. The look on his face shot straight to your core.

His eyebrows shot up at the realization he’d been caught ogling. “What’s wrong?”

A flush of warmth flooded your face. “We’re using your luck here. You pick the table.”

“Lot of pressure.” He mumbled.

“Lot at stake.” You countered.

“Alright.” He nodded to the right. You followed him, weaving through the crowd, now having the chance to notice his bowlegs and how very wide his shoulder span was. He was wearing entirely too many layers to your liking. But, you got to bathe in the wake of his scent and imagine how very pert that ass was under that denim. He halted without warning and you put the brakes on your stride, inches before careening into his back. His fingers pointed three tables over. “That one.” He looked over his right shoulder and grinned, finding your body and face quite close. “Step right up.”

You took the lead again and inhaled and exhaled deep, taking the one empty seat at the Roulette table. The wheel was currently in motion, the ball spinning, holding the breath of every gambler with a stake on the result. You heard the clicking of the ball along the slots as the rotation slowed, deciding on its destination.

Dean slid his standing frame along your right. He was warm, solid. He tipped down to whisper in your ear. “Sure you wanna go for a straight bet? Making me think you don’t even want a little fun time with me. We could lower the stakes. I’d be more than happy to let you call the shots for the rest of the night.” The offer dripped out of his voice with a deep intensity, low and tempting.

You would not meet his eyes again, already picturing the sexy smirk on his face. He would distract you, make you cave. “Nope.” You responded. “All in. Go big or go home.” You pulled out the chip from your pocket as the winning number was called. A mixture of whoops and grumbles emerged from the dealer’s announcement. Chips were swept over and around the table.

He sighed and rose up, waiting for the table to be cleared and for the dealer to tell everyone to place their bets. “Okay. What number?”

Your mind reeled with the possibilities. “When’s your birthday?” You asked.

“Seriously?” He chuckled.

“Yep.” Your eyes wandered over the red and black numbers on the green felt board. The all clear was called and chips scattered in place with both hurried and tentative fingers of various betters.

“January 24th.”

“So, we could go with 1 or 24. Red or black?”

Your body startled with the pressure of his hand at the small of your back. “Black.”

“24 it is then.” You gulped and placed the chip with care over the number. It rested there alone, a single play amid a multitude of others.

His fingers tapped against your skin in anticipation. “Well, it was fun while it lasted.” He joked. “Maybe as a parting gift you’ll give me your number.”

You smiled, focusing on the slight swirl of his fingers now, imagining what they could do to other parts of your body.

“No more bets.” The dealer called and waved a hand over the table. The wheel spun in one direction. The ball clicked and whirled in its lane in the other.

You thought about what Blackjack Ron had said earlier. Roulette, straight bet odds were 35 to 1. You could view that bet as a drowning man’s last ditch effort to keep their head above the water’s surface. Hold out for that raft to save them, give them a second chance to get things right. Or, you could view it as something as simple as hope. Hope that great things sometimes happen when you take a risk. You should try it once. That’s what Ron had said.

You closed your eyes as the wheel slowed and the ball eased in its race for the finish line. You replayed that little mantra, the pep talk you’d give yourself every once in a while in your bathroom mirror. Failure is always a possibility when you try. But so is success.

The dealer announced the winning number.

Dean’s fingers froze. “Holy fucking shit!” He bellowed.

Your eyes jolted open. The dealer placed a tiny marker on “24 Black.” Your mouth dropped open and watched the chips stack up in front of you.

“Holy fucking shit!” Dean repeated. “How much is that?”

You blinked, then repeated the calculation out loud you had figured out when you threw out the dare. “One thousand, seven hundred, and fifty dollars.”

“Wow!” You looked up and assessed his face. He was floored and amazed, like a kid that was just told he had free reign in a toy store. “That’s… that’s some luck.”

“All you.” You grinned.

The compliment took him aback. There was the slightest hint of blush on those cheeks.

You motioned to the winnings. “Okay, grab some and let’s cash out. Half of this is yours.”

Even more amazement. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

“I’m feeling generous.” You packed the chips into your purse. He stuffed some into his pockets. When you rose up, a jolt of adrenaline pushed you into a new territory of action. One filled with courage. You took your time and slithered close to his standing frame. Let parts of your body sweep along his. His brows rose higher than you’d seen so far that night. “Looks like you’re calling the shots now, Dean. We go wherever. Do whatever.”

A delicious lick of his lips followed your statement. His eyes dazzled with thoughts. “Let’s get out of here.”

You’d walked with him along the strip for what felt like forever. He’d gotten you a cup of frozen yogurt for part of the adventure. The warm air and pulse of Vegas fed your lingering alcohol buzz. Dean was just as intoxicating. He talked in cryptic paragraphs about him and his brother’s nomadic lifestyle. You laughed at his dirty jokes, both basking in the artificial glow surrounding you and the high of winning. But you, most importantly, let go of the decision making.

A turn off the busy, fluorescent lit thoroughfare landed you in a much more adult amusement area of the city. And, you had an inkling, heading in the direction of Dean’s motel. You’d finished the last bit of your treat and tossed the empty cup and spoon into a nearby trash can when he stopped to read the flashing sign of a venue.

His rapt stare forced you to look up and see what he was focusing on. The amber neon depicted the figure of a voluptuous female with flowing hair, one leg wrapped around a bright white pole. You read the name of the establishment out loud. “Sapphire Gentlemen’s Club?”

He turned to you and grinned. “Been in one of these before?”

You felt your brow scrunch together. “Well, no.”

He walked over to the glass door covered in dark film. “Well, let’s go, then.”

“Really? This is what you want to do?”

“At this moment? Yes.” He opened the door and ushered you in. “My lady.”

You chuckled and shook your head. “Are you trying to test my comfort level or something?” The question breezed by his frame as you passed.

“Something like that.” He smiled.

You really didn’t know what to expect when you walked in. A bouncer looking dude waved you in after a quick survey. Dean’s hand was on your back again, as it had been off and on throughout the evening, leading you towards the dim section of tables and booths. It was packed with, from what you could see, a majority of male patrons with the occasional token female. The tables wrapped around a few circular stages with catwalks emerging from blue velvet curtains. A dozen or so topless females danced for the pleasure of their audiences. The bass of the music rumbled through your skin.

“Here.” Dean leaned in, pushing you to a free high top right by one of the stages. Enough light spilled onto the area that you spotted the kid in a toy store look on his face again when he took his seat.

You sat across, tearing your gaze from him to the ladies wrapped around poles, bronzed and oiled similar to the male counterparts you’d been hooting at earlier that evening.

“Thought you could see how the other half lives, after that Australian review.” Dean brought up the exact same thought, only he shivered in distaste. A wave of his hand requested the attention of one of the waitresses who thankfully, for you, wore a bit more than the dancers.

“Hello, lovelies. I’m Cherie. What can I get you?” She purred over to Dean and gave you a sweet smile, dropping napkins in front of your spots. Her bare glittery shoulders and cocoa skin made you crave chocolate for a second.

Dean’s lips quirked up in a smile. You realized he’d been giving your reaction more attention than the female with big onyx eyes and raven, wavy hair. “I’ll have a bourbon. Top Shelf. Neat. What are you having, sweetheart?”

You shrugged, continuing the little game you’d started since he won the bet.

He nodded. “Same for this pretty little lady.” The waitress nodded, about to walk off, when Dean asked, “Oh, what’s it cost for a private show in the back?”

The waitress raised a pencil lined eyebrow. “Depends on who you want the show with.”

“Are you available?” Dean grinned.

She giggled. “I might be.”

“Well, if you are, let me know what it’d be for the both of us?”

“Will do, sweetie.” Cherie bounced off with a pronounced sway of her ample hips.

Your mouth popped open. “What?”

“Whatever I want.” He reminded you with a lick of his lips. He leaned his forearms on the table. “You ever, ah…”

An awkward giggle erupted from your throat. “No.”

He shrugged and smiled. “Thought about it?”

“Maybe.”

That made Dean’s grin grow wider. “Well, it’s only a dance. You technically aren’t supposed to touch the ladies. Sometimes, though, you get lucky. And, the way my luck is going tonight… got to give it a shot.” His fingers brushed over the top of your hand. “Get something etched in my memory for repeat viewings later.”

The touch of his fingers, light and gentle, ticklish and thrilling, hit an itch you couldn’t quite scratch. You emitted something between a laugh and a sigh. “You’re going to blow all your winnings tonight on booze and boobs.”

“Worth it. I’m getting to spend it with a beautiful partner in crime.”

You sat with him and watched the show. A country tune blasted through the sound system. The ladies all sashayed back to the curtains, flinging them back with a dramatic flair. They disappeared only to be replaced by cowboy hat and boot wearing dancers. Daisy dukes rode so high up that half of their ass cheeks bulged out. Holsters, hung loose from their waists, held fake pistols that, when pulled out for use, were done so with the most phallic inducing reminders. And all had the perkiest, perfect breasts you’d ever seen.

His fingers tangled into yours about midway through the performance. “Thank God I’m a country boy.” He tipped his head about to the twang. “So, Albuquerque, huh?”

You attempted to track the conversation and not the feel of his warm skin tingling yours. The pads of his fingers were rough and worn, gritty but not harsh. You imagined what kind of work he did to get them that way. “Yeah. Moved there after college. Got a job at a big research company. Glorified office assistant, so just the mundane business stuff that helps keep everyone employed on the books, bills paid.”

“Research?” His smile softened, listening to you.

“Sustainable energy, nuclear weapons.”

His bottom lip jutted out as he nodded. “Like it?”

“More days than not.” Your eyes widened as one of the dancers provocatively licked the barrel of her toy gun. You couldn’t help but laugh in embarrassment. “Geez, I’ve never done that with a firearm.”

Dean chuckled. “What have you done with a firearm?”

“I’ve got a license to carry. My dad taught me how to shoot when I was around thirteen. He was a big time game hunter. Back in Colorado.” You didn’t bother to go into what happened to your parents. You wanted to keep the tone of the night light and fun.

“What do you carry?” Genuine interest spread over his face now.

“Walther PPQ. But I left it back home.” You smiled, realizing he was not put off and probably carried as well. “Are you packing?”

“Oh, I’m packing,” He grinned, “but my gun’s back at the motel. Not a good idea to mix Vegas nightlife and bullets, I’ve learned.” That sounded like a perfect lead-in for a story. But he only added. “M1911.”

You nodded then asked, “Country boy, huh?”

“Yep, Kansas.”

“We could have hit Stoney’s then.”

“You would have tried to get me to dance.” He nodded to the stage. “More fun to watch.”

Cherie returned, interrupting the flow of conversation with two tumblers of bourbon. After placing the glasses on the table and eyeing the way Dean gripped your hand, she leaned in close to his ear and whispered. You struggled to make it out, giving up when it proved pointless. His lids lifted a fraction. “Well, that sounds positively delightful, Cherie.” He added with a sexy swagger. “Think you can get yourself one of those cowgirl outfits?”

She nodded. “See what I can do. Jimmy’ll come by for you two in about a half hour then.” Another nearby table called her away.

Dean grabbed his glass and raised it for a toast. “To Vegas.”

You shook your head and clinked your glass with his, mumbling. “To Vegas.”

The sparkling beaded fringe curtaining the doorway was a nice touch. You pushed through the strands and took in where you’d be with Dean for the next twenty minutes, along with Cherie, who was on her way. It was enough privacy for an intimate dance. Safe enough, you imagined, that if one of the women had to call for an assist from a handsy client, someone could be there in a flash without impediment. Burly Jimmy, about a foot taller than Dean, seemed to be the bouncer/bodyguard for the ladies and waited outside in the hallway.

“Really playing up the Sapphire theme, huh?” You asked Dean for his thoughts on the decor. There were two blue velvet, plush armchairs in opposite corners of the tiny eight by eight space. Two of the walls were floor to ceiling glass and a tinted overhead light washed everything in shades of midnight blue.

“Fancy.” He teased. “One of the deluxe rooms.”

The two bourbons you had milked at the table for the last half hour had sizzled your senses with a warm euphoria. Almost like you were watching yourself in some sort of out of body experience. Had it really only been a few hours since you’d seen your girlfriends? You glanced at your watch and confirmed in the spin of your head it was a little after midnight. Your brain and body were wired and alert due to the proximity of this man pushing all your buttons tonight. It was raw, racy, a revelation in facets of sexiness you’d never had the honor of being in the presence of. Until tonight.

He’d teased with playful touches; flirted with that outlaw mouth; melted you with heated stares; worn you down with roguish charm; and hinted at some heavy shit that made you wonder how broken he might be under all that attractive armor. The alcohol had let his guard down a few times.

“Hey.” Dean snapped his fingers and brought you back. “You still with me, beautiful? I think we need to cut you off.”

You clicked your tongue and shot him with your finger gun. “Might be right, partner.”

He chuckled. “Yeah. Think so.” He rubbed his hands together and spotted a touchscreen in the wall. “Huh, even get to pick the music. Real fancy.” He pointed to one of the chairs. “Get comfy.” He tapped some buttons. You slid into the cushion, trying not to imagine the amount of bodily fluids embedded in the fabric. It did smell nice and clean, almost antiseptic, so that settled one of your racing thoughts. Your stare lingered over at Dean, a pensive look on his face as he decided on the tracks. It had to be illegal for someone to be that handsome without even trying. “Damn, it’s hot in here.” He pulled off his jacket and one layer of flannel, draping them over the back of the empty chair. His simple black t-shirt strained over his shoulders, biceps, chest. The alcohol had to be part of the reason he looked so perfect. No way, you kept thinking, no one’s that perfect.

The beads parted and Cherie strolled into the room. She had certainly done what she could to honor Dean’s request. She wore the same white vinyl hot pants and matching color stripper pumps that comprised her waitress attire. But she’d gone full on country bumpkin with a plaid flannel tied in a knot under her push up bra, and a cowboy hat.

“Did you pick your tunes, Cowboy?” She flirted at Dean.

“Yep.” The wide, cheesy grin spread over his face.

“Have a seat, time’s a wastin’.” She was working the southern accent, too. Dean hopped onto the other seat cushion and wiggled his ass into position. He also wiggled his eyebrows like a cartoon villain at you. You giggled.

Cherie tapped the screen. You were unsurprised by the country music that filled the room at a respectable volume. “Jimmy explain all the rules?” She asked and began to gyrate her hips to the song.

You nodded and replied, your eyes bouncing from Cherie to Dean, “You get to touch us, we don’t touch you. Stay in our seats. If we aren’t sure if we can, ask first.”

Cherie twirled and stopped to smile down at you. “I bet you were top of your class, hun.”

Your cheeks heated up at the flirting. This woman was obviously younger than you by at least a decade and was calling you hun. Dean’s jaw clenched at your reaction.

“So, what brings the two of you to Vegas?” Cherie turned around, giving you a full face of her curvy hips and tiny waist. The white pants almost glowed in the light and you could hear the slight squeak of material. Her moves were smooth, fluid, second nature.

Dean was getting a full face of the cleavage peeking out of her shirt as she bent down to give him a nice view. “Romantic getaway for my girl, here.” His eyes drifted over to you, past Cherie’s elbow, with a smirk.

Oh, this is how we’re playing it now, you thought. You had to admit the idea of you being his girl was absolute heaven.

“Aw, how sweet. How long you two been together?” She rose up, her hands gripping the back of her neck, elbows jutting out like wings. She twirled to look at you. She backed into Dean’s lap and began to circle and skirt her ass along his thighs. Cherie blocked his beautiful face with pink flannel. The only Dean reaction visible were his fingers latching onto the armrests like a vice.

You stifled a giggle. “Five years.” You threw out the first number you could think of.

“A lot of man to be working with for five years.” She smiled.

You couldn’t argue with that.

“Alright if I put my hands on him, darlin’?”

You heard Dean moan. How could you deny him? And, how fun that she was asking you for permission and not bothering with his approval. “Of course.” You swallowed at the intimate turn things were taking.

She lifted up, turned again. Her hands landed on Dean’s knees. “Let’s let your pretty lady see how much you’re enjoying this.” She cooed and spun him in the - surprise - rotating chair. You got an eyeful at this angle of that chiseled face and the wide eyes from his own surprise at the movement. He glanced over at you, turning serious in a second. It was like someone had turned the temperature on to sauna level in the room.

Cherie’s actions focused Dean’s attention back to her. Her fingers and long nails drifted and scraped along the surface of his hands, forearms, biceps. Her palms came to rest on his shoulders. She climbed on top with grace, wedging her knees into the cushion by his hips, clamping his bowlegs shut with the force of her muscular calves. Her heels poked out from the chair like weapons. That ass settled on his knees. Her cleavage inched closer to his face as he settled and reclined into the headrest.

“How does he feel?” You realized you had asked the question out loud.

Dean turned to you, languid and lush, blissed out and smiling in a lustful stupor.

“Warm. Strong. All sorts of good.” She smiled at you. “Lucky lady.”

If only, you thought.

Dean licked his lips at you, delved his gaze into Cherie’s cleavage, then met the dancer’s stare. “If you think I feel good, you should give my girl a test drive.” He unclenched his grip on the armrest for a few seconds, maybe trying to get some circulation back in his fingers. “In fact, I’d love it if you’d tell me how good my baby feels.”

Holy shit. Your panties dampened at his confession.

Cherie grinned. “Well, that’s up to your baby. Woman always gets the final say.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Dean chuckled. “I’ve gotta run everything by her, or else I’d get spanked. Can I tell you a secret, Cherie?” Dean husked out the question. Cherie nodded in interest, grinding on him now. Dean cocked a brow at the action. “Sometimes I get in trouble on purpose, just so she can spank me.”

You couldn’t help but giggle at that; the thrill and imagery of Dean naked, leaned over your lap with a bright red ass after some serious punishment from your hand.

“Sounds like you’re a handful.” Cherie snuggled down deeper, and dry humped him. “Feel like a nice handful, too.” She was humming along to the country tune. Just another day at the office for Cherie.

It felt all sorts of wrong and right at the same time, watching this lap dance. This teasing, edging. Who the hell has the House Edge in this scenario?

Dean’s hands clenched tighter around the velvet. “Don’t wanna come in my pants, Sweet Cherie. Isn’t that one of the rules?” He panted.

She laughed. “Oh, I’d break a couple for you two.” She slowed the torture and peeled off him with a groan that almost matched Dean’s. “We going for that test drive, baby?” Her hungry eyes scanned your seated frame.

“Um…” You began. Dean’s breathing regulated and he circled the seat back to face you. He grinned at you, peeking over the curve of Cherie’s hips, ready for the show.

“It’s okay. Anyplace you don’t want me touching, just streetlight. Only if you want to indulge your man.” She raised a brow. “But you might like it, too.”

“Oh, God, I hope so.” Dean mumbled.

Cherie did the same with your chair as she had with Dean’s. You tilted, looking at yourself beyond Dean in the mirror. How very deer in the headlights you appeared. Cherie was a veritable tigress, running the entire show.

She leaned down, inches from your face. Her fingers wiggled and she cupped your jaw. “I won’t bite.” Her sweet breath laced with peppermint washed over you. “So warm. Don’t be nervous.” Her soft voice lulled you into a safe space. “Your big strong man over there wouldn’t let anything happen to you. Would you, Cowboy?”

“Absolutely, fucking not.” Dean’s voice shot straight to your core again. You caught him licking his lips. He nodded, entranced at the vision of Cherie guiding her hand down the slope of your neck, then cupping the curve of one breast. Your breath hitched as she squeezed and her long nails dipped into the cleavage. “How’s she feel?” Another lick.

“Hm, so soft.” An eyebrow arched when she skirted over your covered nipple. “And excited. Still green, sweetie?” You nodded. Cherie tipped off the cowboy hat, sliding it over the crown of your head.

Dean rumbled out a low moan. You thought you heard him curse under his breath and whisper something close to “Ride ‘em, cowgirl.”

The arousal created by this beautiful woman was dizzying and the heat from Dean’s stare was making it hard to breathe. Sweat broke out on your forehead. Your stomach churned. “Oh.” Something else was threatening to escape as a sour bile hit the base of your throat. “Oh, no.” You mumbled. “Red, red. I need to get to a bathroom.”

Cherie hopped off and grabbed you by the wrist. “Jimmy! Need a trash can, stat.”

Dean jumped up from his seat. You spotted alarm on his face and got a quick glimpse of a decent bulge in his jeans before you groaned again at the somersaults your insides were doing. A hand clamped over your mouth as you forced down the gag and swallowed. It wasn’t going to be long before the entire floor would be covered with a Vegas buffet.

The saving grace that was Jimmy parted the curtains and slid a small desk trash can over in your general direction. Dean fell to his knees and held it in front of you. Cherie tossed off the cowboy hat you were wearing and held your hair back.

A deep inhale of the artificial lemon smell covering the trash can liner was what finally had you retching.

You emerged from the women’s bathroom fifteen minutes later after the whole fiasco had commenced. Cherie had been nice enough to bring you a disposable toothbrush and some toothpaste from backstage. You’d cleaned yourself up as best you could. But you were exhausted, humiliated, and planned to call yourself a cab. You were certain Dean had called it a night, leaving your sorry ass to figure things out.

How surprised, then, your face must have looked to see him leaning against the wall, Cherie’s cowboy hat twirling in his hands. He was back in his flannel and jacket, staring out onto the stage. The hint of movement by your slow trudges catching his attention, he turned and gave you a soft smile. “Hey there. How’re you doing?”

You shrugged. “I’m so sorry.” Your scratchy voice skipped over the apology.

He walked over to you. “I pushed my luck… and yours… a bit too far. I’m sorry.” He grinned and placed the hat on your head. “Cherie said you could have it. A parting gift for the both of us.”

A smile broke out on your face.

“You look really cute, Cowgirl.”

“You stayed?” You questioned.

Dean’s face contorted in confusion. “Not like I was going to just skip out on you over some upchuck. Trust me, beautiful, I’ve seen way worse.” He flicked the hat so it rose up an inch higher on your head. “So, calling us a cab or walking you back to your hotel so you can sleep this off? You are going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning.”

You tummy seesawed at the thought of a lot of walking right then. “Cab.”

He nodded and headed for the exit. “Let’s go flag one down.”

“But…”

Dean stopped, wavering in his stride and waited.

“I don’t want to say goodnight yet.”

He smiled, then sighed. “Well, I got a text about an hour ago that little brother is going off on a granola munching hike in the desert by himself.” He scratched the back of his head. “So, if you want to hang out in my seedy motel room for a couple hours, it’s free.”

You grinned, queasy but happy.

He’d found a country station on the motel’s radio alarm clock when you’d arrived earlier and forced you to down a bottle of water and pop a couple aspirin. The both of you were now on your third round of War. The conversation had gotten deeper as the battle continued. But there were still the light, fun and flirty moments that made spending this time with him feel even more special.

You sat cross legged on the blanket Dean had pulled out of his duffel to spare your ass from sitting on the dingy motel room carpet. He sat across from you, back against the foot of his bed, leaning an elbow on one propped up knee, the other leg splayed out on the blanket. You didn’t think his bowlegs could manage a cross legged position and grinned to yourself at the thought.

It was 2:00 am. He showed no signs of fading, but you were struggling. Dean kept glancing at his phone but never faltered to toss down his cards in time with yours.

“Hopefully he’s okay.” You offered. The tinge of pain crept in. You knew you had to say goodbye and call it a night. It was obvious he was worried. His brother had not returned his texts and was still roaming around, somewhere. “I should go. It’s getting really late and you look ready to form a search party.” You tossed your hand of playing cards onto the blanket and attempted a slow rise to your feet. You placed a hand on the cowboy hat to keep it from falling off your head. At least, for now, your stomach had settled. The pounding in your head had lessened.

“I’m surprised your gal pals haven’t been ringing you non-stop.” Dean’s head tilted up and stared.

“I’m the last thing they’re thinking of tonight.” You hadn’t given them much thought either since the first time you’d looked at Dean hours ago. God, it felt like a lifetime ago at this point.

“You should stay a little longer and at least see who wins. We’re all tied up.”

“We’ll just have to call it a draw.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He hopped up much quicker than you.

“Where’d I put my bag?” Your eyes found it on the little table by the kitchenette as soon as you’d asked the question. You hobbled over, letting the blood flow into your legs proper again.

As you rummaged through the contents, you heard the volume of the radio go up.

You turned and saw Dean sitting on the edge of the bed, tapping his thighs.

You giggled. “You like this song?”

“Ah, it’s pop-country. But ladies like it, right?”

You shrugged and dropped into the chair beside the table. “Where I’m from, ladies get weak in the knees for Luke.”

Dean grinned that grin you’d seen countless times that night and wished you could see for every night after. He stood up and swaggered over with purpose, in only that black t-shirt, jeans and sock clad feet. He mouthed the words to the song on his approach. Your eyes were locked on those luscious lips and how well he knew the lyrics.

Gonna stomp my boots in the Georgia mud ***

Gonna watch you make me fall in love

Dean pulled the hat off your head and slid it in the perfect sweet spot on his head. The slight tilt was sexy as hell.

Shake it for the birds, shake it for the bees

Shake it for the catfish swimmin' down deep in the creek

For the crickets and the critters and the squirrels

Shake it to the moon, shake it for me girl

Aw, country girl, shake it for me

He teased and smiled, sticking his fingers into the belt loops of his jeans and swirling his hips. You giggled at his awkward and heartfelt attempt at this show and the blush creeping over the apples of his cheeks.

You rose up and joined him, wanting to relieve him from the embarrassment. And, hell, you finally wanted to dance with him. You sidled up into his space, slotted one leg between his bow legs and circled your hips in time to his. That rhythm being something he easily adjusted to and was happy to continue. You looked up into those green eyes, wrapped your hands around his neck and felt his warm, safe hands glide up and down your back. The lyrics came to you easily and you lip synced along with him. It was corny, cheesy, unexpected, and sexy as hell.

Pony-tail and a pretty smile

Rope me in from a country mile

So come on over here and get in my arms

Spin me around this big ole barn

Tangle me up like grandma's yarn

Yeah, yeah, yeah

The brim of his cowboy hat bopped your nose during a particularly forceful pretend belting of words by Dean. “Sorry.” He spoke aloud and chuckled.

“It’s okay.” You whispered, out of breath from everything he was doing to you. “I’m so glad I took a chance on you, Dean.”

That one statement pulled you both out of the playful and flirty exploration of each other and the boundaries you’d tested. His focus on your face turned serious. And, even though the uptempo song stomped on in the background, his motions halted. His eyes drank you in, every inch of your face. His fingers danced along your jaw, curled around your neck, angling you up to him. To finally kiss you through the rest of Luke Bryan’s crooning.

Now dance, like a dandelion

In the wind on the hill underneath the pines

Yeah, move like the river flows

Feel the kick drum down deep in your toes

All I wanna do is get to holdin' you

And get to knowin' you

And get to showin' you

And get to lovin' you

'Fore the night is through

Baby, you know what to do

You’d died and gone to heaven; were positive of that fact. No man had ever had lips so soft, a mouth so determined, and knew exactly what to do with the precise amount of pressure and tongue.

As Bryan faded out, you heard the chirping of a phone. Dean broke the kiss and leaned his forehead into yours. You felt the brim of his hat on the top of your head. “Sweetheart…” The moan was a mixture of want and something else.

You sighed and knew. “Your brother.” You motioned over to the bed where his phone was. “You should go.”

He leaned down and kissed you again, placed the cowboy hat back on your head and sprinted to the phone. You did the same, found the contact of a Vegas cab company you’d put in at the start of your trip and dialed. You spoke to the weary dispatcher and repeated the name of the motel, watching Dean reply back to the text as he sat on the bed and slipped into his shoes.

“Not too far. Should only be about five minutes.” You nodded. “You can go. I’ll wait outside.”

He rubbed his thighs. “No way. You’ll wait in here with me.”

“Dean, I…”

He cut you off. “You surprised the hell out of me tonight, beautiful. You were up for everything I threw at ya.” He smiled. A genuine, heart tugging smile.

“The night could have taken a much different turn if I could have held my liquor better.”

He shrugged. “But it was still one helluva night. And, I’m glad you took the chance on me, too.” He offered his phone. “Put your number in.” You smiled and did as asked, then handed it back. He shot you a text. “There. Now, you have mine.” He pulled a business card out of his wallet. “And, here. Don’t ask questions, but if for some reason that phone stops working... call this number and say you need to get in touch with Dean Winchester.”

You read the card. “FBI Director, Mike Kayser?”

Dean raised both eyebrows.

“Okay.” You slipped the card and phone in your purse. Headlights flooded through the motel curtains. “Well, that’s my ride, I think.”

Dean stood up and opened the door, walking out into the early morning with you. The yellow cab idled in the parking lot. He waved at the driver, then turned you in his arms and stared at you hard. “You send me a text when you get into your room.”

You chuckled. “You’ll be roaming the desert like Jim Morrison by then.”

“Please.” That soft smile again.

“Okay.”

He grabbed your face with two warm palms, angled you in just the right way so he could dip down and kiss you under your cowboy hat, soft and slow. He whispered in your ear. “I wish I could be your safe bet.”

You gave him one more peck, then walked to the cab. When you opened the back door, you turned and called out. “What would be the fun in that? Flip a coin and see where it lands every once in a while, right?”

He gave you a two finger salute and smiled that Dean Winchester grin. As the driver nodded at your destination and turned out of the lot, you watched him, standing, waiting for you to disappear from view. You held onto that grin. Closed your eyes. Committed it to memory. And hoped you’d see it again.

THE END

***Luke Bryan - Country Girl (Shake It For Me)

MASTERLIST

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fan fiction #dean winchester fluff #spnfanficpond #dean x reader

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madluv · 7 years

Text

joker origins / napier thing I wanna start that’s like a new take on the killing joke backstory? I spontaneously started writing a little bit last night, kinda got some ideas for it - it’s unfinished but what dya think yay or nay? 👀🃏

language / drug use / violence under the cut

The music and bodies were throbbing, a stage of lowlights and loose limbs. Techno thumped hard against his chest, aggravating his adrenaline heavy heart. It was an assault to the senses, the acrid scent of sweat and semen lingered in the stagnant air. It was all tits, legs, teeth and tummies, though the flesh show wasn’t the reason for Jack’s sticky shirt, nor even the reason for his presence at the stripclub. Much unlike the sparse patrons perched on stools and splashing the little cash they had for a flash of slit, or rarer still, a smile. Jack sat alone and to the side, a single chair against a single table, vibrating from the hefty speakers, ashtray still smoking from one half-cinder cigarette. The lack of customers, though bad for the girls, made it the perfect setting for the work they had planned. And every few minutes, as to not raise suspicion, Jack turned his attention from the split legs and bulging bikinis to the VIP suite, where the owner sat behind tinted glass, snorting coke and counting change. Where they needed him to stay while they robbed this shithole blind.

It could certainly do with some style – the neon pinks and purples worked to flatter the aging strippers but did very little for the drab furniture and chipped paint. Personally, he’d get rid of the podiums altogether, replace them with cotton candy machines, poker tables, how about a little roulette? People had very little vision in this town and he hoped one day to change that. For now though, Jack settled with whatever paid. Whatever paid for his very particular skill set. The Red Hood gang, he found, were more than willing to. Equal splits when a job was done, perfect for an upstart fresh out of juvie. At least that’s what he’d said. So, they’d shoved a flip-phone in his hand and got him entry to the local strip joint. “Don’t fuck this up, kid,” worried he’d get distracted due to the setting. He’d seen more meat on his own mother – wasn’t his thing. They’d be rolling in notes by the morning. Women were a dime a dozen and Jack was out for a lot more than fucking dimes.

The phone buzzed against the table, jittered against his empty glass. Bored eyes blinked, adjusting to the screen brightness. WE GOOD? Not yet. Jack had other plans. They’d be a certain success, he was leaving nothing to chance. He’d shut the phone just in time as a waitress loitered in his blotted peripheral. Sent as an obvious prompt that he should buy another cold one, she was slowly collecting empty tumblers, a blank expression beneath a battered blonde wig. He could barely contain his disdain as she approached and reached for his drink.

“Handy tip,” she started softly, “the girls won’t come over unless you throw ‘em some notes –”

Startled, she jolted as he grabbed for her wrist, catching her mere inches from the rim of his glass. “That is handy,” he replied with a chuckle (hahahaha…) “but why do that when I can see all I want from here, for free?” Jack felt the gentle tug of her arm but her expression remained neutral. She was noticeably practiced in the art of accepting unwanted advances. He didn’t relent.

“You sure?” Her tray of empties now placed upon his table, she pulled her pinny upwards to present the hem of her skin-coloured stockings, brushing a knee lightly against his splayed leg. He could feel her warm breath against his damp neck, could see the raised veins in her skinny arms. The wide and searching, empty eyes. Parched and cracked lips coated in thick crimson. The hunger.

“It’s far less disappointing from a distance,” he assured her, laughing lightly – with pity – and patted her skirt back over her thighs flippantly. “Scotch will do.” He extending a single crisp $50 between two fingers. Grinning widely as she desperately swiped for it… But Jack was much faster and sleight of hand had the fifty dollars once again tucked down his sleeve, out of sight and out of reach. “Tadaa!” Jack splayed his palm to prove the money’s absence and the waitress sucked through her teeth, disgusted.

She glared dangerously from beneath the rough fringe of her shiny wig. Not even the neon lights could flatter her deep-lined frowning. He tutted falsely at her repulsed response – she was used to disappointment, surely? After all, she lived it! “Magic tricks don’t do it for you, huh?” Jack asked, retrieving the note and offering it up again. Dangling it temptingly, smiling warmly at her all the while.

She snorted, visibly angry – long gone was the vacant waitress – this time, she viciously snatched at the fifty, scratching his hand with sparkling nails. She left three tiny welts that stung. Jack finally let go and she stumbled, snapping up her tray she stormed back to the empty bar, muttering obscenities about scumbags and skint men. “Wash your hands before you make mine!” he called eagerly from his seat, utterly satisfied. He’d paid $50 for that, it was the very least she could do!

Another text sent his cell spinning in a semicircle. HOW ABOUT NOW? Jack sighed, they had all night. Success – and more importantly finesse – took time. Something the Red Hood gang had yet to learn. Still, Jack eyed the lounge from his quiet corner. No one had left in a good hour or so. He just needed the dumb broad inside to return to the stage. The owner had beckoned in some top-heavy brunette thirty minutes prior and she had yet to come back. Considering the amount of snow Jack had seen him sniff up his nostril, a half hour stint was certainly commendable. So, Jack had been inclined to wait out their awkward coke-dick coitus with a quick drink – only for it to go on far longer than he (or anyone for that matter) could have anticipated. Now the gang were getting impatient. R WE GOOD YET J?

Jack stood. He’d given up on his waitress as they were giving up on him. J? Sighing somewhat dramatically, he slicked bouncy curls from his brow. He didn’t like to be rushed. This was only Jack’s second time on the job with them – couldn’t risk a premature sacking, so to speak. He hoped to avoid too much of a scene, he’d have to be quick as not to scare the punters. Though looking back at very few of them, noses halfway up the girl’s assholes, he doubted they’d notice a damn thing. The thrumming of the mindless music would drown out any screaming, he’d just have to be be sure they didn’t escape before he was done with them.

Five minutes. Jack finally replied, flipping the lid and pocketing the phone.

No one batted an eyelid as he approached the VIP suite, not one client noticed his thin and unassuming frame stride across to the owner’s own private quarter. Not a single person thought to stop a stranger from stepping beyond the public premises. Without encountering any problems whatsoever, Jack was at the lounge door and waltzing inside.

“What the fuck?!”

The owner, bald-headed, dried blood from his nose to his lip, pupils pinpricks, jaw solid, sat spread out gurning on a leather sofa. The brunette was bouncing lazily in his lap, barely lucid. That was until Jack appeared in their doorway, smiling pleasantly at them both. “I’m ever so sorry,” he lied loudly, “I thought this was the men’s!”

“Get the fuck out!”

The balding beast of a man shoved the stripper roughly from his thighs, clutching at the slack of his jeans to quickly cover his flaccid cock. Jack continued to smile politely as though he’d interrupted a picnic rather than a failure of a fuck in a private room. “I don’t suppose you know where they are?”

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you, you little fuck –”

“I’ll take that as a no, shall I?” His teeth flashed, tugging swiftly at the ankle of his own pants – flicking a knife out from his sock suspenders. This was where chaos always ensued. The stripper immediately set to squealing, bunching herself up in the corner and cowering, brittle arms covering her matted hair. The owner reacted far less submissively, and despite tripping on his loose trousers, swung a firm fist that spelt CUNT across the knuckles. One terrible scratchy tattoo that was quickly followed by its predecessor, TUFF. Both missed – and in his open state, gave Jack the gateway to his soft, bare belly.

The first stabbing went straight up between his ribs, where the man immediately slacked, sputtering, stunned. The second swiped his stomach, which turned him rigid, only his eyes roved madly about his skull, unseeing. And finally, the third, driven directly into his thick throat, silenced instantaneously, he shook uncontrollably in Jack’s slick hands. “It’s t-o-u-g-h!” Jack explained, breathless and exasperated, dropping the body at his feet.

“So–” He clapped his sopping hands together and felt the splatter speckle his face. Grinning widely, welcomingly, at the woman staring, the brunette was wordlessly mouthing something, aghast. Blowing wandering wet curls from his face, Jack continued calmly, “I don’t know why you’re hanging around I’m not gonna pay ya.” Frozen solid with fear, she dared not move. Not an inch. “Alright. Alright. Alright. Alright. Alright.” Jack squatted down to frisk the sorry carcass of the club owner, oozing black and red from wide and pumping wounds. She gave a strangled whine as Jack proceeded to pat it down, shoving stained palms into tight pockets, eventually he found himself fat leather wallet. “Here.” Limply, he tossed it, flicking tendrils of thick clotted blood, along with payment, her way. “Now you can go.”

Money motivated most and as he’d hoped it would, had motivated her to move out from the corner she had clambered into. Reaching without flinching for the wads of cash he’d procured from her dead lover, she said nothing, nodded absently, gathered her gear and fled. Jack caught her so suddenly, slit her windpipe so deeply, she was as good as dead the very moment her fingers touched the doorframe.

The time he’d allotted was up, the phone once again hummed against his hip. NOW? They asked.

I’ll let you through the back.

#joker #the joker #jack napier #joe kerr #my writing #the killing joke #some kinda new origin ideas #like baby joker the baby of the red hood gang #headcanon

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endae · 8 years

Text

|in bittersweet remembrance|

[AO3]

Putting out something small for @stanuary while I’m working on some larger projects!

For Week 3: Memories.

It doesn’t all come back at once, but he’s fine with that. They trickle and they taper, but they come back, with time.

He would’ve made the most of the last sunset if he’d known what was to follow. He would’ve savored the evening air had he known it’d be poisoned an hour later, with smoke and ash, with the gut-wrenching feeling that there was more he could’ve done to prevent this.

He would’ve paid closer attention to his niece and her fears, had he known that the end of her world meant the end of theirs too.

But it is what it is — and what it is isn’t terrible. He’s a couple memories short of who he’s supposed to be, but this town is alive. His brother, his kids are alive. It’s hardly a sacrifice compared to what this all could’ve been, and even then, they say there’s a way to fix this.

There’s a lot to remember.

But the more he tries, the less he recalls.

~.~.~

His name is Stanley Pines, and maybe only that.

There’s a lot more missing than he realizes.

They stick to the basics. New Jersey-native. A twin. For a moment, he thinks they’re doing him a lousy job just to humor him, but no, “nineteen-sixty-something” really is all he’s ever spoken about his age. It already clues him into who he used to be.

He’s old, but his brother is older. Fifteen minutes to be exact, but apparently he’s fought for fourteen and forty eight seconds on more than one occasion.

His brother Stanford is a genius — and with twelve doctorates, that’s an understatement. He changed history. He birthed contraptions beyond this world’s understanding.

He’s made mistakes, but they all have.

Ford’s lived a thousand lifetimes through the portal he’s somehow built himself, yet his twin insists that it’s him who’s lived thousands more. He’s gone through aliases as quickly as he’s gone through motels, and for some reason, that amounts to more in Ford’s eyes than it does in his.

You grow up a little faster on the streets, he supposes.

His calloused hands remember a lot of things that his brain can’t — wads of cash and match sticks. Bullet casings and tourniquets. Early adulthood is a blurred mess of crimes he can’t put names or dates to, but the remnant sensations they’ve left behind are the only evidence that they happened at all.

If this is all he remembers of those years, so be it.

In between sections, Ford leaves him a speck of their childhood to help jog his memory further. And it does, briefly — golden rays of a beach from their youth. Sand that took hours just to beat free from their clothes. It’s all as nostalgic as it is melancholy, because with every warm sensation that returns to him, it’s undermined by two more absences of something else he feels like he should be remembering.

Were they important? To him, to someone else?

They’re thorny, whatever they are — a little sharper than the shards of glass that jabbed their feet, and maybe even a little deeper than the cuts they left behind. He’s exhausting every corner of his mind just to search, to find something, but he just can’t.

“There’s…a little more to it than that,” Ford interjects at some point, flipping to an arbitrary page of the scrapbook in his lap, “—but there are more pressing matters right now.”

He doesn’t question it, but he doesn’t forget.

~.~.~

He remembers the kids as the rays of light that they are, the kind that rivaled even the most summery of their days with him.

It’s ironically their first day in town that comes back to him the quickest, the clearest. In three months’ time, they’ve made a handful of memories together, but apparently first impressions never fade.

He can still remember it like it was yesterday.

Waiting in late afternoon, the last breath of spring changing into summer. He’d leaned against the outside wall of the station, watching with a raised eyebrow at the sight of the two kids unloading from the bus.

He gets a read on them from looks alone: one carrying a backpack three sizes too big for him, the other…well his eyes burned just trying to make her out through the blinding rays of all those sequins on her sweater.

They’re small things, the both of them. He mistakes them for younger than they actually are, and maybe as someone else’s kids entirely. But their eyes are brown like his, hair brownish with a tint of red, like his used to be. They share noses and cheekbones, and there’s something vaguely comforting about knowing there’s more that binds them than just a surname.

Everything that comes to him, comes rose-tinted and complete.

Mabel is as sweet as she is loud, but she only fills his ears with kind reassurances and kinder sentiments. It’s in his hour of need that it becomes all too apparent. With her scrapbook in hand, she stations herself at his side in the chair, talking long into the night until her voice is hoarse.

She’s a lifeline to his old self if a physical manifestation were to ever exist, and she clings to that like it’s her own lifeline to moving on from this.

She livens his shell of a being with promises and treasured times when everything else was too eerily quiet. She’s something else.

Dipper is his own brand of pleasant, but it’s through sarcasm and a snark that reminds him too much of himself. Charming like his sister, but a touch more rebellious. Stan’s starting to remember him, too — they’d butt heads and their personalities clashed, but it was only ever that.

When his sister’s voice starts to run dry, he takes the initiative of prying the scrapbook from her hands and into his, clearing his throat to recite his own memories of the summer. Where Mabel’s was a fervent rambling without structure, his stories take on a tone of their own. Somewhat softer, more organized, but just as sincere. Just as desperate.

He’s as quiet as he is thoughtful when everything else was too loud. He’s something else, too.

They’re good kids, the both of them. Full of love. Full of laughter, full of life—

—and mere seconds away from being ripped from this world forever.

“Grunkle Stan?”

Something unhinges in him, and all at once, he remembers.

Bill’s game of roulette comes darting from out of the shadows, and in a sea of foggy recollections, it comes like a sucker punch. If it could ever hurt more than in the moment, it’s right now as an afterthought without the adrenaline to numb the panic.

He stood there. He watched. He held is tongue for the tantalizing moment to put an end to this, fully knowing how close the world sat on the brink of extinction. Because losing the kids is only a breath short of dying himself.

Having it be their lives flash through his eyes may be the only testament he ever needs of that.

When the distant echo of “you” rattles him, it rattles everything else free. A moment of re-lived terror is all it takes for everything to flood out, memories so deeply embedded in his bones that it feels like finding himself again.

Fishing. Diners. Mini-golf. Karaoke and laser tag, linking hours to days to weeks.

The silhouette of a monster’s fingers ready to snap is the only one that could break him right in two.

For the snippets of less-than-perfect that do return, they don’t leave him feeling hollow the way his gaps do. They’ve had disagreements, and perhaps even more misunderstandings, but they don’t leave marks the way his empty spaces are starting to.

If there are truly ugly moments they shared, he doesn’t remember them. He doesn’t care to, either.

He doesn’t want them any other way.

[Read the rest here on AO3!]

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #gf fanfiction #stanuary #stan pines #ford pines #dipper pines #mabel pines #gen fic #hurt/comfort #angst #pines family #2k #stan and dipper #stan and mabel #stan and ford #(trying a bit of a different writing style too :) )

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advxdaehyun-blog · 8 years

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plotcall! or whatever we call it on tumblr rp nowadays—

Yells excitedly and nervously!! I’m sorry for being inactive but I was lurking around in search of my muse that went on a vacation without telling me, wheezes!! Anyway, uhm, please plot with me! I’m really cool and have great pick-up lines— Here’s the list of plots I’ve been wanting to share, all of them lead to character development and relationship growth! Thus, if you wish to proceed with any of these, please bear in mind that it’s not to be taken lightly and changes will occur for my muse, what happens to yours is not my decision to make. A few things to be taken into account:

―I’ve set no boundaries in which the plots do no require certain positions/species/whatsoever. It’s free for all, I wish for my muse to interact with zero limits. ―If a particular plot ends up attracting too many interested people, I’ll close it for future threads until the present ones are done. ―Rather than producing confinements of certain settings, I’ve kept it vague and generic; just a paragraph to awaken the dormant inspirations within the ones whom are reading this list. Further details will be discussed.

T R I G G E R W A R N I N G S : violence, pedophilia, rape, crude language, maniac behavior, murder, psychological manipulation, verbal/physical/mental abuse, guns, physical combat, isolation, trapped, cage, metaphorical freedom, illicit affair, blades, sharp objects, implied pregnancy, implied forced abortion!

α — 1984 by George Orwell.

stumbling upon despair, do you spit out venom or do you wallow amidst self-deprecation? there is a hierarchical order, constituents arranged based on ranks and the invisible eye of an ultimatum ever watchful. slithering through hallways, ascending a never ending flight of stairs, upwards the both of you go; forward the both of you pursue, despondency and determination, yet did any of these two ever realize those chains circling your ankles, the leash death knotted around your neck? was escape ever truly a reality, those acquaintances truly ally and the trust you’ve shared between, has it always been seen as a tracking trail to prove who’s in the wrong? then who’s in the right?

β — The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho.

as his naked body shivered on the cement floor of the military’s holding cell, daehyun only ever wished to live. “when you really want something to happen, the whole universe will conspire so that your wish comes true.” yet as he witnessed the blazing sun for the first time in two months, the feelings could only be summoned as standing in the middle of Sahara dessert with zero bearings. would you be the Philosopher’s Stone to fuel his cognizance or are you the Elixir of Life to put a halt on the tempest in his mind? either way, these scars littering his body are quite fascinating, against your fingertips; against your tongue; against the blade you’re holding too, maybe.

γ — 1Q84 by Haruki Murakami.

sometimes you’ll see him carrying a bouquet of flowers; fingers caressing the petals as if they were a part of him and spoke in soft wisps of breathy sighs whenever he’s seen in the gardens. floriography, he had once told you after a brief meeting; you asked, he answered and that was that. but then it was if the Sun and Moon had aligned and you were staring at an entirely different entity; daehyun? kazuya? who is he? you could’ve sworn crimson painted his fingers, razor sharp smile and glinting eyes. the way he had manhandled those people left you torn between weeping in terror or avenging their deaths by tearing this diabolical individual whom remained standing in front of you, unwavering gaze and all that jazz, Frank Sinatra playing as the background music. was it parallel universes or did you just have bad timing?

δ — Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk.

fight or flight, those trembling hands of yours; quivering lips and rivulets of sweat streaming down your face. despite the long-sleeved shirt, those baggy camouflage pants, you can see tangible thew adorning his very being. daehyun speaks like those cunning foxes, he smiles as if the entire world rested on his back yet the way you fought erased those mental images of him with a flower crown on top of his head; of him hidden behind towers of books; of him reaching out a helping hand when you were cornered. this silence and that silence are parallel lines; never to meet because back then, daehyun was battling the enemies for you and now daehyun is battling the enemies within you. how was it possible to end up with expectations hung around your neck like a noose and a man adroit at physical combat ready to pounce the moment you even breathe?!

ε — The Great Gatsby by F.Scott Fitzgerald.

speak of luxury and they’ll respond with rare gems, a bar of gold and glittering diamonds. sometimes they’ll romanticize other aspects, as if it could wipe away the drool from the corner of their mouths once gazes land on wads of cash and those cars imported from top automobile countries. daehyun finds amusement above all in luxury; he likes the multitude of rainbow light rays reflected off a diamond’s surface, enjoys the substantial weight of holding jewelries in his hands but he never stays. how could he allow himself to be chained by silver cutlery and forked tongues when he’s seen so much more in the world beyond? it’s hard to understand how he laughs at being presented a gold ring but rendered silent when he’s looking at Renaissance paintings and architectures through the screen of his laptop. it’s hilarious how he could dismiss offers of wealth with a monotonous yet polite “oh?” but gasps in astonishment when tangible literature were immortalized through yellowing, dog-eared pages bounded by leathery covers.

ϛ — The Catcher In The Rye by J.D. Salinger.

one half of a whole | beginning; she ran out of the house, half-dressed and half-braided hair flying against the blowing wind. monsters crawled up the marble stairs croaking for help with their bloody hands and smashed faces, monsters buried in their backyard, monsters escorted her to school and practice, monsters disappeared into her mother’s office only to never resurface. her father religiously called three times a week, her mother religiously whipped the back of her knees three times a stutter in speech. you’ve heard the clattering of mugs and splashing of boiled water, yet you’ve never heard of someone who picks up hot ceramic pieces with a familiarity one could only fathom after having seen the Devil themselves.

ζ — The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. coming soon!

η — Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami. coming soon!

θ — Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami. coming soon!

ι — Kafka On The Shore by Haruki Murakami. coming soon!

κ — To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee. coming soon!

λ — The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini.

somber ambiance for stories of rape, rape, rape. tears shed over bruised thighs and sashaying hips. there were signs; there will always be signs with him, the way he knows how to subtly brace against an onslaught of sexual oppression, the way he bore his fangs towards others that dared to lift a hand when he is present but consent is absent. how do you go about someone who’s gone through wars; both fought in reality and in his mind’s simulation? the ever present lines of red rimming those falsely jubilant eyes, you can’t think, can’t think, refuse to acknowledge, beneath that old military uniform; underneath his favorite sweaters, one of those parts in his timeline, that scarred stomach once protruded into a bump, a microscopic sound of heartbeat but where did it go? where did daehyun go after he was dragged down the stairs? where did daehyun go after he was forced on to the ground? how is it that you are stuck in oblivion when he’s always there to kiss your demons, embrace your wrath and tenderly soothe the flame within your soul?

μ — American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis.

“why do you sound like you want to kill someone?” “because i do want to kill someone,…again.” the first time you met him over one too many glasses of neat bourbon, as yours eyes roamed across his countenance; slight wrinkles in case of antediluvian youth, feline curved eyes and soft, soft lines of his lips, gracefulness breathed onto those lithe wrists; the thought of this man, seated on the bar stool next to you never crossed that particular inclination of thoughts. but when you met him for one too many times over the same glasses of neat bourbon, there’s a certain aspect of unhinged with the way his lips curl into the embodiment of rogue; amber orbs shone too brightly and that sinful flicker of tongue wetting chapped tiers. it gives you a metaphorical side table with two drawers, one contains a classic russian roulette revolver whilst the other contains what you’d like to believe as means of safety for you. but then you can’t have the best of both worlds now, can you? especially when you’re situated next to a maniac veiled by those sweet, sweet words defying laws of gravity.

#` [ ooc ]#` [ yells i've finally gotten around to this ]#` [ blessed so blessed ]#` [ come at me lovelies!!! ]#plots

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m39 · 6 months

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Beyond the WADs’ Roulette - Part 9: Chex Quest 1

Those alien bastards are gonna pay for ruining my breakfast.

#9: Chex Quest 1

Main author(s): Digital Café

Release date: 1996

Version(s) played: CQ3 1.4

Required port compatibility: vanilla (original version)

Levels: 5 (E1M1-M5)

Chex Quest sounds like something that should’ve been doomed from the start. A game for kids published by a cereal company made on the Doom Engine? That sounds like a stinky bomb set to detonate in the near future and ruin everyone’s day. And yet, to everyone’s surprise, it actually ended up pretty good for baby’s first Doom.

How did this all happen? Well, from what I know, it started with WatersMolitor, a promotion agency hired by the owners of Chex cereals. They wanted to create a game based on this product, to show that these cereals are... kewl... God, I think I will throw up.

So with a budget of around half a million bucks, this game was released for free in around 5.7 million of the Chex boxes, convincing some people to finally buy their slop.

That’s most of the basic info I’ll talk about in this review. Check other sites if you want to know more because I don’t want to waste more time (at least in this section).

As for the plot of this game, it takes place on a mining planet Bazoik. A volcano erupted there, and one (or some) of the chunks that ended up being taken by the squadron of soldiers contained larvae of a slimy creature that would be later known as Flemoid. It started eating the base’s/colony’s food and before everyone noticed, these walking boogers were now everywhere.

Since the regular weapons can’t do shit on these filths, the scientists modified the Intergalactic Federation of Cereals’ (AKA the faction that Bazoik belongs to) weapons, Zorchers, to instead teleport these bastards back to the dimension where they came from.

Since the feds now need someone to get to the mining planet and take care of the problem, one of the walking waffles, Chex Warrior, decides to take the mantle and volunteer.

Now, before we start properly talking about this game, I’ll let you know, that I played on the modified Chex Quest 3, which includes both Chex Quest 1 and 2, along with the third episode. This version was made by Aroenai, who created the icon for CQ3, and it is based on GZDoom (the original version was based on ZDoom).

With all of that out of the way, let’s finally take a look at Chex Quest 1, and see if it’s good.

For starters, Chex Quest looks pleasant for the eyes. It’s colorful and bright. And despite spending most of your time running around the facility near the mines that you visit on the final map, each map offers something different and distingue for lack of better words.

The music was also rather pleasant. It did sometimes sound like a cacophony in some parts but it wasn’t really that annoying (I heard worse tracks). I even like how Caverns sounds darker than the rest of the tracks, signifying the end of the Chex Warrior’s journey.

If you didn’t get it already, Chex Quest is basically Ultimate Doom for babies. It plays exactly like Doom I with a different coat of paint – killing monsters, grabbing items, searching for keys, maze-like maps, etc. Not to mention being simpler than the Doom I maps (at least in my opinion).

While most of the time the maps are pretty much typical stuff that the WAD-making beginners would do at the time, there are three moments that stick out. The first one is in the Storage Facility, where if you grab either a blue or red key, you won’t need the other one since both teleporters behind the colored doors teleport you to the same area with a mandatory switch.

The second interesting moment is in Arboretum, where at the end you encounter a maze between the facility and the entrance to the mines. And to make it actually challenging, the maze doesn’t show up on the map. It’s kind of infuriating, but I suffered through worse cases of maps not showing the areas (anyone who played Earth WAD will know what I mean).

The last moment comes from Caverns of Bazoik. As you walk towards the yellow key, there is a secret room that not only has another yellow key, but also another secret passage that will lead you to the final boss without all of the key hunting.

This game is child’s play, both literally and figuratively. With some amount of vigilance, you will be able to finish Chex Quest 1 without saving or even without getting hit by enemies. I would also say that it’s easier than the first episode of Doom I, but I believe it’s clear enough to notice that from playing the game.

All of Chex Warrior’s arsenal functions the same as Doomguy’s arsenal. It’s not really worth talking about them anymore aside from the Zorch Propulsor. If you play Chex Quest 3, this Rocket Launcher replacement will not give you a splash damage from the rockets which makes sense since these weapons are supposed to affect Flemoids and not you.

And speaking of Flemoids, as soon as the Federation’s scientists manage to find a way to defeat them, they become a rather easy target for even one dude to get rid of them from Bazoik. It’s probably due to not having any hitscanning attack, but it won’t stop them from covering you in their slime so much that you won’t be able to move.

There are five different enemies (all with names starting with Flemoidus). Commonus, Bipedicus, and Cycloptis are your typical melee, cannon fodder; you might have to try to let them hit you. The armored version of the second enemy is additionally capable of throwing slime from the distance, but it’s still cannon fodder that functions like an Imp.

The last enemy is Flembrane, a living wall of slime (that probably started all of this mess) that you meet at the final level and protects the other Chex people; it’s still a rather easy enemy since it doesn’t move and is basically a Baron reskin.

Honestly, the original Chex Quest game is worth checking out. A game that sounds like a guaranteed catastrophe on paper that ends up much, much better than you think. It is also a perfect introduction to the world of Doom games and WADs for your kids (if you have at least one of course). No matter what version you decide to try, just download it, take a look at it, and decide if it’s worth your time or not.

And while Bazoik is now free from the menace of Flemoids, for the Chex Warrior, it was just the beginning.

To be continued in... Chex Quest 2.

#doom #chex quest #chex quest 1 #review #doom wads’ roulette #Beyond the WADs’ Roulette

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m39 · 2 years

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Beyond the WADs’ Roulette - Part 8: Doom 64

...

I don’t really know how to begin this review...

How about like this:

For starters, while this game is mostly similar to the original Classic Doom games, it is a totally different beast on its own. Not only because the version I played uses a different engine that only simulates modified Id Tech 1’s behavior (that was originally based on the PS1 port of the Classic duology) but it’s more likely based to be closer to the original N64 experience rather than GZDoom-type stuff with all of the source port’s additional features. So there won’t really be many screenshots I took (there will be around one per map).

Secondly, I don’t think this review will be the same as the regular Doom stuff, since I don’t really feel that encouraged for secret hunting in this game asides from the new weapon and secrets related to it. So don’t consider this review to be more in-depth by someone who eats Doom 64 for breakfast everyday.

Thirdly, unlike my usual 3-4 playthroughs style of playing WADs (blind (if not played before), secret hunting, screenshot making, and the normal second one), this review will be based on one playthrough (technically, ‘cause I played this game before). Maybe two of these if I’ll have the morale to do it again.

Also, apologies for the brightness in some of the screenshots. I can’t see shit normally in this game.

Now with that said, let’s talk about...

#8: Doom 64

Main author(s): Midway Games (original version)/ Nightdive Studios (2020 PC remaster)

Release date: March 31st, 1997 (original release)/December 2nd, 1997 (Europe PAL version)/March 20th, 2020 (PC remaster)

Version played: PC version from 2020

Used game engine: Modified Id Tech 1 (1997 version)/KEX 3 (2020 version)

Levels: 33 (25 standard ones, 4 secret ones, 3 fun levels, and the title map)

So, Doom 64. The game that people didn’t really give a shit about back when it was released, and now it is recognizable (not as much as the classic duology but still). Some might even say this is the real Doom 3, and not whatever that weird game from 2004 was.

As for myself, I thought it was good. Like nothing spectacular. Just good. I actually bought it as a pre-order bonus for Doom Eternal (my apologies for sinning).

But does this game still holds up?

Well, let’s find out.

But first, some backstory:

Originally, this game was supposed to be titled Doom: Absolution (probably because people would’ve thought that this game would be just another port of the original game). The Absolution part, unfortunately, ended up as a title for the last level, because for some reason Nintendies wanted to have some of the games to just slap number 64 to the original titles because iT lOoKs KeWl. -_-

Doom 64 was more ambitious at the start of development. Aaron Seeler, one of the game’s programmers (who worked closely with Carmack to create the game’s 3D rendering engine (for the project called DEX)), said that the game was supposed to significantly deviate from the typical Doom stuff, talking about how there were at first various concepts of Hell itself based on ancient civilizations’ cultures. Not gonna lie, it sounds sick as fuck.

From what I’ve read about the development, this game’s original engine supports colored lightning (something that would appear in ZDoom around a year later from the release of Doom 64), and the so-called Macro Scripting. The former feature was used less in the original form (according to some previews from game magazines) for highlights and shadowing.

Also, the game’s developers brought Gregor Punchatz, the guy who created some of the models for the Classic games, to basically do the same thing for their game. Gregor’s work includes models for Pinky, Cyberdemon, and Zombies among others.

If you need more info, you can check out the DoomWiki’s page dedicated to this game, along with some stuff you might find on YouTube or somewhere else.

As for the plot of this game, like many WADs for the Classic Doom games before and after Doom 64’s release, it takes place after the events of Doom II. Humanity might have been saved by the Doomguy, but he, surprisingly, got PTSD from all of the Ripping and Tearing.

Earth governments decided to take care of the remaining demons with a shit-ton of radiation, putting the UAC facilities on Mars under quarantine.

Years later, it turns out that one of the demons had survived the quarantine bombardment, and basically started resurrecting the rest of its kind that were slaughtered. Because of the incoming comeback from Hell, Doomguy is brought up from his retirement to do what he’s best at: Murdering demons.

If you read the synopsis from the manual or the text screens that appear in the game, you might think that this game takes itself too seriously and edgy, but I believe that it’s self-aware. It knows what it is, and it doesn’t shy itself from going over the top. I kind of like it.

Now to properly start talking about Doom 64, it looks really good. Judging it by the 1997 standards, it’s incredible how this game made all of the gimmicks that were later a standard to source ports (ZDoom-family ones particularly). Moving/animated skyboxes, colored lightning that I mentioned before, multiple scripted events that change the layout of a location; it’s kind of nuts in my opinion.

Then again, Midway was working closely with Id so it wouldn’t be surprising if the latter let the former use the source code of the Doom Engine.

Even ignoring all of that stuff I just mentioned, it still looks in terms of textures and architecture. I would say it feels just like the Classic games but tries to not look so over-the-top as them textures-wise.

The sprite quality is also very good. They all look different from their original counterparts but you can still recognize which enemy, weapon, or item is which.

Except for Cacodemons and Pain Elementals. For some reason, these two decided to cosplay as each other for this game like it was Halloween. It feels like the last-second swap between the mechanics of Tomatoes and Meatballs. I can’t think of any other reason why they look like that.

The biggest con with these sprites is that both the regular Shotgun and Super Shotgun don’t have reload animations like the original counterparts, making it all look awkward when the gun reloads and it’s still in the same position.

Sound effects are also good. These are basically from the PlayStation port of the Classic Doom games. And I don’t really have anything to say about them. The only problem is with the roaming sound of the bigger demons, where (as I mentioned in one of my WAD’s reviews) it’s basically the same sound effect that was used for one of the Hitscanners’ wake up calls. It makes me feel like I woke up a Hoovy or other type of Zombie.

The music in this game is strange. Most of the tracks are actually just ambient noise instead of proper tracks. I don’t know what to think about the moments when the actual music finally appears since it isn’t enough for me to decide if it’s good or bad but I’ll say that it helps build a darker atmosphere. it’s like Doom 64 decided to take some inspirations from Quake I.

So overall, this game looks and sounds good. How does it play though?

Well, it’s basically what you can expect from Classic Doom: Fighting monsters, hunting for switches/keys to go further, finding secrets, etc. All of this but on an upgraded engine and with 30 FPS instead of the default 35 that were used in the duology.

Like many good WADs that came before and after this game, Doom 64 has interesting moments. To paraphrase some of them:

The Terraformer has the titular machine (at least I hope that’s it) that creates a new passage for you.

Even Simpler is a homage to Dead Simple in a reversed kind of form.

Spawned Fear has this weird, hellish portal that pops out after doing something in the room where it is and starts spewing out Pain Elementals.

And Unholy Temple makes you use the machine to press proper combinations of switches to go further (the key layout is the same, it’s which one you have to start from changes).

I don’t really have anything to say about the items. Almost all of them function the same way. But now Health and Armor Bonuses give you 2% instead of 1%.

While the levels themselves aren’t really complicated, the fact how dark some of them are is complete bollocks. I’m serious. That’s the reason why I brightened myself the game since playing it with the default position on the gamma slider would probably work only if I could see in the dark. The levels in an abandoned facility don’t really feel that bad if you think about it but I feel like I would barely see anything in the later levels.

Like both Classic Doom games, Doom 64 has secret levels. Unlike Doom II, there is no second secret level in the first one. All secret exits are in MAP04, MAP12, and MAP18 respectively. If you know how to get to these levels, it’s not really that complicated. The first exit requires a correct switch combination (3-1-2-4 if you want to know), the second has a cliff shaped like an arrow to show where it is (behind the fake wall), and the last one requires crossing a particular linedef between the yellow door and normal exit.

Usually, the secret levels in the Classic Doom games (alongside Evilution and Plutonia) don’t actually have anything interesting in them. It’s just an extra challenge for you. In this game, however, it’s worth visiting them since they hold something that will really help you with your journey:

The Demon Keys. Pentagram-shaped artifacts of incredible power. One per secret level: orange, purple, and cyan respectively. If you think you can get them easily, think again. Each one requires a puzzle to finish to be obtained.

The orange key is the hardest one to get since you have to do some switch hunting and shooting. Not to mention, the secret red key that you to open the door to it.

The purple key is probably the easiest one to get. Just shoot two switches that appear after entering one of the small guard posts near it to lower the platform with it.

The cyan key isn’t that bad too. Just before the exit, when the map starts shaking come back to the room where it is, and press the new switch in front of it. After that, rush to where the blue key was and use the raised pedestal to grab the key.

I’ll talk more about these artifacts later.

What I didn’t talk up to this point is that there is actually a fourth secret map. Accessible from Staging Area. All you have to do is blow up all the barrels on the map (including the ones in secrets) and the alcove with a secret exit will open at the beginning of a map... but only for short time. So make sure to save the one near the start for last before entering it.

Doing this will give you access to Hectic. Hectic is a shit-ton of bull. See all the items in the starting area? Pick any of them and you die.

Sure, you can use the normal exit and just go to the next map, but there is another, secret one behind the colored bars. Don’t worry, fellas. You gonna be fine. All you need to do is

FIGHT THREE SPIDERS WITH A ROCKET LAUNCHER IN A VERY CRAMPED AREA,

GRAB THE KEY FROM THE CHESS-FLOOR BULLSHIT WHILE BEING BOMBARDED WITH DARTS,

AND FIGHT FOUR KNIGHTS WHILE STANDING ON VERY NARROW PILLARS.

But... Y-you know... I- it’s fine. It’s fi-

You start giggling and crying.

Technical difficulties

...

Is this torture even worth it?

Well... kind of... If you don’t play the original version of the game (because you would have to do that all over again after turning the game off).

If you somehow use the secret exit in Hectic, you get access to the Features menu, allowing you to warp to other levels alongside some cheats. Alongside the Fun Levels.

Fun Levels are, like Hectic, filled with bullshit, but not as much as their deranged cousin. There are three of these maps (all forcing you to Pistol-start), each having its own taste of sadism:

Cat and Mouse is the map that makes you fight Cyberdemon surrounded by Nightmare Imps. It sounds rather simple until you realize that this brain-dead cow constantly teleports around the map. Now good luck trying to kill him, buddy!

Hardcore is where you fight with Mancubi, Arachnotrons, and another cow. And yes, the monster can teleport too.

Playground is kind of similar to the previous map but it switches the teleporting bullshit with fighting spiders while forcing you to pick up Partial Invisibility. And we all know what happens when you fight spiders with this power-down.

As I said, these four levels that I mentioned above are sadistic. But surprisingly, if you don’t count them, you realize that Doom 64 is actually rather easy to play.

No, I’m serious. It’s not really challenging. I played this game on I Own Doom (which is the same skill level as HMP), and most of the time I was mowing enemies down without any problems. Maybe this game is harder than Doom II when you play it right after playing the latter game, but after playing so many ball-busters, this game felt almost like nothing to me. Just another breeze.

The only hard parts that came out of this game were the environmental traps. Especially the new addition to this game: The dart traps. These might be the only hazard that will devour most of your health if you are at least semi-good at playing Doom games/WADs.

While monsters are mostly acting the same as in the Classics, there are some differences in their behavior. I’ll try to tell all I can know:

Zombiemen and Shotgunners look the same except the latter ones are greyer than the former. Also, Zombiemen can deal up to 24% damage instead of 15%.

Imps are basically the same but with the actual melee animation added. There is also a new variant, exclusive for this game: Nightmare Imp; which moves twice as fast, it’s harder to stagger him and his fireballs are twice as fast as the regular ones. Also, they are blue and partially transparent.

Fun fact: Both Imps and Nightmare Imps can infight each other.

Pinkies and Spectres are slightly faster, and the latter ones are now yellowish.

Lost Souls are even worse than before. Even though they have reduced health, they are much faster and much more aggressive, making fighting them a complete nightmare. it’s like there is no break in their ramming.

Cacos have slightly different damage scale for their chomping. Instead of the original 10-60% damage, now it’s 8-64%. Their fireballs, however, are over 70% faster now.

Hell Nobles mostly stay the same. They now deal 10% more melee damage, and surprisingly, they can now infight each other. Also, Barons changed their red skin for looking like Hell Knights but with more ginger-looking goat legs and shooting red fireballs instead of the regular green ones.

Arachnotrons now fire two plasma balls instead of one and they fire in series of five instead of continuously, with a 4% chance to fire additional plasma from the fifth fire onwards. You might think that since their plasma ball now deals up to 24% damage instead of 40% it might get easier. But since they fire two at once, the overall damage output per shot is actually 1.2 times higher than the original.

Pain Elementals are now more annoying than ever since they spit out two Lost Souls instead of one. And if you think about getting close to them to prevent doing that, guess what? These little buggers explode like a freaking barrel if you do that. Living or dying Pain Elemental? It doesn’t matter. You are screwed nonetheless. Thankfully (kind of), they can’t spawn Lost Souls if their number is at least 17 instead of the Classics’ 21. So that’s something.

Mancubi are basically the same. The only different thing is that the degree where they fire their attack is just wider (asides from the third one).

Cyberdemons are slower but that’s basically it about them.

And while there are no Revenants in this game, their missiles are still here. They can take sharper turns but thankfully after over 10 seconds, they stop chasing you.

There is, however, one last demon to talk about: The Mother Demon.

Imagine fighting an abomination created from Arch-vile and Revenant but on steroids. Tougher than the Cyberdemon himself, she shoots three lines of fire like the Heretic’s Maulotaur, and four homing projectiles from her sides.

And if that’s not enough for you, you have to fight an army of demons coming from three teleporters before actually facing her. This is where the Demon Keys come in. You can close these teleporters with each key, making the last map significantly easier to beat and summoning the Mother Demon earlier.

And that’s all for the monsters. Almost all of the roster from the Classic games come back. There are no Revenants (asides from their missiles as I said), no Arch-viles, no Spider Masterminds, and, of course, no Hoovies. This is another point why Doom 64 isn’t as hard as WADs that came around 1996 or ’97.

And while you may think that it got technically harder due to the enemies having different stats, Doomguy’s arsenal was also buffed in order to slaughter demons... Most of it at least.

Your fist now deals slightly more damage, up to 24%. Not really that much compared to 20% from the Classics but it might be significant after grabbing the Berserk.

By the way, your melee range (alongside demons) is increased due to the sprites being bigger.

Chainsaw is now really strong. It’s now twice as fast and it also deals up to 24% damage. It’s so powerful it can easily stagger even bigger foes. Still not recommended with Pain Elementals and Hell Nobles.

Pistol now deals 4-16% damage instead of 5-15%. Its fire rate is, however, faster and without a small delay after pressing the fire key (same with the Shotgun too).

Regular Shotgun might deal slightly less damage in terms of the maximal output but it’s all nullified with a slightly faster firing rate. It also slightly shakes your screen each time you fire (alongside at least half of your arsenal).

Super Shotgun, like the normal one, has a slightly smaller maximal damage output but it’s much faster than its original counterpart. For this exchange, it also has a small kickback when firing, so be careful with this beast on ledges.

Chaingun fires faster.

Rocket Launcher has a kickback too, but thankfully the rockets (either from you or the Cyberdemon) travel faster, making it slightly better for more long-ranged fights.

Plasma Gun got unfortunately nerfed. Not only it fires slower but the projectiles are also slower than the original ones. At least it doesn’t have a small cooldown when you stop firing it.

BFG feels off. It works basically the same as the original games, but I feel like it is weaker than the original version. Maybe because I rarely felt that I want to use it. There is some stuff about this BFG in DoomWiki for instance if you need some details about its changes.

Doom 64 has a new weapon that became as iconic as the rest of the Doomguy’s arsenal: The Unmaker.

This weapon might feel underwhelming to you at first. It basically starts out as a Laser Gun (how it’s supposedly originally named since it didn’t even have the official name) that shoots a hitscanning laser that can deal up to 80% damage. But remember the Demon Keys? They can upgrade this weapon too. With one Key, it can shoot faster, and with another two adding an additional laser each. With all keys it can shred everything in sight in mere seconds: armies of demons, Cyberdemons, it can even make Mother Demon your own bitch. It’s so awesome it was even added to Doom Eternal as an unlockable weapon as a BFG replacement.

I don’t think I’ve encountered any bugs while playing Doom 64. You can check out DoomWiki if you want to search for these. Although I do remember some stuttering during my newest playthrough. But it might be like that because I had other softwares on while playing this game. I don’t know.

And that’s basically it for Doom 64. It’s still a really good game to play. The only real problem I have with this game is that it’s too dark sometimes (I know it’s supposed to build atmosphere but still) and some of the levels are hard for the wrong reasons, but asides from that, I don’t think there is anything wrong with this game.

If you want to know more about Doom 64, check out stuff made by Decino, Mtpain27 and Civvie. The first one’s especially helped me with the info about enemies and weapons.

Normally this kind of game would be forgotten and people wouldn’t really care about it. But not the Doom community. They tried as hard as they could to somehow make this game playable on PC. To actually see if this game’s good without wasting their money on a console that they don’t own.

And in the near future, we will be taking a look at probably the first successful attempt at recreating Doom 64 on PCs.

I’ll see you then.

Happy Polish Independence Day, people!

#doom #doom 64 #review #Doom WADs’ Roulette #Beyond the WADs' Roulette

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