#battle computer terminal

[sw5w]

High Kick

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:52:17

[soapdispensersalesman]

[britisharmymilitaryintelligence]

TERRAN RELATED LIFE SUPPORT AND DEFENSIVE SYSTEMS IMMEDIATELY DEPORT OR KILL OR CAPTURE INTRUDERS OR INVADERS AS A GENERAL RULE AND ARE ENTIRELY AUTOMATED OR AUTOMATIC AND REQUIRE NO ORDERS TO FUNCTION OR EVEN KNOWLEDGE AMONG PERSONS AS TO THE PARTICULAR DETAILS OF THOSE TYPES OF FUNCTIONS. IT WOULD NEVER MAKE SENSE THAT SOMEONE WOULD BE GIVEN ACCESS TO TERRAN RELATED SYSTEMS BASED UPON AN INDIVIDUAL'S ASSENT AND INDIVIDUAL ORDERS MIGHT ADD TO TERRAN RELATED SYSTEMS FUNCTIONS BUT THEY ARE ALL ESSENTIALLY ROOTED IN MASSIVE BRAIN EMULATING COMPUTERS AND SO TYPICALLY ACT AS THOUGH ALL MEMBERS OF A SOCIETY HAD VOTED IN RELATION TO EVERYTHING DONE. PLEASE RESEARCH WIRELESS BRAIN MEMORY BACKUP TECHNOLOGY FOR FURTHER INSIGHT.

[perennialastronaut]

A sick as hell former battle droid I designed for Agent Strange!

[plainclothesdisaster]

DPxDC Mechanical Engineer Danny

Danny caught the attention of Batman while studying at Gotham University for his alternative energy projects. He’s hired right out of college to work on the Watchtower.

He shows absolutely no tell of his abilities till there’s a dire situation- Flash’s electric discharge messes with one of his projects in progress and the whole base would have lost air pressure if he hadn’t done a quick fix using telekinesis and ice.

Of course Batman notices.

Batman assumes the worst- he suspects Danny’s a rogue of some kind, someone who has infiltrated the Justice League with an ulterior motive. But he can’t just fire Danny now- he’s the only one who knows how the new Watchtower energy source works. Plus, he’s not letting Danny go anywhere until he’s figured out his true motives.

Cue Batman subtly testing Danny- tossing things at him to trigger inhuman fast reflexes, having him lift too-heavy machinery, setting up convenient opportunities to steal or snoop or otherwise be up to no good. Danny does take advantage but only once, to use a computer terminal with unlocked clearance. He didn’t plant any bugs that Barman could find, and he otherwise kept up his powerless civilian act perfectly.

Still, Batman’s not satisfied. He brings an infrasonic sound emitter to Danny’s lab one day, and that, of all things, is what gets Danny to break.

“I know what you’re doing,” Danny admits with a sigh, finally. “If you’re really that suspicious of me, I can leave, but I kinda like my job so I’d prefer not to. The benefits are insane compared to what’s standard.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure. yeah. How about you turn off the freaking noise generator and we can talk?”

“Hm.” Batman obliges, and he takes the stool next to Danny at his gesture.

“Number one, I’m not a meta. Despite all the data and conclusions you’ve probably drawn otherwise. Number two, I’m on your side. I’m here to work on the base, that’s it. I follow your rules to the letter.”

“The-“

“The classified files I looked at? Yeah that was the one exception. You already know what I looked at, I’m sure, but maybe you haven’t figured out why. It goes back to point one- I may not be a meta, but I am something that organization, the GIW, cares about. I looked at your files on them to sus out your relations. Seeing as I don’t particularly love being the victim to twelve degrees of human rights violations if I can avoid it.”

“Hm.” The Ghost Intelligence Ward was one of many government agencies that the Justice League hadn’t worked closely with. But they also hadn’t been flagged for Justice League investigation. Danny’s comments made him doubt that call.

“Any other questions?”

“If you’re not a meta, what are you?”

“I’m an engineer. A pretty decent one. And I’d really, really like it to stay that way.”

Batman considers, and ultimately lets him stay. He likes Danny (everyone likes Danny), and it would be a massive pain in the ass to replace him. He really is a good engineer.

It’s only much later that his faith in Danny is repaid in spades.

Batman finds Danny on the Watchtower command bridge. Alarms are blaring, the station has been knocked out of orbit, out the window there’s shrapnel floating everywhere as a space battle rages around them.

On the station it’s chaos. Technicians run around, shouts from the med bay, sparks from the walls.

Batman and Danny stand at the main controls, watching the battle outside, stoic, unmoving.

Wonder Woman’s harried voice crackles through on coms: “We need backup.”

“There is no more backup.” Batman replies, while looking pointedly at Danny.

“What?”

Batman doesn’t move.

“What.”

“The impact from Darkseid’s initial attack should have sent this station on a terminal trajectory toward the planet.”

“Well. We aren’t currently plummeting to our deaths, so turns out it didn’t do that.”

“You did something.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re lying.”

“Maybe Superman nudged us back on course in all the chaos.”

“I’ve been watching the trackers. No one else with the capability has come near the station.”

“Can’t you just be grateful we got lucky?”

Sounds of peril screech over the coms. Danny’s face scrunches.

“Luck had nothing to do with it. As it is now, we are going to lose this fight.”

“Isn’t there anyone else you can call?”

“I’m asking you. You can help, can’t you?”

The glare-off lasts a long moment more before Danny breaks.

“Fuck. Fuckity fuck.” Danny runs his hands through his hair. “Shit. You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking you to save this and countless other worlds from a genocide. I’m also asking you to save my friends.”

Danny looks at him, hard, weary, and with a kind of deep resolve that feels far too ancient to be on the face of a supposed twenty-something.

“Fine. Fine. Okay.” He steps back and transforms. If Batman is surprised when he shakes off his human appearance like an old coat, he doesn’t show it. But what’s undeniable is the being in Danny’s place has the unmistakable presence of power.

“No one else can know.” His voice echoes in a way that’s sonically impossible, both sounding closer and further away than he should be.

He pulls a gear-shaped medallion seemingly out of thin air and puts it over his head in one motion.

“If I get in trouble for this, I’m blaming you.”

He vanishes. Outside, the shape of the battle changes instantly. The stars seem to glow brighter as the arms of the galaxy flash with the colors of the aurora. Then it’s like the void of space itself comes alive. It moves the spaceships back like they’re toys, plucking them from one side of the field to the other. It finds Darkseid at the heart of the chaos and massive arms of nothingness and darkness wrap around him. He’s screaming as it swallows him whole.

His armies scatter. The battle turns. The JL deal with the stragglers, but the air of relief is palpable.

Danny reappears next to Batman, once again donning his grease-stained coveralls. Arms folded.

“Happy?”

It took all of five minutes. Less, probably. Batman tamps down a thousand questions.

“Thank you.”

“I’m gonna need two weeks off minimum.” Danny snaps. “One to deal with the bureaucratic nightmare you’ve just caused me, and another to recover from the headache.”

Batman blanks. “Granted.”

Danny sighs. “And I’m not fixing the station until I’m back. It won’t fall out of the sky as is. Make up whatever excuse you want.”

“Done.” He considers. “I would prefer to tell them the truth. That you saved us.”

Danny glares. “I’m not supposed to save you. I made a pact not to use my power to influence the mortal realm.”

“A pact with who?”

Danny rolls his eyes. “The embodiment of Time. The concept of Justice. Among others.” He smirks at Batman’s confusion.

“And what, exactly, does that make you?”

He stands, framed by the space window, haloed by the stars. “I’ll give you three guesses.”

Batman frowns.

“Look. I like you guys. I like working on your base. I like supporting the work you do. But you can not go factoring me in to any of your plans or contingencies. This was a one time thing.

“So to answer your question again: I’m an engineer.”

[lostintransist]

Sacrifice Doesn’t Hurt Less if They Don’t Love You

I can't decide if I want to write a whole fic for this chapter that spawned fully formed in my head but a mutual told me I could post it here.

Context. Soap and Ghost are lovers. They are both wanting to work through some issues and ask reader (female pronouns) to become their third for a time. Reader was unsure about joining a thruple, so they offer to pay her. Reader is a soldier and works with the 141.

CW: Mentions of onpage violence, can be read as suicidal ideation, self sacrifice.

Watching Soap and Ghost share a look of goodbyes with only their eyes cements for you the knowing, deeper than your bones, that no one will ever love you like they love each other. No room exists for you to shelter inside of their love. The pain is freeing somehow. Like every message pounded into your head about being unlovable was true.

The call of the void had abated for a time, since they paid you for your body. The urge to jump without pulling your shoot, to kink the hose to your oxygen lessened. It returned now. It didn’t call though, it sang. Staring into the horizon where blue became intangible you know that even if you listened to the haunting call if you go home today an ‘accident’ would befall you soon enough.

A hand on your thigh pulls you back from the discordant notes. You look from the hand to the face and see Price looking at you, concern in the crinkles around his eyes.

“You with us Everest?”

“Sorry Cap. Just mentally gearing up.”

He nodded, accepting the strange behavior and the explanation. He had used the shared channel everyone could listen in on over the headphones. Helicopters were not the place for private conversations.

Feeling Ghost’s eyes you turn. Looking at one eye and then the other you find nothing but the mask inside and out. The horizon draws your attention again as you listen to the symphony from within the void.

Price had organized groups of three before everyone piled into the helicopter. You had been assigned to Soap and Ghost. As the ghost ship came into sight you slipped into your operator role. Rearguard would be you duty. They trusted you to step backwards over the dodgy doorways and ensure no one attacked them from behind. A place of trust.

Everyone knew the mission. Locate and terminate the computer that would signal a series of bombs dotting major cities. It would be highly guarded and most likely booby trapped. Six teams split as they enter the darkness of the ship. It creaks with each bob of the waves and every step as if she is moments from careening into the depths to become a home for the deep dwelling fish.

Soap takes the lead, heading aft. None of you encounter resistance until six levels down. Movement from barely beyond your vision as you step down another set of ladders. You fire off two shots, a body falling into the light. Not one of yours. A hand on you shoulder is the warning you get before Ghost and Soap step over the body, heading deeper into the darkness.

Smaller stature is not often an advantage in your line of work. But tiny halls become your safe haven because you are not an overly large man.

Moving before your mind can process you are grappling for a knife that connected with your vest. A man had stepped from the deepest shadows and swung at you after the guys had stepped through the next porthole. He pulled back and swung downwards, aiming for your neck. Leaning back you caught only a nick from the blade along the crease where jaw meets neck. Because all wide swings must be returned by an equally wide swing you step in and jam both hands into his forearm.

The enemy fights his arm up, your upper body strength no match for his. Instead of fighting him in a losing battle you place one boot on the wall behind you, leveraging your best asset in the fight.

It impressed the men on the 141 that you could match or often beat them in dead lift squats. They did make fun of you for how low your numbers were on upper body though so it all came out in the wash.

The man brought his second arm up to support his knife wielding hand, the tip of the blade inching closer to your face. Forcing your second boot up the wall you press with all the power your foremothers blessed you with. The light bouncing around from your rifle shines off whites of the mans eyes as you shove the blade into his windpipe. He slumps as his life flees.

Gravity takes hold of you now that friction has abated and you slam to the ground with a grunt. Your knee took the bulk of the blow. Up on your feet you limp after your lovers. They must have circled back to find you since you find them only three rooms away.

“What happened Everest?” Ghost barks at you.

“Your job is to protect each other, my job is to protect you. I did my job.” You snap at him. He would want to take it from your hide if there was a later. On jobs he was your superior and sass could not be accepted.

Soap reached around him and lifted blood from your collar.

“We are here to protect you too Ev.”

The sweetest blade to your heart came from Soap’s tongue. Lies, because if they were here to protect you they would have noticed sooner that you were gone.

His finger hovers as you turn your head slightly away from his touch.

“We’ve got more ground to cover. Let’s go.” Voice harsh, you focus on limping forward.

Several more engagements occur, but the guys don’t leave your sight once. After clearing a particularly well guarded tiny red room you find what you have been looking for. Soap drops to a knee at the computer, typing away.

You and Ghost take up opposite positions staring down the hallways watching the darkness.

“Why didn’t you call for help?”

Ghost’s even tone hits like a lash across your back.

“Didn’t really have time with a blade at my throat.”

“Why are you mad at us?”

Even now the distinction between your place and theirs is hammered home in the phrasing of the question. Us denotes a you, an outsider.

“Now is not the time to unpack our relationship problems, Simon.”

“I’m getting no response from the computer and I don’t dare move it. This group really loves their bombs to trigger when people touch things.”

A head poking around the walls you to fire off a few rounds.

“I’m jammed, Soap replace me. I can work on disabling the computer.” You step into the small, red, red box trading places with Soap who steps into the hall, gun drawn on the shadows.

The instant his heel passes beyond the door frame you swing the heavy metal door shut, slamming the bar into place. Faraday cages are interesting things. They can be made by accident, or opportunity.

You couldn’t disable the computer you had fought so hard to get to the bowels of the ship, but you could stop it from sending a signal. As the bar clanged down, the bell tolling of your death, two irate faces appeared in the small window. Two men you love more than any reasonable person could understand stare at you, yell at you, beat at the door demanding entrance.

A beep from the computer tells you there is four minutes left until the signal is sent. Your lip trembles. Mouthing the words so carefully they can understand even beyond the slightly distorted glass you give your final goodbyes.

‘Love you.’

Blowing a shaky kiss to their horrified faces you slide the cover in place, sealing your tomb.

The void’s lilting tune is sweet in your ears. The pounding on the door stops. No sounds squawk from the radio in your ear, your play worked. They would be safe. They didn’t need you anyways, a matched pair didn’t need a third.

With nothing left to do but breathe in the last of your oxygen you decided to strip down to your uniform. Emptying every weapon on you of its rounds you place them gently on the floor a fair distance from the door. No need for them to get stepped on when someone can finally reach your body. Next goes the holsters and the heavy tactical gear.

It’s getting harder to breath now, your lungs heaving for a breath more. You sound like a baby you once saw with RSV. You place a hand to your ribs, finding the flesh pulling between the bones with each breath. Laying down seems the best option now. Your mind feels pulled, stretched. Taffy for brains. Stretching out you get comfortable. With your eyes fluttering you can almost imagine yourself on a cot somewhere in the tropics.

Distantly a beeping starts, the thirty second countdown. One long beep reaches through the fog of oxygen deprivation, you strain your ears. Even in the bowels of the ocean you would have heard something, shouting, if you had failed. When none occur you sigh and surrender to the darkness.

You might not have been important to them. They might have never loved you. But god dammit you were going to be remembered.

I also write COD over on AO3, same handle.

Masterlist

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Death Takes a Holiday | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, mentions of self-hate, lots of death, lots of mentions of death, just so many, grief, misogyny, degradation in a not-fun way lol

Word Count: 7664

A/N: Buckle up... This one's a doozy.

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

Nothing Dean could say could convince you of your innocence in the battle with the siren. Every time you looked at the wounds you’d given him, nausea would well in your throat. 

What hurt even worse were the things Sam and Dean had said to you. You couldn’t look at either man without thinking of them. You and Dean still slept in the same bed, but you slept on the far edge with your arms curled around yourself and facing away. The light you’d felt slowly coming back to you was diminishing once more. 

You were becoming further isolated in your own mind. In your retreat, you were becoming more and more worried about Uriel’s silence. Was he even aware of what you’d been going through? Had he seen what happened with the siren and not cared to help? 

“Hey, you with me?” Dean asked, snapping his fingers in front of your face.

You nodded. “Yeah, yeah,” you forced a smile, “I’m good.”

Dean gave you a look that said he knew you weren’t, but you just gave another small, lopsided smile to reassure him. 

Sam returned to your diner table while he shoved his phone in his pocket. 

“What’s up?” Dean asked, his eyes lingering on you before turning toward his brother.

Sam immediately opened his laptop and started typing. “Bobby found something in Wyoming.”

“A job?” Dean asked, taking a bite of the burger in front of him. You took a fry from his plate, munching on it with your shins resting against the edge of the table in front of you. 

“Small town, no one's died in the past week and a half,” Sam replied. 

“That so unusual?”

“Well, it's how they're not dying,” he explained. Looking up from his computer every once in a while, he continued, “One guy with terminal cancer strolls right out of hospice. Another guy gets capped by a mugger and walks away without a scratch.”

“Capped in the ass?” Dean asked, brows knitting together in confusion. 

Sam read, “Police say Mr. Jenkins was shot in the heart at point-blank range by a nine-millimeter,” from the article he was apparently skimming.

“And he's not a doughnut?” Dean asked around the food in his mouth.

“Locals are saying it's a miracle.”

“Oh, god,” you rolled your eyes.

“It's got to be something nasty, right? I mean, people making deals or something,” Sam suggested. He shoved his laptop in his bag and nodded at the burger on Dean’s plate. “Get that to go.”

Dean looked down but remained unmoving. 

You were confused, but you didn’t have the energy to ask what was up. 

“Come on,” Sam urged. 

Dean still stayed in his seat. 

“What?” the younger brother scoffed.

After hesitating, Dean asked, “Sure you want me going with you?”

Sam looked taken aback. “Why wouldn't I?”

“I don't want to be holding you back, or nothing.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dude, I've told you a hundred times, that was the siren talking, not me. Can we get past this?”

Dean put his food down and brushed his hands off. “Yeah, we’re past it.”

Frustration bubbled in your chest. Dean was being a real hypocrite in that moment; he’d told you repeatedly he didn’t mean what he’d said to you and yet was taking his anger out on Sam for the same thing. Maybe Dean had been telling you the truth when he was under the siren’s spell and was lying to you now. 

****

Given Dean and Sam needed a little space from each other, you and the older brother headed to a motel to start research after you’d interviewed the man who survived a bullet to the heart. The man was convinced it had been god, but an unsettled feeling in your stomach told you it had to be something else. However, he hadn’t been to a crossroads, and he said he felt like angels were watching over him. 

While the case was puzzling, your interest in it could not be held for longer than a few seconds before your mind raced with thoughts about the siren case. 

“What?” Dean asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. 

“Huh?” You looked over at him; he sat on the table in the room behind Sam’s laptop while you were cross-legged on the bed behind yours. 

“Where’d you go?” he asked. 

You snorted. “What do you mean?”

“You were completely zoned,” he replied. 

“Yeah, sorry,” you sighed. “Jus’ got a lot on my mind.”

Dean sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. 

“What?” you questioned. 

“How long are we gonna keep doing this?”

You gave him a quizzical look and tilted your head to the side. 

Dean gestured between the two of you. “This!” He waved his hand around some more. “We just… keep dancing around each other.”

You scoffed. “Are you really lecturing me on not talking about my feelings.”

“Forget I said anything,” he immediately huffed, standing from his chair. 

“Wait, Dean, I was kidding,” you said. 

Dean grumbled, “Didn’t sound like it to me,” and started grabbing clothes out of his duffel bag to possibly go take a shower.

“C’mon, stop.” You shut your laptop. “I really was. I’m sorry.”

He paused and dropped his toiletry bag back into the duffel, then ran that same hand through his hair.

“So, where do you wanna start?” you asked after a few moments of silence.

Dean crossed his arms and turned to face you. “Where do you think?”

“I can’t stop thinking about the siren case,” you said. 

He nodded, gaze cast to the floor. It seemed he was expecting you to say that. “Me neither.”

“Really?” You were slightly surprised. 

“Yeah, I mean, how could I not?” he questioned. 

You took a deep breath. “Just be honest with me, okay?” Dean looked up at you. 

“Were you telling the truth when we were… fighting?” you asked. “Was the siren telling the truth about me making you feel guilty?”

He hesitated, and that really told you all you needed to know. 

You bit the inside of your cheek, tears springing to your eyes. “Okay, that’s alright. I’m glad I know now, at least.”

“(Y/N)—” Dean told you. “Sweetheart, I would’ve never told you that had the siren not tricked me, okay? Please, believe me.”

You nodded, sniffling your tears back to keep them at bay. “I know. But maybe I needed to hear that. Maybe I needed to know. Maybe we just needed to hear that so we can move forward from this angel shit.” You began to pace. “I mean, look at us, Dean. We’re so horrible at talking to each other— we had to have a fucking siren intervene to get us to be honest— we’re so far on either side of the bed that we may as well be sleeping in two separate ones— not to mention, sex seems to be completely out the window; off the table—” you flailed your arms around as you talked, “it’s almost like we don’t know each other anymore, Dean.

"And I miss you! You’re standing right in front of me, and I miss you. It feels like you’re still in Hell, and I’m still alone in that cabin with Uriel looming over my fucking shoulder. And— And the worst part is, I don’t even know how to begin fixing it. But I just— I want you to come back to me. I want to be able to come back to you. Because I am fuckin’ losing my mind, man. And before all of this, you were always the one to keep me grounded.”

You put your hands on either side of his face. “Tell me what I need to do to fix this. To— To fix what I’ve done. Please know how sorry I am, Dee. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Dean gently grabbed your wrists and tugged them ar0und his neck before cradling your face in his hands. He kissed you deeply, and you could taste the salt from tears the both of you had tried not to shed. 

When he pulled away, he told you, “It’s not just you. I- I haven’t been trying nearly as hard as you to fix things, and I’m sorry. I keep thinking that maybe you’ll finally realize you’re too good for me and decide to hit the road for good. Because you are too good for me, (Y/N). You— I mean, nobody’s ever fought as hard for me as you have. And I’m sorry that I’ve been… distant. I just— there’s things I can’t talk about yet, (Y/N). I can’t. I’m trying, but I can’t.”

You nodded. “I get it. But I’m here for you whenever you’re ready, okay? Even if that means when we’re eighty and sitting on porch swings. There’s no rush.”

He smiled weakly at your attempted joke. “I’m sorry I hurt you, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry, too. For… everything,” you told him. “I love you.”

“I love you.”

You leaned up on your tip-toes and kissed him eagerly. He responded in kind, and it seemed he wanted to deepen it. Unfortunately, the door swung open. 

You broke away, and Dean grumbled, “Dammit, Sammy.”

Sam seemed confused, obviously not realizing he’d interrupted something. 

“Anything?” you asked, brushing your hands over your thighs as you sat down on the end of the younger brother’s bed.

“That cancer survivor?” Sam began. “He was clinically dead, his wife pulled the plug, and now, he's taking her out for their twentieth anniversary.”

“Any sign of a deal?” Dean questioned. 

“No. What about you guys? Found anyone dying around here?”

“Not since Cole Griffith,” you replied. “He died ten days ago. Dean couldn’t find anything after him.”

“So, what are you thinking?” Sam asked, looking between you and his brother.

Dean shrugged. “Eh, maybe it is what the people say it is.”

Sam sat down at the table and flipped his laptop toward himself. “Miracles?” he scoffed. “Dean, our experience, when do miracles just happen?”

“Well, there's no deals,” he shrugged. “There's, uh, no skeevy faith healers.” He poured himself a cup of coffee before stretching one out to you. “I mean, these souls just ain't getting dragged into the light.”

“Maybe 'cause there's no one around to carry them,” Sam thought aloud.

“Whaddaya mean?” you asked.

Dean sat down beside you.

“Well, grim reapers—that's what they do, right? Schlep souls? So, if death ain't in town—”

“Then nobody's dying,” Dean nodded. “So what? The local reaper's on strike? Playing the back nine? I don't know, Sam.” He took a sip from his mug.

“Well, then, let's talk to somebody who might.”

Dean chuckled. “Well, last I checked, huggy bear ain't available.”

“No, dude, the kid,” the brunet suggested.

“The kid? The kid's a doornail.”

“Exactly,” Sam affirmed. “Look, if he was the last person to die around here, then maybe he's seen something. We should talk to him.”

“I love how matter-of-fact you are about that,” Dean chuckled. He looked to the floor and took a sip of the coffee Sam brought him. “Strange lives.” 

****

That night, you headed to the cemetery. As you set up a few candles and a cloth atop Cole Griffith’s grave, Dean flipped through his dad’s journal. 

“You sure this is gonna work?” your partner muttered.

Sam looked up from the bowl he was working over. “No,” he sighed, “but if his spirit's around, this should smoke him out.”

Dean slammed the journal shut and stood up.

“What?” you asked.

“This job is jacked, that's what.”

“How so?” Sam chimed back in.

“You want me to gank a monster or torch a corpse, hey, let's light it up, right?” He ran a hand through his hair before gesturing down at the grave. “But this? If we fix whatever this is, people are gonna start dropping dead. Good people.”

You stood, too. “I don’t want ‘em to die, either, babe, but there’s a natural order.”

Dean quirked a brow at you. “You're kidding, right?”

“What?” you snorted. 

“You don't see the irony in that? I mean, me and Sam, we're like the poster boys of the unnatural order. All we do is ditch death,” Dean replied. 

Sam shrugged. “Yeah, but the normal rules don't really apply to us, do they?”

A weight crossed Dean’s shoulders. “We're no different than anybody else.”

“I'm infected with demon blood. You've been to Hell,” Sam replied. “And (Y/N)’s in cahoots with angels. Look, I know you want to think of yourself as Joe the Plumber, Dean, but you're not. Neither am I. Neither is she. The sooner you accept that, the better off you're gonna be.”

Dean looked up at his brother. “Eh, Joe the Plumber was a douche,” he jested. 

“You gonna help me finish this?” you asked. You’d sunk back down to your knees in the midst of their conversation. 

“Hey!” a voice barked. You looked toward the voice; the source of which was a man carrying a flashlight jogging toward you. “What are you doing here?”

You quickly jerked upright and held your hands up in surrender. You and Dean shared an uneasy glance while Sam said, “Just take it easy.”

“Okay, this— this is not what it looks like,” Dean chuckled awkwardly. 

“Really? 'Cause it looks like devil worship,” the man scoffed.

Dean’s voice nearly cracked from how high-pitched he was. “What? No! No, this is not devil worship. This—This is—this—this is, uh—” he gave up. “I don’t have a good answer.”

“We're leaving,” you said, quickly gathering the things atop the tombstone.

“You're not going anywhere,” the man snarled, looking over to the younger brother, “ever again, Sam.” His lips drew up in a smile, and his eyes went white. 

“Alastair,” Dean breathed out. 

Discreetly, you reached for your knife. You knew it wouldn’t kill him, but you truly didn’t care.

“I thought you got deep fried, extra-crispy,” Dean said evenly.

“Nah. Just the pediatrician I was riding,” the demon shrugged. “His wife's still looking for him. It's hilarious. Anyway.” He moved his gaze to Sam. “No time to chat. Got a hot date with death—”

You’d barely given him time to finish his sentence before you were chucking your knife at him. He stopped it telekinetically just inches from his face and threw it back at you. With little time to react, you couldn’t move completely out of the way. Somewhat fortunately, the knife aimed for your heart lodged itself in your shoulder and pinned you to Cole’s gravestone. 

Alastair flicked Dean away to another graveyard while you cried out in pain and concern for him. Searing pain was coursing through your upper body; almost as though molten lava had been poured on your left shoulder. 

Alastair tried to do the same to Sam as he did with Dean, but it didn’t work. 

“You're stronger, Sam,” you heard Alastair say faintly over the ringing in your ears. “You've been soloflexing with your little slut?”

You rolled your head back and forth painfully, vision nearly blacking out.

“You have no idea,” Sam replied, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. Suddenly, you heard a large crash. Your eyes burst open to see Sam had thrown Alastair across the cemetery. Sam raised a hand— assumedly to try to exorcise him as you’d seen him do in the warehouse with Ruby— but Alastair fled the man’s body. 

That was the last thing you saw before your world went dark.

****

You faded in and out of consciousness in the backseat of the Impala. Sam spoke in a hushed voice, “I don’t know if they saw anything. Look—” he huffed, “why are you getting pissed off about this? I either did it, or we all woulda fuckin’ died.”

“Whatever,” he sighed. “I gotta go.” 

Then, the car slowed to a stop. You assumed you were in the parking lot of a motel somewhere. 

Sleep was threatening to pull you back under; the steady throbbing in your arm almost daring you to close your eyes again. Your head lolled to the side limply, and you succumbed to the darkness once more. 

****

The next time you opened your eyes, you were lying on a motel bed. You groaned, rolling on your side while clutching your shoulder. 

“Sweetheart, you there?” you heard a familiar voice call. 

“Yeah,” you hummed, shutting your eyes in pain. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I got thrown fifty yards into a solid cement gravestone,” he snarked. “Oh, wait.”

You rolled your eyes, cracking a small smile. Cautiously, you sat up on your elbow opposite your hurt shoulder. 

“I think I have a concussion,” Dean whined. 

You turned to see him holding an ice pack to his head. “You probably do.” Wincing, you got up from the bed. “Lemme see.”

“Uh-uh. Sit down,” he told you. “I’m fine. You got stabbed.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted. “I’ve had worse.”

He gave you a skeptical look. 

“Okay, fine, this one’s pretty up there—” he chuckled while you continued, “but I’ll be okay.” You gestured down to the pressure wrap Sam assumedly had put around your shoulder. “He did a good job.”

Just then, the younger brother opened the door. “How you doing?” he asked the two of you while he shut the door behind him. 

“I'm in pain, that's how I'm doing,” Dean grumbled, the soft disposition he had with you disappearing.

“He thinks he has a concussion,” you told Sam. “I’m good. Nice job with the wound care, House.”

The brunet flashed a crooked smile. “Thanks.”

Just then, you remembered what you’d heard in the car, and your smile faded. Still, you tried your best to keep up a facade until you could thoroughly think over whether or not you’d tell Dean.

“So, demons, huh?” Dean said, breaking you out of your thoughts.

“Yeah,” Sam snorted. “So much for miracles.”

Dean gave him a slightly accusatory look. “And what the hell happened with Alastair again?”

“I told you, he tried to fling me, or whatever.” He waved his hand in demonstration while nonchalantly walking over to the coffeemaker. “And it didn't work, so he bailed.”

They’d apparently had a talk prior to you waking up.

“Well, how come he couldn't fling you? He chucked you pretty good last time,” your partner reminded his brother.

Sam shrugged. “Got no idea.” He turned to the coffeemaker again, and you stared at Dean. 

It seemed he was trying to hold back his words, but to no avail. “Sam, do me a favor. If you're gonna keep your little secrets, I can't really stop you, but just don't treat me like an idiot, okay?”

“What? Dean, I'm not keeping secrets.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. 

Dean hummed in disapproval. “Whatever. So, did you go back and Q-and-A the dead kid?”

Sam walked over to him with a thin notebook in hand. “Didn't have to. Bobby called. He did some digging.”

“And?”

“He thinks I'm right. Local reaper's gone. Not just gone— kidnapped.”

“By demons? Why?”

Something dawned on you in that moment. “ ‘And he bloodied death under the newborn sky— sweet to taste, but bitter when devoured’.” 

Sam looked at you skeptically. “Uh, yeah…” he trailed off. “How did you know that?”

You cast your eyes to the floor. ��My, uh, my mom had a copy of Revelations that’s been in our family for centuries. She would read it to me to remind me why we do what we do— because this is coming for us at the end of time.”

Dean looked at you with an unreadable expression. “Swanky,” he said. “What the hell's that mean?”

“You kill a reaper under the solstice moon, you break a seal,” you explained. 

“Solstice is tomorrow, by the way,” Sam cut in. 

Dean scoffed. “How do you ice a reaper? You can't kill death.”

“I don't know. Maybe demons can,” the younger brother shrugged. “Where the hell are the angels is what I want to know. We could use their help, for once.”

“(Y/N)?” Dean asked. 

Both boys turned to you. 

“I haven’t heard from Uriel in forever,” you said. “And, uh, I do not want to call him.”

Dean sighed heavily. “It looks like we're gonna have to take care of this one ourselves.”

Sam scoffed. “What are we gonna do, just swing in and save the friendly neighborhood reaper?”

“You got a better idea, I'm all ears,” Dean deadpanned.

“Dean, reapers are invisible,” Sam said. “The only people that can see them are the dead and the dying.”

“Well, if ghosts are the only ones that can see them…” your partner trailed off. 

“Dean—” you shut your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose, knowing exactly where this was going.

“C’mon, (Y/N),” he replied. 

“It’s just the concussion talking,” you asserted. “That’s insane, even for you, babe.”

“Am I missing something?” Sam questioned.

“He’s saying we become ghosts,” you explained.

“Dean—”

“Exactly,” you cut Sam off. 

Sam considered for a moment. “How?” he asked Dean. 

“Sam—!”

****

“I am so sorry, Pamela,” you told her. Dean led her into the motel room, and Sam opened the door for her. You followed behind, shutting the door.

“I can't even begin to tell you how crazy you three are,” she sighed. 

“I know,” you whined. “I don’t feel great about this either.”

“Which one of you brainiacs came up with astral projection?” she asked.

Dean raised a hand. “Yo,” he said.

Pamela smirked. “Of course. Chachi.” Dean made a face at you. ‘Chachi?’ he mouthed.

You smiled and shrugged.

“So, let's be clear. You want to rip your souls out of your bodies and take a little stroll through the spirit world?”

Dean nodded.

“Do you have any idea how heavy-duty insane that is?” Pamela crossed her arms.

“Maybe, but that's where the reaper is, so…” Dean trailed off hesitantly.

“So, it's nuts,” she insisted.

“Not if you know what you're doing.”

“You don't know what you're doing.”

“No, but you do.”

“Yeah, I do. And guess what?” she said in upset. “I'm sick of being hauled back into your angel-demon, Soc-Greaser crap.”

“Look, I'd love to be kicking back with a cold one, watching Judge Judy, too—”

Pamela cut Dean off. “Blind jokes?” she scoffed.

Dean rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. We're talking the end of the world here, okay? No more tasseled leather pants, no more Ramones CDs, no more nothing.” Dean paused. “We need your help.”

Pamela reluctantly agreed. You and the boys rushed around the room to prepare for her ritual, and she sat on a chair between the beds in the room. 

“Tell me something, geniuses,” Pamela said. “Even if you do break into the veil, and you find the reaper, how you gonna save it?”

“With style and class,” Dean remarked.

Pamela shot a deadpan expression in his direction. “You're gonna be three walking pieces of fog who can't touch or move anything. You'll be defenseless, hotshot.”

“I seem to recall a bunch of ghosts beating the crap out of us.”

“Yeah, well, they had plenty of time to practice,” she scoffed.

“Well, then, I guess we got to start cramming.”

Pamela scoffed again. “Wow, bunch of heroes. Alright.” She patted the bed to her right. “Lie down,” she instructed.

 You and Dean laid on one bed, and Sam laid on the other. 

“Close your eyes.” She recited an incantation, and you clutched Dean’s hand. He squeezed yours in response. 

“Okay, guys, that's it. Showtime,” Pamela said. 

Dean sat up next to you, letting go of your hand. “Well, nothing like shooting blanks. What's plan B?”

You looked around and slid off the bed. Strangely, the room seemed to have faded to shades of blue. “Wait, Dean, does the room look weird to you?”

Dean stood up and turned around, examining the room. What seemed to catch his eye, though, was the two of you laying on the bed; still hand in hand.

“Oh, I'm so feeling up Demi Moore.”

You smacked the back of your partner’s head lightly. “Perv.”

He chuckled.

“Alright, so,” Pamela spoke. “I'm assuming you're somewhere over the rainbow. Remember I have to bring you back.” She stood and walked over to Sam. “I'll whisper the incantation in your ear—” she leaned over and whispered something to Sam that made him smirk widely.

You shot a questioning glance at Sam. “What’d she say?”

Sam shrugged, still grinning. 

You shook your head, a small smile tugging at your lips. 

****

As the three of you walked down the street, a jogger went right through Sam without noticing. Sam flinched, but the girl kept going. 

Dean laughed. “That was wild.” Then, he stuck his arm into Sam’s chest up to the elbow. 

Sam’s face went stony. 

Dean grinned. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“Get out of me.”

You snorted. 

“You're such a prude,” Dean snarked. “Come on.”

****

What felt like hours passed. Dean was getting frustrated with having found nothing, but something caught your eye on the balcony of a house behind him. 

“Oh, shit. That’s Cole,” you said, nodding at the blond little boy staring at you. 

As soon as the brothers turned to look at him, he flickered and disappeared.

You started off toward the house and went straight through the closed door of the home. You followed the sound of someone screaming and lots of noise coming from behind the closed door of another room. As soon as you entered, a ball went flying straight through your stomach. 

Quickly, you realized that Cole’s mother was cowering on his bed as balls flew past her, and Cole was the one throwing them. 

“Stop!” you ordered, and he instantly obeyed. “How are you doing that?”

“Who are you?” Cole asked, backing away from you. 

“Relax, Cole. It's okay,” Sam said, treating the boy as though he was a lost dog. 

“How do you know my name?”

“Look, this isn't gonna be easy to hear, but… you're—dead. You're a spirit. Us, too.”

Cole scoffed. “Yeah, thanks. I know I'm dead. What do you want?”

“We just want to talk.”

“About what?”

You and the brothers convinced the little boy to tell you about how he died. He wanted to stay close to his mom, though, while he did; you assumed for some sort of assurance that things were okay. 

You watched as Mrs. Griffith poured a glass of vodka and took a sip. 

“I was outside all morning,” Cole began. “They tell you to be careful when it's cold.”

“Cold air can cause an asthma attack?” Dean asked.

Cole nodded and shrugged. “But then I was in my room. It happened so fast. I called out for my mom, but nothing came out. Everything started spinning, and then I was just standing there, looking down at my body.” 

“And that's when you saw the man?” Sam asked.

Cole nodded meekly. “Creepy old guy in a black suit. He wanted me to go with him, but,” he looked back over at his mother, “I didn't want to go.”

“How'd you get rid of him?” Sam asked.

“I didn't. The black smoke did.”

Dean encouraged him to explain further.

“It was everywhere. I hid in the closet, and when I came out, it was gone, and so was he.”

“Do you know where the smoke went?” Dean asked.

“No. But I know where it is.”

Suddenly, the lights started flickering, and Cole jumped. Mrs. Griffith looked around, scared.

“They're back,” Cole whispered, clearly scared. He vanished.

Then, a blast of wind hit you in the face. Something white and human-shaped went up the stairs of the home.

“Another reaper,” you pointed out.

“Hey!” Dean shouted. “Wait! We need to talk to you!”

A woman descended the stairs, black hair shining in the dim light. For a reaper, she was gorgeous.

“Dean,” she breathed out.

He was confused. He shot a look at you before turning back to the woman. “Do I know you?”

“We go way back,” she said. “You don't remember me?”

“Honestly, if I had a nickel for every time I heard a girl say that…” he trailed off, smug as ever. “You're gonna have to freshen my memory.”

Tessa quickly stepped forward, reached up, and pulled Dean down into a kiss. 

“Whoa!” you said, and Dean quickly pushed her off.

“Warn a guy first, would ya?” he said uncomfortably. 

“Sorry,” she said to the two of you. “Had to give him his memories,” she explained.

“And that can’t happen any other way?” you scoffed. 

The reaper shrugged.

“Wait, Tessa?” Dean asked, something having dawned on him.

“That's one of my names, yeah.”

“So, you do know her,” Sam stated.

You crossed your arms.

“From the hospital after the accident,” Dean responded.

“With your dad?” you asked, surprised.

Your partner nodded.

Tessa rubbed her hands over her thighs, turning to go up the stairs again. “Well, this was fun. Now, if you'll excuse me—”

Dean stopped her. “Wait, wait, wait, wait, you can't— you can't take the kid.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Demons are in town, that's why,” Dean replied. “They've already snatched your reaper pal. The kid knows where.”

She rolled her eyes. “So?”

“So, you should shag ass,” Sam said. “For all we know, they could try and snatch you, too.”

“Except that this town is off the rails, and someone has to set it straight.”

“Yeah, we understand that, but these are special circumstances,” you pointed out.

“What? Your whole angel-demon dance-off? I could care less. I just want to do my job,” she replied.

“Right, yeah, and, look, we want to help you do your job. So, if you would just bail town—”

Tessa cut Sam off. “No,” she said firmly.

“Well, then, could you hold off until we fix this? Please,” Sam begged.

She sighed. “Alright, but just so we're clear, when I start reaping again, I'm starting with the kid.”

Sam nodded. “Understood. I'll find him.”

“What are you gonna say to him?” you asked the younger brother as he went up the stairs.

“Whatever I have to.”

You nodded.

“I'll tell you, life is funny,” Tessa said, pacing around you and Dean.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked.

“You and me, together again.”

“Are you— are you making a move on me?” Dean asked, eyebrows knitting together.

You shot Tessa a glare.

“You're the one that got away, Dean,” she said, ignoring the daggers you were giving her. “You'd be surprised how little that happens to me.”

“Can I tell you something?” your partner asked Tessa.

You and the reaper were intrigued.

“For like, a year after our little, uh, experience, I wished I went with you for good.”

This was news to you, and your eyes softened as you watched him speak.

“But I guess things are different now,” Dean said.

Tessa snickered. “What? The angels on your shoulder?”

“So, you know about that, huh?” He seemed genuinely surprised, as were you. “Well, hey, don't get me wrong. I mean, most’a the ones we've met are dicks with wings. But still, y’know, I've done things— horrible things— and someone upstairs still decided to give me a second chance. It just makes me feel… I don't know.” He looked down at the floor sheepishly. 

Your heart cracked a bit in your chest, but Sam gave you no time to consider. He’d brought Cole down the stairs and cleared his throat to grab your attention. “Hey, guys,” he said.

Tessa looked down at the blond child who was hiding behind Sam. “Hey, Cole. I'm Tessa. I'm not going to hurt you.”

“It's okay, Cole. Just tell them what you told me,” Sam urged.

Cole still stood peeking out from behind Sam, his shoulders slumped slightly. “I saw the black smoke at my funeral.” He swallowed. “At the funeral home. It was everywhere.”

Then, the lights flickered, startling Cole.

“You doing that?” you asked Tessa rhetorically. 

She shook her head and looked around.

Suddenly, the front door opened and black smoke poured through. It filled the room, and you ducked with your hands over your ears and eyes closed. When you could no longer feel it surrounding you, you hesitantly opened your eyes and stood up. 

“Tessa!” Dean called. 

“Dammit,” you sighed.

“Well, how the hell are we supposed to fight that?” Dean gestured.

“I don't know. Learn some ghost moves?” Sam scoffed.

Dean grunted, “By tonight? Yeah, sure. I'll meet you back at Mr. Miyagi's.”

“Who's Mr. Miyagi?” The blond child’s question caught your attention, and a smile grew across your face. “For now, you, kid.”

****

Cole spent the afternoon showing you, Sam, and Dean how the ghosts you constantly fought used their abilities. You picked it up quite quickly; albeit a little faster than the boys. That night, you went to the funeral home. The outside walls were covered in shimmering blue symbols.

“This looks like New Jack City. Can nobody can see this?” Dean asked, gesturing to a clueless pedestrian that waltzed right through him.

“Maybe it's demon invisible ink. Only see it in the veil.”

You nodded and gathered your courage. The door in front of you was open, and you walked through. You and Sam flanked one side of the room while Dean took the other, but you found nothing. Then, you moved into another. 

Lying in the middle of the floor was a crudely-drawn eight-pointed star, and Tessa was piled in a heap atop another man in the center of the symbol. You assumed the other man was another reaper. On the far side of the room, a man stood guard. He hadn’t seen you or the brothers yet.

The older brother turned to you and Sam with a smirk. “Check me out.” 

You rolled your eyes, suppressing the slight smile threatening to crack across your face. Dean took a few steps forward before vanishing and reappearing in front of the guard.

Playfully, he tapped the man on the shoulder before disappearing again. The man punched at Dean blindly, and Dean appeared in another spot. Sam disappeared from beside you, and you just stood by watching the boys play with their food. 

The man eventually scrambled away from Sam and Dean. 

“Y’know, this ghost thing?” Dean smiled. “It's kind of rad.”

Just as you were about to join your group, a man walked in carrying a chain. He whined painfully while his hands let out smoke between his fingers.

‘Iron,’ you realized.

Then, a third man walked into the room. “Boys. Find the place okay?”

“Alastair,” Dean breathed out.

‘Fuck,’ you thought.

Alastair had the boys wrapped in the iron chain while he cocked a shotgun. “By the way, where’s that girl of yours? She’s got spirit.” He aimed the gun at Dean, and you used that opportunity to let out a sharp whistle.

Alastair’s head turned to where you were standing. “I had a feeling you weren’t far,” he said darkly. “Dean leads you around like a bitch on a leash.” He fired at you, but you disappeared before the rocksalt could hit you.

Somehow, though, the demon predicted where you’d appear next. The blast of the rocksalt felt like it ripped straight through the very essence of you, and it took several moments for you to come back to. 

When you could finally function again, the first thing you heard was Alastair telling Sam, “Well, go on. Why don't you try some of your mojo on me now, hotshot?”

Groggily, you looked over at Dean and Sam. Sam was fuming, and Dean looked at his brother pointedly.

“It's hard to get it up when you're not wearing your meat, huh?” the demon snickered.

“Go to hell,” Sam growled.

“Ah, if only I could,” he tsked. “But they just keep sending me back up to this arctic craphole.”

“To kill Death?” Dean scoffed.

It was then you realized you were bound by iron around your neck to a leash a demon held. The demon’s hand trembled, smoke pouring out through his fingers.

“No, to kill Death twice. It takes two to break a seal,” Alastair explained. “I figured another one would show up, though. They're like lemmings.” He pumped the shotgun and fired at Sam. He disappeared, and Alastair walked up to your partner. “By the way, it's, uh, good to see you again, Dean.”

“You can shoot us all you want, but you can't kill us,” Dean told him. 

Sam reappeared with his arms wrapped painfully around his torso.

“Fucking sucks, huh?” you called to Sam.

He nodded, wincing.

“Ah, that so?” Alastair said, responding to Dean. Then, a scythe materialized in his hand. “Anywho, moon's in the right spot; the board is set. Let's get started, shall we?”

“You're gonna kill a reaper with that? It's a little on the nose, don't you think?” Dean snarked, trying to appear as tough as possible.

The demon turned his attention to Dean. “Is it?” He raised his eyebrows. “An old friend lent it to me. You know, he doesn't really ride a pale horse? But he does have three amigos.” He walked over to the center of the room and the reapers as he spoke. “And they're just jonesing for the apocalypse.”

The demon hauled the older-looking reaper up by his collar. “It pays to have friends in low places, don’t you think?” He smirked wickedly while he put the scythe behind the old man’s neck. After chanting an incantation, Alastair pulled the scythe forward. A white-blue light emanated from the reaper’s neck, and you watched his head roll toward you. 

When you looked up to Alastair, you noticed an iron chandelier above the reaper trap. The demon then grabbed Tessa by the shoulder and held the scythe to her neck. Terror was behind the woman’s eyes, but she did her best to seem angry and defiant. “Stop!” she demanded.

Alastair just began his incantation.

You stared up at the chandelier, and it began to shake. It seemed the boys had joined in, too, and you just tried to muster up as much anger as possible to drop the chandelier. 

Just as Alastair finished his incantation, the chandelier dropped on the corner of the reaper trap and broke it. Instantly, Tessa disappeared, and you felt the chain around your neck breaking. Then, she appeared next to Dean and Sam.

“Bye-bye,” Dean smirked at Alastair.

You took that as your cue to vanish.

When you reappeared outside of the funeral home in the dark of night, Tessa and Dean were the only ones with you. 

“Where’s Sam?” you asked.

“We’ll go find him,” Dean said, nodding at you. “Tessa, you get out of here.”

She nodded, and you bid her goodbye. When she’d disappeared, you and Dean started searching for Sam.

“You okay?” Dean asked you.

You grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. He returned your gesture, silently reassuring you he was okay, too.

“Where the hell do we even start?” you questioned after walking a few paces. 

Dean sighed, “No idea. Just stay close, okay? I’m sure Alastair’s not happy with us.”

You nodded. 

“That’s right,” the demon’s voice came from behind you. “And you can’t run, Dean.” 

Suddenly, the source of the voice appeared ahead of you. 

Dean shoved you behind him in an attempt to shield you.

“Not from me,” Alastair sing-songed. “I'm inside that angsty little noggin of yours.” He advanced on you and Dean, and the two of you quickly retreated. 

Just then, bright lightning struck Alastair. When the light dissipated, he was gone.

“What the hell?” Dean breathed out.

“Guess again,” a familiar voice said from behind you. 

“And what do you want?” you questioned, knowing you’d be turning around to see Castiel.

Dean just scoffed and began walking away. 

“What just happened?” Castiel asked, following you and Dean. “You two and Sam just saved a seal. We captured Alastair. Dean, this was a victory.”

“Well, no thanks to you,” Dean scoffed. 

“What makes you say that?”

You then realized something and turned around. “You were here the whole time, weren’t you?”

Castiel looked at the ground. “Enough of it.”

Dean grunted, “Well, thanks for your help with the rock salt.”

“That script on the funeral home; we couldn't penetrate it.”

You tsked.

“That was angel-proofing,” Dean realized. 

“Why do you think I recruited you three in the first place?”

“You recruited us?” you snarled.

“That wasn't your friend Bobby who called, (Y/N),” the angel explained. “It wasn't Bobby who told Sam about the seal.”

“That was you,” you stated. You just shook your head and ran a hand through your hair.

“If you want our help, why the hell didn't you just ask?” Dean questioned.

“Because whatever I ask, you seem to do the exact opposite.” “Well, thanks for not sending Uriel after me,” you said. Even in your exasperation, you were grateful you didn’t have to deal with him.

Castiel nodded.

“So, what now, huh?” Dean asked after a moment of silence. “The people in this town; they're just gonna start dying again?”

“Yes.”

“These are good people. What, you think you can make a few exceptions?”

“To everything, there is a season.”

Dean paused. “You made an exception for me.”

Castiel looked at the ground and then back up at Dean. “You're different.”

At that moment, Tessa appeared before you and Dean. “Guys? I could use your help.”

The next time you opened your eyes, you were in Cole’s room. His mother was staring at a book of his baby pictures and crying silently. 

“Hey, Cole,” Tessa said softly. Her jeans and black leather jacket had transformed to a flowing white dress. 

Cole startled and backed away from the reaper before looking over at Dean. “Tell your brother thanks for nothing.”

Dean looked at the floor with his hands shoved in his pockets, and you wrapped your arm around his elbow in an attempt to reassure him.

“Look at her, Cole,” Tessa urged gently. “Do you see how unhappy she is?”

Cole looked at his mother. “That's why I want to stay with her,” he whined sadly. 

“As long as she can feel you, she'll be in pain because she can't let go,” Tessa explained. “Because you won't let go of her.”

“Why won't anybody tell me what's on the other side?” Cole asked, looking between you and Dean.

The reaper smiled softly. “Maybe nobody wants to ruin the surprise.”

“That's not an answer.”

Dean then piped up. “She won't answer you, Cole. Reapers never do. But trust me. Staying here is a whole lot worse than anything over there.”

“Why?” the boy asked.

“Because one day, your family will be gone, and there'll be nothing left here for you.” Dean drew in a heavy breath. “It's okay to be scared.”

Cole straightened up and raised his head a little higher. “I'm not scared.”

“We're all scared,” Dean said. “That's the big secret. We're all scared.”

Cole looked back at his mother before turning back to Dean. “Are you coming?”

Dean smirked lopsidedly. “Oh, I'm sure I'll be there sooner than you think.”

When Cole had one last look at his mom, he hugged Tessa tightly before disappearing into a brilliant white light. When the light disappeared, a weight seemed to have lifted off Cole’s mother’s shoulders.

“Look out for that boy,” Dean told Tessa.

“Look out for yourself, Dean,” she nodded.

“What do you mean?”

“I've been around death from the get-go. You know what I see most? Lies. ‘He's in a better place.’ ‘At least they're together now.’ You all lie to yourselves, Dean, 'cause like you said, deep down, you're all scared. Stop lying to yourself, Dean.”

“What?” Dean’s brow furrowed.

“The angels have something good in store for you,” she mocked. “A second chance. Really? 'Cause I'm pretty sure, deep down, you know something nasty's coming down the road. Trust your instincts, Dean. There's no such thing as miracles.”

Your stomach sank, and you couldn’t bear to look at either person.

“What are you saying?” He asked.

Tessa said nothing, and a moment later, she was gone.

“Dean, I—”

“Don’t, (Y/N),” Dean begged. “Don’t, sweetheart, please.” You nodded, seeing as he was having trouble holding back his tears.

Then, Dean disappeared. 

“Dean?” you cried. “Dean?!” 

Suddenly, you felt something pulling at you. It felt like you were being dragged by the very fibers of your soul. And then, you were back in your motel room. 

You took a gasping breath and shot up, taking in your surroundings. The first thing you laid your eyes on was Pamela holding a hand to her stomach while blood poured out from between her fingers.

“What happened?” Dean asked from beside you.

“Guys, where's Tessa?” Sam questioned frantically.

“She’s…” Dean trailed off, unable to finish his sentence.

“Pamela, I'm so sorry—” Sam tried to tell her.

“Stop,” she demanded, clearly very angry.

“—You don't deserve this.”

“Yeah, I don't,” she snapped. “I told you I didn't want anything to do with this. Do me a favor? Tell that bastard Bobby Singer—” she choked out, “to go to Hell for ever introducing me to you three in the first place.” A shuddering cough roughly took over her. 

“Take it easy, Pamela,” Dean told her. “If it's any consolation, you're going to a better place.”

She turned her head in the direction of Dean’s voice. “You're lying,” she muttered weakly. “But what the hell, right? Everybody's got to go sometime.” Then, she beckoned Sam closer. “Come here.” 

Sam leaned in close, and the psychic said something that made his eyes grow wide. When she’d finished, she started coughing raggedly again. She leaned back against the headboard, and a trickle of blood flowed out of her mouth. Her head lolled to the side, and she went still. 

“Pamela?” Sam murmured hesitantly. “Pamela!”

Dean looked over at his brother. “What did she say to you?”

Sam looked away. 

“Sam, what did she say?!”

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-nesmith @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

[whoredyceps]

"OH LOVER BOY!" || 28 Days of Love: A Valentine's Challenge + Series

day fifteen: old wound

ᰔ pairing: agent whiskey x reader

ᰔ summary: first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes jack daniels unsure if the two of you are making the right choice.

ᰔ author's note: this one is going to be a bit longer and is p angsty. sorrrrryyyyyyy. thank you again to everyone who's been reading there, i've been having a lot of fun writing them 🥹💙

ᰔ content warning: afab!reader, reader is pregnant, conversation around pregnancy, mentions of abortion, bits of canon in an au setting, angsty angst, fighting, mentions of character death, no beta- we die like men

"Baby, can I talk to you?" You peaked your head into Jack's office.

It was late, and you had just finished up your nightly routine of tidying up while he tied up the loose ends of his job for the day. You detested the idea of him working after hours, but that was an uphill battle you had yet to see the other side of. For now, you had bigger fish to fry.

"Of course, darlin'. You okay?" Jack looked up from his computer. He had his glasses on, already showered and in his pajamas. It was a good look on him— hell, everything was a good look on him.

"I wanted to talk to you about something. It's..." Your sentence trailed off. You stepped further into the office, and found your way behind the desk. Jack's chair turned towards you as you leaned your thigh against the sharp edge of the wood.

Jack reached his hand out, placed on your hip to offer some form of comfort. Whatever had plagued you seemed to be written all over your face. Though you two had only been married for a few months, you had known each other for years.

So long, in fact, that you remember the days when you used to hang out with Jack's deceased wife. A beautiful woman ripped away too soon, herself and their unborn son caught in the crossfire of an incident no one could have predicted. The two had become the untouchable subject between you and Jack, and you abided by that without question.

Up until now, that was easy enough to follow. You left it alone, and looked the other way when Jack stared at pictures from high school for too long. He had his better days, and the worse days were spent at the distillery— long evenings of work until he'd trudge back home past midnight, too exhausted to think, let alone face his grief head on.

While it wasn't perfect, it worked. You tried to support Jack in whatever way he needed. He did the same for you, and it had all become apart of the give and take you two had.

Now though, you had to address the elephant in the room. One in the form of a polaroid tucked away in the top drawer in Jack's desk, with a sonogram clipped to it. As badly as you wanted to drag out the entire situation, you were on borrowed time.

"Talk to me," Jack gently urged. "It ain't like I'm gonna bite your head off." His tone was concerned, but a bit amused at his own joke. With his free hand, he removed his glasses and placed them on the keyboard of his computer.

You gave a weak chuckle and tapped your foot. The amusement in Jack's tone seemed to die off as you squirmed in your spot. It was rare that he saw you in such a state.

"I went to the doctor today," you started. "Got some tests done like we had talked about." You didn't meet Jack's eyes, wouldn't even look in his direction. His hand felt like it had burned its imprint through your leggings and into your skin.

"Everything okay, darlin'?" Jack sounded immensely concerned, which you expected.

You weren't going to visit the doctor in the first place, if it had been your choice. Over the last few weeks, you just hadn't been yourself. You had been plagued with debilitating headaches and stomachaches that could lay anyone out. Jack begged you to get them checked out, worried that you were facing some sort of terminal illness.

Thankfully, you were given a clean bill of health. That was, until the doctor came in with a round of congratulations and talks of scheduling an appointment with your obstetrician. In that moment, it felt as if something you had locked away for so long finally popped open.

You hadn't even considered kids with Jack. After the passing of his wife and son, you didn't recognize him. It took a long time for him to shed that version of himself and return to some version of the man he once was.

One drunk night, back at your place after a date early on in your relationship, he went on and on about how it was a terrible idea to have children. Nothing good happens, and even if they live, they were set up to face a cruel world. You didn't disagree, but you knew the voice of grief well enough.

Now, since you had left the doctor's office, you had a different stomachache. How were you going to tell Jack? You were in no mood to fight, but you knew it was going to be a spectacle when you did tell him.

"Yes... and no. Jack, honey, I don't really know how to say what I need to say." You fidgeted with your hands, suddenly aware of the manicure you had gotten last week.

"Well, if it ain't terminal, then that's a good start," Jack tried to reassure you. He had never seen you like this, so unsure and hesitant. You were strong and confident to your very core, so sure of every move you made or whatever came out of your mouth.

"I'm pregnant," you blurted out. There was no other way to put it.

Jack was silent, his hand stilled on your hip. You watched as his expression turned steely and his jaw tensed. It hurt more than you cared to admit when he moved his hand away from you.

You looked to him, then back to your feet. The silence hung in the air ate at you, tense and thick with animosity. What was supposed to be a picture perfect moment– or at least what you had imagined when you were younger– was now anything but.

The silence only made you fidget more. You felt that sour pit in your stomach return as you waited. After a while, you couldn't take it anymore.

"I asked how it was possible, and the doctor said it could happen on some birth control pills. We discussed some options and how to proceed with this." You hoped it would help, but Jack refused to look at you. Instead, his gaze lingered on the top drawer of his desk.

You waited for something, anything from him. All day, you had braced yourself for what was to come. You had even considered removing the fetus without Jack knowing, but that just didn't seem right. The only option you felt you had was to face the problem head on.

"I know we haven't talked about it, but I need you to say something. Anything, really." You reached for his hand, only for him to pull away. It hurt more than you expected, and you moved your hand back to your side.

"You know how I feel about it," Jack finally said. "Just– I need some time to think."

You almost rolled your eyes, but refrained. In the time you had known the man, he said what he wanted when he wanted to. Over time, you had learned what that meant. It was Jack for 'I don't want this kid and I don't know how to do that without upsetting you'.

"Take the time you need," you assured him. Even in your turmoil, you understood he had a lot to process. You knew grief too well, and what it did to a person.

The silence had returned, this time heavier. You watched Jack quietly turn back to his work, a dismissal of you and the conversation all together. Without a word, you left his office.

You went to bed alone that night. Not unexpected, but it still cut deep. Right now, you just needed your husband and the simple act of comfort. All lost because of one little confession. Something you tried to prevent, but failed.

You had barely slept a wink. All night, you tossed and turned in the empty bed. When the sun peaked out from over the horizon, light slow to fill the room, you finally gave up. You decided to take a shower and get yourself ready for the day. Even if you wanted to wallow in bed, there were still tasks that had to be completed.

"Jack?" You called out as you headed downstairs. The house was empty, and a quick glance out the front door confirmed the truck was gone.

Anger bubbled inside of you as you slammed the door. He never did things like this to you. Jack made it a point to kiss you goodbye and love on you until the absolute last minute. Now, he was gone before you made it out of bed.

All day, your anger sat with you. It lingered in everything move you made, every thought you had. If there was anything you hated most of all, it was the feeling of anger. You found it did you no good, but all of your logic had flown out of the window the second the confession came out of your mouth.

Jack wasn't the only one who struggled with this. You were the one that had to create a human— one that you had never intended to have. This whole situation was terrifying, and the one person you needed most was too wrapped up in his own mind to see what stood in front of him.

When it was Jack's usual time to come home, you were surprised to hear the truck pull up. Instead of greeting him at the door as you normally would, you continued to work on dinner. You didn't have it in you to be the sweet, doting wife you liked to be.

"Hi, darlin'." Jack's sweet tone felt like a slap to the face. There was no way he had forgotten last night, no way he thought you had forgotten what happened last night.

It was your turn with the silence. You continued to make meatballs with your back turned to him, the only sound in the kitchen came from the radio you had turned on.

You heard Jack sigh as he placed his keys and wallet on the counter. The sound of his cowboy boots clicked against the tile of the kitchen floor. His hand found the small of your back, and he didn't miss the way you tensed at his touch.

"I thought about what you said," Jack muttered. He was close enough that you heard the way he talked under his breath.

"I hope so," you huffed. "Not like we had much else to talk about between now and then." You didn't look back. If you saw those sweet brown eyes, you'd melt and forgive him in a second. You had to stuck up for yourself, even if that meant focusing on the meatballs instead of your husband.

"That wasn't right, me leavin' you on your own after what we talked about last night." Jack's hand didn't move from your back. His fingers gently pressed into your side as he spoke.

"Came to that conclusion all on your own?" You tried to bite back some of the venom, but it had been stewing inside of you all day.

"Darlin'," Jack sighed. "I- You know why I acted the way I did. I mean, I can't-"

You whipped around to cut him off. Everything that had festered inside of you had come to a head, and if you wanted to stick up for yourself, now was the time.

"I do know, Jack. I'm well aware of what's been lost. You know, she was my friend too. You weren't the only person who lost someone," you began. "I know what loss is. I've lost a lot of people, but I can still acknowledge that life goes on. You ignoring me and the pregnancy doesn't make her come back. Grief is a fickle bitch, but I'm still pregnant and it's still your kid." You poked Jack's chest as you spoke.

"I-"

"No, you're going to let me finish. If you don't want the baby, fine. I'll call my doctor and that will be the end of that. If you want to keep it, that's fine too. Stop comparing me to her. I'm not her. This baby isn't him. You can feel the sadness and grief, but what you won't do is ignore me." You took a long, deep breath before you spoke again.

"If you ever do that again, I'm gone. Don't try me."

Jack waited a beat, but you finally settled and crossed your arms over your chest. You gave him an expectant look. The ball was in his court now. He sighed and rubbed his jaw as he tried to collect his thoughts.

"That was wrong of me, and I'll be the first to admit it," Jack started. "It's also wrong of me to compare the two of you. The truth is I never thought we'd be here, havin' this conversation."

You raised an eyebrow, your hip cocked to the side.

"You never thought that there would be a chance at me getting knocked up? With how often we go at it, that's just delusional." You tried to refrain from the attitude, but once your feathers were ruffled, that was the end of that.

"We've taken the proper steps for precaution," Jack argued. His jaw tensed as you rolled your eyes.

"You ever taken a sex ed class? There's always a chance. Look, that's not what I'm getting at. I've tried to avoid the subject as long as possible, but there's no more waiting. There a fetus in me, and we need to decide how we're gonna handle this before it's too late."

Jack sighed as he leaned back against the island, his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. You were right, as you had always been. How you saw right through him was beyond him, but then again, that's what he admired about you.

"I don't know if I can handle another loss," Jack admitted. "I can't lose you."

You huffed a bit, your hands curled up at your side.

"Stop trying to get me killed! It hurts, Jack. It hurts to think that you're prepared for my death, that I can't make it through and have this baby— to know that you've accepted my death before you could even think of the life we could have." You turned back to the meatballs, and grabbed a hunk of meat. It did not ease your aggravation, but the physical work was cathartic.

Jack was silent. Between the two of you, an old country song wafted through the air. If the circumstances had been different, you'd be drinking wine and laughing with him. You were sure the two of you would be—

Your thoughts halted as a hand wrapped around your waist. The meat was dropped and you wiped your hands, all before Jack tugged you away from the counter. His strong arms wrapped around you as he pulled you to his chest.

Even in the thick of a fight, Jack made you dance with him. The first time it happened, you were so bewildered that you just let it happen. Every time since, you let him apologize in his own way.

Jack held you as the two of you swayed to the music. He was a sucker for Jonny Cash, you had come to learn. Whether it was slow and sweet, or something with a quick pace, he had to hold you close and dance with you.

If I Were a Carpenter played through the speakers, Johnny and June bore witness as you let Jack take lead. The two of you were quiet, but the footwork seemed to say a lot. As angry and hurt as you were, he knew every move you'd make. He knew you as well as you knew him.

"Would you'd love me if I was a carpenter?" Jack's voice was soft. You had one arm around his neck, the other wrapped around his as he led you.

"I'd love you no matter what," you assured him. It was true, you loved him through and through.

"Even now?" Jack asked. "Through it all?"

You nodded without hesitation.

"Through it all, even if I want to strangle you."

Things would be fine, and you knew that. What Jack had to work through was beyond you and the baby. As badly as you wanted an answer right now, that wasn't going to happen. He had to think and piece it all together himself. It got under your skin, but you meant what you said.

You'd love him no matter what.

[milf0rd]

BENEATH THE MASK

pairing. simon "ghost" riley x f!reader

summary. (Y/N), Task Force 141's medic, saw Ghost's face for the first time while patching up his injuries.

warning. descriptions of gunfire, explosions, scenes depicting injuries, medical treatments, and blood (typical cod theme)

word count. 2.3k

a/n: english is my second language, so if you find any mistakes, don't hesitate and text me!

The desert wind howled across the rocky terrain as the Task Force 141 team moved swiftly through the night. (Y/N), their medic, felt the weight of her gear as she kept pace with Captain Price, Soap, Gaz, and the mysterious Ghost. She had been with the elite unit for a few months, but Ghost remained an enigma to her, a silent, masked figure whose presence was always felt but never fully seen.

Their mission that night was simple in concept: infiltrate a heavily guarded compound and extract crucial intel regarding a new shipment of chemical weapons. But as they approached the compound under darkness, their plan quickly unravelled. A patrol they hadn't anticipated stumbled upon them, leading to a chaotic firefight.

Bullets whizzed through the air, accompanied by the sharp cracks of rifles and the distant thunder of explosions. (Y/N) took cover behind a crumbling wall, her mind racing as she assessed the wounded. Soap and Gaz held their ground nearby, providing cover fire as Captain Price barked orders over the radio.

Suddenly, Ghost appeared beside her, his presence as silent as ever. He motioned towards Soap, whose shoulder was grazed by a bullet. Without a word, (Y/N) nodded and hurried to assist.

The firefight continued for what felt like an eternity, but the team managed to eliminate the immediate threat. With the area momentarily secure, they regrouped in a small, dimly lit room within the compound. Captain Price leaned over the map spread out on a makeshift table, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"We need that intel," Price said grimly, his voice low yet commanding. "Ghost, find it. (Y/N), patch up whoever needs it and be ready to move out."

(Y/N) nodded, her focus shifting to Soap and Gaz as she pulled out her medical kit. Soap winced as she began to clean and dress his wound, but Gaz remained alert, scanning their surroundings.

As (Y/N) worked, she stole glances at Ghost, who was hunched over a computer terminal in the corner of the room. His movements were precise and deliberate, his gloved hands flying over the keys as he accessed the encrypted files.

The tension in the room was palpable, broken only by the occasional click of Ghost's keystrokes and the muted sounds of the ongoing battle outside. (Y/N) couldn't help but wonder about the man behind the mask—his past, his motivations. But such thoughts had to wait. Right now, their survival depended on securing the intel and getting out safely.

Just as Ghost seemed to make progress, an explosion rocked the building, sending debris flying and knocking everyone off balance. (Y/N) stumbled, but Ghost was quick to steady her, his gloved hand gripping her arm firmly. For a brief moment, she felt the weight of his presence, his strength beneath the mask.

"Ghost!" Captain Price called out, his voice urgent. "We're running out of time. Can you get that intel or not?"

Ghost nodded, his masked face unreadable. With renewed determination, he returned to the terminal, his fingers moving faster now.

Outside, the gunfire intensified, drawing nearer by the second. Soap and Gaz exchanged worried glances, their weapons at the ready. They knew they couldn't hold out much longer.

"Almost there," Ghost muttered under his breath, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Suddenly, the screen flickered and then displayed a map with a blinking marker. Ghost's gloved hand hovered over the keyboard as he extracted the data onto a portable drive.

"We've got it," Ghost announced, his voice calm yet triumphant.

Captain Price wasted no time. "Good. (Y/N), pack up. We're moving out–"

Before Price could finish his sentence, a barrage of gunfire erupted from outside the room. Bullets tore through the walls, sending chunks of debris flying. (Y/N) ducked instinctively, shielding her head with her arms.

In the chaos, Ghost acted decisively. He grabbed (Y/N)'s arm and pulled her towards him, shielding her with his own body as they sought cover behind a thick concrete pillar. His masked face was just inches from hers, his eyes intense behind the tinted lenses.

"Stay down," Ghost ordered, his voice low yet urgent.

(Y/N) nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the heat of his body against hers, his presence a comforting shield amidst the chaos. For the first time, she found herself grateful for his silent strength.

Captain Price and the others returned fire, their shots echoing through the room. The enemy was relentless, their numbers seemingly endless. But Task Force 141 was relentless too, fighting tooth and nail to hold their ground.

As the firefight raged on, (Y/N) couldn't help but steal glances at Ghost. His mask remained firmly in place, betraying nothing of the man beneath. But now, with the adrenaline coursing through her veins, she found herself drawn to him in a way she hadn't before.

"We need to move," Captain Price shouted over the din of gunfire. "Ghost, (Y/N), cover us. Soap, Gaz, with me!"

Without hesitation, Ghost and (Y/N) provided covering fire as Price and the others dashed towards the exit. Bullets whizzed past them, impacting the walls with deadly precision.

"Go!" Ghost called out, his voice barely audible over the cacophony of battle.

(Y/N) nodded and followed Ghost as they made their way towards the exit, their backs pressed against the cold stone walls. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid smell of gunpowder, their lungs burning with each breath.

Just as they reached the exit, a stray grenade sailed through the air and landed at their feet. (Y/N)'s eyes widened in horror as she realized they were trapped. Without thinking, Ghost pushed her behind him and shielded her with his body once more.

The grenade exploded with a deafening roar, sending shrapnel flying in all directions. (Y/N) felt the force of the blast against her back, but Ghost absorbed the brunt of it, his body tensing with the impact. She could hear him grunt in pain, but he didn't falter.

"Ghost!" (Y/N) screamed.

"(Y/N)..." Ghost's voice was strained. He was conscious but clearly in pain.

"Ghost is down!" she shouted into her comms, her voice filled with urgency.

There was a brief crackle of static before Price's voice came through, sharp and focused. "Gaz, Soap, fall back to Ghost's position! (Y/N), get to him now!"

As the smoke cleared, (Y/N) peered around Ghost to assess the damage. His mask was scorched and cracked, revealing a glimpse of his face beneath. Blood trickled down his neck from a gash caused by a piece of shrapnel.

"We need to get him out!" she called out, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

A few moments later the team managed to get to the position of (Y/N) and Ghost. Soap and Gaz provided cover as Price helped lift Ghost. They moved quickly, bullets whizzing past them, the sounds of battle all around. Outside, the night air was cool against (Y/N)'s skin as they regrouped with the extraction team and jumped into the helicopter that was waiting for them. As everyone was situated, (Y/N) immediately went to work, her focus solely on saving Ghost.

Captain Price and the others scanned the area around the helicopter, holding off the enemy as they flew off. (Y/N) didn't hesitate, knelt beside him. Ignoring his initial resistance, she gently pushed aside his damaged skull mask, and her hands went to his fabric mask that was under the other one.

"I need to see the wound," she said, her voice steady despite the panic rising within her.

Ghost caught her wrist instinctively, his gaze locking with hers. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"It's alright, I need to patch you up," (Y/N) said softly, her voice barely a whisper.

Ghost hesitated, his grip on her wrist loosening ever so slightly. He gave a barely noticeable nod, allowing her to proceed. (Y/N) peeled back the mask, revealing his face for the first time. His face was a canvas of battle-hardened features, each scar telling a story of survival and sacrifice. A deep, fresh gash ran from his cheek down to his neck, the wound raw and bleeding, but the older scars drew her gaze – the jagged line across his left eyebrow, the faded burn mark along his jawline, and the small, puckered scar near his temple. His skin was pale, almost ghostly, contrasting sharply with the dark stubble that shadowed his jaw. But it was his eyes that caught her attention – dark brown, filled with a mix of determination and vulnerability.

Carefully, (Y/N) cleaned the wound on his neck and applied pressure to staunch the bleeding. Ghost felt a strange mix of emotions. He was not used to being exposed, his face a closely guarded secret. The sensation of her hands, gentle yet firm, was foreign but strangely comforting. Despite the pain, there was a sense of relief, a small crack in the armour he had built around himself.

Even though the severity of the situation, she remained calm, her training guiding her every move. Ghost winced, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he watched her with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.

"There," (Y/N) said gently, securing a bandage around his neck. "That should hold for now."

Ghost's eyes met hers, a mixture of pain and gratitude in their depths. "Thanks," he muttered, his voice strained.

"I've got you," she replied firmly. "Just hang on."

As (Y/N) finished, Captain Price stepped over the duo, his expression a mix of concern and relief. "How is he?" he asked, his eyes on Ghost.

(Y/N) looked up, exhaustion evident in her features. "He'll be okay. The wound was serious, but he's stable now."

Price nodded, his respect for (Y/N) clear in his eyes. "Good work. You saved his life."

(Y/N) offered a tired smile. "Just fulfilling my duty."

Price clapped a hand on her shoulder, a rare gesture of affection. The helicopter blades whipped through the night, and (Y/N) stayed beside Ghost, her hands steady as she pressed the bandage on his wound. The field dressings had been held, but the ride was rough, so she kept a close watch to ensure he stayed stable. Despite the dire situation, Ghost’s eyes remained sharp, and focused, a silent testament to his resilience. (Y/N) looked at the others and Ghost knew that she wanted to check on them. He nodded and without another word, he moved (Y/N)’s hand from his gash and pushed her to go to the other injured comrades.

Once she agreed, (Y/N) turned her attention to Soap. She barely took care of his shoulder which took a hit during the firefight, and although he didn’t say anything, she knew he must be in pain.

“Soap,” she called, her voice cutting through the hum of the helicopter. “Let me see your shoulder.”

Soap glanced at her, his usual bravado dimmed by exhaustion. “It’s just a scratch, doc,” he muttered, but he didn’t resist as she moved closer.

(Y/N) carefully peeled back the torn fabric of his sleeve, revealing the graze. The bullet had grazed his shoulder, leaving a raw, bloody scar. She winced at the sight but quickly set to work, cleaning the wound with practised efficiency.

“You need to take it easy,” she said, her tone firm but gentle. “This might not be serious now, but it could get worse if you don’t let it heal.”

Soap grinned, a flicker of his usual humour returning. “Don’t worry about me, lass. I’m tougher than I look.”

(Y/N) smiled back, shaking her head. “Maybe, but even tough guys need to let their medics take care of them.”

As she bandaged his shoulder, Soap’s grin softened into something sincere. “Thanks, doc. We’re lucky to have you.”

She finished securing the bandage and patted his good shoulder. “Just doing my job, Soap. Now sit tight, we’ll be back at base soon.”

She glanced around the helicopter, checking on the rest of the team. Gaz was alert, his eyes scanning the horizon, and Captain Price was deep in thought, already planning their next move. Despite the weariness and the injuries, there was a deep sense of unity among them. They had faced the fire together and come out stronger on the other side.

As the helicopter touched down at the base, the team began to disembark, their movements slow and weary. (Y/N) remained beside Ghost, her presence a steady anchor amidst the chaos. His mask was back in place, hiding his features once more. But now, she knew the man behind the mask – a warrior with a haunted past, driven by a sense of duty and honour. She held his hand gently, ensuring he felt her support. Even through the pain and exhaustion, Ghost’s eyes flickered with a rare vulnerability, acknowledging her silent strength.

As the other medics arrived and began to transfer him onto a stretcher, Ghost’s grip on her hand tightened slightly. “You don’t have to stay,” he muttered, his voice strained but sincere.

(Y/N) smiled softly, squeezing his hand in return. “I want to. You’re my patient and my friend. I’m not leaving you now.”

Ghost’s eyes softened, a flicker of gratitude passing over his features. “Not used to... this kind of care.”

She chuckled lightly, adjusting the blanket around him. “Well, get used to it. You’re stuck with me.”

There was a brief silence as the medics prepared to move him, the sounds of the bustling base fading into the background. Ghost looked at her, his expression serious. “Thanks, (Y/N). For everything.”

(Y/N) leaned closer, her voice gentle but firm. “Just focus on getting better, Ghost. We need you.”

He nodded, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his mouth behind the fabric mask. “I’ll do my best.”

“You better do,” she said, walking alongside the stretcher as they moved him towards the infirmary.

[havoc-7]

I wasn’t a die-hard Tech Lives believer (more of a “I HOPE Tech Lives” believer) but the end of the show has me grieving hard all over again, so here’s my little ode to Tech based on things I’ve noticed about him from rewatching the show:

Tech LOVES his brothers, and he genuinely misses Crosshair. When he has his heart to heart with Omega in the ipsium cavern, the way that he mentions Crosshair—even though that wasn’t even really what they were discussing—shows how often Crosshair is on his mind, so much so that he can’t really talk about people leaving and changing without bringing him up. When they get the Plan 88 from Crosshair, Tech is vocal and insistent about doing whatever they can to bring Crosshair back—because “he is still our brother.”

Tech is incredibly moral. Not that he’s any more moral than I think generally TBB is, but he’s not afraid to speak up when he sees something that he disagrees with fundamentally. “The systematic termination of the Jedi is a big one for me.” “There’s a fundamental different between taking fire in battle and being used for target practice.” Even in just the first episode, we see how firm his opinions are, based on what he believes: that people are people, that HIS BROTHERS are people, that they deserve better, that there is such a thing as right and wrong.

Tech may be practical, but that doesn’t make him any less crazy than his brothers—in fact, I would argue he is one of the more unhinged members of the bad batch. His plans and ideas see everything factually, factoring in risk not as an emotional factor but as a numerical one. He knows their skills, and what they are capable of, and he pushes them to those capabilities, even if the resulting strategy is absolutely insane. The best part is, as insane as he may be, his brothers trust him, because, as Tech himself said, he is seldom wrong.

Tech has a beautiful sense of wonder and awe for the world around him. How many times do we see him go wide-eyed as he encounters something that absolutely fascinates him—even if that thing is a Zillo beast that just ate an entire Imperial crew.

Tech is INSANE. Not unhinged, like I said earlier, but skill-wise, ability-wise, he is an absolute powerhouse. I will forever be grateful to the writers of TBB who gave us a techy, intelligent character who is not your average scrawny computer guy that we get in action movies. You have to have a lot of guts to be the guy in your squad who turns your back on the fight to bend over a computer and hack into a file or break an encryption or alter the programming—already a delicate operation, but with the added risk of getting shot with your back turned. He frickin wields double blasters so that he can shoot more clankers more efficiently (if that’s not practical Tech, I don’t know what is). He DOESN’T WEAR LEG ARMOR SO THAT HE CAN CARRY HIS TOOLS WITH HIM INTO THE FIELD. In “Faster,” we see his hand inching towards his blaster, ready to defend and protect the second it’s necessary—and you know he would’ve beaten anyone to the draw. He fought a group of Imperial troopers!!! With a broken leg!!!!!

Tech was amazing, and I hate that he’s dead, that we never got to see him grow old, that he never saw Crosshair again. But WHAT A LIFE HE LIVED.

[sw5w]

Let's Go!

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:51:46

[elsa-fogen]

So. On the topic of Alastor headcannons. What's your opinion on these radio themed ones:

Alastor has an internal radio. Like the concept of having songs play through your head, but more literal. He can tune to stations as if he was a radio himself. And if he really wants to, he can connect himself to other radios in his immediate vicinity and play that music though them instead.

His antlers help his radio powers. So when they get damaged (in battle, sheds them, whatever reason you wanna put here) his internal radio goes bazerk. Think; flipping stations randomly, connecting to other radios when he doesn't want it to, playing loud static at random. All the chaos.

He can hear through other radios. He once had to listen to Vox playing Barbie Girl through a TV right next to a radio in Vox's studio, for a week straight. Surely enough; Barbie Girl is now banned from all radio stations in hell.

What do you think? I got more like these if you like them. Give me a generic topic and I can probably list several under that category.

OHH RADIO HEASCANONS

Yes, but he also can turn it on and off when he needs

Never thought about it, but it's funny (don't think i'm going to use it anywhere but who knows, maybe i'll make some funzies with that)

Pretty much used it in one my comic slihdsdkjfh +headcanon that Vox taught him that, he also can control when and which radio he wants to listen (or his head would be a horrible mess) ut i like headcanon that he has some songs banned on the radio lol

speaking of other radiostations, i actually made an instruction on How To get Your Own Radio Station In Hell, let me just find it real quick... i wanted to share it long ago, but couldn't find a moment

Imagine you're a normal sinner in hell, who suddenly wants to become radio host for one small station. and it's possible! and you won't even die, and get some benefits, if succeed. So, it's kinda hard, but doable

1. You need to write a letter asking for a permission to have your own station to The Radio Demon himself. a) letter should be handwritten, and your handwriting must be at least readable. Or you can use typewriter, if you find one. DO NOT write it on a computer and then print, you'll probably won't be able to get your station in following 50 years b) You should send your letter via post. DO NOT try to meet Radio Demon in person, you'll just lose time, or even if you get lucky, he won't take your letter. b*) Now you can just come to Hazbin Hotel and give your letter to Charlie Morningstar and ask her to give it to Radio Demon. Don't worry, she won't read it. b**) You should leave your contacts, that's obligatory if you want to get an answer - that means you have to have a place to live. c) Do not try to e-mail him, he doesn't even have a phone or computer to receive it. If someone gives you 100% totally real Radio Demon's e-mail - don't trust them, its fake 2. You'll get answer from the Radio Demon in 1-2 weeks, he'll send you set of papers which you have to fill out. You'll probably have to do it 3-4 times so don't worry, he's just testing your dedication. In these papers you give general info about your future radio station - the name, schedule, what activities you'll gonna have and what kinds of music wanna play. Include some jazz, especially if you mostly want to have modern music. You'll also have to tell a bit about yourself. You absolutely should not be connected to voxtech in any way. 2.b) he may simply dislike your ass and become a real bureaucratic monster. Keep trying - you can impress him with you dedication and he may like you in the end 3. When you got your application approved, you'll have to sign a contract, that gives you right to broadcast on a certain radio frequency. According to the contract - your radio station belongs to the Radio Demon, you'll just getting it in unlimited use, until the contract terminated. You DO NOT sell your soul to the Radio Demon. He can broadcast over you any time he needs and you can't do anything about it. He can also ask you to change something in your broadcast schedule, ask to replace of cancel any of your programs, ban music and so on. (Tho, he probably won't do anything of it). But since your radio station is his property, you're as well under his protection while you on your station, so if someone attacks you and you're unable to protect yourself and your station, you'll have a way to contact him and ask for help. You'll have a specific channel for it and list of morse codes for emergencies. You should not use this channel for anything else, or you'll lose your station. 4. After all paperwork is done and approved, you have to get equipment for your station. DO NOT use ANYTHING voxtech related, and you absolutely cannot have TV on your station. 5. After you got all the equipment, invite the Radio Demon to your station. He'll set everything up for you and give you list of emergency codes. Do not try to interrupt his infodumps even if you lost track of it and can't understand shit, it's better if you show enthusiasm. 6. And done! Now you are happy small radio host! The Radio Demon may show up on your station sometimes to check how everything's going, but don't worry about it, he won't be bother you too often after few weeks.

P. S. You are NOT friends with the Radio Demon, even if he acts friendly and calls you "dear" - that's just his normal, not-threatenning behavior P. P. S. Don't be too personal, don't dump on him your problems if they aren't related to the station when he comes to you. Just make him some coffee, talk about weather and tell that everything works just fine P. P. P. S. ABSOLUTELY! DO NOT! TRY TO HUG HIM! He'll just laugh at you, and if you somehow succeed he'll make everything to make you regret every action in your life and afterlife that led you to this moment (and it doesn't necessarily means he will torture you physically, once he run into masacistic freak that got a boner when was tortured) P. P. P. P. S. If you caught feelings for him - suffer in silence and NEVER try to confess. You'll lose your station immediately and will never get it back.

All these instructions are totally written by Rosie who heared so many complaints from Alastor about how people want to become a radio host but can't do it properly

And Alastor is probably making them experience what he went through to become a radio host in life

GOD, TUMBLR WHY UR SUCH AN ASS TODAY WTF LET ME JUST POST MY SILLY TEXT

[khloethecatsworld]

Can you help us get our blog out there to cheer more people up?

Hi everyone. This is my 3 year old Maine Coon mix named Khloe. She is a complete sweetheart. I’m currently battling terminal cancer and she comforts me every single day by laying by me on my computer table. When I brought her home from the shelter, she was on the list to be euthanized due to no one wanting to adopt her. She has weight issues due to diabetes so I feed her a diabetic friendly diet. She likes chicken, watching hockey and cuddles. Could you help us get our blog out there to cheer more people up? ❤️🥰

[beivfac2]

List of things that Princess Bubblegum did

this isnt a callout post i think shes hilarious and i love her

made a sphinx using her dna to take over the kindgom after she dies but it got corrupted so she made ANOTHER sphinx with finns dna to battle it psychically for all eternity

spun a cow around at terminal velocity to make cheese for a sandwhich

performed dark arts to cook bread from dough

told princess cookie he couldnt be a princess

tried to throw princess cookie in the dungeon for life after he wanted to come forward peacefully and leave the candy kingdom. also wanted to hunt him down after he escaped

stole finn and jakes money for taxes since they werent home

put a gps in finns ear

CUT OFF THAT SANDBOX BABYS LEGS (i dont know who or what sandbox baby is this is just what i had written down)

made out with her own hand and beat the shit out of ice kings computer

made a robot version of herself to date some guy for research on infatuation and because she didnt want anyone to suffer the pain of infatuation

tortured flame princess

told james to sacrifice himself to get eaten by radioactive waste zombies cause she can just clone another james

put everyone at tree trunks's wedding in jail

broke into the king of Ooo's zeppelin

killed all but one of the rattleballs

stole thermo control technology from flame kingdom guardians

hid a camera inside cinnamon buns nose

spys on everyone (she turned the cameras all off tho so like. improvement)

put trackers into people's teeth

has a burrito room

[the-californicationist]

¡Hola Cali! 🩷 Te dejé un mensaje con un DILF que pesqué hace algunas semanas, pero creo que se perdió por aquí o no pudiste leerlo. ¡Te extraño tanto! El trabajo me está consumiendo porque estamos en plena campaña política y solo quiero que termine, con el mejor resultado, e ir a descansar (y escribir).

Leí que estabas de vacaciones o algo así. ¡Espero que la estés pasando increíble! *Besito en la frente*

Vine con una idea que me está rondando la cabeza: Precio como candidato a Senador y Lector asesor, deciden mandar todo a la verg* y simplemente ACEPTAN QUE ESTÁN ENAMORADOS Y TIENEN SEXO CALIENTE Y DESORDENADO.

*guiño guiño*

Griss!! Lamento mucho la demora, mi amor. Espero que esto sea lo que esperabas <3

After serving in the SAS, John Price has decided to run for a seat in the House of Commons. You are one of his closest political advisors, helping him deal with a runoff election. The only problem? Your incurable crush on your giant, hot, bearded, future member of Parliament.

English translation of the ask: Senator!Price and Advisor!Reader, decide to send everything to hell and simply ACCEPT THAT THEY ARE IN LOVE AND HAVE HOT AND MESSY SEX.

Unfortunately, this fic is in English, but if you are looking for Spanish-language fics, please go read (and reblog!) @pricesugarwife and her amazing work!! She's the best!

The Runoff

The tremble in your hand wouldn’t be abated by the drink you clasped in it, the alcohol losing the battle against your nerves, and the brown neck of the beer bottle kept waving in little shivers, giving your fears away. You squeezed the glass tighter, feeling the sticky glue of the label you’d picked bare, its shards still caught under your fingernails, but you kept trying to control your muscles; mind over matter. 

Only the blue, hazy glow of the computer screen reflected in your eyes as you watched the election results come in. Down twenty-two, up seventeen, down four, up twelve; you watched the number fluctuate as if it was your life hanging in the balance. Hell, this wasn’t even your race. 

But, it sure felt like it was. You were entrenched in this campaign, elbow-deep in the muck of it, wearing its failures like dark purple bruises and its successes like lipstick-stained kisses, feeling the highest of highs and trudging through the lowest of lows. Every rally felt like a homecoming, and every debate put your nerves on edge. More than anything, you believed in your work. You stuffed envelopes and pressed flyers into the palms of your fellow constituents as if you were bringing them food for their empty bellies, passing out prayers for their unsaved souls. It was the most important work you’d ever done. 

You needed John Price to win. 

Being elected to the House of Commons was a big deal for an independent in his district. Luckily, John’s reputation quietly but effectively preceded him. His service to the RAF and SAS, his commitment to defeating agents of terror, his loyalty to the Crown – all of it gleamed just like the shining medals that hung on his chest, even if he grumbled about them. Despite his distaste for pomp, he sure did wear it well. The accolades looked good on his broad chest, each one more splendid than the last, all lined up in neat, indomitable rows. 

Maybe I should spend more time looking at my stat sheets than his uniform, you thought, feeling guilty at just how many times you’d turned on incognito mode and searched for his award ceremony on YouTube.

The video had a few hundred thousand views, but it felt like most of those were from you. Seeing him walk out on stage, every bit the hero they’d introduced him as, made your breath catch in your throat. His sharp hat, the starched fabric of his coat, the bright, red sash slashing across his big, heavy body… you wanted to feel him sinking his weight on top of you, that power stealing your breath away, crushing your ribs, stopping your lungs from gasping in their precious oxygen. You wanted to feel the cold of those shining brass buttons upon your breasts, their rounded edges curling and chilling your heated flesh. You wanted the stubble of his beard to burn your soft cheek. 

You wanted John Price, and that would be a huge mistake. The last thing he needed was tabloid pictures with a garish, screaming title like “MP CANDIDATE SNOGGING HIS OWN STAFF!” No, you wouldn’t embarrass him like that. You wouldn’t risk it. Even if the way that he looked at you across the war room table made you think that you could, you would never. His seat was too critical. 

You needed John Price to win. 

Your eyes flashed up to the screen, again, noticing a change in the counting. You watched the numbers slow their terrible give and take, the shifting ups and downs slowly trickling to a halt. You did a double take, checking the clock. The recount was over. It was a tie.

Your phone started to buzz. Then another. Before you took your next breath, it was vibrating fast enough to cancel out each subsequent ping, like a barrage of alerts, all fighting for the front of the line. You shut it down, hoping you could get a kill command through the thunderous notification storm. Finally, the screen went dark, and you saw yourself staring back through the black mirror, startled to see your sunken eyes, as if you were confronting a stranger. You kept the dead phone centered in your hand, gazing into your own face just a little longer as if to ask what she was looking at, daring her to flinch. 

“Yours, too?” 

A dark, smoldering voice rumbled toward you through the quiet of your shared office. You snapped your head to find him leaning against the doorway, the collar of his oxford missing its tie, unbuttoned thrice, wrinkled and lilting from sweat and rain and the stress of the day. His beard was shaggy, and his five o’clock shadow bristled across his neck, spreading on his cheeks as he gave you a half-smile, wiggling his dead phone in the air. 

“Yeah,” you sighed, coming back to yourself, “Don’t look now, but Twitter is going absolutely mental.”

You pointed your chin at the screen, tilting your head up and leaning back in your chair so that he could look over your shoulder. There was barely a meter between the wall and the desk, so between you and the chair, John needed to lean close to see the final score. As he watched the screen, you watched the pulse of his heart beat through the wide vein in his neck. You could smell his musk, the human of his earthly form filling your nose and mouth, then his aftershave, fading, only the woody base notes remaining. A lingering scent of his favorite cigars clung to his hair and clothes. He smelled like a fire, a whirling inferno of vanilla and licorice and sweet tobacco that you had grown to love, to crave. 

“Christ. A fuckin’ runoff. As if I haven’t put you lot through enough already.” He shook his head, crossing his thick arms across himself, sighing from a resigned frustration. 

“We wouldn’t do it if we didn’t believe it was worth it,” you murmured in a hushed half-tone, your voice almost gone from all the shouting and mayhem you’d been a part of earlier when they’d called for a recount, “We believe in you, John.”

His smile widened, not enough to show those straight, white teeth, but enough to soften his eyes as he looked down at you. He tapped you on the shoulder and motioned for you to come with him. 

As he disappeared through the door, you followed him into the office hallway, past the common room, scooting past half-dead interns, rabid with a new task. One of them was juggling three phone calls at once, but another was curled up beneath her desk fast asleep using a cheap fleece blanket for comfort. Your campaign office had been through Hell, and it was far from over. 

A few of them tried to stop you and ask some questions, but you put them off, telling them to take a breather, get their minds right before making another phone call, and you continued to follow John as he led you through the winding office maze. 

Finally, he pulled you into his office, grabbing your forearm with some force, and locking the door behind you. 

“Got a surprise for you,” he said, pulling out two white bags from under his desk. 

You smelled it before he revealed it to you, and you couldn’t help but gape in excitement,

“Is that… oh, my God. Is that Padella’s? Are you serious right now?”

You helped him tear into the bags like a feral hound, ripping at the tight plastic bow, pulling out the takeaway boxes greedily and without shame.

His grin was smug and satisfied as he watched you open the box and take in a huge whiff of the hot food, 

“Yeah, it is. The seafood alfredo, right? Your favorite.”

“John,” you said his name like he had given you something far more salacious than food, ignoring his rolling chuckle, eager to get a morsel in your mouth as soon as you could. 

“If I knew it’d get you to say my name like that, I’d bring it by every bloody night,” he laughed, hiding his pleasure under a joking tone. He leaned in closer to the open takeaway box, peering inside, “Go on, love. Give us a bite.”

“This is how you know I’m devoted to the John Price campaign,” you joked with him, raising your eyebrows with some sass as you prepared a forkful for him. You speared a juicy scallop, twirling some pasta around on the plastic tines of the single-use utensil, crafting the perfect bite for him. “Giving you first dibs?”

“Lucky bloke, me,” he said quietly, winking at you. 

You pulled the fork into position, lining it up with his mouth, and you watched him open up those full lips for you, showing you his flat, pink tongue that bent to anticipate the creamy taste of the pasta. You placed it gently inside, the act of feeding one of the most dangerous men in the world suddenly too intimate, too endearing. His eyes watched you through the whole ritual, only fluttering closed when he shut his lips and began to chew his bite, savoring the flavors. 

He let out a long groan, the sound of which made you want to squeeze your thighs together, your mind repeating it over and over like an echo, imagining your name falling in between his ragged, guttural sighs. You felt your cheeks run hot.

“Mm, fuck,” he smiled, talking with his mouth half-full, “That is damn good.”

You took your own bite, nodding, tasting the buttery alfredo, the perfectly-cooked noodles, and the light, savory scallop. It was almost better than sex. Almost. 

Sharing the same fork, since you only had the one, you and John traded bites, sitting in silence for a while before the conversation turned back to work.

“They wanna put us in the runoff in less than ten days,” he said ruefully, understanding that timeline would be a brutal one.

“Ten days? Are they trying to kill us? The interns are falling asleep standing up,” you sighed, exaggerating a little, but making your point. 

“You should head home. Get some rest. I’ll hold down the fort here, love,” John said, wiping a smear of stray alfredo off of his lip decisively. 

You balked,

“No. Absolutely not. I can’t leave you now, not when we’re this close to winning this thing.”

He studied you for a moment, leaning his hulking forearms on his desk, spreading his wide hands across the soft wood of its tabletop, letting you see the small muscles in his hands as they stretched and pulled across his bones. He looked down at the space between his palms, grounding himself before he spoke, his voice just above a whisper, 

“You make me feel like it’s actually possible.” 

You reached out, your hand holding onto his wrist, making him look up to meet your eyes,

“John. It is possible. You’ve got Stallworth’s endorsement. Marchande will lose if you can get the Labor constituents behind you. I’ve run the numbers. Believe me, you can do this.”

“I can’t do it without you,” he frowned a bit, his brow knitting together, the timbre of his voice low and steady. 

You smiled up at him, feeling his fingers lace themselves into yours, experimentally testing the boundaries of his touch, 

“I’m here until the bitter end,” you let out a short laugh, nervous from how good it felt to be held in his hands, “And probably even after that.”

John was silent for a while, his thumbs massaging your knuckles in little, slow circles, his touch becoming more and more sensual, and then, he abruptly pulled away, leaving your palms face up on the table, your fingers bent in the shape of a shallow bowl as if begging to be filled. But, you remained empty, so you pulled your hands back to your lap, suddenly unsure, your body wanting his touch but mentally feeling as if you shouldn’t ask for it back.

He looked away, staring past you at the closed door and muttered, 

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” You challenged, keeping your volume as low as his, not wanting to break the fading spell you had cast over each other. 

“I ask too much of you.”

You listened to the words as he sent them out, hearing two implications fighting within that one phrase. 

Too much of my time, or too much of my body? You wondered. 

So, you tried to make it easy on him. You didn’t want to be the distraction that ruined his race. You stood, closing up the box of food, cleaning off the tiny smear of alfredo that painted the corner of his desk. He stood with you, waving you off of the mess, taking over to clean it himself. 

The bag rustled, the box popped hollowly as he closed it, paper and cardboard and plastic all swishing and clattering, a cacophony of noise. And then… a deeply still silence. 

He was standing right in front of you, too close for you to think straight. You let yourself linger there, leeching the warmth from his heavy body and taking it into yourself, letting it seep into your skin. You vowed to keep the memory of it in some recess of your mind, saving it for dessert when you could be alone to savor its silky texture, tasting a ghost of all of the mirror universes where you knew what it felt like to be covered in him.

Suddenly, you felt his finger under your chin, a coaxing pressure, lifting your face to look at him. It was hard to look into his eyes. Some part of you knew that the moment he peered into them, when he studied what they were trying to hide, he would know your secret. He would be able to see all of your guilt, all of your stolen pleasure, all of the nights where your hand tried to replicate his presence, working itself between your legs to indulge in your fantasies about being taken by him, about serving him not as his campaign advisor but as his woman; his shelter and his release. He would look into your face and he would immediately know that you dreamed of being used like his own personal toy, helping him unwind after the stress of this election, putting all of his frustrations into you as he pounded himself into your mouth or between your spread legs, using you like a salve on a burn.  

But, you showed him anyway. Your eyes flicked up to his, and you let him see it. 

John towered over you, his shadow darkening your vision, framing you with his round shoulders. He had his thumb pressed just below your bottom lip, opening your mouth a little, watching your breathing crash heavy into your lungs.  

You stood frozen in place, watching as his neck bent over you, the great trunk of his body craning down, shading you, closing around you like the boughs of an immense oak, promising that you were safe here nestled in his roots, some sort of primal argument, convincing you to stay still so he could devour you in peace. A rabbit, statuesque beneath the snarl of a wolf.

His face was now upon yours, close enough for you to see the little silver scars that crossed over his cheek and brow, hints at a dangerous life, whispers of old pain. A light spattering of freckles littered the bridge of his nose, fanning out beneath those pale blue eyes he had fixed on your mouth, staring into it as if hypnotized.

Finally, when he was near enough to taste your air, to feel the heat of your breath against his mouth, his lips broke their seal, opening in anticipation of another first bite, another chance to sate a different type of hunger. 

His lips brushed yours, every moment taking an eon to pass, seconds stretching into thousands of hours, the office, the building, the city melting away from you like wax from a flame, the world giving way to dark infinity, and you opened your mouth to taste him, allowing your tongue to slip over your teeth so that you could know the sweetness of the smooth skin of his lip. 

The moment you touched him, you were taken. He crashed into you, his mouth to your mouth, his chest to your chest, scooping you up like a greedy falcon, trapping you in his arms, flying away with you. Or falling? You felt like you were falling; like you had leapt too high and now would tumble through the sky forever, whirling helplessly. He tasted of the rich alfredo, and of his cigars, buttery and rich, masculine and heady. He was prying your jaw apart with his own, eager to fill your cheeks with his broad, heavy tongue. John pulled back just enough to allow you to take a breath, but he returned, unable to stop himself, softly sucking at your bottom lip, slanting his mouth over yours, the fever in him beginning to cool. Then, he pulled back altogether, resting his forehead against yours, his eyes wrenched closed, his body heaving from his desperate breaths. 

He leaned back, staring at you with a worried look on his face, his voice deep and gravelly, a demonic purr, 

“I… I’m so sorry.”

You nodded, lowering your eyes, 

“I know. We can’t.”

“Can’t?” He panted, still reeling, looking at you like he was lost, like you knew the way out, “Do you want this? Me?”

You leaned your head into the strength of his hands as he cradled your skull, drunk on hope,

“More than you know. But, I don’t want to distract–”

John lunged at you, his mouth pressing to yours again, hurting you with his power. The weight of his jaw crashing into your lips, making you wonder if you would bleed from it, your own teeth cutting into the delicate membrane inside. But, he didn’t seem to care. He wasn’t concerned with your comfort. He was only there to consume you, to steal your breath, to drink your soul from your throat. 

He moved his body against you like a python, curling and squeezing you with his arms, constricting your movements, pushing and pulling you this way or that, whatever would give him deeper access to your pink tongue. His aggression shocked you, and it was everything you could do to just keep your balance, unsteady on your feet, your hands clutching at his waist for support. 

John’s kissing made you feel weak, like he was drugging you, forcing your mind into a daze. You tried to remember why you had tried to stop this from happening, unable to even imagine a consequence. You felt his hands wander away from your face, rushing down your neck, finding your breasts and roughly fondling them over your shirt. You’d ripped off your bra long ago, hot and tired, needing relief. 

When he realized that your heavy tits were hanging freely, hidden beneath your oversized button-down, you felt him shudder, groaning into your mouth at the mere fantasy of seeing them, of marking your nipples in dark hickeys as he suckled you, letting his teeth tattoo his claim on your flesh. 

You were brought back to the physical world when you felt your ass shoved into the long edge of the desk, stopping his forward progress. He pulled away from the kiss and stared down at you with a look that made you feel as if you might be in some kind of danger, even if you were relishing every fearful moment of it. 

John had only shown you this expression once before. You’d been working late again, trying to keep yourself awake by brewing coffee in the break room. There’d been an incident or two with one of the interns, a bloke who didn’t know how to take no for an answer. You’d shut him down twice, and now, you hadn’t realized he had followed you inside the small kitchenette. This time, he wasn’t asking, and when you felt his hand on your neck, you’d screamed, fighting back, but not making much difference. Mere seconds later, John had marched in wearing this same expression stretched across his face. 

It was a sort of ravenous joy, almost playful, but it was terrifying. He’d broken the intern’s wrist in his crushing grip, and then his jaw bone, striking the smaller man down to the dirty, tile floor with a single, cracking punch. Then, he’d stared at you, trying his best to control his visage, to push down that fiery arousal. Eventually, he was back under control, helping you out of the office, checking you for any wound, no matter how minor, worrying himself over you, promising that you’d never see that arsehole again. And you never did. You’d put it out of your mind until just this moment, always having more work to do. But now, you wondered if that intern was still walking around out there or if John had let his old ways return just for that evening. He was always good at eliminating threats. 

You had assumed that his feral heat had been for the fight, an expression of rage. But now, you thought that perhaps it had been for you. The thought that this reckless lad had dared to put his hands on something that John had claimed as his own, righteously possessive over you to the point of fury, baring his teeth and curling his lip into a lupine snarl, briefly revealing his wrath before tamping down on it and hiding it from you out of fear that you would not agree to be his. 

Now, he was not controlling his face. There was no polite gentleness in his eyes, no casual ease in his shoulders, no respectful distance between your body and his. No; now that you were in his grasp, he had no plans to let you go free. 

He grabbed you around your waist, his fingers cutting into your full form, squeezing your hips and lifting you with ease onto the desktop. He distracted you with kisses, lulling you back into a hazy, pleasure-filled lust, making you aware of his desire by shoving himself between your thick thighs, the threat of his heavy erection pressing through his slacks and onto the crotch of your jeans. 

Your body reacted on instinct. You felt yourself widening your legs and canting your hips to rub against his hardon like you were in heat, your biology doing everything it could to get his attention. 

But, you had it regardless. He tugged off your shirt with a deft sort of accuracy that took your breath away. When he let his eyes drink in the sight of your round breasts, peaked with smooth, puffy nipples, his rushed movements stilled, and you waited while he studied you, reaching out his fingers to see if you were as soft as you looked. As he discovered the truth, his big fingers wrapping around each of your heavy tits, applying pressure, caressing the sides of them, feeling the thin ridges of your stretch marks, plucking delicately at each nipple, looking up at your face to watch your reactions; all the while, you could feel the throb of his fat cock fighting to touch you through your clothes. 

Then, his touch became feverish again. Instead of a caress, it was a burning friction; instead of tender plucking, it was a shocking pinch. He was making you writhe beneath his hands, manhandling your tits to his own end, enjoying your whimpering cries of pain that fizzled into bright pleasure, the pressure of his dick against your sex making you aware of the growing wetness there, your panties proving your desire to you, warm and slippery. 

You reached up your hand to touch his chest, mimicking his affection, admiring the firm muscle that spanned beneath your palms. Your fingers found the gap between his buttons, running through the dense patch of hair that lay on his sternum, raking your nails lightly across his skin. He furrowed his brow, wanting more, looking down at your touch and starting to unbutton his dress shirt. Within seconds, he was peeling it off of his shoulders, leaving it rumpled and inside-out on the floor. 

Sitting up, you started to explore him with your mouth, letting your lips drag along his furry skin, licking your way across to his highest ribs, to that sensitive spot just below his armpit, changing your gentle exploration into a sucking, lustful kiss, aiming to leave a mark of your own. He let you bite him, enjoying the pain and groaning from it. Then, he grew impatient, and he fisted your hair at the nape of your neck, yanking you away from him, bending over you again, forcing you to kiss him as he pressed your jaw up to his, controlling your head. 

But, he did not have control of your hands. Without breaking eye contact with him, you began to fumble with his belt, hurrying to open the latch, moving on to his button fly, popping each one away to reveal his boxer briefs, the cotton of them soft across the back of your hand. You watched his face, chaotic and full of a decadent sort of desire, as if he couldn’t believe what he was feeling. 

He kept his hand in your hair and let you work his pants away, peeling his underclothes down as far as you could get them, glancing down as the pink, swollen head of his dick peeked over the hem as you revealed him. The head was pointing at his hip, trapped there by the wide elastic of his briefs. Now that he was free to move, his length stood at attention, fully erect with a girth that made you dizzy. 

“Holy fuck,” you gasped, muttering a curse under your breath. 

He jerked your head back, tearing your eyes away from his heavy phallus and forcing you to look at him instead,

“Something wrong, love?” 

You gave him a submissive look, curling your lips into a sly smile, your eyes wide like a fearful doe, 

“I don’t think you’ll fit.”

He smiled down at you, pleased by your appraisal, his gaze turning sinister,

“You’re not leavin’ ‘til I do.”

Quicker than you could breathe, he released his hold on your head and used both hands to ruck off your jeans in one violent pull. Your panties got stuck halfway, getting caught in the rough stitching of the denim. John looked down into your lap, staring at the silky fabric clinging to your wide hips, hanging off to one side at a messy diagonal, showing him the top of your unshaved mons. 

You heard him sigh through his smile, his hand reaching forward and ever-so-gently helping the edge of your panties back into place. You were confused. He was supposed to be ripping them off and fucking you stupid, but he slowed things all the way down, returning to his delicate caresses. 

John played with your breasts again, kissing your mouth, sucking on your neck. Then, he reached between your legs and touched you, his hand slipping over your covered pussy, groping you through the thin fabric. His fingers were warm, and the way he pressed them beside your tender clit made you tremble, your thighs shaking a bit as your legs hung off the side of the desk. 

He fell to his knees in front of you, his hands wrapping around the curve of your ass, pulling you as far forward on the edge of the desk as he could, throwing you forward like you were as light as a feather, his grip fierce and bruising. Then, he leaned forward, eager to put his mouth over your pussy, but you protested, gasping,

“John, my… my panties.”

He pinned his bright blue eyes on yours, looking at you unblinking, and leaned forward, showing you that he didn’t give a fuck about your panties. His hot tongue began to push and prod at your lips through the fabric, and you could feel your pussy clinging to the gusset, the wet cloth conforming to your shape as he licked and sucked.

As his tongue delved deeper, he discovered your sticky precome that had been soaking you right through ever since he’d found you staring at the vote count. He used his lips to suck on your folds, the knit of the fabric allowing only the tiniest bit of air to escape, making little chirping sounds as he applied more and more pressure. Then, you watched in a sick sort of awe as he took the gusset fully into his mouth, pulling it away from your body to suck your wetness from it like he was lapping up the last bit of ice cream from its cone. He even used his hand to loop it over his fingers, stretching out the thin triangle, making sure to get every last drop. 

By this time, you were pretty sure you had dripped your stickiness straight onto his desk, and you could feel your pussy slipping around on the smooth surface with every little movement. John decided to finally give you what you’d been whimpering for, and he pulled your panties aside to drink from the source. 

When the hot curl of his tongue finally connected, sealing wet flesh against wet flesh, you cried out, biting into your hand to keep yourself from being heard. You watched him eat you from your center, writhing his tongue deep into your hole and sucking on the head of your clit, using his bottom lip to reach that space underneath, teasing you within an inch of your life. Without thinking, your hand went to the back of his head, fingers raking through his hair, and you watched his eyes flutter, loving the feeling of your nails on his scalp. 

Your legs were partly resting on his shoulders, and John stood up quickly, slamming you back onto the desk and hauling your legs over with you, shoving your knees into your chest, putting your pussy on full display. You felt his fingers curve down through your wet lips and into the sensitive divot where you were leaking from. As he sank his hand into your hole, you felt like you were so close to coming. All of his licking and teasing had put you on the edge, and now that his thumb was sliding beside your clit and his longest fingers were stretching out your pussy, you felt the spark of an orgasm ignite in your belly. 

“Yes, love… That’s… ungh, fuck…” John felt it, too.

His hand was making all sorts of noise as he fucked his fingers up into you, the messiness only getting worse as your body flooded you with shock after shock of your orgasm. You were convulsing, your abs tight and protruding beneath your layer of fat, your feet pointed straight like a ballerina, all of your limbs frozen and tense, letting the orgasm wreck you and leave you boneless. 

He pulled away from you, gently removing his hand, and he bent his mouth to you again, aiming to taste your fresh come, hot and silky, coating you in natural lube, doing its absolute best to convince him to listen to his instincts and sheath himself inside of your body. 

But, John was careful. He pulled your legs back down to a bent position, one hand on each knee, prying you apart slowly, his eyes fixed on your flower so he could watch it bloom, covered in your sweet nectar. 

“You okay?” He asked, his voice husky and broken. 

You nodded, 

“Yeah, I’m more than okay.”

He smiled at you, using his hands to push your breasts together, playing with your nipples in his warm hands, pinching you cruelly and then soothing you in small circles, never letting you know when the pain or the pleasure would come. 

On the outside of your pussy, John rested his cock, spreading your outer lips with its weight to fit his girth right on top of your clit. He thrust forward, and you watched as the drooling head of his prick was shoved toward you. 

He humped himself against you in a steady pattern, pumping himself across your wetness, trying to relieve some pressure. Eventually, you thought he was about to come, but he stopped, slowing to a slick grind. He looked up at you and ran his palm down his face, frustrated and beyond horny.

“I wanna fuck you so goddamn bad.”

“So do I,” you moaned, rocking your hips up and down, adding to his thrusting friction, using him like a toy to bring yourself back to a shivering edge. 

“I don’t have a condom,” he confessed, helping you use his smooth head to massage the body of your clit. 

“I’m clean. I actually don’t think I’ve had sex since I moved to the city,” you shrugged, slowing down with him, waiting for his consent before giving in to your mind-altering want, “But, if you wanna stop, it’s okay.”

He kissed your ankle, holding your foot in his hand, leaving little licks and love bites down your calf as he warred with himself, 

“Haven’t been with anyone since Dahra.”

His ex-wife. She’d gone back to Urzikstan one day without so much as a note, packing a bag and leaving her rings on the counter. Apparently, when they’d finally met to fill out his divorce papers, he said that she looked happy in a way he hadn’t seen in a long time, so he signed without question. You remember when he had told you about it, three whiskeys deep and sharing a cigar on the roof of his loft, too late to go to the pub, but too early to stop drinking. He’d held your hand while he talked to you that night. You’d just thought he needed the support, and you tried to be a good friend. But now that he was getting himself off by slipping through your come-covered lips, playing in the mess that he made, you imagined that moment much differently. 

“I trust you,” you looked up at him through your lashes, holding your breasts and teasing your nipples between your fingers, your skin feeling as if you were electric, sensitive beyond comprehension, every touch and pinch feeling like ecstasy. 

Apparently, he didn’t need much convincing. In your next breath, you felt his head sloppily notching against your throbbing core, fitting snug in the soft entrance of your cunt, cradled there in your warmth. You gasped, enjoying the sensation of being gently licked by his cockhead in the center of your folds, filling a void, a missing piece slotting into place. 

Then, he met your eyes, staring into them with a fondness that you had only dreamed about, framed by that same furious arousal, like staring at a white-hot flame and knowing it could kill you but admiring its beauty anyway. 

“Hands on your knees,” he said, jerking himself a bit as he dipped into your entrance.

John watched as you grabbed your knees, pulling your legs apart, opening yourself up to him in the most vulnerable way, presenting yourself to him fully, without shame, all the guilt you’d been dragging around now gone, giving yourself to him freely and wanting him to take you like a prize. 

“So damn pretty,” he muttered to himself, staring down at your coupling, watching as he stuffed himself inside of you as carefully as he could, trying to let you adjust but unable to stop himself from thrusting deeper and deeper. 

He pulled himself all the way out and tried to sink into you again, his eyes snapping up to your face at the sound of a hiss coming through your teeth as he made his way through your tight muscles. You felt him stop, thinking he had hurt you, but you shook your head, 

“Don’t stop. I need you, John. I wanna feel so full.”

An animal noise escaped from his throat, and he rewarded your bravery, finishing the job with a snap of his hips, sealing himself fully inside of you. The root of his cock knocked the breath out of you, making you gasp in wonder at the sensation of being stretched beyond any memory. Yes, it had been a while, but you were no virgin. Nevertheless, John Price’s fat shaft was making you question whether you had ever truly been fucked before. His girth was changing your definition of the word.

If you had thought that he would treat you reverently, like you were made of precious lace, you had another thing coming. It was as if he had been waiting for this very moment, and he planned to take every advantage of the opportunity. Now that he had you, he used you. 

His huge hands scooped up your legs, silently instructing you to lock them around his hips, keeping your thighs wide as he rutted into you. You hooked your ankles together, admiring the pulsing feel of his large glutes as he thrust forward, feeling him squeeze and release, pounding himself into you with his heavy weight. 

John was too big. You had to admit that to yourself at this point. You could feel him stretching your hole, pushing your flesh beyond its usual limits. But, you were drunk off of the way his dick made you feel like you were constantly coming. You’d never truly been able to find your g-spot. Every now and then, when you had a really great partner, you thought that you’d orgasmed from the grinding thrusts of his rod, but it was rare. This, though, how John’s cock was spreading you, how you could feel him on all sides, the unimaginable pressure… he was hypnotizing.

He would pound himself into you, slamming his weight into your hips, and the shudder of your bones would make your body tremble. Then, when he was in, the pressure of his dense cockhead would flash a glittering wave of orgasmic pleasure through your core, making you think that you were about to explode. But, you never did. The pleasure never stopped. It never found a peak. It would just build and build in crashing, tumultuous waves, whirling through your blood like a cyclone, each throb feeling like spark lightning. 

Your mind was racing. Should I stop him? Is this normal? Am I gonna pass the fuck out? But, you couldn’t speak. If you tried to form a sentence or even a coherent phrase, he would bottom out again, flooding his shaft with your wet slick, and you would be overcome by another wave of bliss, nothing more than a warm sheath for his mighty sword. 

The edge of you lip was cool and wet, and you realized you were drooling, your tongue resting on your bottom teeth like a panting dog, helping you whimper and mewling your moans as you felt him mold you to fit. 

“Shit, you are still so tight, love. Can barely put it in. Squeezin’ me… fuck,” he was sweating, hoarsely groaning in long, deep breaths, his belly expanding and contracting as he labored over you. 

You didn’t reply. All of your words had been crushed into whining cries, helpless gasps. You took his hand and lifted it up to your mouth, placing it on your tongue, hoping he would fuck your throat with his fingers. The look on his face was one of desperate curiosity, wanting to please you, to serve you however he could. So, taking the hint, he curled his fingers away and pushed his first and middle fingers deeper into your mouth, exploring you softly. 

You moaned loudly from the relief and closed your lips around his knuckles, shoving him all the way in to the top of his palm, beginning to suck and lick him as if it were a heavy cock instead of his hand. 

His eyes rolled back in his head, and he tilted his chin up to the ceiling, his neck bulging with his ragged breaths. Then, he turned his gaze back to you, watching you comfort yourself with his fingers, suckling on them like a hungry calf, needy and persistent. 

“Fuck,” he exclaimed, “Tha’s bloody hot. Suck them deeper for me. Wanna feel your throat.”

You obliged him, your lips now reaching over his last knuckles onto the back of his hand and the callused ridge of his palm. If you stuck out your tongue, you could lick the middle of his palm, choking yourself with his fingertips and swallowing around them, clenching your throat in time with his thrusts. 

“Mmmf-fuckkk,” he rasped, his face set in an agonized fury, “Gag yourself again. Choke on me, love. Just like that.”

You knew why he liked it. You could feel his response. Because every time you choked on his hand, your body would heave, trying to get air, trying to fight him away, and your pussy would contract, milking his thick shaft like a strong, wet fist. So, you gave him more, ignoring your mind’s fear and confusion, mentally moving past it, focusing only on his pleasure, and yours. 

After a few more thrusts, the look in his eyes became one of concern, a worried flash of panic. He was going to come, and you knew it. 

John tried to pull his hand back, gently attempting to leave the warmth of your mouth, but you didn’t let him go. You held his giant wrist in both hands, gripping him cruelly, forcing his fingers even deeper, bobbing your head as if you were sucking his dick. 

“Gonna come. Fuck, I’m gonna – ungh. C’mon! Come with me, baby. Come with me. Lemme feel –”

He used his free hand to swipe roughly over your clit, changing those waves of cracking pleasure into a blistering orgasm, the heat of which seared over your whole body, making you feel like you had a fever. You felt yourself gushing between your legs, all of the wetness he had been churning within you being pushed out by the rhythmic clamping of your own muscles. You were screaming, but no one would hear you. All of your keening was subdued by his heavy hand, getting lost every time you choked for air. The only thing you heard was the rushing of breath from his spreading lungs and the creamy, slapping impact of his body against yours.

Then, a barking, guttural growl that he tried to hide, cutting it off and grinding his teeth to prevent himself from screaming as he emptied his load into you. You felt it hit your flesh within your core, like a burning splash of lava, shooting into you over and over, foaming and folding around the swollen head of his prick. His come felt heavy as it pooled at your end, deep in your belly, coating you like a glaze and settling over your womb.

You wanted him to stay inside of you forever, but he was finished and totally spent, his strength fading to a relaxed daze. You unhooked your legs and let him step away, feeling the loss of him in your mouth and your pussy, unable to even roll yourself off of the desk. So, you had to hang there, your legs unsupported, dangling wide apart, showing him exactly what he had just done to you. And he looked like he was enjoying the view. He stared down between your legs and watched his cream ooze out of your fucked hole, the flesh red and shining from its ordeal. 

There was nothing in his office for comfort. But, he needed to soothe you. Some instinct within him was screaming in his mind to hold you in his arms and keep you safe. So, he pulled you off of the desk, holding you in his arms, and guided you down to the carpet, sitting with his back against the wall and letting you lean against his body, keeping you in his lap with tired arms. 

You were both so sticky, but the sweat didn’t bother you. You were happy to rest your cheek on his shoulder, caressing his furry belly with your hands, trying not to pass out. 

“You alright, love?” He asked in a low whisper, “Did I hurt you?”

“Gonna be sore tomorrow,” you smiled, not lifting your eyes to look at his face, choosing instead to stare at how his soft body hair ruffled over your fingernails as you lightly scratched them across his skin. “Are you okay, John?”

“Worried about you. About this,” he murmured, some of his strength coming back to his voice. You looked up at him now, watching as he carefully crafted his next words, “Don’t want this to be a one-time thing. But, we can’t… I’m –”

“John,” you interrupted his turmoil, “In ten days, you’ll be in the House of fucking Commons. Then, you can do whatever you want. Until then…” You reached down and fondled his exhausted cock tenderly, making his body jerk from how sensitive he was, “I can be your little secret.”

He lifted your chin with his thumb just as he had at the start of this dreamlike encounter, kissing you tenderly, making sure he could feel your mouth against his, slipping his tongue over your lips just to reach the ridge of your teeth before pulling back again, his eyes turning back to that lascivious rage, 

“You don’t deserve that. I want them to bloody well know that you’re mine.”

You didn’t ask who “they” were. That was just how John spoke to you. It was always you and him versus them. The media, the Parliament, the world… it didn’t matter. They didn’t matter. But, you knew better than to let idealism cloud your judgment. 

“Be patient, John,” you caressed his cheek, “Win your seat. I’m not going anywhere.”

Finally, a small smile twitched on the corner of his mouth and he held you closer, hugging you to his chest,

“Not true,” he paused, looking down at your quizzical expression, a playful gleam in his eyes, “You’re coming to my flat, crawling in my bed, and letting me fuck that perfect cunt again.”

AO3 Link

[mariacallous]

The courts have decided against DOGE and the US government in their legal battle to take full control of the United States Institute of Peace, including a headquarters building with an estimated value of $500 million.

In a memorandum opinion, US district court judge Beryl Howell ruled in favor of the former institute board and staff who had sued to be reinstalled at the agency after DOGE affiliates forcibly removed them in March. She also gave a strong rebuke to the defendants in the case, who include the US DOGE Service, President Donald Trump, secretary of defense Pete Hegseth, and several other government representatives and agencies.

“The purported removal of members of the Board of Directors of the United States Institute of Peace (“USIP”) … was unlawful,” Howell wrote in the order, “and therefore null, void, and without legal effect.”

The order states that the USIP board members who had been forced out must be reinstated. It goes on to declare any actions taken by the agency since their removal—including the headquarters transfer—null and void. It further bars the defendants from “maintaining, retaining, gaining, or exercising any access or control over the Institute’s offices, facilities, computer systems, or any other records, files, or resources.”

The ruling caps off one of the most dramatic chapters in DOGE’s government takeover so far. It’s also one of the fullest repudiations yet of DOGE overreach. The Justice Department did not immediately respond to a request for comment.

The fight over the USIP began with a February 19 executive order that declared the agency “unnecessary” and effectively called for its elimination. In response, the USIP told DOGE representatives that it operated independent of the executive branch. It didn’t work. On March 14, the Trump administration fired the 10 voting board members of the USIP. That same day, according to court filings, DOGE representatives—accompanied by agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation—tried to enter USIP headquarters but were turned away.

In court documents, lawyers for the USIP detail a rapid escalation of attempts to access the agency’s property. On Sunday, March 16, two FBI agents visited a senior USIP security employee at home, demanding information on how to get into the headquarters building. That same day, DOGE allegedly coordinated with Inter-Con, USIP’s contract security firm, to enter the building; USIP officials found out and immediately suspended Inter-Con’s contract. It wasn’t enough to stop them.

The following day, according to court documents, four Inter-Con employees showed up at USIP headquarters. When their badges didn’t work at the front door, one of their colleagues showed up with a physical key and gained access. USIP personnel then called the DC Metropolitan Police, claiming unlawful entry. MPD officers eventually arrived—and helped DOGE and other Trump administration officials take control of the building.

From there, the takeover was swift. That Friday, March 21, six USIP staffers received termination notices. Court documents show that DOGE representative Nate Cavanaugh was put in charge of the agency the following Tuesday, March 25, and was instructed to transfer USIP’s assets—including the headquarters building—to the DOGE-controlled General Services Administration at no cost. On Friday, March 28, “virtually all” of the remaining USIP employees were terminated as well. The next day, Office of Management and Budget director Russell Vought signed off on the asset transfer—before the courts had a chance to rule on a motion from USIP attorneys to stop it.

For all the fireworks surrounding the USIP takeover, the legal question at its center has been fairly straightforward: Can the executive branch control an independent nonprofit?

The answer has proven to be complicated. While USIP operates independently, it was established and funded by Congress. Lawyers for the fired USIP board and staff members have repeatedly argued that the agency “does not perform any executive functions,” which they claim exempts it from executive branch authority. The government claims that USIP’s taxpayer-funded mission “to extend the United States’ soft power internationally,” along with the fact that the president of the United States selects its board of directors, means the executive branch has every right to replace the board at will.

In previous rulings in this case, Howell had left the door open to either interpretation. On March 19, she denied the USIP’s motion for a temporary restraining order that would have kept the original USIP board in place, saying it was “too difficult to determine” if USIP was likely to win the case on the merits, given its unique structure. In an April 1 ruling allowing the transfer of USIP headquarters to the GSA—in fact, it had already been transferred the previous weekend—Howell again stressed that “ambiguity persists.”

The summary judgment order leaves no such room for interpretation. “The president’s efforts here to take over an organization … contrary to statute established by Congress and by acts of force and threat using local and federal law enforcement officers,” Howell wrote, "represented a gross usurpation of power.”

The defendants have 30 days to file a notice of appeal; George Foote, longtime outside counsel for USIP, says he expects them to. “We are confident we will prevail on appeal, too,” says Foote in a comment to WIRED.

In the meantime, there’s the question of how to revert USIP assets back to the agency. “The headquarters have been, or are in the process of being, leased to the Department of Labor,” according to court documents. Not only that but the USIP's $25 million endowment—comprising private donations and appropriations—was transferred along with the building. The plaintiffs have no idea where that money went.